tagLetters & TranscriptsA Night with Doctor Tiffany

A Night with Doctor Tiffany

byPnkOcelot©

Dear Danny,

I'm missing you so much. I know I always said that our long-distance relationship would only work if we are completely honest with each other, so there's something I need to tell you. I just tried phoning you but didn't get an answer, so thought I should write this before I change my mind about telling you.

I slept with somebody else.

I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do it and I still really love you and I hope you will forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

It was after that lecture I told you about. There was a visiting speaker coming to the university to give an evening lecture on Shakespeare. Paul Oxborne (my tutor) was organising it, so I thought it would be good to go along and show my face – maybe it will get me few extra works on my next paper.

In fact, I was showing rather more than my face. I wore that yellow t-shirt (the 'melons shirt', as you called it) with my Wonderbra, so I was feeling quite bouncy as I walked there. It was raining, so I got a little bit wet, but if it takes a few inches of damp cleavage to make sure I pass this year I'm going to do it: (I'm sure Cassie only gets such good marks because she's got such fat boobs).

Last night, Cassie was out with the horseriding society, so I went to the lecture by myself. It was the usual dreary crowd – lots of old academics with nowhere better to be on a Monday evening. A few English Lit students and a few drama students turned up, but not many.

I had no idea who the lecturer was. Her name had been on posters all over the department for weeks, but I hadn't done any research or looked up any of her work. At the beginning of the lecture Paul introduced her with all the usual formalities - "... .a pleasure to introduce... an esteemed young writer... respected academic... many reputable periodicals... hope you enjoy... Doctor Tiffany Hart...".

What he didn't tell us was that Doctor Tiffany Hart was beautiful. Everyone in the room gasped as strutted onto the stage, her bright eyes sparkling almost as much as the tiny bejewelled watch on her left wrist. I know you and I disagree on what makes a woman attractive, but even you would agree that she was completely stunning.

She must have been in her late twenties or early thirties. She was a little below average height, but I would not have been more impressed if a giantess had taken the stage. She had gorgeous dark brown hair, coming to just below her shoulders, and she ran her fingers through it before she started speaking.

"Good evening," she said, "it is my pleasure to be here tonight". Her words danced gracefully from her soft lips, yet every syllable was clear, every T pronounced so sharply you could almost see the tip of her tiny tongue flicking across her palate, every vowel was clean and rounded. I wish I could speak like that.

She was wearing a dark brown jacket over a soft-cream linen blouse, with a three-quarter-length black skirt and brown leather boots – not kinky, but practical, with a burnished buckle mid-way up the calf. She was utterly, completely, jaw-droppingly, breathtakingly, gorgeous. I can't remember much of what she said – lots about Shakespeare, and the queer subtext in Macbeth or something. Me, and most of the other people, were just awestruck by her – she was so confident, so passionate about her subject, and so beautiful.

We sat in silence, for an hour, until she finished. Paul stood up, thanked everyone for coming, and invited everyone back to the Mandela room for drinks.

I swooned into the room with the crowd, took a glass of cheap red wine from the table, mingled for a bit, then found myself somehow standing next to Doctor Tiffany. Stern eyes watched me as I turned to her, various professors hoping I wouldn't say anything foolish.

"Hi," I said.

"Hello," she smiled. Perfect lips, perfect teeth, "are you a student here?".

"Yes, second year English lit, specialising in Renaissance drama."

"What did you think of the lecture?"

"That was fascinating," I gushed, "I love the way you speak, you're just so confident – I wish I could come across with so much confidence".

"It's easy," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, "It's really easy... when you have to speak just imagine everyone in the audience is completely naked- they're far less scary like that."

"I imagine they're much more scary naked," I said, glancing around at the ageing, paunchy, pasty-white academics.

She looked around the room, sipped her wine and smiled again, "yeah, you're right."

"Most of them were doing the same to you," I said.

"Doing what?"

I paused:

"Imagining you naked."

She blushed, a rosy glow through her cheeks.

"Really?" she asked, in mock innocence, running her hand through her hair.

"You're like porn to these guys," I told her, "a beautiful woman who knows about Shakespeare". She took off her jacket again, pushing her little breasts forward again her linen shirt.

"I don't know why I bother with the lecture," she laughed.

I'm sure you don't want a word-for-word repeat of our whole conversation, so I'll say we sat together for a while on one of the bid brown sofas, drank rather too much wine and talked about Shakespeare, and shoes, and shirts. The academics slowly left until there were just the two of us left on the sofa, giggly with wine.

"So, what did I look like?" I asked eventually.

"What do you mean?"

"When you were imagining us naked"

"Do I have to answer that?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I probably shouldn't say this. You've got great breasts. I always wanted breasts like those"

I smiled, not sure of how to react. There was an awkward pause.

"I think we've drunk too much," she said, "I'd best be driving back"

"You can't drive like that," I told her, "you've drunk too much."

"I'm okay," she said, standing up unsteadily.

"No, you can't"

"But I need somewhere to stay," she said, sitting back on the sofa, "the hotel's miles away."

