The Virgin Diaries: The Complete Series

by Lauren Landish

  The buzz I’d been building, certain he was describing me, pops at his nerve. But he didn’t answer my question. “And where do I fall in that spectrum, Professor?”

  He chuckles, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Miss Phillips, you are most definitely exceptional. Do you know why I am so ‘nitpicky’, as you called it, about your work?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just continues speaking like it’s a class lecture. I listen raptly as if it’s one as well.

  “You take shortcuts, and while normally, I would simply not allow that as most students need to visually see each step, you don’t need that. You jump from problem, to half-solution, to full-solution in half the steps the textbook requires. It’s like forcing a child who knows how to multiply to count individual tally marks to get a total, uselessly time-consuming and unnecessary. But by skipping steps, your attention to detail must be flawless or you will miss something. That’s why I’m so hard on you, Daisy.” His voice is earnest, sincere.

  I’m speechless, jaw hanging open in shock. I don’t think I’ve ever received a compliment that made me feel this warm inside. And suddenly, it’s not just my heart that’s heating from his words. The beauty of his assessment hits me lower, deep in my core, and I blush fiercely. “Wow, thank you, Professor. No one has ever said anything like that to me. Just . . . thank you.”

  There’s a moment of silence, both of us unsure where to go from here. Well, at least I don’t know what to say. It seems like he’s merely watching me, and I see his eyes trace from my messy bun to my bespectacled eyes to my cleavage. Suddenly, I’m damn glad I took the moment to fluff the girls before calling.

  He breaks the silence, his voice husky and doing dangerous things to my body, even through the digital divide. “Is there something specific you called about tonight, Daisy?”

  “Oh . . . uh, the homework!” I say, picking up my notebook and holding it to the camera. I realize a moment later that it’d been the perfect opportunity to say something flirty, but it’s too late now. And really, I shouldn’t be flirting with him anyway, no matter how sexy I find his intelligence, his muscled body, and okay, maybe his arrogance too. “I’m having some difficulty with problem twenty-four.”

  Five minutes later, he’s let me talk my way to the solution, not simply giving it to me but making me work for it myself. He seems just as delighted with my correct answer as I am. “See, Miss Phillips? You’re capable of great things . . . with the proper guidance, of course.” He winks, softening the cocky joke.

  But I’m beginning to think he’s right. The right teacher is just what I need . . . in math and in other things. Maybe this is why I’ve never found the right guy for my first time. Granted, it’s not like I ever got asked out in high school, but in college, there have been a few guys interested in me. But they always seemed so immature. Not like Professor Daniels. He seems confident, mature, like he’d know how to take care of me and teach me what I need to know.

  “Thank you, sir. I think you’re right. I just need the right teacher to show me, help me learn everything I’m capable of,” I say softly, letting the sultriness I feel fill my voice. We’re still speaking in innuendo, but there’s no doubt to the offer I’m making. It’s the most forward I think I’ve ever been, and while maybe that’s ridiculous, it’s the truth.

  “Daisy . . .” he starts, leaning toward the camera again. I lean forward too, knowing it puts my cleavage front and center for him, wanting him to see me, to want me. He gulps, eyes narrowing and focused solely on my chest. “I’m your teacher, and anything beyond that would be inappropriate. You’re so fucking sexy . . .” He stops, shaking his head, and forces his eyes to mine. “I mean, you’re a lovely young woman and it would be in bad form for me to take advantage of that.”

  My face falls, and he cringes. “I’m sorry, Miss Phillips. You have no idea how truly sorry I am. Good night.” And with one last look of longing at my tits, the screen goes black.

  Shit.

  I am so screwed. I basically just threw myself at my professor, who then had to let me down gently. But somewhere between the fear of what’ll happen with my grades and mortification at his brush-off, I realize that he called me ‘fucking sexy’ in that deep, throaty growl of his. I wonder if that held more truth than his civilized, formal statement about my being a ‘lovely young woman’.

