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Going to college was the end of innocence three years ago. Leaving mum and dad to go live on my own in the big city, leaving most of my friends who did not want to move so far away from their valley, leaving the comfort of high school to the wild world, leaving my high school sweet heart who blamed me for leaving to meet real grown up boys!
I’m Cassandre, my parents named me that way with reference to Ronsard, the famous French poet, and that was three years ago, when I joined University and started becoming who I am today. I am what one usually calls a petite brunette. I tend to dress simply though not casually, rather classy if not classical.
Not being the hottie of the classroom has its advantages. I’d hate being the D-cups tall blond that attracts the whole football club, trailing them behind her, always admired, always criticised. And since she’s the prettiest, she’s due to be with the captain, who is, like most of his team, on steroids – all I heard was that his nickname is “floppy-dick”, not really the kind of guy I want in my bed.
The advantage of being the classical classy girl is that boys don’t hover around me all the time, but when I’m going out, if I want, I just have to shake my little bum and I get to pick the pretty boy I want to end the night with. The guys I usually pick are about my age, not too sporty, I definitely have a preference for blue eyes, and I tend to instinctively pick well-endowed specimen, their size compensating for their lack of manners.
But as my bestie says, it’s just sex for cleansing. Although I am sexually very active, not being able to spend a day without at least having two orgasms, these boys never manage to satisfy me. However, they don’t make me fantasize, and if some of them have managed to make me moan and even cum, when I close my eyes at night, there is a man that has obsessed me for the past three years.
He got me at “Good morning class!” It was the first introductory lecture in my first year. Professor Hunt had the reputation of being charismatic, appreciated by most if not all students. When he strolled sell-assured in the theatre, all eyes were on him. Tall, square shoulders, brown hair, tanned skin and… blue eyes.
He stood in front of us and started lecturing. We were all fascinated, literally entranced by his speech. Some of the girls were squirming in their seats. I was simply hypnotised. His speech was a lullaby, his every move I scrutinized, I could not take my eyes off of him. The two hour class passed way too quickly. When Prof. Hunt concluded his introductory class, we all reluctantly left the theatre.
As the first semester advanced, I was amused to notice some girls wearing deeper and deeper cleavages, shorter and shorter skirts, as if to attract the professor’s eye during lecture. And I admit it, although I never went for cleavage and short skirt, I made an effort to look good and I progressively moved from the last row to the first during the semester.
But most of all, I started having indecent thoughts about amazing professor Hunt. Every lecture was a bliss. And although I worked my ass to have the best grades, my way of pleasing my adored lecturer, I often sidetracked on one detail or the other. The first detail was eyes – I love blue eyes. But his had something more. A glitter of amused intelligence that made me melt, literally. Whenever his stare fell on me, I felt butterflies in my belly – there was something half way between discomfort and desire building within me. Sometimes, I’d just stop taking notes and stare at his lips: rich full lips on a rarely shaved face. I started wondering how it’d feel to be kissed by these lips. And his hands – long manicured fingers.
Then one Monday morning around the end of first term, my mind wandered further and I started imagining these lips all over my body. I freaked myself out at first – how did I dare having such thoughts, but this moment of guilt disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. When I got up after that class, I had taken nearly no notes, my panties were drenched and so were my trousers. I was glad they were black and I had a long coat to hide any evidence of my arousal.
I rushed home immediately after that lecture, locked myself in, threw my schoolbag and coat in a corner and jumped on my bed, not even taking my shoes off. I desperately needed to fantasize, to imagine his lips on me, all over me, accompanying my thoughts with my hands. Soon one hand was under my blouse, caressing my nipples, the other had found its way in my panties and I was fingering madly, reaching an excruciating orgasm in a matter of minutes.
What had I just done? I had rushed back from class to make myself cum thinking of my lecturer. Guilt was consuming me. It got worse the next Sunday. To get my mind off that weird track, I went clubbing and brought a pretty boy home. He was nice, caring, good enough not to ask me to go down on him. But every caress, every kiss led me to wonder how Prof. Hunt would do, feel. street blowjobs porno And the shattering orgasm I had was not so much due to his lovely cock, but to the thoughts of what Prof. Hunt’s cock would feel deep inside me.
