Mom Professor Whore
Copyright© 2026 by SindeeM
Chapter 1: Intro & Her First Customer
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Intro & Her First Customer - This is continuing story of a woman who is Dean of Ethics and Professor at a University, a mother of two that is blackmailed into becoming a high priced whore. There is heavy sex, non-consensual, humiliation. Later on lesbian, interracial, double penetration, gangbang
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Blackmail Coercion NonConsensual Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Interracial Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Facial Oral Sex Tit-Fucking Prostitution
Introduction Notes
This is continuing story of a woman who is Dean of Ethics and Professor at a University, mother of two that is blackmailed into becoming a high priced whore.
Please provide feedback for help in developing existing characters, adding new characters, and adding new scenes. I appreciate the feedback from the community.
Dr. Elizabeth Collins: Public Life
The lecture hall hummed with the focused energy of two hundred students. Leading the lecture was Dr. Elizabeth Collins, Professor of Philosophy and Ethics at the University. Her short, blonde bob, artfully messy hair with her conservative outfit was the perfect blend of professionalism, academic credibility and warm demeanor.
“ ... and so, Kant presents us with the Categorical Imperative,” she said, her voice clear and resonant, carrying to the back rows without a microphone. “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.”
She paused, letting the concept hang in the air. Her eyes, a sharp and intelligent blue, scanned the faces of her students. She wasn’t just reading from notes; she was engaging and challenging them in a dialogue.
“Said another way, morality is based on duty, not consequences, act only according to principles you would want everyone to follow, don’t lie because lying, if universalized, would destroy trust, moral action is about duty and principle, not results.
“Let’s make this real,” she continued, stepping away from the podium. “Forget dusty textbooks. You’re a software developer for a new social media app. You’ve discovered a loophole in the privacy settings that allows you to harvest user data such a emails, private messages, locations and sell it to advertisers. It’s perfectly legal, a grey area the law hasn’t caught up to yet. No one will ever know. The profit is enormous.”
She paced slowly, the heels of her conservative heels clicking softly on the polished floor. “The Kantian asks you not to consider the consequences; your profit, the company’s success, whether you get caught. The Kantian asks you to consider the maxim. The principle of your action is: ‘It is permissible to violate an individual’s privacy for my own gain when I can get away with it.’ Now, universalize it. Imagine a world where everyone operates on that principle. A world where doctors sell your medical records, where your banker sells your financial history, where no promise, no confidence, no digital whisper is safe. What becomes of trust? What becomes of society itself?”
A young woman in the front row raised her hand, her expression intent. “But Dr. Collins, that world is already happening. Isn’t Kant’s ideal just naive?”
Elizabeth smiled, a genuine, appreciative smile. “An excellent question. And the answer is that the ideal is not the goal, but the compass. It is the unwavering point of moral north that guides our actions, especially when the world is indeed full of grey areas. It is what allows us to look at ourselves in the mirror and say, ‘I did not contribute to the decay. I upheld the principle, even when it was difficult, even when it cost me something.’” She let her gaze sweep across the room one last time. “Integrity, class, is not the absence of temptation. It is what you do when you are face-to-face with it.”
The bell chimed, and the hall erupted in the rustle of notebooks and backpacks. As students filed out, several approached the podium, not with casual questions, but with the deference of those speaking to a mentor.
Two hours later, the setting had changed, but Elizabeth continues to be the champion of ethics and morality. The Dean’s Council meeting room was the classical setting everyone imagines or has seen on television or the movies including the dark mahogany conference table, leather-bound chairs, and the hushed tones of powerful egos. The topic was a proposed partnership with a tech corporation, “InnovateEd,” that wanted to fund a new research lab.
Elizabeth sat composed, her hands clasped calmly on the table in front of her. Across from her, the Dean of Sciences, a man named Thorne, was making his case.
“ ... and their funding would be transformative,” Thorne said, his voice slick with enthusiasm. “We’re talking a ten-million-dollar endowment. The naming rights alone are a massive PR win for the university.”
