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Perspective: Professor Nyra Sanjani

Here is Emily with brown hair that brushes across her shoulder. In class her brown hair distracts me. It’s always shiny and straight. Sometimes she tosses it to the side. Sometimes she twirls it.

The class of 58 students is split into smaller groups and they discuss the latest novel we’re reading. I overhear Emily speaking and her thoughts are interesting. She’s articulate when she wants to be, which is a trait I admire.

The difference between Emily and other students is that Emily knows my secret. She swears it was by accident. She swears she’ll never tell anyone.

Months ago, I was attending a party of like-minded adults when Emily showed up with a friend. The party was located at a friend’s home — invitation or recommendation only. I decided to observe her, to see what a wholesome girl was doing at a place like that.

At the party she looked nervous and out of place. Her eyes wandered and her shoulders hunched forward. She and her friend were timid. When she saw me, she froze, while I remained calm. I asked what she was doing there, she said her friend brought her along. We had a private chat and she said she’d never tell anyone. She left the party soon after, by her own accord.

My brief daydream ends when class is over. Students are discreet about checking the time and they pack their things when class ends. It’s the moment I’m on my toes again because I’ll be fielding different questions from different students.

When most of the students leave, Emily is still at her desk. She’s standing by her laptop and she summons me. I’m tall and she’s petite with a slender build, so the power imbalance is even great when I stand beside her.

“Can you sign this for me?”

Of course, I tell her. Helping students is what I’m here for. Emily wants to enroll in the graduate program for a master’s degree and she asked for my support. My signature is required in addition to all the support I’ve given her.

We bend over at the same time. Being tall and working in close proximity with others means there are accidental views down a woman’s top. I always do the professional thing and look away.

But with Emily, I take a quick look. I’m certain she’s doing this on purpose because she’s standing in a position that gives me full view, and because she doesn’t look at me. She faces her computer while she talks.

She’s wearing a white bra. Her breasts are small and she wears bra padding to give her chest a perkier shape.

My eyes dart away and I sign the form.

We both stand upright and she smiles, thanking me. I sense a bit of tension from her. Yes, she flashed me on purpose. I took the bait and looked at her chest. Do I regret it? Not yet, but maybe I will later.


It’s amazing how powerful breasts are. The round curve at the bottom. The softness of the skin and flesh. The different shapes.

And then the nipples. The most illuminating part of breasts. I’ve seen countless breasts over my lifetime — I’m 46 years old — and it’s always the nipples that I want to study. Most of the breasts I see are from the locker room shower or sexual encounters. I also view online pornography.

I masturbate in the faculty bathroom thinking of what Emily’s nipples must look like. By her hair and skin color, I’d say she’s bright pink. By the shape of her jaw and nose, I’d say her nipples protrude like pencil erasers. Prominent facial features hint at how nipples are shaped, in my opinion.

When I’m done I grab a cup of coffee in the faculty lounge. Two guys are talking about an upcoming movie they want to see in theaters, and Magda is having coffee alone at a table while flipping through phone messages. When the guys leave, Magda turns to me.

“Took you long enough,” she chides, putting her phone away.

I shrug. “There was good material today.”

Magda knows about my campus masturbation routine. Sometimes we give notice and take turns, so we don’t end up masturbating next to each other in different stalls by accident. Wouldn’t that be funny?

“Think of anything good?”

In addition to being masturbation friends, Magda is also a participant at the same parties I mentioned earlier. It’s a dark secret of this university, and across academia and education. We attend sex parties with plenty of kink. Usually we play with other teachers.

Occasionally there’d be students (over the age of 18, of course), which is the true prize. That’s rare because we have to protect our reputations as educators of society. But it does happen if the student proves herself.

I pull out my phone and look for Emily’s Facebook page. I show an image to Magda and she nearly chokes on her coffee.

“What’s her name?” she asks.

“Emily. She’s the student I told you about, the one that saw me at the party a few months ago.”

“Are you going to fuck her?”

I laugh. “Allow me to make things clear. I. Don’t. Fuck. Students.”

Now it’s Magda’s turn to laugh.

