Pretend Daddy: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Amy Brent

  I heard Professor Markle clear his throat, but he did not interrupt.

  “I’m sure most satyrs were also blessed with long, thick, horse-like cocks with which to satisfy all those horny nymphs who came their way, no pun intended.”

  I slowly turned to the next page, giving my words time to sink in. I glanced up at my audience. They were literally sitting on the edges of their seats waiting for me to continue.

  “So, why is the word nymphomaniac tossed around like a hot potato but you never hear the word satyr? Sexism, ladies, pure and simple. Nobody gives a horny hoot about a guy who can’t keep his cock in his pants—show me a guy who can and I’ll show you a guy who’s given up on living life to the fullest—but bring a horny woman in the room, especially one that looks and acts like me, and it’s showtime folks! Just look around this classroom. You’re all looking at me like I’m some sort of freak of nature, as if you’re waiting for me to strip naked and offer myself up on Professor Markle’s desk like a pussy buffet!”

  They looked at each other for a moment, then looked toward Markle’s desk as if imagining me sprawled out naked there with my legs in the air. Markle shifted uncomfortably in the chair and stared back at them in stunned silence. His mouth moved for a few seconds, but nothing came out.

  I continued. “Men who get caught cheating claim they are sex addicts, that they have no control over their own actions because they are addicted to sex, like being addicted to drugs or nicotine. In my humble opinion, that’s a total crock of bullshit. Men come out of the womb addicted to sex. It’s their base programming. It is in their DNA. Their instincts tell them to find a female, fuck her brains out, impregnate her with their seed, and move onto the next woman and do it again, thereby propagating the species like good human boys and girls. And if they’re not addicted to sex, something must be clinically wrong with them. They are labeled erectile dysfunctional or medically impotent or simply asexual, not interested in sex. I just think they haven’t had the right piece of pussy yet. Or the right asshole or mouth or whatever.”

  “Holy fucking shit,” the football player snorted, grinning wildly, licking his lips, his mouth watering with spit. He held up his hands to Markle, who was giving him the eye. “Sorry, dude, but this shit is awesome! The is the best class ever! That’s a fucking A paper, right there!”

  Markle cleared his throat and gave him a nod as if he’d been complemented for having such great students. He held out his hands and smiled at me again, proudly, as if I was the product of his teachings. I swear, I’d been in his class for months and had never seen the man smile. I took that as a sign that I was going to get an A on this paper.

  I turned to the next page. “In Victorian times, doctors believed that eating rich food, consuming too much chocolate, drinking too much coffee or tea, thinking about sex too much, reading dirty novels, and masturbation were the root cause of nymphomania. They believed it all centered on the nerve fibers in the vagina, that if a woman overstimulated her sexual organs, it would make her want to have more sex. First of all, I don’t think it’s possible to overstimulate a pussy. And second of all: duh! Good to know that they weren’t total idiots.”

  Giggles. Squirming. Hands in laps. A groan from the football player.

  “They believed women with excessive sexual appetites were sick because surely a strong appetite for sex must be a symptom of some horrible disease. God forbid a woman just like to fuck, right ladies? So, what did they do? These medical morons recommended self-control and moderation, which meant that if you could not control yourself and your desire for sex, you should just try not to do it so much. All things in moderation… hmmm…

  “Other psychological and medical professionals of the time believed that nymphomania was a type of mental disease, not unlike schizophrenia or paranoia. The term ‘sexual madness’ became popular for a period and there are documented cases of women in the Victorian era being locked away in institutions until they could get their libidos in check. Or at least pretend to. That’s like saying to a woman, we’re going to lock you up until you stop liking sex. How fucking insane is that?”

  “Totally fucking insane,” a girl in the front row said angrily, as if she herself had been the victim of such antiquated thinking. Perhaps she was, to some degree, at some time in her past. If my mom had had her way I would have been locked in my room wearing a steel chastity belt until I was old enough to get married and move out.

  “Today, the term nymphomaniac is no longer recognized by the medical world. It’s passé. Not cool. Old fashioned. According to Modern Psychology Journal Monthly, the term is not scientifically meaningful because there are no specific criteria that would clearly define a nymphomaniac. In other words, there is no way to determine how much sex is too much. Instead, someone with a high sex drive is now labeled as ‘hypersexual’, with labels like ‘sex addict’ and ‘sexual compulsive’ bandied about by TMZ to describe celebrities like David Duchovny and Ben Affleck who can’t keep their big famous wankers in their pants. I think words like hypersexual are just way cooler, more millennial, more high-tech sounding. Nymphomaniac is old school, Hypersexual and Sex Addict are much more 2017.”

  “I’d fuck Ben Affleck,” the girl in the front row said to her friend.

  “Hell yes, me, too,” her friend replied.

  They both smiled when I said, “Same here. And Matt Damon, too.”

  “Please continue, Miss Allen,” Professor Markle said, frustrated at the banter. He tapped a skinny finger to his watch. “Class time is running out.”

