by Amy Brent
“Your grad school list?”
“Yes, the list of professors I planned to fuck while I was in grad school.”
She snorted a laugh. “Well, you should have fucked Professor Driver sooner because he moved to Los Angeles to teach at UCLAS I think, and to plug his new book. Although, the rumor is he will be back to guest lecture at some symposium in a few weeks. Maybe you can fuck him then if you’re quick.”
“Damn…” I sighed, picking up my Pepsi to wet my mouth. I wrapped my lips around the straw and slowly sucked as my eyes stayed on Moss.
“What are you thinking?” Izzy asked, already knowing the answer.
I licked my lips and shrugged. “Guess I’ll just have to take Professor Driver off my list and add Professor Moss.”
Izzy smiled. “You better work fast, girlfriend. I’m pretty sure there are lots of girls here adding him to their fuck lists as we speak.” She nodded at a table of female professors who were also watching Moss. “And they’re gonna wanna fuck him, too, the old whores.”
“I’m not worried,” I said absently as I watched him work his way through the cafeteria toward a table with other professors. Izzy was right. I wasn’t the only one watching him. Every female eye in the room was tracking Holden Moss, like wolves tracking prey, though something told me that this one had a bit of wolf inside himself. He casually avoided the obvious stares, even mine, and sat at a table alone with his back to the room. You could hear a collective sigh go up from every pussy in the place.
“Wow, he is really gorgeous,” I said with a long sigh. I turned back to Izzy and picked up my burger. I took a bite and chewed as I spoke. “I may have to get me some of that. Too bad Professor Markle didn’t look like Professor Moss.”
She licked ketchup from her lips and smiled. “You sound like one of Earl’s friends. Damn, woman, I’m gonna get me some of that big cock! You’re terrible.”
“I’m not terrible,” I said, wiggling a fry at her. “I’m just a slut, remember.”
“A slut who is getting her Masters in Clinical Psychology,” Izzy said. “Lord help your patients.”
I smiled as I chewed. “I’m not in this to meet guys.”
“Sure, you ain’t,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Just like I’m not doing sports medicine to meet jocks!”
“Seriously, Iz, you know I majored in psychology to help figure out my own fucked up problems.” I glanced over my shoulder at Holden Moss. “Maybe he can help me figure a few things out.”
“Good luck, my sister,” Izzy said. She reached across the table and put a hand on my arm. “Just be careful. You know how you get.”
I frowned at her. “How do I get?”
“You get obsessed,” she said, squeezing my arm. “And usually, you get hurt.”
I gave her a reassuring smile. “No worries, Iz, I promise. I’ve learned my lessons. I’ll never let a man take advantage of me again. Promise.”
“I hope not,” she said, pulling her hand away. “You’re too good to get treated like that.”
“I know, Iz,” I sighed. “I know.”
Izzy was talking about something that happened a year before at the beginning of the fall term. I had become enamored of (and horny for) an English Lit professor named Keith Calloway. He was gorgeous, mid-forties, with chiseled features and surfer blond hair, and a very big you know what. He told me that he was single and unattached (I always emphasize the fact that I’m not a home wrecker, and I don’t wanna be one), so the fun began after a few weeks of flirting and innuendo.
We had sex the first time on his desk in his office during a long lunch break, then over the course of the next few weeks, we had sex everywhere we could as often as we could.
It was a mad, tumultuous affair that was exciting and dangerous because Keith was a bit of a freak. He loved having sex in public, where we might be seen by others.
We had sex in his car in the faculty parking lot in the middle of the day. He fucked me from behind while I leaned out the window of his third-floor office with my tits flopping in the wind during the afternoon break.
He crawled under the table at a fancy restaurant to lick my pussy during dessert and I blew him under the same table a few nights later while waiting for our entrees.
It was an exciting affair and I loved it, until the night we were having sex in the natatorium pool on campus and three security guards showed up. Along with Keith’s very pissed off wife and three kids. She had seen his car outside the natatorium and called the police to report a drowning.
Turned out that Keith was attached and it was not his first time screwing a student, so when his wife spotted us sneaking into the natatorium, she decided to make a spectacle of us both.
Fortunately for me, one of the security guards was Earl, who moonlighted as a campus cop between seasons for extra cash.
He managed to get me out the back door while Keith’s wife was losing her fucking mind on him. Keith went on sabbatical the next day and I had not seen him since. If Earl had not been there, I probably would have been kicked out of school, too.
“So,” Izzy said, drawing out the word. “What’s your plan?”
I dabbed my lips with a napkin and gave her a sideways grin. “Well, I guess I need to find out which classes Professor Holden Moss is teaching next term and sign up.” I stared at his back and wished that I could see his front. “I mean, I’m sure I can learn a lot from a man like that.”
* * *
After lunch I paid a visit to the registrar’s office to see which classes Professor Holden Moss was teaching in the upcoming semester, which started in three weeks.
