The Professor’s Netorase Request

The first time you saw Professor Eleanor Hartmann, you knew your semester was about to get… complicated. She was new to the college—a visiting lecturer in literature with a Ph.D. and a body that defied academic dress codes.

Model-tier curves squeezed into tight blouses that always seemed one button away from disaster. Pencil skirts that hugged her plump ass like they were painted on. Legs that never ended, always sheathed in stockings with seams so sharp they could cut glass. Full, pouty lips that made even Shakespearean sonnets sound like dirty talk. And now, somehow, she was your neighbor.

At first, it was just casual chats—running into her at the mailbox, "accidentally" grabbing coffee at the same time, the occasional too-long glance when she bent over to pick up dropped papers.

You learned she was: ✔ Married (of course) ✔ Happily? (That smile didn’t always reach her eyes) ✔ Flirty (But in that "I’m just being friendly" way that left you aching)

You resigned yourself to fantasizing from afar.

Then, one Saturday afternoon, everything changed.

You weren’t expecting company.

But there she was—Professor Hartmann, dressed in a sweater that clung to her tits and yoga pants that left nothing to imagination. "I… need your help," she said, voice uncharacteristically small.

You let her in, trying (and failing) not to stare as she perched on your couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs nervously.

you nodded, maybe too quickly.

She took a deep breath.

"My husband… he has a… fetish."

"He wants to watch me with another man," she admitted, cheeks flushing. "His friend, specifically."

Your jaw dropped. Anger was in your eyes, and you were almost ready beat the shit out of her husband.

"No, no!" he laughed, but it was strained. "It’s not… forced. He gets off on it. Calls it ‘netorase’ or something."

You blinked. Confused you probed her, if she was okay with it?

"No." Her fingers twisted in her lap. "But he won’t drop it. And I…" She looked up, eyes dark. "I’d rather it be someone I trust."

The air got thick.

In cofusion and disbelief, you pointed your index finger to yourself like asking, was she talking about him

She nodded.

The next monday, after lectures, she cornered you in an empty classroom.

"Remember our talk?" she murmured, locking the door.

You nodded, pulse hammering.

She pulled out a small camera, setting it on a desk. "For him," she said simply.

Then her hands went to her blouse buttons. "Let’s give him a show."