Falling for My Dirty Uncle

“Damn, girl, you got it bad!” Delia stands up and grabs her sunglasses and heads for the door. “I’ll leave you alone for some Googling. Use your birthday present! I’ll lock the door,” she finishes with a whisper. “Coffee, tomorrow, and tell me how many times you came,” Delia says, waggling her eyebrows at me and shooting finger guns.

“Delia, Jesus girl,” I say, exasperated. But the truth is … I'm going to dig around on the Internet and find out whatever I can about my professor. His face is like permanently burned into my brain right now and I can’t think of anything else. “I’ll give you the full dossier, cross my heart,” I say, drawing an x over my heart.

Delia winks, and then slides her glasses down over her eyes and heads out the door. I hear the click of the lock, and I head for the nightstand drawer. I slide down my joggers and my panties. I tell myself, I won’t go overboard, because I did actually plan to go for a quick run around campus before classes start up again and I’m thinking about more readings and papers. But I can already tell by how my pussy is aching that I might wear myself out in a minute just looking at pictures of him on the Internet.

This is by far the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever done in my life — leave it to Delia — but I mean, masturbating while thinking about your professor, that’s harmless. It's just a fantasy. I mean, when I see him and he’s my teacher, I’m sure I’ll feel totally different.

Maybe he just photographs well. Because why would my mom just be friends with him, if he’s that good looking?

Okay, that’s the sort of weird thought that could really kill the vibe before I even twist my vibe to turn it on.

My curiosity leads me to read a professional biography, and he’s published about basically every author I have loved, ever. I gasp, kind of shocked, but that turns me on as much as looking at his face. He wrote about Mary Shelley, my favorite author, on several occasions. For a few seconds, I think I might read those papers with the online library access the university has, but my twitching clit urges me to look at more pictures.

It isn’t long before I find him on a Forbes list.

Whoa!

So, Dr. Wesley doesn’t need to teach at all. He’s been in school more years than I’ve been alive, and he’s loaded. He ran a publishing firm for many years, and he owns a media conglomerate. He teaches, according to the article with the pictures, because that’s his true passion.

The shots of him holding leather bounds, or the one where he’s got both of his palms flat on a desk—God, I can’t turn that vibrator on fast enough.

I’m even going to tell Delia the answer at coffee tomorrow.

Four.

That’s how many times I cum just looking at these pictures of him. I stop when I realize that my whole dorm room smells like sex and I probably want it to air out before my roommate gets back tomorrow. I read more about him, and my heart is racing. He’s what I might build if I actually wanted a boyfriend … but not now. I’d need 10 or 20 years to be even worth his attention.

I sigh.

But that’s what a fantasy is for, right? I mean, there’s no way that he can be anything more than a fantasy. A teacher crush that I get over when I’m done with my course load. Though, majoring in English, I'm actually going to be taking a lot of classes that I know now that only he teaches. I gulp. I never should've done this. I could have just enjoyed the class but I let Delia put naughty thoughts in my head!

I think about texting her, but I don’t want her to pump me for details. As hard as the first day of classes are, we’ll have something fun to talk about over coffee tomorrow morning.

Maybe it'll give me enough time to accept that I was just doomed from the instant I got on his schedule, because he’s everything I didn’t know I wanted in a man.

Ethan

I fuck a lot. I fuck so many hot women that I should never, ever have time to look at students. I'm a college professor and that means I see lots of hot young girls staring intently at the body they just know I’m hiding behind my clothes. But none of them have a shot.

None until Emmaline. Emmaline is the kind of pure soul that I should never want. In fact, I know the instant I see those chocolate curls and big hazel eyes, this is the younger, hotter version of a woman that I grew up with and never loved. My best friend through elementary to high school, Emmaline’s mother Joelle was never interested in me.

Kids nowadays and their dumb 'friendzone' bullshit have no fucking clue.

Sure, I was fucking obsessed with Joelle and thought I loved her. She was clever, beautiful, and always there. As a friend. It took me years to realize that we simply weren’t a good pairing.

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We didn’t share any of the same values, Joelle didn’t share or understand my passions. And she was swept up in our mutual friend Daniel. Daniel was not like me. He was the good boy, and I was the bad. Joelle was a good girl, and she belonged with him. I’m not even sore about it. It's been a little while, but I even still hang out with Joelle and Daniel.

Am I still that bad boy? Well, my act hasn’t entirely straightened up now, but I’ve always been good about not fucking students, or even wanting to fuck them.

And we’re talking some hard work and dedication on my part because there have been literally a classroom’s worth of blondes and a few kinky redheads that left thongs (the redheads all left me filthy notes with them) but I’ve never even considered fucking them. I fuck women my age, or maybe a tad younger, but not the girls who are basically half my age. I don’t fuck students. I don’t want to fuck students.

And I’ve come to understand that even though Joelle loves me, she loves me as a friend. So when I see Emmaline, I can’t just be hung up on her mother. There’s something more.

So how come the second I see her daughter, I can’t fucking stand the idea of not touching those brown curls? It was just a sexual attraction at first and I told myself I could overcome that, in that instant. But my old, obsessive ways do spring into motion. I know that I can’t get this girl out of my head. Not right now.

This is how she breaks my concentration—I’m out here scaring the class like I normally do, sorting wheat and chaff and letting people know that this is not the class they’re going to fuck around in. You don’t have to love my subject the way I do, but you do have to work the course hard enough to earn your grade. I don’t believe in the curve, or in rewarding mediocrity.