She licks her lips and runs one soapy little hand down between her legs to stroke her wet pussy lips.
I grin. There’s no way I can resist my naughty little girl. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. Whatever problems she has, I’ll always be there to take care of her and protect her. She’s mine now—mine and mine alone—and I’m going to treat her like the dirty little princess she is. I was one hundred percent certain before. Now I’m one hundred and ten percent certain. And my cock is one hundred and ten percent hard.
“Don’t worry baby girl, Daddy can fix that,” I tell her as I climb into the shower with her. It’s a tight fit for the two of us, and her body is soft and slippery against mine.
I grab my tool and get to work.
The Artist's Touch
I want to go faster, but I’m already breathing heavy and breaking a sweat. Plus my boobs are bouncing all over the place. I have to slow down to a manageable pace.
God this is embarrassing. Everybody around me is looking at me like I’m crazy.
I’m doing an all out sprint across campus because I’m late for my final exam. It’s the exam for my Advanced Drawing course, and I’m seriously kicking myself because this is the only class I’m any good at.
Math? I practically have to take my shoes off to count past ten. History? I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday. But when it comes to art, I’m a natural if I do say so myself.
And here I am, running late for the one exam where I know I can get an A+. If I miss this test, my whole GPA will be totally fucked. I’m already on academic probation. If I screw this up, I might actually get kicked out of university.
I’d never be able to face my mom if that happened. I’d be way too ashamed. She would probably pull the daddy card to shame me even more. I can almost hear her now: “What would Daddy say if he were still alive?”
No time to let my mind go down that dark path. I have to stay focused. The art building is just up ahead—I’m almost there.
The thing is, it’s not just my grade that I’m worried about. Even more important than that, I don’t want to let Professor Cox down. I realize that sounds a bit nuts, but he’s just such an amazing art teacher, and I really want to please him. If I’m going to be completely honest, I have a bit of a crush on him.
OK, it’s an enormous crush.
OK, I’m totally obsessed.
Look, if you saw him you’d understand.
I burst through the front door of the art building, causing two other students to drop the art supplies they’re carrying.
“What the fuck!” Their shouts echo down the hall after me. “Hey, watch where you’re fucking going!”
“Sorry!” I shout over my shoulder, as I sprint down the hall, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. No time to stop and help them pick up their things. My whole freaking college career is on the line here.
I can’t believe I didn’t get up on time this morning. I even set two alarms just to be safe! The problem is, I set my alarm clock for 8:00 p.m. instead of 8:00 a.m. I’m such a dummy. My backup was my phone, but the charger didn’t have full insertion, so the battery died in the middle of the night. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Finally, I reach the drawing studio. I put on the brakes and skid to a stop like a cartoon character. As I push open the door and step inside the studio, I try to hide the fact that I just sprinted all the way across campus to get here, but my heavy breathing is a dead giveaway.
The problem is, there’s nobody in here to notice.
The studio is empty. I’ve completely missed the exam. It’s over. I’m fucked. I’m totally and utterly fucked.
Dejected, I wander around the room. It is a spacious, high-ceilinged room with skylights to let in the sun. There are about a dozen easels arranged in a circle around a simple central platform. I walk around the outside of the circle. On every easel there is an extra large drawing pad, and on each pad there is a graphite or charcoal rendering of a lean, muscular nude man lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. His rather sizeable member is draped over the top of his thigh as he reclines. All of the drawings are of the same man, but seen from different angles—he’s the nude model who until a few minutes ago was lying on the platform in the middle of the room.
But now the platform is empty.
That was the final exam for the Advanced Drawing course. We would have one hour to draw a nude model. Professor Cox would then give us each a score based on the quality of our final sketches and how much each student had improved over the semester.
I come around to one easel with a blank piece of paper. No drawing. The name on the stool in front of it reads “Alexis Rider.”
That’s me.
I’ve finally started to catch my breath after my dash across campus. My heart isn’t hammering in my breast anymore. Instead it’s sunk to the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe I completely missed the exam. I’m so late that everyone has already left.
I plop down on my stool and start to cry softly in the big, empty, lonely studio.
It’s all down the drain—all of those hours I spent in and out of class working to hone my skills as an artist. Like I said, I’ve always been artsy, but I used to just do stuff like glittery picture frames for my friends or elaborately doodling guys names in my notebooks when I was in school. I was never big into real art, but I registered for this class on a whim, and I just took to it like nobody’s business.
The main factor is Professor Cox. He awakened creative depths within me that I didn’t realize I possessed. He inspires me, almost like a muse. I know, I know… a girl is supposed to be a muse for a guy—but there’s no reason it can’t go the other way, right?
Sometimes I gaze at him in class, memorizing his features for later when I’m at home. I wonder what the professor would think if he saw the imaginative drawings in my super secret sketch pad back in my dorm. Pictures of him. And me. Together.
Like, together together.
You get what I’m saying.
Sometimes when I’m staring at him in class, his eyes will meet mine, and I always look away blushing, hoping he didn’t just see how thirstily I was drinking him in. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Well, if that’s true, I definitely can’t allow my sexy professor to see the deep dark fantasy I’m hiding in mine.
