Message-ID: <7009eli$9801041543@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: JavaNet Cafe Patron Subject: Professor Wilkerson Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <34AE03E0.3CAC@javanet.com> We are a group of grad students (male and female) working on a group project. We are working on a series of stories about a common character and different adventures she has. This is the introductory piece. We would appreciate posting. More to come. Please note that this will be group effort, exploring points of view. You may change the last name of the main character if you are at all worried about references to any real people. We can assure you that's not the case, but you may still want to do that. Otherwise, please just change punctuation, spelling, format. Thanks. Northampton Erotica Project This is a fictional story. Only adults should read it. It will offend adults who are offended by sexually explicit written material. It may be re-posted with appropriate warnings and with attribution to the Northampton Erotica Project. THE ADVENTURES OF PROFESSOR WILKERSON PART I Susanna Calls the Tune Moving the curtain aside, I watch as the van pulls into my driveway. I see he didn't have any trouble finding the house. Everyone in town seems to know this street. It is lined with the stately homes that used to be the residences of professors at the university here. That was back when they paid professors well. Now these are the homes of doctors, lawyers, and young executives. He parks next to the big elm at the entrance to my driveway. The logo for "Primavera Electronics and TV Repair" stands out in black letters on the side of the burgundy-colored van. I see him in the front seat. He's writing on a clipboard. Thank God they sent the man I asked for. I pass before the vestibule mirror. My dark wool suit looks freshly pressed. My jacket, the knee-length skirt and my pantyhose are a uniform charcoal color. This is my favorite suit. I bought it last year when I gave my lecture on deconstructionism at Barnard. That was such a wonderful trip. It was just after my thirty-second birthday. After my lecture, the women's studies faculty gave me a dinner at a wonderful hotel near the Plaza. We talked and laughed until early morning. Glass after glass of red wine passed before me under the glow of crystal chandeliers. Back to today. Later this afternoon I am chairing a meeting of the hiring committee of my university's women's studies department. We plan to interview candidates for a new professorship. I suppose the darkness of this suit will make me look a little too severe. But the flowing curls of my red hair are a good counterbalance. I push the strands away from each side of my face. Piles of curls nestle on to each shoulder. I straighten my glasses. "Ding!" He's rung the doorbell. I greet him, "I'm so glad you're here. My husband wants the VCR working by the time he gets back on Friday. He has to watch his opera videos every weekend." "I'll see what I can do, Um, Mrs. Wilkerson?" "Yes, I'm Susanna Wilkerson. Please come in." He seems polite, neat, and clean. Just as I remembered. Today he is wearing light khaki pants and a windbreaker. I show him into our living room. "As I recall, your name is Bob?" "Yes. Bob, Bob Sanders." "Well, Bob, we're not sure what the problem is. When we put a video into the VCR, it runs well for five or ten minutes. Then it stops. We don't know if it's the VCR or the television. It's such a large television. We couldn't bring it into the shop. I was so glad when they said you could come right over." He smiles, "That's what we're here for." "Bob, please put your tool box down right here. You can get right to work. Here is a video cassette. I see it's a tape of `The Marriage of Figaro.' That's my husband's favorite opera. Why don't you put this in? Let in run for a few minutes. You'll see what happens. I'm going to be in the kitchen putting some things away. Let me know if you need anything." From the kitchen I can see him set out some tools on the floor. He is a young man, barely twenty. He's of average height. Not heavy at all. His hair is mid-length, jet black. A few weeks ago, while I was visiting Marcellina Nestor, a friend of mine, he came to work on her stereo system. While he worked, she and I sat in her kitchen and drank coffee. We joked that he had a cute butt. I reproached her severely for being so silly. Then we laughed. Later we invited him to join us for a cup of coffee. I remember how nervous he was as he sat at the small table with two women. His hand trembled slightly whenever he held his cup. Yesterday I called his shop and demanded that they send him, and no one else, to my house. He is slipping the cassette into the VCR. The static on the television screen resolves into a clear image. It is not the "Marriage