I was 22, in my final year of university, and laser-focused on getting a First. My dissertation was everything—the final hurdle to my ticket to success. My dissertation tutor was mid-40s, married, and, honestly, not much to look at. Balding, with a belly that strained against his shirts. however, he was funny, I’ll give him that.
He had what I needed—guidance, extra time, insider knowledge.
It started innocently, with “extra help” in his office during our catch-ups. Then, one evening I ended up at his city apartment, and one thing led to another and I ended we sleeping with him.
I knew what I was doing. It was obvious he liked me—the way he always look at me when he talked, the compliments he gave me. I played along, careful, strategic. I guaranteed what I wanted from him help-wise before letting him have me.
From then on, it became… a thing. His office (even in the middle of the day—that was hot), his flat when I needed “clarity” on something.
The office was the best—riding a guy twice my age in his chair while students passed by in the halls, barely knowing what was going on just a few feet away. Even I cummed during those sessions, he would rub my clit so hard I’d convulse on, which usually pushed him over the edge, and then he’d shot his load inside me (that bit used to gross me out). Plus, it never took up any of my own time like when we did it at his flat.
It wasn’t romantic—he didn’t do anything for me physically—but it was quick, secret, and easy. He gave me all the help I needed, and I made sure to keep him coming back for more.
In the end, it was worth it. I got my First. No one ever found out, and I never really spoke to him again after graduation.
The reason why I can never tell anyone is because of my husband…
He was on my course back then, and he knows him.
He actually talks about how much of a “great tutor” the guy was. I have to change the conversation as soon as it’s brought up…It’s surreal and sickening all at once.
Some secrets aren’t worth the risk. This is one of them.