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Dr. Milne had long black hair that she piled up on top of her head. I’d sit in lectures watching her speak, dreaming of seeing her let it loose and shake it down her shoulders. And you know, her clothes were as severe as her manner. She wore pencil skirts that split at the back and button-down shirts that clung to her breasts. I’d stare at those breasts, imagining what they looked like underneath, and that’s how I got to notice the way they’d change shape—sometimes pointier, sometimes plumper—depending on her choice of bra. Personally, I liked them when they looked especially plump, so plump in fact that they’d pop open the top button of her shirt, and I’d see that goddamn gorgeous cleavage, cut off by the finest hint of lace. I’d get hard when that happened—really fucking hard—because I wanted to bury my face in them, to shoot my load all over them. I wanted to do her. I wanted to do Dr. Milne.
Getting close to Dr. Milne wasn’t possible. She’d leave each lecture icily, her heels letting off a staccato beat as she strode from the room. But I thought of her all the time. Even when I fucked Debbie. Poor Deb. I still feel bad about cheating on her, even today, but then I remember that week before Christmas, when I’d just turned nineteen, and I forget about anything else and I’m hard for days. Seriously, just the memory of Dr. Milne’s scent, and suddenly I’m jerking off in the toilets at work or spending weekends in bed fucking my covers, not even able to leave the house to cruise for a fresher lay.
This is how it happened: I needed a letter for my final-year dissertation—a letter that would get me into the rare books room at Cambridge where they kept the unpublished drafts of the Victorian poet I was studying. I’d left my dissertation far too late and I needed the documents before January 1st. Once I’d got them, I’d head to Cambridge by train. Of course, getting them would be the biggest hurdle, seeing as Dr. Milne wouldn’t know who I was. But when I called the college switchboard, a woman who sounded like she’d been smoking too much put me straight through to Milne.
“Come tonight,” the good doctor told me in her haughty tone. “Any time after nine. I’ll give it to you then.”
Dr. Milne’s office, it turned out, was an intimate little room, which could, if she’d wanted, be made quite cozy. The rest of the college, dark though it was, sported Christmas decorations, but Milne’s office was plainer than plain. I found Dr. Milne sitting at a silver laptop, every surface around her clear—filing cabinet, oak desk, and table near the window were all polished and clutterless. I even detected the smell of furniture polish as I approached her desk.
Milne rose swiftly to greet me, pulling her reading glasses from her face. She was high on stiletto heels, but rather than a button-down shirt, she sported a bottle-green dress that plunged at the cleavage and clung to her curves like it was thirsty for her. What’s more, the whole room smelled of her perfume—a heady scent that got me stirring. “You must be Luke,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Gaze on mine, she walked round the desk, her hips rocking as she drew in close. She parted her lipsticked lips—red as poison—and towered above me, giving the edge of an icy smile. “Pretty boy,” she told me, running a fingertip down the side of my jaw. “So you love the art of the poem.”
I managed a breathy “Yes.”
She let her stare run over my body, and bathed me with her classy perfume. Glancing down, I got a face full of those perfect tits, which were full and round in that bottle-green dress, with a hint of hard nipple beneath the fabric. Her cleavage was perfectly tan, and I wanted to lick her, bite her, have her force me onto the desk.
[bctt tweet=”She laughed lightly before grabbing my belt so hard that I jolted. Suddenly, her features were fierce…”]
My hard-on must have been obvious.
She leaned her lips against my ear, so I could practically feel them move. “You like to research your poets,” she said, her voice smooth. “But let me give you a tip.”
My throat was dry, my mouth wet, but I managed to say, “Please.”
“Poetry’s about being fucked with words. It’s just rhythms and sounds that take us over.”
“No wonder I like it so much,” I managed. I was so hard I could feel my cock pressing right up against the belt of my jeans. Was she going to fuck me?
She laughed lightly before grabbing my belt so hard that I jolted. Suddenly, her features were fierce, her dark eyes brighter than light on steel. “Do you want me?” she asked, bearing her teeth just a little. “Do you want a little poetry from teacher?” Looking down into my eyes with total contempt, I swear she was the hottest woman this world has ever seen.
“Of course I do,” I said. “But why would you want a little shit like me?”
Letting me go, she turned away, saying, “Never underestimate the power of distraction.” Walking towards the desk, she waved a dismissive hand and said, “Take off your clothes and sit in my chair.”
Dr. Milne had a leather-look chair with arms that snapped back. It was almost as if she’d bought the chair so she could fuck a lover with one leg on either side of their lap. Once I was naked where she wanted me, she told me our safe word was Iambic—then, with my cock standing tall against my belly, she came so close that her stockinged knee touched mine. From there, she watched me coldly for what felt like minutes, so I didn’t know where to put my gaze. When at last she leaned forward, she released more of the perfume she wore and released her hair, letting it drop long around her shoulders. What a fucking picture she was! Then she took hold of each side of the wraparound dress and pulled it open, revealing those gorgeous breasts—so round, so tight, so sunkissed—hidden by the cups of a sheer lace bra.
[bctt tweet=”‘You’re the audience, little boy. And you don’t interrupt a poem.'”]
The woman’s tits were so perfect. I know I mewed like a kitten just to see them bounce up in front of me. My cock reared of its own accord, so hard, so hot that if I so much as touched it, I knew I’d explode.
“This is what poetry’s about,” she said, leaning over me, and I felt a wave of her breath, the only sign that this woman was as horny as I was. “Don’t you dare touch anything,” she added. “Not until I tell you. You’re the audience, little boy. And you don’t interrupt a poem.” She undid the wraparound dress and let it fall open completely, so it slid down her broad, tanned shoulders, revealing a curvy belly and a pair of sheer lace briefs, not to mention flesh-colored stockings that clung to her thighs.
When I looked back up, Dr. Milne was rubbing her breasts, massaging them through the sheer lace cups and making breathy noises as she watched my face. Her dark nipples were clear beneath the fabric, hard and perfect. Don’t come, I told my tortured cock, fearing it would ruin this lucky bit of heaven. For God’s sake, don’t.
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