Elizabeth waited for him to finish before speaking, her voice even and measured. “Dean Thorne, I’ve read the proposal. And I’ve read the fine print of InnovateEd’s user agreement, which our students and faculty would be required to sign to use the lab’s proprietary software. It includes a clause granting the company irrevocable rights to all research data generated within the facility. They own our intellectual property.”
Thorne waved a dismissive hand. “It’s standard boilerplate, Elizabeth. A necessary evil to secure the funding.”
“An evil we are being asked to endorse,” Elizabeth countered, her blue eyes hardening. “We would be asking our philosophy and ethics students to sign away their rights, our sociology department to surrender its findings, all for a price. It is a direct violation of the very principles of academic freedom and integrity this institution was built on.”
A third dean, a woman named Alvarez who usually remained neutral, sighed. “The board is very keen on this, Elizabeth. It’s a lot of money to walk away from.”
“Then we are not a university; we are a subsidiary,” Elizabeth said, her voice losing none of its composure but gaining a steely edge. “We have a moral obligation to our students to be a place of uncorrupted inquiry. Once we begin selling that principle, we can no longer claim to teach it. The precedent is poison. I will not support it, and I formally recommend to the Provost that we reject this proposal.”
The room fell silent. Thorne stared at her, fuming. Alvarez looked weary. Elizabeth held their gazes, unflinching. She had built her life on a foundation of unwavering principle. In her world, right was right, and compromise was a slow-acting poison. There were no secrets in a life lived with such clarity. At least, that’s what she had forced herself to believe for the last ten years.
Dr. Elizabeth Collins: Personal Life
The heavy oak door of the Collins home closed with a solid thud. This is where Dr. Elizabeth Collins transformed into Lix where she could relax and unwind. The old Georgian Revival style house had been passed down from her parents. It was filled with classic, comfortable furniture rather than cold museum pieces. There were no ostentatious displays of wealth, only quiet quality such as the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp, the deep luster of a mahogany bookshelf, the well-worn comfort of a cream-colored sofa. It was a sanctuary of order and warmth.
The rich aroma of garlic and herbs met her in the foyer. “Mom, you’re just in time,” called a voice from the kitchen.
Elizabeth followed the sound to find her son, Anthony, at the stove. At twenty, he was a junior at the same university, studying political science. He had his father’s height and easy smile, and was currently concentrating fiercely on stirring a pot of sauce.
“Don’t tell me you’re making your ‘famous’ bolognese again,” Liz said, with a smile as she leaned against the doorframe.
“Hey, it’s famous in this house,” Anthony shot back, grinning. “And someone has to cook while the Dean is busy saving the world from corporate sellouts.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I heard about the InnovateEd meeting. You took on Thorne and the board, didn’t you? Good for you. They need someone with a spine.”
Elizabeth’s heart swelled with a quiet pride. “It’s about principle, Anthony. You know that.”
“I do,” he said, his voice sincere. “It’s why I’m proud to tell people my mom is the Dean of Ethics. You actually walk the walk.”
From the living room, a voice piped up. “Mrs. Gable in my English class said you’re the smartest person she’s ever met.” It was Donna, her sixteen-year-old daughter, curled up on the armchair with a textbook. With her light brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and her focused expression, she was a younger version of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth walked over and kissed the top of Donna’s head. “Mrs. Gable is very kind. And how is your own ethical dilemma going? The debate team preparation?”
Donna looked up, her eyes bright with the passion of a teenager discovering a new world. “It’s so frustrating! Our topic is on privacy versus security, and the other team is arguing that giving up some personal data is a fair trade for safety. They just don’t get that the principle is the point! Once you give up an inch of privacy, you’ve already lost the argument.” She sighed dramatically. “It’s like they’ve never heard you talk about Kant.”
Elizabeth laughed, a genuine, warm sound that filled the room. “Well, you can’t quote me in a debate, but you can certainly use the logic. Just remember to argue with your head, not just your heart.”
“I know, I know,” Donna said, already turning back to her notes. “Logical consistency and universal principles. I got it.”
Anthony brought three plates of pasta to the table, and the family settled into their comfortable routine. They talked about Anthony’s classes, Donna’s upcoming swim meet, the book Elizabeth was reading. This was the life she had built from the ashes of her grief after her husband passed.