  “Yes, sir, sorry, professor.” I flipped to the next page. “I won’t even address the religious aspects of nymphomania or hypersexuality, other than to say that every religion on earth considers any sexual activity by a woman outside of marriage for the sake of sexual pleasure to be a sin. It’s okay to have excessive sex with your fat, abusive husband if the intent is just to push out more fat, little Christian babies. Otherwise, ladies, keep your legs tightly crossed and your twats locked away!

  “Of course, show me a religion that doesn’t have women getting fucked every which way but loose all through the ages and I’ll show you one boring fucking religion. There is even a website called Christian Nymphos that claims to ‘teach married women to walk in sexual freedom with their husbands’. Of course, they also preach that women should be submissive to their husbands and have sex with them whether they want to or not, so take that shit with a grain of salt. They probably sell Virgin Mary cock rings and Mary Magdalene dildos at the church socials on Sunday night, after doing a bit of wife swapping on Saturday. Their website even says this, ladies: What’s the best cure for nymphomania? MARRIAGE! Can’t argue there. Marriage has killed the sex drive of millions of people, including my parents and probably yours. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Fucking A it has,” the footballer said. “My old man ain’t nailed my mom in decades. He lays it to his secretary though.”

  “Amen,” said the ladies in the front row. The blonde rolled her eyes. “Fuck marriage and fuck being subservient to some man.”

  “To quote Dr. Alfred Kinsey, ‘The only unnatural sex act is that which you cannot perform’. Well, I have yet to find a sex act I could not perfect, so take that for what it’s worth.”

  Giggles. Whispers. Smiles.

  “So, in summation, it’s considered perfectly normal for a man to want to fuck every woman in the room, but when you’re a woman who can’t get enough sex, like me, you’re considered a slut or a whore or a fuck machine, and men think you’re easy. They think that they can treat you like shit because you can’t live without their cocks. Let me tell you, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  I locked eyes with the football player and spoke directly to him to everyone’s delight. “The fact that I want your big, fat cock inside me does not mean I’m dying for it, or willing to let you use and abuse me in exchange for it. To the contrary, my pussy is much more powerful than your cock. Wars have been fought over pussy. Throughout his
tory, millions of men have died over pussy. Samson and Delilah. Paris and Helen of Troy. Adam and Eve. No man in history, at least that I can recall, has ever died fighting over cock. Okay, maybe in a gay biker bar somewhere, but you know what I mean.”

  The football player swallowed hard and glanced down at his crotch. I was pretty sure the boner he’d had in his pants had shrunk to the size of a little sausage.

  I closed the hot pink binder that held my report that I had titled, “Nymphos Aren’t Easy” and looked up from the podium. My fellow students were all staring at me with their mouths hanging open and a glazed look in their eyes. A few were sighing as if they were exhausted. A couple of the guys were giving me salacious looks and licking their lips like they were first in line at a Chinese buffet. One of the girls, a lesbian named Colby, was looking me up and down with a smile on her lips. Interesting. Maybe we’d chat later.

  I held the report between my hands, tapped it on the podium, and said, “The end. Thank you.”

  The room erupted in applause and laughter. I held the report to my breasts and gave a little bow.

  “Um, that was… most interesting, Miss Allen,” Professor Markle said without getting up from the desk. He was still sitting with his hands in his lap, squirming like the chair beneath his boney ass had grown hot. He looked at the class without getting up and gave a nod.

  “That’s all for today,” he said, clearing his throat and waving a hand toward the door. “We’ll continue reviewing your papers tomorrow, though I doubt any of you will be as entertaining as Miss Allen has been here today. You’re dismissed.” He looked at me with a glint in his watery eyes. “Miss Allen, could you remain behind please. I’d like to talk to you about your… paper.”

  “Sure, Professor Markle,” I said with a smile, knowing what was about to happen because such things happened to me all the time. I’d have to let the old guy down easily so he wouldn’t torpedo my grade. That was the only drawback to publicly announcing that you were a nymphomaniac; everybody thought it meant that you were easy, even old birds like Markle.

  Don’t get me wrong. I had no problem fucking much older guys and was always open to new adventures and opportunities, but I had very high standards. I’d slept with guys Markle’s age thanks to the miracle of Viagra and an abundance of determination, but they were in much better condition than he was. And they challenged me intellectually. Poor old Mr. Markle always looked like he had one foot in the grave, and the biggest challenge he faced every day was deciding what to have for lunch.

  Sorry, Professor M, but you will not be dipping your wrinkled little pecker in my honey pot today, but I’ll certainly give you an A for trying.

  CHAPTER FOUR: Jude

  Isabelle “Izzy” Parks had been my best friend since day one at Midwestern, and had been my roommate since we’d moved off campus into a small apartment together in Springfield our junior year.

  Izzy was a gorgeous black girl from Atlanta who was at Midwestern studying clinical psychology. She had a semi-steady boyfriend named Earl Winston, the extremely cocky and large captain of the MU Buccaneers.

