The Professor And His Maryanns free porn video

Professor Michaels sat on the edge of his bed looking at her, his latest coed ‘MaryAnn’. Her face, with eyes closed and mouth slightly open, sleeping now, lay snuggled under the covers, all messy and wrinkled from their earlier lovemaking. He watched his sleeping young lover, maybe 20 or 21, blond, green eyes ... or were they hazel, he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t be sure he remembered her name either. He was terrible with names. So he called them all MaryAnn. Why he picked that name, he wasn’t entirely sure. He just felt a connection to it. And unlike his parade of coeds, he could remember it.

He tenderly brushed this MaryAnn’s shoulder-length hair, now known bleach-blond, not natural, but that was fine. She was cute, petite, somewhat short at 5’ 4” and maybe 110, give or take. She was good in bed, too, last night.

He got up and walked naked to the bathroom of his small apartment in the old part of the college, provided free to faculty members. Robert never had a problem with finding willing coeds. Teaching ‘Freudian Psychology 101 – A Study of Sexuality’ filled his classroom each term with newly minted freshmen coeds. This class no exception, with its typical mix of thirty percent young men and seventy percent young women. Ok, a few percent of older women. Most of the guys taking the class were just following their girlfriends, not really buying into that id/ego/super-ego mumbo-jumbo, as they put it. A few were there hoping to find a girlfriend, and hey, any class that had the word “Sex” in it must not be all bad. But for whatever reason, his classes attracted young women, lots of them. This semester was actually small, at 33. Typically, it was the full 40 with a waiting list.

And with each semester came the one, two, or sometimes more coeds that became infatuated with him in his discussions of morality and hedonistic tendencies of the Id. Though, he never led them on. No inducement, no seduction, at least on purpose, no carrot, no stick. Ok, maybe they were the carrot and he had the stick. Even so, he let them do all the pursuing. It was just that he was an easy “hard-to-get” catch. Psychology was like that, particularly Freudian. Just as literary professors could woo with just a few lines of early Elizabethan poetry, his students, too, fell under the spell of the deeper meanings of female sexuality. Particularly the forbidden fruit kind.

He, of course, knew that even a tenured professor would be immediately dismissed for what he was doing with his young MaryAnn’s. But, so far, it was still don’t ask, don’t tell. He made sure his young ladies understood that as well. Luckily, they both seemed satisfied; his administrators and his lovers. He did have an insurance policy, though, hidden away.

His classes were popular, for one, his methods were, shall we say, animated and active. No dry facts; instead, his plans had his young students dig deep into their own psyche and explore their psychosexual development, especially when he reached the chapters on polymorphous perversity. But, it probably didn’t hurt that his imposing six foot plus, hazel eyes, rugged looks, dark complexion, with his deep and soothing voice in its Irish accent, mesmerized his charges. His age, more than double theirs, seemed to just add to the attraction. That, and offerings of private office visits to discuss questions of a more private nature, making it easier to ‘get acquainted’. At times, he acted as a psychologist to their young hormone-laden lives. They tended to tell him things they wouldn’t tell their priest, much less their parents.

Ok.

So how did I get started with this habit of one-night coed MaryAnns? Well, like all psychological problems, you have to start at the beginning, my beginning. First, understand that I have an addictive personality. But my habits can instantly shift. I end one addiction by starting a new one ... or some trigger stops it cold, you know, a wakeup call, but soon another starts up. My first addiction was candy. As a kid, I lived for the stuff. I was hooked. But then in secondary school, that’s 7th-grade middle school here in America, my best friend introduced me to cigarettes. Everybody in Ireland smoked. Well, most did. Twelve years old, smoking a pack a day. Then at 14, my Da died coughing his lungs out with lung cancer. I quit cold turkey the day he died. But in fifth-year secondary school (11th grade here), my Mum died, and I turned to alcohol. Beer until sixth-year (12th grade). Then in college, it was Scotch and weed and anything else. While in college, I met a girl, I remember that much. We fucked a lot. Then there was an accident, I was told. She disappeared from my life, what was left of it. I’m missing memories for a year or two around that fiasco. I do remember something about a real MaryAnn. My buddy thought it was that old show, Gilligan or something. I don’t think that was it...

