by Amy Brent
There is no greater complement in my mind than looking up with a girl’s juices covering my mouth and cheeks and seeing that “the dam just broke” glow on her face. Dreamy eyed, red cheeks, quivering lips, breasts heaving, trying to breathe. I loved watching a girl’s face as I hammered into her tight pussy while she exploded and writhed around like she was having a sexual seizure.
There was nothing better in my book. NOTHING!
Me and my best friend Wynn—Dr. Wynn Driver, pardon me— talked about that all the time, how we got more pleasure out of making a woman cum than cumming ourselves. In fact, sometimes we double-teamed a girl who was willing and able to take on two big cocks at once, just to double her pleasure, double her fun. And our fun, too, of course. I can’t tell you how many times me and Wynn had stood grinning at each other with our cocks stuck in opposite ends of the same woman, her cumming like a freight train while we just hung on like happy passengers.
Wynn called us “pleasure givers” and the women we fucked “pleasure receivers”. Wynn was clinical like that, giving everything a name so he could psychoanalyze the shit out of it later. That’s what he did for a living. Wynn was a nationally-renowned clinical psychologist who guest lectured for me sometimes when he was in town. He was the proverbial “tall, dark, and handsome” motherfucker and women crawled all over each other to sleep with him. We’d shared a lot of girls over the years. And had never gotten a single complaint. To the contrary, as Wynn liked to say, “If we don’t make your toes curl over and over again, then our job ain’t done!”
That was Wynn. What a character. He’d have a field day on Haley what was her name…
“Professor Moss? Professor? Would you like that? Me on my knees and you standing here with your cock out?” She was gesturing with her hands at the space under the podium, smiling like a Price Is Right spokes model, who had probably asked Drew Carey something similar over the years.
I shook thoughts of Wynn from my brain and gave Haley a smile. “That sounds like fun.”
The podium was open in the side that faced my desk, with enough room for Haley to get to her knees and tuck herself in. I stood at the podium with my hands on the top and sighed as Haley unzipped my pants and tugged out my cock, helping herself to everything I had to offer. I just closed my eyes and sighed. I truly was a blessed man.
“Ooh, Professor Moss, your cock is soooo long,” she sighed with her fingers flexing around the shaft. She started to slowly slide her fingers back and forth over my big ten-incher, squeezing as she neared the head, forcing little drops of precum out the slit. She hummed and licked away my juices, then pressed her lips to the head and slathered it around her wet mouth. She held my cock up and slowly trailed her tongue from the base of the shaft to the tip. She loosened my pants and pushed them and my boxers down my legs so she could get to my balls. She gently kneaded the sack between her fingers.
“Does that feel good, professor?” she asked, gazing up at me with her beautiful blue eyes gleaming and the head of my cock resting on her lips. She spread her lips and pulled me toward her, taking my cock head fully into her mouth with her lips suctioned tightly around the shaft. She started milking the base of the shaft while deep throating the rest.
“Yes… Haley… that feels… oh… wow… pretty… fucking amazing…” I sighed as my fingers gripped the edges of the podium. I locked my knees to keep from wobbling. Wow, okay, this girl was not kidding. This might not be the best blowjob of my life, but it was going to be pretty fucking close. Certainly, in the top ten. Maybe even the top five.
I heard someone rattling the doorknob, but I chose to ignore it. I knew that the door was locked and I had the only key on a ring in my desk. I was the only professor who used this particular classroom, so I had changed the locks without the dean or the facilities manager knowing it for this very reason. A lot of girls not only wanted to fuck a professor, they wanted to do so in his classroom, during the day, when the halls were buzzing with activity and the chances of getting caught were greater. My training told me it was simply because some women found danger—the chance of getting caught with your mouth full and your pussy out—was an aphrodisiac. Senses were heightened. Nerves stood on end. You wanted to cum quickly, but not too quickly. All of that made the sex even better for them, which was just fine with me.
Besides, the dean never came to the psyche building. The psychology department was not much of a money maker for Midwestern, so we were relegated to the older buildings on the shittier side of campus. Dean Wormer always held court in his plush, corner office in the admin building clear on the other side of the campus. If he wanted to talk to you, you were paged by his secretary, a sour-faced woman named Greta, and expected to come to him.
It was probably just a student who had forgotten something or a janitor wanting to empty the trash or rifle my desk. They’d have to wait. Haley was pumping my cock with the force of an oil derrick now, taking me in until I hit the back of her throat and out again. I could feel the orgasm building in my balls. They were getting tight between her fingers as the pressure started to build from deep inside.