Here’s the thing… Sometimes the opposite happens too. I’ll glance at him and find his eyes already locked on me. But he never looks away—his intense eyes just burn into me even more hotly. During class, Professor Cox always has his sketchpad in hand. He’s always drawing something. I’ve never seen what he’s working on during class—nobody has—but I like to imagine that sometimes he’s drawing me. Maybe I could be his muse too.
Mutual muses. Hey, a girl can dream, right?
Speaking of dreaming, I’m so lost in my despair over missing the final exam that I’m completely unaware of my surroundings. I think I’m alone in the studio, but I’m wrong.
“Alexis?”
I jerk upright, startled by the voice. But right away I realize who it is. It’s him. It’s Professor Cox. I wipe away my tears, but there’s no point in trying to hide it. My eyes must be red, my face flushed, and I’m sure my chin is doing that stupid wrinkly thing it does when I cry. I take a deep breath.
“Alexis, are you OK? I was worried about you when you didn’t show up for the final.”
“I’m fine, Professor Cox,” I say, trying to tamp down the sound of sobbing in my voice. My lower lip is still trembling.
“Well what happened, Alexis? You missed the big exam. The hour’s already up and the model has left. You’re really very late.”
He looks down at me through his glasses while he rubs the short salt-and-pepper scruff on his strong, angular jaw.
Even as embarrassed and depressed as I am about missing the final exam, I still get a bit of a flutter in my tummy, just like I always do in his presence. God, it’s just downright unfair how handsome he is. Especially considering tha
t he’s old enough to be my daddy, and definitely off-limits. I mean, he’s my professor for crying out loud.
Still, he’s not like the other professors. I mean, sure, he’s got the glasses that add a kind of cute, nerdy edge to his otherwise totally rugged masculinity. But he’s really casual for a professor. His hair is always irresistibly mussed from the way he’s constantly running his fingers through it when he’s concentrating on a drawing. And he always keeps the top couple buttons of his shirt undone, unwittingly teasing the girls in class with a glimpse of his pumped, muscular chest, which has just the right amount of hair. I’ve spent a lot of time in class daydreaming about running my hand down that chest and inside his shirt, reaching lower until I find what I’m looking for.
And he likes to wear slim fit khakis—not really tight exactly, but tight enough to show that he’s packing some serious heat down there. I feel my heart beating faster again just thinking about it.
“I’m really sorry, Professor Cox,” I begin. At least I’ve managed to control the tremble of crying in my voice. “I wish I had some kind of good excuse, but I don’t. I just overslept.”
He cocks one eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth curls up ever so slightly as he passes his eyes down my body and back up again.
“I can see that. It looks like you just rolled out of bed.”
I pretty much did. I only had time to pull on a sweatshirt and a pair of sneakers before running out the door. Other than that I’m only wearing the pair of ridiculously short pajama shorts that I slept in last night. I don’t even have any panties on underneath. I make sure to keep my knees together tightly so I don’t flash him—although the idea of doing so gets me slightly aroused.
“Oh my, I must look like a mess!” I say. I’m sure my hair is totally out of control. I haven’t even looked in the mirror this morning.
Professor Cox chuckles.
“You look fine, Alexis. Very fine indeed. Like a natural young lady.”
My cheeks flush with heat and my nipples go stiff under my sweatshirt. Professor Cox runs his eyes over my whole body again, very slowly this time. I can almost feel his gaze like a touch of fingertips running along my smooth bare thighs and my calves.
His stare is so intense. It’s like he’s appraising me, the way that he does when he’s looking at a work of art that one of his students has made. It makes me feel really self conscious and maybe even a little nervous. But it’s a good kind of nervous.
“Well, normally in a situation like this, I would be forced to take some kind of disciplinary action.”
“You mean punish me?” I gasp.
“That’s right, Alexis. But I like you. You’re a good student. You’re attentive. You follow instructions to a T. And most important, you have a ton of raw talent. In fact, I can sense a great deal of potential in you.”
He puts a slightly mysterious emphasis on the word potential. I wonder what he could mean by that? Still, it makes me feel so good to be praised by a mature and experienced artist like him.
I always get a special thrill when Professor Cox praises my artwork in class too. In fact, I feel hopelessly hungry for his praise because of how sparing he is with it. Sometimes I think Professor Cox doesn’t like me. I mean, I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’m definitely one of the best students in the class. Nevertheless, the professor always seems to criticize my drawings the most, almost nitpicking every detail. But it certainly helps me improve, especially because I’m so helplessly desperate to please him. And whenever his rare praise finally does come, I get tingles and practically have to stifle a giggle.
He turns and crosses the studio to the door.
“I’d like to give you a second chance Alexis—a make-up exam, if you will.”
The deadbolt snaps into place. He has locked the door.
A smile spreads across my face and I hop up from my stool.
“Oh thank you Professor Cox!” I squeal with delight as he returns to the center of the room. “You don’t know how much this means to mean! Thank you so much for giving me a second chance. I promise that you won’t be disappointed.
“Oh, I’m sure that I won’t Alexis. I’m sure that I won’t.”