  The more I think about his words, his cocky wink, the way he leaned against his desk, putting his bulging cock right at my eye level, the hotter I get. The thought of his domineering, arrogant, sexy as fuck attitude gets me wet. I remember the hungry way his eyes traced my tits, like he’d love to bury his face in their lushness.

  Before I even make the conscious effort to do so, my hands are tracing along my body. I have a momentary thought of appreciation that Ari will be out late, and then I give in to the fire Professor Daniels has been building in me all semester.

  I pull my tank top over my head, cupping my breasts and talking to the black screen, imagining that his face is still peering back at me. “You like these, Professor? It seemed like you couldn’t take your eyes off them.” I trace my fingers around my nipples, gasping as I pinch their stiff peaks.

  Keeping one hand teasing my chest, I slip my shorts down and off. I trace a finger along my panties, feeling the dampness through the fabric, “Fuck, you’ve already got me soaked through my good-girl panties. But you already knew that, didn’t you? You know exactly what you do to me.”

  Needing more, I slip my fingers into my panties, moving along my slit and coating myself with my juices. Circling my clit with the pads of my fingers, I sigh. “Mmm, God, that feels good. You’re going to make me come rubbing my little clit like that.” Rubbing in circles, I lay my head back, breathing deeply.

  Closing my eyes, I let the fantasy take over completely. He makes me feel wanton, but I can’t imagine saying these things if he were actually in front of me. I’d probably die of embarrassment first, and he’d definitely shut me down. But alone in my room, I feel brave, free to let loose all the dirty thoughts I have to get me to my climax.

  “I need more, Professor. You stand up there, all stern and serious, lecturing us. But all I think about is that thick cock bulging in your jeans. I want to taste it, I want to take it in my virgin pussy.” As I dream it’s his rock-hard cock, I press two fingers inside myself, the tightness of my walls quivering against the invasion. “That’s it, fill me up. I know it’s a tight fit, but I can take you.” I add a third finger, the stretch verging on pain, but it’s so delicious, I cry out.

  A constant stream of sounds, some dirty words, and some incoherent moans work their way up my throat as I slide my fingers in and out, still teasing my clit with my thumb. “Fuck, yes. Professor. I’m going to come. My sweet, untouched pussy. God, I need you to show me . . . show what I’m capable of.” His earlier words rush out, no longer the encouragement of professor to student, but in my mind, they’ve twisted into a scenario where he works my body masterfully, taking control and teaching me things about pleasure I’ve never dreamed.

  I stroke my clit one last time and convulsions tear through me as I whisper Connor over and over again, unable to do anything but ride out the wave of my orgasm. It’s huge, bigger than I’ve ever had, and when it subsides, I find myself gasping for breath.

  I peel my eyes open, thankful the couch is still holding me up because I’m complete jelly. “Holy Shit,” I say to the empty room, a smile sweeping across my face. “Looks like I’m already learning some things, Professor.”

  I grab my drenched undies, wiping my cream-covered fingers on them. With a sigh, I decide a shower is just what I need after that workout. Both the mental one from the online chat with the professor and the physical one at my own hands.

  I close my notebook, stacking it with my textbook, then close my laptop, adding it to the pile. I gently toss the whole stack onto my bed and head to the shower, promising myself that I will spend the weekend studying. After all, Professor Daniels said he thinks I’m capable of e
xceptional work, and I’m damn sure going to prove that to be true.

  Connor

  Fuck. I’ve had women throw themselves at me before. I’m a young, good-looking, muscled-up math nerd. The idiosyncrasy of a hot-bodied intellect who can talk high-level math and superheroes is like candy to a certain type of woman. The same is true for students too. More than one young co-ed has thought she’d be the one to tempt me into breaking that taboo line, whether for grades or sport, or maybe because she was truly attracted to me. I’ve never once considered it. Until today.

  I’ve already broken about a dozen rules, and probably some laws, with Daisy Phillips in my mind, but I knew I wouldn’t ever act on those thoughts. But when she leaned forward, knowingly and intentionally showing her tits to me, I’d been so close to making those filthy thoughts a reality. I’d tried to let her down easy, even if my tongue did slip a bit, but I could see her humiliation.

