by Rebecca Foxx
She wasn't going to let anything like that happen. Six months in New York, maybe a year, maybe two, was probably just what she needed. She wouldn't have a problem getting a teaching job there, even though it wouldn't pay shit. She would find a way to make it. She always had.
And she wouldn't mess around any more with her students. That was over. It was all over. That's what she promised herself. She could feel the tears beginning to well up in her eyes.
It wasn't long before they were streaming down her cheeks and her body was shaking, wracked with emotion – guilt, fear, and repentance.
These emotions battled within her and she struggled not to completely break down.
She cursed her insatiable nature. She couldn't get enough young pussy. She tried to convince yourself that if she could, she would've done things differently. But it was a lie, a glaring, obvious, pathetic lie. She wouldn't have done anything differently, if given the chance. She needed those months of fiery passion to put the life back in her, to get the blood flowing through her veins once again.
She'd had enough of being single, all alone in the world, her only solace being her job as an adjunct professor teaching creative writing. Life could feel pretty hopeless at times. She got what she needed to get from those young girls.
She picked up her phone. That sound wasn't a text message or voicemail, it was her email. She sighed with relief. None of the girls that she was fooling around with would email her. They were from the “text generation.” Emoji's and all that. She clicked on the Mail app. There were two new emails: both from the dean.
They were calling it a 9 AM meeting emergency meeting for the next day. Everyone was required to attend unless they were out of state or out of the country traveling.
When Prof. Lescott arrived at the faculty meeting, she was surprised to find that the room was already filled. She lowered her head and found one of the few empty chairs in the room. Maybe she was being paranoid but she felt like everyone in the room was looking directly at her.
And why wouldn't they? If the students knew what she'd been doing, if she could meet a random girl in a coffee shop who knew her, how could she possibly be surprised that her colleagues didn't know that she was doing?
And who did she catch leering at her from across the room? It was none other than Prof. Jenkins, the tall handsome African-American History professor who'd overheard one of her erotic encounters with a creative writing student. She didn't know what he wanted from her.
But she assumed that it entailed sex, from the lusty gleam in his eyes. He was an attractive man, and a lot of women would have been flattered to have received his attention. He was well over 6 feet and sturdily built. There was no doubt in Tammy's mind that there was a big black cock, an Anaconda, squirming in his trousers.
The pervert no doubt wanted her sweet little pink lips, pussy and mouth, to hungrily welcome his black snake.
The Dean was away on vacation in his native country of Cyprus, so the important faculty meeting was being led by his assistant, a tall blonde Germanic beauty who looked like she could be a real bitch in the bedroom, the kind of woman who took great pleasure from inflicting pain on her partners, whips, chains, ropes and cuffs, and anything else that she needed to inflict that pain, were most likely a part of her arsenal.
"Thank you everyone for coming today," the assistant principal said. "I'm sure you all heard the report by now. For those of you who are perpetually clueless, I will do my best to fill you in."
A few of the teachers turned to each other and snickered. There was always tension between the administrators and the teachers, especially the teachers who were only adjuncts, subject to the lowest pay and the worst treatment.
The deans would always insist that they were doing their best to raise working conditions and salaries for all of their employees, only 20% of which were full-time and received medical benefits. The system was completely screwed up. They were suckers for going along with it.
But that's what you did when you love what you do and the people in that room no matter how much they bitched and griped and complained and groaned and moaned about the working conditions when it came down to it they love teaching, loved being up in front of a classroom of wide-eyed, open-minded students.
The assistant principal relayed the facts of the case against Tammy at Pomona Community College. The whole time that she was speaking, Prof. Lescott couldn't help feeling that she was getting extra attention from the assistant dean.
She seemed to punctuating every one of her sentences with a look, a cold hearted, incriminating stare towards Prof. Lescott. Each time that happened Tammy lowered her head and shivered, terrified of what those looks actually met.
"So I didn't call you all here today to tell you about a news story that you've already heard about," the assistant dean said. "I know how much everyone hates these meetings so let me get right down to the brass tacks.
Over the next several months investigators hired by the University of California education system will be interviewing students across all campuses in regards to sexual harassment and sexual misconduct on the part of any and all University of California employees.
I suggest that any of you adjuncts and even tenured professors, who have been engaging in such misconduct," the assistant Dean paused, scanned the room with her cold hearted eyes, and came to rest upon the terrified face of Prof. Lescott.
Tammy struggled to keep eye contact but she knew that looking away would do her no good either, so she forced herself to stare back at the assistant dean. A wicked smile crept across the tall domineering blonde woman's lips.
“As I was saying any of you who have engaged in such misconduct while employed by the University of California system of higher education would be very wise to fess up right now here today before all of your colleagues."
