by Brent, Amy
I studied his face, though I had already committed every inch of it to memory. He had a deep tan, as did most everyone here in southern California in the late summertime. I’d never seen him without the stubble of a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. I thought it was so fucking sexy, the way he scratched his chin when he was trying to make a point.
He always wore baggy jeans that hung low on his narrow hips and tan work boots that looked like they’d been taken off of a migrant worker back in the seventies (I’m only 22, so that seems like a thousand years ago).
I could tell that he was muscular beneath the wrinkled white shirt and crooked knit tie he always wore. He wore the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the sinewy muscles in his forearms and hands. And he always wore the shirt untucked, which frustrated me to no end because it kept me from checking out his package. Rumor was that he was hung like a horse. Well, you certainly couldn’t tell it by looking at him in the classroom.
His round shoulders and a thick chest pushed against the thin material of the white shirt. The shirt was tight across his broad back, looking like it might split at the seams if he were to flex his muscles. I’d spent months wondering what he looked like beneath those baggy professor clothes. And I wasn’t alone. All the girls talked about him after class. He was out favorite topic.
Wonder what would Professor Clark looks like naked?
Do you think he’s really hairy or is would his chest be baby smooth?
Do you think his pubes are as blond as the hair on his head or are they be darker, like the stubble on his chin?
And do you think his pubes are thick and curly, or do you think he keeps them neatly trimmed?
Or, be still my heart, do you think he’s shaved clean… down there?
How long do you think his cock is?
Do you think his cock is circumcised with a big mushroom head?
Or maybe his cock is as natural as the day he was born, more snakelike than bulbous fuck stick?
I barely listened to their school girl chatter because none of that stuff mattered to me. I’d take Logan Clark any way that I could get him. I’d sat in his accounting class for three months dreaming about having his cock in my mouth and in my cunt, regardless of its shape or size.
And now I was running out of time to make my fantasies come true.
There were only two weeks left in this semester and I would be graduating in a month and taking a job with a big accounting firm in Chicago, working for my stepdad, Earl Shaw. I’d already signed the offer letter and they expected me to start in the fall.
It was a done deal and my mom would kill me if I tried to back out on it now; even if staying in Cali to fuck Logan Clark was the reason. Time to grow up, Courtney, she liked to say. And she was right. I was twenty-two. Time to put all that silly stuff behind me.
I’d move away from sunny southern California for good, without ever getting to know Logan Clark in the way that I wanted so desperately to know him.
I dreamt of him when I slept.
I fantasized about him when I made myself cum with the goodies in my secret toy box.
But other than answering my occasion question about accounting, he’d never even looked my way.
Maybe my roommate, Mindy, was right.
If I wanted to fuck Professor Logan Clark before I left Golden State for good, I’d better get my sweet ass in gear.
Courtney
Okay, I know what you must be thinking: wow, what a skanky slut this bitch must be, sitting in class thinking about sucking her professor’s cock. Get your mind out of the gutter, you little whore, and on your studies where they belong!
The truth is, I’m not a skanky slut or a little whore, at least not in public. I’m just a normal, healthy, twenty-two-year-old woman with a daddy complex and a sex drive that would make a porn star jealous.
I couldn’t help it. For as long as I could remember, even in my early teens, my desire for sex had been overwhelming.
I started letting boys feel my titties over my shirt and rub my crotch when I was thirteen. I let a boy slip his hand under my shirt to feel the round globes of my breasts when I was just fourteen.
My boobs came early, like a prize from Mother Nature, so why should I have deprived boys the chance to feel me up and deprived myself the joy of experimentation.
I remembered when one boy whose name I couldn’t even remember squeezed my nipples so hard it made me whimper in pain. He quickly pulled his hand away and started apologizing. I put his hand back on my tit and told him to keep doing what he’d been doing because it felt fucking awesome.
The first boy to slip his hands inside my jeans and panties and feel the hot moisture of my young pussy, was Bobby Rigsby, who was fifteen at the time. He shot his load in his pants as I tugged on his short cock through his jeans. He was so embarrassed he ran away without another word, leaving me standing under the bleachers during the football game with the smell of his cum on my fingers and a fire burning between my legs. I licked him off my fingers and went to get a snow cone. I was barely fifteen.
I became a sexual explorer in high school, doing everything except letting a boy put his cock inside me. He could finger me all he wanted because I was a horny little thing and it felt fucking amazing, but I was terrified of getting pregnant, so no cocks allowed, even with a rubber.
My mom had me when she was sixteen, and she often reminded me how tough it was for her to be a young, single mom, at least until she met and married Earl, my stepfather when she was eighteen and he was thirty-one.
So, I’d let a boy stick his cock in my mouth, come in my hand, and, if I really liked him, slide it into my ass; but my pussy was off limits.
I guess I was considered the school slut because I made no bones about being sexually active, though I was very particular about who I fooled around with.
I lost my virginity my senior year to a transfer student from Mexico City named Greg Rivera. It didn’t occur to me at the time why I was willing to let Greg pop my cherry when I wouldn’t let other boys get close. I mean, I had been with much hotter guys that I wouldn’t let fuck me. There was just something about Greg that made my nipples tingle and my water works gush like a river.
