Mrs Simmons

As always, all characters are of legal age over 18.

Please do not reprint this work on any other website, or any medium, without explicit consent from the author (me!).

Synopsis:

Subjugated by his professor's dominant personality and clever scheming, Robert is forced to confront desires, his prudish upbringing has confined to the murkiest corners of his repressed longings.

Story codes/authors notes:

Welcome to another story of mine.

Those who want to know which erotic scenarios are covered and prefer tags up front, the following additional information is for you. If you prefer to be drawn in slowly, please skip the next paragraph and jump to the story below.

Although I've categorized it under none-consent/reluctant, other broad categories on Literotica may apply. (Anal, toy/masturbation, fetish, first-time, exhibitionist/voyeur) This contribution is written in first-person narrative from the domineered perspective.

Story codes: femdom, humiliation, cfnm, voyeurism, anal, mature female/ younger male, abuse of power and social status, masturbation, sex toys, blackmail, repressed longings, ambiguous relationship;

As always, feedback is very much appreciated, but keep it civil.

*******

Mrs. Simmons

I'm leaning against the wall in the dimly lit hallway leading up to her lecture room. I need a moment to collect my thoughts, before I'm ready to confront her. Conscious about my appearance — in case anyone I know runs into me -- I've adopted a posture of sulking defiance by burying my hands in my trouser pockets. The sturdiness of such stance makes my shoulders appear bulkier. It helps in disguising my nervousness. I pay attention to those details. They are the reason why I invest time posing in the mirror. Certain poses are beneficial as to how I am perceived and help consolidate my self-esteem. In moments like this, I need all the boost I can get.

I'm still brooding over why she has summoned me. Well, there is a hunch, but fearful of its implication, I dismiss it as improbable. Asked what this is about, the dean's secretary has been brief and noncommittal as usual, has only implied the subject to be urgent, but hasn't revealed specifics. This could mean trouble.

I keep counting the numbers on the rooms signage plate from side to side, as if it would help to resolve my quandary. One could identify this kind of behavior to be compulsive, I guess. I'm prone to doing these things. Anyway, it means I'm not ready yet.

My nose picks up the smell of stale air slowly dissolving through the lecture room door. This brings back uncomfortable memories. Mrs. Simmons units are demanding. I'm only too familiar with that environment of brain cells being crushed. But in my case, it wasn't inaptitude in keeping up, or taking an active part in her course. Absorbing knew content is easy for me and I'm good with numbers. My conflict with her lies elsewhere, entirely.

Mrs. Simmons is an associate professor. Her field of expertise is modern statistical prediction and machine learning, and on matters of assertiveness and poise, that woman is my opposite. Everything in her interactions with students is a matter of precision and clarity. You'll go down in shame, if you engage her with sloppy language, cocky behavior or a half-baked argument. She'll rhetorically rip you to shreds. Not that I would ever do such a thing, but I've witnessed it up close. She knows her stuff, and her reign of the lecture rooms, she happens to be teaching in, is supreme.

When I take classes, I always take a seat in the front row. There is a reduced probability of gossiping seatmates. That's when the whole mess has started. I know it to be wrong, but I must admit, I'm weirdly fascinated by this woman.

Mrs. Simmons is so unlike the female faculty I've met. While most of them prefer to dress casually, not her. Her unique clothing style and her curves had my attention right from the first unit. Even if it is clothing from a bygone area. Nobody dresses like her anymore. She looks and acts as if she has been time warped from the late fifties. Not once has she worn pants. She only wears those slinky dresses, which accentuate her full curves in all the right places. I looked them up on Google. They're called pencil dresses and they do give her a certain elegance which isn't common anymore.

Thinking back, I'm not sure what has triggered my obsession with that woman. Maybe her outfit has been the reason why I have been drawn to her and began checking her out. This might sound naïve, but at first, it hasn't even remotely been sexual. My arduous relationship with Mother has made her age group a no-go area. I have never entertained so called MILF fancies. Consequently, Mrs. Simmons has never been a part in my darkened room machinations. That doesn't mean I don't entertain a variety of unrealistic scenarios, when I do what I'm not supposed to be doing. Guilt has been drilled into me since puberty and despite my age, I still feel ashamed sometimes.

