Professor assaulted - Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6

[lowblow emma]

I’m on my knees in the college corridor doubled over, rocking slowly, moaning and praying that I wouldn’t vomit. I’d been heading to my office when a hand crashed into my crotch, lifting me onto my toes. It arrived fast and low from behind, pushed between my lips, lingered around my clit and withdrew slowly by way of the cleft of my ass. My knees went weak, my body shook and I dropped to the floor with vomit burning the back of my throat.

For a professor of creative writing, my few remarks are banal in the extreme.

‘Oh my fuck.’ ‘Bastard.’ ‘I’ll castrate him for this.’ ‘Humiliation beyond belief.’ There was, as you may guess, no doubt in my mind about who had taken this liberty with my genitalia.

I probably say other things, but I can’t remember what they were and, whatever they may have been, they were almost certainly equally embarrassing.

The problem, you see, is that there is no recognised genre on which I can draw here. There’s a body of quality literature dealing with love, hate, sex, bereavement, almost anything, but not to convey what’s just happened to me.

There’s a lot of speculation around me about that was. No one actually saw it, so that allows everyone to have an opinion.

The girls naturally have a lot to say.

‘Nobody knows.’ ‘She was just found like this.’ ‘Is she feeling sick?’ ‘Could she be pregnant?’ ‘Somebody said she was hit in the cunt.’

That gets the guys interested.

‘It doesn’t hurt girls to get hit there’ was their general opinion. Which leads to a heated discussion with the girls, most of whom think the guys don’t know the fuck what they’re talking about. They’re right; they don’t.

No one bothers to ask me how I am. Thanks.

Eventually, they drift away and I feel a strong arm around my shoulder. It helps me to my feet and supports me along to the medical room. There the nurse, for she it is who has come to my aid, lays me on the floor and instructs me in deep breathing while she lifts my legs and presses my knees against my chest. The pain begins to ease and the nausea subsides. She helps me onto the examination couch and deftly removes my slacks and underwear. The latter catch her attention.

‘Very fancy, Paula. Not what I’d expect a professor to be wearing, not at all. Where did you get them?’

This doesn’t seem a relevant medical question, but right now isn’t the moment to discuss the precise scope of her duties under the terms of her contract of employment.

‘Internet’ I gasp, doubling up as another spasm of pain hits me. ‘Figleaves.com.’

Her clinical examination is professionally conducted, thorough and painless. She is reassuring.

‘No harm done there. You’ll still be able to have children, if you want them. And your sexual function will be back to normal fairly quickly, although you may find intercourse a little sore over the next day or two. Use lots of lube.’

Very practical, if unrealistic because I’ve not had sex for over a year. She is thoughtful for a moment and I expect her to ask about my one and only tattoo. Instead, her next comment is more concerning.

‘You know that you’re aroused, don’t you?’

Well, no, as it happens, I hadn’t noticed. She briefly inserts a plump finger into my vagina and raises it for me to inspect. It glistens with my juices and I catch the pungent odour of my own cunt.

‘I wonder if you were aroused at the time and that is why the pain was so bad. A lucky blow on the clitoris when engorged can be excruciating. Yes, that’s probably it. Or have you become aroused since? Why might that be? It’s certainly not because you’re attracted to me.’

That last is true. She was chosen because of her mature age, homely comforting manner, practical common sense and – a vitally important factor in a college – so that neither sex would be attracted to her. Some attractive youngest in a tight fitting uniform is not what is required.

‘You need a rest,’ she tells me. ‘Stay here for a while and tell me what happened.’

And so with no more classes that day I lie back and, covered by a blanket and fortified by a cup of coffee, tell her my story.

 

[lowblow emma]

I moved across State when my relationship broke up. That was over a year ago now. New town, new job, fresh start. This wouldn’t have been my first choice of college. It is run by a disciplinarian who probably sleeps with a cane between her legs. She even has a strict dress code for the staff. Can you believe it? For the female professors, a white blouse with black slacks or a blue skirt. This sort of unnecessary micro-management really gets on my tits. Sorry if I’m not expressing myself very creatively here, but you get my drift. I need to express my individuality, so I comply with the letter, but not the spirit of the rules. My slacks are black, but they fit as tight as a second skin. Unfortunately, I was wearing those today.

