Mrs. Simmons

She unlocks her phone. It's already in video mode. She taps it and slides it right under my nose.

It seems to be a security footage and appears to be a recording taken somewhere on campus. That place looks oddly familiar. I can make out three shapes. It takes a while until the recording becomes focused and zooms in. Then I see it. It's me. But the way my eyes appear out-of-focus, a foolish grin on my lips and overall uncommonly uninhibited, it doesn't take long to register, where and when this recording has been made. Without knowing, I was stupidly gazing right into the hidden security camera, while I leisurely inhaled on a joint.

I experience a sensation, like what it must feel, when hit by a bullet.

Before I have time to consider the massive implications, I feel her inquisitive fingers roaming through my hair, without any restraint whatsoever, as if it is the most natural thing for her to do, and we're intimately acquainted. But we're not. She's a professor for crying out loud. Patronizing, yes, extremely confident and snippy, yes, but still a person of respect. Yet for some unknown motive this mature woman seems to enjoy playing with my senses and inability to push back on her impertinent behavior.

Once more, that woman impudently breaches protocol and my comfort zone, and lewdly fondles my scalp. Yet, the way her fingers roam my hair, invigorates parts of my body, I don't want to invigorate. Contrary to my earlier resolve, I don't yell at her to stop that nonsense, or physically push her back. No, I simply endure her inappropriate massaging, knowing full well, there is nothing I can do to stop her. I must use everything at my disposal to prevent a catastrophe. Lord, why is this happening to me?

Within seconds, there is that much heat culminating in my agitated face, you could roast beef.

"Judging by the rosy color of your face, you've recognized the dope, who has gravely contravened against college regulations."

Her words make me realize how she has gotten hold of that footage. Mrs. Simmons has been part of the newly established task force to set up a surveillance system. When I visualize the outraged in Mother's face — smoking drugs is rather frowned upon where I come from -- and her tuition fees going down the drain and how my exposure could go viral, I'm fighting tears of anger and desperation. I'm not able to come up with a single excuse. There simply is none. My whole world has just crashed. They're going to expel me, and probably press charges as well. I'm in so much trouble.

"Well, I guess your career in this college has come to a premature end."

"No! Please, Mrs. Simmons..."

"Your life as it was, is over. Don't you agree?"

I have nothing meaningful to say to defend my actions, so I decide to remain silent.

Mrs. Simmons possessively roams through my hair. The way she touches me goes far beyond the scope of her previous provocations. She wants me to know I'm hers. She can do whatever she pleases. Despite my shakeup, within moments, because of her touch I have a mortifying erection, which further paralyzes my body. All I can manage is to foolishly stare at that black butt plug -- I have intended to shame her with — as if it would help to ease this horrifying development.

She immediately picks up on the apparent focus of my stare.

"Do you like that plug, Bobbie? I had a hunch you might be queer."

"No! I don't like it!"

It has come out stronger than intended. That's why she immediately reaffirms her authority.

"Watch your tone, Bobbie."

In mute frustration, I chew on my lip.

But she doesn't let go. God, this woman just knows how to play me.

"You can't deny your curiosity, Bobbie. You're clearly captivated by its naughty purpose. And yet, you're somewhat repulsed by it. I knew you to be wicked."

Her fingers softly descend into my face, impertinently touching my burning cheeks, as if it would help to break the frozen state I'm in. It doesn't. They keep descending further, domineeringly grab my chin, and turn my beaming visage to face her. What shocks me to the core isn't the triumphant smirk in her complexion, I have expected that. What hits me like a freight train, is her undeniable arousal. Mrs. Simmons is sexually charged by my predicament. It's obvious. What makes it even more disturbing, she keeps reading me like an open book. We're on the same page, hence her grin widens into a predaceous smile.

"Why don't you take a closer look at that butt plug? You haven't been able to take your eyes of that gadget, since you've found it in my purse."

Amazingly I find myself reaching for the plug. It's heavier than expected. Its smooth surface feels alien to the touch of my fingers, intimidating. What am I doing?

She leans in and our cheeks touch briefly. I even sense her warm breath, when she whispers into my ear, "I bought the plug for you, Bobbie. You like it?"

Why does her harassing nearness make my cock jump? I can't possibly be aroused in such a situation. What's wrong with me? My hands keep holding the black object, as if it would help me understand, what her whisper implies.