“Then why did you kocaeli escort masturbate so long thinking about her? Your skin looks glowing. You’re shining. Oh yeah, you’re hot for her.”

I put my phone away. “She flashed her bra to me — accidentally on purpose. In the classroom of all places. She wears bra padding, you know. Since then, all I can think about is her nipples. What they must look like.”

Magda sips her coffee and makes the ‘mmm’ sound. Either from her drink or the thought of Emily’s nipples.

“I need to go,” she says. “I wish we can continue this conversation, but I have a job to do.”


“Perhaps you can tell me more, you know, after Emily’s nipples end up in your mouth.”


Magda winks and takes her mug of coffee as she leaves the faculty lounge.


Professors are required to have a certain amount of office hours per week. It gives students a chance to swing around to discuss anything. It also gives the university a feeling of warmth, with office doors open with teachers inside.

This magical period is meditative for me. I get work done because my office is on the quiet side of the building, plus I have a great view of the campus. Because I teach English, that means I have to grade a lot of essays. I use my time to speed read to see where my students are.

Whenever I hear footsteps, I know if it’s for me or not. If the footsteps slow down before reaching the door, it’s for me. I assume it’s because students hesitate before speaking privately with their statuesque stone-faced teacher (which is me).

The footsteps slow and I look up and see Emily at the door. She is happy to see me, glad that I’m sitting alone in my office. The feeling is mutual.

She puts her things down and we make small talk. Sitting across from my desk, the natural light shines on her white face and illuminates her brown hair. Her eyes are green. Precious emeralds.

There’s something about her today. I’ve been dealing with students for almost two decades. Most of the students who come to my office are young women.

My guess is Emily wants to talk about the graduate program.

My assumption is correct when she speaks. Ambitious students often talk about their future. I’m the former Chair of the English Department — a job which rotates between faculty — so I possess helpful advice.

But still, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, as the saying goes. We’ve had private conversations before and she’s always relaxed. This time, talking about academics, she sits upright and stiff. She pulls her brown hair back a few times. She looks too pretty for a boring conversation. Too formal.

Finally it comes.

“Can we talk about the party?” she whispers.

Her lips curl when she asks. It’s more than being nervous. Emily is intimidated. My office is my realm, lined with my reading books and awards on the wall. Even as we sit across from each other, I’m in a higher position because of my height, and she has to look up to me. Tiny girl.

“Only if you close the door,” I say.

Like a good girl, Emily gets up and closes the door. She’s an obedient one. Then she sits before me once again.

She clears her throat, as if giving a canned speech. “I’m interested in attending the next event. To be blunt, I don’t need your permission to attend. But I’m telling you to be respectful, to clear the air when we see each other.”

I remain silent for a few seconds, staring at her. My eyes versus hers. It’s a losing battle for her. She’s intimidated, but I’m transfixed by her beauty.

“You’re an adult. You can go wherever you want.”

She gulps, “Thanks, I just wanted to give you a heads up. So yeah, we’ll be seeing each other there, and I’m sure it’ll be awkward.”

I should let this issue go. She’s an adult, after all. She’s free to attend whatever sex party she wants.

However, I care for her, as a student and person. I think she’s sweet and deserves the best in life, so I give her notice.

“Here’s something to think about,” I say. “You’re applying for the master’s program because you think it’ll help your future career. Did you know that two of the women who run the master’s program attend these parties?”

Emily is shocked. She knows the two professors I’m referring to. The women I’m talking about are bookish, English wonks, who read countless books a year and enjoy reading long thesis papers.

For a newbie like Emily, the thought of women in their 40’s and 50’s engaging in such sexual practices bends the mind. It’s outside the bounds of reason. It’s proof that Emily is stepping into a world she knows little about.

“You mean…”

I nod. “They’ll be seeing you naked. Or maybe you’ll be seeing them naked. If they ask you for oral, what would you do? Could you look them in the eyes the next day on campus?”

Emily remains stunned. This lifestyle isn’t for everyone. Going down on her professors was a concept that never entered her mind. Why would it? Those kocaeli escort bayan women have the personality of stereotypical librarians.

“That’s a good point,” she says.

