Confessions of a Very Slutty Professor

My name is Daniela. I’m married, although for some time now my marriage has existed more out of habit than anything else, and I teach at a private university in a big city where everyone pretends to be respectable during the day and looks for a way to blow off steam at night. I’ve always looked like a serious woman, the kind who grades papers, runs meetings, and speaks with confidence, but underneath that façade there’s something else. I like to fuck, I like to suck cock, I like feeling a hard dick in my hands, in my mouth, between my tits, against my ass, and I go crazy when a man cums somewhere I can see it and smell it.

I’m not writing this to look for a partner or to play mysterious. I’m writing it because telling it turns me on. Because for years I learned to walk around with a public version and a secret one, and the secret one was always the more honest.

When I was young, I spent some time in a small town where my family owned several modest businesses. In the afternoons I helped out at a shop near home, and that was where I learned two things at once: how to work a cash register and how to recognize the way a man looks at you when he isn’t thinking about buying anything. I developed early, had good legs, big tits, and a way of moving that attracted looks even when I wasn’t trying.

Very soon I discovered that touching myself calmed me down and turned me on at the same time. I would lock myself in the bathroom, open my blouse, pinch my nipples with my fingertips, and lower my hand until I felt myself getting wet. At first I only rubbed my clitoris slowly, afraid someone might knock on the door; later I began fingering myself and imagining voices, hands, mouths, older men, men with authority, men who would undress me without asking too many questions.

When I grew up, that impulse didn’t go away. Quite the opposite. I learned to disguise it as flirting, curiosity, an accident. Kisses in hidden corners, hands under the table, quick squeezes in a hallway, hurried blowjobs in places where the risk of being seen made me even wetter. I was never the most romantic woman. Urgent desire always turned me on more than promises.

At university I stayed the same. I had a steady boyfriend and still let myself be carried away by any man who knew how to whisper in my ear as if he had already seen me naked. Many times I ended up in parked cars, my skirt hiked up to my waist and my mouth full. The thrill of fogged-up windows, a half-empty street, a couple walking a few yards away without knowing I was on my knees sucking a dick—it was too much for me.

Over the years came my master’s degree, my doctorate, and work. Then came conferences, hotels, traveling alone, and the quiet freedom that prestige brings. My husband was never the type to come with me or ask too many questions. That distance left me room. And I filled that room with lovers, adventures, recklessness, and a sex life that, far from fading, became more precise. I was no longer satisfied with fantasizing. I wanted complete scenes, whole bodies, hot cum, dirty words spoken to my face.

My neighborhood didn’t help me keep myself under control, either. I live in an area where everyone finds out everything, even if they pretend they don’t. Some neighbors already knew about me before they had ever touched me; others found out when they saw me get into a car that wasn’t my husband’s or when they found me far too close to a certain mechanic at the back of an alley. I don’t care. In fact, knowing rumors are circulating turns me on. There’s something about being the woman who appears orderly while hiding a delicious mess.

One of those messes began at the gym. In this story, his name will be Mauro. It isn’t his real name, just as mine and the places aren’t, but the way he looked at me the first time was real: slowly, steadily, moving from my eyes to my cleavage and from my cleavage to my legs, as if there were no rush. He was a little over thirty, with a worked-out body, a short beard, and that arrogant calm of men who know they’re attractive.

We crossed paths at the same time several times a week. At first it was a smile. Then a “hello.” Then innocent comments about the heat, the music, the machines being occupied. But the real language was somewhere else: in the way he pressed against me when he walked behind me, in the way he corrected my posture by placing a firm hand on my waist, in the way I stayed still longer than necessary.

One afternoon my husband had gone to visit his mother, and I’d had two days of fucking anxiety building up in my body. I put on tight leggings, a loose T-shirt, and went to the gym with my mind almost made up. Mauro found me doing leg exercises and positioned himself beside me.

“You’re showing off today,” he said, staring openly at my ass.

“Am I?” I replied, keeping my voice calm.

“Yeah. And I think you know it.”

I felt that heat below my navel that I know far too well. I kept working out for a while longer, just to stretch out the tension. When I went for water, he approached the machine and lowered his voice.

