by Amy Brent
My friend Felicia, whose mom was a therapist, said I had a daddy complex. She said I gave up my cherry to Greg because he reminded me of my dad.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said. “And just gross.”
“It’s not that you wanted to fuck your own father, idiot,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “It’s that not having him around has left some kind of void in your brain that you filled with Greg, a boy who looks just like him.”
“Ah, okay…” It sounded like a good theory, but what the fuck does a sixteen-year-old know about such things. All I know is that I never had sex with Greg again. I wouldn’t even let him touch me. Every time I looked at him I thought of my dad.
It wasn’t until I started college and began fucking men much older than me that my daddy complex really became apparent.
I no longer fucked dark Mexican men who looked like my dad.
I only fucked men old enough to be my dad.
Men like Logan Clark.
CHAPTER THREE: Logan Clark
I dug my fingers into Martha’s fleshy hips and held my breath so I didn’t cum too quickly this time. The last time we fucked we were both shitfaced after the monthly faculty dinner and had sex in the backseat of her Volvo in the parking lot of Ruby Tuesdays.
I normally don’t cum that quickly; not since high school. The mistake I made was letting her suck my cock too long in the lady’s bathroom. By the time we got to her car, and she pulled up her skirt and peeled off her pantyhose and panties, I was already ready to explode.
She wiggled herself backward onto my cock and slid her hips back and forth a couple of times and that was all she wrote. I shot my load before I even knew what was happening.
Luckily for her and me, I was able to hold the hard-on long enough for her to get her rocks off. There’s nothing more embarrassing to a guy than shooting his load too quickly, especially with a woman like Martha Warner, who would have never let me forget such a fucking faux pas.
Martha could be a ball-busting bitch. She already gave me shit about enough stuff. I didn’t need to add premature ejaculation to the list.
This time things had gone much smoother because she didn’t have the chance to blow me in the restaurant bathroom. After the monthly faculty dinner, she invited me to her place for a nightcap. Okay, that’s not exactly how she put it. It was more like, “Professor Clark, I want you to come back to my place and fuck me till my knees buckle.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. And since she was the Dean at Golden State and held the keys to my future, I readily complied. I would be eligible for tenure in a few months, which would give me the job for life. If I had to fuck an attractive fifty-year-old divorcee to make that happen, it was a small price to pay.
We managed to make it just inside the door of the huge Victorian house the university provided her with before tearing each other’s clothes off.
Martha was ravenous, nearly ripping the buttons off my shirt as she tore it open and literally jerking me around as she tried to unbuckle my belt. I pushed her hard against the wall and pressed my lips to hers as I peeled off her white silk blouse and unhooked the bra that held her huge tits. Her tits came free with a bounce. They hung low on her chest, but were still full and firm and sported the largest nipples I’d ever had the pleasure of sucking.
Martha grabbed my cock and moaned in my ear when she found it long, hard and ready. She tugged at it as I unzipped her skirt and pushed it down her ample thighs. I was a little surprised to find that she was not wearing her usual pantyhose and granny panties. Smart planning on her part. She knew where we’d end up before she even left her house that day. And she didn’t want to slow me down.
My hand went between her legs. Her bush was thick and curly, her cunt hot and dripping. When my fingers slid over her clit and across her folds, she tightened her grip on my cock and commanded me to follow her into the bedroom.
“I want to watch you fuck me,” she said, still holding my cock to lead me into her master bathroom. The bathroom had a long vanity and a long mirror on the wall above it. She leaned forward to brace her palms on the vanity and stuck out her big ass. Her bulbous tits hung swung from her chest.
“Fuck me from behind, Logan,” she said, wiggling her ass. “So I can watch you fuck me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, smiling at her in the mirror. I put my hands on her hips and positioned myself behind her. I took my cock in my hand and guided the purple head between her legs. Martha’s juices were flowing like a river. Her pussy was already drenched, filling the room with the tangy scent of her juices.
I swirled the head of my cock around her hole to lube it up, then rocked my hips forward and, with one thrust, impaled my cock fully into her. Martha didn’t have the tightest pussy I’d ever fucked, but she could take almost all of my ten-inch cock and not bat an eye.
I dug my fingers into her fleshy hips and looked down to watch my long cock sliding in and out of her cunt. I moved my hands to her ass and kneaded her ass cheeks. She moaned louder when the tip of my finger probed her asshole.
“Yes… Logan… oh yes…” Her voice came in gusts, pushed out of her as my cock pummeled in and out of her.
I glanced at the two of us in the mirror. Martha had her eyes closed. Her round cheeks were rosy red. Her forehead was sweaty. Her mouth was hanging open. Her tongue hung over her bottom lip. She was panting like a dog.
Martha wasn’t really my type, but that hadn’t stopped me from fucking her on occasion for the last few months. She was in her early fifties, short, chunky, with auburn hair that always showed a hint of gray roots and more wrinkles from frowning than smiling.