I continue, “That’s only speaking of the graduate program. A few of your current and former professors also attend these parties. Even a few students that you may or may not know. Please consider that, Emily.”

“Oh my god.”

As expected, Emily is defeated by the revelation. Like most young women her age, she wants to explore her sexuality and express her emotions. But it has to be on the right terms, where it’s safe and confidential. The truth about these parties is more complex than she knew. I’m glad I’m able to warn her.

“It must be unusual for you to hear this.”

“My friend didn’t know these details,” she says.

I think about inquiring about her friend, but decide that I don’t care. My only concern is for Emily and her growth as a person. This goes beyond academics and a student/teacher relationship. This feels personal.

“Don’t blame your friend. Boring teachers are sexual beings who enjoy pleasure. We know how to keep that a secret.”

Emily blushes. “Hearing you say that is… I don’t know… a paradox.”

“The human paradox,” I smile. “I’m sure attending this party meant a lot, since you were willing to come here and discuss it.”

“Well, it would be the craziest experience of my life. That’s for sure.”

“Are you giving up? Or will you still attend?”

She winces. “Messing around with a teacher was never part of my plan. Don’t get me wrong, I love all of these professors and I think they’re beautiful. But my reputation means everything to me.”

Emily’s body language and facial expression reveal her disappointment. Even the sound of her voice makes that clear. But she does her best to hide it. She’s a proud young woman and refuses to be disappointed in front of me.

I feel bad that she won’t attend the next party, but I’m looking after her best interest. It’s one of the reasons why faculty or administrators don’t actively seek to invite students. It’s awkward for the student. Having said that, students have participated before, as I’ve mentioned earlier.

An idea comes to mind. Like all my ideas, it’s brilliant. My idea makes me grin, which causes Emily to look at me funny.

“Here’s a suggestion,” I say. “Wear a mask. Problem solved.”

“A mask?”

“Do you know Professor Ishimatsu from the Art Department?”

“I almost took her class two years ago. I’ve never met her though.”

“She’ll make you a mask. A good one. A beautiful, classy one. You’ll be incognito and amongst your professors at the party.”

This changes everything. Emily’s eyes come alive once again at the renewed hope that she can attend a sex gathering. Only this time, her reputation amongst the faculty (most of the faculty, anyway) will remain intact.

“That could work,” she says.

Part of me is happy she wants to explore. It’s normal and healthy, in my view, and within reason. Another part of me is upset because Emily will be unleashing forces outside of her control. A smart girl like her should keep her attention on the future.

“If you want my advice, walk away and I’ll pretend this conversation never happened. You’re a bright young woman. You should be focused on academics. Sex should be your last priority.”

She thinks about it. However, ambitious young women like Emily know what they want in life, even if they’re timid and hesitant. That fortitude is the reason why she’ll be successful someday.

“I still want to try it,” she says. “I’ll always have regrets if I miss this opportunity. It just sounds like one of those things I have to try.”

I want to question her. To find out what makes her tick. To learn what makes a bright, wholesome young woman want to attend a sex party with older women, with her teachers of all people.

But I don’t question her. I already know the answer. A decade ago I had the same curiosities when I was first invited to the private parties, so I understand the mental gymnastics happening in Emily’s head.

Instead the most important question is if Emily has the fortitude to endure such a night. I know what trouble awaits. Emily doesn’t. The last thing I want is to mentor Emily in this endeavor, only for her to quit. Worse, that she’d be mentally scarred or humiliated.

“You’ll wear a mask. I’ll guide you. How does that sound?”

She smiles. “That sounds like a plan.”

“First you have to prove yourself to me. I require total devotion. Before I commit my time, I need to know if you can handle this.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Show me your nipple.”

Her bottom lip flinches, but she controls herself. As much as she’s nervous, she’s also aroused by the prospect of revealing herself. She doesn’t argue. She knows that my need for confirmation is logical.

Her thin fingers clasp at the bottom of her shirt. She lifts and kocaeli escort I can see her belly. I only requested one nipple, so she lifts one side of her top.

A white bra is in the way. She lifts the bra and I’m delighted to see an erect pink nipple on a small chest. She continues to hold her clothes so I can see her breast and her face is stoic like a runway model.

