windar
Teller of Tales
I was just finishing reviewing the minutes of last week’s Executive Committee meeting, when I heard the knock. I glanced at my watch (yes I am old school, though I hear they are back in style again). 11 AM-that would be Dr. Barbara Moore, our Project Leader on that study that is over budget again.
I liked Dr. Moore-her work was always first-rate- accurate, detailed and clear. More than that, though, I liked Dr. Moore herself. She had an intelligent face, framed by long brunette hair, and she was a witty conversationalist at faculty get-togethers; all-in-all, not a person to be taken lightly. But, if I am to be honest (and why shouldn’t I be?) what I noticed and admired most about her was her tight little.
I had watched her out of the corner of my eye at receptions, wriggling lithely through the crowd to the bar to refill her glass of wine. A couple of times I had “accidentally” brushed against her in crowded rooms as she stood chatting with colleagues, enjoying her clean mid-Western aroma and the ever-so-slight contact between our nether regions.
Then, there was the time last summer I had been out trotting along the bike path with my dog and seen her approaching me, on her daily jog, clad in a sports bra and a very brief pair of shorts. I hailed her and she stopped to chat, both of us a bit out of breath and sweaty. As she bent down to pet my dog (the lucky creature) I noticed the shorts riding even further up her leg, right to the bottom of her tight little. After a few moments we each continued on our way, but I couldn’t help turning around to admire her lovely backside as she continued down the path.
Breaking off my reverie, I called out “Come in.” The door opened and it was indeed Dr. Moore, smiling as she approached, dressed in a ski jacket with a brown woolen pullover underneath, a knee-length navy blue skirt and boots. I stood and shook her outstretched hand, inviting her to be seated in one of the chairs facing my desk. Taking off her ski jacket and draping it on the back of the chair, she sat down.
We made small talk for a few minutes about the weather-cold (it was Minnesota in January after all) and the Packers (I knew she was a fan). Unfortunately, though, I had no choice but to get down to business, which wasn’t totally pleasant. “Dr. Moore,” I began, “I called you here today because we are only halfway through the fiscal year and your project has already spent 80% of its budget. How are you going to make it through the next six months? I have been getting increasingly urgent calls from Finance about this.”
“Dean Windar,” she replied, “As you know, the reviewers have demanded additional studies that could not have been foreseen. We have simply had to add more staff and more equipment in order to complete all the necessary analyses and projections.”
I will confess that I only half listened to her explanation, which, I must admit, was cogent and quite reasonable. The other half of my mind drifted inevitably back to that summer day and the sight of Dr. Moore’s tight little bouncing down the bike path. Finally, she stopped.
“That’s all quite understandable, Dr. Moore,” I replied, “But the VP of Finance is still very concerned. He insists that there is no leeway at this time and that if you go over budget, as you will, it will have to come out of other projects. And if I do that, the Project Leaders on those will be in here complaining as you would be if the places were reversed.’
“I realize that,” she answered, “But this was quite unavoidable.”
“No doubt,” I said. “Nevertheless, this is going to cause considerable problems for me. I hope you appreciate that in the future, you will have to find a way to live within your budget.”
“Yes, I will try to do that,” she replied, flashing me a big grin.
I frowned. “Dr. Moore, I am not sure that you appreciate the gravity of the situation. Budgets are tight and must be adhered to. I think I may need to impress upon you in a more direct way the importance of respecting that.”
“What exactly do you mean, Dean Windar?” she asked, looking concerned.
Yes, what exactly did I mean? All I could think of was her tight little as I had brushed against it at the reception for the new graduate students back in the fall. I decided it was now or never. “Dr. Moore, are you familiar with the latest thinking in behavioral economics? How humans are often irrational and make foolish decisions and only learn by paying a price for their mistakes?”
“I have read a bit about that, Dean Windar, but not in great detail,” she replied nervously.
“Well, I think in this case, in order to make sure that this does not repeat itself, my message needs to be reinforced.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
I adopted my firmest tone of voice. “Dr. Moore, would you please stand up?” Looking puzzled, she complied. “Strip,” I ordered.
“What?” she demanded incredulously.
“You heard me. You do as I say or I will make sure that this budget mess ends up entirely at your doorstep and I won’t lift a finger to help you. Now get those clothes off.”