The lady behind the counter looked like my mom, which her short perm and pudgy cheeks. When I asked about Professor Moss’s upcoming schedule, she tapped on the keyword and leaned in to read from the screen.
“Let’s see, yes, Professor Moss is teaching a graduate level course on… um… The Sexual Psychology of Modern Fetishes… starting in three weeks.” She put a hand to her chest and leaned away from the screen, as if it had done something to offend her. “Um, it’s not a required course, so…”
“Can I sign up for that class?” I asked, giving her a smile that didn’t stop her from giving me a condescending look in return.
“You want to take that class?” she asked, her voice full of suspicion. Jesus, did this broad need to get laid. “Did you hear me? It’s not a required course, so your financial aid would not cover it.”
“Actually, I’m a grad school level psyche major and I believe that fits in as an elective, so…”
She blinked at me, like I was asking her to show me her boobs. “So…”
“Sooo….” I kept on smiling. “Please sign me up.”
CHAPTER FIVE: Holden
I was getting ready for the first class of the summer term when my cellphone rang. I glanced at the clock above the door. I had twenty minutes before students would start filing in, so I picked the phone up off the desk and glanced at the screen. I smiled. It was my best pal, Wynn Driver, Facetiming from California.
“Hey, dude, what’s up?” I asked with a big grin. I sat down at the desk and propped the phone on a stack of books so I could drink my coffee while we chatted. “How’s the weather in Cal-ee-for-nee? How’s the surfing?”
“The surfing is bitchin’ out here, dude,” he said, giving me a toothy grin and a wiggly thumbs-up. Wynn was a happy guy with a contagious smile. In all the years I had known him I’d only seen him angry or unhappy a handful of times, usually over the stresses of his job or the stresses of a woman who wanted things he could not or was not willing to give. Wynn said he was allergic to commitment. Just the thought of settling down with one woman gave him hives. He and I were a lot alike, thought my aversion to commitment did not go to the same depths as his.
Wynn Driver had left Midwestern to teach at UCLA at the start of the last semester. He was a bestselling author now and there were many more opportunities and contacts to be made in Los Angeles than in Springfield. Never the
less, we had been buddies since college and were inseparable until he moved away. I missed the hell out of him and told him so.
“Hey, I miss you, too, old buddy,” he said, poking out his bottom lip like a pouty child. “You really need to move out here and teach. You would not believe the caliber and amount of pussy here in Lala Land.”
“I like the midwestern pussy,” I said with a grin. I pried the lid off my coffee and blew into the cup. “Besides, I think it’s the law that every girl in Los Angeles has to have fake tits. I like my tits real.”
“Hey, don’t knock fake knockers,” he said, chuckling. “The really good ones all taste the same.”
I giggled into the coffee cup. Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I said, “That’s probably true. So, what’s up with you? I’m about to teach a class so I only have a few minutes.”
“Oh yeah? What are you teaching this semester?”
“I have my usual psyche summer courses on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”
He frowned at the screen. “So? It’s Monday morning. What is it, ten or eleven there? What are you doing in class?”
“If you must know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m also teaching the Sexual Psychology of Modern Fetishes class this semester.”
“Holy shit, man, really?” He leaned in toward the screen and scrunched up his nose. “Why are you teaching that shit? Isn’t that old man Markle’s specialty?”
“Seems Professor Markle is taking the summer off to travel to the Holy Land and they asked me to fill in,” I said. “At least that’s the story the dean gave me when he asked me to fill in. Did you know Markle was a Jewish name?”
“Jewish my ass,” he growled. “The only holy land Markle is interested in is the Bunny Ranch in Vegas.”
“That may be,” I said with a sigh and a smile. “But it seems this class is part of the standard summer curriculum and God forbid we skip it one semester. The fetishists would undoubtedly protest in the streets. Anyway, it’s easy money and the fetish classes usually attract an interesting crowd. So, what the hell.”
“Ah, I get it now,” he said, closing one eye to stare at me through the screen. “You’re doing it to meet chicks. You sly son of a bitch.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said, not bothering to lie because Wynn knew me better than anyone. I glanced up at the clock. “Speaking of, I’ll have students coming in shortly, so, what’s up?”
“What’s up is I got an invitation to come back to Midwestern and do a seminar for a group of clinical psychologists in a couple of weeks and I was wondering if you had anything to do with that?”
I feigned ignorance for a moment, then gave him a smile. He knew I had everything to do with that because I was the president of the local psychology association, which included academics, therapists, psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, nurses, administrators, and other industry practitioners. I’d been pushing the meeting committee to add a lecture by Wynn for weeks and they finally agreed.
“I might have had something to do with it,” I said. “I assume the fee was to your liking?”
“Hey, dude, if you guys want to pay me ten-grand to come and talk about the psychology of pussy, who am I to argue?”
“Who better to talk about the psychology of pussy than the guy who literally wrote the book?”
He puffed out his chest proudly. “Well, there is that.”