At one point her plentiful curves became the prime target of my interest. I have observed how her wide hips made her heart shaped bottom move from side to side. I even had the audacity to peek at her ample bosom. Concealed of course, behind my long strands. I've developed this technique years ago, when still in Catholic school. Keeping my hair long and messy has been the only rebellious act I've ever accomplished in the confining environment I've grown up in.

Anyway, it didn't take her long to pick-up on my covert voyeurism. Decisive as she is, she immediately took action and solved two problems in one stroke. She had me switch places with one of those chatty types in the back rows of the lecture room. Naively, I complained. I should have seen it for what it was, a subtle warning to stop my depraved conduct, because my phony whining made her angry. In an instant, she managed to reduce my status from odd, but smart loner, to peevish pansy, when she factored in my complaint on being distracted by those chatty types and suggested a seat at the very back of the seating rows, slightly off set to the left, at a single table. I was humiliated. It cemented the weirdo image I have been struggling with, since I've enrolled.

But it didn't end there. She wasn't done with my lechery. Once she had isolated me physically, she turned the tables on me. The new seating arrangement put her in a position, unbeknown to the rest of the class, to impudently invade my comfort zone and fondle me inappropriately. Yes, she has done that. Whenever we had a performance review at the end of her lecture, under the pretext of keeping an eye out for cheaters, she had positioned herself close by. Intimidatingly close.

Maybe initially, it has started as a wayward form of praise, when she has patted my head, seemingly innocent of course. But her soft touch on my head has wreaked havoc on my senses. There has been an erotic sensuality to it, I had no prior experience with. Not many females have touched me before. And no female her age had ever patted me, since intimacy is alien to Mother. The most affection I've ever gotten from her, has been the occasional handshake.

Consequently, and to my immense embarrassment, I have rapidly been roused by the soft and scratchy feeling on my scalp, when she has kept her fingers there for a perceived eternity. Needless to say, I hadn't been able to concentrate on the test any longer. Especially, once her fingers had sensually roamed through my long hair. My hedonistic reaction to her soft fondling had me conflicted for days, because the undeniable sexual tension, I had sensed oscillating between us, should not have happened.

After the new seating arrangement had been establish, Mrs. Simons has started treating me like a post-pubescent teenager and in addition has become overly critical of my contributions, despite my commendable performance in her seminar. I've begun to hate her for that, even though at first, I had dismissed being in her spotlight as an ill-suited pedagogical scheme to push me towards better results, and her air of condescension a form of punishment for my voyeuristic misconduct. After all, I did feel guilty about my reprehensible peeping. My firm upbringing was probably another reason for my passiveness. How could I have addressed her indiscretion?

So, I naively thought, if I let her fondling, as well as her verbal belittling slip, she might ease up on me. Of course, she hasn't. Quite the contrary, my silence must have encouraged her, because her patronizing and her covert molestations became increasingly daring.

During one performance review, she had softly played with my neck hair, which had sent intense waves of goosebumps all over my confused body. She knew exactly what she was doing, while I was immobilized in surprise, due to the sensory overload her gentle fingers were able to rouse. And when those impeccably manicured fingernails of hers had tenderly scratched the back of my ear, or had gently played with my lobes, I hadn't been able to suppress an involuntary erection. Due to the speedy nature of my unexpected stiffness, I hadn't been quick enough to conceal the obscene bulge forming in my pants. I have never been more embarrassed in my life, when I had realized, she had calmly been observing the outlines of my confined cock. She deliberately continued teasing me for the remainder of the exam. Only then, with a knowing smirk on her face.

I had an unforgiving erection throughout afternoon classes. No matter what I did, or thought, it wouldn't subside. Obviously, I had rearranged the shameful erection as best as I could to conceal my arousal. But after two hours it had become unbearable to endure, and in my desperation, I sought relief in the third-floor restrooms. I hardly masturbate outside my bedroom, neither at home nor in the dormitory. But I managed to do the unthinkable in this unerotic and exposed environment, because my excitement wouldn't subside.

