Oya Calor
12 mins read
Published over 3 years ago

Karen was used to getting what she wanted, and she wanted her professor, Stefan Medeiros. She knew it was cliché, she knew it inappropriate, and for both of those reasons, she only wanted it more. Chalk me up to cliché, she thought, as she paraded around campus in her combat boots. Chalk me up to inappropriate.

Karen was 24 years old, and was studying Women’s Studies and Political Science at the University of the Unknown. Her hair was black, silky, and short. She had 12 earrings in total, and 2 nose rings. Brown skin. She was a secret pool shark, and everyday after a nutritious breakfast in her one-room studio apartment, she would hop on her bike and make her way to class. On the way, she would pay special attention to the sensation of the seat wedged up between her thighs. It held her together at her core. Her crocheted skirt (it was October), her bike seat. Black lacey underwear. She liked to dress for success. She would dream about Stefan as she swerved and turned, pedaled and hummed. As her pussy got warmer and moister through the fabric, as it pulsed against the firm padded seat, she looked forward to walking into class a tad late, turning heads by design. Turning his head. Even if there was the slight glint of disapproval in his eyes.  Those eyes…

Stefan was 40, never married, no kids. She wondered if he had a girlfriend somewhere that she couldn’t find anything about when she lurked around his social media pages and googled his name every now and then. There was something mysterious about him; that was it. That was why she wanted him so badly. It had to be. That, plus, his yearlong Intro to Political Critiques seminar was brilliant, and he always called on the women students first. Plus his wavy dark hair that curlicued back around his neck, over his ears. She fantasized regularly about running her fingers through that thick mess, about seizing it roughly as he pressed her down, down, onto his desk.

It was Monday morning, and Karen waltzed into class several minutes late as usual. She made up for her lateness by acing every exam and paper, daring him to be impressed with her combination of lateness and genius. Daring him to appreciate it. She smiled faintly in his direction as she entered, green army tote slung over her shoulder, and quirky fall skirt at mid-thigh length, emphasizing her long, shapely legs in their orange fall tights. Her low, chunky heels gave her a slight boost, reminding him, she hoped, of her A+ ass. Her glasses around her neck, like a wishful thinker in training. She quietly found a seat at the back of the 100-person amphitheater. Stefan quickly glanced at her. Almost imperceptibly. He barely moved his head. It was his eyes that moved to welcome her, nothing else. It wasn’t detectable to anyone but her. Usually he just raised his eyebrows a bit, exhibiting mild annoyance, which she sort of enjoyed.

She burned in her seat as she forced herself, against all urges, to take proper notes. She had always been good at forcing herself. Forcing herself was why she had straight As. It was why she could get away with being late. And it was why she had made her last lover, Adam, so happy. She had met Adam, a very tall, 30-year old mechanic when returning a rental car. He had asked her out on the spot. On their one and only date, they skipped the outing and went straight to his room. It had been magnetic with Adam. He had choked her, but not too hard. Slapped her, but just enough. And he had ordered her to force herself, which she was already so good at: Down. Good girl. Farther. More. Stop. Don’t move. Deeper. Faster. Look at me. Don’t take your eyes off me, little girl.

What Karen had learned from Adam was that she really, really liked to force herself. She liked to leave her comfort zone.

Class was coming to an end and Karen was preparing to go another week without seeing Stefan. She closed her book.

“That’s a wrap for today, everybody,” said Stefan. “Karen Wheeler, stick around for a few minutes, if you please,” he added, glancing in her direction. Her face grew hot as everyone rushed past her, into the sunny halls and onto their next class. Two months in, and she had never spoken to him in person. Sure, he had written positive, encouraging comments on her papers. But that was about it. She left her books and bag and coat where they were, and made her way down to meet him at his podium, swinging her hips, she realized, as she went.

“Stefan,” she said, nodding. He was a first-name-basis professor.

“Karen,” he said, looking up from stowing a folder in his bag. “Thank you for staying. I don’t want to make you late for the next thing—“

“No, it’s fine,” she cut in. “I don’t have much for a few hours.”

“Ok great. I just wanted to let you know that the quality of your work has really stood out to me from all the rest. Don’t tell any of your classmates this, of course.” He smiled. “A true analytical mind is a rare find,” he continued, “among professors and students alike. So I thank you for your ongoing great work and attention to detail.”

Karen controlled her reaction. Forced it down. “Thank you so much. That really means a lot to me,” she replied coolly. Burning. Pulsing. Gasping.