“Right here? In your office?”
“Yes, there’s nothing left in your budget for a hotel room so you will have to face your consequences right here. Now I have a lunch meeting at noon, so stop dawdling and get those clothes off.” I stared at her trying to look as intimidating as I could.
She froze for a few seconds, then looked down at the floor. Finally, she grasped the bottom of her sweater and pulled it over her head depositing it on the chair. She paused for a moment, as I glared sternly at her, signaling her to proceed. She began slowly undoing the buttons of the white blouse she had under the sweater, starting at the top until it hung open, exposing her pink bra.
Reluctantly, she shucked off the blouse, placing it deliberately on the chair. Then she bent and slid her boots off, the right one first, then the left. She reached under her skirt and pulled down her tights, stepping out of them awkwardly, leaving them on the floor next to the boots. Then, she unbuttoned the waistband of the skirt and slid it down to the floor, bending over to pick it up, then folding it neatly and placing it on the chair.
And there stood the delectable Dr. Barbara Moore, clad only in her matching pink bra and panties. She looked woefully at me and in a frightened voice asked, “Surely, you don’t want me to take these off, too?”
“Dr. Moore,” I answered, “When I say strip, that means everything. Let’s go.” By now her resistance had been almost completely undermined, and I could see a few tears in her eyes. Meekly, she reached behind her and undid the clasp on her bra and lowered the straps over her arms, leaving her naked above the waist.
The sight of her luscious breasts, the nipples tumescent from the shame of the unaccustomed exposure and contact with the air, took my breath away. I could barely manage to speak, but I gathered my wits about me and ordered, “Them too,” indicating the panties. She reached her hand down to grasp the waistband, and lowered them to her feet, before stepping out of them.
“A most delightful package, Dr. Moore,” I croaked. “Those assets certainly help to offset your extravagant budgetary excesses.” By this point, my male organ was standing to attention inside my trousers. I wasn’t sure she noticed it, though it would have been hard to miss.
Dr. Moore blushed deeply, perhaps in pride at her well-toned body, perhaps in shame at being forced to display it so wantonly, or perhaps both. “Are you satisfied now, Dean Windar?” she asked. “May I get dressed?”
“Certainly not,” I replied firmly. “Serious overruns such as yours require serious measures.” I stood up and began unbuckling my belt and pulling it through the loops on my trousers.
“What are you doing, Dean?” Dr. Moore asked, nervously.
“I intend to make sure that I never have to call you in again for exceeding your budget. I am going to deliver a message to your tight little that will travel up your spinal column to your brain and lodge itself there permanently. Now bend over the desk.” I brandished the belt, a thick strip of leather perhaps two inches wide.
She looked even more shocked than she had when I had ordered her to strip. “Surely you don’t intend to spank me, Dean Windar?”
“Spank you?” I chuckled. “I would say, whip you is more like it, young lady. I need to teach you a lesson that you won’t soon forget. Now time is short. Bend over the desk and don’t dawdle or it will only make things worse.”
She looked at me to see if there were any signs that I was bluffing. I did my best to look as stern as possible and pointed at the edge of the desk. Looking very frightened she bent over, grasping the end farthest away, near where I stood.
As Dr. Moore was arranging herself, I stepped around the desk to the side where her feet rested on the floor. I thought I had prepared myself for the sight, but I was wrong. Bent at the waist, her naked torso lying over the top of the desk, her breasts pressed into the wood, Dr. Moore’s tight little was most enticingly displayed against the far edge of the desk. Even the rear view as she had jogged along the bike path had only hinted at the delightful vision of those two rounded globes that met my eyes.
I knew I should get down to business and apply my belt to her posterior to impress upon her the seriousness of her offense, but I couldn’t help running my hand over that wonderful, soft flesh. She turned her head to look at me disapprovingly.
I would have lingered longer, but duty called. I stepped back, measuring the distance so that the end of the belt would contact her rump and deliver the maximum force to her skin. “Prepare yourself, Dr. Moore,” I warned her. She shuffled her feet a bit, then lay still, waiting in silence for what was coming. This was the moment of truth. I hesitated for a second or two, took a deep breath, then raised the belt over my head and brought it down with full force right into the center of Dr. Barbara Moore’s tight little. It made a most satisfying slapping sound and I felt the force travel up my arm.