As she ate, Elizabeth looked at her children, at the warm, safe room around her. This was her truth. This was her reality. The thought that a secret, a buried anomaly from a lifetime ago, could ever touch this world was not just unthinkable; it was impossible. It was a ghost she had long since banished and ignored.
Dr. Elizabeth Collins: The Dark Secret
Later that night, the house was silent. Anthony was out with friends, and Donna was asleep. Elizabeth stood in her spacious, walk-in closet, methodically hanging her blazer. It was a nightly ritual of restoring order before going to sleep. Her fingers brushed the soft wool, her mind replaying the satisfying, principled stand she had taken that day. This was her. This was her life.
As she turned to slide the hanger onto the brass rod, her eyes caught her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. For a fleeting moment, the image shimmered, and the composed Dean in the conservative blouse was replaced by a ghost. A woman with wild, disheveled hair, her face flushed and damp with sweat, nothing but passion lust, and sex.
It was four years ago ten years after her husband’s death. She was finally getting over the grief and fell into a trap of looking at how to make herself alive again.
And then there was Dominic Santoro. He wasn’t in her ethics class; he was a brilliant, cocky political science student in a seminar on postmodern political theory. He had an intensity that was both thrilling and terrifying, a hunger in his eyes that seemed to see right through her He had pursued her not with respect, but with confidence that chipped away at her defenses until she, the champion of ethical boundaries, had agreed to coffee. And then to drinks. And then one evening to his apartment.
The four months that followed were like a pornographic dream. It wasn’t about love or compassion. It was about pure lust and animalistic sex. She wasn’t Dr. Collins, the widow, the mother, the Dean. She was a body that craved wanton, unabashed fucking and he was the Alpha that did what Alphas do and take what is rightfully his regardless of the consequences of polite society. She had done things she couldn’t even think about in the light of day. Wild, shameless things that contradicted every single principle she had ever professed. He had photographed her, his phone always near, capturing images of a woman she didn’t recognize. A woman arching her back, begging for more, her face a mask of raw, unthinking pleasure. She had let him take photos and videos of a tramp, a whore, a fucktoy used for his pleasure.
She had tried to forget everything about that ill-conceived fling. It was not romantic, it was about pure sex. She had always been very prudish and she still was. It was in part her recovering from the loss of her husband, maybe a female mid-life crisis, many factors but it was not who she really was. It was an anomaly, something that she wished she had never done and had regretted it at the time and of course afterward, She had done things that she didn’t want or like to do. Dominic was a handsome younger man which made her feel something but she was not exactly what it was. He knew how to play on her weakness and took her down that path of depravity that she really did not enjoy. She never had enjoyed giving oral sex, she never thought of it as “sucking a cock”. Good girls don’t get semen, cum spattered on their tits or dripping down their chin.
A cold knot formed in Elizabeth’s stomach. She gripped the edge of the closet door to steady herself. That wasn’t her. It was a madness brought on by grief. A profound moral failing she eventually walked away from. She had buried the secret so deep, convinced herself it was a closed chapter in a book that was hidden away where nobody could find it
Domonic Santoro: The Modern Predator, Business Acumen
The office overlooking the Chicago River was all glass and steel, a monument to new money. Dominic Santoro stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, watching the afternoon sun glint off the water. He wasn’t looking at the view; he was assessing the assets. The buildings, the bridges, the flow of traffic. it was all just capital in motion.
He wore a deep charcoal grey suit. At twenty-nine, he had learned patience is more effective than brute force.
“Mr. Santoro,” a man named Henderson said from the conference table, “the preliminary numbers for ‘Aether Properties’ are solid. We’ve got three shell corporations registered in Delaware, and the first acquisition, a derelict warehouse district on the South Side. is ready to close. We’re projecting a twenty percent return inside eighteen months just on the property value alone.”
Dominic took a slow sip of his scotch, turned, and walked back to the table. He didn’t sit. He preferred to loom. “Henderson, the property value is a bonus,” he said, It’s the garnish. The steak is the cash flow.”