of Figaro." A naked woman appears. She is straddling a man. She grabs his erection and inserts it into her vagina. In a flash she is bouncing up and down on the man. She moans and shouts in rapture. Bob is standing directly in front of the screen. He does not move. I lightly bang some pots to appear occupied with my work. He continues to watch. After he has watched the video intently for a few minutes, I quietly walk into the living room. Bob does not notice. I stand a few feet behind him. Stepping quickly to the side, I snap a photograph of him. I make certain that I capture both him and the television screen in my picture. "Hey, what the hell are you doing." He looks at me, dumbfounded. "What the hell am I doing? Isn't the question really what the hell are you doing? I come in here and what do I see? An electrical repair man with an erection watching a pornographic movie right here in my living room." He is about to look down to his crotch, but thinks better of it and stops. The erection is pushing out from the crotch of his pants. The bulge is clearly visible, just to the side of his fly. He is afraid to look. "I don't have an erect . . . ." "Don't lie to me. Why do you think I took a picture? I have all the evidence I need." He stammers, "Lady. . . . " "My name is Professor Wilkerson." "Professor Wilkerson, I. . . . " "Look, young man, you're wearing pants made of a very light material. Anyone can see you have an erection. It looks like you have a tent pole standing up in your pants." I glance over at the television screen. His eyes follow mine. In the video the camera shifts to a close-up of the face of a young blond woman. Inches before her nose is the head of an engorged penis. Her hand pumps furiously up and down its shaft. She watches attentively as white streams of semen flow down the sides of the head, then drip down the shaft. With eager flicks of her tongue she attacks each stream and draws the drops of creamy liquid into her mouth. She grins directly into the camera after each new lick. Bob's eyes follow every movement of the actress. "You can't control yourself, Bob. I know you can't." I make sure he hears the scorn in my voice, "I'm very familiar with the studies of the male reaction to pornography. You're programmed to react like that. Look at that woman in the movie. She needs money. It's a job for her. The work disgusts her. It degrades her. She has to pretend to like it, or she won't get paid. This excites you, doesn't it? That woman degrades herself before your eyes, and what do you do? You get hard." Look, I'm sorry about this Ma'am. . . . " "I told you to address me as Professor Wilkerson." "I'm sorry Professor Wilkerson. It's true. I can't help it. I don't know how that movie got in there. I didn't do it on purpose." "It must have been my husband. I have forbidden pornography in this house since we married. He must have put a fake label on a pornography tape. I'll deal with him when he gets back. I have to deal with you first." "Please, Professor Wilkerson, don't show that picture you took to anyone." "Why not? Don't you think your boss would be interested in seeing what his employees do when they're out on the job?" "No, Please. I beg you, Professor. Please don't do that. They'll fire me. You know that." "I'm sure your fiancee wouldn't like it either, would she?" "No, of course not. Please don't." "You're in a real fix, aren't you?" From our brief conversation at Marcellina's house, I know he is planning to marry a dentist's daughter in the spring. My leverage in this situation is overpowering. The insolent bulge in his pants does not disappear. I approach to within a few inches of his face. My hands are set firmly on my hips. "Make it go away." His eyes attempt to avoid a downward glance. "Professor Wilkerson. I can't. I can't make it go away just like that." "Do you masturbate with pornography?" "No." "I told you not to lie to me." "Well. Yes. I have sometimes." "Of course you have. All men do." "Look, Professor Wilkerson. I'll do anything you want. Please. I beg you. Don't get me in trouble." "You're begging. I like that much better. Although I prefer it when men beg on their knees." He steps back from me. I stare directly into his eyes, "You know you're in trouble. You know I have you in a corner. I hear you offering to do anything I say if I let you out. Is that correct?" He attempts to return my stare. He can't. He drops his eyes. Slowly he nods in agreement. "Bobby. You don't mind if I call you Bobby, do you? Of course you don't. You said you would do anything. I think you will. Now, first you're going to have to get rid of that terrible erection. It isn't disappearing. You're not going to make it go away just standing there. I think you should take off your pants." He pretends he doesn't hear me. "You heard me. If