As the leather fell away, I heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the desk and saw a bright pink strip, roughly the width of the belt, arise on the succulent skin of Dr. Moore’s tight little. Pausing to allow her to fully absorb the message of the first lash, I watched the strip brighten and watched her shuffle her feet as the burning pain registered in her brain.
Finally, she lay still enough for me to deliver the second strike, this one right above the first, eliciting a similar reaction. The third strike fell more or less on top of the first, causing Dr. Moore to lift her tight little off the desk and wriggle it most enticingly in the air in a futile attempt to manage the burning fire that was no doubt raging through that most attractive flesh. I heard her mutter something that sounded like “Oh, shit!”
“That is not the language I expect from a highly educated Project Leader such as yourself, Dr. Moore,” I reproached her. Hoping to impress that point upon her, I strove to make the fourth strike harder than the previous three. Whether I did, or whether it was simply the cumulative effect of the series of lashes, she yelped and jumped up, grabbing her tight little with both hands and hopping up and down. “That hurt like hell, Dean Windar,” she protested angrily.
“It’s supposed to, young lady. Now, we are not done. Get back down,” I ordered. She hopped around for a couple of seconds more, then lowered her torso back onto the desk, arranging herself gingerly for the next lash. I gave her three more lashes, each one accompanied by howls of pain and most delightful gyrations of that delightful tight little.
I walked around the desk to stand in front of Dr. Moore, looking down at her lovely form laid out on the space where I normally looked at academic reports and budget spreadsheets. She looked up at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, her nose running, her hair disheveled. “Please, Dean Windar, I don’t think I can take any more. I will never exceed my budget again. Please, have pity on me and stop.”
I looked down pensively. “I really want to be certain that I’ve impressed upon you the importance of this. I’m going to give you one more, OK? I think you are tougher than you think you are and can handle it.”
Dr. Moore clenched her jaw and nodded. “OK, but only one more, right?”
“Have you ever known me not to keep my word?” I asked her, trying to sound a bit hurt. She shook her head. “Good, then one more it is,” I said, walking back around the desk. By now, after seven lashes, there were no discernable lines any more on her tight little, just a solid area of bright red, battered flesh. Anywhere I chose to hit would be extremely painful. I wasn’t even really sure I wanted to administer this final stroke, but a promise was a promise, so I raised the belt and whacked it down hard into the succulent orbs.
She howled and writhed vigorously for several seconds before standing up and clutching her tight little in her hands. This display and the evident contrition she had expressed was so erotic that I felt my cock was very close to bursting. I noticed Dr. Moore staring at my crotch. “Are we done, Dean Windar? May I get dressed now?”
“Dr. Moore,” I replied. “I may be a Dean, but I am also a man. I can’t imagine that the state of my arousal has escaped your attention.”
“It hasn’t, Dean Windar,” she replied, smiling despite her obvious pain.
“Are you on birth control, Dr. Moore?” I inquired.
“Yes, I have an implant,” she answered.
“That’s wonderful. I salute your preparedness,” I said, lowering my trousers. “Now get back over the desk,” I ordered, slipping off my shoes and removing my trousers, folding them neatly and laying them on the chair with Dr. Moore’s clothes. She shuffled back to her spot, the movement clearly causing her some distress. Once she had arranged her feet, she bent at the waist, lowering her torso onto the surface of the wood.
“Spread your legs a bit, please, Dr. Moore,” I ordered. She moved her feet to comply with my demand. The sight she presented was beyond a doubt as erotic a vision as any I could recall. Her tight little was beet red from the vigorous belting I had administered, her sex displayed like a baboon in heat.
I lowered my briefs and stepped out of them, my rock hard penis pointing almost straight up. Dr. Moore turned her head, evidently wanting to see the organ that was about to enter her. I saw her eyes open wide; she was seemingly impressed. “Nothing like a little exercise to get the blood flowing, is there, Dr. Moore?”
“I’ll say, Dean Windar,” she replied.
“As I said, I do have an important lunch meeting, and I know your time is valuable as well, Dr. Moore, so perhaps I should get down to business?” I suggested.
“Yes, that would make sense,” she replied.
Not needing to be asked twice, I rose up on my toes and took the matter in hand, guiding the head of my cock into her slit, resting it for a moment against her labia. I couldn’t help noticing that her vulva was very damp.