He tapped his finger on a complex flowchart spread across the table. “You buy the warehouses for ten million. You get our construction contacts, my uncle’s guys, off the books, to do basic ‘renovations’ for another two. Now you’ve got twelve million in a legitimate business expense. But the real work begins with the vendors. The plumbing supplier from Cicero, the electrical contractor from Gary, the material distributor from Milwaukee. They’re all us.”
Henderson, a nervous but competent CFO, nodded. “Right. We invoice Aether Properties for, say, eight million in materials and labor that cost us two. That’s six million in clean profit we can move through the legitimate real estate company.”
“And then we sell the renovated properties to a REIT we also control,” Dominic continued, his eyes scanning the faces of the men at the table. They were accountants and lawyers, men who dealt in numbers and loopholes, not guns and guts. They were his kind of soldiers. “The REIT pays twenty million. We’ve just turned twelve million of dirty money, our initial capital and the renovation costs, into a clean eight million profit on the sale, plus the six we washed through the vendors. Fourteen million, laundered, taxed, and ready to be reinvested. All legal. All on paper.”
He finally took his seat at the head of the table, leaning back with an air of absolute command. “This isn’t the old man’s business,” he said with a bit of contempt in his voice. “This isn’t shaking down a butcher for protection money. This is leverage. We use our capital to build a legitimate enterprise that acts as a cleaning service for the rest of the family’s less tidy income streams. We’re not gangsters anymore. We’re venture capitalists.”
Henderson meekly spoke up “But we still need the old man’s sign off Dominic, he has not handed this all off to you yet as far as I know:
“Dominic patted his father’s old friend and confidant “Of course, no worries Henderson, we rely on you to give us the straight stuff”
He let the words hang in the air, a new gospel for a new era. This was how you built an empire that couldn’t be touched by RICO subpoenas or wiretaps. You didn’t leave bloody footprints; you left a pristine paper trail. As the men nodded, impressed and eager, Dominic’s mind drifted. This business model was perfect, but it was just proof of concept. He needed to show the old man he could build something from nothing, something that generated revenue and inspired fear without a single shot being fired.
His phone buzzed silently on the table. He glanced down at a secure message from a contact he kept on retainer. It was a single line of text: “Package delivered to Collins’s office.”
A slow, cold smile touched Dominic’s lips. He had another venture in mind. A much more intimate one. A high-end, exclusive service built on a different kind of asset. A different kind of leverage. And he had just found his perfect, unwilling partner.
Domonic Santoro: The Modern Predator, The Grudge
Dominic sat in the conference room after everyone left. That bitch is all he could think about. The memory wasn’t one of violence or anger, but of cold, institutional humiliation.
He was twenty-five then, a senior preparing for graduation. His thesis on “Post-Realpolitik: Economic Leverage in 21st Century Geopolitics” nearly complete. It was brilliant, and he knew it. It was also, in large part, not his own. He had sourced entire chapters from a defunct British think tank’s white papers, translated from French, and woven them into his own narrative with such skill that the university’s plagiarism software hadn’t even flagged it. It was a perfect crime, a testament to his ability to manipulate systems, not just follow them.
The summons to Dr. Collins’s office had been a surprise. He had expected her to be his ally. After all, for three months, she had been his in every way a woman could be. He had seen her shed her prim, academic armor and beg for him with a desperation. She was a sex starved human fuck machine. She was insatiable. Anything and everything is what she told him and he was more than happy to oblige. He walked into her office that day with a smirk and an air of self-confidence.
But Elizabeth Collins was not his lover that day. She was the Dean of Ethics.
She sat behind her desk in the harsh in the role of institutional power. She was dressed in one of her severe navy suits, her hair pulled back too tightly, her face a mask of cold, professional duty.
“Dominic,” she had begun, her voice devoid of any warmth. “Please, sit.” She didn’t offer him coffee. She didn’t meet his gaze with anything other than clinical detachment.
On the desk between them lay his thesis, sections highlighted in angry yellow. Beneath it were the original source documents, printed out.
“I have to report this,” she said, her voice flat. “The university’s academic integrity policy is unequivocal. This is a level-one offense.”
