Double Dirty Mountain Men: An MFM Menage Romance

by Parker Grey

“Hello, Professor,” she says, her voice breathy.

  I step back and she enters. She doesn’t look around like the others did, only at me. Like she’s expecting something.

  Like she wants something and doesn’t know how to ask for it.

  “Hot chocolate’s in the kitchen,” I say, forcing myself to stay in control. “We’re in the living room.”

  She swallows, then smiles.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  I sit back down with the others and don’t hear a word they say. It’s an excruciating ninety minutes.

  The students all get up and start to leave as a unit, the four of them rising and putting on their coats. We say goodbye, and I walk them to the door.

  I don’t want to say goodbye to Melody. I want her to stay here and bend over the couch, but there’s no way I can ask her to stay without seeming suspicious, and I have everything on the line. My entire career, which is essentially my life.

  “I’ll see you all next week?” I ask as the students leave in a mass.

  “Yes,” they chorus, and then step onto my porch. They go down the steps.

  Melody stops, like she’s thought of something, and turns around.

  “I forgot my scarf!” she says, and laughs.

  “We can wait,” Anna offers.

  Melody waves one hand.

  “Go on ahead, I’ll be fine,” she says.

  The others shrug and walk on, and Melody turns to me, her breath frosting in the cold air, everything I want and absolutely can’t have.

  “I think it’s in the living room,” she says, suddenly shy again.

  I gesture at the open door, and she walks past me. She picks her scarf up from the couch where she was sitting and looks at me, running it through her fingers.

  “You never did tell me what you want to write your thesis about,” I say.

  She bites her lower lip, looking down.

  “I wanted to write something about Roman mores surrounding marriage and sexuality,” she says, her voice soft, nearly a whisper. The fire crackles. “Particularly on women’s sexuality.”

  Right now, she’s so shy and demure that I almost can’t believe what she’s saying, but there it is.

  Tell her what books to read and then show her the door, I tell myself. You can’t risk this.

  “I’ve got something you might like to see,” I say, my voice dangerously low, even to my own ears. “If you can keep a secret, that is.”

  She turns bright pink but unzips her coat, placing it on the couch.

  “Of course,” she says, glancing up at me with positively sinful eyes.

  I lead her to my study, a simple, small room with a desk, an office chair, and a big leather recliner that’s perfect for reading. The walls are lined with books and one cabinet, and it’s the cabinet I walk to.

  “It’s not exactly appropriate for me to share this with a student,” I say, opening the cabinet. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”

  I pull open the drawer with the Roman pornography in it. Not original, of course; reproductions. Melody laughs a little, then picks up a heavy, large book and opens it.

  It’s a full-page, full-color illustration of a man and a woman on a couch, the woman riding the man’s cock and touching herself.

  “Oh,” she says, sounding a little surprised.

  Then she flips the page. There’s a woman on her hands and knees, one man fucking her from behind, another man’s cock in her mouth.

  Melody clears her throat.

  “Modern people didn’t invent dirty sex,” I say, grinning wickedly.

  Now I’m afraid that I’ve gone too far, that she’ll leave here and tell the dean that I showed a young, female student porn.

  “Of course not,” she says, flicking her eyes up to mine, a smile in them. “Humans have always loved anything that feels good.”

  Melody flips another page, this one with two women, one’s face buried in the other’s crotch. She stops for a moment, then clears her throat, staring blankly at the page, her face bright pink. I’m so close to her I can smell her floral shampoo, feel the heat rolling off her perfect tight body.

  I’m hard as fuck, my cock tenting up my pants so obviously that there’s no hiding it. Melody glances down at it for a split second, then looks up at me, and I swear her eyes are equal parts lust and nervousness.

  “Have you ever tried any of these things with anybody before?” she whispers.

  Chapter 5

  Melody

  I think I might puke. Have you ever tried any of these things with anybody, what kind of stupid, terrible question is that?

  Professor Sharpe is in his late thirties and hot as hell. I’m sure he’s had sex before, and I’m so embarrassed that I just look down at the book, wishing I could melt into the floor.

  He just chuckles.

  “A few,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.

  He’s looking down at me, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity I can’t begin to explain. Then his face gets serious.

  “But never a student.”

  I hold my breath, and just nod. The message is clear: Professor Sharpe isn’t interested in students, so I close the book and put it back in the drawer, then turn to leave.

  I’m nearly to the door of the study when I hear his voice again.

  “Melody,” he says.

  I turn, embarrassed and horny all at once. I wish he’d just let me leave so I could go home, masturbate, and then never look another human in the eye again.

  Professor Sharpe walks toward me, his body big and powerful, his enormous erection beyond obvious under his pants.

  “Yes?” I whisper.

  Now he’s towering over me, and I feel like I’m melting.

  “I could get fired if I touched a student,” he says, his voice a growl. “Everything I’ve ever worked for, out the window.”

  I just nod.

  “I understand,” I mutter. “I’m sorry, it was —”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says. “Look at me.”

  I look up, face burning, eyes pricking with embarrassed tears.

  “Unbutton your blouse,” he whispers.

