Melinda Matson - A seductive student

"Uh!" she choked, freezing with her ass stuck up high in the air.

"Screw! Screw!" he gasped.

Though she knew what was going to happen and didn't want it, she could not disobey him. Moaning balefully, she pushed her hips back and down, sliding her pussy over the full length of his cock, cramming her poor anus hard against his stiffened finger.

Bertrand grunted as if he'd been kicked as the tiny ring of her pore flowered open under his fingertip, as the end of this thumb popped right up into her ass. No amount of tongue biting could've kept him from cumming then. He stood there, the waves of delight raging down his cock, his face contorted, every muscle tensing as he fought to hold back the tide for just one more thrust, just one more.

Joselyn whimpered as the finger rammed up her ass, whimpered as her own desperate movements forced the finger, as well as his cock, to fuck in and out. Even the stinging pain of the dual penetration did not dim her ecstasy. She continued to cum, both sphincters clasping, nursing hungrily at their respective probes.

"Ohhh, ahhhh!" the professor gasped as the white light exploded in his loins, as the muscles behind his balls began to pump furiously. He was cumming, all right, but he didn't want to cum in her.

The blonde squealed as he wrenched his spurting cock from her tight pussy, as a jet of something boiling hot spattered across her smooth back. Wild with passion, no longer even aware of what was happening, she continued to fuck his thumb. Bertrand didn't even aim his big log of a cock. He just let it go off anywhere it pleased. As it jerked and bobbed up and down, gush after gush of thick white semen shot from the tip, arching high in the air, arching over her shoulder to splatter on the desktop beside her face, arching onto the back of her head, her neck, rolling down the small, silky buttons of her spine in a sluggish, viscous stream. Every time one of his volleys landed on her, she let out a piercing shriek. This, the professor thought was uproariously funny.

Even after the spurting had stopped, Joselyn caught herself flinching in anticipation of more hot sperm hitting her. He pulled his thumb from her behind and stepped back, proudly surveying the damage he'd done. Totally exhausted, she lay there panting on the desk top, her thighs spread, trembling, his semen dripping from her sides, her shoulders, her hips.

"You did all right, baby," he said, smirking at her. "I think you're going to work out just fine."

Joselyn groaned softly.

"Now, get up," he said, "and come over here. There's a little something I want you to do for me."

The blonde slowly swung her head about and peered at him from around her hip. He was leering at her, his cock half-erect, but still long like a fire hose, hanging practically down to his hairy knee, and gleaming with her juices.

"It's something that I haven't had done in a long, long time," he said.

After what had just been done to her, what she'd submitted to, Joselyn figured that she'd seen the worst the professor could possibly offer. She was wrong.

"Come over here and lick my ass," he said, still smiling.

Paul sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Joselyn came out of the bathroom. She'd just finished a shower and she was naked except for a pink towel wrapped around her sarong-style. Her hair was wet. It looked much darker that way, almost brown, and it hung down around her face in long, stringy curls. Even soaked to the skin, she was still gorgeous, like some kind of water sprite.

Without even looking at him, she crossed the room and began combing out her hair in front of the mirror on the bureau. For the past couple of days, it'd been like that, like he was living with a stranger. Though they slept in the same bed at night, they hadn't touched. There was an invisible wall going up between them.

At first, all Paul could think of was that it was somehow his fault, that maybe she'd found out about Dr. Blensch and him, but when she was not around, when he could coolly consider the situation, he realized that her sudden sloffness coincided perfectly with her taking Dr. Bertrand on as her thesis advisor. That stung Paul even worse. It made him think that maybe she had had a chance to compare the two of them, Bertrand and him, and that he had come up short.

After having shared so much with her, after having given of himself to her as he'd given no other woman, he couldn't bear being cut off from her. He loved her deeply, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that a lot of the humiliating things she delighted in making him do were indications that she was a very confused girl; he knew that his willingness to humor her little perversities was symptomatic of no small amount of confusion on his part, too. He was aware of the similarities between Joselyn and Dr. Blensch, the similarities in what they demanded, of him, but he was also aware of his own motives in responding to them. One, he did for his future, the other, for love. He could stand the knowledge that he was a bit too infatuated, too devoted to Joselyn, that his love made him a coward, but the thought that he might be losing her to something, someone else was too much; it made him feel very desperate.

"Joselyn," he said, carefully to her back, "what's wrong?"

"Ummmm?" she said to her own reflection. She acted as if she were barely aware of his existence, as if she could've cared less if he were alive or dead, but nothing could have been, further from the truth.

"I said, what's wrong?" he repeated.

She glanced at him in the mirror, the look in her eyes suddenly going soft, vulnerable. If she hadn't wanted to tell him about the whole insidious plot right from the start, right after she realized what kind of living hell Bertrand was going to put her through, she would not have had to act so distant. She hadn't told him because she was afraid that he would not only be furious, jealous and the like, but that he would disapprove, think the less of her for putting out to her advisor. And then, too, there was the matter of his having warned her in advance what kind of "animal" she was getting involved with. She couldn't decide if her not telling him was merely vanity, pride on her part, or a truly compassionate impulse to shield him from the truth about her. Whatever it was, the conflict inside her was agonizing. She realized for the first time how much she valued Paul's friendship and that was something she did not want to learn. She didn't want to be dependent on him for anything, anything that mattered. Rather than dealing upfront with the problem, Joselyn just shut herself off from it, from him. She knew that she was hurting him by giving him the cold shoulder, but in a way she wanted to hurt him, to hurt him for getting too close.

"What makes you think something's wrong?" she said, her eyes cold and hard once more.

"You haven't said two words to me since you started work for Bertrand," he told her. "People don't change like that if nothing's the matter. He did try something with you or what? Or is it something I did? Something I said? You've got to tell me. I can't take this freeze out anymore. It's driving me out of my mind."

The look on his face got to her and that, in turn, infuriated her. She knew that by telling him anything she was taking a grave risk, but she needed to tell someone. She'd never felt so wretched, so used. And Velasquez acted like he'd never met her, let alone raped her. If the professor had at least talked to her, touched her, reassured her, she probably could've held out, but as it was, the pressure was too great. She knew that telling Paul the whole truth would wound him horribly and she took some satisfaction in that. It would at least put him in his place.

"Something is wrong, Paul," she said. As she spoke, she moved over to the bed and sat down beside him. She kept her face averted from his so he couldn't see the way her lower lip was quivering. She felt on the verge of bursting into tears, but she refused to break down. "It has nothing to do with you," she told him, flatly.