He had laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “Liz, what are you doing? This is a joke. We can fix this.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to the conspiratorial tone she used to love. “Remember that weekend at the lake house? You weren’t exactly worried about rules then.”
Her composure didn’t crack. If anything, it hardened. “Mr. Santoro,” she said, the formal title a slap in the face, “what happened between us personally is irrelevant and has no bearing on this professional matter. My obligation is to the university and to the principle of academic honesty. Your violation is a serious one.”
The hypocrisy of it made his blood run cold. This woman, who had let him tie her to her own bedpost just a week ago, was now lecturing him on honesty. He saw it for what it was: a performance. She was cutting him loose, and to cover her own tracks, she was going to crucify him publicly. She needed to prove to herself, and to her world, that she was still Dr. Collins, the moral pillar.
“The board will convene,” she continued, Given the severity, a formal suspension is likely. Your degree will be withheld pending a review. This will go on your permanent academic record.”
He just stared at her, the smirk gone, replaced by a rage brewing. He saw the truth in that moment. She wasn’t bound by duty; she was ashamed. She was erasing him, her dirty little secret, by destroying his future. She was using her principles as a weapon to sanitize her own sin.
Now, four years later, Dominic took a slow sip of his scotch, the memory no longer a source of pain, but of crystalline purpose. A simple beating, a threat, that was old man’s stuff. It was crude. But this? This was elegant. He wouldn’t just destroy her. He would take her precious principles, the very ones she used to ruin him, and force her to violate them in the most debasing way imaginable. He would make her a living monument to her own hypocrisy. And it would be the most profitable, most satisfying revenge he could ever devise.
Domonic Santoro: The Modern Predator, The Goal
The meeting with the old guard was always a trial by fire. It was held not in a modern office tower, but in the back room of “Sorella’s,” an old-world Italian restaurant that smelled of garlic, red wine, and to Dominic faded glories. The men seated around the red-checkered table were his uncle’s capos, men who had earned their scars and respect on the streets. They viewed Dominic’s suits and spreadsheets with a mixture of suspicion and grudging tolerance.
His uncle, Marco Santoro, a man whose thick neck and heavy gold chains were relics of a bygone era, gestured with a half-smoked cigar. “So, this Aether Properties. It’s good. It’s clean. But it’s slow, kid. Real money moves fast.”
“It’s sustainable, Uncle Marco,” Dominic said calmly, ignoring the condescending tone. “It’s an annuity. It washes the family’s money for the next fifty years. It’s a fortress.”
“It’s a fucking bank account,” grunted a capo named Frankie “No-Nose” Rizzi. He tapped his thick fingers on the table. “We used to have action. We had fear. Now we have quarterly reports.”
Dominic let the insult hang in the air. He knew what they wanted to see. They wanted proof that his modern methods weren’t just a coward’s way of avoiding the dirty work. They needed to see that he could still command, still dominate, still break people.
“You’re right, Frankie,” Dominic said, surprising them all. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze sweeping over them. “A fortress is for defense. But to build an empire, you need to expand. You need new territory. New assets.”
He paused, letting the anticipation build. “I’m launching a new venture. A service-based business. Extremely high-margin, zero overhead, and untouchable by law enforcement because our clients will be the very people who fund their campaigns.”
“What kind of service?” Marco asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Companionship,” Dominic said. “An exclusive, bespoke escort agency. He could help himself but looked at Frankie “That means it’s custom made for specific customers”. He continued “Not streetwalkers or girls from some strip club. We’re targeting CEOs, politicians, judges. Men who require discretion and are willing to pay a premium for it. We’re not selling sex; we’re selling access. We’re selling secrets. That’s the real product.”
The capos were quiet now, intrigued. It was a business they understood, just dressed up in new clothes.
“And the girls?” Frankie asked, a lecherous glint in his eye. “Where you gonna find talent that can walk in those rooms?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Dominic said, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his phone. He didn’t show them a picture of a supermodel. He swiped to a photo from the university’s alumni magazine.