I’d have been better protected in my skirt. Regulation blue and the correct length. Except that it is so taut across my thighs that it shows the outline of my holdups and so tight across my ass that it shows every twitch of my buttocks. And somehow it always rides up when I sit down. The blouse was bought in the same store as the principal’s – I made a point of enquiring – but I leave a couple of buttons unfastened. It’s not my fault that I have to bend over a lot when I am in class.

Even our dearly beloved principal didn’t have the balls to prescribe our underwear. So I am able to express myself with a wide range of skimpy thongs or strings, and low cut bras.

Except when I have a meeting with the principal. Then I don’t wear any underwear at all. It gives me particular pleasure to speculate about what she would say if she knew I was naked under her uniform as I sit primly hanging on her every word. And if she ever saw that tattoo, she would probably swoon.

I’ve never had any problems controlling students before. I’m still young, just into my 30s. So it is easier for them to relate to me than to the fusty, frosty principal who must be 40 if she is a day. I’ve always followed the advice I was given when I started. ‘The students are legally and physically mature, but mentally they’ve a way to go. Treat them like that and you can’t go wrong.’ Well I did treat them like that and I didn’t go wrong – until this term.

That was when Dylan joined my class. Why he chose creative writing I can’t imagine. He plays football for a start, which is seldom found associated with either writing or creativity. It is no surprise that he can barely write, let alone be creative. No, that’s not fair. He’s got a natural flair, but it needs directing and it needs to be expressed with some proper regard for the basics of grammar and punctuation. And mastering those requires commitment and application. I’m not meticulous, but I have my standards and he’s having some difficulty meeting them.

And there’s another thing. Slightly embarrassing to talk about actually. The nurse pays particular attention here. I don’t mind being looked at. That’s quite natural, because I am very attractive. There is always at least one girl in my class with a crush on me, sometimes more. And guys at that age will look at anyone who doesn’t have a set of balls hanging between their thighs. But this is different. I’ve never had anyone who looked at me like he does. His gaze is so intense that I can feel one of his hands unfastening my bra and fondling my breasts, while the other pulls down my panties and circles my clit before stroking my lips. No one has ever looked at me like that before. Not even my last boyfriend. It’s not right that he should behave like that. It is disrespectful and distracting. Perhaps now you understand what a handful he is to teach.

This morning I asked him to stay behind after class. I needed to explain to him how to make his writing more subtle and effective. ‘Don’t tell the readers,’ I explained, ‘show them. Let them see for themselves what the characters are like and what is happening to them.’ He stood pretending to listen but really undressing me down to my thong and bra. I decided to check that he had understood. ‘Dylan, can you give me an example of what I am talking about, please?’

He thought for a moment, his eyes not moving off my breasts as they rose and fell in exasperation. Then he looked me right in the eye and said ‘Yes, Ms Grey, it’s like the way you prick tease me all the time instead of just telling me you want to suck my cock.’

Excuse me? Did he just say that I wanted to suck his dick? That confirms it. I knew it as soon as he joined my class. His eyes followed me all the time. Undressing me. Fantasising about how I might behave if it were just the two of us together, like now. Imagining that I’m like one of those oversexed exhibitionist cheerleaders who drop their panties for any guy with muscle and a half decent size package.

I was shocked. Such a thought had never crossed my mind, although its outline was always prominent under his jeans for anyone to see who cared to look. I had never even so much as imagined it pressing against my back as he fondled me, let alone sucking it.

I stood up, walked round to face him and, with my nipples almost touching his chest, I said ‘No, this is what I mean.’ And with that I buried my knee right between his balls and ground it hard against his bone. I stepped back and watched him slide to his knees with his eyes popping. I stood over him for a while, reflecting that there was indeed sometimes a place for discipline. Then I headed over to my office for a coffee.

 

[lowblow emma]

The next morning, I went to my classroom earlier to get the materials set out for the day. I heard a sound and turned, to find Dylan approaching between the tables. He came right up to me, pressing his body against me, thrusting his groin in my belly. He clearly has no idea of how to treat a mature woman. Nor of my particular tastes. But now is not the time to explain this to him. Like I told him earlier in class, he has to be shown, not told.

Right now, my concern, my only concern, is to get out of here. And that means talking my way out, well at least to begin with.

‘Dylan’ I begin in my best professorial manner, ‘you have to understand that I am not one of your young admirers. I am a mature woman and we do not respond to such crude invitations. Because that is what this is, isn’t it? You pretend that I want to suck your cock, when what you are really saying is that that is what you want me to do. I’m right aren’t I?’

