Chapter 49
Simon
Ifinish hammering my login details into the browser and find an unread message from @Unhinged on the next screen.
Giddy like a prepubescent teen, I scurry to open it and find a graphic of a dancing penis with the words “CLICK HERE” beneath.
It’s a digital invite to a private screening with no other details.
As soon as I click on the twitching phallus, a new window sprawls across my screen. It’s a video. A woman posed as a university student awaits. @Unhinged stands with a sultry humility capturing my attention in a blink.
Her figure is lush and unapologetically full. A softly rounded belly curves naturally beneath the crop of a snug white button-up shirt. Faint silhouettes of her tattoos peek through the sleeves, and fabric clings to her generous bust. Straining buttons add tension to every breath she takes.
Her hair is styled in two playful pigtails, thick and glossy, tumbling down over each of her breasts with dramatic flair.
White knee-high stockings accentuate the smooth fullness of her legs, the fabric stretching just enough over curves to be noticed.
Her calves flex slightly in strappy high heels, buckled tight at the ankle, emphasizing both strength and sensuality in her every line.
A pleated gray and pink skirt hugs her waist snugly, then flares over her hips, the hem teasing the tops of her breathtaking thighs.
Thick, powerful, and soft in all the right places.
They press together with a plushness which speaks of strength wrapped in seduction.
She shifts, and her legs flex with a quiet power.
Feminine. Commanding. Utterly magnetic. There’s nothing shy about them.
They’re bold. They’re beautiful. They’re sensual thunder, appearing soft to the touch, heavy with presence, and impossible to forget.
Entranced, I feel the space around me getting smaller.
The air feels heavier, and my attention has been rendered involuntary.
She stands angled, one hand playing with her skirt.
The other brushing a pigtail off her shoulder.
Her expression is stifling. Eyes half-lidded.
Lips parted. A knowing sneer says she’s completely in control.
There’s no shame in her curves, only power, confidence, and an unshakable sense of self that turns a simple posture into something hypnotic.
She embodies ‘Bad Bitch’ with pink cotton candy lipstick and fluorescent blue eyeshadow with a decent amount of mascara that really sells the young and vibrant look.
She has rigged a pair of men’s slacks with a bulge, showing partially in the frame. A new twist.
“Hey there, professor.” She looks to the camera and speaks in a seductive tone.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” She bites down on the tip of her forefinger and lifts her eyes to feign vulnerability or embarrassment.
I can’t tell which. “I’m really sorry I missed the midterm.
Is there anything I can do to make up for the zero you gave me?
Anything at all?” she emphasizes while pausing to offers a lusty glare at the camera.
I wish this were live. I wish I could send her a tip with a nasty note. I wish I could tell her how hard I am for her.
“Do you have something in here for me, professor?” she teases, gently rubbing her hand over the bulge in the professor’s pants. My pants. “Are you going to let me show you how much better I can do?”
She brushes against my crotch harder and longer, gripping the length of my cock through my pants.
“Are you going to let me show you that I’m a good girl?”
I almost forget I’m on the other side of the screen. My dick, the one actually in my pants, is rock hard and straining against the inside of my slacks.
She slowly unbuckles the professor’s belt and unbuttons the pants.
Out flops a massive dildo. But it looks so very real.
She slowly starts stroking the length of the fleshy toy while making rigid eye contact with the camera, looking through my soul.
Even though she’s not touching me, my cock twitches, and the high-quality threading of the fabric is like a slow rug burn on the head of my dick.
“Does that feel good, professor?” she asks, biting her bottom lip and offering a moan into an unseen microphone.
My hand moves the mouse, racing to send another tip, before I remember I can’t. She’s not actually here. I’m being tortured by the spirit of an internet slut.
She rises from the professor's lap, her weight shifting forward until her face fills my screen.
The V of her shirt gapes as she leans in, shadows deepening between the swells of flesh.
One by one, her fingers work each button free with deliberate pauses.