“There’s a service corridor behind the locker rooms. Almost nobody goes through there at this hour.”

He said it and kept walking without turning to look at me. Just like that, as if he’d left a key on a table.

I waited five minutes, maybe six. Long enough not to seem desperate, but not long enough to cool down. I crossed the corridor with my heart pounding in my chest and found him leaning against the wall, alone, with the metal door closed behind him. As soon as he saw me, he gave me a sideways smile.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Don’t get used to being right so often,” I told him.

He came close until he was pressed against me. He smelled of clean sweat and expensive deodorant. He put one hand on the back of my neck and kissed me without ceremony, hungrily, his tongue thrusting in at once and forcing my mouth open. I answered in kind, biting his lip and lightly digging my nails into his T-shirt. My other hand went straight to his package. He was hard. Very hard.

“That’s how I like it,” he murmured against my mouth. “No playing hard to get.”

He pressed me against the wall and fondled one of my tits through my shirt, kneading it hard until my nipple stiffened. I lowered the zipper of his sweatpants and slipped my hand inside his briefs. His cock filled my palm, thick and hot, already wet at the tip. I squeezed it slowly and he let out a short moan.

“Take it out,” I told him.

He took it out himself, hurriedly. I saw it standing hard in front of me and felt a direct tug in my cunt. I knelt on the floor without worrying about anything else. Mauro held my hair in one hand, gathering it back, and ran the tip over my lips.

“Open your mouth wide.”

I obeyed. He eased it in slowly at first, just the head, pushing until my tongue curled around the rim. The salty taste sent a shiver through me. Then I really started sucking him, moving up and down rhythmically, sucking eagerly, feeling my cheeks stretch every time he went deeper. He guided me with a hand in my hair—not brutal, but definitely commanding—and that made me even hotter.

“Fuck, you suck so well,” he said, looking at me. “You can tell you like cock.”

I answered by taking him as far as I could, my eyes watering and my throat tight. When I pulled my mouth off, a string of saliva stretched between the tip and my lips. He wiped it away with his thumb and put it back in my mouth.

“Don’t waste anything.”

I kept sucking him harder. I slipped one hand between my legs, over the leggings, and started rubbing myself while I sucked him. Mauro noticed. He hauled me to my feet, turned me around, and pressed me against the wall again, now with my back to him. He pulled my leggings and underwear down to my thighs in one motion.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re soaked.”

He spread my ass cheeks with his hands and ran his fingers between my lips. I arched my back and rested my forehead against the cold wall. He pushed in one finger, then two, without warning, pumping with a dirty, confident rhythm that drew a hoarse moan from me.

“Slower... no,” I said, correcting myself immediately. “No, like that. That’s good.”

He laughed against my ear. He pulled his fingers out and brought them to my mouth. I tasted my own wetness while he positioned himself behind me. I felt the tip of his cock brushing my entrance and tensed—not from fear, but from pure anticipation.

“I want you to put it all the way in,” I begged, turning my face slightly. “Don’t make me wait.”

He grabbed my hip and drove into me with one firm thrust. I let out a cry that bounced down the corridor, and he covered my mouth with his free hand—not to silence me completely, but to remind me where we were. He started fucking me hard, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt, striking me with a dry rhythm that made my legs tremble.

I spread my ass wider, giving him better access, and pushed my butt back to take him. Every thrust sounded wet. Every time he went deep, he left me breathless. Mauro bit the back of my neck, squeezed my tits through my clothes, and muttered filthy things between his teeth.

“You love getting fucked here, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The thought that someone might find you with a cock inside you.”

“Yes, goddamn it.”

“Say it properly.”

“I love being fucked where people can see me.”

That made him worse. He pulled my hair, forced me to arch farther, and sped up. I felt my swollen, throbbing clitoris, every blow sending a delicious pressure up through my belly. I slipped one hand between my legs and started rubbing it quickly while he kept burying himself in me with brutal consistency.

“Come for me,” he said. “I want to feel you squeeze.”

I didn’t have to work very hard. My orgasm surged up all at once, hard, like a discharge that closed my thighs and made me moan against his hand. I came shaking all over, my cunt contracting around his cock and my legs on the verge of giving out. Mauro groaned when he felt it and didn’t stop. He kept fucking me while I was still trembling, taking advantage of that furious sensitivity that makes everything burn more and feel better.