Another warm whiff of air tickles my ear. "I want you to give it a kiss."

Stunned by her instruction, I break free of her sensuous aura and stare at her face. Her smile is ambiguous. My outraged brain volunteers a torrent of profanities to spit in her face.

You bitch! Are you fucking mad? Never! Who do you think I am? Some pervert? No matter what you've got on me bitch, I'm not going to suck on that fucking plug.

I remain mute, ... but ... did my brain just volunteer to suck on that thing?

She has only tempted me to kiss it. Why is my mind agreeing to suck on that plug? What's wrong with me? I become unsure where to direct my anger to, her, or myself. Conflicted, I'm unable to utter a single word. At least I manage to gaze at her in mute fury.

"Kiss it, Bobbie. I know, you long for your lingering wickedness to finally emerge. Come on. Just a little kiss. It will liberate your submissive soul."

Her fingers find mine. Her nails are impeccably manicured and complement her long fingers. They push the treacherous object towards my beaming visage. She doesn't need to help me all the way. I manage to do the remaining gap on my own and so my gradual descent into darkness begins. Yet before my lips touch the smooth surface of that bizarre object, my nose picks up a powerful scent. Once more my incensed conscience readies profanities, when our eyes meet long enough to concur, where the object has acquired its pungent aroma.

When that shocking discovery, using the neurological equivalent of a speedway between my brain and my cock, causes another twitchy swelling, I have nothing left but to surrender, and softly kiss that fucking plug.

"That a boy. I knew it."

A shameful excitement, manifest by the immense swelling in my pants, begins to cloud my judgment. Of course, she is aware of my arousal. Her confidence reaches new heights. Through a shroud of sinful excitement, I sense her hand resting on my thigh. Her touch triggers a bolt of electricity streaming through my body, causing butterflies all over. But her impertinence doesn't end there.

After a grace period, to have my innocent senses adjust to the invading stimulant, those long fingers slowly move upwards. I'm not sure, whether to yell stop, or, don't stop. My cock is beginning to painfully protest its uncomfortable confinement.

Normally I would quickly rearrange my manhood with a sure handed gesture. But now, it would put me right into pervert territory. I still have hopes I don't fall in that category. I resist. I want to oppose her maddening ability to bewitch my senses and to trigger instincts, I don't want to know I have.

Her fingers are, though agonizingly slow, approaching a region where each touch of unaccustomed origin, quadruples the output of my arousal per inch urged on. I swallow, for swallowing's sake.

She stops her advance just short of the nuclear zone. Once again, her face graces my burning cheeks, before she whispers into my ear.

"First, I want you to widen your thighs and put your lewd arousal on display. Then, you'll confide when you've played with yourself, so we don't provoke a premature mess. And finally, you'll pay close attention, while I outline where we go from there."

What a seductive voice.

I feel a slight pressure on the inside of my thighs, encouraging my compliance. I resist. Until I she blows another warm whiff across my ear, causing a feeling as if my neck hair has suddenly been set on fire. Of course, I do her bidding, while she leans back to observe the result.

"Good."

I have no idea, why my artificial pose doesn't make me feel stupid. Not only am I still holding that plug in my hands, in addition I have spread my legs to expose my arousal. It does have a dreamy feel to it, though. Apparently, Mrs. Simmons knows more about what's going on in that wicked brain of mine, than I do. Oddly enough, the sound of that music apparently is in tune with parts of my existence, I'm beginning to notice.

I try to regain some control over my senses, and exercise no restrained, while I observe her carefully, as far as the level of my provoked fogginess allows me in this moment.

She hasn't taken of her glasses. Hence the penetrating aptitude of her eyes is amplified. She must be far-sighted. My conflicted insides feel the scrutiny of her stare, when she confidently holds my gaze, a sly smile on her face. A face that has turned from hateful to be the source of my arousal. It begins to dawn on me, that Mrs. Simmons must have been a knock-out in her youth. Though millennia beyond my age group, all of a sudden, I find her attractive. I can't be turned on by her domineering demeanor, or can I?

"So?"