  I go back to work, grading papers at my desk. It’s only moments later that I hear a rustling. At first, I think someone’s in the room with me, and I scan the small space, finding myself alone as I thought. But then the noise happens again.

  And then I hear it. A breathy sigh.

  And Daisy’s voice.

  My eyes look to my computer screen, the chat window still there but showing a solid black screen. The chat is closed, right?

  I click on it “Miss Phillips? Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  At least not to me, but what I do hear makes me instantly hard. It’s Daisy, obviously masturbating, judging by the sounds. And if that wasn’t enough to get me rock fucking hard instantly, when she says my name, I’m fully erect in seconds.

  I try again, knowing that this is wrong. Clicking on the window, I see if she can hear me. “Daisy?”

  Still no response. But her words are getting dirtier, and after a moment of hesitation, I can’t help myself. If she can’t hear me talking to her, trying to warn her of the continued connection, she won’t hear me touching myself either. I hope that’s true, because fuck, I can’t help it.

  As she works herself, her moans and words streaming live to my ears, I do the same, taking my cock in hand. I fuck my hand, using my precum to ease the way. It’s an erotic aural assault, but in my mind, I picture her just as she was on the screen, messy hair and glasses, tits pushed up in her bra, but the image morphs, turning into her naked and writhing beneath me, and I pump myself harder and faster.

  She’s mid-stream of dirty talk when I hear her say ‘my virgin pussy’, and I have to grab the base of my cock and squeeze hard to stave off the immediate orgasm. Could she be telling the truth? Is she actually a virgin? I’d imagined that but never really believed it could be true. Inexperienced, for sure, but untouched? She’s a gorgeous woman, brilliant and interesting. How has no other man popped that cherry?

  The thought of anyone else tasting her sweetness, breaking through that barrier for the first time, infuriates me. Like some silly high school boy or barely old enough college frat boy is worth her gift. No, I want it. I want her first time, and maybe more after that.

  The thought is delicious, a momentary imagining that while it sounds so right, I know it’s so very wrong. But I let my fantasy take me away as I pump myself. And when she gets close, I pick up my pace, wanting to match her, to come with her, both of us together, even if she doesn’t know it.

  As she cries out, I hear her whispering my name over and over like a prayer, and I explode, ropes of white cum trickling down my hand as I ride out the forceful orgasm with her. “Daisy . . .” I grunt out.

  I hear her panting breaths in time with mine as we both recover. And then, too soon, the black chat window winks out, disappearing. For an instant, I think maybe I imagined it. But then I look at my cock, and I know the truth.

  I just heard Daisy Phillips rubbing her sweet pussy . . . to me. No, her sweet virgin pussy as she imagined me taking her.

  I am so fucked. Because damn, do I want to make her dream a reality. Actually, it’s my dream too.

  The weekend is way too long and not nearly long enough. Dean Michaels called about some fundraising event he wants me to speak at and one of my doctoral candidate students called with a crisis. Both of the phone calls had only paused my obsession with Daisy. I worked out mercilessly, trying to will my body into submission through exhaustion, but every post-workout shower had me jacking off to the memory of her breathy moans and my name on her lips.

  I vacillate all weekend between not saying a word to Daisy and telling her what I heard after our chat. I should probably keep it a secret, protect her pride and my reputation. And I’ve told myself that’s the game plan, time after time.

  What I want to do to her could put my career in jeopardy . . . but I almost feel like it’d be worth it. To bend her over, to turn what I’m sure is a creamy pale ass bright pink from spanking. To make her get on her knees and worship my cock, make her beg before I turn her around and pound her until I cream so deep and so hard inside her it drips out of her afterward.

  No. I can’t. She’s off limits in so many ways. She’s my student, she’s so young, she’s a virgin, she’s so fucking sexy, she wants me. Shit. I got off track again. She’s not for me, I remind myself.