I opened my eyes to glance down so I could watch Haley work her magic. I guess being highly-coordinated was what made her such a great cocksucker, I mean, cheerleader. She had one hand working my balls and taint, the other working the shaft, and her mouth working the tip. Just the sight of my cock ramrodding between her gorgeous lips was enough to push me over the edge.
“Fuck… Haley… shit…” I moaned, my body tensing, fingers holding onto the podium to keep from falling. “You’re… going to... make me… cum…”
“Yes… oh god… yes… yes... baby… cum for Haley,” she said, her breath coming in spurts that matched the motion of her hand, as if she was having an orgasm just from getting me off. This girl was amazing. I couldn’t wait to get her in bed and really give her the star treatment. Wynn would love this girl.
“I’m… cumming…”
“Cum on my face…” She pulled her lips back and jackhammered her hand up and down the shaft as she held my balls steady, keeping them from slapping against my legs. I held my breath and grunted like a wild animal as my cock exploded, shooting thick ropes of milky white goo all over her pretty face. She smiled and opened her mouth and let me shoot cream all over her tongue and lips. As my seizures slowed, she took my cock into her mouth and sucked out every drop of cum that was left, then like a mommy cat cleaning a kitten, held up my cock and licked it clean.
“Holy shit,” I said, struggling to catch my breath. I fell back against the desk and tucked my withering cock back into my pants, then reached down to help Haley get to her feet. She came up into my arms and laced her fingers behind my neck.
Leaning back, giving me a sly look, she licked her lips and smiled. “Well, professor, how was that?”
“That,” I said, making a goofy face, blowing out my cheeks, “was probably the best blowjob of my life.” I lied, it was more like number five or six, but why let the poor girl down. I put my hands on her arms and gave her a smile. I made a show of glancing at my watch. “I’m late for a meeting with the dean. Can I pay you back later?”
“Yes, you most certainly can,” she said, bringing her hands down to fasten my belt. She leaned against me and stared up into my eyes. “If you think that was amazing just wait until you see what I can do with my pussy and ass.”
She got onto her tiptoes to kiss my cheek, then picked up her book bag and sauntered out the door as if nothing had happened. I sat back against the edge of my desk and sighed.
I couldn’t wait to tell Wynn about Haley what’s her name.
He was gonna love this girl.
And she was gonna love him.
CHAPTER THREE: Jude
I stood at the podium at the front of Professor Markle’s Psychology of Sexuality 401 class and quietly cleared my throat. My term paper was laid out on the podium in front of me, all neatly typed and printed out to make it easier to read out loud. Some students just read off
their iPad or phone, but I was old fashioned. I liked the feel of paper in my hands. I liked to be able to finish one page, then move on to the next. And paper didn’t rely on the school’s shitty Wifi.
More than one idiot had said, “Sorry, Professor Markle, but the Wifi’s not working so I can’t read my paper to the class. Can I get a do-over later?”
Markle was old school.
He didn’t give do-overs.
He gave F’s.
Idiots.
I did think Professor Markle, who was closer to seventy than sixty, pushed the old school stuff too far sometimes. Like the way he had his seniors write a paper then read it aloud to the class like third graders while he dozed at his desk, not even pretending to listen. I probably could have read the transcript of a comic book and he would not have noticed. Maybe that’s what prompted me to write the paper I did. It was full of wit, wisdom, keen observations, scientific hypotheses, and good old-fashioned smut. Not to mention the shock value. I wanted to see if the old fart was even paying attention. I knew my classmates certainly would be after hearing the opening line.
I gave a curt smile to the twenty other seniors who were watching me from their seats with a mixture of boredom and disinterest. Some were playing on their phones, some struggling to keep their eyes open, most were not even paying attention. These were the morons who thought getting a psyche degree was going to be an easy road to hoe. In the fall, most of them would have a degree but be working as cashiers and waiters while I was working on my Master’s. Again, idiots.
They were disinterested and bored now, but I knew that would change the moment I read the opening line of my paper. So far, the papers that had been read were horrible, clinical diatribes that sounded like something you’d read in a boring medical journal, most copied word for word from Google or Wikipedia. I could tell by the way they were looking at me that they expected more of the same from me. Boy, were they going to be surprised.
I smiled and said, “Hi, my name is Judith, and I’m a nymphomaniac.”
I paused to let that tidbit of information sink in for a moment. Every eye in the room came up to look at me, surprise and bewilderment on every face. Even old Professor Markle looked up from his desk and cupped a hand to his ear.