  I stare at him for a few seconds. My heart thumps so hard it sounds like a door slamming in my chest, because I was certain I was about to get the brush off, that he was about to tell me that I was a nice girl but he wasn’t interested.

  My hands are trembling, but I undo the top button, then the next, then the next. I’m a little embarrassed at the white lacy bra I wore tonight — not particularly scandalous, but the sexiest thing I own — but he groans at the sight, steadying himself against a bookshelf with one hand.

  Soon my whole shirt is unbuttoned to the waist, and I run my fingers lightly over my breasts, trying to tease him even though I’ve never teased anyone like this before.

  “Touch yourself,” he commands.

  I pinch my nipples through my bra until they’re hard, then push the cups below the fullness of my breasts. Professor Sharpe flexes his jaw and sucks in a breath as I pinch my rosy, pebbled nipples between my fingers, looking up at him.

  “Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself,” he orders, his voice quiet and dangerous.

  I swallow hard. I feel almost lightheaded in this moment, pinching my own nipples at his command.

  “You,” I whisper.

  “Go on.”

  “I think about — the things you could do to me,” I go on, not really sure how. “I think about you undressing me, and, um, looking at me, and I think about you...”

  I blush even harder and swallow.

  “Touching me,” I finish, my voice nearly a whisper.

  “Touching you where?”

  “Down on... my vagina,” I say.

  He grins, the smile wicked and sexy and sinful all at once.

  “Do you think about me licking your sweet little clit until you come, then fucking you with my tongue up your pussy and drinking your honey until you come again?” he says.r />
  My pussy throbs at the thought, but I’m so surprised that he said it that I stop moving my hands. No one’s ever talked to me like this before. Not even close.

  I just nod. Professor Sharpe turns and walks to his luxurious leather desk chair and leans back, looking at me, and gestures at the leather armchair.

  “Sit,” he says.

  I do, ankles crossed, knees together, breasts still bulging over the top of my bra. I’m desperately excited for whatever’s about to happen, even if I don’t know what it is.

  “Push your skirt up and spread your legs,” he says. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

  I take a deep breath, then slowly pull my modest black skirt up my thighs. I don’t really know how, but I want to tease Professor Sharpe. I want him to want this as badly as I do, so I make him wait for it.

  When I finally push my skirt past my hips, he grins and I blush. I didn’t wear underwear tonight in a moment of wild lust, and now he knows that I planned this. That I wanted it to happen.

  “Do you usually skip panties?” he asks me. He’s leaning back in his chair, rubbing the flat of one hand over the bulge of his cock, and I can’t stop watching.

  “No,” I say.

  I drape one leg over the chair arm, then the other, spreading myself for him in a moment of pure bravery. I’m still convinced that at any moment, he’ll tell me that I’m interpreting everything all wrong and ask me to leave, but instead he stares at my pink pussy.

  I bite my lip, carefully running my fingers over my slick folds. I’m wetter than I can ever remember being, and now he’s here, watching me.

  I can’t help myself. I start running my fingers up and down my slit, spreading my lips and showing the Professor, who can’t tear his eyes away, and then I start rubbing myself, desperate for a release to the pressure building up inside me.

  At last, the Professor unzips his pants, and I slow for a moment, just watching as he reaches inside his zipper.

  Out springs an absolutely massive cock, even bigger than I thought it would be.

  I stop rubbing myself, my mouth hanging open, and the Professor chuckles, stroking it.

  “I didn’t say stop,” he says.

  I watch him as I rub myself, faster and faster, circling up to dizzying heights of pleasure. I can’t help but imagine that big, fat cock inside me, bending me over this chair and taking me hard and fast, again and again, a hundred times better than the dildo in the shower.

  I plunge the fingers of my other hand into my pussy and gasp, because it’s not what I want but it feels good anyway. He’s still stroking his huge cock, his eyes intent on me.

  “Professor,” I whisper.

  Then I come. I try to stay quiet, but I’m gasping and moaning, my pussy clamping down around my fingers, my whole body rocking with the force of it. It’s good but it’s not him, it’s not his cock making this happen, and even though it feels good I’m empty afterward.

  The Professor is still sitting in his chair, stroking his cock, hard and fast. God, I want it, I want him, so much that I lick my lips staring at him.

  He grins wickedly.

  Chapter 6

  Professor Sharpe

  I can’t decide which is better: Melody coming in my chair or Melody staring at my cock hungrily, like she’s starving and it’s a meal. Now she’s panting for breath, legs spread, looking like a wanton harlot.

  I don’t think I’ve ever liked anything more, especially now that she’s loosened up with one good orgasm.

  “Melody,” I say. “Look to your left.”

  She does, looking tired and almost dazed, and her eyes alight on the stone dildo.

  It’s a reproduction, of course, but it’s big and thick — though not bigger than me.

  Melody takes it in one hand without moving out of the chair and looks at it, her eyes a mixture of lust and fear.

  Mostly lust. Ninety-five percent lust, because I don’t even have to ask her to do anything. She starts at her downy mound, then slides it along herself, past her clit and between her folds. Her eyes slide shut and she moves her hips up and down as she positions it at her entrance, her thighs still wide on the chair.