you want me to help you, you're going to have to do exactly what I say. You said you would, remember? The pants. Drop them." He makes a brief display of opposition. He will surrender. His hands move as if they are the mechanical limbs of a robot. He unbuckles his belt. His fingers draw the zipper down. The trousers drop to the floor. "Take off your shoes and socks. Your shirt, too." It pleases me to watch him do as he is told. Now he stands before me clad only in cotton jockey briefs. The firm outline of his cock stands out clearly beneath the white fabric. "The shorts, too." Again, he makes a weak show of defiance. He hesitates. "Bobby, you're blushing. Are you afraid to let me see what you have there? I promise I won't bite." He takes a deep breath. It is a sigh of resignation. Then he peels off the briefs. His erection springs up as if it has a newly discovered life of its own. There is nothing special about this young man's cock. It is of average length. Normal thickness. It's only unusual feature is its head. It has one of those rims formed of very thick skin. This makes the rim curl sharply outward from the shaft. Perhaps the doctor who performed his circumcision gulped a few drinks before performing the operation. The head looks like an overripe strawberry perched of top of a short metal pole. "Bobby, I mentioned kneeling. Do you remember? Now, get down on your knees." He kneels before me. Good. Now lie down. Get on your back." He obeys. When he is flat on his back, his penis rises in an arc over his belly, like a thick arrow directed at his puckered belly button. I circle his prone body. He cannot see me as I pass outside his field of vision. I sense his fear as he tries to guess my next move. When the camera clicks again, he tries to move so he can see me. Exasperation distorts his face. He pleads, "Don't take any more pictures. I beg you. I'll do whatever you say." "I know you will, Bobby." Moving over him, I place one foot on either side of his chest. I look below me to see his confused, frightened face. Gradually I move down his body. He waits in fear for my next move. "Spread your legs," I tell him. He complies, and I place my feet between his legs, close to his crotch. I am not wearing shoes. The black material of my pantyhose covers my feet. The toes have a thick reinforced lining. I place the front of my right foot over his vulnerable little scrotum. His entire body tenses. I think he is trembling. His eyes flash with terror. I probe with my toes into his pouch. The sac is soft and spongy. It gives way to my pressure. I press until I feel the rounded solid forms of each of his balls beneath my toes. He gasps in fright. "Bobby, I could hurt you very much right now. You know that, don't you?" The frightened boy whispers, "Yes. Please don't. I beg you, stop this. Leave me alone. Please stop." His erection has dwindled. No more manly arc. He shrivels before my eyes. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, I begin to move my foot against his balls. I rotate my foot gently, massaging his rounded sac. I feel the thick base of his cock between his balls. The length of my foot slowly rolls up and down the space between his legs. This goes on for several minutes. Then, gradually, just as I anticipated, it happens. His penis is growing again. The trembling of his body has stopped. Soon, he is opening his legs wide for me. His knees rise. I feel his thrusts gently pressing against my foot. The feeble pushes from his pelvis respond to each movement of my foot. Now I know that I have conquered him. He is completely in my control. A wave of intense pleasure rushes through my veins. "Bobby, you like this, don't you?" "Yes," He murmurs. His cock has grown to full length again. The overripe strawberry sways rhythmically to his movements and mine. I place a foot over the entire shaft now. My heel fits just above his balls. My toes touch the head. I press down firmly. Slowly, I move my foot up and down the length of his cock. The material of my stocking glides over the skin of his shaft. I pull and stretch the soft skin. He's getting very excited now. He bucks up against the sole of my foot, desperate for any pressure that might grant him a release. I press harder. He thrusts back. His breathing grows heavy. I hear a soft moan. "Bobby, do you want to come?" "Yes. I'm going to come." His mouth is wide open. The intense arousal distorts and twists the features of his face. His head rocks from side to side. I see the head of his cock swell as if ready to burst. Wetness appears at the tip. "No, Bobby, you're not going to come. Not now. I can see that you're not only a very dirty little boy. You're also a very selfish little boy." I abruptly remove my foot, leaving his cock stranded. He pumps furiously into the air. I stand directly over his face. He