Page 1 of Bad Professor

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Dexter

I’ve always had a thing for school girls.

Not in a creepy way; my browser will prove that none of my porn favourites involve underage girls. Sexually, I am into women; all the way into women, eighteen years old and older.

Older now, since at thirty-six, I’m way too old and don’t have the mental capacity for the young ones.

Or maybe I have too much mental capacity for the young ones and not enough energy. Six months ago, I was with a woman and she was ready for a second go-around, but I had to beg for a rest. It was embarrassing.

I should clarify that I’ve always enjoyed females who educate themselves. The smarter, the better.

When I was in grade six and joined the debate team, we did a practice run with the nearby private school. A bunch of girls in their skirts and socks and ties, who could argue rings around me.

I was in love.

I went to a high school with uniforms. I had a thing for the skirts—short and pleated up and flipping up with a gust of wind to show smooth thighs and a hint of panties. Put those in an AP English class where the girls could analyze George Orwell, Jane Austen, and William Shakespeare and it’s a wonder how I had the brain cells left to graduate, let alone continue on to post-secondary education.

Of course I became a teacher.

Looking back, it probably wasn’t a good idea. At least I became a professor of literature, so all the intelligent females in my lectures were of age.

When I started teaching, the dean brought me in to give me a detailed list of rules, courtesy of the #MeToo movement. I took them to heart; I have no problem giving women the respect they deserve—as much as I have a thing for little skirts. And I never imagined I would have an issue with admiring the ladies of my classes from afar.

Until I met Mallory.

Half way through the semester, I was called back into the dean’s office for a chat because some of the other professors thought I was being a little too friendly with Mallory.

I was having sex with her every day after class, so yes, I would say there was a little too much friendliness going on.

Mallory loved how friendly I was. Before we got together, she’d sit in the front row in a little skirt, legs spread a little too wide as she listened intently as I got passionate about Jane Austen being the true queen of the romantic comedy, all the while giving me a glimpse of her pale blue panties.

I controlled myself until the day she wore no panties.

We broke up the next semester. Next September, I met Daphna, who wore jeans instead of skirts but paired them with tiny little tops that showed the smooth expanse of stomach, a belly button ring and the hint of a tattoo peeking out. She came to my office once and started arguing about how Jane Austen helped set the women’s movement back fifty years, and I ended up fucking her across my desk.

I had to keep kissing her to keep her quiet.

The next time she came for office hours, I kept my hand over her mouth. She seemed to like that a lot.

This time, the warning from the dean’s office was a little more severe. I started looking for a new job.

I landed at City University as a tenured English professor with promises that I’d matured and any inappropriate relationships with my students were in the past. The Head had just left, and they were scrambling to find people to cover courses. I fit right in and was able to develop a few new classes.

I tried to be good; there were so many suggestive glances in the lecture hall, a few flirtations outside of class, and yes, unfortunately, one or two slips, but there were no relationships. I kept things quick and casual, refused to discuss grades, and had a hard and fast rule about being seen on the university campus.

And still, the females in my class wanted me. I don’t understand it, but I’m certainly grateful.

I’ve become one of the more popular teachers at the school, with my classes always filling up quickly, and usually with a waiting list.

My students think I’m a good professor, even when I’m bad and breaking the rules.

Until I met Elena two years later.

This time, me and my student stayed together for almost three years. No one knew about us, or if they did, nothing was said. Maybe because she was in one of my second-year courses and only took the required classes that I was teaching, steering clear of the electives.

When she graduated, I thought I was in the clear, that this phase of R-rated teacher-student involvement had passed. I was safe with Elena.

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