Two years later, ex-Professor Hannah Fry was no closer to re-attaining her Bachelor of Science in Mathematics. In fact, she had fallen back a few rungs from her goal. The university had cut her down to one class at a time. And in that class, the professor often used her as a counterpoint of how to do everything exactly wrong.
But she was not in the classroom today. Today, she was in bed, lying next to her generous mentor and former student Jack Shaw. From a brief glance, she looked naively smitten by the younger upperclassman. What hid behind her slight smile and adoring gaze told a different story. Her wrinkled forehead and a slight glimmer in her squinted eye showed how deeply she now feared the man who owned her. He could do anything. Or so it seemed. And because he could do anything, she simply laid there and waited for his permission to get up.
He denied her. While he dressed, he let the genius mathematician fixate on this social problem with no solution. It was her assignment. One he expected her to fail.
"Come on Vocal Fry, you're the one who wrote a book on the math of love. Tell me the chances of you rushing to class with a nasty case of cock breath after you've sucked my dick."
The taste was horrible, and it burned when she snorted to keep up the happy facade. She gave him the answer he wanted, in the only way she could ever since he tricked her into those vocal lessons so long ago. "I totally think my mouth's getting it a lot and junk. Like... 50? 60 percenter? Super high."
To which Jack replied, "Silly girl. If I've made you give me head every third day for two years straight, that's roughly 25% of the time. Guess you just love blowing me so much that you think you're doing it in your sleep."
The bastard counted. Of course he did. He was wrong too, confirming why she had to flunk him in the first place. That offered no solace whatsoever as she played the part of an idiot learning from her better in the field. Giggling vapidly, Hannah bit her lower lip and stifled an urge to scream. "I'm like, suuuuper sorry. Maths is hard."
That last part had become her cringy catchphrase. And often, it set her up for what Jack said next.
"You know what else is hard."
When he turned, she pretended to ogle the bulge in his pants. Her hand descended, slipping a finger in her bare ass. Not pussy. Ass. Then she faked a moan, imitating pleasure she never felt from that hole. It was a performance for him as he pulled out what he really meant: flash cards. Insultingly simple, they used fruits and vegetables in place of real numbers.
Jack whipped out a card of two ripe melons plus one banana.
After a few seconds of empty staring, Hannah proclaimed, "I so know this one. You wanna boobjob."
"No, Hannah. They're numbers. You add them."
And so they carried out this farcical tutoring session. The younger Jack Shaw beaming as he presented new problems. The older Hannah Fry answering wrong, thumb up her butthole and scrunching her brow, straining with all her mathy might not to say two eggplants were anything other than a pair of dildos she could shove in her hairy cunt. At this rate, she was bound to arrive at her oral exams with her cock breath firmly intact.
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(part 1, part 2, part 3)
Hannah Fry's Vocal Fry - pt 4
Two years later, ex-Professor Hannah Fry was no closer to re-attaining her Bachelor of Science in Mathematics. In fact, she had fallen back a few rungs from her goal. The university had cut her down to one class at a time. And in that class, the professor often used her as a counterpoint of how to do everything exactly wrong.
But she was not in the classroom today. Today, she was in bed, lying next to her generous mentor and former student Jack Shaw. From a brief glance, she looked naively smitten by the younger upperclassman. What hid behind her slight smile and adoring gaze told a different story. Her wrinkled forehead and a slight glimmer in her squinted eye showed how deeply she now feared the man who owned her. He could do anything. Or so it seemed. And because he could do anything, she simply laid there and waited for his permission to get up.
He denied her. While he dressed, he let the genius mathematician fixate on this social problem with no solution. It was her assignment. One he expected her to fail.
"Come on Vocal Fry, you're the one who wrote a book on the math of love. Tell me the chances of you rushing to class with a nasty case of cock breath after you've sucked my dick."
The taste was horrible, and it burned when she snorted to keep up the happy facade. She gave him the answer he wanted, in the only way she could ever since he tricked her into those vocal lessons so long ago. "I totally think my mouth's getting it a lot and junk. Like... 50? 60 percenter? Super high."
To which Jack replied, "Silly girl. If I've made you give me head every third day for two years straight, that's roughly 25% of the time. Guess you just love blowing me so much that you think you're doing it in your sleep."
The bastard counted. Of course he did. He was wrong too, confirming why she had to flunk him in the first place. That offered no solace whatsoever as she played the part of an idiot learning from her better in the field. Giggling vapidly, Hannah bit her lower lip and stifled an urge to scream. "I'm like, suuuuper sorry. Maths is hard."
That last part had become her cringy catchphrase. And often, it set her up for what Jack said next.
"You know what else is hard."
When he turned, she pretended to ogle the bulge in his pants. Her hand descended, slipping a finger in her bare ass. Not pussy. Ass. Then she faked a moan, imitating pleasure she never felt from that hole. It was a performance for him as he pulled out what he really meant: flash cards. Insultingly simple, they used fruits and vegetables in place of real numbers.
Jack whipped out a card of two ripe melons plus one banana.
After a few seconds of empty staring, Hannah proclaimed, "I so know this one. You wanna boobjob."
"No, Hannah. They're numbers. You add them."
And so they carried out this farcical tutoring session. The younger Jack Shaw beaming as he presented new problems. The older Hannah Fry answering wrong, thumb up her butthole and scrunching her brow, straining with all her mathy might not to say two eggplants were anything other than a pair of dildos she could shove in her hairy cunt. At this rate, she was bound to arrive at her oral exams with her cock breath firmly intact.