The slight snarky tone in her voice brings me back to earth. Does she really believe I'd volunteer to tell her, that I have, what she has termed "played with myself" in the shower, this very morning? She must be mad. I'm her student for crying out loud. Fearing further inquiries about the peculiar scenario of my masturbation fantasies, I have inhibitions revealing that sort of information even to my pals. Heck, I'm not even sure if I'd be able to confront those murky thoughts myself, buried in the very dark corners of my corrupted mind. Sexuality is an issue I haven't even thought about verbalizing with Mother. Not that she has ever encouraged discussing a topic like that, or for that matter, any other subject she feels uncomfortable with. Doubtlessly the reason for my penchant for dark rooms at night, and double looked bathroom doors during daytime. And now Dr. Simons, associate professor and accomplished academic twice my age, expects me to confess the level of explosiveness currently boiling in my loins?

Once more I feel compelled to look her over. Mrs. Simmons is very curvy. She's not fat. Like many females at her age she has picked up a couple of pounds at all the right places. And with that black 50s figure hugging pencil dress, she's got a lot to show for. Her hips are very shapely, mature womanly, and her stocking clad legs impressively long. The tight costume complements her figure well, as well as the stylish high heels she has apparently decided to wear for the occasion.

Then it hits me. I'm openly checking her out, and of course she has observed my indecency.

"Like what you see?"

The heat culminating in my face is nearing furnace temperatures. My throat is dry as sand. I guess, I've just entered that deer in the headlight situation, waiting for the impact to free me of my misery.

She does just that.

Slap!

It's not a hard hit, but it does cause a slight ringing in my left ear. Her aggressive gesture re-establishes her authority, and I hear myself mumbling, ashamedly, "...this morning ..." I even volunteer the location, "... in the shower." What's wrong with me!

"Good. That'll keep you on the edge. You're a horny bugger, aren't you, Bobbie?"

"I guess."

"Not much control over your raging hormones?"

"No."

"Well, then we better do something about that."

I'm rapidly re-entering the deer in headlight situation. Fearful she might hit me again, I physically plead to let me be, submissively widening my posture, and shamefully exposing the increasingly iron like appearance of my pipe.

She smiles. That arrogant smile, I'm beginning to take a fancy.

"That obscene bulge in your pants is going to be a problem for the punishment I've in mind for you. And you agree, you need to be punished for your drug abuse, Bobbie?"

Finally, a silver lining on the horizon. Despite the surreality of the situation, suddenly there is hope she might not rat me out. I just have to play along with her perverted games. My conscience urges me to face the consequences of my doing, and be a man, and leave that classroom at once, while I have some modesty left worth protecting and my dignity somewhat intact.

Instead, I nod my agreement.

"Good. Why don't you take another look at the content of my purse? You've overlooked something. Probably because of your obsession with that plug, you can't seem to part with."

I quickly put the shaming object on the table. God, why have I still been holding that plug?

"Now, reopen the purse, and find the punishment tool, I have picked for you."

I grab the purse. Then, I hold in for a moment, fearful of what I might find in there. After all, it is going to be an item for my punishment. What does she think might be an appropriate punishment tool for me? Since she has already singled me out, and has mobbed me in class, has absurdly pressured me for better results, has successfully isolated me from the cool bunch of our illustrious group, has harassed me, has secretly fondled and groped me on numerous occasions, and only moments ago, has even hit me. I'm beginning to dread what is in store for me.

I try judging her facial expression, before I'm willing to walk the plank. Once more, there is that smile on her face I have taken a liking to earlier. I realize -- appalled by my pleasure-seeking reaction — she turns me on. I can't believe it, but her condescending smile makes my cock twitch. It breaks my unease, at least long enough to start combing her purse.

All right, there are different compartments in her handbag. The one in the middle contains a small mirror, a moisturizer, pretty cool sunglasses, dental floss, even lipstick. And judging by the dark red color, it must look awesome on her. So, there is a flashy life outside her austere classroom appearance after all.

"Stop nosing around and get on with your search."

That strident tone in her voice has me flinch, and I redouble my efforts. Keys, pens, a nail file, credit cards, tissues, a wallet, ..., tampons?! Instantly, I'm sexually charged. I've seen tampons before. But not those enormous sized ones. That intimate discovery causes another exhilarating rush.

I wish I'd have the courage to take one.

I keep looking until ..., of course, there it is. It must be it. It's obvious. Boy, sometimes, I'm a bit on the slow side.

Lube. A small jar. She wants me to put that thing up my bum. No fucking way! It's way too big for my tiny little pucker. No matter how much lube I'd smear on that plug, it would never pass my wrinkly anus. No fucking way. I shake my head. No fucking way.

"You finally found it?"