“I’m sorry, Miss Allen, what did you just say?” he asked.
“I said, ‘Hi, my name is Judith, and I’m a nymphomaniac’.”
His forehead wrinkled over his bushy white eyebrows. “Oh, that’s what I thought you said.” He waved a hand in the air and gave me a nervous smile. “Very well. Please. Proceed.”
I cleared my throat again and started from the beginning without looking down at my notes. “Hi, my name is Judith, and I’m a nymphomania.” I gave them an expectant look. “This is the part where you say, hi, Judith!”
Everyone in the room said it at the same time.
“HI, JUDITH!”
Giggles all around, like a bunch of teenagers telling fart jokes. Now that I had their attention, I started reading with a big grin on my face.
“Has anyone else ever called Sex Addicts Anonymous hoping to hook up with someone to fuck?” I asked, forcing away the grin and replacing it with a serious face. “I have. And they were not amused.”
More giggles, but this time the laughter ended quickly because they wanted me to keep going. Everyone was eager to hear what I’d say next. I had to admit, I was a little eager myself. I squeezed my thighs together and focused on reading the words I’d written the night before.
“Seriously, what is a nymphomaniac? More to the point, what is nymphomania? The famous sex researcher, Dr. Alfred Kinsey, described a nymphomaniac as, ‘Someone who has more sex than you.’”
Giggles. Heads bobbing. High fives among the guys.
I looked up at my fellow students and smiled again. “I love that definition. Of course, in high school the word nymphomaniac did not exist in the vocabulary of my peers. I was just called ‘the slut’ or ‘the horny girl’ or, to quote one football player who never got in my pants but liked to say he had, ‘the fuck machine’.”
“The fuck machine? Seriously?” The comment came from one of the senior football players sitting at the back of the class, a guy with more brawn than brains. “Baby, we need to talk after class. I got some oil for your machine.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Pinson,” Markle snapped, his voice showing a strength not displayed in class before. He shook a crooked finger at the football asshole and growled like an angry dog. “Another comment from you and you’re gone. I don’t care how much pressure your coach puts on me to pass you. Understood?” He looked at me and gave me a slow nod. “Please. Continue, Miss Allen.”
“According to Webster’s Dictionary, a nymphomaniac is a woman who exhibits abnormally-excessive and uncontrollable sexual desire. Webster does not offer a definition for the term ‘abnormally excessive’, but I’m going to assume that means even more than what would be considered normal. I guess there is ‘excessive sex’ and ‘abnormally-excessive sex’, which again, I’m assuming, is not even enough for a woman like me, a clinically-diagnosed nymphomaniac.
“That’s right, I was diagnosed with nymphomania when I was nineteen-years-old and a freshman at this very university. Of course, that diagnosis came from a forty-something-year old clinical psychologist who ended up bending me over his desk during our third session and fucking me from behind while he told me to call him daddy.”
No giggles at that one, but several gasps from females. Markle shifted uneasily in his chair, no doubt wondering who the clinical psychologist might be, but didn’t attempt to stop my reading.
“Don’t worry, girls. I probably enjoyed it more than he did,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows at them. The smiles returned to their faces. “Honestly, I’m not even one hundred percent sure that nymphomania is even a thing. I mean, who’s to say that I’m not the normal one and everyone else suffers from a lack of sexual desire? What is normal, really? Maybe it’s not me, it’s everyone else. Show of hands, is there anyone here who doesn’t like a good hot fucking now and then?”
No hands went up, though several of the boys put their hands in their laps and squirmed a bit when their eyes met mine. Markle’s hands were in his lap behind the desk. I could have sworn that he was diddling himself as he looked at me with dreamy eyes. The thought of giving every male in the room a boner—even old Mr. Markle—made me smile, and pushed me to continue on.
“Did you know the term nymphomania only applies to females, ladies? The male counterpart is called ‘satyriasis’, a word no one outside of clinical phycology has ever even heard of and can barely pronounce. Both words come from Greek mythology. Nymphs were minor deities represented as beautiful maidens, usually depicted as naked and gorgeous, with big melon boobs and milky skin. Satyrs were woodland creatures that were half man and half goat, usually depicted as having pointy ears, the legs and horns of a goat, and a fondness for—” I made air quotes with my fingers—“’unrestrained revelry’. That’s where the word horny comes from. The satyrs had horns and liked to fuck. They were considered horny. Get it?”
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 y
ou’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.