Anyway, I finally get my psychology degree and end up in my next obsession, travel. I traveled the world, burning every cent I had. Eventually ended up somehow with a job as an adjunct professor at a small upscale private college in New York state. Liberal Arts. Coed. My obsession then, surprisingly, was teaching. I lived at the college rent-free, ate at the cafeteria, and taught. No, my students were just students then. No hanky-panky. Round and round for years, no other life, so guess that was my habit.

Then I met her, my intern, Allison, my teaching assistant. I remember her name. She was surprising. No, we never fucked. But became good friends. Great friends. She got me to reconnect to the world. She became my next habit. Maybe I was hers. She would drag me to art shows, wine tastings, music recitals, bohemian stuff. She was great. Smart. Smarter than me. I think she’s a NYC psychiatrist to the rich and famous now. Probably makes more in an hour than I make in a week. I should have married her. But, she did do one thing...

She introduced me to my first MaryAnn. Allison said I needed to talk privately with some of my students. I mean, as a psychologist, not a teacher. Remember, ‘psychiatrist’ do drugs, ‘psychologist’ do talk. She discovered that many of my students had issues, daddy, boyfriend, addictions, suicide. Just talk to them. Help them. I don’t think she meant fuck them, but that’s next up. See, I had reached that 40-year-old mid-life crisis. Yeah, it’s real. Plus or minus a decade. Personally, I think Allison figured I needed to get laid, it had been a while. Ok, long while. Anyway, Allison sets up appointments, and the very first one is this girl. She is impressive. Cute as a button without being overpowering. She has a problem.

Our first meeting is hesitant, well I’m hesitant, never actually psychoanalyzing a real live person. “If you can’t do, teach,” right? Anyway, she’s 21, first time away from home, not surprisingly, blond, blue-eyed maybe 5 foot 3 and 100. She has on leggings. She slips off her sandals at the door to my office. Bare feet with painted toenails and anklet on one leg. Tunic top. I get her a chair and put it beside my desk. I shake her hand softly and tentatively ask her about herself. Long story short, she has daddy issues, well ok, and missing home. Plus, no more boyfriend after he cheated. Am I surprised? Actually, yes. She is a great catch. The guy must be nuts. Anyway, she seems interested in me, freely speaking her mind to me for the next hour or so. It’s interesting. It had been a long time since I was inside the head of a young woman. Actually, anywhere inside any woman.

Well, first session over, handshake that ends with a lean forward and turns into a hug. Ok, skip to the next session. She is similarly dressed, but more delightful makeup on, perfume, too. She talks about desire. Of love. Of sex. I’m nervous, but still, just looking at her eyes as she speaks is fantastic. I connect. The session ends. This time with an immediate hug, her body is noticeably warm and soft. I had forgotten how nice it is to have a girl in your arms. I feel stirrings. I think she feels it too, not her, mine, stiffening. During our hug, she turns her head upwards, stands on tiptoes, and we kiss, not long, just seemed long.

Fast forward to the third visit, she in shorts, those very short ones where all possible leg is exposed. As she sits, she leans forward, her hands are now on my chair by my thighs. We are discussing her first loves and sexual encounters. She advances to what she wants. A one-night stand. Not exactly her words. Nothing more. No love affair. No strings. I’m, well, floored. Frozen. I remember my own classes about transference, of the issue of the patient falling for the doctor. But this wasn’t quite what I expected. She was now nearly in my lap, and we were kissing between talking. Whispering actually, kissing between whispering. I stood up, thinking this is wrong as her body is now against me, urging me to consider her offer. It’s just before finals, maybe trying to improve grades? No, she’s straight A already. She wouldn’t even need the final. Under some influence or coercion? No, she says, as she kisses me, now profoundly.

She makes it clear she just wants a single fling with me. Doing her Professor. She likes the idea. At 42, I do too. She looks around my office, hunting for a possible location. I tell her about my room there at the college. She’s instantly game. We walk side and side, she with books in hand, calm, me sweating. Am I really going to have sex with my student?

She examines my tiny apartment, every detail, questions, and answers. I ask if she understands what we are about to do. Yes. I ask about protection. She is on the Pill. Condom? I have none, she shrugs. Ok, so she removes her clothes as I down a Scotch, she ignores hers. She is flawless. Sexy beyond what I remembered in a twenty-something. Ok, I do remember my sexy clothed students, but nude? Skin perfect, curves perfect. I have to run my fingers over her body just to be sure she is real. It’s been so long. She removes my clothes. I felt inferior. She actually wants me? Apparently so! She lies on top of me, and yes, we fuck. Screw. Make whoopee. Make Love. She thanks me, puts on her clothes, and is gone. I lay in shock. I have still not recovered. That was amazing. I am hooked.

The next day, Allison sees my change. Smiles knowingly. She also announces two things; One – My calendar is booked, Two – She is graduating and has a job in the City. Allison is gone now, and so is my first coed. Her name? Shit! Well, MaryAnn seems fine. Next? I look at my calendar...

Oh, you ask about that insurance policy? Well, see, I wasn’t the first to dally with the cute coeds here. There was this party for new prospective students, the deans and board members were there. It kinda turned hedonistic, but they didn’t realize some of those sweets were under 18. And didn’t notice the security camera, or my pilfering the videotape.

This was all several years ago. How many MaryAnn’s? Ask the addict how many hits. Don’t know.

Professor Michaels could now usually discover within one or two weeks, which of his charming lasses were likely to pursue him as an extracurricular activity. Some with their daddy issues, offering his father figure substitute for the first time away from home loneliness. Others with their ex-boyfriends, making them interested in maturity and intelligence over hunkiness. Some just to say they fucked their professor. His next-in-line MaryAnn would hesitantly knock on his office door at the prearranged time, books in hand, dressed in youthful top and short shorts if warm or tight leggings or jeans if cool.

For their first meeting, she would nervously sit down in the chair beside his desk, now closer to him and more private than they had been in his classroom. She would fumble her books and stroke her hair, brushing it out of their glowing faces, teeth white and straight, showing daddy’s investment in their looks and in their schooling at this private college. She would fidget in her hard wooden chair as he leaned forward in his and offered some welcoming banter to ease into their conversation. This was likely the young woman’s first time meeting with a college professor one-to-one. Thus shyness was -nearly- always the rule.

Topics would start with a handshake greeting and their names that always slipped away from his tongue almost immediately after being read off his calendar.

“Ah, Miss ... Kristy Williamson. May I call you Kristy? Yes, good. Call me Robert. In class, Professor Michaels is fine, but here it’s Robert. Good ... ah,” another glance to the calendar, “Kristy.”

Then he would start the Q & A of this or that psych idea or problem, then to her background, then to their lives, touching on boy issues, a tad of daddy, a touch of her hand, a delve into the mysteries of life and love, then into the darker realms of human behavior and the bait; female sexuality. This last one only if the young subject was providing the appropriate signs of interest, tonality, attentiveness to the subtle dance of female cues, or sometimes not so subtle cues. Hair brushing, leaning forward, eyes focused, palms visible, blushes, nose flairs, mouth parting, tongue touching lips, legs parting...

Then the stand, the closing handshake that lingers as a touch, her lean forward, as if to stay, or lean back to leave. If a second meeting is attended, then her lean forward becomes a hug and the aroma of freshly washed hair. At that point, the nearly inevitable third meeting ends with coffee or, for the more amorally inclined, the offer of a kiss, which leads to conquest or conquered. This, surprisingly, is often.

Young women, free of home rule and now above the dreaded “sorry, you’re underage” blockade. Ah, that wonderful 18th birthday. Where the young girl becomes the young woman, so magical to them and their paramours. Sexual freedom at last! The start of the Pill, now no longer so illicit. And breast and waist and hip shape themselves into the curves of the perfection of feminine vitality. That age of no children, no stretch marks, no wrinkles, no ex-husbands. Literally and figuratively, baggage free.

Sometimes that third meeting explores fears caused by that lack of a boyfriend, or worse, a cheating boyfriend, preferring a rebound to daddy, or in his case, daddy substitute, for comfort. Better than daddy. No strings. A night with a handsome, mature professor, a beautiful thing. Notes with girlfriends secretly compared, discovering that he was wonderful, sweet, kind, attentive, loving and living in the moment. He wipes their tears and gives them the solace they desire, offering to continue their ‘discussion’ after hours ... at his college provided room.

Kristy, was it? Maybe. Best stick with MaryAnn. He gives her this saccharine name, saying, ‘I will call you MaryAnn’ as they giggle and blush, sometimes knowing a girlfriend who was also temporarily “named” MaryAnn previously, or maybe even that ancient TV sitcom phrase. Many knew that name was given to all of Professor Michael’s hookups.

This MaryAnn follows him quietly to his apartment. This is hallowed ground, faculty only. They don’t sneak but aren’t flaunting. He leads her by the hand, holding the door as she enters. He gets to watch her perfectly proportioned rump, covered in denim or cotton or stretch lycra as she enters his lair. Her eyes absorbing all the details of the Old World wood, the ancient brick, and dirt-smeared glass. She smells the aged timbers and cigars of the past century. He smells the fragrances of perfumes mixed with youthful pheromones. Of young woman at peak.

He watches her as she does the obligatory walk-through of his world, his boudoir. She studies each award, each diploma in turn, as he studies each curve, each flair of her. She turns, pointing. Yes, that is the Great Pyramid, yes, that is Petra. Here is the Great Wall. Machu Picchu. Easter Island. Yes, that’s me at each. She says she wants to visit them. He whispers in her ear, “Remember me when you do.” She tilts her head to one side, smiling as he moves her hair from away from her hidden neck and lightly kisses it. She understands why she is here. But he makes sure she also realizes she can leave at any time, no harm.

His apartment was specific to his needs. It was located at the end of a wing of the old dormitory building, now mainly storage rooms. Only a few lived here anymore, as there were newer, larger apartments for faculty these days. But he liked the stone and the wood, the smells of mustiness and creaks at night. It had a character like barrel-aged whiskey. It also had privacy.

She continued her examination of his inner sanctum, books, articles, unusual collectibles from around the world. She wondered if he collected other things, mementos of his past MaryAnn’s. If she pulled open a drawer, would she find it filled with panties? He turns her around to face him.

“Are you sure? About this?” sternly, professor to student.

“Yes.”

“Are you coerced?”

She giggles, “No.”

“This does not affect your grade.”

She doesn’t expect it to.

“Protected?”

“Yes,” she has been on the Pill for several years.

“Want protection?”

She giggles again, “Up to you. I’m ok.”

He forgoes the rubber.

“Say no anytime.”

She smiles, “Yes.”

“Last question, I promise. Are you a virgin?” He doesn’t really like to do a virgin as a one-night stand. They fall in Love too easily.

She giggles, blushing, shaking her head no. She wonders what he would do had she said ‘Yes’. So far, that hasn’t been an issue. His MaryAnn’s that reach this point are worldly.

His fingertips tilt her chin for their first kiss. Well, a first real kiss. Not the short pecks on cheeks or lips with hugs of thanks or greetings that office visits entailed. Their mouths meet. Her’s not quite experienced, even if experienced. Boyfriend’s past, forgotten, at least temporarily. He tastes her sweet freshness. Of mint and candy and little girl, even though she is in that magical age of no longer girl-child, yet not quite woman. He smiles at her, telling her she is pretty, beautiful, wonderful, appealing, delightful ... all true.

She is in his arms, feeling safe, secure, even though nervous at times, almost to the point of fear. Human psychology; not quite into trusting herself, her sexual abilities, or his. He sees it nearly every time. Except for that one time, who was she again? MaryAnn, no. Victoria, name remembered, of three years ago.

“Professor Michaels ... Robert, kiss me!” Victoria had said, immediately upon arrival at his lair.

She wrapped her long thin arms around him. She was nearly as tall as him, but almost half his weight, willowy. As he stood there, repeating his verbal questionnaire, she smiled and kissed him, backing away and removing her top and her sandals in a sensuous dance of tease. His voice dropped quieter as she revealed her breasts, perfectly round, not large but flawless in shape and color. She obviously tanned in a booth or naked. Red pencil erasers pointed to him. His hand moved to touch one rounded breast as he ended his “ ... affect your grade” and “Say no...” He had asked and forgotten her answers from similar questions just hours ago at his office. But he had not forgotten what had occurred there.

Her first office visit had been that very afternoon, only a day after his first class, unexpectedly early in the term. Not unexpectedly, though, she was late for that appointed arrival time. Infraction disregarded the moment she appeared. There were cute coeds, then there were, well, magnificent creatures, sometimes ones even above his paygrade. Natural blond (soon verified), ice-blue eyes, titanium white teeth on a mirror-image symmetrical face, diamond-shaped. Easily a 5’ 10” model, playboy model, that is.

She spoke in a willowy voice of expected refinement, “Sorry, Professor ... Michaels. Sorry for being late.”

Did she just forget HIS name, this new MaryAnn?

“Oh, ah, no problem. Come, sit. What would you like to discuss, ah, Miss... , ah,” glancing down,
“ ... Hammond?”

Now he was the nervous one, feeling rather overwhelmed by her. It was then, as she started to sit, he noticed her clothing, not like the typical coed freshman, not at all. Her blouse, perfectly cut to her curves, pure white, lace trim layers. Something you were more likely to find at an art gallery wine tasting than at an after school conference. But it was the skirt that had him. Long, lacy, layers and folds of tan, white and brown, with a slit that ran from the floor to the top of her pelvic bone. One leg fully exposed. A peasant dress for the very wealthy.

Seating herself, long bare leg lifting, crossing over the other, causing the edge of pink pastel lace panty to show, prior to her adjusting the garment to a more modest position.

“May I call you Robert? ... Sir?”

“Call me ... oh, ah, yes, ah, Miss... ?”

“Victoria.”

“Of course,” he smiled, of course, you are a Victoria.

His eyes glanced downwards as she leaned forward as if to adjust her $500 Valentino Garavani flats, or to pull out her books from the non-existent bag on the floor. Such motion causing her deep cut top to revel firm breasts and said dress slit to allow improved preview of pastel panties. His inhale was noticeable. Her seduction worked quite well.

“What ... can I help you with, Victoria?” name remembered.

She smiled, not a sweet little kitten grin, but a tigress pounce grin. She went into human psychology, straight to female sexuality, several chapters away. She provided the obligatory exploration of that cheating boyfriend, rebound hookup, and then daddy. He felt it was rehearsed, just as his were.

But then it shifted to the crux of the issue. She needed a professor, him precisely. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to figure out that this class was a setup. He was the target. She apparently collected men like some women collect jewelry. Like he collected coeds. Another handsome bobble in her bed.

At first, he was disagreeable, but she proceeded to lift her skirt, glide down onto her knees, her hands and face into his lap, then deftly released his member from his pants leg confinement. Disagreement turned to nerves. Her eyes looked up at him as his nervousness peaked, she told him she would be dropping his course tomorrow, her credits being transferred to some trifling European college named “Oxford”, then proceeded to give him head like a well-worn streetwalker. He tried to ask her his obligatory consensual sex approval questions in an octave higher tone, modified to allow answering by ‘Mm-hmm’ or ‘Mm-mm’ or nod/shake of bobbing head.

By the last question, bursting came. She swallowed his load, sucking chrome, with dick in hyper-agony and balls bursting. Now he had sunk so low in his chair, professor’s back was where professor’s butt usually sat. His hands on each side of her face, requesting the appearance of her lips to rise to his, leaving his wounded little man to much needed R&R. Only minutes had passed from her entering his office.

She obliged his desire for her lips, wet kisses with her tongue that felt closer to kissing a freshly shucked oyster than a sweet coed. As she leaned back, breaking their kiss while wiping her lips with one finger, she ignored that the slit on her dress was now between her legs, showing pink lace puss and wetness of camel. Its reddened lips bulged from either side of insufficient lace in expensive panty. Thus, as Miss Victoria requested a personal visit to the professor’s abode that very evening, his eyes were on panties as manhood dripped on pants, and head nodded yes.

Her steel-gray eyes unblinking, observing his eyes as he studied her anatomy. How could the human female transform into such a creature as to melt the hardest of men? Her long fingers slid sensuously down each side of her waist, reaching her thin spandex leggings. Yoga pants? He must visit her studio sometime. She had changed from earlier that day. He had to touch those pants while they still covered her. It was necessary. Their look was more alluring than bare skin. Thus his fingertips glided over her hands as she paused in their removal, realizing he wanted contact with woven polyester prior to skin. His hands caressed her hips and thighs, ending on her spandex covered bottom, more enticing than full nudity.

