The extra credit course on feminism was a delicious trap. Pretty girls would sign up for it every semester, and Professor Cole would spend an entire unit working them into a lather of hate for bimbos with fake tits, women who fucked their way to success, girls who preferred fucking men to having brains, and women who played at lesbianism for the entertainment of males.
He’d have them brainstorm things that deserved to happen to these sluts, bimbos, and lipstick lesbians, and would always be amused and alarmed by the filthy names that women would call each other with only a little prompting, and the violent – and surprisingly sexual – punishments they would concoct for those they saw as betraying the cause of feminism.
The joke was on them, because in the second-to-last lecture of each semester he’d gas the lot of them unconscious, take them to the private clinic he funded, and they’d all wake up with giant new breast implants and a capsule implant in their inner thigh that pumped powerful aphrodisiacs into their system around the clock.
He’s show them the releases and forms they’d signed at the start of the course that authorised him to engage in “radical teaching techniques related to feminism, including but not limited to cosmetic surgery and behavioural implants”. And he’d tell them that he’d pay to have the implants removed for any girl who passed the final exam.
He hinted, of course, that he might give out answers to some of the questions to girls who lezzed off with another of their big-titted peers on camera for him, or who sucked his cock and let him cum on their ridiculous new udders. And one by one the girls, each realising that they had no idea what was in the final exam, would do exactly that, nervously making their way to his office or home to be colossal giant-breasted sluts for his approval.
He would always fuck them afterwards – their new implants made them far too horny to say no – and as he fucked them he would make them watch tapes of their lectures, and listen to all the things they had said deserved to happen to girls who looked like them and did what they had just done. There was, after all, nothing more delicious than watching a big-titted bimbo cry and orgasm at the same time.
He gave them answers to some of the questions on the test, but their implants were programmed to release a double dose of the aphrodisiacs on the test morning. Many of the girls never turned up, preferring to stay home and masturbate frantically, even knowing they were dooming themselves to keeping their big new fuckmelons and insatiable sex drive.
Others made it as far as the exam hall before blushingly masturbating in their seats as they ignored the test. Those few who could control themselves enough to read the paper only stared at it blankly, discovering that the aphrodisiacs had made them far too stupid to be able to answer essay questions. The most adorable girl in the class simply wrote the words “I am a slut” across the paper five times, in red crayon (not realising it was a crayon and not a pencil), while crying and undressing, before finally giving up and crawling across the hall, her big tits swaying under her, to beg to suck his dick.
And he knew that if the girls didn’t want all the photos he now had of them published, they were going to go out and recommend the class to the next wave of freshman girls…
===
If you liked this story, you’ll find more hot fantasies that you’ll love in Lessons in Lust – Stories of Classroom Erotica, containing 69 pages of steamy erotica (nice), and available now at AllTheseRoadworks.com! Your purchase shows your appreciation and supports the creation of new, free erotica. (Click here to view in store.)
===