Filthy Professor: A Bad Boy Professor Romance

by Amy Brent

  “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.”

  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 sai
d, 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 fathered 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.

  I was a forty-two-year-old, twice divorced, borderline alcoholic who live in a one bedroom shithole on a salary that was less than I made when I came out of grad school twenty years ago. I lived for the booze and the pussy. At this point in my life, little else mattered.

  Logan

  “Why the long face?” I heard a chipper, female voice say. I shook away the darkness of my thoughts and turned to see a beautiful girl with fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders and blue eyes standing next to me at the bar. There was an empty beer mug on the bar in front of her. She was glancing sideways at me, smiling, waiting for the bartender to bring her a fresh mug of beer.

  “Do I have a long face?” I asked, arching my eyebrows.

  “Well, not anymore,” she said, smiling with her eyes.

  I turned to look at her as the bartender slid a full mug between her hands. I let my eyes drift down her body. She was wearing a tight tank-top that strained against her big tits and stopped an inch above her belly button. She was wearing denim cutoffs and sandals. She had a nice round ass; a bubble butt, the kids called it. The shorts were low cut on her hips. I could see the top of a red thong and the hint of dimples above her luscious ass cheeks. She caught me looking and smiled again.

  “See anything you like?” she asked.

  I glanced around at Tom, who was staring back at me with a look of fear in his wide eyes, slowly shaking his head. He leaned in and whispered, “She’s a student. She’s off limits.”

  I whispered back. “I know. I’m gonna see if her mom is here. I told you I was gonna get you laid.”

  “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he said, picking up a napkin to wipe the foam off his lips. He wadded up the napkin and threw it at the bar. “I’m gonna take a leak. Order us another round.”

  “Roger that,” I said like a good wingman. I watched him stumble through the crowd for a moment, then turned back to the hot redhead with the big tits. She had her elbows and tits resting on the bar. She was casually sipping her beer and watching ESPN on the TV behind the bar.

  Was she waiting for me to hit on her, I wondered. If so, she was going to have a long wait. I didn’t fuck students. No matter how incredibly hot and seductive they were. I needed this job too much. It was all that I had left. No pussy was worth risking it. Even one that I was sure would taste as sweet as hers.

  I picked up my beer and leaned my elbows on the bar like her. I pretended to watch TV, but couldn’t resist checking her out from the corner of my eye. She looked familiar. It took a moment, but I recognized her from my advanced accounting class. Candy something or other… No, Courtney… Courtney Shaw…

  She was probably the smartest girl in
the class.

  Definitely, the hottest.

  She usually kept her mane of red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and never wore makeup because, well, why would she? She always sat three rows back in the center, and sometimes asked questions that she probably already knew the answers to. I’d been teaching hot coeds long enough to know all their tricks. She wanted me to notice her, which just made me ignore her all the more. I’m a man of willpower, but a girl like her could probably wear me down if given the chance. I knew she’d probably be amazing in bed and my cock did a little twitch at the thought of it, but I had my hands full juggling the five or six mature women I was fucking. I didn’t need to complicate things by working my way through the hot girls in my class.

  “I’ve seen you here before,” she said, talking to me, but keeping her eyes on the television. “Always with your sad friend, Professor Brooks.”

  “How do you know my friend is sad?” I asked.

  “The whole school knows that he walked in on his wife getting banged in the ass by that football player,” she said, letting her bare shoulders go up and down. “He comes in here every night and starts drinking early, then you show up after whatever it is you do to drive him home.” She turned to face me with one elbow on the bar and the mug of beer in her hand. “My question has always been, what is it that you do before you arrive here, Professor Clark? Always with your shirt misbuttoned and your hair all a mess.”

  I frowned as I glanced down at the front of my shirt. It was not misbuttoned. “My shirts not…”

  She smiled and tapped a fingernail to my chin. “No, but I made you look,” she said.

  She took a long pull from the mug and licked the foam from her lips. My eyes followed the trail her tongue left on her lips. She slid in a step closer. Her fingers toyed with a button on my shirt.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, staring into her eyes. I didn’t step back. I should have, but I didn’t. My brain was screaming at me to move, but my cock was telling my feet to stand their ground.