I know I could have suggested getting a taxi or something, but it was really raining, and my halls were only about five minutes away.

"You could stay at my place," I offered.

"If you're sure about it?"

"Yeah, no problem – it's only the student halls."

I nodded, and she kissed me. Just a brush of her lips against my cheek, but it was wonderful. I hadn't been expecting it, but it was amazing.

"Let's go."

We each stole a bottle of wine from the table, and walked out into the night. The rain was much heavier than before – soaking our hair, running through our clothes, down our bodies. After half a minute we were soaked, and knew we couldn't get any wetter. We ran together, through the storm.

We got back here, and scampered up the stairs to my room.

"I'm soaked," said Tiffany, taking off her boots at the doorway, "could I borrow a towel?"

I took two white towels out of my drawer, and handed one to her. We dried our faces and hair. Then she slipped off her trousers – not in a sexy way – just to dry her legs. She started rubbing the towel gently up and down them.

"It's just like the old days," she said, sitting on my bed, "half naked in a student room, two bottles of cheap wine in me." She took off her shirt and dried her back and stomach.

I was comfortable with her, so I took my t-shirt off and began to dry myself too. It wasn't anything sexy – more like a sports changing room. We were aware of each other, but not looking too much. I took my jeans off, wishing that I'd worn better underwear, and began to dry my legs.

"So," she said, looking across my bookshelf, "you're taking the socio-historial approach to Renaissance drama." I didn't want to admit to her that I hadn't read any of the books, and that most of my knowledge comes of Wikipedia.

"Yeah, I'm not really sure which approach to go with – there's so many different ways to look at things, and I find it really limiting that there are these set ways – you'know, you must take the anthropological approach, or the socio-historial approach, of the literal approach or whatever."

She was obviously used to undergrads talking shit at her.

"They're pretty," she said, distracted by my knickers. They were nothing special – pink with flowers picked out around the top – I've had them for years.

"Thanks," I said, and looked to return the compliment.

Her underwear had taken far more thought. The bra was a black lacy thing – not too fussy, but enough to show that she'd put a lot of thought into choosing it. It hadn't shown through her shirt, but was enough to really draw attention to her boobs. The panties matched, both in black. They were high-leg French briefs, covering her little round arse. I know you probably wouldn't understand the detail, but they looked good.

"I get these in Paris," she said, "when I was teaching there last year?"

"They're lovely," I said.

She slipped off the bra, and began to dry her breasts.

"It would probably be to small for you," she added, "I'm only a b-cup."

Her breasts were gorgeous. You know I'm not into this sort of stuff, but they were plump and pert. Her nipples were beautiful.

"You've got great boobs," I said

She smiled.

"Have you got a shirt I could borrow?" she asked, "I don't want to get cold.".

"You could get under the duvet," I suggested.

"Only if you'll join me."

I'm not sure what happened next, but suddenly we were in the bed kissing each other, her lips pressed against mine, her hot little tongue in my mouth, her tight warm body pressing against me. Her hands slipped down my back and all over my ass. I was feeling so horny I just went with it – I couldn't stop myself. I could feel her ripe little naked breasts pressing through my bra. My nipples were really hard, like they get when I'm fucking you. She slipped her hand down my body, and started to stroke my pussy.

"Is that okay?" she asked

"Yeah," I purred. She was breathing loudly, and I matched my breath to hers.

I slipped my hand down, and began to stroke her nipples. Slowly at first, then pinching one between my fingertips, smooth and rubbery, hardening under my touch. I know being drunk is no excuse, but I was. I slipped under the sheets and began touching the nipple with my tongue, flicking back and forth over it.

"God that's amazing," she said, "do the other one."

I moved across, feeling her nipple harden as my lips found it, kissing, licking, tugging with my teeth. "Ohgod," she moaned, "you're amazing."

To be honest, I really wasn't sure what I was doing. I've never really done that stuff before, so I just did what I enjoy people doing to me.

Now it was my turn to be amazed. Her fingers were still moving, spreading and stroking me. I wasn't really getting into it yet, but she moved further back. I'll show you exactly where tomorrow.

Then she went down on me. Yes, she went down and ate my pussy. It was awesome. You know how much I'm into that, and she was amazing. She started off softly, just nuzzling against me, then wiggling her tongue in. I'd hate to think what she thought of me, but I was just just squirming and squealing and pressing her face into me.

She came up again, licking her lips. I kissed her cheek, she rolled over, and slept, exhausted, breathing gently.

This morning I woke up and she was gone. There was an empty coffee cup on the side, and a scrap of paper with her phone number on it.

"Thanks for last night," it said, "you are delicious. my number is ... Tiff x"

So, that's what happened. I hope you can forgive me. I want to make it up to you on Friday night, and I've got an idea. I know you've always had a thing for Cassie, and I've spoken to her, and she'll make it a threesome, if that's what you want. I've seen the way you look at her. I've cheated on you, it seems only right that you should screw someone else.

Let me know what you think.

Jess x

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