EXTRACT FOR
The Professor's Pet
(Lance Edwards)
The
Present
Looking back at it now, it's really hard to understand how the hell it
all happened. It'll be harder still to explain, I'm sure. Well to start with, those were different times. Of course, every time
has its own idiosyncrasies, as well its own timeless familiarities. Hell, the
use of mind-altering drugs dates back to pre-history. Even birds drunk on
fermented berries crash into implacable barriers time and again before
fluttering at last, broken and vulnerable, to lie on the ground to await the
inevitable predator... In any case, this was the mid eighties: a
tough time for liberal attitudes, what with Mr. Reagan grinning vacantly over a
staunchly conservative country. But despite blithe Ronnie and "Just Say No"
Nancy, it was also a time of cocaine-on-the-brain; fast advances in the
breeding of ever-more-potent strains of pot, and of course the timely advent of
Ecstasy and other erotically active drugs. Not to mention whatever strange combinations of hypnotics and other
esoteric ingredients I was about to be fed. Yet despite what they did to me, I
can't totally blame what's become of me on drugs, no more than anyone else can.
I believe that those weird-ass chemicals - and of course the severely beautiful
Dr. Teri Teasel - perhaps merely exploited weaknesses already inherent in me.
Who knows, right? In any case, it's still nice to have extenuating
circumstances to point to on those long empty nights when I can't sleep, lying
bound up tight at the foot of my beloved's bed, quietly struggling to figure
out how on Earth this all came about... Of course, 'coming about' is a rather involved story, with so much
'coming' of at least one variety, that you may want to settle back a bit,
loosen your belt, and prepare to keep a hand free while I recall it. You may
just find yourself as helpless was I was to resist the powerful forces
unleashed when Dr. Teri suddenly 'came' into my life. If any case, beware! Extreme arousal and the uncontrollable lure of
orgasm can lead you to places you'd never dreamed of, and then leave you
suddenly gaping like a landed fish, stuck struggling in a state so abject and
yet so exalted, so endlessly yearning and yet so bizarrely fulfilled, that you'll
finally find yourself like me: lying awake for hours on end, composing memoirs
in your head in a futile attempt to explain it all to your irrevocably
messed-up self... September
1986
1. So: Like I said, it was the mid-eighties. Gird up your loins - or better
yet, loosen them a bit - and try not
to sympathize! Good luck. In any case, back then I was like uncounted other
eighteen year-old guys, leaving the dozy, stodgy Now I'd known that I had a big dick for years, naturally. Gym class, and
then years of soccer practice had proved that beyond all doubt. All the envious
ribbing, even ridiculing - not to mention the evidence of my senses - had made
that indisputable. Despite being wiry if not quite slight, and only five foot-ten, I'd
somehow been gifted with the member of a mastodon. Yet what good was such a
gift if it made me not only an object of ridicule, but unfortunately
exceptional to the point of celibacy? Clearly, it would take either a career in
pornography or a similarly exceptional woman to finally find a destiny for me... Enter Dr. Teri Teasel. Now this was an exceptional woman if there ever was one, and in a wide
variety of ways. Not quite thirty yet, Dr. Teasel taught both Chemistry and
Psychology at my chosen University, and she held a degree in Pharmacology as
well. A former child prodigy and widely acknowledged genius, she was even
rumored to have overseen top-secret studies for the nation's intelligence
services. A classic type-A personality, she was brilliant and driven,
over-achieving and domineering, supremely cold and calculating and as stern and
strict in the classroom as any professor ever. Incidentally, of course, she was
also remarkably attractive. A classic Nordic beauty, she was tall and slender, with perfect aquiline
features, piercing blue eyes and waist-length hair of scintillant
platinum-blonde. Her legs were long and shapely; her hips flared fetchingly
wide and her waist and belly contrastingly trim. While not particularly large,
her breasts were achingly pointy and upswept, with huge conical nipples that
habitually protruded through the thin, filmy blouses she favored. The fact that
she was also always braless made for a maddening distraction in her classes, a
fact I quickly discovered in my first week of school. Chemistry 101 was my last class of the day. Next to the first class,
when hangovers and general bleariness often make it impossible to concentrate,
this time period - well after lunch and just before soccer practice - was the
worst. Add in a gorgeous professor with skirts split to mid-thigh and barely
concealed breasts, and even the rather simple facts of elementary chemistry had
trouble competing with those of a more hormonal kind. I was no different from any other adolescent male. I didn't care what a
bitch she was. After the first week, I didn't even care about my grade -
although dropping below a 2.0 would cost me my soccer scholarship. All I cared
about was the free show - and maybe indulging in a few incidental fantasies
rather than absorbing the molecular structures of the various types of sugar... So of course, coincidence and synchronicity conspired to condemn me. This class was right before soccer practice, right? And I had lunch,
then a free period, then Chem 101 at So there I was: sitting right smack in front of the podium, wearing just
moccasins, boxers, baggy sweat pants and an ever baggier Buffalo Sabres hockey jersey, when Ms
unbelievably snotty and hot strutted into the room wearing a jet black skirt
cut just as short and slit just as high, and a white silk blouse even more
filmy and thin than ever, and began lecturing on the chemistry of sexual
reproduction. Okay, it was all gametes this and chromosomes that. But since when did
specifics matter shit to emotions? And whenever did a determined if
inconvenient erection agree to stop fucking swelling? Sitting in the front row
in the loosest of clothing, with no real desk but a typically miniscule college
right-hand writing platform to hide behind, I suddenly had a seriously
humiliating problem to deal with. I fidgeted, shifted, tried to rearrange my rapidly hardening dick, but
to no avail. Soon I was pitching a tent in my pants that would be obvious to
anyone who looked. Worse, within a minute it had elongated enough to
effortlessly push aside my dual elastic waistbands and poke right up out of the
top of my pants! Hastily I arranged my shirt to cover it, but nothing could hide the
huge, pulsing bulge underneath my clothes. Next, I tried moving my books onto
my lap to crush it down, but that heavy pressure only made me throb up even
harder. I was desperately trying to hold the books in place with my left hand
and take notes with my right, when finally disaster struck. An extra urgent
pulse of my fully-awakened monster suddenly caused my grip on the books to
slip, whereupon they promptly crashed to the floor, interrupting the lecture
and drawing all eyes in the room to me. |