There was a deadly silence in the room. A few people turned looked at each other with quizzical expressions. What the hell was the point of this? Where was she going with it? The Assistant Dean paced back and forth at the front of the meeting room, back and forth. She had on black high heels.
"No takers? None of you have the guts to come forward and confess up?" she said sadistically.
Prof. Lescott could feel her body begin to quiver with rage. She felt like hopping out of the chair running towards the assistant dean, putting her hand around her neck and shaking her head back and forth, watching her eyes bulge out of her head.
"That's all for today," the assistant dean said. "I hope you all have a great holiday. I have the feeling that this may be the last faculty meeting that some of you attend."
Nobody knew what to say. Everyone was in a state of shock.
But Prof. Lescott knew exactly what she had to do. She had to get the fuck out of California as soon as possible. She had to get back to New York, start her life over, put all this crap behind her, and never do this shit again.
She was two steps away from the door when she heard someone clearing their throat behind her, very loudly.
"Prof. Lescott," it was the assistant Dean. That bitch's voice could cut through glass.
Prof. Lescott took a deep breath, and slowly turned around to face her would-be tormentor.
The tall blonde woman fixed her eyes on Tammy and took two steps towards her. She brushed a tangle of hair out of Tammy's face and kissed her gently on the lips. Electric sparks shot through Tammy's body. She could feel her panties getting wet and her knees becoming weak.
"You've been a very naughty girl, Professor, at least, that's what I hear."
Tammy swallowed hard and prepared to say something, but before she could get the words out the assistant dean pressed one finger to her lips.
"I don't want to hear your explanations. I don't want to hear your apologies. I've got much better things for you to do with your mouth."
Tammy opened her eyes wide and moments later she was on her knees with her face buried in the assistant deans hairy pussy, kissing up her thighs and then wrapping her mouth aro
und the bulging clit head.
"That feels so good," The assistant dean said. "So fucking good."
Tammy licked hungrily at the wet pussy, the juices beginning to spill out of her mouth and down her chin and onto the carpet. What a mess. What a hot fucking mess!
"You won't ever have to worry about anything," the dean said. "As long as you come by my office once a week, twice sometimes. You won’t have to worry about a thing."
Those were precisely the words Tammy wanted to hear. She began licking, sucking, slurping, and nibbling the assistant dean's pussy as if it was the last pussy she would ever taste. What a little slut!
That was the trouble she know found herself. Everything had been fine, until about two weeks ago. That’s when she’d really messed up.
Chapter 2
Tammy lay on the floor of her office, half naked with her legs spread open for several minutes after Katy left. Her entire body tingled with pleasure and excitement. She’d added another wonderful girl to her slowly growing stable.
As she imagined all of the other victims on campus, her eyes glowed with a wicked delight. Clearly, she was a woman under the influence of very strong sexual urges, so strong that she was willing to risk her burgeoning career in order to satisfy them.
She slowly got off the floor and began putting on her clothes. Throughout the day, she’d felt completely drained, as all of the paper grading, slowly but surely sucked the life out of her. But after that passionate sex session with her young sexpot student, she felt rejuvenated. That’s what sucking on young pussy will do to you, she said to herself with a wry smile.
As she clasped her bra on, she remembered a column that she’d read a week before by one of her favorite sex writers Chelsea Roxx. There was one line that she hadn’t been able to get out of her head: You’re only as young as who you’re fucking.
When she said it aloud, she couldn’t help laughing. But it wasn’t only funny, it was also true and that’s what made it even funnier.
She’d always pursued younger women. It had probably started in high school. As a senior she often found herself lusting after the young, naïve freshman.
For the next several hours, she would need to take her mind off the wonderful pupils that would be playing beneath her legs for the next several months. There was grading to be done. She had a little bit over forty-eight hours to get everything done.
Tammy shut off the lights and walked out of her office. It would be another few days before she was back in here, at least, that's what she hoped. She planned on spending the next 72 hours holed up in her apartment, or maybe some coffee shop around town, grading papers and dealing with the hellish last couple weeks of the semester.
This was always her least favorite time to be a professor, her least favorite time to be involved in higher education. She'd never been able to make much sense out of the grading process. And she'd never bought into the arguments that grading was some sort of necessary evil.
Bullshit she thought. But this is what she had to do if she wanted to have access to all those beautiful young women, just waiting to be molded, shaped and sculpted by her mature influence. She smiled wickedly and locked the door.
Tammy screeched and held her hand over her heart. She stared with terrified eyes at the man who towered over her. It was Professor Jenkins from the History department, a 6 foot three lanky man with chocolate colored skin. His eyes glowed with desire as he looked down into Tammy's fear stricken face. He smiled a devilish grin and shook his head knowingly. That stare, those intense almond eyes, laughing and mocking, made her tremble with fear and an odd sort of desire.
