Memoirs of a Slut, Part 11: Mistress

After entering graduate school, because I didn't graduate with an undergraduate degree, I had to take several undergraduate courses in addition to the required master's courses. Also, not wanting to burden my mother, I asked the professor to let me work as a teaching assistant to earn some money to help with living expenses and tuition. My life was incredibly busy. I spent my days taking classes, and after dinner, I had to do assignments or study, and then handle my teaching assistant work. Once, I was grading student papers until midnight and couldn't get a ride, so I had to sleep in the lab. When the professor found out, he added a table and chair to his office and asked me to move there to work at night. He could give me a ride home after preparing lessons or grading papers. The professor was in his fifties, but he was still a night owl, sometimes working even later than me and making me wait for him. From then on, I became a regular at the professor's office, and he even gave me a key so I could come and go freely.
Once, I fell asleep from exhaustion, and when I woke up, I found that the professor had somehow carried me to the sofa and covered me with a coat. The next time I finished work and turned around to find the professor asleep at his desk, I tried to do the same to carry him to the sofa, but I immediately regretted it. No matter how hard I tried, he wouldn't budge. Our faces were so close then, and whether he was awake or dreaming, he kissed my lips. His stubble was prickly; it was a mature man's kiss, domineering yet tender, reminding me of the wonderful memories of being intimate with my photographer. I closed my eyes and enjoyed it. The professor stood up and continued kissing me, from my lips to my eyes to my ears. When he gently bit my earlobe, I couldn't help but moan softly. Neither of us spoke, and we tacitly helped each other undress. The professor had a fantastic physique; he didn't look like he was in his fifties at all. I later learned that he regularly trained in triathlons and occasionally participated in competitions. My physique was also good, but unfortunately, I wasn't wearing a nipple ring; otherwise, I could have been even sexier. I lay on the desk with my legs spread, allowing the professor easy penetration. The glass behind me was cold, and his penis was hot; I reached orgasm in the alternation of hot and cold.
From that night on, I became the professor's mistress. Every night we would have our trysts in the office; the desk, the walls, the sofa—everywhere bore the marks of our lovemaking. The professor liked mature, sexy women, so I started wearing black stockings and high heels. Working until midnight, I would strip down to just stockings, wear heels, and put on nipple rings; my wanton body always excited the professor. We didn't dare undress if it wasn't that late, always prepared for any unexpected situations. Once, I was giving the professor oral sex when someone knocked on the door. A second-year master's student, about to graduate, wanted to discuss his progress with the professor. The professor quickly pulled down his pants and sat back down, while I hid under the desk, nestled between his legs. The student and the professor discussed for a long time. Feeling bored, I wanted to tease the professor, so I pulled down his pants and put his now-soft penis in my mouth to continue teasing him. I dared not make a sound, so my movements were very light and slow, but his penis still slowly grew bigger and harder. The professor probably wanted to beat me up, but he could only remain silent. Later, the senior finally left, and I looked at the professor with innocent eyes while continuing my work, quickly getting him to ejaculate all over my mouth. The professor would also take me to competitions. During the day, I would be a spectator cheering him on, and at night, he would fill every hole of mine with oil. In hotels, we could have sex without having to sneak around, and I was often so exhausted the next day that I didn't want to get out of bed. Later, the professor's competition results didn't improve; he probably used up all his energy on me.
After becoming the professor's mistress, I met his wife by chance and even saw his children. Although I felt guilty, my admiration for the professor's mature intellect and my fascination with his strong physique, coupled with the fact that my grades and degree were in his hands, allowed me to continue this relationship. He vaguely sensed from our conversations that I wasn't the first student to have an affair with the professor, but I never dared to ask what happened to them. Sometimes when we attended seminars together, the professor would introduce me as his most capable and resilient student. I understood his double entendre, and my face would involuntarily turn red. After my second year of master's, I started working hard on my research thesis to graduate. The professor would discuss my research progress with me every week, but more often than not, he was more concerned with the tightness of my vagina and anus. I spent more time on my affairs than on research, and my progress was consistently far behind schedule; my thesis was barely cobbled together. The professor subtly hinted that a thesis of this caliber would have difficulty passing the oral exam, but he could arrange for me to meet with the committee members first, and whether I passed the oral exam would depend on my performance. Given such an obvious hint, I could only agree.
That day, I dressed up deliberately, without underwear or panties, wearing nipple rings over a sheer blouse, black stockings with suspenders, and a super short mini-skirt. I put on makeup and high heels, and looking in the mirror, I felt like a complete slut. The senior who took me to buy these clothes back then probably never imagined they would come in handy one day. The professor drove me to the agreed-upon place, and when we went inside, the other four oral exam committee members were already there. Their eyes lit up when they saw my outfit, and without further introductions, they pulled down their pants and began gang-raping me. These oral sex committee members were all in their fifties or sixties. Apart from the professor, the others weren't in great shape or stamina, so most of the time only one of them was doing it to me while the others chatted, rested, and watched. Except for the professor, the others were quite conservative, usually using the most basic missionary position. If someone changed to a different position, the others would applaud and cheer. Everyone seemed to enjoy oral sex, but no one touched my anus. Compared to being gang-raped by the band members in the rehearsal room, this was so much easier; I still felt unsatisfied when it ended. Everyone praised my performance, and naturally, I passed the oral exam smoothly.
The professor was very open about our relationship. I often shared with him who was pursuing me, and he would analyze the situation and sometimes encourage me to date certain people. Over the past two years, I've had ambiguous relationships with several people, some classmates I met during courses, and some off-campus partners I planned to meet. I've had sex with some of these ambiguous relationships, and some of the better ones continued to sleep with me until graduation. But what I can't forget is my professor. Even after graduation, I often went back to see him, until one time when I couldn't open the door with my key. It turned out the lock had been changed, and I understood what my professor meant. I went home silently and spent a sad night, and after that, I never went to see him again.

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