My Dirty Professor

by Cassandra Dee

  But the little girl isn’t dumb. Shaking my hand free, she fixes me with her big brown eyes, staring hard.

  “What the fuck is ‘dog’?” she demands again, this time with a huffy look on her face. “Seriously, you don’t just sleep with a woman and then say the word ‘dog’ in the next sentence.”

  I give in. I love her sassiness and her know-it-all ways; the girl is so intelligent. “All I’m saying is that I love your pussy, baby,” I reassure her, pulling her tighter onto my cock and holding her close. “Dog’s this thing where when I pull out of your pussy, I can see the ring of your lips pulling as well, sticking to my cock like they don’t want it to go. It’s a circle of pink, what I call ‘dog,’” I explain mischievously.

  “Well, you’d better find another name for it,” she announces, pulling a face that causes those little lips to purse. What would they feel like around my dick again? Oh god. But Evie isn’t distracted from our conversation. “Because you’re never calling me a female dog … ever,” she finishes.

  I laugh again and pull out slowly, making the girl moan and wince a bit as my big dick departs those sensuous depths. Fuck but it looks good. I watch as inch after inch of dripping cock exits from that sweet, steaming snatch. And what do you know, but ‘dog’ is happening right now – those puffy vaginal lips are clinging to my dick as if begging it not to go.

  But I want to taste the girl’s tits again, so I flip her over and bend forward to nuzzle my face between her huge boobs, the orbs bouncing off my cheeks.

  “Okay,” I concede, my voice muffled as if from far away, “I’ll change it; I won’t call it ‘dog’ anymore, I promise … for you.”

  And I’m happy to, actually. Despite the fact that we’d literally just fucked on an air mattress inside of a dark classroom, I find that I want to please Evie, to make her happy. Her happiness is important to me.

  Suddenly ashamed, I look up at the brunette. “Evie, this was amazing. I’ll never forget it.”

  She smiles wryly at me. “Which part?” she asks with a roll of her eyes. “The grape? The kumquat? Or where you just compared me to a dog?”

  But I’m serious this time.

  “No,” I shake my head, taking her chin between my hands. “I want you to feel like a princess. I want you to know that this was really special.” I took a deep breath then. “Come over,” I murmur persuasively, my voice a low growl. “Come to my place tomorrow night, and I’ll make it up to you. None of this air mattress shit,” I gesture to our makeshift bed.

  Evie is silent for a moment, gazing at me speculatively before her face goes soft.

  “But Stone, we’re supposed to be studying,” she mentions with a small laugh. “And we haven’t even cracked a book yet.”

  I shake my head determinedly.

  “We’ll study afterward, I swear. You’ve never had as good of a tutor as I’ll be. It’ll be amazing; just come to my place,” I press. Suddenly, I realize how desperate I am, how much I want to see Evie alone again – this time on a normal date instead of an illicit rendezvous.

  But the brunette is nobody’s fool. She shakes her head resolutely.

  “Mr. Phillips, you’ll lose your job if they catch you with a student,” she says firmly. “I mean, this is definitely grounds for getting fired. Haven’t you heard of Mary Kay Letourneau?”

  I snort immediately. This is nothing like the sordid story of Letourneau; I’m not a pedophile. Or am I?

  “You’re eighteen, aren’t you?” I demand suddenly, my breath catching in my throat. Oh shit. What if she isn’t? I have no idea what I would do then, what would happen next. I’m already addicted to her body and that sweet pussy. I don’t have the self-control to walk away.

  Evie smiles sweetly, sensing my alarm. “What if I’m not?” she teases. “What if I said, ‘No, Mr. Phillips, I’ll be eighteen next year’?”

  I groan as dread rolls in waves through my stomach. Fuck. Waiting a year for this beauty would kill me. My dick would literally shrivel up and die in my pants; I would become a walking zombie.

  “Baby girl, there’s nothing that’s going to keep me away from you … except that,” I pronounce roughly, taking her by the shoulders and looking deeply into her eyes to show how serious I am. “You’ve got to be legal. Tell me you are.”

  Sensing the depths of my alarm and how this has really gotten under my skin, she takes pity on me and laughs throatily.

