The moment I met Professor Horton, I knew he’d be easy prey. He was a tall, thin man in rimless spectacles who shined when delivering lectures but was very shy and reserved in private.
He tried to tell me that my grades were suffering, that my projects were overdue and I needed to knuckle down and focus. No more late nights or parties.
But I could tell from the way his eyes lingered on me that he wanted me. He barely resisted when I ran my hand up the inside of his thigh and lay there, stunned, desperately trying to process how we’d gotten from his office to my dorm room.
He soon came to enjoy our trysts and, as I let him do unspeakable things to me, the last thing on his mind were my poor grades.
He delighted in typing my dissertation for me. He sat hunched over my desk, completely nude save for a ball gag in his mouth, tight leather straps digging into his flesh, and yelped with pleasure as I sauntered past, wedged into a skimpy red and black number and flaying him with a barbed cat-o-nine tails.
As he finished up, his eyes swam with tears and begged to be released from his bondage so he could have me once more. I favoured him with a sultry smile and gently ran a straight razor across his throat.
As he gagged and convulsed, dying with a hard-on, I printed the document and prepared for the next step in my life.
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