It was a headshot of Elizabeth Collins. She was smiling warmly, looking every bit the respected academic, the pillar of the community. “Her name is Dr. Elizabeth Collins. Dean of Ethics at the University. She sits on three non-profit boards. Her family has been in Chicago society for a hundred years.”
He let them absorb the image, the sheer audacity of it.
“She’s not some desperate bitch with a drug habit,” Dominic continued “She’s a woman of principle. A woman of stature. And she is going to be our first asset.”
Marco stared at the phone, then at his nephew. A slow, dawning understanding crossed his face. “You’re gonna turn a Dean into a whore?”
“I’m going to show her that her principles are a liability,” Dominic corrected, his eyes gleaming. “I’m going to break the bitch, not with fists, but with leverage. And when she’s servicing some CEO she used to lecture about corporate responsibility, that’s the kind of power you can’t put on a balance sheet. She’s not just an employee. She is the proof of concept. She is the ultimate demonstration that the Santoro family doesn’t need to break bones anymore to break wills. We can do it with information. With strategy.”
He put his phone away, leaning back in his chair. The room was silent. The old guard were no longer smirking. They were looking at him not as a soft kid in a suit, but as a predator they didn’t quite understand. And that, Dominic knew, was more valuable than all the real estate in Chicago. Elizabeth Collins wasn’t just a target for revenge; she was the key to his kingdom.
Dr. Elizabeth Collins: The Initial Delivery
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall arched window of Elizabeth’s office. It was her favorite time of day, the quiet hour between classes when the building hummed with a low, intellectual energy. It was her sanctuary. A knock at the door pulled her from her grading.
“Come in,” she called, expecting a student with a question.
A young man from the campus flower shop entered, holding a long white box. “Delivery for Dr. Collins?”
Elizabeth frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. She wasn’t one for such gestures. “I think you must have the wrong office.”
“Elizabeth Collins, Dean of the School of Philosophy and Ethics?” he read from a slip on his phone.
She sighed. “Yes, that’s me. But I’m not expecting anything.”
He placed the box on her desk. “All signed for. Have a good day, Dr. Collins.” He was gone before she could protest further.
Annoyed, she slid the ribbon from the box and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of crisp green paper, were a dozen of the most perfect, velvety red roses she had ever seen. Their scent was rich and intoxicating, It was beautiful, expensive, and utterly wrong. Her mind immediately raced through possibilities, a thank you from a grateful colleague, a misguided admirer from a lecture series.
Tucked among the blooms was a small, plain white envelope. Her fingers, usually so steady, felt clumsy as she tore it open. Inside was a simple card.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You have a secret
I know it too
Elizabeth didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. The world tilted. It wasn’t a threat; it was a statement. The simple rhyme was more terrifying than any blackmail letter could have been because it was intimate. It was a whisper in a crowded room, a hand reaching out from the shadows to touch the deepest, most hidden part of her.
The carefully constructed walls of her sanctuary crumbled into dust. This wasn’t about a plagiarized paper or a university grudge. This was a personal grudge. A cold flooded her mind Her logical mind, her greatest asset, began to short-circuit, racing through a frantic list of possibilities. A prank? A cruel joke? But deep down, in the pit of her stomach, she knew. She knew where this came from and it terrified her.
A sharp knock on her already-open door made her jump violently. A junior faculty member stood there, smiling. “Dr. Collins, do you have a moment? I wanted to get your thoughts on the syllabus for next semester’s intro course.”
Elizabeth forced her lips into a tight, unnatural smile. The card felt like a burning coal in her hand. “Of course, Sarah,” she said, her voice sounding foreign and strained to her own ears. “Please, come in.”
As Sarah began to chat enthusiastically about lesson plans, Elizabeth sat frozen behind her desk, the perfect red roses a silent, screaming accusation between them. The secret was out.
Dr. Elizabeth Collins: The Follow Up
Three days had passed. The roses, now beginning to droop, sat in a crystal vase on her filing cabinet. Elizabeth had considered throwing them out a dozen times but something inside her prevented her from doing so. They were evidence. Of what, she wasn’t sure yet. A prank? A cruel joke? She had barely slept, jumping at every chime of her phone, every unexpected knock on the door.