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By *est-couple OP Man
over a year ago
Southwick (near Trowbridge) |
Outside of the bedroom, student life carried on as always. There were seminars to attend, essays to be written, tutorials to be undertaken. Around three weeks after the orgy in my room I ran into Suzanne, who had just attended her regular tutorial with Professor ––––, the comparative literature expert who had set her the erotic literature translation that had set her off on the road to sexual pleasures she had hardly imagined before matriculating at the University. We had coffee, as any two friends might have, and during this she mentioned that the Prof had asked whether Sue knew me. I wondered aloud why he had asked about me – he didn’t teach me, and wasn’t likely to as I didn’t read French, though I had attended his lectures on translation and had asked a few pertinent questions on Proust that he responded eagerly to. Sue said he wanted to encourage me to take part in a project, and winked. Clearly, in her department, he had a reputation.
So, twenty four hours later and in a somewhat worldly frame of mind, I found myself outside the door of the professor in question. I will have to be honest and say that I was intrigued, and that it turned me on to be intrigued – even if nothing were to come of it, and his invitation was really what it said it was on the surface. I had prepared myself carefully that morning. A quick shower and my legs freshly shaved, my bush trimmed to a neat vee (I had let it grow back after the lights-out orgy), fingernails and toenails freshly painted in a nice shade of blue, slightly metallic. Clothes? I chose a pair of pale Dior stockings, very sheer beige with a sandal toe and teasing back seam, given that I was wearing grey strappy heels that displayed a great deal of my feet. My fun side insisted on a playful matching set of polka dot lingerie, concealed by a grey skirt that was quite short by the standards of the day, a beige silky blouse and a tailored jacket to match the skirt. All in all, I thought I looked very business-like on the outside, and felt very sexy on the inside.
So, there I was, outside of the Prof’s office. He called me in upon my knock and I entered, demurely. ‘Ah, Miss ––––, I was hoping you might drop by. He beckoned me to a leather armchair, where I sat, crossing my legs so as to display them to their best advantage. The conversation was innocent enough. There was indeed a project, and official paperwork on the desk to prove it. The topic, though, was erotic fiction and I began to get the measure of this intelligent man’s tastes from his office as much as his manner. The room was decorated with postcards of Pre-Raphaelite beauties, creamy skinned, large-eyed women, pictured either naked or in opulent velvet dresses in the style of the Renaissance. On the desk I noticed a statue of Pan, the horny god of our Pagan ancestors. The bookshelves displayed, in addition to the canonical titles of study, a range of erotic works in French, German and English and – by their glossy spines shall ye know them! – some of them obviously expensive and imported illustrated works of erotic art and sexual photography. He knew I had taken the bait, so I boldly asked ‘May I?’, pointing to a nearby volume entitled ‘Double Teaming’. He nodded. The book was just what I expected it to be – the type of hard-core pornography not available then to the general public but masquerading here as fine art: a collection of scenarios, photo-romances almost, in which two men encountered one woman, seduced her and displayed her to the eager gaze of the voyeur. I crossed my legs again, the fine nylon hissing with delicious friction. Absorbed in the book, I felt him suddenly behind me, his hands playing with my red hair. His hands dropped lower, to my neck and then to my breasts, which he cradled gently. I had no resistance and I knew I had never had any. It took him but a few minutes to unfasten my blouse and free my ample titties from their polka dotted bra, and not much more to lay me back on his expansive desk, raise my skirt to the waste and dispose of my panties. The stockings clearly pleased him, and he caressed my nylon-clad thighs with sensual relish as he tongued me to an orgasm which I silenced by biting my lip almost to the point of pain. A few seconds of relief and then I felt the head of his cock parting my soaked labia, and he slid his length slowly in to me.
This was a different kind of lovemaking. He was an older man – ten years my senior if not more, and the difference between this man’s skilful manipulations of my body, and those of the three boys I had hitherto known was all too evident. Even to my comparatively inexperienced mind, this was superior lovemaking – protracted, stylish, erotic. I knew I needed a man rather than a boy, at least at that moment. His nibblings, lickings, pinchings and strokings kept me on the point of orgasm for what seemed like hours until he, too, was ready for his release. Then, thrusting into me and bringing pressure to ear suddenly on my enflamed clitoris, he led me to a shattering climax that coincided exactly with my own. As he filled my womb with his hot seed, I knew I had been fucked ¬– properly fucked, owned and dominated even – by a master and had crossed yet another line in the development of my sexual tastes.
Delicately, reverently, he cleaned me up and assisted me to dress. Still glowing with our recent coupling, I sat back down in the chair. He congratulated me upon my sexual abilities, and confirmed his approval of my stockings: ‘so many girls wear tights these days, and they are neither hygienic nor erotic – except, perhaps, on burlesque dancers!’ I was still curious, though, as to why he had known that I might be a likely conquest – let’s be honest, an easy lay – for him. After all, when he had seen me in the lecture hall, I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt! He smiled, as if betraying a secret.
‘Ah, I thought you might be a rather advanced student given recent events in the halls of residence.’
That was it: ‘Gladys?’
‘Yes – she cleans my office, and probably frigs herself senseless over my books when I’m not here. She dropped it into conversation when she was cleaning in here three days ago, and rather foolishly mentioned your name. She didn’t see anyone, but she did know whose room it was. I think she was a little … shocked.’
Clearly, there was no disapproval in his tone and no conflict of interest in what we had just done together, given that he was never likely to assess my work. I wondered aloud, though, whether this would just be a one-off, and I would become number whatever on what I presumed was his ever growing list of sexual conquests.
‘It depends upon what you want. I’m not as promiscuous as you think, in any case – not every student has the, er, potential that I believe you have. This office is hardly the most comfortable place for a fulfilling sexual encounter, though I admit its trappings of culture and power do add to its erotic ambience. Why not come and visit me this week at home one evening? In fact, why not stay the night?’
‘When?’ I acquiesced – I was already weak at the knees at the thought of an even longer session with the Prof.
‘I don’t teach on Friday, and you have no teaching till after three on Friday. Say 7pm at my house?’ He scribbled the address on a piece of paper in his distinctive italic handwriting, using a fountain pen. ‘It will be civilised, I assure you’.
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