He was brooding and dark, with hair as black as a crow’s wings and eyes black as night. He picked me up in his dad’s work truck and we drove to the lake and fucked like rabbits on a blanket in the bed of the truck. Greg was a rough lover who didn’t know the meaning of the words “take your time”. He hadn’t learned to be tender, so my cunt was sore the next day and my popped cherry hurt like a bitch, but I never regretted letting Greg be my first.
We screwed every chance we got over that summer. We taught each other to be unselfish lovers. I told him exactly what I liked and he told me exactly what he liked. We experimented and learned together. And neither of us ever walked away unsatisfied.
Greg had a summer job at the FoodMart and would steal condoms by the box from the pharmacy. I loved having him inside me, but I still wasn’t willing to chance having a baby in there.
It wasn’t until my mom saw Greg working at the grocery store that I understood why I’d let him be the one to pop my cherry. He was bagging groceries two lanes over and we were pretending not to know one another. Mom noticed him immediately, though she had no idea that we were sleeping together.
“He looks like your dad when I first met him,” she said quietly, giving Greg a long look that I thought was a little creepy.
“He does?” I said with a frown. I squinted at Greg and felt the juices pooling in my panties. “I don’t see it.”
“When we get home look at that picture of your dad I gave you last year,” she said. “You’ll see.”
The picture she was referring to was the only photograph I had of my bio-dad; the boy who had knocked her up with she was just fifteen. She only knew him as Jose, the son of a migrant farmworker picking oranges on my grandfather’s farm. He was seventeen when the photo was taken, standing in front of an o
range wagon next to my mom, then a gangly girl with pigtails and bony knees that she parted for him. Once the oranges were picked, Jose and his family moved on and my mom never saw him again.
She caught Greg and I looking at each other. She narrowed her eyes at me and shook her head. “Be careful, Courtney. Don’t do what I did.”
The next day, I was put on birth control and getting a lecture about sex from a woman who could have been taking lessons from me.
She was right about one thing: Greg could have been my father’s clone. I stared at the fifteen-year-old photograph with my mouth hanging open. The resemblance was uncanny. For a moment, I worried that we might have the same dad, but when I showed Greg the photo and voiced my fears, he just laughed and assured me his dad was fifty-eight and named Mario.
My friend Felicia, whose mom was a therapist, said I had a daddy complex. She said I gave up my cherry to Greg because he reminded me of my dad.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said. “And just gross.”
“It’s not that you wanted to fuck your own father, idiot,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “It’s that not having him around has left some kind of void in your brain that you filled with Greg, a boy who looks just like him.”
“Ah, okay…” It sounded like a good theory, but what the fuck does a sixteen-year-old know about such things. All I know is that I never had sex with Greg again. I wouldn’t even let him touch me. Every time I looked at him I thought of my dad.
It wasn’t until I started college and began fucking men much older than me that my daddy complex really became apparent.
I no longer fucked dark Mexican men who looked like my dad.
I only fucked men old enough to be my dad.
Men like Logan Clark.
Logan Clark
I dug my fingers into Martha’s fleshy hips and held my breath so I didn’t cum too quickly this time. The last time we fucked we were both shitfaced after the monthly faculty dinner and had sex in the backseat of her Volvo in the parking lot of Ruby Tuesdays.
I normally don’t cum that quickly; not since high school. The mistake I made was letting her suck my cock too long in the lady’s bathroom. By the time we got to her car, and she pulled up her skirt and peeled off her pantyhose and panties, I was already ready to explode.
She wiggled herself backward onto my cock and slid her hips back and forth a couple of times and that was all she wrote. I shot my load before I even knew what was happening.
Luckily for her and me, I was able to hold the hard-on long enough for her to get her rocks off. There’s nothing more embarrassing to a guy than shooting his load too quickly, especially with a woman like Martha Warner, who would have never let me forget such a fucking faux pas.
Martha could be a ball-busting bitch. She already gave me shit about enough stuff. I didn’t need to add premature ejaculation to the list.
This time things had gone much smoother because she didn’t have the chance to blow me in the restaurant bathroom. After the monthly faculty dinner, she invited me to her place for a nightcap. Okay, that’s not exactly how she put it. It was more like, “Professor Clark, I want you to come back to my place and fuck me till my knees buckle.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. And since she was the Dean at Golden State and held the keys to my future, I readily complied. I would be eligible for tenure in a few months, which would give me the job for life. If I had to fuck an attractive fifty-year-old divorcee to make that happen, it was a small price to pay.
We managed to make it just inside the door of the huge Victorian house the university provided her with before tearing each other’s clothes off.
Martha was ravenous, nearly ripping the buttons off my shirt as she tore it open and literally jerking me around as she tried to unbuckle my belt. I pushed her hard against the wall and pressed my lips to hers as I peeled off her white silk blouse and unhooked the bra that held her huge tits. Her tits came free with a bounce. They hung low on her chest, but were still full and firm and sported the largest nipples I’d ever had the pleasure of sucking.