  Earl had offered to fix me up with his equally-cocky and large team mates more than once, but I had always declined. It wasn’t that I wasn’t willing to screw a hunky jock now and then to break up the monotony of a dry spell. It was simply that I was into educated men. Smart men. Brilliant men. Teachers. Professors. Doctors. Scientists. No lawyers. For some reason, the thought of sleeping with a lawyer just made my skin crawl.

  Anyway, I had made it perfectly clear to Earl that unless his Head Coach—who also happened to be a brilliant history professor—was interested in screwing me, I wasn’t interested in letting him fix me up, period.

  I met Izzy for a late lunch in the cafeteria across campus after class. She nearly sprayed Pepsi all over the table when I told her about my lecture and my private consultation with Professor Markle afterward.

  “Holy shit, girl, are you serious?” she asked, wiping her mouth on a napkin. “Are you telling me that that old man was sitting behind his desk with his old dick in his hand the whole time?”

  “I don’t know about the whole time,” I said with a grin as I doused the plate of French fries with ketchup and grinned at her. “All I know is he called me over to his desk, asked me to come around behind, and there is was. It was so sad, like a white little worm that had seen better days.”

  “Lordy, there is nothing nastier than an old man’s cock!” she said, chuckling as she swirled a fry through the ketchup.

  “And how would you know that?” I asked.

  “My grandpa lived with us until he died of old age and meanness,” she said, rolling her brown eyes. “That old bastard used to walk through the house naked as the day he was born tugging on his wrinkled old dick like a little kid. Mom said he had dementia. I think he was just a pervert.”

  I giggled at the thought of the old man shuffling through the house and Izzy screaming for her mom. She munched another fry and pushed her eyebrows up. “So, what did you do when you came around the desk and saw him hanging out and all?”

  “Well, I sort of knew what was coming, no pun intended, so I had my phone in my hand and took this picture,” I said with a smile. I held up the phone and Izzy grimaced at the photo of Professor Markle, sitting with a surprised look on his face and his withering cock between two fingers. It looked like he was holding a spent condom. Poor old guy.

  “Oh my god, that is disgusting!’ Izzy said. “At least my grandpa’s old pecker had some color to it. That looks like a grub worm!”

  “Oh, stop,” I said. “Give the old guy a break.”

  “I’ll give the old guy what’s-for if he pulled that shit with me,” Izzy said, holding up a fist and shaking it in the air between us. “So, what did he expect you to do with that thing? Put it in a box and bury it in the backyard?”

  I grinned and pulled back the phone because a bunch of guys at the next table were glancing our way. Guys always glanced our way. More than one of them had suggested a three-way with me and Izzy, probably because we could not have been anymore different. I was the redhaired Irish girl with the fair skin and big tits, and Izzy was the beautiful black girl with an ass to die for (because if you touched her ass, Earl would fucking kill you). They could suggest all they wanted. That was never going to happen. I would have been willing to experiment, but Izzy was staunchly heterosexual and faithful to Earl. Sigh. Too bad.

  I glanced at the photo one last time and shrugged. “I’m not quite sure what he expected me to do with it. I mean, I’m good, but I’m not sure even I could get that thing hard. It would have been like stretching a rubber band, I think. Maybe he expected me to wait until his Viagra kicked in.”

  “Shit, Viagra ain’t no miracle drug,” Izzy said, rolling her eyes. “It would have taken a miracle for God to get that poor thing hard.”

  “Izzy, you’re terrible,” I said, giggling with a fry between my teeth.

  “No, that old fool is terrible,” she said, hugging. “So, what are you gonna do with the picture?”

  “I won’t do anything with it if he doesn’t screw with my grade because I wouldn’t service him,” I said, putting the phone away and picking up the double cheeseburger that was waiting for me to destroy it. I held it between my hands and bit off a huge bite. Chewing, I said. “It is too bad he wasn’t younger and hotter. I mean, if he had only been fifty or sixty without the bushy nose hair, maybe I would have taken him up on his offer. He is a brilliant teacher.”

  “And you’re such a slut,” Izzy said with a grin. She picked up the chili dog from her tray and bit off one end. Chewing as she looked around, she nodded at someone sitting across the crowded cafeteria. “You’d fuck him, I bet.”

  I turned to follow the direction of her eyes to see a tall, dark, gorgeous man wearing a wrinkled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans and scuffed boots, sitting alone at a table across the way. His shirt collar was open and a black necktie hung over
his thick chest.

  “Oh my, who is that?” I asked, licking my lips because my mouth had suddenly gone dry, probably because all the juices in my body were gushing toward my crotch.

  “That is Professor Holden Moss,” Izzy said with a sigh. “He’s the new psyche professor that took over Professor Driver’s classes when he hit it big.”

  I frowned without taking my eyes off Holden Moss. “Professor Driver’s not teaching this semester? Dammit. He was on my grad school list.”