I show her the jar.

"Keep looking, Bobbie. And just to be clear on this, you're testing my patience. Lesson number one. Never keep me waiting. As you've experienced on numerous occasions, I can have a — painful -- short thread of patience."

Stressed, but relieved nonetheless, I let the jar fall back into the purse.

"Keep the lube on the desk, and redouble our efforts, Bobbie."

There is an additional pocket on the side, closed with a zipper. That must be it. My fingers slip inside and touch something cold, metallic, an array of rings, ...? I fiddle about with it, before I'm able to get it out. That looks strange. What could it be? I show it to her. The quizzical look in my face makes her laugh. I instantly like her giggle. I have never heard her laugh before, not like that anyway.

"So, you found it ...," seeing my dumbfounded face she burst into laughter again. I feel awfully stupid, I can tell you that. What is this thing? I've never seen such a design before.

When she has regained her composure — her laugh has been intoxicating, because I have a smile on my face, even though there is absolutely nothing for me to smile about -- she orders me to put it next to the lube, and hand her the purse.

"Do you have any idea, how off limit the content of a woman's purse usually is, Bobbie?"

"Pretty private?"

I make her smile again.

"Ok, extremely private."

"Yes, it is. Don't think for a moment I haven't noticed your fascination with that tampon."

The level of ease she reads my every move troubles me, and once more, puts a healthy shade into my face.

Apparently, she gets off on my embarrassment, because her tone is somewhat playful, when she continues, "But, I'll expect you to be equally forthcoming, when it comes to revealing the most private of parts..." She is ogling my erection with a devilish grin.

No! No, no, no, no! No fucking way. Again, I'm violently shaking my head, knowing full well, it won't help one bit.

"Stand up!"

Once more, the sharpness in her tone has gripped me, and I comply.

"Step closer..., closer still..., that a boy." She playfully ruffles my hair.

"Look at me, Bobbie."

I do.

Why have I never realized, how attractive Mrs. Simmons is?

Anew she has read my thoughts correctly, when she states, "... you are thinking, what does a beautiful woman like myself, want from a dork like you?"

I nod imperceptibly.

"You can be pretty observant, Bobbie. Why don't you answer the question yourself, while I start my own little investigation?"

I freeze. No, she can't be doing that. No, she can't just unbuckle my belt, and unbutton my fly. But she does. And the way she does it, leaves no doubt, she relishes my tension. God, I feel so exposed and humiliated, and yet, I've never been more aroused in my life. She expertly lets my 501 give in to gravity, and lets it slide down on its own. My bluish trunks are dented to the maximum, and when she holds in for a moment, to appraise my bursting cock, the massive bulge of excitement actually makes me proud.

"You need to get rid of your erection, Bobbie. I want you flaccid, smallish, manageable.... And there are two ways to achieve that. Pleasant or unpleasant. What will it be?"

"Pleasant," I volunteer quickly.

"Very well. Drop your trunks and masturbate."

"What?"

"I'll give you thirty seconds to beat your meat, otherwise I'll enforce the less pleasant method."

I stand there, like a pillar of salt, unable to squeeze a muscle. It's simply too much, what she is asking for.

"Oh, I see. You're right. You'll probably make a mess of things. And we can't have that, can we?"

Her words, once more, put me in the familiar deer/headlight situation. Frozen, I watch her reaching for that glass of water on the desk. She empties it in one gulp.

"Kneel!"

It is venomous enough to have me comply.

Suddenly I'm in level with her crotch, and the thirty seconds don't seem that farfetched after all. Her stockings are held in place by a pull-on suspender belt she is wearing under that pencil dress. And for a moment I glimpse a delicious pair of stitched satin panties underneath, devilish red with black embroidery of course. The delightful panties are stretched to the maximum by her prominent folds beneath. Her sex appears to be large. Much larger than my girlfriend's pussy. I start visualizing what a mature woman's sex looks like. She obviously doesn't trim her pubic hair. A thick forest of hair is barely contained by those luscious panties. I can smell her. It further intoxicates my brain, the few remnants of resistance I still have at this point are evaporating far too quickly. I even discover a damp spot on the front. She must be aroused. I'm hoping, I'm the reason for the exposed wetness between her thighs. Anyway, I'm going to be lucky, if I get the trunks down before I cream them from the inside. I swiftly manage to do, what she has unsuccessfully asked just a moment ago.