Martha grabbed my cock and moaned in my ear when she found it long, hard and ready. She tugged at it as I unzipped her skirt and pushed it down her ample thighs. I was a little surprised to find that she was not wearing her usual pantyhose and granny panties. Smart planning on her part. She knew where we’d end up before she even left her house that day. And she didn’t want to slow me down.
My hand went between her legs. Her bush was thick and curly, her cunt hot and dripping. When my fingers slid over her clit and across her folds, she tightened her grip on my cock and commanded me to follow her into the bedroom.
“I want to watch you fuck me,” she said, still holding my cock to lead me into her master bathroom. The bathroom had a long vanity and a long mirror on the wall above it. She leaned forward to brace her palms on the vanity and stuck out her big ass. Her bulbous tits hung swung from her chest.
“Fuck me from behind, Logan,” she said, wiggling her ass. “So I can watch you fuck me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, smiling at her in the mirror. I put my hands on her hips and positioned myself behind her. I took my cock in my hand and guided the purple head between her legs. Martha’s juices were flowing like a river. Her pussy was already drenched, filling the room with the tangy scent of her juices.
I swirled the head of my cock around her hole to lube it up, then rocked my hips forward and, with one thrust, impaled my cock fully into her. Martha didn’t have the tightest pussy I’d ever fucked, but she could take almost all of my ten-inch cock and not bat an eye.
I dug my fingers into her fleshy hips and looked down to watch my long cock sliding in and out of her cunt. I moved my hands to her ass and kneaded her ass cheeks. She moaned louder when the tip of my finger probed her asshole.
“Yes… Logan… oh yes…” Her voice came in gusts, pushed out of her as my cock pummeled in and out of her.
I glanced at the two of us in the mirror. Martha had her eyes closed. Her round cheeks were rosy red. Her forehead was sweaty. Her mouth was hanging open. Her tongue hung over her bottom lip. She was panting like a dog.
Martha wasn’t really my type, but that hadn’t stopped me from fucking her on occasion for the last few months. She was in her early fifties, short, chunky, with auburn hair that always showed a hint of gray roots and more wrinkles from frowning than smiling.
She might have been my type twenty years and thirty pounds ago like Sheila Denning was now. Sheila was the smoking hot head of the Math Department who I was also fucking on a sporadic basis. Sheila was married to Chuck Denning, Golden State’s head football coach. We fucked when he was at away games. Still, I had to admit, Martha’s cunt was just fine for her age and her tits were humongous, so I couldn’t complain.
I’d gotten more pussy since taking the job at Golden State than I’d ever gotten in my life before, and most of it came from my fellow professors and administrators, ladies like Martha and Sheila; some younger, some older, some thinner, some chunkier, all horny and willing to do whatever the fuck I told them to do.
I guess the word had gotten around the staff.
If you’re a lonely lady with a tight pussy and a bottle of Jack Daniels, Logan Clark was your man. And your pussy didn’t have to be that tight, so long as you had the booze.
“Oh… Logan… I’m cumming…” Martha moaned, leaning up on her hands with her ass still out for me. She took her big jugs in her palms and kneaded them until she left red marks. Her nipples were the size of my thumbs. I licked my lips as I watched her squeezed them until they turned dark red.
I was ready to cum with her. I put my hands back on her hips and tightened every muscle in my body to summon my orgasm. As Martha lifted her head and screamed my name, I filled her pussy with my hot milk and she gushed tangy juice all over my balls. Two more good thrusts all the way in and she begged me to stop.
I opened my eyes to find her smiling at m
e in the mirror. She blew a strand of hair from her forehead and puckered her lips at me. “You’re amazing, Professor Clark,” she cooed. “I’m so glad you came to Golden State.”
“You’re not bad yourself, Dean Warner,” I said, wiggling my hips and giving her ass a playful slap. I stepped back to let my cock slide out of her and reached in to turn on the shower.
I held out a hand to her.
“Come on. I made a mess on you. Let me clean you up.”
Logan
It was nearly midnight by the time I managed to pry myself from between Martha’s ample thighs and escape into the night. Martha was a nice lady and a decent fuck, but like so many other women her age, she was needy; clingy and codependent. I’d never know why I couldn’t just fuck a woman and go home instead of having to cuddle and make small talk.
Why can’t I just say, “Hey, thanks for the pussy. See ya!”
Martha stood in her front door in her bathrobe, waving as I climbed onto my motorcycle and sped away. I didn’t even bother with the helmet. That would have taken too much time. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there before Martha asked me to spend the night.
I rented a one bedroom bungalow just off campus. It wasn’t much, but the rent was cheap and the commute to work was short. I aimed my motorcycle in that direction and opened the throttle, putting as much distance behind me and Dean Martha Warner as fast as I could.
I had to stop at a red light as I cruised through the center of town. I took the time to blow out a long breath and glance at my watch. It was twelve-thirty, but I was too keyed-up to sleep and not ready to call it a night, so when I saw the sign for Goldie’s, the dive bar where the students and “cool” professors hung out, a hundred yards ahead, I decided to stop for a nightcap. With any luck my pal Tom Brooks would be there drowning his sorrows and willing to buy drinks in exchange for a shoulder to cry on.
