My New Professor

I, Ariana Langdon, hate being a Langdon. We’re a family of millionaires, entrepreneurs, and entertainers, and that has created a legacy of expectations that are suffocating me.

As I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in my designer bedroom, I couldn’t help but feel like I was staring at a stranger. The diamonds on my Rolex glinted in the morning light, and my perfectly coiffed hair cascaded down my back like a rich, chestnut waterfall.

But beneath the polished facade, I was seething.

My family’s legacy was a prison, and I was desperate to break free. I let out a deep sigh and turned away from the mirror, my eyes drifting to the Grand Piano in the corner of my room. My mother, the famous singer, Regina Langdon, had insisted I learn to play when I was just a child. My late father, Nevan Langdon, a famous actor. 

I was going to attend Westside Academy in a few days, and now that I’m 20 years old, my parents decided it’s about damn time I live up to the Langdon name. My gaze lingered on the piano, the intricate carvings on its surface seeming to mock me with memories of endless lessons, recitals, and performances. I could almost hear my mother’s voice, sharp as a razor, criticizing my technique, my tone, my very presence on the stage. I felt a familiar knot form in my stomach as I thought about the upcoming semester.

I was supposed to major in music, just like my mother, and eventually take over the family’s record label. But the thought of spending the next four years trapped in a sea of notes and expectations made me want to scream.

Westside Academy was a prestigious Liberal Arts school in Los Angelos, and I would be majoring in Musical Arts, and minoring in Drama, which my parents saw as the perfect stepping stone to superstardom. I would be lying if I said the prospect didn’t terrify me. I had always felt like I was living in the shadow of my mother’s talent, and now I was being thrust into the spotlight, expected to shine just as brightly. I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of their expectations.

I turned away from the piano, my eyes drifting to the window, where the morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting intricate patterns on the floor. I walked over to the window seat, feeling the cool glass against my skin as I leaned against it. The city sprawled out before me, a seemingly endless tapestry of steel and concrete.

As I gazed out at the city, the sounds of the morning traffic and chirping birds filtered through the glass, a stark contrast to the sterile silence of my bedroom. I felt a sense of disconnection, as if I was floating above my life, watching myself go through the motions. My eyes drifted to the rooftops of the buildings across the street, where people were already starting their day, unaware of the suffocating legacy that weighed me down. I let my forehead rest against the cool glass, feeling a slight fogging of the pane from my breath.

It was a nice day outside, but I wanted to stay in my own little social bubble for as long as I possibly could, so I decided to get a little freaky to edge off my nerves.

I pulled my dildo collection box out of my secret compartment behind a poster in my wall, and I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement mixed with a dash of guilt. The box was hidden behind a faded promotional poster of my mother’s last world tour, and I had to smile wryly at the irony. I lifted the lid, and a faint scent of lavender wafted out, mingling with the sweet aroma of silicone. My fingers trailed over the assortment of toys, each one carefully selected for its texture, shape, and size. I had always found solace in the quiet, solitary world of self-discovery, and this was my go-to way to calm my nerves.

I chose one, a dildo with a slender, curved shape and a soft, velvety texture that felt like skin against my fingertips. I had named it “Midnight” due to its dark, midnight-blue color, and it was one of my favorites. I felt a flutter in my chest as I picked it up, the familiar weight of it settling into my palm. I had always been drawn to the tactile sensation of holding these objects, the way they seemed to come alive in my hands.

As I stood there, the morning light streaming through the window cast an eerie glow over the room, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I turned Midnight over in my hand, studying its curves and lines.

I laid down on my bed and adjusted my panties underneath my miniskirt so that Midnight would fit snugly against my body. The soft fabric of my underwear caressed my skin as I shifted positions, the gentle rustle of the silk a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of Midnight settle into place, and slowly began to breathe in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The cool glass of the windowpane was still fogged from my breath, and I could feel the misty film seeping into the room, a damp, chilly kiss on the back of my neck. As I exhaled, I felt a shiver run down my spine, and my fingers instinctively tightened around Midnight’s slender shaft.

I slid the tip in my pussy, savoring the initial resistance before it gave way to a warm, slick embrace. I bit my lower lip, holding back a moan as I slowly pushed Midnight deeper inside me. The sensation was familiar yet always new, a reminder of the power I held in my own hands. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the world melt away as I focused on the feeling of Midnight filling me up.

As I moved my hips in slow, deliberate circles, I could feel the tension in my body begin to dissipate. My mind wandered, picturing myself on stage, performing in front of thousands of adoring fans.

The image of myself on stage was a familiar one, but as I delved deeper into the fantasy, I began to notice the subtlest details - the way the spotlight danced across my skin, the gentle hum of the audience’s anticipation, the soft whisper of the microphone against my lips. My hips moved in slow, deliberate circles, Midnight sliding in and out of me in perfect synchrony. I could feel the vibrations of the music, the thrum of the bass resonating deep within my chest. My breath caught on a moan as I pictured the crowd erupting into applause, their faces a sea of adoration. The sensation building inside me grew, swirling like a vortex that threatened to pull me under.

As the fantasy reached its crescendo, my hips arched off the bed, Midnight gliding effortlessly in and out of me.

As I crested the wave of fantasy, my body shuddered, and I felt the familiar tremors of release. Midnight seemed to vibrate within me, as if it too were alive and responding to the rhythms of my passion. The applause of the imaginary crowd still echoed in my mind, mingling with the sound of my own ragged breathing. I lay there, suspended in the afterglow, as the tension seeped out of my muscles, leaving me feeling limp and languid. My fingers, still wrapped around Midnight’s shaft, relaxed their grip, and I let out a soft sigh as I felt it slide out of me, its gentle withdrawal a reminder of the fragile, fleeting nature of pleasure.

It wasn’t as good as the real thing, but it certainly did the job of making me cum, I thought, as I slowly came back to reality. The fog on the windowpane had started to clear, and I could see the faint outline of the city skyline beyond the glass. I felt a faint sheen of sweat on my forehead, and my breathing was still a bit ragged, but my body felt relaxed, my muscles languid. I let out a slow sigh, feeling the tension that had been building up all day seep out of my body. My hand, still wrapped around Midnight, felt a bit sticky, and I gently withdrew it, careful not to catch any of the delicate silicone ridges on my underwear.

Time to go pack before Mom yells at me again...