  I slow my hand on myself, because I don’t want to come again before she does.

  “Do you like fucking big, fat cocks?” I ask, my eyes glued to my student’s pussy as she’s about to fuck herself.

  She doesn’t answer, just leans back and slides the head of the stone dildo into herself with a small, shallow gasp, and my balls tighten against my body like I’m about to come already.

  Melody moans, her eyelids fluttering, as she moves her hips and takes more of the dildo inside herself.

  “This feels so good,” she whispers, her lips stretched around the thick phallus, my eyes glued to her. I’m going as slow as I can, but I still think I might come at any minute.

  Her pussy swallows the dildo slowly, and then she starts moving herself up and down on it, fucking herself slowly. The base is so slippery with her juices that she’s having a hard time getting a good grip on it, but watching her fuck herself is still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “Professor Sharpe,” she whispers, her voice a half-whimper.

  “Come for me,” I growl. “Again.”

  I’m so hard and ready that I’m practically stone myself, and even though Melody is a little awkward and nervous, I can’t believe how much I want this girl. She’s writhing in the chair now, her hips working up and down, her eyes rolling back into her head.

  “Fuck me, Professor,” she whispers, driving the dildo into herself hard, and then she comes. Her toes curl and she arches her back against the chair, the dildo deep in her pussy as she moans, losing control completely.

  I come seconds later, spurting thick ropes of cum past my hand and onto desk, all the way to Melody’s thigh in the chair. I come hard, again and again, until it feels like I’m about to shoot dust instead of jizz and I collapse back into the chair.

  Melody slides the dildo out of herself, takes her legs off the chair, pulls her skirt down and then sits there, dildo in one hand, legs crossed, blushing and not looking me in the eye. I stand, tucking my cock back into my pants, and lean over her chair as she looks up at me.

  “I can’t touch you as long as you’re my student,” I murmur.

  She bites her lip, and I wonder if she knows how wild it makes me.

  “When can you touch me?”

  “After finals,” I say.

  I get the first photo the next day. I don’t know how Melody got my cell phone number, but now she’s sending me sexy selfies and I almost wish she wouldn’t.

  For someone so sweet and innocent, she’s driving me absolutely crazy. I don’t know how I can make it through the next week until final papers are due, then the next few days until I turn in my grades.

  I don’t respond to the texts at first, which is nearly impossible. They’re immature, almost childish — her posing, naked, in front of her bathroom mirror; her, in the shower wearing a wet white t-shirt — but I jerk off to each of them twice.

  She sends one more that night before I go to bed, along with a text that says: You’re not doing anything wrong.

  Monday I can barely concentrate in my classes. I fuck up the subjunctive again and again but I barely notice, because she’s still texting me, and I swear every time my phone buzzes in my pocket it makes my cock twitch a little.

  I should have more self-control, especially around a girl who’s only twenty. I should want women my age, not her.

  A week, I tell myself. Have some self-control for a week.

  I should have self-control for longer. Much, much longer, at least until she graduates — maybe forever. After what happened while I was in grad school, I’m already on thin ice, and frankly, it’s incredible that I got a job at all.

  After my last class, I have a meeting with the department chair. It’s nothing exciting, just class schedules for next semester — that kind of thing. Melody must be in class,
because she stops texting me for ninety minutes.

  “So, if you could take the Monday - Wednesday - Friday Latin 201 class, then Abigail could...”

  My phone buzzes again in my pocket, and out of sheer habit, I check it.

  It’s Melody. Or, rather: it’s Melody’s body, naked from the neck down. There’s a massive purple dildo just barely poking between her lips, and even in the preview on my phone, I can tell she’s soaking wet.

  I click my phone off instantly, but from the guilty look on Greg’s face I can tell he’s already seen it.

  Shit, I think. Jesus, I’m a fucking idiot. Thank God her face wasn’t in that photo.

  I don’t need my department chair knowing that an undergraduate student is sending me pornographic pictures of herself.

  I clear my throat.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I keep getting spammed with porn from numbers I don’t know...”

  He looks away, drums his fingers on the table, then looks back at me.

  “I hired you here because you swore your past was your past,” he says. “And it isn’t illegal to receive saucy pictures, Ethan, but your reputation does precede you...”

  My reputation.

  It’s been nearly ten years, but I know that I’ll never fully live it down.

  When I was in my third year of graduate school — age twenty-five — I was a teaching assistant, and I slept with an undergraduate student in my class.

  Twice. Once at night and then the next morning.

  She was a senior, so the age difference was only three years, not a big deal, but the problem was that she was in my class. I still had to grade her papers.

  And she thought she could use our ill-conceived sexual encounter to blackmail me into a better grade. In the end, I had to decide whether I wanted to let her hold that over my head forever, or whether I wanted to come clean, and I picked coming clean.

  I admitted everything, the professor for the class graded her final paper, and I was barely permitted to remain in my Ph.D. program. And now everyone knows that once, I slept with an undergraduate, and they treat me a little like a pariah.