“Am I mistaken, or are you quite aroused, Dr. Moore?”
“It seems as though I am, Dean Windar.”
“A most curious phenomenon, Dr. Moore. Perhaps we should consider an article for one of the medical or psychology journals,” I replied as I slid my swollen organ inside. It entered quite easily into her well-lubricated canal. She moaned as I pushed my way in, using my weight to penetrate deeply. The moans of pleasure seemed to mix a bit with pain, however, as my groin contacted her tight little. “Are you OK?” I asked, being a gentleman.
“Yes, sure,” she squeaked, in some evident distress. “It hurts a bit against my butt, but it’s fine.”
“Good,” I replied, as I established a rhythm of slow thrusts in and out, enjoying the feeling of her vaginal walls gripping my cock immensely. “You deserve a bit of pleasure after enduring that pain,” I told her, my voice a bit unsteady from the sensations running through my groin.
I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out given how excited looking down at Dr. Moore’s well-whipped tight little was making me. And besides I did have that lunch meeting. So, I increased the speed of my thrusts grunting a bit with the effort. “I think I may come soon, Dr. Moore,” I told her.
“I may too, Dean Windar,” she replied.
It wasn’t much longer before I felt that tingling sensation in my balls that signaled the imminent eruption. I clutched her waist, groaning as I felt myself spurting deep inside her as she groaned as well, panting as the waves of pleasure kept going for what seemed like at least a minute. Finally, I collapsed on top of her, breathless, my head spinning from the sensations.
Eventually, knowing that all good things must come to an end, I withdrew from the lovely Dr. Barbara Moore and reached down for my underwear. She stood up, looking at me with what looked like a mixture of disgust and relief. “May I get dressed now?” she asked.
“Yes, of course, Dr. Moore,” I replied. “I hope you have learned the importance of adhering to a budget and will not be so spendthrift with the University’s resources in the future.’
“That I have, Dean Windar,” she said. “You won’t have to worry about me exceeding spending targets again in the future, that I can assure you.”
“Very good,” I replied, fully dressed now. “As I mentioned, I have an important lunch meeting. You can see yourself out, Dr. Moore?”
I liked Dr. Moore-her work was always first-rate- accurate, detailed and clear. More than that, though, I liked Dr. Moore herself. She had an intelligent face, framed by long brunette hair, and she was a witty conversationalist at faculty get-togethers; all-in-all, not a person to be taken lightly. But, if I am to be honest (and why shouldn’t I be?) what I noticed and admired most about her was her tight little.
I had watched her out of the corner of my eye at receptions, wriggling lithely through the crowd to the bar to refill her glass of wine. A couple of times I had “accidentally” brushed against her in crowded rooms as she stood chatting with colleagues, enjoying her clean mid-Western aroma and the ever-so-slight contact between our nether regions.
Then, there was the time last summer I had been out trotting along the bike path with my dog and seen her approaching me, on her daily jog, clad in a sports bra and a very brief pair of shorts. I hailed her and she stopped to chat, both of us a bit out of breath and sweaty. As she bent down to pet my dog (the lucky creature) I noticed the shorts riding even further up her leg, right to the bottom of her tight little. After a few moments we each continued on our way, but I couldn’t help turning around to admire her lovely backside as she continued down the path.
Breaking off my reverie, I called out “Come in.” The door opened and it was indeed Dr. Moore, smiling as she approached, dressed in a ski jacket with a brown woolen pullover underneath, a knee-length navy blue skirt and boots. I stood and shook her outstretched hand, inviting her to be seated in one of the chairs facing my desk. Taking off her ski jacket and draping it on the back of the chair, she sat down.
We made small talk for a few minutes about the weather-cold (it was Minnesota in January after all) and the Packers (I knew she was a fan). Unfortunately, though, I had no choice but to get down to business, which wasn’t totally pleasant. “Dr. Moore,” I began, “I called you here today because we are only halfway through the fiscal year and your project has already spent 80% of its budget. How are you going to make it through the next six months? I have been getting increasingly urgent calls from Finance about this.”
“Dean Windar,” she replied, “As you know, the reviewers have demanded additional studies that could not have been foreseen. We have simply had to add more staff and more equipment in order to complete all the necessary analyses and projections.”