  “Stone, I’m already eighteen,” she murmurs, shooting me a knowing smile. “I turned eighteen last month.”

  At her announcement, I collapse onto the mattress again, an arm shielding my eyes as my body goes limp. The relief is palpable; my tense muscles finally relax.

  “You’re going to kill me, you know that?” I groan. “I’m going to be a dead man because of you.”

  “Oh, poor baby,” the brunette pouts. “And just when I was going to go over to your place for dinner. Because the invitation is for dinner, isn’t it, Stone?”

  I sit up suddenly then, grabbing her onto my lap for a sweet kiss before staring deeply into her eyes.

  “You bet it is,” I murmur, my arms tightening possessively. “Girlie, you’ve got yourself a dinner date.”

  Evie giggles in my lap, her boobs bouncing as that round ass jounces against my hard thighs. I can’t wait to take her again and show this amazing woman a special time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Evie

  I walk into the lobby of a nondescript building on the Upper West Side. The big gray building is mere blocks from Spencer Prep. Within walking distance, actually. I stride in, surprised to see a doorman in a blue and red uniform waiting just inside the foyer. My brows scrunch as I frown. That’s weird. I didn’t know teachers could afford doorman buildings in NYC.

  Nonetheless, I nod at the old man, friendly and unassuming.

  “Hi,” I greet. “I’m Evie, here to see Stone Phillips.”

  He automatically turns to a phone on the wall, picking up the receiver with a gloved hand.

  “Mr. Phillips, an Evie in the lobby,” he says into the phone before listening intently.

  His phrasing sounds off. “An Evie in the lobby?” Are there Amandas, Claires, Maggies, and Joans waiting in the lobby as well? But I brush it off. The old dude is probably just cranky and tired from working all day.

  “Go right on up,” he announces, his wrinkled face inscrutable. I nod, walking to the gleaming metal doors. The elevator itself is nothing – a little worn around the edges with a bit of dirt caked in the corners.

  But when I arrive on the eighth floor, I gape a little. The hallway to Stone’s apartment is really nicely done, with gleaming parquet floors and a chandelier. Facets of light sparkle everywhere. It’s a little fancy for an anonymous building on the Upper West, especially for someone on a teacher’s budget. Spencer Prep is a ritzy private school, but I don’t think they pay that well.

  Plus, there are no other doors on this floor; Stone’s front door is the only one. How weird. Where do his neighbors live? Or do they have hidden entrances? Shrugging, I shoot one last look around, too excited to pay much attention.

  When Mr. Phillips answers the door, his dark hair ruffled and his blue eyes gleaming, I almost melt because he is so cute. Like gorgeous, hot, and sexy cute. The man is wearing an apron over a gray t-shirt that hugs his chest and jeans that emphasize the length of his legs and his muscular thighs. My internal temperature immediately zooms up ten degrees. My cunt grows moist, and my knees feel a little weak, but I make myself stay calm.

  “Nice apron,” I compliment sassily, smiling brightly as I look him up and down.

  The big man just drags me in and shuts the door before leaning down for a deep kiss.

  I’m breathless by the time he backs off. His strong arms are cradling me, making me go weak inside.

  “I know, right?” Stone mutters, lifting an eyebrow. His nostrils flare slightly as his chest heaves a bit, and I realize that he is just as affected as I am. “You’d love to see me in n
othing but this apron, wouldn’t you?” he jokes.

  I have to laugh then because although I am dying to see him naked already, the apron is silly. The garment is straight out of the fifties, a black and white gingham print with a giant lobster on it that says ‘Fill ‘er up!’

  “What does that mean, even?” I ask, giggling again. “Why would a lobster say ‘fill ‘er up’?”

  But Stone just shrugs, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Who knows?” he replies gamely. “My mom gave it to me; it’s her idea of humor.”

  “Oh! Your mom likes kitschy stuff?” I ask curiously. “Like random knick-knacks and cheesy souvenirs?”

  His face darkens for a moment before the cloud passes. I blink, unsure if it had only been my imagination.

  “My mom likes a lot of things, and this apron caught her fancy. Who knows what she was thinking? She’s pushing sixty already and probably has a couple of loose screws,” he says with a wink.