“Don’t stop,” I told him when he took his hand from my mouth. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Then he turned me around so I was facing him. He lifted one leg, held it behind the knee, and pushed into me again, now looking me in the eyes. That position opened me completely. Every penetration shook my tits and forced me to hold on to his shoulders. I kissed him desperately, biting his tongue, while he drilled me with a mixture of urgency and control that reduced me to nothing.

“I want to come on your face,” he said.

“Do it.”

He pulled out of me, let go of my leg, and gently pushed me downward. I understood immediately. I knelt again and started sucking him, fast and deep, my breathing ragged. He gripped his shaft with one hand and lightly slapped the tip against my lips a couple of times, already on the verge of coming.

“Take it out. I want to see you.”

I raised myself a little, opened my mouth, and stuck out my tongue. He masturbated in front of me twice, three times, and came. His semen landed on my lips, my tongue, and one cheek. I caught some of the rest in my mouth when I moved my face closer so I wouldn’t lose it. I swallowed what I could, then ran a finger along the corner of my mouth and sucked off the rest. Mauro watched me as if he wanted to memorize the scene.

“Now I understand why half the gym stares at you,” he said, still panting.

“Don’t get excited,” I replied, wiping my face with my shirt. “You’re not the center of the universe.”

He laughed. I pulled my clothes back up and noticed my legs were weak, my cunt throbbing, that delicious ache of having been thoroughly fucked. Before I left, he caught me by the wrist and kissed me again.

“This isn’t over.”

“That depends on how useful you turn out to be,” I shot back, although inside I already knew I’d do it again.

And I did.

***

Weeks later I had an appointment with my gynecologist, another one of those men with whom I crossed a line I no longer cared to uncross. I’ll call him Esteban. I met him during a routine examination, one of many, but from the first moment I noticed there was something between us beyond medical courtesy. It wasn’t immediate, clumsy, or romantic. It was a dry, adult tension made of sustained looks and silences that lasted too long.

His office was in a discreet clinic. He was neat, attentive, soft-spoken, and had the bad habit of complimenting me with a naturalness that made everything more dangerous. “You look very good today,” “you always smell nice,” “what discipline you have when it comes to taking care of yourself.” Gentle, almost innocent phrases spoken by a man who examined me with gloves and a professional calm that left me wetter than it should have.

That afternoon I arrived alone. My husband was still away, the city was rainy, and I was wearing a wrap dress that accentuated my waist. When I entered the office, Esteban closed the door more carefully than usual. We talked for a few minutes. He asked me about work, travel, stress. I answered while staring at him far too intently. We both knew the examination was a flimsy pretext.

“Go into the examination area,” he instructed.

I lay down on the table and lifted my dress. I wasn’t wearing stockings, just simple underwear, which ended up around my ankles when he pulled it down. I felt vulnerable lying open before him, my legs spread, and instead of making me uncomfortable, it turned me on as always. He put on gloves, applied gel, and began the examination with a slowness that was anything but accidental.

“Relax,” he said.

“I am relaxed.”

He smiled faintly. His fingers moved with that clinical precision that, in another context, would have been neutral. In this one, it wasn’t. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply, where to pause, how to make an examination resemble a game far too closely. When I lifted my hips slightly, he noticed.

“Daniela,” he murmured, “if you keep moving like that, you’re going to make this difficult for me.”

“Maybe I want to make it difficult for you.”

He removed his gloves slowly without taking his eyes off me. Then he came to my mouth and kissed me. It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. It was the kiss of a man who had already decided to cross everything that remained. I spread my legs wider, inviting him. He caressed my thigh, moved his hand upward, brushed my pubis, and exhaled through his teeth when he found me wet.

“I always imagined you’d be like this,” he said.

“Then stop imagining and do something.”

He slipped his hand between my legs and began rubbing my clitoris in slow, firm circles while he sucked my neck. I gripped the examination table and spread my knees wider. I felt the leather beneath my back, the cool air of the office against my skin, and that absurd combination of a medical setting and unleashed arousal that drove me out of my mind.

