As soon as I get back to my dorm room, I get to my computer and look up the Rocket Cocks website. My roommate spends most of her time with her boyfriend who lives off campus, so I don’t have to worry about her showing up.
It doesn’t take long for me to find the video clip I’d watched in class. The male actor—performer? I’m not exactly sure what to call him—looks a lot like a younger version of Mr. Johnson. Same broad shoulders, intense blue eyes, slightly crooked nose, and great ass—even in slacks, he can’t hide it.
The clip is only two minutes long. I watch it over and over, memorizing it. It’s not nearly enough material for me to come to a conclusion on whether or not this is my teacher. I want to see more, so I purchase the entire video. My bills still go to my parent’s house. I just hope they don’t decide to go through my credit card statements.
The female actor in the video has large fake boobs, wears too much makeup, and has platform heels so tall she wobbles when she stands. She’s able to take his big cock without even flinching. She looks almost . . . bored? Her eyes are lazy, and she keeps glancing off to the side as if being instructed on what to do. Her mechanical movements and the unnatural, almost robotic, way she moves into the different positions make me think there’s a director off to the side choreographing their coupling like it’s some kind of staged interpretative dance.
Without even taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being full, she starts to ride him, bouncing with the hollow look of someone lost. Nothing about her expression tells me she’s enjoying this one bit. The moans and dirty-talk are over the top, and so obviously fake I’m embarrassed for them both. Though she has a great body, it’s doing nothing for me. The male doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it much himself, just going through the motions. The only saving grace is that he looks so much like my teacher that I can’t help but get turned on. Watching that giant dick sliding in and out of pink flesh causes an ache between my legs I can’t ignore.
I slip my fingers into my pajama bottoms, beneath my panties, and start to rub circles around my clit, imagining I’m the girl in the video and Mr. Johnson is plowing into me. When the look-alike actor gazes directly at the camera, it’s as if he’s looking right at me, teasing me. I rub faster, desk and computer shaking, until I’m covered in goosebumps and being pushed over the edge. With my other hand, I plunge my fingers inside, and that’s enough for the building pressure to burst, and my entire body floods with pleasure.
Takes a minute for me to come down, for my breathing and vision to return to normal. When I pull my fingers out of my panties, they’re sopping wet. On my desk is the assignment due tomorrow in Mr. Johnson’s class. I stare at it a moment, contemplating. Then I look at my sticky hand. Should I? It only takes a second for me to decide that, yes, I should. I grab it, wipe my juices on it to give him something to think about while he’s grading. I want my pheromones to call to him, let his animal instincts take over. Force him to notice me. Drive him wild without him knowing why.
In class the next day we’re doing labs, so it’s perfectly fine for people to talk. Normally I work alone, the clink and clatter of background noise the soundtrack of my workday. You’d think all that sound would be distracting, but I actually find that it gets me in the mood to work. I have my routines and the noise is just part of it. Except today Serena and her boyfriend are waiting at my table for me. This is definitely not part of the routine.
Boyfriend is in my chair. He gets up slowly when he sees me and saunters back to his own seat. He’s wearing perfectly pressed shorts that hit above his knee, a yellow polo, and white shoes that look like Keds, but probably cost ten times more. It’s an ensemble I’d imagine someone wearing on a yacht, except we’re about two hundred miles inland. To anyone without money, he comes off like a douche and looks like a character out of Dallas. Utterly ridiculous.
When I sit down, all I can smell is him. All wealthy people smell the same. It’s a unique scent, a formula they’ve mastered that consists of clean pores that have never been clogged with the sweat of hard labor, rubber soles that have never touched the ground because why do anything on your own when you can walk across the backs of others? Or maybe it’s just the smell of money. I don’t know. I’m probably just being cynical because I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for everything I have.
Serena doesn’t go back to her desk. Instead she continues to lean against mine, staying far too close to my personal space than I’m comfortable with. Since she won’t move, I guess I’ll have to. I roll my eyes and scoot my chair to the end of the table.