"I see you’ve been keeping busy," Jenkins said.
Tammy swallowed hard and looked away, searching for an escape route. She didn't understand why he was looking at her like that. All of their other encounters in the hallway or faculty meetings had been so dry and bland. There had been nothing to remember about them, simple hi, hello, how are you doing? That's all it had ever been.
"What are you talking about?" She asked.
"Don't try to bullshit me," Jenkins said, snickering at her, eyes filled with lust.
"I really have to go. I've got a ton of papers to grade tonight," Tammy said.
"Papers to grade and pussies to lick I suspect," Jenkins said.
Tammy's face flushed red. What the fuck did he just say? She couldn't believe it. Was this the end? Had she finally been caught? Had her pussy licking sessions with her students finally caught up with her and ruined her career?
She didn't know what to do: Run, scream, kick, punch. None of it made sense to her. Those last words from Professor Jenkins’s mouth had the power to destroy everything in her life.
"What are you talking about?" She asked.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Jenkins said. "And I know this wasn't the first time either. You're quite the pussy hound aren't you?"
She'd been caught. Her mind flashed back to the steamy encounter that she'd just had in her office:
She was cornered, and her only option, if it even was an option, would be to beg and plead with him, to promise to do anything he wanted. But the thought of submitting to someone who would be so cruel made her tremble with rage.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
"That's more like it," he said.
Tammy trembled with rage as she walked to her car. She'd never been angrier, or more ashamed. What the fuck had she been thinking? That was the thought that kept reverberating in her head, pounding at her temples, threatening to burst her blood vessels. She gunned the car out of the parking lot and skidded out onto the main road, kicking up dust and shooting out smoke along the way, fist tightly gripping the wheel.
Everything could be ruined, if Jenkins didn't keep his mouth shut or if he decided that it would be fun to just be a sadistic asshole and report her to the dean. She would be done for. There would be no coming back from this. It would be the end of her teaching career, the end of any serious professional career anywhere in California, most likely.
Tammy stormed into her apartment and slammed the door behind her. She grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured herself a big glass, the biggest glass of wine she’d poured herself in a long time.
She needed every single drop of it. She leaned her head back and guzzled the cheap sugary liquid. Its coolness calmed her spirits, at least for a few moments.
There was so much work to do. So much fucking work and only 72 hours to get it done. Just when she was on the verge of despair, on the verge of breaking down, crying, screaming, running out into the streets naked calling for help, or whatever other strange and outlandish idea might suggest itself because of her desperate circumstances, an idea popped into her head.
Maybe it wasn't an idea so much, but merely a different perspective on her current situation. Instead of lamenting, whining crying and wallowing in self-pity, asking why me, she would take action. She would throw herself into her work headlong, completely immersing herself in each task.
That would be the only thing, the most effective thing, to take her mind off the impending doom, the guillotine that hung above her head, patiently waiting for the lever to be pulled.
She was able to work without distraction for a couple of hours before she desperately needed to get out of her apartment. Back to the Grind, a popular and very spacious coffee shop in downtown Riverside would be the perfect place for her to continue her work.
Although she would have a lot to do over the next two days, she didn’t need to get all of the work done. There would be all day tomorrow for her to finish. And when I’m done grading, I could grab a drink at Fire & Ice, she said to herself. Excitement surged through her. She quickly packed up her papers and her laptop.
The streets of downtown Riverside were a lot more crowded than Tammy had expected. There appeared to be some kind of art festival going on. While considering whether or not to go back home, Tammy sighed and shook her head.
After she parked a few blocks
farther away than she wanted to, because of the street closings, she hauled her papers and laptop to the coffee shop. There was a great Thursday night energy in the place. As always there was an interesting eclectic mix of people that ranged from drag queens to marines, goth punks to hip-hoppers.
This coffee shop, owned by a six foot seven gay black man with dreads and a powerful frame, was a meeting place for all of the city's freaks, weirdoes, and outcasts.
The café, which had a twenty-five foot high ceiling, giving the place an incredibly spacious feel, had three different levels: a basement where there were concerts and AA meetings and art exhibitions; the main floor had tables couches and a mini kitchen and coffee bar; and a flight of wooden stairs led to an outdoor deck on the upper floor.
Tammy sipped on a cappuccino and munched on a blueberry muffin. She knew the muffin, despite the organic label, was loaded with salt and sugar—two things that she often tried her best to avoid. But every now and then, she would allow herself an indulgence. And this just happened to be one of those times.