Esteban knelt between my legs and kissed the insides of my thighs before pressing his mouth to my cunt. There was nothing shy about him. He spread my lips with his fingers and began licking me from bottom to top, thrusting his tongue in hungrily, pausing at my clitoris to suck it as if he wanted to draw a confession out of me. I moaned without holding back, my head thrown back and one hand lost in his hair.

“Fuck... keep going... like that,” I managed to say.

His tongue went in and out, running over every part of me. Then he added two fingers, curling them inside me while he ate my clitoris with cruel consistency. Pleasure built up so quickly it almost made me angry. I wanted more time, but my body was already giving in. I came in his mouth with a powerful spasm, squeezing his head between my thighs.

He rose slowly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave me a smile that made me hot all over again.

“You taste so good,” he said softly. “Always so open, so wet.”

I unbuttoned his pants from the examination table. I pulled out his cock and sat up just enough to lick the tip. Then I took it into my mouth. It was thick, straight, the kind that fills you properly without needing to exaggerate. I sucked it slowly at first, just to torment him a little, and then began swallowing it deep, letting saliva run down the shaft. He held my jaw and fucked my mouth with measured thrusts, keeping control of the rhythm while taking advantage of every opening of my lips.

“That’s it, skinny,” he murmured. “You give such delicious head.”

His words went straight through me. I squeezed my thighs, got wet again, and kept sucking him until I realized he no longer wanted to wait. I pushed him away slightly and lay back down.

“Put it in me now.”

Esteban took a condom from the drawer, as if that extra tidiness made everything less indecent. He lifted my legs and penetrated me slowly, inch by inch, letting my body open to his size. I took a deep breath, enjoying that long entry, the stretch, the mounting pressure. When he was completely inside, he stayed still for a second, looking at me.

“You feel incredible.”

“Then move.”

He began with deep, controlled thrusts, always striking the exact spot that made me close my eyes. Nothing rough at first. Just a firm cadence from a confident man, filling me with heat. My tits bounced beneath the neckline of my dress, my hands clung to his forearms, and I encouraged him with ragged breaths.

Little by little he lost his composure. His thrusts grew stronger, faster. The table creaked. The wet sound of penetration filled the room, and I began whispering obscenities in his ear, asking him to go deeper, harder, reminding him that I had spent too long imagining this for him to come up short now.

“That’s it,” I gasped. “Fuck me properly. Don’t treat me like a patient.”

He grabbed me by the hips and obeyed. Each thrust made me slide a few inches across the paper on the examination table. He spread my legs wider, changed the angle slightly, and made me see stars. I let out a loud, indecent moan that could not possibly have been mistaken for pain.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said.

He placed one hand around my throat, not squeezing all the way, just holding me, and with the other rubbed my clitoris while he kept thrusting into me to the hilt. That double stimulation undid me. I came again, my whole body shaking, my back arched, my cunt squeezing him in a way that nearly made him lose his rhythm. He groaned and kept going for a few more seconds, getting closer and closer.

“I’m going to come.”

“Do it in the condom, then show me what you look like,” I told him, still trembling.

That pushed him over the edge. He buried himself one last time and came with his face tense, breathing through his mouth. He remained leaning over me for a moment, catching his breath, then pulled out. He removed the condom calmly and set it aside before arranging my underwear again, as if closing a carefully planned scene.

“I can’t believe this happened here,” he said.

“I can,” I replied. “The strange thing would have been to keep pretending.”

Before I left, he touched up my crooked lipstick with his thumb and kissed me once more. Then I walked out into the street with my legs still sensitive and a smile no one would have known how to read. To anyone else, I was a professor leaving an appointment. Only I knew I had just been eaten out and fucked on an examination table.

I could go on. There are more stories: alleys, cars, cheap hotels, work trips, neighbors who pretend not to know me in the elevator after having fucked me the night before. But this time I wanted to start here, with the basics, by saying out loud what I am when no one is watching me too closely. An adult woman, educated, functional, and very slutty. A woman who enjoys risk, infidelity, other people’s hands, and the feeling of walking out into the street after fucking as if nothing had happened.

And the best part is that it has happened. Many times. More than it should have. Fewer than I would like.