I screwed my supervisor

It all sort of happened by mistake.

There’s some kind of absurd excitement to being supervised by a hot young academic. Whether it’s the occasional touch on the shoulder or the ever-so-over-interpreted-look when you get something right – it’s easy to start off those fantasies of utter destruction on the supervision table, knee deep in genitals and crying out for more.

It’s particularly easy to do that when you hate your subject – it kind of helps. But these things never come true. Apparently.

I’d been supervised by this fit European for a little while. He had it all – the cheeky grin, the just-decent figure, the self-deprecating intelligence and, on the Cambridge adjusted Hot-or-Not scale, a decent 8 ½.

I wanted him, and I wanted him bad. Whether he was my supervisor or not didn’t really matter, but the jets of knowledge coming out of his head made me think of other streaming jets of pleasure.

The year had been pretty shit – I’d almost dropped out, and basically didn’t enjoy the subject one bit. But this guy – this guy. He made it all worthwhile. And then I fucked him.

Decent 8½

It happened once the final supervision was over, so it was above board. You might think he abused his power. Trust me, I knew what I was doing, as did he.

By the end of the night it was me abusing him, in a fit of what must have been amongst the best peaks of my life.

There is nothing better than carnally tearing into someone who has taught you all you need to know, and who needs a bit of teaching themselves. But in bed, as in supervision, this guy enough to make a good stab of competence. And I feel he got value added by teaching me.

We’d bumped into each other a couple of times during the year, by mistake – clubbing with your supervisor is pretty weird, but once you’re smashed, who gives a shit. I’d always thought there was something about him, but couldn’t put my finger on it – or in it, indeed.

But then, just a week after our last supervision, I saw him out – Cindies, I think, or somewhere equally sticky and sweaty. And that was exactly the state we found ourselves in in the morning.

Hall of Lust

We danced a bit (I call it dancing, he sort of anxiously twitched), and then I thought ‘fuck it’, and went in a bit closer. I can’t remember who went for whom, but I distinctly remember the kiss.

It was hot, long, desperate, deep, the best kind. And then our hands, which till this time had been focussed on graphs and equations, got to work. It never ceases to amaze me quite how far people are willing to go in Cambridge clubs. We didn’t mess about.

And then we were on King’s Parade and that awkward moment when it was time to call it a day or just lose all sense of anything and rut like animals.

We chose the latter. He claimed to be inexperienced, but he knew exactly what to do. I didn’t realise there were so many things a man could do with his tongue. It’s clearly a European thing.

There were a few odd moments, like when I thought about how he’d explained some crap to me weeks ago, but then he went down and frankly the whole thing didn’t matter any more.

I was in absolute ecstasy – I was screwing my supervisor, and he was fucking loving it.

Pillow talk was difficult – given all we knew of each other was literally academic. But to be honest it didn’t matter by the morning, when he turned me over and destroyed me more brilliantly than anyone before or since.

So my advice to you is simple – don’t hold back. Sure, don’t get them sacked, and wait till they don’t teach you any more. But if you think there’s something there, there probably is. So give it a shot, and you might just have the best night of your life.

I screwed my supervisor. And fuck me, it was worth it. Even for the 2:2.