can look up and see my crotch. I want him to glimpse the pink silk of the panties underneath my pantyhose. The frustration on his face delights me. He will do anything for me now. I know. "Bobby, I have a job for you. After you do it, you may get what you want. Lie still for a moment. Don't move a muscle." I cross the room to a large upholstered armchair. When I am behind the chair and sure that he cannot see me, I peel of my pantyhose. The pink silk panties follow. The rest of my clothing remains as before. When I am seated in the armchair, I call to Bobby, "I want you to come over here, now." He staggers to his feet. "Kneel down in front of my chair," I order. A momentary look of rebellion flashes in his eyes. Has he had too much? I don't think so. As he stares in disbelief I spread my legs wide open. I raise myself slightly in my chair and pull my skirt up to my waist. I place one leg over each of the thickly padded arms of the chair. Because I run regularly, my legs are firm and muscular. I do not shave my pubic hairs. A luxuriant growth of thick black curls fills the space between by legs. The swirls overflow like a garden grown wild. Bobby's gaze is transfixed. His eyes open wide. He kneels before me now. "Come closer," I tell him. "Don't be afraid. I want your face right here." With my hand I motion to a spot about one foot before my crotch. I have his attention. "Now look carefully, and listen." With two fingers of my right hand I separate the fur-lined lips. I use the index finger of my left hand to point him directly to my clit. The tip of my finger is one half-inch from the tiny button. "Do you see this?" He nods. "Listen to what I want you to do. I want you to make your tongue into a sharp little point. Then, very softly, as lightly as you can, you are to lick the skin around my clit. Lick very gently above it, beneath it, and around the sides. But don't touch my clit. Pretend that your tongue is a feather. If you follow my directions, things will turn out all right for you today. Go ahead." I push my head back against the soft cushioned headrest. My eyes are closed. I abandon myself to the sensations. He follows my directions well. His tongue makes a light feathery dance around my clit. When this is done correctly, I invariably think of Mozart piano concertos. His touches are tentative, searching. They seek a rhythm as they slowly gather force. A beautiful melody appears imperceptibly from what seemed like random notes. This reminds me of the Larghetto of the twenty-sixth concerto. I envision drops of water falling upon a darkened pool. Each drop explodes in sparkling bursts of color as it strikes the surface. A myriad of notes falls all about me now. His tongue moves more swiftly. My excitement erupts and overpowers all barriers. Now I see sheets of water pouring down; thousands of drops bursting into flashes of color. Each tap, each gentle breath from his tongue is exquisite. I am reaching new heights of pleasure with each movement he makes. Now we are in the Allegro of the twenty- second concerto. Minutes pass in sheer ecstasy. Soon I demand even more. I must force myself to speak without a tremble in my voice. "Bobby, Now listen. Let's change the tempo. I want you to use your whole tongue now. Make it hard and flat. Like a cock. Press it against my clit and hold it there." He knows what to do. I wrap my legs around his head. My lower legs hang over his back. His head is squeezed between my thighs. With my hands I push his head into my crotch. My pussy grinds into his mouth. He holds his ground. The tongue, hard and wet, presses down on my slit. I rub my pelvis up and down so that his hard tongue glides from my clit to my vagina and back, again and again. Soon I am bucking frantically. I am no longer in the land of piano concertos. My head twists spasmodically from side to side. I bury the sides of my face in tangled strands of my hair. My eyes close, and I see an eagle soar above cloud-shrouded pinnacles. The glorious finale of the Jupiter Symphony surrounds me. From peaks high above, vast cascades of warm rippling water pour down upon me. They flow over me in wave after wave. Soft torrents envelop me. The warmest, strongest currents flow directly between my legs and rush inside to thrill me. I am pulled helplessly downward. For a moment I do not know where I am. I don't care to know. If only this pleasure never ends! I cry out in a final spasm as my orgasm overtakes me. I am left panting, exhausted. My composure returns slowly. The tension has been wrung from every cell of my body. I feel clean and rejuvenated, as if I have basked for hours under the warmest of tropical suns. "That wasn't bad, Bobby." I don't believe in excess praise at times like this. Bobby is still kneeling before me. He looks like a dog who has performed his