The look on his face confirms that I am.

‘And there’s something else you have to understand, Dylan.’ I let my eyes drift down his chest to his waist and beyond to the growing bulge that is fighting inside his jeans. ‘For a mature woman, size is not everything. We have more subtle needs.’

That bulge is growing as I watch.

‘I do, though, have a responsibility to you as one of my students. Have you seen the nurse to check that you are OK?’

I know of course that he hasn’t, because I’ve been with her.

He shakes his head and my hand reaches across the inches between us and cradles his balls. They’re not like a boy’s balls, those tiny little eggs that they are so proud of as they grow up. Not like a man’s either, swing and bumping against my ass as we fuck harder and harder towards climax. More like a bull’s.

He purrs as I touch them and then groans as I squeeze.

‘Oh dear, Dylan, you seem to be in pain. The first thing we need to do is release some of the pressure on them.’

I unfasten his jeans and slowly ease them down, pulling his boxers with them. He moans again as his balls swing free of their support setting off a spasm of pain.

‘Yes’ I say sympathetically, ‘I was right, you are still in pain. I had better check that everything is in working order.’

I check out his balls one by one, pressing harder with my fingers as his groans increase, seeking out the spots that cause the maximum pain. Finally, I have a ball in each hand and knead them as if I am milking him. His cock is now waving high over me.

‘Now remind me, Dylan, what was it you wanted me to do? Ah yes, that was it, you wanted me to suck your dick.’

I can’t see his face, but imagine his eyes light with pleasure and triumph.

With my hands still on his balls, I flick my tongue across the tip and wipe away the drips of his cum that have oozed out. I smile to myself at the memory of how easy it is to get a guy just where I want him. It’s been a long time now.

I ease his cock into my mouth, stretching my lips wide to accommodate his swollen head. And when it is filling my mouth, my hands clamp like vices on his balls and I sink my teeth into his cock must below the head. My hands grip harder and harder, pulling his balls out of his body, and my teeth sink deeper and deeper in this flesh, until at last his legs buckle and he sinks to the floor.

As his screams of agony echo around the classroom, I run out the door and straight to the principal’s office. There is no time to lose. This guy has assaulted me and now he’s trying to blackmail me. As I compose myself and walk in to see her, I taste his blood on my lips.

That woman is as much use as Viagra to a eunuch. The least I was entitled to expect was some sympathy for a colleague and fellow woman who had been humiliated by a student and left grovelling on the floor in a corridor for other students to see. But no. She gives me a lecture about maintaining boundaries and discipline. Can you believe it?

‘Remember, Ms Grey, you must have a zero tolerance policy on discipline – at all times, Ms Grey, remember.’

I fantasise for a moment about how she would respond if I started making out to her, gobbling her up in a big wet kiss.

The moment passes, but it leaves me with a sudden understanding. She has made one thing abundantly clear. It is my responsibility to deal with this matter. So be it. Let her live with the consequences. Whatever I have to do, from now on it will be done on her authority. I relish the opportunities this offers me.

 

[lowblow emma]

I had left my classroom in such a rush that I had forgotten my purse. That’s what panic does for you. I know he’ll still be there, nursing his wounds. Even a super fit football hero, which apparently he is, can’t take the treatment I gave him and just walk away. I need to be careful.

I spot him right away. There aren’t many places to hide in a classroom and the desk is the obvious place. I see him slumped there, his jeans and shorts still round his ankle. I give a small sigh, at least he won’t be able to grab me and rape me.

I take in the size of his cock, flopping against his leg with a trickle of blood around the head and smile at the knowledge of how he must be worried about any damage to his precious equipment.

And that is when he catches me by surprise. That book hits my cunt like a sledge hammer. It pushes my legs apart, bruising my thighs, before crushing my lips and sending a shock wave up my cunt and into my womb.

The pain feels as if it is cutting me in half. I know I have to get away before the full impact sets in. I summon all my strength and do the only thing a woman can do in this sort of situation. I deliver him the hardest kick I can right into his crotch.

Not caring what I hit. Cock, balls, the lot. Do the maximum damage as quickly as possible and cause the maximum pain and then run like hell.

