The story that follows is a sequel to a story written by my cyberlover, kitten_bett_1. Her story, "Watching the Professor" is
here
.
If you're here to get off, you needn't read her story, but if you'd like to follow the development of these characters, then read hers first. It's a very hot story, based on our mutual fantasies, that she wrote for me and posted at my request. Since she is a good, submissive little slut, she complied. I've sent her my sequel, and she's masturbated to it, cumming very hard. I hope you will too.
*
Yes, your suspicions were true. I did spy you there, in the library, watching me with that little undergraduate slut. I heard you run off, so you weren't there when I told her that we'd been seen, when I told her that her TA, my grad student, had watched us fuck. You know what? She's such a little whore that she didn't care. It turned her on to be watched. We wondered whether you'd gotten wet, whether you'd been masturbating as you watched us. I kissed her goodbye and told her I was going to go find out. She laughed and stuffed her cum-soaked panties in my jacket pocket, neatened up and went to meet her boyfriend. I watched her cute little ass as she strutted away, and wondered what that poor boy would think when her girlfriend came to her, freshly fucked and dripping her professor's cum. But, then again, I knew it wouldn't be the first time she'd fucked another man before meeting him. Such a tramp . . .
Well, on to the matter at hand. Where might you be? Would you have left the library? Would you have gone home? I knew the department had a lecture later, and that you wanted to be there, so it was unlikely that you'd gone all the way back to your apartment. I had been looking forward to that lecture. Not only was the speaker a leader in the field, but there would be the reception afterwards, where I would likely run into you, nibbling on stale crackers and cheese in a corner. My plan was to invite you to the dinner with the speaker. We always took a grad student or two. Why not take that brand new young woman who seemed a bit shy but asked such interesting questions, and always wore such low-cut sweaters? The restaurant we were going to featured cramped booths, and I could easily end up pressed against you as we chatted with the guest . . .
But now I wasn't going to wait. I went to your library carol. I knew you spent a lot of time there, just like most of the grad students. Rumor had it, though, that you sometimes stole away to the bathroom, and spent a bit too much time there. One of my female colleagues swore that she had once heard you moaning softly in one of the stalls. I grinned at the thought. Just my type . . .
There you are, at your desk, hunched over a book. What is it? Philosophy? Literary theory? I watch you for a while and I realize that you're not concentrating at all. You keep crossing and uncrossing your legs, and your nipples are clearly hard, poking through your sweater. You have one hand on your leg, and in the darkness under the desk I can just barely make out the gentle movements of your fingers as you caress your own thigh. Seems like you've enjoyed the show, that you can't get it out of your mind. You look up, glance around a bit, and, thinking you're alone, you try to slip off to the restroom to take care of yourself.
I pop out suddenly from behind a bookcase and grab your arm.
"Why, hello!" I say, "Where are you off to?"
You mutter something about the ladies' room, caught off guard and flushed. I let my hand slide down your arm, my fingertips caressing your hand ever so lightly as I lean up against the bookcase, blocking your way.
"Been in here long? You must have a lot of reading to do these days."
"Well, yes, I do. I've been working on the Kant. The Third Critique," you stammer out, getting flushed.
Your pale Irish skin hides no secrets. You clearly blush as you stumble through this lie, your mind rehearsing what you'd seen in the stacks not long before, when you should have been reading Kant, your heart pounding as you wonder whether or not you'd been seen. What would happen?
I lean in a bit closer to you than I should and whisper, "I don't think you're mind is on philosophy right now. I know what you saw, and I know what you were going to do right now." My fingertips are on your arm again . . .
You look at me, your eyes full of fear and apprehension. What was going on? There seemed to be no one around . . . But you don't want to go. You don't want to run off, or cry out. You're afraid because you're not sure what's happening. Or is it because this is what you've wanted to happen?