trick well. He wants his pat on the head, and perhaps a bone. "Bobby, look at your face." I laugh. The lower half of his face is drenched in liquid. He looks like a thirsty man who has been drinking from a lake. "I'll get you a towel." I return from the kitchen and hand him a towel. Now I am left with a naked man standing in my living room. His erection is still here, like a guest who has overstayed his welcome. "Bobby, look at this." I point to his swollen member. "You promised me you would do something about that." He looks at me with a hopeful expression. "This is what you can do. I don't want you to make a mess on my carpet. Here, you can use this." From the table next to my armchair I hand him my National Public Radio contributor coffee mug. "You can come in this, but be careful. Don't miss." I hold the edge of cup to the tip of his cock. He doesn't move. I look at him with surprise. "What's the matter? I know you can do it. You told me you do it. Make yourself come." Poor, defeated Bobby offers me one final look of surrender. His hands rest at his side. Slowly he moves his right hand to his ever-alert and patient cock. "Go ahead." I can't believe I have to encourage him at this point. "Show me how you do it. I want to see." This man's sense of shame departed long ago. Like a worker who knows when it is time to start his shift, he begins. He grasps his cock in a fist. Feeling the scrutiny of my stare, he hesitates, but, of course, he continues. He begins slowly, tentatively, to pull up and down on the loose skin. Soon he is rhythmically stroking around the head. His movements are like those of a machine that has been programmed to perform this maneuver thousands of times. He begins to pant. His fist squeezes the thick skin around the rim of the head as he pumps frantically. His eyes close. As I watch, his movements cause the slit on the head of the cock to open and close like the mouth of some exotic tropical fish. Finally, his brief moment of glory arrives. He makes a few high-pitched grunts. He sighs. A glob of white jumps from the mouth of the fish and hits the side of my coffee mug. A few more jets spurt out, then a long white stream slowly oozes downward and sinks to the bottom of my cup. "That was very neat and clean. I appreciate that. Well, I think you better get your clothes together, Bobby. I'm sure you have other jobs to do today." He dresses sheepishly. With some difficulty, he remembers how to button his shirt. I don't think he is quite sure what happened to him here this afternoon. When he has dressed, I thank him for fixing my VCR. "It seems to be working fine. You did a good job. Mail the bill to my husband." I show him the second photograph from my instamatic. "This is my insurance policy." The photo shows Bobby lying naked on my living room carpet, his cock scouting out the terrain around my fireplace. I address him in my strictest tone: "If you ever come around here again, if you ever call me, if you ever so much as speak to me on the street, if you ever mention to anyone what happened here today, I'll make sure every person in this town sees this picture of you. Now, get out of my house." As he rushes toward the door he turns around for a last look at me. I catch his eye and give him a wink. "And thanks again." He walks out of my door and out of my life. Well, not quite for good. I take my two photographs into the bedroom. In my closet I keep a small safe. A few flicks of the combination dial open it. Inside is a large manila envelope. I take a small collection of photographs from the envelope. Bobby's photos will join them here for safe keeping. Before closing up the envelope, I conduct a brief review of my collection of photographs. Each one shows a naked man, in various, often quite unusual, positions. All of the men are in marked states of arousal. Some are on the floor. Others are in chairs. One man sits naked on my couch, his legs spread wide apart. Some are tied up. I recognize the plumber, the piano tuner, the furniture mover, and, of course the pool cleaner. My favorite is the gardener from two years ago. He was a Hispanic man. His picture shows him tied by ropes to one of my dining room chairs, his dark penis standing up rigid between his legs. I must have fifteen or so photos in my collection. I seem to pick up a new one each time my husband goes away for one of his out-of town consulting trips. Later that evening I am home by myself. I sit before a fire and sip red wine. My stereo is playing the first act of Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro." I smile contentedly to myself as I listen to the lyrics of Figaro's aria: Se vuol ballare, Signor Contino, Il chitarrino Le suonero. Se vuol venire Nella mia scuola, La Capriola Le insegnaro. The End -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |