(Full story: https://www.literotica.com/s/bratty-freshman-taught-a-lesson)

It was at the moment of deepest penetration inside a sweaty, gently sobbing, five foot nothing, bony teenage barista named McKenna that I realized my approach to teaching had been wrong all along.

The epiphany came when my hips were completely cocked, when her assmeat was fully flush and squashed against my pelvis when her little cunt was throbbing like a heartbeat around the base of my cock. My dick was tickling her cervix and she looked back pleading, letting out a little muffled cry of submission at the apex of the thrust, her sunburnt face flushed with sweat and a line or two of tears.

Why wasn't I fucking them all along?

McKenna was one of my innumerable vaguely mindless, insouciant, poorly performing students who had grated my nerves for months. Something about seeing her that night had made me snap...and here we were, an hour or so later in the dark of the campus coffee shop where she worked, the blinds closed and the lights out and her palms down on the little table I'd bent her over, a streetlamp illuminating a strip of pain and lust on the side of her face, my dick soaked and buried in the nineteen-year-old body.

She muttered something incomprehensible, some lunatic jargon of the deep-dicked, and it brought to mind for some reason her inane outbursts in class, which in turn made me ball up her sweaty and frizzy dirty blonde mane in my fist and yank on it.

"Oh, teach", she groaned.

Yes, I thought to myself. You've stumbled upon something.

***

Now you might be thinking, no shit, just fuck your students if you're frustrated by them.

But it wasn't that simple.

See, the thing was, I had sworn to myself to never do what I found myself doing to McKenna's vagina that fateful evening in that fateful, sweaty, foggy glassed, sweet cuntjuice aroma'd coffee shop. I swore to myself I would never touch one of my students.

And for the ten years I worked at the state university - I was thirty nine - I was faithful to that code.

Of course, I had tasted a luscious late twentysomething grad student or two, I'd even diddled a desperate double-d'd divorcee professor in her late thirties, but I kept my students off limits. To protect my job, yes, but also my honor.

All this despite my classes being almost entirely girls (literature is a female-dominated subject), despite the hordes of eighteen or nineteen-year-old doe-eyed and sloe-eyed specimens of hyper-sexual youth employing every tactic for a better grade or a less taxing day in class. They wanted to avoid work at all costs; ideally, they would be on phones or tablets, gossping, scrolling, snapping, glossing. To this end they wore hiked up skirts, they displayed outrageous expanses of white flushed breast or golden thigh, depending on the girl, they perfumed themselves with every manner of pheromone known to mankind, and all that mingled with the natural musk of girls at the peak of their sexuality would have intoxicated me to madness if I hadn't been regularly relieving myself inside a woman my age.

Of course the last bit is not a little important. Just a week before that night with McKenna I broke up with my longtime girlfriend, a PhD student in the biology department. Our relationship had been going nowhere, and the sex had all but stopped. I was feeling pent up for months before the break up, and there was no breakup sex, and I walked those days leading up to the incident with a loaded cockgun and eyes that found increasing trouble avoiding the stares of cleavages and bouncy soft flesh and twitching hips all across campus.

But the biologist breakup also coincided with the midterm exams. The whole day before I went to McKenna's coffee shop I'd spent grading the most miserable array of student papers I'd ever read. Most of the girls had very clearly not read much if any of the required syllabus. McKenna's was not the worst, but it was among the very bad. And it was in that mood, defeated, embarrassed my students were learning so little, annoyingly horny, and wanting to quit my job that I sauntered into the campus cafe where I had no idea she worked

***

McKenna was just closing up. The cafe was empty and half dark. I started to make an excuse to leave when I saw her but she lit up.

"Oh, hey teach!" she said. "Stay, I'll hook you up!"

She was bouncing around over-caffeinated and was all hey prof this, sup doc that, her long and unkempt dirty blonde mane hanging about her white tube top, bullshitting and cleaning and turning the remaining lights off and making a big sexual show of it, lordosis bends to the ground to pick up some phantom piece of trash, any excuse to throw her little butt up in the air for attention.

I knew it, and for the first time in ten years as a professor, I allowed myself to fall for it. I found myself staring at the outline of her nipples through her top, staring at the white flash of flesh above a sunburnt thigh when she bent over and her jean shorts strained. I remembered one of the worst lines from her essay I'd read that morning, something that criminally misrepresented Whitman, and somehow that gave me permission in my mind to sexualize her.

It was an instant relief. I felt my hardest boner in months rise almost instantly, the sort of erotic thrill the biology woman had been wholly incapable of providing. McKenna wasn't the hottest of my students, though she was plenty fuckable; she wasn't the most annoying, though she was certainly a brat. She was not classically beautiful but nor was she unlovely. She had big brown eyes. She had a strange, if sweet, dazed sort of look about her. Like she'd just been slapped and knew she deserved it, and was resigned to it. To her peers she might've seemed emo, or overly melancholic, or naive, or perhaps all three. But as a professor twice her age, I found her and the croak in her ditzy voice deeply sexually stimulating.

All the pent up years of self denial exploded. I'd been weakened by annoyance with her and her copies, a thousand slightly less annoying McKenna, for weeks, for years. Something about her lewd display, all of it as coquettishly calculated as the maneuvers of a rutting cat, combined with her failures as a student, broke me.

So when she brought me the sandwich, flirty, overly talkative, the thin loose string of her top strategically slipping off a bony red shoulder that had seen too much Arizona sun, I leaned in to every single one of my primal instincts. I made excuses to touch her hand as we spoke. I let her see me see her body when she bent and twisted. I complimented her to the extent my pride would allow.

"It's for free, teach," she said, when I'd finished eating and we walked over to the register. "Consider it extra credit."

I dropped a few singles in the tip jar. She watched me with that half agape mouth, that adolescent yet sexual affect she wore that always made it seem like she was in a perpetual state of shock.

"Hm," I said nodding, then suddenly changing my tone from flirty to frank. "You think that's gonna go very far? Considering your...situation?"

A flash of nervousness palled her dimpled face.

"My-my situation?" she asked.

"You're not doing very well in class, are you?"

"I'm not?"

"In fact, you didn't read a single poem in Leaves of Grass, correct?"

She was flushed deeply now. She awkwardly picked at the hem of her jean shorts. She looked down, for once I bought the doe-eyed look as authentic, the look which girls like her wore so well for the sake of older men they wanted something from.

"N-no," she stuttered quietly. "But. But, like, I can work hard."

She sort of swung a hip out, she tried batting her eyes. It was a juvenile move that lacked art or subtlety or really any sex appeal, but she'd already bewitched me.

"Ah," I said. "I suppose I haven't seen that."

Feeling slightly dizzy, I made the first move: I put my hand on her side.

She gasped, she looked me dead in the eye. I read the bones of her narrow ribs through her taut tube top like braille. She blushed even deeper. Her eyes flashed nervously but she straightened and then she awkwardly reached down to lay her paw over my (by now obvious) erection.

"I can work hard," she whispered hoarsely in my ear.

I sucked her neck, it was salty and delicious. She kissed my ear.

"Why don't you let me show you, teach?" she whispered.

I don't remember which happened first: me grabbing her by the mane and pushing her to her knees and dropping her small, hot mouth down on my dick, or her throwing herself down to her knees and wrapping her thin arms around my back and commencing to slobber on it. Likely it was all some coordinated dance in unison and somewhere in there my boner and balls were pulled through my fly to be granted entrance to her mouth.

She knelt there as I stood and she bobbed and choked herself on my staff without restraint. I wanted to facefuck her but there was no need, she facefucked herself, she impaled her throat on me; if a woman's ability to suck is to be judged on eagerness she was nothing short of professional. Of course it was sloppy and a bit toothy and the suction wasn't there - she didn't keep her lips shut - but all that was made irrelevant by the enthusiasm, the healthy gawk gawk sounds that came from her, the visual of the slobber that instantly glistened her chin and dripped down to her shoulder in the dim yellow lamplight.

I let her go on like that for a minute, locking in my memory the image of that little blonde head with a mouthful of my manhood, the chin drawn down low, small mouth distended like a viper to accommodate my girth, eyes shut tight and face bright red. Then I pulled her up. She sort of staggered as she came to, upright and drooling a little and reeling and lost looking like some victim of dick dementia.

I bent her roughly over the table and took her jean shorts and panties down to her knees. Her underwear stuck with a wet thwap to her labia as I pulled them down. I ran a quick hand between her legs and it came away slathered in her cunt mucous. She went down to her elbows on the table where I'd halfthrown her. I gave her little ass an open handed whack, and the surprising meat that was in the seat of her, next to the bony hip, resounded with a satisfying clap. She yelped like a puppy; I spanked her again and she squealed again.

I started to unwrap a condom and she reached a paw back.

"Just put it in," she said.

I knew better. I knew way, way better. But that little red ass was arched up at me, her vagina was all but dripping, my rod was inches away, and before I knew what I was doing I had split open raw the nineteen year McKenna like a rare and ripely aged whiskey.

She was trying to be sexy with her commentary, she managed to mutter something.

"Is it what you imagined, teach?" she said.

But I was far beyond the point of thought and communication. Her vaginal grip was intense, my entire existence funneled down to where her cunt walls embraced my penis. I tested her out with a few medium length thrusts which she accepted with white knuckles on the table edges. That's when I pivoted my hips to take her all the way, raw.

"Ughnnnnahan," she said at the end of that deepest thrust, the one I mentioned before, the pussy pump that imparted knowledge.

Yes, I should have been handling all my problem students this way for the past ten years, I realized then. Risk be damned.

I admitted it to myself as her pussy squelched under the maximum pressure of my hips. Again she started grunting something incoherently. Something about her grade in the class. Maybe it was a joke. I took that mess of her shaggy, unkempt hair in my fist and shimmied my hips in a little more, just to be sure it was impossible to get deeper, as deep as physics would allow. The flush on her face extended around her pale neck and clavicle, the bones of her shoulders like wings, the blood rushing through her body as she gasped for breath.

"You fucker," she breathed out at me. "So this is what you wanted, huh?"

In answer, staying inside her, I lifted her by the air up and over to the window and pressed her full body against it. She hobbled over with me, shorts still around her knees, dick deep in her. Then I started pumping again. My thrusts slammed her small body into the glass and she moaned with each thud.

I grabbed the nice small blubber that she kept hidden in the seat of her ass. Like her wit, her asscheeks were understated. I took handfuls of the assflesh in each palm and yanked her back to me. Then I just started really pummeling her. I let myself go. I think I tossed my head back, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and just took her. I rode her cunt over my bone as fast as I could. She yelped like a hyena each time I went too deep, which was often. From time to delicious time I glanced down at her puckered pink sheath glazing wetly over my length and soon this relentless motion began to produce a thick white cream out of her body. She was so slick I had no issue slamming her down on me as hard as I physically could, so hard that I felt my testicles swing up and smack the front of her labia, so hard that she drew blood on my forearm where her short, slightly bitten fingernails reached back and dug into me.

Something else entirely had taken over my body. I watched myself wrapping the tangle of her hair around my wrist, watched myself push her face hard up against the glass, watched myself hungrily bat her small tits over the top of her shirt like a boxing speed bag with the flat of my palm. She was gritting her teeth and grunting and groaning and eyeing me wildly over her shoulder and her sweat and her cunt cream and the spit from the hot tongue she put in my mouth all mingled with fluids. It felt like I possessed her and she told me so.

"You own me, you fucking filthy old pervert," she said.

I couldn't comprehend the usage of more than a few words, I found it simpler to communicate in grunts and hoots myself. I was an unchained gorilla behind her, some caged thing that had been forced to watch the world pass from the other side of the glass zoo for ten years too long. But now I'd been unshackled, I'd smashed the glass with a hairy fist and scooped in one hand the first helpless, weightless little thing I set my eyes upon.

She was shaking now, shuddering against the glass as an orgasm wracked her. Her eyes were rolling like a frightened horse and the whites of them passed over me in a throes of her coming like an encounter with some demonic spirit of fuck itself. Her rapidly convulsing slit was all it took to send me roaring past the point of no return and I think I lifted her small form fully up off the ground as I flipped her over onto her back on the table.

She was inexperienced but she knew the moment well. I pulled out as I dropped her down on her back. She hawked a quick wad of spit in one palm and from where she lay, half stripped and half naked and breathing heavy and red on table, reached forward and took my dick in her wet hand. With her other hand she reached down and tugged on both testicles, gently but firmly.

That crazed little teen gave three corkscrews of her hand on my cock, already soaked and hot with her pussy dew, and I erupted. Enormous jets began pouring out of my penis to the point that it felt like I was urinating. The first few barrages laid like raised white welts from the bones of her hip over her small breasts and up her neck and off against the glass behind her. The next several milky white deposits hit her chin and lip where she leaned into it, intentional or not. The remainder of my soul was squeezed out into a growing opaque puddle on her belly button.

I resisted the urge to collapse on her. Instead I took my thumb and rubbed her swollen and raw clitoris in a steady circular beat. She instantly began writhing, confirming my suspicions that more orgasms were locked in her. I watched with great satisfaction as she buckled under my simple ministration, the puddle of my semen on her belly washing over her thighs and chest as gave out more of her puppy-like whimpers.

"You....you..."

She tried to stammer at me. She couldn't catch her breath. Sweat dripped off her hair. Words were still not her strong suit, and they never would be. I took one last good long look at that thin chest rising and falling, as that all but bald slit between her legs, red, raw, dripping slightly with the semen that had drained off her belly, gave her a wink, and left.

***

Our next class was two days later. McKenna was sitting the front row when I arrived and she was wearing a yellow dress with her legs crossed lewdly, so the paddle mark from my palm on the side of her sharp hip was visible. Her hair was tossled up in a bun atop her head. She watched me with rapt attention as I began the lecture, even asking a few questions.

I complimented her on her questions, childish as they were. She blushed. But I didn't notice. Behind her, around her, was a class of fourteen other girls that I was seeing for the first time.