“So, what will you have me do? Do you want me to draw a still life?”
“No, not a still life, Alexis…”
“A self-portrait then?” I ask, gesturing to the large mirror on one side of the studio.
“No, not that either…”
I chew my lip and give him a quizzical look. What does he have in mind?
“Alexis, I have to test you on the same criteria as the other students in the class. It’s only fair. Now, the final exam was to do a nude study. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
“A nude study?” I ask. “But…the model has already gone, Professor Cox.”
“That’s OK Alexis,” he says, as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll be your model. You will draw me.”
I can feel my heartbeat pulse between my legs. Under my sweater, my nipples are now as erect as two little erasers.
“Y-you, Professor Cox?”
“That’s right,” he says nonchalantly, as he drapes his shirt over the back of a chair. He kicks off his loafers and starts unbuckling his belt.
I can’t believe this is really happening. Goodness knows how many times I’ve fantasized about my professor’s hot body, but I never once thought I would actually see it in real life. My mouth is starting to water. Actually, that’s not the only part of my body doing that.
His pants fall softly down his muscular thighs into a little pile at his ankles. They are immediately followed by his boxer shorts. Just like that, aside from his sexy glasses, my handsome art professor is standing in front of me totally in the buff. And let me tell you, he is a fucking stud.
Like I said, he’s old enough to be my daddy, but his body is healthy and athletic. And his cock is gorgeous—good enough to eat.
But Professor Cox is so casual about the whole thing. I guess that’s just his bohemian artistic spirit. I try to put myself at ease. But that’s hard to do, especially when he turns and walks to the platform in the middle of the room, giving me a good long look at his juicy butt in the process.
For such a big, masculine man, he’s incredibly graceful in his movements. He turns toward me again, his cock swinging like a pendulum. He sits down on the platform, and leans back, relaxing on his elbows, giving me a perfect view of his broad hairy chest and his rippling abs. His legs fall open casually, so his whole enchilada is front and center.
He smiles at me.
“Well, Alexis, what are you waiting for?”
“Right!” I exclaim, as I take a seat on the stool again and start fumbling through my art supplies for a pencil. “Hold that pose, please!”
I get straight to work, sketching the basic contours of his frame and checking that I have his proportions right. Then I start filling in the details. Although I’m still feeling pretty hot and bothered by the whole situation, I begin to get into a creative groove and relax a little bit.
Working my way down his body, I build up the shape of his broad square shoulders, the thick slabs of muscle on his chest, his lean torso with it’s taut skin and perfectly chiseled abs. I take my time rendering the deeply carved, tapered lines leading from his waist down to his groin, picking out some details there, like the subtle, wavering line of a vein leading down to his crotch.
Taking a deep breath, I try to maintain my objectivity as I begin to draw his massive member, which is hanging there between his legs. I focus intently on it. I shift my eyes back and forth between my model and the paper. Somehow I just can’t seem to get the position of it right. Every time I check, it seems to have moved slightly.
Suddenly I realize that it is moving. And it is beginning to grow…
And grow…
And grow.
Within a few seconds he goes from a respectable half-chub to a full-on erection sticking straight up over his belly. It bounces
ever so slightly with each tick of his heartbeat. It’s huge—and totally appetizing if I may say so.
I’m so stunned that all I can do is stare as I nibble nervously on the end of my drawing pencil. I think my hot professor is giving me a oral fixation.
Professor Cox notices that I’ve stopped drawing.
“Is everything OK, Alexis?”
“Y-yes, Professor. I was just checking your, um, proportions.”
Is he hard because of me? I mean, I am the only person here. But there must be some other explanation. Like, he could be thinking of someone else. Or maybe he’s just really relaxed? Is that a thing that happens to guys when they’re relaxed. I honestly wouldn’t even know. It’s possible the professor doesn’t even realize that he has a raging boner right now.
Yeah right. I mean, come on, it would be pretty hard to miss. It’s the elephant in the room—or at least the elephant’s trunk.
I look up at his eyes. He’s looking at me, but not at my face. His gaze is directed lower. That’s when I realize that I’ve been so caught up in my drawing that I haven’t really been paying attention to my own body posture. While I was careful to keep my knees tightly together at first, now my legs are spread wide as can be. My short little pajama shorts are barely covering my crotch. There’s just a tiny strip of fabric concealing my slit, and my smooth mound on either side is actually peeking out a bit. And that’s exactly where Professor Cox is looking.
Almost like a reflex, I snap my knees back together. Oh my god! I was practically showing my professor my little pussy. I shouldn’t be embarrassed considering that he’s sprawled out in front of me, naked as the day he was born. But that’s different. He’s my model. This is art.
I try to keep working on my drawing, but I can’t concentrate. The idea that my professor was getting aroused from looking at my coochie starts a whole domino effect of other ideas in my mind that I can’t resist. I start to get wet and that makes me flustered. I can’t take it anymore. I start to panic.
“Professor Cox,” I wheeze. “Can I take a break? Just for a few minutes? I just need to…stretch my legs a bit.”
21 Taboo Tales Page 6