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Vixen
QUELL T. FOX
ChapterOne
There is a point in every girl’s life when they crush on a teacher. Sit in class and think of all the dirty things they want to do to them. Of course, the level of “dirty” depends on the age when said crush strikes. In middle school, thinking of kissing him would be enough. Maybe even holding their hand. High school, it would probably be a quickie on top of his desk or in the janitor’s closet down the hall.
But for me? I’m lucky.
The one and only time I find myself in the predicament of crushing on someone I’ll never have—who also happens to be my teacher—is in college. My third year of college, more specifically. A point in my life where I am well-versed in sex and all the good stuff that goes along with it. So, as I sit in class, I’m not thinking about my lips on his or riding his dick while he sits in his leather high-back chair behind the cheap desk the college paid for. Nope.
I’m imagining the good stuff. The truly dirty things.
His face in my pussy. Choking on his cock. Pegging him, maybe?
Yeah, Professor Andrews would totally let me strap on a nine-incher and fuck him into a frenzy. There is something about him that makes me think he’s submissive in the bedroom. Something I can’t pinpoint. Maybe it’s just intuition. If my intuition is good for anything, it’s men.
Too bad Calam Andrews is married.
Oh, and my teacher of course. Not that it would stop me, but he seems to be the kind with morals and shit.
Though, I’d drop this class in a heartbeat for a night with him. The only reason I took this class was for the credits. I needed three more for this semester and his fit perfectly into my schedule.
It’s almost like it was meant to be or something.
Does anyone really have any interest in philosophy?
Obviously the answer to that is yes or this class wouldn’t be full and we wouldn’t have someone teaching it, but I’m not seeing the appeal. Half of what is said goes in one ear and out the other. Yet, half of that is because I become so focused on the deep timbre of Calam Andrew’s voice that all the words become sexualized sounds and nothing makes sense. But for some crazy reason, I’m floating through this class with a B average.
Not a damn clue how, but I’ll take it. I try not to think it’s because I come into class with skintight leggings that show off my round ass. Getting the idea that he wants me back is too dangerous to mess around with.
The alert sounds, letting us know class is over and it’s time to go.
“Remember, everyone! Your essays are due on Wednesday. Are morals relative to culture or society? Please make sure to follow the topic. I don’t want anything else placed on my desk.”
Half of the class is already squeezing through the door and I’m still shoving my notebook into my backpack, taking my time like I normally do, hoping to catch a personalized goodbye from the hottest professor at Kindley College. Hearing my name on his tongue is good material for getting off on. Not that I’ll do that now or anything. As much as I would love to finger myself while he watches, I know it’s not going to happen. It’ll just have to wait till I get home. And it’ll have to be quick because I work tonight. First night in my new position. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks, and there is no way I’ll allow myself to be late, even if that reason is making myself come over thoughts of my teacher coming all over my pussy while I bring myself to orgasm.
Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I walk down the steps all the way to the left so I have to pass his desk on my way to the door.
“Good night, Professor Andrews,” I say flirtatiously as I pass by.
He looks up from the papers on his desk. Those bright green eyes glancing over his thick black framed glasses. He smirks and my knees just about give out.
“Good night, Miss Park.”
I smile, chewing on the corner of my lip and keep eye contact for as long as I can. He holds my gaze, and it takes everything in me to keep walking and not beg him to fuck me up against the dry erase board.
As I leave his office, the temperature drops at least five degrees and I feel like I can breathe. My heart is still hammering in my chest, though.
Gods, I don’t know how I get through that class without soaking my pants through.
It doesn’t take long to get to my dorm room. From this building it’s less than a five-minute walk. Another reason I didn’t mind adding the class to my schedule. It gives me just enough to get home and do what I need to do before getting to work for nine. The club doesn’t open until ten, but there is plenty to do beforehand, especially on a Friday night.
The Horsemenisn’t the type of club that hires just about anyone. I’ve been there for two years already, stripping my ass off just to get the position I start in tonight. I’ve done enough training over the last two months to know I’m going to knock it out of the park. Handling a private room, where the clients get anything they ask for is going to be a piece of cake. At least there’s potential to get something out of it instead of edging myself while sliding up and down a slippery pole that every bottom-of-the-barrel stripper has had her hands on.
Stripping is the test. You don’t make it through that, you’re not going any further in the club, and that’s just how it is.
I was lucky enough to be born with a shapely figure that men and women alike want to lick clean.