Adrenalin carries me out of the room and along the corridor. By the time I hit the car park, my legs are going. I grab a lamp post for some support and slide with as much dignity as I can to my knees where I throw up. I stay there slumped against the post for a while and feel the relief of the pain subside only to be replaced by a throbbing ache. I haul myself to my feet and wobble to my car, where I throw up a second time. This relieves the dull ache, leaving me with a horrible stinging of my crotch. Somehow I manage to drive home.

Some soothing cream and painkillers help me to fall asleep. I wake early and slowly sooth in more cream as I plot my revenge.

Today is the day of the football game. And nothing is going to stop Dylan turning out for his team. He’s a star player and especially popular with the cheerleaders, although the stories about his satisfying all of them and then going out to win a match are just that, stories, told by oversexed exhibitionists whose only assets are all too evident. But remembering this gossip gives me an idea.

That afternoon I head to the dressing room of our opponents. I knock and walk in. The guys are so sweet, covering their modesty as if I am interested in checking out their tackle. None of them needs to use both hands.

A couple of quick questions and I have identified the man I want. We go into a corner together, where he forgets all about his modesty as I whisper in his ear. Before I leave, I open my purse and pass him a small mark of my appreciation for his skill as a player.

 

[lowblow emma]

I settle myself in the crowd for the football match and watch developments. After about a quarter of an hour, Dylan has the ball and is weaving through the other team as if they aren’t there. All eyes are on him. Except mine. Mine are watching one of the other team who is blocking his path. Coincidentally, he happens to be the guy I chatted to in the dressing room. Suddenly, this player kicks out hard. His foot accelerates off the ground like a missile leaving a silo. It catches Dylan right in his jewels. The power of the kick lifts him off his feet while his momentum continues to carry him forward. Before he lands on his face, he drops one ball and his scream that echoes around the field suggests that he may have dropped more than one.

The crowd is silent, except for one cheerleader who jumps in the air with excitement or delight. She is either dumb or not a current admirer of the star player. Maybe she’s one he didn’t have time to satisfy before the match.

Dylan requires medical assistance, but gamely carries on. He is noticeably slower than he was, though, and not nearly so nibble. After another ten minutes into the match and he suffers a double misfortune. He loses his footing, lands on his ass and slides across the field only to find that one of the opponents, by another terrible coincidence the one who kicked him earlier, is sliding towards him. It is too late to stop, his momentum again carries him forward, right onto the oncoming boot. The crowd is so silent I could swear I hear his jewels rattle as they receive a full set of studs.

This time his cry is a mixture of pain, anguish and disbelief. He curls up and his body shakes. He can no longer carry on and is helped off the field to sympathetic applause. What a disaster, for the college, the team, and especially personally for Dylan.

I stay for the rest of the match but am too distracted to follow the play. My mind is full of thoughts of what is happening in the dressing room. How severe is the pain? Is the pressure of his clothing intensifying the pain? Or will the pain increase when his clothing is eased off? I imagine him wincing in agony as his balls drop free and swing between his muscular thighs. Will the examination of his testicles be exquisitely painful? Are they swelling? Do the bruises show yet? And how will he be feeling apart from the pain? Is he concerned for his sexual prowess? Did his cock get in the way and get kicked as well? Will he be thinking of cancelling his date tonight? He’s bound to have one – at least one. And will he have thought of the photographs that were taken and will soon go viral? Is he yet aware of how much humiliation he will suffer over the months and years ahead?

I don’t notice the final score.

 

[lowblow emma]

It was a hot sticky night. One of those when it is impossible to get to sleep. I tossed and turned, threw off my sheet and eventually got up and opened the window. The slight breeze was enough to cool my body and let me fall asleep.

It was the early hours of the morning when I woke. The bedroom was flooded with moonlight and there beside my bed was the unmistakeable shape of a man – a naked man. I let my eyes adjust before speaking.

‘Hello, Dylan.’

He didn’t reply. Just stood looking down at my naked body. I looked back at his.

‘When I’m alone and naked with a man we either fuck or play. Which is it to be?’

I lifted his cock and let it fall soft and heavy against his balls. He winced but didn’t go stiff.

‘Looks like you’re not up to fucking, Dylan. So that means we’ll have to play.’

I took him by the cock and led him out of my bedroom and along to another room. I pushed him in and locked the door.

‘Make yourself comfortable while I get some clothes on’ I called over my shoulder as I went back to my bedroom. Now what should I wear?

By the time I unlocked the door, Dylan had found the light switch and was staring around him. At the bench, the ropes, the chains, and all the other paraphernalia of torture. My private dungeon.