It is strange to become obsessed by someone. It’s even stranger when you have a weekly date with him. Well, it is not a weekly date, just a weekly class. But each class was punctuated by a wet panty. Each class had me rush home afterwards to release my agonising desire. And each term I made sure to chose Prof. Hunt’s course. But also each boy I shagged, I shagged Prof. Hunt in my thoughts. Each night I’d make myself cum for him before going to sleep, each morning I’d wake up wet from my dreams of him.
But a Prof is a Prof and there was no way I’d try anything on him. Sure, some of the girls made all sorts of effort to buy better grades from him, tempting him in his office at the end of each term. But from what I’d heard, he’d never given in. Why did I have to fall for Mr. Unreachable?
In second year, I accidentally discovered Literotica. It did not really help, to be honest, but I discovered erotic writings about students and professors, babysitters and fathers, so many mature stories of young women with more experienced men. I felt less lonely. But most of all, it fed my fantasies. Of course, I’d imagine the experienced man as my dear professor. So I started collecting those stories. I’d copy the one that I really liked on my flash drive alongside the erotic manga that I used to read.
In third year, we were much fewer students, and, to my delight, classes were not in theatres anymore but in a small class for the dozen of us. More promiscuity to my Professor Hunt – that was great and maddening. He’d walk up and down the alleys and come see every single of us. The first time he leant over me, I thought I’d faint – his delicate perfume, his radiating heat, that was way too much for me. That day, I rushed even faster back home. There, I literally ripped my clothes off, grabbed my beloved purple dildo and filmed myself with my phone while I was thrusting it furiously deep inside my pussy. I had such a shattering orgasm that it took me an hour to recover and be able to go back to college.
As days and weeks went by, I kept reading mature stories to feed my fantasies, I took photos and films, I even wrote a letter to my dear professor. I pondered for a long time whether I should send it to him and finally decided to post in on Literotica. All that stuff was gathered on my flash drive – I thought it was the safest place to keep these stories, photos, videos and writings, hidden among my lecture notes. I sometimes lent my laptop and did not want to take the risk someone finding them on my hard drive.
Until that stupid mistake. Or was it a Freudian slip? It was my last class with Prof. Hunt and I spent that whole hour fiddling my flash drive. Not that I intended to give it to him, just that it reassured me to have it between my fingers (and it kept my fingers busy). At the end of class, I placed it back in my schoolbag and left to rush home as usual. Not so much as usual, it was my last lecture with my dear professor, in the last term of my last year. I’d probably never see him again. The subsequent moment alone in my bed sounded like a farewell to my three year fantasy. It was an intense, powerful, splendid orgasm, but in a way it was fairly painful.
After that wonderful climax, I went to my desk and search for my flash drive in my bag and started panicking. I wanted to read through my letter again to enjoy the graphic details I had given on how I would have treated my dear professor, given the opportunity, but my flash drive was nowhere to be found. It must have fallen from my schoolbag when I left class. Oh my god, I just hope no one found it. I rushed to the department but all offices and classrooms were closed, the corridors were empty. Finally, I found a handwritten note on the notice board. Professor Hunt had found a flash drive in his class and the owner was to get it back from him the day after.
I was becoming mad. My head was about to explode. What had I done? What kind of trouble was I heading for. Just a few days before graduation day. I tried to reassure myself, thinking that Professor Hunt was someone honest and he would never search through a found flash drive. I went home and that night, I did not manage to find sleep, worried as I was. And that night, for the first time in three years, I did not get aroused by thoughts of my dear professor. Every time I pictured him, I’d see my decline, my doom.
In the morning, I reluctantly went to college. The corridors were full of students in their best attire queuing in front of teachers’ doors in order to negotiate better grades. I therefore ended up queuing in front of my dear professor’s door. When my turn came, I entered his office. He was at his desk, as sexy as ever. I was ashamed, intimidated. When he looked student sex parties porno up, he seemed all surprised to see me.