Wynn’s book, What’s Your Vagina Thinking, which he published just a short year ago, had become a runaway bestseller and the reason he got the big job offer to teach in California. And offers to appear on every TV show from Good Morning America to Ellen to 60 Minutes. Howard Stern loved him, as did every other radio host who found saying the word vagina over public airwaves hysterical.
I would never understand why the very idea that a vagina might actually have thoughts (the intellectual version of the Vagina Monologs, I supposed) was cutting edge stuff because we men had been thinking with our dicks since the dawn of man. It was about time the pussy got a brain.
Wynn had managed to write a book many found groundbreaking, though quite honestly, I was not sure why. Maybe it was because I didn’t have a vagina. Or cared what one might think. Regardless, Wynn was riding the book to fame and fortune. He was considered the world’s foremost expert on vaginal thinking. Seriously. Stop laughing. It’s a real thing. I know because it had bought Wynn a Porsche Carrera and a house in Malibu. And a high-paying gig at UCLA. Just a year before he was driving a twenty-year-old Honda and sleeping on my couch while begging the dean for class time. My, how quickly things change, thanks to concept of a smart vagina.
“I’m thinking about calling my sessions ‘The Psychology of Pussy,” he said, talking with his hands. “Or even better, ‘What Does Your Pussy Think?’” He gave me a salacious grin. “What do you think?”
“First of all, I think you’ve fallen off your surfboard one too many times and smacked your head,” I said, cutting him a look. “And second of all, I’m not sure the marketing guys will go for putting ‘The Psychology of Pussy’ on the brochure, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Hey, I’m not married to the name,” he said with a grin. “So, I’ll be flying in that Friday evening late and flying out on Sunday morning. I assume I’ll be staying with you since there was no mention of a hotel in the deal?”
“You assume correctly,” I said. “Just take a cab to my place. You still have your key, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Cool, then use it when you get here,” I said. “I will restock the large condoms, buy a new vat of KY Jelly, and change the rubber sheets in anticipation of your visit.”
“You are too good to me, my friend,” he said. “Any prospects you thinking about lining up for my visit? Maybe you will have a nice three-way fetishist in this class we can share.”
Before I could answer, the door at the back of the classroom opened and a beautiful girl I’d never seen before strolled in. She was tall and curvy, with long red hair pulled back into a ponytail at the crown of her head and a face to die for. She sported big tits with no bra, tucked into a tight, black t-shirt that was knotted just below her boobs. Her nipples pushed against the material like thimbles. Her hips were round and her ass was firm in a pair of hot pink running shorts that barely covered her crotch. She was wearing running shoes and white ankle socks. Her legs were perfect, tanned and toned, and I couldn’t help but imagine how they would feel wrapped around my waist. Or wrapped around my head.
She gave me a smile and took a seat down front, just ten feet from my desk. I felt a lump in my throat and a twinge in my cock when our eyes met. I returned the smile, then picked up the phone and took Wynn off speaker.
Turning my back to the girl, I lowered my voice to say, “I gotta go, Wynn. The girl of my dreams just walked in the door.”
“You mean the girl of our dreams, buddy boy,” Wynn growled in my ear. “See you soon.”
* * *
I hung up the phone and turned back to find her smiling at me. Jesus, she was beautiful. Bright eyes, bright smile, fair skin, perfect smile. There was something about her that made me want to drop to my knees and serve her every command, like being in the presence of royalty or something. I felt a twinge deep inside my chest that sent little shockwaves to my cock.
“Well, hi there,” I said as I set the phone on the desk.
“Well, hi there yourself,” she said, still smiling. Her eyes narrowed a little as the corners of her lips curled up.
“I’m Professor Moss,” I said, licking my lips because I found them suddenly dry. I tried to swallow again, but ended up nervously clearing my throat. I didn’t know why this girl was having this effect on me, but I forced the smile to hold and gave her a little nod. “I mean, Holden Moss. Professor Holden Moss. My friends call me Holden.”
“I’m Judith Allen,” she said, her top teeth on her bottom lip. “Grad student. My friends call me Jude.”
“As in, Hey Jude?” I giggled, then groaned on the inside. It
was a stupid thing to say, something she had undoubtedly heard a million times before from schmucks like me. Guys she made nervous with just a glance. Guys who couldn’t help but imagine her naked. Guys who would crawl up a mountain of glass just to sniff her…
Jesus, you fucking idiot, what are you doing? I could hear Wynn’s voice in my head as clear as day. What’s up with you, Holden, you dumb fuck. You are acting like a nervous teenager. Be careful you don’t cum in your pants…
She didn’t skip a beat or look at me like I was a total moron. She just gave me a dreamy look and sang a line from the song. “Yes, exactly as in Hey Jude, don’t make me bad...”
“Wait a second…” Something clicked in my brain as I struggled to retrieve my manhood from the toilet I’d just flushed it down. I narrowed my eyes and pointed a finger at her. “Judith Allen… You’re her… You’re the Judith Allen that wrote the paper on nympho—I mean hypersexuality—in Professor Markle’s class?”