I will confess that I only half listened to her explanation, which, I must admit, was cogent and quite reasonable. The other half of my mind drifted inevitably back to that summer day and the sight of Dr. Moore’s tight little bouncing down the bike path. Finally, she stopped.
“That’s all quite understandable, Dr. Moore,” I replied, “But the VP of Finance is still very concerned. He insists that there is no leeway at this time and that if you go over budget, as you will, it will have to come out of other projects. And if I do that, the Project Leaders on those will be in here complaining as you would be if the places were reversed.’
“I realize that,” she answered, “But this was quite unavoidable.”
“No doubt,” I said. “Nevertheless, this is going to cause considerable problems for me. I hope you appreciate that in the future, you will have to find a way to live within your budget.”
“Yes, I will try to do that,” she replied, flashing me a big grin.
I frowned. “Dr. Moore, I am not sure that you appreciate the gravity of the situation. Budgets are tight and must be adhered to. I think I may need to impress upon you in a more direct way the importance of respecting that.”
“What exactly do you mean, Dean Windar?” she asked, looking concerned.
Yes, what exactly did I mean? All I could think of was her tight little as I had brushed against it at the reception for the new graduate students back in the fall. I decided it was now or never. “Dr. Moore, are you familiar with the latest thinking in behavioral economics? How humans are often irrational and make foolish decisions and only learn by paying a price for their mistakes?”
“I have read a bit about that, Dean Windar, but not in great detail,” she replied nervously.
“Well, I think in this case, in order to make sure that this does not repeat itself, my message needs to be reinforced.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
I adopted my firmest tone of voice. “Dr. Moore, would you please stand up?” Looking puzzled, she complied. “Strip,” I ordered.
“What?” she demanded incredulously.
“You heard me. You do as I say or I will make sure that this budget mess ends up entirely at your doorstep and I won’t lift a finger to help you. Now get those clothes off.”
“Right here? In your office?”
“Yes, there’s nothing left in your budget for a hotel room so you will have to face your consequences right here. Now I have a lunch meeting at noon, so stop dawdling and get those clothes off.” I stared at her trying to look as intimidating as I could.
She froze for a few seconds, then looked down at the floor. Finally, she grasped the bottom of her sweater and pulled it over her head depositing it on the chair. She paused for a moment, as I glared sternly at her, signaling her to proceed. She began slowly undoing the buttons of the white blouse she had under the sweater, starting at the top until it hung open, exposing her pink bra.
Reluctantly, she shucked off the blouse, placing it deliberately on the chair. Then she bent and slid her boots off, the right one first, then the left. She reached under her skirt and pulled down her tights, stepping out of them awkwardly, leaving them on the floor next to the boots. Then, she unbuttoned the waistband of the skirt and slid it down to the floor, bending over to pick it up, then folding it neatly and placing it on the chair.
And there stood the delectable Dr. Barbara Moore, clad only in her matching pink bra and panties. She looked woefully at me and in a frightened voice asked, “Surely, you don’t want me to take these off, too?”
“Dr. Moore,” I answered, “When I say strip, that means everything. Let’s go.” By now her resistance had been almost completely undermined, and I could see a few tears in her eyes. Meekly, she reached behind her and undid the clasp on her bra and lowered the straps over her arms, leaving her naked above the waist.
The sight of her luscious breasts, the nipples tumescent from the shame of the unaccustomed exposure and contact with the air, took my breath away. I could barely manage to speak, but I gathered my wits about me and ordered, “Them too,” indicating the panties. She reached her hand down to grasp the waistband, and lowered them to her feet, before stepping out of them.
“A most delightful package, Dr. Moore,” I croaked. “Those assets certainly help to offset your extravagant budgetary excesses.” By this point, my male organ was standing to attention inside my trousers. I wasn’t sure she noticed it, though it would have been hard to miss.
Dr. Moore blushed deeply, perhaps in pride at her well-toned body, perhaps in shame at being forced to display it so wantonly, or perhaps both. “Are you satisfied now, Dean Windar?” she asked. “May I get dressed?”
“Certainly not,” I replied firmly. “Serious overruns such as yours require serious measures.” I stood up and began unbuckling my belt and pulling it through the loops on my trousers.