“Well, hello Cassandre. What are you doing here? You surely don’t need to negotiate better grades, you have straight A’s, as ever!”
I coughed to clear my voice, trying to overcome my fears
“Oh, good morning Professor Hunt. I’m not here for my grades… it’s just that the flash drive you found is mine.”
He reached for his schoolbag and took out my flash drive to hand it over to me. I took it from his hand. Our fingers touched and there was a sudden surge of electricity through my whole body. I shivered. Without looking up at me, he grunted some kind of advice not to lose it again. I promised I would and thanked him over and over then fled away as fast as politeness allowed.
I ran till I got home, safe and locked in my flat. And rushed to my computer. I plugged the flash drive and went to check my files. And I was in for another moment of panic. All the files in my “stuff” folder, the one where I hid all my secrets, all the files had been opened the night before, at a time when I did not have my flash drive with me. That meant my dear professor had been through my most intimate fantasies.
Then I thought about it again, all day long. If he had been shocked, he did not show it. And the way he advised not to lose my flash drive again, did it not simply mean that he wanted me to keep my most intimate dreams safe? Did it mean that he had read in details? My letter was the last opened document – how much did he spend on it, that information was not provided. But my mind started wandering: did he read it? Did he like what he read? Did he recognise himself in the description? Did he…? And then there was a mail notification on my computer. Someone had commented on my letter on Literotica. Someone identified as “French prof”, that was advising me to send my letter to my professor.
I went to his account on Literotica. There were a few interesting stories he’d written and that I’d never come across before. They seemed fairly autobiographic and some details made me think of him, my dear professor. That could not be a coincidence. That definitely could not be a coincidence. But what should I do about it. If the French prof on Literotica was my dear professor, there was no point sending my letter to my professor. He had gotten the point. I had to think about it, but that night, my brains were too messed up to foment anything.
I returned to Literotica and read one of his stories. It’s called “Sorry Prof”. A story about him accidentally meeting an ex-student and she just took control over him, making him her pleasuring toy in his own office. Hoo I loved it! Reading him got me so wet. I definitely could imagine myself grabbing his face and shoving it between my thighs, feeling his tongue explore the folds of my intimacy till I screamed my pleasure. After that sleepless night and the subsequent stressful day, the release of a shattering orgasm was more than welcome and I could get to bed for a night of deep sleep and passionate dreaming.
The day after, I starting thinking on how to achieve my aim: getting him in my bed, or at least trying my last chance to get him in my bed. For the next few days, nothing could be done. Family would be around for graduation day. Then I’d have only a couple of days to arrange things before I was due to move back to my parent’s place. So I had to be patient, I had been patient for three years, I could wait another couple of days. I expected to come across him on graduation day, but he did not show up. I discreetly asked around and finally got the information – he was driving wife and kids to their country house and would be back the day after for his academic obligations.
So the day after, I went to the department and discreetly sneaked in one of the classrooms. There, I deliberately left my flash drive on one of the computers. I had made sure my intimate data was encrypted, just in case. Then I rushed back home and waited for a while, keeping busy packing my last things in boxes since I was moving back to my parents’ the next day. Then, when it was nearly closing time, I picked up my phone to called college. The shriek unpleasant voice of the secretary answered and I asked if I could talk to Professor Hunt. She complained it was not a time to call and said she’d see if he was still in his office before putting me on an annoying waiting music. Then after a minute or so, I heard someone picking up the phone.
“Hello? Professor Hunt?” – I was really intimidated, I was not faking it.
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“I feel a bit silly professor. Oh, it’s me, Cassandre. I know I promised I’d be more careful about my flash drive, but I think I left it in room 102. Would you be so kind and see if it is still there? I’m so sorry to bother you again.”
He seemed to hesitate, the kind of hesitation that comforted me with submissive cuckolds porno the idea he had read seen all my intimate files.
“Shh… sure… can you hold on the line while I go check?”
He did not give me a chance to answer, I heard the phone being put down on his desk, then his steps leaving his office. A minute or so later, his footsteps came back and he picked up the phone.
“Cassandre? Are you still here?”