The fabric parts, revealing inch after inch of skin before sliding down her arms with a whisper.
Her shoulders roll. First right, then left, then right again.
Each movement sends tremors across the thin fabric still clinging to her chest. Her arms reach behind, elbows jutting outward as her fingers find the clasp.
A flick, a release, and her bra arcs through the air before vanishing offscreen.
She pivots, presenting her back to the lens. To the faceless professor. To me.
She folds at the waist, her spine curving vertebra by vertebra.
Her palms glide over her thighs and past her knees, reaching for the leather straps circling her ankles.
The pleated fabric of her skirt lifts, revealing the white lace disappearing between two full curves.
Her returning ascent is measured. Fingertips trail up the curve of calf muscle, skating over the hollow behind each knee.
Her hands vanish beneath ruched fabric. A flash of white lace appears between her thighs as she bends forward, the skirt riding up just enough to reveal the crook where buttock meets thigh.
She steps one foot free, then the other, delicate ankles working through elastic.
My balls tighten and I shift in my chair, noticing the inside of pants are now damp.
She pirouettes slowly, humming something just below the microphone's capture, her hips swaying to private music.
When she faces me again, her fingers press into the flesh of her breasts.
They slide downward, revealing twin glints of silver, where industrial clamps bite into darkened skin, the metal catching light as she breathes.
“Fuck,” escapes my lips.
Her thumbs hook fabric at her waist. The skirt clings to her curves, fabric stretching taut before surrendering with a whisper as it pools around her ankles.
She lifts one leg, the muscle in her thigh tensing as she plants her heel between the professor's knees.
Her breath catches. Two fingers disappear between her parted lips, rubbing them slowly back across her tongue and into her throat, where she penetrates the opening two, then three times before pulling out her spit-covered fingers.
A strand of saliva stretches, breaks, and falls.
Her fingers find their target, circling her clit with deliberate pressure.
The wet sound carries through my speakers.
Her free hand enters the frame, thumb and forefinger spreading delicate flesh.
Metal glints in the light. Another clamp.
The teeth close. Her body goes rigid. A visible tremor races from her hips to her shoulders.
Her eyes flutter closed, then open. Her pupils dilate.
Her jaw clenches, then relaxes into a half-smile which transforms her entire face.
Her lips part again, before she sinks to her knees.
The floorboards creak beneath her weight.
One palm braces against the professor's thigh, fingers splayed wide. Her neck arches as she studies her subject. Another strand of saliva hangs in temptation from her lower lip. It stretches in gravity’s pull, until it finally connects with the head of the professor’s cock.
Her grip tightens around the base, knuckles whitening.
The spit-coated tip disappears past painted lips, stretching them into a perfect circle.
Her throat visibly constricts, and a wet, strangled sound tears from deep in her chest. She presses forward until her nose flattens against the professor’s would-be hips.
Her body rebels. Her shoulders heave while her throat spasms. But her determination never wavers.
Her head comes up, and I see the bright blue of her mascara has started to run, but she doesn't care. She goes back to work, sucking the professor's dick harder and faster.
My wrist aches. Sweat beads at my temples.
I blink down to find my fingers wrapped around myself, slick and pulsing.
The rhythm of her bobbing head has somehow synchronized with my own hand.
Up when she rises. Down when she swallows.
Heat builds at the base of my spine, and the pressure behind my balls is nearly agonizing.
Three more strokes and—her lips pull away.
The wet pop as she releases him echoes through my speakers. My hand freezes mid-stroke.
“Hands off,” she says into the camera, and I do as I'm told.
I have no idea why, but I do. She slowly pulls the pants down the professor's legs, which I can now see is a very real scale mannequin or doll with an anatomically adequate cock.
@Unhinged stands and steps forward, straddling the professor's lap.
She takes care to align the head of his dick with her soaking entrance.
And after a slight adjustment, she lowers herself all the way to the hilt on his dick.