She might have been my type twenty years and thirty pounds ago like Sheila Denning was now. Sheila was the smoking hot head of the Math Department who I was also fucking on a sporadic basis. Sheila was married to Chuck Denning, Golden State’s head football coach. We fucked when he was at away games. Still, I had to admit, Martha’s cunt was just fine for her age and her tits were humongous, so I couldn’t complain.
I’d gotten more pussy since taking the job at Golden State than I’d ever gotten in my life before, and most of it came from my fellow professors and administrators, ladies like Martha and Sheila; some younger, some older, some thinner, some chunkier, all horny and willing to do whatever the fuck I told them to do.
I guess the word had gotten around the staff.
If you’re a lonely lady with a tight pussy and a bottle of Jack Daniels, Logan Clark was your man. And your pussy didn’t have to be that tight, so long as you had the booze.
“Oh… Logan… I’m cumming…” Martha moaned, leaning up on her hands with her ass still out for me. She took her big jugs in her palms and kneaded them until she left red marks. Her nipples were the size of my thumbs. I licked my lips as I watched her squeezed them until they turned dark red.
I was ready to cum with her. I put my hands back on her hips and tightened every muscle in my body to summon my orgasm. As Martha lifted her head and screamed my name, I filled her pussy with my hot milk and she gushed tangy juice all over my balls. Two more good thrusts all the way in and she begged me to stop.
I opened my eyes to find her smiling at me in the mirror. She blew a strand of hair from her forehead and puckered her lips at me. “You’re amazing, Professor Clark,” she cooed. “I’m so glad you came to Golden State.”
“You’re not bad yourself, Dean Warner,” I said, wiggling my hips and giving her ass a playful slap. I stepped back to let my cock slide out of her and reached in to turn on the shower.
I held out a hand to her.
“Come on. I made a mess on you. Let me clean you up.”
CHAPTER FOUR: Logan
It was nearly midnight by the time I managed to pry myself from between Martha’s ample thighs and escape into the night. Martha was a nice lady and a decent fuck, but like so many other women her age, she was needy; clingy and codependent. I’d never know why I couldn’t just fuck
a woman and go home instead of having to cuddle and make small talk.
Why can’t I just say, “Hey, thanks for the pussy. See ya!”
Martha stood in her front door in her bathrobe, waving as I climbed onto my motorcycle and sped away. I didn’t even bother with the helmet. That would have taken too much time. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there before Martha asked me to spend the night.
I rented a one bedroom bungalow just off campus. It wasn’t much, but the rent was cheap and the commute to work was short. I aimed my motorcycle in that direction and opened the throttle, putting as much distance behind me and Dean Martha Warner as fast as I could.
I had to stop at a red light as I cruised through the center of town. I took the time to blow out a long breath and glance at my watch. It was twelve-thirty, but I was too keyed-up to sleep and not ready to call it a night, so when I saw the sign for Goldie’s, the dive bar where the students and “cool” professors hung out, a hundred yards ahead, I decided to stop for a nightcap. With any luck my pal Tom Brooks would be there drowning his sorrows and willing to buy drinks in exchange for a shoulder to cry on.
Tom was three months out of a bad divorce and my best friend on campus. He was about my age, a little shorter and heavier, and was the head of the Marketing Department.
We became drinking buddies the night he showed up at Goldie’s to get drunk after walking in on his wife getting fucked in the ass in his bed by a very large, black, Golden State football player by the name of Desean Golf.
I’ll never forget the first-time Tom told the tale. “I opened the door and the kid just looked at me and said, ‘Hey, man. Wassup?’. He never stopped fucking her and she didn’t say a word. I mean, who does that?”
I remembered giving him a sympathetic look and saying something stupid like, “Kids these days. Go figure. Come on, let’s get drunk.”
That’s what I was doing the night Tom came in, getting drunk, because that’s what I do.
I teach.
I fuck.
I drink.
Rinse and repeat.
It’s a pretty routine life.
It was Friday night and Goldie’s lot was full. There were kids milling around the parking lot, sitting on the hoods of cars, drinking and smoking pot, even though the cops cruised by every few minutes. The cops liked the money that came from having a state university in their little city, so unless the kids were wreaking havoc or gangbanging hookers on the sidewalk, the cops always gave them a pass.
I smiled when I saw Tom’s puke green Prius parked near the front door. That meant he’d been there drinking most of the night. He’d be good and drunk and buying drinks for coeds he wanted to fuck, but never would. Me, I could probably fuck a different coed every day if I didn’t have my strict “no coed fucking” rule, but Tom wasn’t me. He was dumpy and sad and pathetic. Even the ugly chicks stayed away from him. Maybe someday I’d take him under my wing and get him laid. It was the least that I could do given the amount of alcohol he’d bought me over the last few months.
I parked my bike at the end of the line and pushed my way through the front door. The place was dark, smoky, loud, and stank of cigarettes and old beer. I fucking loved it. I stood at the door for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I saw Tom sitting at one end of the bar, a beer mug and a shot glass in front of him. He waved when he saw me. His face lit up like a Christmas tree. His wingman had arrived.