“There’s just one issue, Karen,” he said, looking her deep in the eye.


“Your lateness.”


“You come in about 5 minutes late every time. You miss my opening remarks, which are part of the culture of this class. Now, I understand if people have outside commitments that keep them from being exactly on time, but if that’s the case, please just let me know. Otherwise, please be on time. Showing up late is disrespectful to the rest of the class.”

Karen couldn’t handle the swing from praise to critique coming from him. She fumbled. She realized her pussy was very wet. His criticizing her had really turned her on.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I don’t really have any excuse, besides bad snooze button habits. It won’t happen again.” She looked at the floor, in spite of herself.

“That’s alright. Consider this your warning.” He smiled. “I mean, it’s not like you need to be here for your marks,” he said. “But the rest of the class definitely benefits from your insightful remarks and questions, so the more of you, the better.” He smiled at her again, looking at her fully this time. In appreciation, she thought. In admiration? He kept looking, and she did not know what to do. So she looked back.

They stood there, 24-year-old Karen Wheeler, and 40-year-old Stefan Medeiros. Student and professor. Their eyes locked and paused and stayed. For a little too long.

Now he was the one who seemed uncomfortable. “Well—I better get going,” he said.

“Do you have to?” She heard herself saying it, and could not seem to stop herself from what happened next.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have to go?” She kept looking at him, a direct line. He kept looking back.

“Come with me,” he said finally.


Stefan’s car was not like most professors’ vehicles. It was a red pickup truck. Which didn’t match his brown and green, earthy professor style.

They drove in silence. He pulled up beside the canal, finally, and parked.

“Karen, this is inappropriate. But I do admit I feel compelled to know you.”

“Do you do this with other students? Hang out in your truck?”


“So who are you, then?” she asked.

“Good question, as always,” he chuckled, reaching across to touch her thigh. The sensation of his large, heavy hand on her thin silky tights, against the flesh of her thigh, was enough to make her whimper. Without meaning to, her legs opened a little. She looked at him. She kept breathing.

“So?” she persisted.

He didn’t answer, but instead his hand continued its voyage along her thigh, caressing, massaging—first the front, and then sliding to the inside. He worked her leg as if to calm it. And then he reached back with his fingers and pressed lightly on her pussy. Her tights were wet.

“Mmm. Something tells me you want to be here,” he said. “We’re both adults, Karen. If you want to explore this, I’ll pass off your papers to my colleague for marking. Not a big deal. Up to you.”

“Yes. I’ve wanted it since the day I saw you. But you haven’t told me who you are. “

He stared at her long and hard, hands still between her legs, balled up and shoved against her wet pussy. Applying pressure.

“I moved here from Greece 5 years ago. I had a wife back home, but she died in a car accident.”

“I’m so sorry.”

 “It’s ok. I haven’t been with anyone since, largely because—“ he paused.


“Because since she died, what I want has become a little… dark. And a lot of women I’ve known don’t like the dark so much.”

Karen swallowed. “Well I do.”


The shed beside his house was dark, but he opened the curtain a little to cast a ray. There was nothing much inside—just a few boxes of old, dusty junk on either end of the small, square space, and a simple, sturdy, wooden beam at the center of everything.

“This is when others have left,” he said. “I want to tie you to this beam, and order you to obey my will. If you don’t want this, you can leave.”

Karen remained still. She took off her bag and coat, walked up to the beam, and stood in front of it. It was slightly taller than her. She stood on her toes and could touch the top. Before she knew what was happening, he was winding rope around her wrists exactly where she had placed them. He secured her there, fully clothed, as she stood on her on her tiptoes. And then he grabbed hold of her left foot, and lifted it slightly, tying it to a hook sticking out of the only piece of furniture in the room, a heavy stone table. She held herself up with her right toes and was otherwise tied: up, and open. And then she saw the exacto knife.

“Oh, I—“

“Shhhh, I’m not going to cut you. But I may have to buy you new clothes.” He smiled. Slowly and carefully, Stefan sliced her blouse down the middle so it hung limp at her sides. Her breathing was heavy.