  I want to ask more, to ask about his family – what they are like and what they do when they get together – but Stone is already striding toward the kitchen, pulling me along behind him, his big hand warm on mine.

  “Come on. You can help me cook,” he announces. “I’m just putting the finishing touches on this roast chicken.”

  I gasp when I stepped into the brightly lit space. It is done up like a chef’s kitchen; no expense has been spared. Beautiful blue and white tiles line the walls, and there is a huge sub-zero fridge, as well as two counter islands which could seat seven or eight each.

  “You like to cook, I see,” I whisper softly, awed by the luxury. My eyes are wide as I gaze around.

  Mr. Phillips takes me in his arms and bends to give me another kiss before swatting me on the ass and handing me a bunch of carrots.

  “I love cooking,” he confirms. “Now, wash these babies. I’m going to toss them in the oven before they go in your little mouth,” he winks.

  Obediently, I begin scrubbing the carrots in the farmhouse sink. The giant silver square is almost as big as a tub.

  “Mmm, that smells good,” I moan as Stone pulls a roast chicken out of the oven. The skin of it is crackling brown, its juices pooling in the tray. As he sets it on the counter, a heavenly aroma of savory spice envelopes me, causing my mouth to water.

  “Get back to your washing,” he commands with a quirk of a smile. “The chicken’s got to cool before it can be served, so focus on the carrots.”

  I smile back before turning to the veggies once more. I love a man who can cook, and Stone has just pulled a rabbit out of a hat – I would never have guessed that he’s a master chef.

  But the man isn’t done with the surprises yet. With a special knife, he flicks off the tops of the carrots and then juliennes them, throwing them into a glass pan before seasoning them with all sorts of spices.

  “We need a little Himalayan sea salt, a little cracked pepper, and … hmmm … maybe some thyme,” he murmurs as his deft fingers sprinkle ingredients over the orange tips. And I simply watch, amazed as the everyday vegetables go from plain Jane to amazing – something that complements the roast chicken perfectly, providing balance, flavor, and depth to the meal.

  After the meal is all finished, I dig in greedily. I’m so hungry that I hardly notice the steps Stone has taken to make the meal more romantic – lighting candles, putting out fancy linens, using real silverware, and supplying fine wine. The food is so good that I moan with my first bite of chicken. My eyes close while I chew pure heaven in my mouth.

  “Ohhh … mmmm,” I hum. “This is amazing.”

  Stone growls across the table from me.

  “And baby, I want you to eat,” he commands. “You’re too thin.”

  Too thin? I’m a size twelve on a good day; my curves are sassy and spreading with each month. If I’m not careful, I’ll be a fourteen or sixteen soon.

  But it’s like Stone can read my mind. “Yeah, you’re too thin,” he growls. “You’d look even better if you put on twenty pounds, put some real flesh on you.”

  I gasp. “Twenty pounds! I’ll be sticking out to here if I do,” I giggle, holding my hand in front of my girls about another foot.

  Stone’s eyes just turn hungry. “So what if you do?” he asks. “The more of you to love, to taste, and to fuck, my dear.”

  I gasp. “Dirty language at the table, Professor?” I coo coyly.

  “With you, baby girl, always,” he rumbles, his eyes hungry and his big body already rock solid.

  But the meal doesn’t devolve into innuendos. If anything, Stone and I have an amazing conversation. We are a really great match, with similar interests and ideas.

  “Where’d you get this?” I ask, taking the wine bottle in hand and gazing at its label questioningly. It’s something really fancy with a name I can’t pronounce: Chateau D’Yquem. How do you say that? DEE-keem? De-KEM? It’s expensive for sure – the label is in elegant script with the etching of a crown.

  Stone pauses a moment before saying, “France.”

  “Oh! You were in France?” I ask. “I’m hoping to go sometime, maybe in the next couple of years. It’ll be so fun! I love pastries, and I hear every other shop in Le Marais is a bakery.” I lick my lips slightly at the thought.

  Stone is silent for a moment, watching the flicker of my tongue, mesmerized, before casually asking, “You’ve never been?” He leans back in his chair, his big form relaxed and sated from the food.