The unprecedented volume and intensity of my ejaculation in that booth had left me worked up for days, because in the end, I had violently orgasmed with images popping up, of her languidly rubbing my penis, while castigating me for my lewd behavior and lack of decorum. I was so ashamed by those visualizations, I had no problems abstaining for a week. Under normal circumstances, despite the stigmatization my strict upbringing evokes on masturbation, a no-no for me to accomplish.

My nerdy personality has narrowed my potential female audience. Therefore, I was joyous when Florence had given in to my courting, and we have started dating. She is my first girlfriend, I might add. But in our lovemaking, I haven't been able to re-produce the level of arousal, I had experienced in that men's room.

But that's in the past.

If she dares to fondle me now, I'd vehemently object. No more subservient silence. I'll stop her from touching me. After all, I outmuscle her easily. I'll show Mrs. Simmons, I won't tolerate her impertinent behavior any longer.

So, let's get this over with. I steel my resolve, before I walk towards the open door.

I peek inside the lecture room, and to my surprise find it empty, just like the rest of the deserted building. It can't be. I steal a look around the corner, and then I spot her. Mrs. Simmons is sitting at one of the elongated tables at the very side of the room and seems to be working on something. I don't know why her lone presence invokes such a chilly feel down my spine. Why did she insist on a quarter to seven? That is creepy. It's Friday evening and the ordinarily packed campus is deserted.

Observing her, once more, gets me all worked up. I realize, my irritations with her are on so many levels, I don't know where to begin. Her apparent indifference towards the emotional turmoil she has caused, has made me loath the arrogant vibes I pick up in her presence. If it weren't for that intimidating middle-aged female, I'd already be gone. I don't know what I'd be doing, because I don't feel like going out. But at least, I'd be someplace else. Instead, I must deal with her on my own, on her terms and turf, that dreadful lecture room.

She is wearing her glasses. They enhance her authoritative appearance. She is speedy in her grading, or whatever she is doing. Looks like she's done it a thousand times. I try to rationalize my emotional mix-up. I've passed her course. So, no more harassment. I grin cheekily, fine-tuning that thought. Now that I have passed her course, for me, she's a has been.

What will you do now, when your powers to harass are gone?

Suddenly she speaks.

"Close the door, Bobbie, and approach my desk."

She doesn't even bother to look up. What an arrogant woman. In an act of defiance, with a loud bang, I slam the door shut.

She looks up with that displeased look I know so well. I'm so used to her authority, I cringe. It's an odd felling, but I always feel intimidated by her stare. I haven't found out what it is, that makes me think she knows everything about me. As if there's nothing her piercing eyes wouldn't see, even my darkest secrets.

"Don't slouch along Bobbie. Take a chair and put it next to mine. I need to show you something. And Bobbie, cease that hostility of yours, at once."

I try fighting it, but the familiar sharpness in her voice makes me wince. What is it with her? Why does she intimidate so easily? I force myself to meet her gaze. And even though she has her usual no nonsense expression in her face, I notice something slightly off. I'm not immediately sure what it is. It makes me tense up nevertheless. Do I pick up signs of arousal in her gaze? It can't be. Yet, I'm not able to dismiss the notion completely, that Mrs. Simmons is looking me over. The way her eyes follow my every move, while I move that stupid chair, makes me check if my fly is open or something equally baring. I have the distinct feeling she's checking out my crotch. Why would she openly do such a thing? This whole after the hour's appointment is rapidly becoming unnerving.

"Come along Bobbie, I haven't got all day."

That's her thing. Keep me on the edge. This woman has developed a keen sense for my insecurities. Whenever I summon enough courage to oppose her, she deflates my ego in the blink of an eye. She just loves to admonish and criticize everything she makes me do. And I hate that trivialized version of my name. Nobody calls me Bobbie, except her. I'm ok with Bob, but I prefer Robert.

I put the chair next to hers, but not too close. I keep a respectful distance.

But that's not what she has in mind. Without looking up she points on the floor close to her chair, while she continues grading.

That's far too close. She can't possibly want me to sit that close. What is she thinking? There're rules of engagement with students. If somebody sees us bundled together like this in an otherwise empty classroom, it would surely raise eyebrows.