“What are you doing, Dean?” Dr. Moore asked, nervously.
“I intend to make sure that I never have to call you in again for exceeding your budget. I am going to deliver a message to your tight little that will travel up your spinal column to your brain and lodge itself there permanently. Now bend over the desk.” I brandished the belt, a thick strip of leather perhaps two inches wide.
She looked even more shocked than she had when I had ordered her to strip. “Surely you don’t intend to spank me, Dean Windar?”
“Spank you?” I chuckled. “I would say, whip you is more like it, young lady. I need to teach you a lesson that you won’t soon forget. Now time is short. Bend over the desk and don’t dawdle or it will only make things worse.”
She looked at me to see if there were any signs that I was bluffing. I did my best to look as stern as possible and pointed at the edge of the desk. Looking very frightened she bent over, grasping the end farthest away, near where I stood.
As Dr. Moore was arranging herself, I stepped around the desk to the side where her feet rested on the floor. I thought I had prepared myself for the sight, but I was wrong. Bent at the waist, her naked torso lying over the top of the desk, her breasts pressed into the wood, Dr. Moore’s tight little was most enticingly displayed against the far edge of the desk. Even the rear view as she had jogged along the bike path had only hinted at the delightful vision of those two rounded globes that met my eyes.
I knew I should get down to business and apply my belt to her posterior to impress upon her the seriousness of her offense, but I couldn’t help running my hand over that wonderful, soft flesh. She turned her head to look at me disapprovingly.
I would have lingered longer, but duty called. I stepped back, measuring the distance so that the end of the belt would contact her rump and deliver the maximum force to her skin. “Prepare yourself, Dr. Moore,” I warned her. She shuffled her feet a bit, then lay still, waiting in silence for what was coming. This was the moment of truth. I hesitated for a second or two, took a deep breath, then raised the belt over my head and brought it down with full force right into the center of Dr. Barbara Moore’s tight little. It made a most satisfying slapping sound and I felt the force travel up my arm.
As the leather fell away, I heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the desk and saw a bright pink strip, roughly the width of the belt, arise on the succulent skin of Dr. Moore’s tight little. Pausing to allow her to fully absorb the message of the first lash, I watched the strip brighten and watched her shuffle her feet as the burning pain registered in her brain.
Finally, she lay still enough for me to deliver the second strike, this one right above the first, eliciting a similar reaction. The third strike fell more or less on top of the first, causing Dr. Moore to lift her tight little off the desk and wriggle it most enticingly in the air in a futile attempt to manage the burning fire that was no doubt raging through that most attractive flesh. I heard her mutter something that sounded like “Oh, shit!”
“That is not the language I expect from a highly educated Project Leader such as yourself, Dr. Moore,” I reproached her. Hoping to impress that point upon her, I strove to make the fourth strike harder than the previous three. Whether I did, or whether it was simply the cumulative effect of the series of lashes, she yelped and jumped up, grabbing her tight little with both hands and hopping up and down. “That hurt like hell, Dean Windar,” she protested angrily.
“It’s supposed to, young lady. Now, we are not done. Get back down,” I ordered. She hopped around for a couple of seconds more, then lowered her torso back onto the desk, arranging herself gingerly for the next lash. I gave her three more lashes, each one accompanied by howls of pain and most delightful gyrations of that delightful tight little.
I walked around the desk to stand in front of Dr. Moore, looking down at her lovely form laid out on the space where I normally looked at academic reports and budget spreadsheets. She looked up at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, her nose running, her hair disheveled. “Please, Dean Windar, I don’t think I can take any more. I will never exceed my budget again. Please, have pity on me and stop.”
I looked down pensively. “I really want to be certain that I’ve impressed upon you the importance of this. I’m going to give you one more, OK? I think you are tougher than you think you are and can handle it.”
Dr. Moore clenched her jaw and nodded. “OK, but only one more, right?”
“Have you ever known me not to keep my word?” I asked her, trying to sound a bit hurt. She shook her head. “Good, then one more it is,” I said, walking back around the desk. By now, after seven lashes, there were no discernable lines any more on her tight little, just a solid area of bright red, battered flesh. Anywhere I chose to hit would be extremely painful. I wasn’t even really sure I wanted to administer this final stroke, but a promise was a promise, so I raised the belt and whacked it down hard into the succulent orbs.