He turned and stared even harder when he saw me. I’d gone for the simple effect. Black leather – boots, thong, corset, with black holdups and of riding crop, in matching black.

I locked the door and slipped the key into the top of my stocking.

‘I’d better explain’ I said in my best classroom voice as if I were putting some important point in the simplest possible terms.

‘I’ve not had sex for over a year. Not since my last boyfriend and I split. It’s not that I don’t get the chance. All the guys and half the girls in my classes have the hots for me. Last semester one guy actually came during a class. He was in the front row and I watched the damp patch grow under his desk. My problem is that it takes a special guy to satisfy me, otherwise I can’t cum. And having sex without cumming is worse than having no sex at all, at least that’s how it is for me.’

I let him take that in and walked around a bit to give him a chance to watch my body in motion, tits bouncing, ass bobbing, thighs flexing.

‘You’re wondering what it takes to satisfy me. Well, I need a guy who is strong enough to take me. That’s the only way I can cum. But most guys aren’t up to it and God knows I’ve tried enough of them. That’s what this room is all about.’

I waved my riding crop around at the equipment and let him work out what some of it might be for.

‘I need a guy who is young and fit. There are lots of those. The college is full of them. He needs to be nicely hung too. There aren’t so many of those about. Guys brag but when you get down to it they’re mostly within an inch of each other and several inches short of what I need.’

I looked long and hard at his cock. Still soft but longer than most guys I’d known hard. Thick too.

‘I think you might measure up. But that’s not all. I need a guy who is strong enough to take me. I don’t mean take me while I lie back and spread my legs for his convenience like one of your cheerleaders. I mean a guy who can take me when I am fighting back. And when I fight, I fight hard and dirty.’

With that I smacked the riding crop on my boot. I felt the sting through the leather and sighed at the thought of how that would feel on my bare flesh.

‘The best guys I’ve found in the college have tried and failed. Remember Mike who dropped out of my class recently? And the football coach who was off for two weeks with exhaustion? He was the best so far, I had high hopes for him, but he failed like all the rest.’

I watched his face as this sank in.

‘Let me put it this way, Dylan. There are only two ways you’ll leave this room. Either you overpower me and get the key or I dump you outside with the trash. Of course, if you manage to overpower me, you may not want the key.’

With that I hit him hard across the chest, the leather tip of the crop leaving a red scar across a nipple. And again across the other nipple before he could bring an arm up to protect himself. And then with his arms protecting his chest, I laid the crop across his cock. His hands fell instinctively and I stepped to the side and laid another deep scar across his tight buttocks. He flinched and spun towards me, allowing me to bring my knee up into his balls. As he sank to his knees, I dropped the crop and dragged him across the floor. He looked up at the click of the handcuff closing on his wrist as I fastened him to a bar fitted into the wall.

‘You’re not even trying, Dylan.’ My tone was exasperated. ‘I expected better from you. Maybe you’ll respond to a little discipline.’

I went to table and selected some shackles with a bar between them. He tried to resist but another sharp smack to his testicles distracted him while I fixed the shackles around his ankles. The bar spread his legs nicely apart. I stood back to admire my handiwork. Then I moved in. Feet, knees, hands and crop. Blows from all directions. He squirmed around and managed to avoid some, but most landed on his balls, his back or his buttocks. His body twisted and jumped with each blow and he was soon covered in a sheen of sweat that outlined his muscles. Every so often he let out a long low moan like an animal in pain.

I paused to catch my breath.

‘This is pathetic. It’s just too easy. You really must try harder if you want to avoid going out with the garbage. Let me make it easier for you.’

I released the shackles, unlocked the handcuff and, as he staggered to his feet, delivered a powerful kick from behind that crushed his balls into his pelvic bone and threw him face down across the floor. He lay there curled up and shivering.

‘Maybe you need an incentive, Dylan. Would that help? Now what could it be? I know.’

I selected one of the dildos from a rack on the wall – the largest – bend over him and waved it in his face.

‘One of us is going to be fucked tonight and if it isn’t me, it’s going to be you.’

Still he didn’t stir, so I pushed him onto his back with my foot and stood astride him looking down with contempt.

‘Come on. I’m making it easy for you. Giving you a free shot. If you’ve got the strength to take it. Show me what you’ve got, Dylan. Show me whether you’re a man or still a boy.’