“Hey, I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” Tom said, his words slurring. He wrapped his arms around my neck and slobbered a kiss on my cheek. He waved down the bartender and ordered a round of beer and whiskey shots for us both.
“I’d never miss a chance to drink on your tab,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to him. I glanced over my shoulder. There was a bad four-piece band on a homemade stage in the corner, murdering a Bob Segar song. The small dance floor was shoulder-to-shoulder with kids writhing and sweating like pigs. Every table was taken and the bar was backed up three-deep on the other end. Just another night at Goldie’s.
"So, how is Dean Warner,” he asked with a sly smile. “I saw you two leave the faculty dinner together.”
“She’s actually pretty fucking good,” I said, nodding with the shot glass at my lips. “In fact, she asked about you tonight. I think she’s on the hunt for fresh blood.”
Tom blinked at me, then scowled. “Fuck you, she did not.”
“She did, too,” I said, grinning through the lie. “I said ‘Martha, you should fuck my good pal, Tom’. And she said, ‘Tell him to make a fucking appointment’, no pun intended.”
“You’re an asshole,” he said, shooting back the whiskey and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“You should fuck her, Tommy boy,” I said, seriously now, licking the whiskey from my lips. “You would not be disappointed. It would do you a world of good to get a little fresh stink on your dick.”
“She doesn’t want to fuck me,” he slurred, rolling his eyes. “Does she?”
“She might,” I said, giving him a shrug with my eyes. “I’d be happy to hook you up.”
“I don’t know,” he said. His eyes were red and his head wobbled a little. “I’m still…”
“I know, you’re still pining away over your football-player-fucking ex-wife,” I said, shaking my head at him. “But Jesus, Tom, it’s time to let go. She’s gone. She’s moved on. She already has another man.”
“I know, I know,” he said sadly, turning his head so I couldn’t see him wipe his eyes. “I’ll get back in the saddle someday.”
“I think Martha Warner might actually have a saddle.” I took a long pull from the beer mug and smacked my lips at him. “I know for a fact she likes being rode hard.”
“You’d better be careful, my friend,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You’ve slept with half the women on the faculty. Someday that legendary cock of yours is going to land you in serious trouble.”
I leaned an elbow on the bar and snorted a laugh. “There are rules against fucking students,” I said, flexing my eyebrows. “There are no such rules about fucking the esteemed female members of the faculty.”
“There may not be rules,” he said, waving his empty shot glass at the bartender. “But when you’re fucking a bunch of women who work together and eat lunch in the cafeteria together every day, once they start comparing notes and figure out that you’re screwing them all… then they go to report you to the dean and find out you’re fucking her, too?” He drained the mug and shook his head. “You’ll be lucky to get a job teaching at an online college in the middle of fucking Idaho.”
I clutched my hands to my chest like an innocent man accused of horrible crimes. “I am but a vessel serving a hungry audience, Tom,” I said. “You’re a marketing professor. You should understand market supply and demand.”
“I understand that most of the women you’re fucking also have husbands who will cut your balls off if they catch you,” he said. “And when that happens, don’t come running to me because I’ll just say I told you so.”
“Can you run with your balls cut off?” I asked with a grin.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said with a sigh. “My ex got my balls in the settlement. I think she keeps them in a cigar box under her bed so she and whomever she is fucking at that moment can make fun of me.”
“Jesus, man, you have to move on,” I said.
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. The bartender delivered another round and I picked up the shot glass and held it out to him.
“Here’s to your ex, Tom,” I toasted, tapping my glass to his. “May her pussy rot away and her tits fall off.”
“That’s awful,” he said with a smirk.
“I know. Bottoms up, motherfucker.”
We both shot back the whiskey and sighed. I put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a shake. “Come on, let’s get you laid.”
I leaned back with my elbows braced on the bar so I could survey the crowd. Tom and I were old enough to have fathe
red most of the kids there. I narrowed my eyes to scan the room, hoping to spot a table of older females who had stumbled in for a girl’s night out and might be open to having their pipes cleaned by me and my pitiful friend.
There were probably a hundred kids in the club: drinking, dancing, acting like fools. They were young and good looking and having the time of their life. They didn’t have a care in the world. They had their whole lives ahead of them. And I hated them all because they had the one thing I no longer had: a future full of promise and potential.
With enough drive and determination, they could do anything their hearts desired at this point in their lives, but most of them were too stupid to realize it and would squander their lives away.
Many of them would graduate soon and move onto grad school or mundane jobs where they’d labor for the next forty or fifty years and pray they would have enough money to live on once they retired.
They’d get married to someone they would grow to hate; have kids who would grow to hate them, and would spend their days working their asses off to build a life rather than living life.
I knew all this because I had done it.
They say youth is wasted on the young.
I say youth is wasted on the ignorant.
If I knew twenty-five years ago what I know today, I wouldn’t be standing in a dive bar in a shit college town, getting shitfaced drunk with a whiny bastard who will probably end up blowing his brains out some day, fucking my way through the aging female faculty of a second-rate state university.