Erotic Review Magazine

Standard Bearer

by Alana James / 10th August 2011

I’m not sure I did love her, but she was one hell of a fuck. Annabelle was every Professor’s dream; a beautiful student who both wants to suck your dick under your desk and turns in excellent essays on time. My colleagues in the English department had turned a blind ear to her muffled groans.

“Annabelle not with you today, eh Douglas?” Roger, my assistant, asked, looking somewhat hopefully about my office. “Only I wanted her to do some research for me.” You only wanted her, I thought, not disguising my smug grin.

“No, I’ve not seen her since Tuesday,” I replied quite truthfully, recalling with perfect clarity the last moment I saw her. What a shame to have laid waste to such a nubile body!

“Ah is that how it is?” Roger smirked, “I heard about that.”

“Mmm.” I pretended to busy myself with the marking on my desk until Roger went to bother someone else. I didn’t want anyone to see how angry Annabelle’s indiscretion had made me.

As a little reward for making it halfway through the day without murdering anyone, I got an ice cream from McDonalds at lunchtime. I ate it on the way back to George Square filled with regret. Back at my desk I tried to think of an excuse to call the plump blonde who was failing English 101 into my office. If I didn’t get laid soon everyone would start dropping grades.

Annabelle, now she never needed to fuck for a mark. With indulgently long legs, a mane of fiery red waves and teeth that bucked out just perfectly for cock-sucking, she could have sailed through even without her keen literary mind. We bonded over a shared love of literature, sealing our lust first with a frantic fuck next to the foreign translations in the university library. My zipper pulled down, dick hidden beneath her flippy little skirt, her knickers forever lost beneath the shelves. We stopped when the books started falling around our heads, and I had to wait before I could fill that ever-juicy cunt with my cum. Annabelle definitely had a cunt, not a sweet pussy, not a clinical vagina. A hungry, wet, snarling cunt with fleshy, ruby creases and a seemingly endless chasm. Just thinking about it makes my cock ache.

We’d toured Auld Reekie, taking in all of the city’s literary highlights. I think Rabbie Burns would have approved of the midnight tryst next to Deacon Brodie’s Tavern. Oh yes, everyone knows old Deacon inspired Jekyll and Hyde but few know Burns once lived on that same spot on the Royal Mile. We did it in the rain, waiting for the dead of night when none would see us up against the pub wall. Annabelle’s breath reeked of the wee dram we had to toast the great poet, and I splashed the rest of the whisky over her mound. She said it burned; I said it tasted good and buried my tongue deep into her hairy furrow, thrusting it like a shaft until she came calling my name. Afterwards she licked sharp whisky from my cock before I drove into her from behind. I swear that girl barked with need.

“Professor?” I was pulled from my reverie by Jeanie from admin knocking on my office door. “I don’t mean to disturb you but you’re meant to be teaching now.”

“Oh right yes, I was just reminiscing about something.” She smiled at me indulgently. All week people had given me such kind smiles, or satisfied smirks. Everyone knew about Annabelle’s fling. With an American Literature student of all people.

Oh for better days. The time at the foot of Conan Doyle’s statue. Binding Annabelle hog-tied with my belt and tie. Leaving her there for five minutes while I smoked a cigar in the gardens nearby. By God, and then there was that fuck in the Storytelling Centre. An old biddy reading from Rob Roy, stirring the blood of the public. I stroked Annabelle’s cunt as she sat on my lap, my hand hidden beneath my coat. The guy in the next seat hid his own swelling dick as he sniffed her pungent juices drenching my hand. In the interval Annabelle and I fucked ever so quietly in a back corridor. Nae knickers that girl, at least not for long.

Why did she have to spoil it? Why couldn’t she wait ‘til I got back from the conference, why couldn’t she satisfy herself for a mere week? Him, I don’t blame, no-one with any sense would have turned down those tiny, pert breasts, that mouth full of promise. But her, she knew she betrayed me. And how she taunted me with it. Her quick, loveless shag in the bathroom of the Elephant House café.

I gathered up my notes and made my way to the lecture theatre. This was my favourite topic of the term, The Scottish Play. Like Lady Macbeth my hands are stained with blood invisible to all but me. I recalled the feel of Annabelle’s lifeless form hanging limply in my arms, black-wrapped and taped up. Even then, I had felt my cock rise, semi-hard with memories of happier times. But you have to draw the line somewhere. I let the Waters of Leith swallow her whole.

Annabelle had finally stopped smiling as I brought the knife down upon her in my bed. Her blood was wetter even than her cunt. It had to be done though, despite the ruined sheets. Unlike Macbeth, not for ambition but for honour. Fuck anyone you want I said, but not in the café where Harry Potter was written. One must have standards.

Image The Scott Monument by George Gastin

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