She pulled him against her as her arms went over his shoulders. She would let him disrobe her thighs, assuming he would hurry up! They kissed, lips touching and licking. She was no newbie to the world of hookups. She obviously had no problem with someone her father’s age. She was confident and knew what she wanted, and that was him, her teacher, a professor, at least for the next half hour or so. He doubted she would stay the night. But that’s ok.

Her tongue licked his lips and teeth. She tastes of coffee and breath mint. His of Scotch. His hands have been busy folding her elastic sexware down over her hips. He realized there wasn’t anything under them, rather risqué considering how thin and tight those pants were. He had to break away from their kisses to take a look. He held one hand of hers, lifting it over her head to get her to twirl for him. Her hips, bare now, nearly to her delta, seeing the crease between her legs and her round, tight rump, partially covered, partially uncovered. His inhaled breath noticeable yet again.

Now sans her top, spandex down just below hips, butt viewed and touched, he watched her fingers, stretching pant down past trimmed silky blond bush, down thighs, over knees, past calves, and off one foot, then the other. He stood back to admire her view. She stepped forward and without asking, opened his pants and pulled them and his boxers down, hobbling him below the knees. His erection sticking out between his shirttails as she unbuttoned his shirt.

Her fingers glided up his chest, parting his shirt and off his shoulders, falling to the floor behind him. He looked like a first-time john while she looked like a high-priced hooker, a very high-priced one. Millionaire’s club material. She leaned forward on one foot, the other bent up in the air behind her, her hands on his shoulders, lips meeting his. His hands traced up her narrow waist to her perfection of female breasts.

Cupped in his hands, her first question, “Are they too small?”

He almost laughs. Too small? The question was like asking if the Hope Diamond was too small. Flawless perfection trumps size any day. He answers with lips and tongue on nipple. She implores him to explore each in its turn. Then, as if she is in a hurry, she backs away, takes his hand, and walks her hobbled professor to his bed. Her bed now.

She releases his hand, turns to the bed, bending over to pull open sheets as rump cheeks and pouty puss lips preview themselves to him. He scrambles, hopping on one foot as he removes his hobbling pants. Naked now, he feels even his reasonably sculpted physique insufficient to this magnificent perfection. He realizes, is she even 20? 18!? No, she is too ... well too everything to be so young. He settles on 21.

Usually, he provides a sip of refreshment, originally Scotch, until he realized burning throat did not help nervous young females. Grand Marnier always impressed and went down smooth. Just a finger or two. The girl must not be drunk! If she fails his sobriety test, then he assists her back to her building, thanking her and telling her he will see her in class.

But Victoria is not drunk, nor pausing for drink, though he wishes he could. Even his man is wilting under her fiery looks. Well, she was about to fix that little problem. As he climbs into the bed that she has already expropriated, her hand finds its mark. With her lips against his, tongue against his, fingers wrapped and massaging, response is coming. Particularly now that her beauty is hidden under the sheets with him, no longer quite so intimidating. His arms go around her waist, pulling the two upcoming lovers together. She releases his now awakened member, and her arms wrap him. Passion in kisses increases passion below hips.

She rolls on top of him, of course, the dominate in this short relationship. Young legs on either side of old hips. He only now realizes how athletic she is. He reminds himself to work out more. Mouths tussle as his hands find soft skin wherever they go. She tilts upwards, hands on his chest. His rests on her thighs as her hips begin their pony ride. Feelings of penis against vulva arise. He remembers protection only as shaft slides through slit.

He whispers, captured by her eyes, “Protection?”

She smiles, closes her eyes, and her hips tilt into an angle, meant for penetration. Guess not, he decides.

He assists by altering the position of his hips as her pelvis angles and fingers adjust him. A groan emanates from both as she impales herself. She is wet, far more than he expected. She is also tight, smaller than he expected. He realizes he had barely gotten to touch her, down there, foreplay seemed only to have a minor role in this apparently one-act play. She rocked, eyes now closed as he watched her face. Her motion well practiced. She knew how to dance herself on a male to bring out her pleasure. While the typical first-time freshman coed, virgin or not, is nervous, out-of-sync, enjoyable but not necessarily top shelf.