  I tell myself that again as I walk into the teacher’s lounge for coffee, knowing that she’ll be in my next class.

  “Get yourself in gear,” I admonish myself, reaching for my phone. “Coffee, email, grab my notes . . .”

  “Yo, CD, what’s up?” a familiar voice says, and I turn to see Nick Goodman, my friend and fellow professor.

  “H–hey, Nick,” I stammer, worrying for a second that he can read my dangerously dirty thoughts on my face. “What’s up?”

  “You okay?” Nick asks, coming all the way in. “Your face is all flushed. You thinking some naughty thoughts about those improper fractions again?”

  It’s an old joke between us, but still, I almost forget to laugh. “Ha ha, man. Seriously, get some new material.”

  He grins devilishly. “How about . . . what’s 6.9?”

  I eye him and shrug.

  “Good sex interrupted by a period,” he says, laughing at his own juvenile humor.

  I give him a sympathy smirk. “I’ve got class in fifteen. What do you need?”

  “Just wanted to know if you heard about Cunningham over at MIT,” he asks, grinning. Rob Cunningham has been one of the leading professors in the STEM field for twenty years and someone I’ve admired for awhile. He’s the most likely contender for the Abel Prize, basically, the Nobel Prize for mathematics, next year.

  “I’ve been too busy. What’s going on?”

  “Rumor has it that he dipped his wick in the TA well,” Nick says. “And there’s video.”

  “Oh, shit,” I rasp, blinking. “How’d that happen?”

  “How do you think? The dumbshit probably kept the video on his phone and his wife found it,” Nick says gleefully. “Man, was she pissed. I don’t know if she was more or less mad that . . . the TA wasn’t a girl.”

  “No fucking way,” I reply, surprised at both Cunningham’s falter and his preference. “So is she taking him to the cleaners?”

  “And some . . . her family is a big contributor to the school, so there’s word his tenure might be in jeopardy,” Nick says, shaking his head. “More because of who she is than what he did, but it shakes out ugly for him either way. Anyway, just wanted you to know, since I know you’ve been watching his work. Might put a damper on his shoe-in win for the Abel.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur, still disbelieving. Although I can definitely understand the temptation after this weekend. “Listen, man, no offense, but—”

  “Hey, I know. I have shit to do too,” Nick says. “See you later.”

  Heading to my office, I silently talk myself through the game plan again. It’s best if I stay away from her. If that means I need to grade her more fairly . . . well, so be it. I don’t like not pushing her, but maybe that’ll keep her away.
I don’t want to end up like Cunningham, and after what I did Friday night, I know I crossed a line.

  I grab my notes along with the papers I need to return and hurry to the lecture room, arriving just a minute before class. I sit down, and I quickly glance around, not seeing Daisy. Maybe she’s absent today. Maybe she—

  The door opens and she walks in. Passing right by my desk, I can smell her, and I have to force my eyes to stay on my papers as I can almost smell the soft, sexy scent of her pussy, that smooth virgin pussy, begging for me.

  Goddammit. I’m going to have to do some camouflaging . . . because I’m hard as a fucking rock again. This is going to be a battle.

  And I don’t intend to lose.

  The next hour is painstakingly slow. I can’t just hide behind my desk. Everyone would wonder why I’m not up and around, engaging the class like usual. So I face the whiteboard as much as possible.

  But when I see Daisy crossing and uncrossing her legs, I can barely hold back the groan. Before my brain can stop it, my mouth spits out, “Miss Phillips, perhaps you can show us how you’d solve this problem?”

  She jerks in her seat, surprise showing on her face for an instant before she smiles. “Sure, Professor Daniels.” She walks to the board and gets to work.

  I take the opportunity to check her out under the guise of watching her scribble neat lines of equations. She’s wearing a skirt today. I think the girls call them ‘skater skirts’, but all I know is that with one twirl, I bet it’d spin out and show me her panties underneath. Her good-girl panties. I want to flip her skirt up, slip the cotton down her thighs, and feast on her.

  As if she hears my thoughts, she turns. “What do you think?”