Then, staring her right in the eye, he sliced her bra down the middle. Now, it too hung pathetically away. Her small, upturned breasts were bare under the glint of his knife. Her dark nipples harder than ever before. Stefan pressed the side of the blade coldly and firmly onto her nipple. And then took it away and bit her on the same nipple, roughly, making her cry out. Then he continued. Her skirt. She really loved that skirt. Her grandmother had made it. But in that moment, she was willing to make the sacrifice. Instead of cutting it, Stefan knowingly pulled it down so that it hung off her right leg, which was extended and tied to the table. And then her tights. He put the knife down and used his hands and teeth, tearing and clawing the things right off of her. It was a little painful, but it felt good. She moaned very softly as he tore. When he was done, the tights clung weakly from the backs of her calves. Her underwear. He placed his fingers inside, between her pussy and the fabric, and used the knife to sever the material at the front. He then pulled the underwear up to rest around her neck like jewelry. Her little pussy was finally exposed to him, and they both felt the significance of that fact. It looked as though she had been sliced down the middle by an invisible blade. All layers were shredded, reduced. But all that was inside was intact, exposed, and ready.

Her bald, shaved pussy quivered. She was warm and swollen even though it was damp and a little cold in the room.

“I’m not going to touch you any more than I have,” he said.

“So you’re going to torture me?” She half-joked.

“No.” He pulled a velvet sack out from under the worktable, and pulled a device out of the sack. It was a round black metal clamp. He walked up behind Karen and she could feel he was securing the clamp to the pole, behind her. Just below the spot where her legs went in opposite directions. He walked around to the front and secured a much smaller clamp to the first one, this time ensuring that it slid fluidly up and down on a small track of sorts that crossed the larger ring. Within the small clamp he inserted a dildo. A fake cock. Made of glass. It was transparent, smooth (except for the simulated veins that acted as ridges), and about 5 inches long. With some definite girth. Karen gulped. How had she ended up in this place, with Stefan? Was this all a dream? Stefan slid the fake cock up far enough to touch the outside of her pussy and flicked a switch on what appeared to be a remote control. The fake cock sprayed some kind of warm, sweet smelling oil onto her and proceeded to massage it into her lips in a circular motion.

Karen lost control, and let out a low moan. There she was, hands tied together at the top of the pole, clothes sliced open, one ankle secured to an elevated side hook, the other balanced on tiptoes, and a glass cock slowly and circularly massaging oil into her pussy lips. The cock seemed to pick up heat as it went, to the point where she no longer felt cold in the shed. Her core was on fire, and in spite of the fact that she had spent months obsessing about Stefan, she now wanted nothing more than to be fucked by his machine while he watched. We want the same things, she thought.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But, wait. One question.”


“Why this? Since your wife died?”

He sighed. “The short answer? The one you’d understand? Because I still have needs, but using my own body feels like cheating. And because I’m still in love with her but I really do enjoy watching other beautiful women lose their minds at my design. It gives me some semblance of control over it all, Karen. I don’t know if that makes sense to you. I don’t touch myself. I mean, I do, sometimes, alone, but not for this. The one other woman who ended up in your position was disappointed with my lack of personal participation, so if you’d like to be let down, just say the word.”


“Ok, we’ll start slow.” He smiled warmly at Karen, appreciating her concise way of accepting his answer. He flicked the switch again and the warm glass cock very slowly made its up. It parted her labia slowly and firmly, continued up to rub gently against her inside walls, her g-spot—wow, there was no struggle finding her g-spot, in this position and with this device. And then it gently kissed her cervix. Karen felt warm chills flood her entire body. There was something about being spread out, restrained, compromised, in this way, and now touched, deep inside, by a machine. It had her reeling.

It went slowly in and out, sometimes deep, sometimes less so, and gradually sped up, only to slow down. The cock seemed to read her mind, rocking her from the inside, and then she realized, oh, it’s Stefan that is reading what I want, and she looked over, catching his eye. He smiled. And then his face went dark, and he continued to fuck her with his remote control toy. Her body seized and her toes cramped, and her legs tingled and her cheeks spread so wide against the pole that it nearly touched her asshole.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. She had wanted Stefan, the man, just like his last lady, but what he was offering instead was this muted, distanced version of intimate touch. He controlled the switch, the speed, the starting and stopping. He got to watch: her thighs seizing up, her compromised position, her hips grinding against the pole beyond her control, her mouth forming all the shapes that man has ever imagined, her eyes closing him out and then sucking him back in. She made eye contact just as her entire body catapulted up into her mind. The cock was somehow rubbing her g-spot and stimulating her clit from the inside. She heard herself scream. And she never came so hard in her life.

He got to watch from the outside. But as she forced her toes to stay in position, she was more than okay with all of that.