"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Don't stop. Fuuuuuck! Oh shit that's good! That's it. Fuck me! Oh fuck me! Oh fuck this is good!"
I was in our loft in New York in my favorite position—on my back with my legs spread as wide as possible, and my knees pulled as far towards my head as I could. Henry was on top of me pounding my pussy with his rock-hard cock.
"Is that what you want slut? You like that big hard cock in your cunt?"
"Oh fuck! Fuck yes! You know that's what I like."
"Am I as good as that guy you've been fucking in San Francisco? Am I, slut?"
"Ohhh. Ohhh. Oh Fuck yes. Fuck you're way better. Fuck, that hard dick of yours is filling me up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You're so much bigger and so much harder!"
"Ohh fuck. I'm going to cum. Arrrrrgh!" He always came when I admitted I had been fucking someone else. I don't know why, but it always just set him off. Sometimes it was true and sometimes it wasn't. If I didn't have a story about someone I had recently fucked to tell him, I made one up.
I could feel Henry's hot cum filling my cunt and it set me off for the third time that night. I screamed as my cunt clamped down on his rigid cock. We collapsed into each other's arms, both spent for the evening. As we rolled to the side, still wrapped in each other's arms, I murmured, "God, you're good. How do you keep it up like that at your age?"
"It was that story you told me over dinner," Henry responded. "It made me so fucking horny I felt like I could fuck all evening."
"I think we did. It's 3:00 A.M."
The story I had told him over dinner was a description of the first time I visited Professor Smyth's home. As you may recall, I was taking a seminar in 19th century English literature from Professor Smyth in spring quarter of my junior year at Cal, and I had gotten woefully behind in my reading and class attendance. I had made only one class in the first five weeks. 19th century English literature is basically pretty dull stuff, or at least the part of 19th century English literature they teach in colleges and universities is dull. Actually, there was some pretty interesting material written during the 19th century, but it is still not socially acceptable today, nor was it then. And just like porn today, it sold well. As I subsequently learned from Professor Smyth, Victorian porn is far more interesting than Dickens.
I had gone to Professor Smyth's office with the intention of giving him a blowjob in an effort to avoid flunking the class. It took a little work on my part to seduce him, but we ultimately got there. When he finally came he quickly tidied himself up and ran off to a faculty meeting without so much as a thank you, or a "fuck you're good." As he hurried out of his office he handed me a slim volume of Victorian porn and told me the blowjob would get me a passing grade, but if I wanted an A, I should read the book and come to his home a few days later. Not very fucking romantic, I thought, but then again, I hadn't come to his office looking for romance, just a better grade than the D or F I was earning.
"So, my dear, did you take the Professor up on his offer of "private tutoring?" Henry asked.
"Oh yes. Grades were important to me in college. I may have been a horny little slut who partied hard, but I made sure I got the grades too. I must admit, however, that this was the first time I ever had to resort to sex to get the grade I wanted."
"And so, Kate, how was the private tutoring? Did you learn anything you didn't already know?"
"Surprisingly yes. I learned a hell of a lot about sex I didn't know, and I learned a lot about literature that I didn't know. Let me tell you about it.
I wasn't particularly enthused about going any further with a relationship with the Professor, given that he had left me sitting in his office essentially naked with his cum spattered on my hair, my face, and my tits while he ran off to a faculty meeting. To make matters worse, I was horny as hell, and he hadn't even thought of satisfying me. Not really a gentleman, I thought.