She howled and writhed vigorously for several seconds before standing up and clutching her tight little in her hands. This display and the evident contrition she had expressed was so erotic that I felt my cock was very close to bursting. I noticed Dr. Moore staring at my crotch. “Are we done, Dean Windar? May I get dressed now?”
“Dr. Moore,” I replied. “I may be a Dean, but I am also a man. I can’t imagine that the state of my arousal has escaped your attention.”
“It hasn’t, Dean Windar,” she replied, smiling despite her obvious pain.
“Are you on birth control, Dr. Moore?” I inquired.
“Yes, I have an implant,” she answered.
“That’s wonderful. I salute your preparedness,” I said, lowering my trousers. “Now get back over the desk,” I ordered, slipping off my shoes and removing my trousers, folding them neatly and laying them on the chair with Dr. Moore’s clothes. She shuffled back to her spot, the movement clearly causing her some distress. Once she had arranged her feet, she bent at the waist, lowering her torso onto the surface of the wood.
“Spread your legs a bit, please, Dr. Moore,” I ordered. She moved her feet to comply with my demand. The sight she presented was beyond a doubt as erotic a vision as any I could recall. Her tight little was beet red from the vigorous belting I had administered, her sex displayed like a baboon in heat.
I lowered my briefs and stepped out of them, my rock hard penis pointing almost straight up. Dr. Moore turned her head, evidently wanting to see the organ that was about to enter her. I saw her eyes open wide; she was seemingly impressed. “Nothing like a little exercise to get the blood flowing, is there, Dr. Moore?”
“I’ll say, Dean Windar,” she replied.
“As I said, I do have an important lunch meeting, and I know your time is valuable as well, Dr. Moore, so perhaps I should get down to business?” I suggested.
“Yes, that would make sense,” she replied.
Not needing to be asked twice, I rose up on my toes and took the matter in hand, guiding the head of my cock into her slit, resting it for a moment against her labia. I couldn’t help noticing that her vulva was very damp.
“Am I mistaken, or are you quite aroused, Dr. Moore?”
“It seems as though I am, Dean Windar.”
“A most curious phenomenon, Dr. Moore. Perhaps we should consider an article for one of the medical or psychology journals,” I replied as I slid my swollen organ inside. It entered quite easily into her well-lubricated canal. She moaned as I pushed my way in, using my weight to penetrate deeply. The moans of pleasure seemed to mix a bit with pain, however, as my groin contacted her tight little. “Are you OK?” I asked, being a gentleman.
“Yes, sure,” she squeaked, in some evident distress. “It hurts a bit against my butt, but it’s fine.”
“Good,” I replied, as I established a rhythm of slow thrusts in and out, enjoying the feeling of her vaginal walls gripping my cock immensely. “You deserve a bit of pleasure after enduring that pain,” I told her, my voice a bit unsteady from the sensations running through my groin.
I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out given how excited looking down at Dr. Moore’s well-whipped tight little was making me. And besides I did have that lunch meeting. So, I increased the speed of my thrusts grunting a bit with the effort. “I think I may come soon, Dr. Moore,” I told her.
“I may too, Dean Windar,” she replied.
It wasn’t much longer before I felt that tingling sensation in my balls that signaled the imminent eruption. I clutched her waist, groaning as I felt myself spurting deep inside her as she groaned as well, panting as the waves of pleasure kept going for what seemed like at least a minute. Finally, I collapsed on top of her, breathless, my head spinning from the sensations.
Eventually, knowing that all good things must come to an end, I withdrew from the lovely Dr. Barbara Moore and reached down for my underwear. She stood up, looking at me with what looked like a mixture of disgust and relief. “May I get dressed now?” she asked.
“Yes, of course, Dr. Moore,” I replied. “I hope you have learned the importance of adhering to a budget and will not be so spendthrift with the University’s resources in the future.’
“That I have, Dean Windar,” she said. “You won’t have to worry about me exceeding spending targets again in the future, that I can assure you.”
“Very good,” I replied, fully dressed now. “As I mentioned, I have an important lunch meeting. You can see yourself out, Dr. Moore?”
As he says himself, Dean Windar is 'old school'!
Or who organises time travel to Jerusalem 33AD?
