Isaac Byrne - Tolerance

“Well, I wouldn’t want anyone to stop taking you seriously,” he said when he’d had a good long suck, then with a hard tug ripped her panties clean off and tossed them into the crowd. They hit a girl in the second row, who squeamishly tossed them away.

Missy followed him with her head until he was completely back behind her. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.” She heard a zipper being undone, a rustle of fabric.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Anyway, why don’t you get on with your lecture. And would someone mind recording this? I’d hate for anyone who was sick today to miss important notes.” He took her hips and brought her a few feet away from the podium, spreading her legs apart with his feet as a few dozen cell phones came out in the hands of Missy’s male students (all of them abashed that they needed to be reminded to record it in the first place).

As DJ pushed her shoulders forward until she was leaning hard on the podium, just barely able to reach it, she resumed. “Well all right then. So anyway, modern typography is in many ways retrogressive not just to the 20th century, but dating back centuries to the OH FUCK!” Missy cried out as DJ thrust his cock into her from behind.

“Don’t stop now, bitch, it’s just getting interesting.” He struck a rapid pace, pistoning in and out of her hard enough that she had a hard time keeping her grip on the podium, which in turn was nearly causing it to fall over with all the pressure she was exerting on it.

“R-right, so dating b-back to the, oh, oh God, to the 1700’s, as the uh-HUH-HUPtick in literacy caused b-business oh-hoh-fucking-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-hohwners to start using customized, oh fuck, cust… custom… OH FUCK!” She shrieked as her gyrations caused the podium to fall forward, crashing loudly down the steps leading up to the stage. Only DJ’s firm grip on her hips kept her upright.

“Customized…?” He prompted, smacking her ass once, then a second time to snap her out of her reverie.

“Yes, c-custohmy-God-mized signage! Storefronts compe—holy fucking shit that’s good—com… com…”

DJ slowed his pace so he could talk clearly. Her pussy was incredibly tight, and he was already getting closer than he wanted to admit. “What’s that Missy, you saying you want to cum? Or you want me to cum?”

“N-no! No, they competed , that’s it, through innovation and creativity of their l-layouts.”

“Oh, so you don’t want to cum?” He stopped thrusting.

“Not in front of the whole class! They need to respect me,” she whined, but her hips still wriggled against him needily.

DJ looked up to the class. “What do you say, class? Will you still respect her if she cums?”

A raucous cheer went up from most of the guys in class, and more than a few of the girls. (Though to be fair, the look on a number of young faces made it clear they already had no respect for her.) “Well there you have it—everyone’s OK with you cumming.”

She inhaled deeply a few times, trying to catch her breath. “All right then.”

“Oh no, Missy. I want to hear you ask for it.”

She frowned. “What? No. I don’t wanna.” Her voice was small, petulant.

DJ reached down and cupped both of her tits, rubbing her hard nipples as he started gently thrusting his hips again. She trembled in his hands, whimpering with barely contained need. Distantly he wondered how long it’d been since the poor girl had gotten laid. “C’mon. Just ask me, then you get to have your orgasm and maybe I’ll even let you get on with that boring lecture.”

She was quiet a moment, eyes closed tight as she simply savored the sensations, grappled with her pride, evaluated her desperation to be done getting fucked like a common whore in front of her class. (She didn’t worry that it would end her career; after all, it was DJ. People would understand.)

“P-please.”

He gave her a single hard thrust, and she moaned loudly. “What was that? Please what?”

“Please, please let me cum.”

“Well if I’m going to let you cum, then I better get something in return. Tell you what—you promise me an A in your class, right now in front of everybody, and I’ll let you cum.”

She quivered in his arms, whether in indignation or rage or lust, he couldn’t say. Still, it wasn’t long before she responded, in a meek voice, “all right. You have an A. Just fucking screw me already!”

“You got it, Doc.”

With that, he roughly lowered, almost dropped really, the bitchy professor to her knees, his cock following close behind. Down on her hands and knees, Missy arched her back for ease of access, and soon he was jack-hammering her needy pussy with all the vigor a young man could muster—which was quite a lot, really. She was long past trying to preserve any modesty—she moaned as he drilled her, one hand supporting her weight while the other pawed at her tits as they dangled and bounced beneath her. She rocked her hips to meet his thrusts, panting with need, beyond caring about the dozens of cameras on her, no longer wanting anything but to get off.

And then, with a shriek, she did. Her arms gave way and her pretty face slumped down with one cheek on the floor, shaking and quivering as a massive orgasm rocked her entire body. A long, low moan transmuted into a high-pitched squeal of ecstasy, triggering DJ’s own orgasm, emptying his balls deep inside his bitchy teacher’s cunt.

Still dazed, she barely noticed as he lifted her back to a kneeling position and slid his softening dick into her mouth for a quick clean-up. She just sucked, like she knew what he expected of her, until he pulled out, then dried her spit off in a handful of her frizzy hair. DJ was dressed and heading back into the seating section before she had the presence of mind to stand up and start collecting her clothes, getting dressed hurriedly. Except her panties, of course; DJ’s cum was already trickling down her thighs and would no doubt soon drip down where it could be seen.

DJ, meanwhile, approached one of the nearest recorders and took his phone right out of his hand. By the time Missy was dressed again, he had uploaded the video to the class’s university-sponsored web page in the Class Announcements tab. Dr. Restrepo ordered two jocks to help her get the podium back in place and, as if the whole class hadn’t just watched her get fucked like a bitch in heat, she resumed her lecture without missing a beat. “BITCH FROM HELL” was still mostly legible on her forehead, though the words were smudged on one side from when she’d collapsed with her face on the ground mid-orgasm.

And like that, class went on. She resumed her lecture, and everyone learned about the fascinating nature of 18th century sign-crafting. Missy dismissed the crowd that assembled after class to talk about essays, telling them to find her in office hours instead. DJ ignored the dismissal and approached her anyway.

“Schmidt.”

He scowled. “It’s Swanson. Do you have this hard of a time remembering the names of all the guys who fuck you?”

“Sorry, Swanson. What can I do for you?” He marveled anew that nothing in her manner suggested she was put off by what he’d done to her, just like it was any other day.

“I know I already earned my A for the semester and all, but still. You gave me a zero for plagiarism. I didn’t plagiarize. I came to your office and you said it was fine.” He showed her the essay.

She looked it over. “Oh. I see, honest mistake. I remembered talking to you about it, but I thought your name was Schmidt. So when I saw Swanson at the top, I thought you had cheated off of Schmidt.” She shrugged. “Sorry, honest mistake.” She handed him back his paper, and he just laughed. For a moment, he’d actually thought that there was some loophole in the tolerance that let her punish him for his writing—but it turned out she had actually been trying to protect him!