It is your first day as a full-time faculty member at the university. You take a great deal of pride in this, for multiple reasons. You've worked so hard to get there, to earn your degree, to have the opportunity to nurture young artists, to help them on their path. You're good at your job and you know it. There's no crime in that. And, if you're honest, you secretly enjoy the fact that you--a swearing, sex-loving woman with big tits and a tiny waist--have a place of authority at this hallowed institution. You even thought about wearing a plaid skirt and blazer to commemorate the occasion, but thought better of it. At least not on the first day. You opted instead for a pair of black leggings and a flannel shirt left open just enough to let people know there's something special underneath. Professional. Comfortable. Cute.
You like the way the handful of straight boys look at you, a mixture of intimidation and lust. They're not sure whether they want to fuck you or call you mommy. Maybe it's both and you don't mind. And you especially like the way the girls look at you. Some of them want to be you. The others do too, they just don't know it yet. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. Boys, girls, straight, gay, it doesn't matter: they all have to look at you and they all are hanging on every word that issues forth from your pouty little mouth. It's intoxicating.
By the time you finish your last class of the day, you tell people you're exhausted. Or at least you ought to be. But the truth is you're so drunk on power that you're turned on. Your panties are already damp from hours of being turned on just from standing in front of these young, impressionable college kids. You pull into the driveway, aching for release.
As you fumble with your keys, the door to our apartment swings open. I'm standing there in a pair of ripped jeans and a light grey undershirt. I give you a hug and a deep kiss follows. We break the kiss as you begin to peel off your sneakers. "How was it?" I ask.
You begin to gush. You had so much fun. You've taught before, but something about today felt different, more real, more exhilarating. I let you go for a little while, genuinely curious to know how it went and so happy that you've achieved this important milestone for yourself. We move from the doorway to the kitchen, where you plop yourself down in a chair at the table. I lean against the counter opposite you, loving the look of satisfaction and pride on your face. I'm proud of you too.
You're so wrapped up in your own story that you barely notice that I have walked towards you, my waist mere inches from your face. You feel a hand collect your chin and turn it upwards. Our eyes meet and I say "I think you've talked enough for one day."
You're not really sure what to say, which is fine by me; I have more interesting things you can do with your mouth. I undo the button on my jeans and peal back my fly. I'm not wearing underwear, which you quickly learn when my fully erect cock springs in front of your face. "Is that for me?" you ask, arching an eyebrow as you look up. "Daddy?"
I don't answer. Instead, you feel my fingers thread between the strands of the hair on the back of your head and pull hard. You gasp, your mouth open, the perfect receptacle for my swollen dick. I move your head closer. You know what to do. You relax your jaw and let me slide my cock across your tongue and into your waiting throat.
You've been in charge all day. Now it's time to let go, for someone else direct you. Guide you. Teach you. My hands do just that. Enmeshed in your mane, both hands palm the back of your skull and guide you up and down on my cock. It's slow at first, not too forceful. But as I feel you give over to my strength, as you let go of your need to control, I move you faster. I press the head of my cock deep down your throat. I expect you to gag, but you don't. You're a good girl.
My speed picks up. Your head isn't moving now, but is instead being held in place by hands that are still gripping you tightly, pulling ever so slightly on the silken strands of your raven locks. You feel like a toy. Or rather you would, if were not for the soothing sound of my voice telling you what a good girl you are. And you are such a good girl. Coming home and letting daddy punish your throat for talking all day. You feel like a bad feminist, but you love being dominated like this, being put in your place. You start to remember who you are in this house. You may be a warrior in the world, but in here--right now--you are my little cumslut, a willing slave to my dick, whose first and only role is to be a vessel for my pleasure.
I could probably cum now, but I don't want to. Instead, I pull out of your mouth abruptly. You gasp for a moment then look me in the eyes. Your gaze is dark, full of surprise. You didn't quite expect this, but you love it. "Please," you say.
"Please, what?" I reply.
"Please cum down my throat, daddy. I need it."
But I don't think you've earned a reward. Not yet at least. And I tell you as much as I pull you out of the chair and spin you around over the table. I yank your leggings down over your ass, taking your panties with them. You feel my hand on the middle of your back, pressing you down into the table. You know what's going to happen next. And again you utter that word, "please."
I give your ass swat, not too hard, but firm enough to know that you are still not in a position to ask for things. Though, in this position, you are certainly going to get something. I pull your bottoms off all the way down to your ankles and off of you entirely. I'm going to need you to spread your legs. I tap you between your thighs and you get the hint, spreading your legs open. I lick my fingers and begin to feel your outer labia. I didn't need to lick my fingers at all; you're already sopping wet. I smack your ass again, a little harder.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I growl.