I stand and approach her. I kneel beside her and look close. It’s the perfect nipple as far as I’m concerned. It’s shaped like a pencil eraser — just as I expected. Coral pink. I can see all the little lines and bumps on it. My praise might not mean much, because I think all nipples are perfect.

My lips wrap around her nipple. Emily moans. Sucking on a student’s tit during office hours isn’t something I’m proud of, but it makes both of us happy. I’m glad I’m doing it. I suck hard on the nipple. Emily moans and strokes my hair, pulling me closer.

I nurse on her breast for close to ten minutes, by my estimation. I reach down and rub her crotch through her pants, doing my best to stimulate her clitoris. She reaches an orgasm, mostly because of what I’m doing with her nipple. She’s blessed to have sensitive nipples.

When it’s done, I look her straight in the eyes while I remain kneeling. Her wet nipple is still exposed. We’re more than teacher/student now. We’ve become lovers with the same interests.

Perspective: Magda

I first meet Emily in the garage of the Dean’s home. It’s 5 pm and the sun is going down. My heart rushes seeing her.

The student is embarrassed to see me. She recognizes me and knows that I’m faculty. I assure her that her secret is safe. I’m someone she can trust with these sorts of things. Before this, I did some research on Emily, looking at her social media pages. She’s a normal girl and I love that.

“Remove your clothes,” Professor Sanjani says. “All the way down to your bare feet.”

Emily undresses. She doesn’t mean to be sexy. She’s not putting on a show. Yet that makes it more enticing. The secrets of her body are revealed as she strips. Seeing her in bra and panties, I think of her social media posts again. I think of those images of her with friends and family.

She’s naked and I admire her body. These are the delicate pink nipples that Professor Sanjani has been telling me about. Sanjani has great taste, but seeing these nipples for myself is a game changer. I’m going to suck them before the night is over. I promise.

Her bare feet are on the garage floor. Her crotch is shaved, she’s prepared for this. Normally, the stripping and nudity of a student would be saved for the living room, dining area, or kitchen. In this case, Emily values her privacy.

Professor Sanjani unveils a black mask, created by an art teacher, who sadly couldn’t make it for today’s party. The mask is elegant and smooth.

Tucking her brown hair behind her ears, Emily wears the mask. It fits and the strap holds it in place. It covers most of her face, enough to conceal her identity, but with enough space to show her green eyes and gives freedom for the mouth area.

“Be proud, be brave,” Professor Sanjani says, rubbing Emily’s shoulders. “Keep an open mind and have fun.”

“I will.”

“If you’re uncomfortable, give me a signal and I’ll save you. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. Be a strong woman.”

Emily appreciates these comments. She takes a moment to breathe deep, then thanks her professor for the reassurance and guidance. I offer Emily the same assurances and words of wisdom, which she thanks me for.

Her bare feet make smacking noises as she walks across the garage floor. She’s guided inside the big house. I’m impressed by how composed she is, how firm she moves. It shows that she’s prepared. Her pretty pink nipples are rock hard.

The party features many of the area’s academic elites, school administrators, and even adjunct professors. And of course, the Dean, who regularly hosts these parties at her home. Only half of the day’s participants have shown up, the rest will come later. The evening is still young.

What I enjoy seeing is how demure these women are. Everyone is well-spoken and properly dressed. The conversations are bland. But there’s a deviant side to us. That will come later.

So far Emily is the only person naked, which I think Professor Sanjani arranged on purpose, needing to see how committed the student is. Emily passes with flying colors as she’s introduced to the women, who are curious about the new, naked mystery girl. No one asks for her identity; there is etiquette to this lifestyle.

I lounge around the party and make conversation with friends. All the while, my eyes check on Emily, seeing how she carries herself. She stays close with Professor Sanjani as they mingle with the growing crowd. I get the feeling that Emily is thrilled with the anonymity, that she can be naked amongst her faculty and no one knows.

Emily turns stiff when sex is introduced at the party. An older professor from a different campus is sitting on the couch and lifts her skirt; she pulls her panties down. This professor is having a drink, discussing enrollment for her new classes with someone, while an adjunct professor gets on her knees and performs oral sex.

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