  “Nope, never,” I reply, patting my lips delicately. “It’s expensive. Plane tickets out to Europe are $600 minimum, and I have to save for college and all that. But,” I say with a shy smile, “I’ve wanted to go to Paris since I was a little girl. You know, to meet my Prince Charming on top of the Eiffel Tower.”

  Stone smiles at me tenderly, reaching forward to push a tendril of my hair behind my ear. “You will,” he murmurs throatily. “A girl as beautiful as you will absolutely meet her Prince Charming one day.”

  I’m a little stung by his words. Isn’t Stone supposed to proclaim, ‘Oh, I’m your Prince Charming, and I’m going to carry you off into the sunset. Come with me on my white horse’? Instead, it sounds like he’s saying, ‘You’re a sweet little girl, and Prince Charming is coming, but it’s not me.’

  So I frown. “What do you mean, I’ll meet my Prince Charming one day?” I repeat his words slowly. As much as I want to keep this a nice dinner and enjoy myself, I can’t let a comment like that just pass by.

  Stone realizes his error immediately. “Evie, you’re young. It’s hard to know what you want when you haven’t experienced the world yet. You have so much ahead of you.”

  “Yes, but what is this then?” I ask insistently, gesturing to the dinner. “What is this food? What have we been doing in the classroom?”

  He shakes his head, tired all of sudden.

  “Do we have to do this now?” he asks wearily. “Really, now? A define-the-relationship talk now?”

  I’m silent for a moment. Okay, I might be pushing things, but at the same time, I want to know exactly what we are to each other and what we are doing.

  “Mr. Phillips, what am I to you?” I cock my head, my eyes quizzical and my body incredibly still. “Tell me,” I demand, suddenly unable to breathe upon realizing just how much his answer means to me. This isn’t just some one-time fling for me, and I hope – god I hope – it isn’t for him either.

  Instead of answering the question, he just sighs and runs a hand through his midnight black hair, ruffling it so that he looks devilishly attractive.

  “Evie,” finally responds, his voice a low growl. “You know what we’re doing isn’t legit.”

  I snort at that. Legit is the last word I would use to describe what we are doing. So I go for it, crass and crude.

  “What are we then?” I ask. “Fuck friends? Bed buddies? Friends with benefits? A student you fuck on the side?”

  He shakes his head, his face strained.

  “No, baby. We’re more than that, but I can�
��t define it,” he admits. “What we are shouldn’t even exist. There are no words because it’s wrong, you hear me? So yeah ... what do you want me to say? That you’re my girlfriend? That we’re dating? Because you know it’s my job if I do.”

  “I know you can’t say we’re … dating,” my breath hitches a little at the thought. “But I can’t believe you feel nothing for me either, that I’m just some circus sideshow for the time being.” I do my best to stay calm, even though the words tear at my heart.

  Mr. Phillips takes my hand in his then, his square palm enveloping mine, his fingers warm.

  “Honey, of course you’re not a circus sideshow – that’s the silliest shit I’ve ever heard. But what we’re doing is wrong, get it? Off the charts wrong, like I’m could be fired wrong.”

  “Then why are we doing this?” I ask tightly, my lips trembling as I try to control my rage. “Why? What’s the point?”

  “Because,” he mutters roughly, seizing my chin in his hand before bending over the table to kiss me, “of this.” The kiss is filled with longing, with pent-up desire, and with all of the tangled thoughts and impossible words that can’t be spoken. My heart thumps maniacally as he pours his soul into me, making me whimper, shudder, and tremble.

  Stone is over on my side of the table in a flash, pulling me out of my chair and breathing into my mouth.

  “Baby girl,” he whispers against my lips. “You’re so young, so fucking young, and you don’t know anything yet. I can’t take that from you; I can’t take your innocence.”

  “You already have,” I whisper, winding my arms around his neck and pushing my soft curves against his iron chest. “You already have.”

  With a deep growl and a tortured groan, he sweeps me up in his arms, holding me tight before making for the stairs.

  “I’m going to … make you come … so hard tonight,” he promises between kisses to my neck, my chin, and my breasts.

  I just giggle, my thoughts flying crazily. Why am I so angry with Stone again? I can hardly focus on anything except the deepening heat between my thighs, my folds growing slickly wet with desire.