I'm concerned she might fondle me again. Especially since we're alone. Not that a full classroom has stopped her before. But she must know her powers to harass are gone. I have been set free, the moment I have passed her final exam. If she touches me, I plan on pushing her back.

I hesitate to move my chair.

"Bobbie, I want you to sit close by. You're going to watch a short video. And I want to observe your reaction up close. So, move your chair next to mine."

There it is again. As if I have been conditioned by an unknown force, the dominant tone in her voice makes me move the chair. I feel pressured, even though there's nothing more for her to pressure me with. I hate myself for my pansy compliance. To ease my conflict, I let thoughts enter my mind, that maybe I'm still somewhat attracted to her, even though she that much older. Is this the underlying vibe, why I accept her authoritarian attitude without putting up a fight?

Her nearness makes me pick up the distinct scent of her perfume. By now, it's spicy aroma has been ingrained into my awareness. And as if by Pavlovian conditioning, I feel a shameful twitching in my loins. This can't be happening. What's wrong with me?

Once more, I try rationalizing my emotional mix-up. It must be that distinct scent of her presence, which amplifies the emotional muddle I have towards her. I perceive Mrs. Simmons as coldly detached. Someone untouchable and in a whole different league. Probably because of our huge difference in age, everything with her radiates mature arrogance. Yet, only in her presence, do I experience that sort of heightened state of awareness. I can't deny it, the way my cock has twitched while I sat down next to her, is entirely different to what I usually experience, when I'm fooling around with Florence. Unlike my girlfriend, Mrs. Simmons doesn't fall for my practiced mannerisms. Right from the beginning, she has seen through my put-on façade.

What does she want from me? Why all the attention? To bolster my ego, I contemplate it is physical. Maybe she is into young studs. On personality, I'm no stud, but from a mere physical viewpoint, I do qualify. I'm tall, and since Mother made me do a lot of sports, I pride myself with a well-trained and muscular body.

"I'll be with you in a minute. If you want to speed things up, open my purse, and take out my phone. Put it on the desk. I'll unlock it in a moment."

Wordlessly, I grab her rather bulky purse and open it.

Nothing prepared me for what I find in that handbag. The one item that stands out, and immediately catches my attention, is a large black object. There is a name for it. What was it? It's some sort of butt plug. Then I remember, what was written in the description: Rectal Tamer. For a moment, I can't decide on being embarrassed, or to glee about a potential turn the tables.

I recognize the plug. It is part of a set. Though I try reasoning, I only inadvertently clicked it on that homepage, while I have been shopping for condoms, it's hard to dismiss my curiosity for those shameful artefacts.

Mrs. Simmons carries the medium one in her purse. I had no idea about the intimidating size of those lewd objects. The largest object of the three-part set must have grotesque proportions. I'd never be able to put any of these even near that part of my body. Last time I had something up my rear had been in childhood, when Mother had to administer suppositories for a week. Even though I had really been sick, to this day, I dread that feeling of immense shame I went through in those moments. Mother had initially objected to deliver them, but my pediatrician had made her do it. I have extensively been conditioned by her mind set. That part of one's body is vulgar, and to be trifled with for one purpose only.

Mrs. Simmons' unintended indiscretion puts a devilish grin on my face. She must have forgotten she has it in there. Finally, we're on even footing. I'm not going to let the opportunity to humiliate her pass. Of course, I'll try to embarrass her. But, I don't have the courage to openly question her about that thing. Yet, I want her to know, I know.

I take out her phone, and then position her purse on the desk, feigning a certain clumsiness, so that the black object is in plain sight. She must be mortified. Gloatingly, I expect her stern face coloring, and triumphantly wait for her response.

But there is none. Even though she has clearly observed my clumsiness. Unperturbed she continues to correct the paper. Bewildered, I covertly observe her face behind my mop of hair. I've never checked out her face that close. She is about the same age as Mother. I must admit, age hasn't caught up with her that much. Mrs. Simmons is still surprisingly radiant. As usual, she's wearing very little makeup.

"Very well, all done. OK, Bobbie, now, I want you to look at the footage and tell me what you think."