Sharing Her

I rub tight little circles around my clit, moaning and gasping as I imagine him picking me up and putting me on his lap. I can almost feel the way his huge, rough hands would slide down my body, groping my tits, grabbing my ass. He would rut up against my cunt with that big, meaty dick, both of us getting off on the friction. Just as I’m about to cum, I hear the clatter of footsteps approaching.

The team must be finished with practice. I can’t get caught like this!

I hop up and race into the locker room showers, jumping into a stall and quickly stripping off my uniform. I drape it up over the wall and turn on the water, my heart pounding as the girls trickle into the locker room, chatting and giggling among themselves.

Now totally naked in the steamy shower stall, I lean back against the wall and touch myself with no fabric in the way. I circle my clit again and again, reveling in the riskiness of what I’m doing. My teammates are just on the other side of that thin curtain, talking to each other and gossiping. I almost let a moan of pleasure slip out, and I clap my hand over my mouth while my other hand strokes my clit faster and harder. The danger of getting caught, of someone watching me touch myself doesn’t scare me like it should. I realize with surprise that it actually just turns me on even more. I rock my hips, sighing with bliss, now imagining the other target of my affections: Professor Will Byron.

He’s my English professor, the older man of my dreams. He’s tall and handsome, with kind brown eyes the color of warm cinnamon and a smile that could melt the panties off of any woman. He has salt-and-pepper hair, and he’s always wearing those sexy button-up white shirts with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off his strong forearms. I just know there’s a sexy body underneath those clothes. I imagine him finding me here in the shower. Joining me. Wrapping those big arms around me and kissing me while he fingers my tight little cunny…

“Ohh!” I moan, gushing cum all over my fingers. The girls talking on the other side of the curtain stop for a moment and I hastily add, “Stubbed my toe! Ow!”

This seems to be enough to fool them. They go back to chatting as though nothing happened, and I smile to myself, knowing the truth. Damn, it’s hot to think that I could have gotten caught at any moment.

I wait around long enough for all my teammates to shower off and get dressed, then head out for the afternoon. When the coast is clear, I towel off and put my uniform back on, a dangerously tempting idea planting itself in my mind. I am so sexually frustrated that I’ve resorted to touching myself in the girls’ locker room. It’s not enough for me anymore. I need something better. Something real. Someone real.

Normally, I would put on my street clothes after practice, but this afternoon I have another plan in mind. A plan that requires this cheerleading uniform. I walk up to the foggy mirrors and touch up my curly blonde pigtails, making sure my makeup isn’t smeared from my steamy shower session. Once I’m satisfied with my appearance, I grab my duffel bag and head out, grinning to myself about my plan. I know it’s a crazy idea, but I also know that college is the time to experiment. To mess around. Make questionable decisions. After all, I’m eighteen now. I’m definitely old enough to make my own choices, even if they may seem like crazy choices to someone else. I have to jump on this plan before I get the chance to talk myself out of it. I have momentum right now, and giving myself an orgasm hasn’t slaked my thirst in the least. In fact, now I’m thirsty for more. And I know exactly where to look for it.

I check my phone and bite my lip, nervously sliding the screen open to see if I have any new text messages. My heart skips a beat when I see that I have a message from my favorite Professor. Will Byron. The text

reads: I’m here in my office. Feel free to come by.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I murmur to myself giddily.

I text back: I’m cumming. See u soon.

I giggle, hoping that my innuendo sticks. It should. After all, Professor Byron is kind of the king of innuendo. He’s been teaching us a segment on erotic literature throughout the ages this semester, and he doesn’t back down from even the raunchiest historical texts. Hell, lately we’ve even been studying contemporary romance novels in class! I’ve never had such a cool, relaxed teacher before. And I have definitely never had a teacher that sexy.

Plus. he’s a total sweetheart. I first went to his office after class because I was feeling lonely and insecure about my academic abilities. I have always been the kind of girl to put my friends, cheer team, and social life before my grades. That’s not to say I’m dumb or whatever. I’ve always made at least a C in every class. But I can’t pretend like I’m some academic genius or anything. That stuff has just never mattered much to me. But Mapletown College has a strict reputation for high grades, churning out brilliant minds every year. So for me, as an average student who came to this prestigious, pricey private school on a cheerleading scholarship, it can be really intimidating. I don’t know anyone here, and even my own teammates have their own little clique, without me.

Professor Byron has been so helpful and comforting to me this semester, coaching me through some of the more difficult class material and convincing me that I am, in fact, smart enough to be here. He’s gentle and patient with me like no teacher has been before, treating me almost more like a friend than a student. At first, we only met up once a week after class to talk about course material and stuff. Then it was twice a week. Then almost every school day. We started talking about a range of topics: not just class stuff but life stuff. Movies, TV shows, traveling, food, politics. All kinds of things. He’s so damn smart, and it’s sexy as hell. And what’s more, he makes me feel smart, too. He has been a true godsend to me, and I think it’s high time that I offer him something special in return.

I walk up to his office, which is a small separate building. He’s so well-liked and connected here that his office is fancy and private, especially compared to some of the rest. Which makes my plan even easier to carry out. I knock on his door, taking a deep breath.

“Come in,” he calls out in that deep, sexy voice.

Here goes nothing. I open the door and walk in, flouncing just a little. He does a double take at the sight of me in my uniform, and I can tell he’s into it. Of course, he does a good job of covering it up. He gives me a smile and says, “Wow. I’ve never seen your uniform. I mean, I knew you were on the squad, but it was hard to imagine.”

“So, you’ve tried imagining it, then?” I ask coyly, taking a seat across from him with his desk between us. A flicker of embarrassment crosses his face, but he laughs gently.

“No, no. Of course not. I just meant that whenever you’re here, you’re so smart and articulate, it’s hard to remember that you’re also a cheerleader,” he says quickly.

“Cheerleaders can’t also be smart?” I ask, tilting my head to one side. I bat my eyelashes and bite my lip, toying with him. He rakes his fingers back through that sexy graying hair, scoffing and smiling. Buying time. Stalling. I know I’m making him uncomfortable, and I love it.

“That’s not what I meant,” says the professor. “You know I value you as a student.”

“I know. But um, how much?” I inquire innocently. He blinks in confusion.

“How much?” he repeats, frowning.

I stand up and walk over to stand in front of him, looking down into that handsome face while I twirl one of my long pigtails around my finger. “How much do you value me? Oh, as a student, of course,” I add with a giggle.

He looks utterly stunned, frozen and afraid to move. “Well, if you really want to know, you’ve become a favorite student of mine, I’ll admit. Don’t tell your classmates, obviously.”

I grin, pleased with his answer. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” I whisper, leaning forward and putting my knee on his thigh. He looks totally flabbergasted.

“Miss Peters,” Professor says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You never call me Miss Peters. It’s Annabel,” I laugh. “But if you want me to keep calling you professor, I’m fine with that. In fact, I think it’s kind of hot.”