“Yes Professor! Did you find it?” – I was trying my best to give him my sweetest voice.
“I found it, and it is now safely stored in my office – you can come and collect it anytime tomorrow.”
Now was my queue, I had to be good to get what I wanted without asking for it.
“Well… It’s a bit embarrassing, Professor… I’m finishing packing all my belongings as my sister comes to pick me up tomorrow to return home for the summer. Would you accept to send it by post?”
He hesitated for a second – it was a double or quits for me. I was about to accentuate my desperate girl’s act by a “please” when he finally replied.
“I’ll tell you what. I’m about to head home. If it’s on my way, maybe I can drop it at your place – personal delivery is much safer than the mail.”
I wanted to yell victory, I tried to contain my excitement, I did not want to frighten him, but I quickly answered before he changed his mind.
“Oh, that so sweet of you. I live on the Avenue de la Libération. Is that too much of a detour for you?” – I knew it wasn’t much of a detour, thanks to yellow pages.
I was stamping my feet as silently as possible when he agreed and I gave him the precise address. I had little time ahead; he’d be there in a matter of minutes. I rushed to the bathroom to check myself out: I wanted to look as if unprepared, and still look edible to him. A bit of discreet make-up on my eyes, my hair held back in a ponytail. I pondered for a while on what to wear and decided to keep that negligée look I had for packing my boxes: an oversized man’s shirt worn as a dress with a belt around my waist.
The door bell rang. My heart jumped. One last glance in the mirror. Unbuttoning the top buttons of my shirt to give him a better view on my shoulder blades. And I opened the door and gave him my best smile. He seemed baffled. Exactly the effect I wanted to have on him. This gave me time to check him out – he was in his usual suit, but the jacket had gone. That gave him a more casual look, that made him look even sexier.
Still using my sweetest voice, I welcomed him.
“Good evening Professor. That’s ever so sweet of you to bring me my flash-drive back.”
I opened the door invitingly wide and left space for him to step inside, not giving him the chance to hand me the key and run away. And he did, as if move automatically. I closed the door behind him and walked towards the kitchen, waving at him to follow me while offering:
“I have a bottle of wine in the kitchen – I’d rather drink it than take it all the way back to my parents’. Would you care for a glass? That’s the least I can do to thank you for the trouble I caused you.”
He feebly tried to argue that he was driving but I insisted the one glass wouldn’t get him drunk, that I did not plan on getting him drunk and that it was a way to celebrate my graduation. Meanwhile, I was already pouring two glasses of wine and handed one over to him. He grabbed it and raised it
“To you not being a student anymore!”
I raised my glass too and clinked it with his, rephrasing him
“To me not being your student anymore!”
I pressed deliberately on that sentence and accompanied it with a huge grin. I could see in his deep blue eyes that my words had slightly unsettled him. I was glad of my effect – but did not insist yet and started small talking about classes, graduation day, his obligations for the university and so on. When our glasses were empty, I refilled them without asking, and he did not protest.
Now was time to take things a bit further, but not too fast. I jumped on the kitchen counter, about a foot away from where he’d been leaning for the past half hour. My shirt-dress had risen up my thighs high enough to be revealing and teasing, but most of all, I was at last level to his beautiful face.
“Now I’m as tall as you are, that should facilitate conversation” – and I giggled.
I could see his eyes wandering over me, my legs, my unbuttoned cleavage… I loved it, he was hypnotized, the way he’d hypnotized me for the past three years. I smiled with satisfaction. All of a sudden, he was fumbling in his pocket and held out my flash drive. I took it from him and placed it away on the counter. Now was time to start the last part of my plan. I looked at him straight in the eyes, trying not to melt in their blue depth – I was taking things in hands, I could weaken.
“You opened it, didn’t you?”
He barely managed to produce an understandable sound. I could read the guilt in his eyes. Now I was certain he’d done it, he’d enjoyed it.
“You opened my flash drive and accessed some of my files, didn’t you? I noticed some of the files have been opened late at night when I’d lost my drive…”
The poor man was blushing in guilt. I didn’t plan to make him feel so uncomfortable, so I tried to restore his confidence.
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