A Professor of Two Minds

Melissa could have never have known what I was thinking.

She had no idea, sitting in my dull classroom with a group of students who could care less about this course on Western Civilization, that when she looked at me and entertained quick, sexy daydreams, that I was doing the same.

How could she have known? Here I was, in my tenth year at the university, struggling to explain the ins and outs of the struggle between King Henry IV and Pope Gregory VII in 1076. While I thought this was fascinating a good 20 years ago as an undergraduate, the passion for the Middle Ages had faded, to say the least.

By this point in my career, teaching was supposed to be little more than an annoyance. What I really needed to be doing was finishing my book, a close study of crime among the Burgundian peasants in the 12th century France. Most of the time, even I could barely remember why I wrote my dissertation on this obscure topic.

The students sitting in my classroom should have been an inert mass, a mob to blather to for 3 hours a week and then forget about as I got to my research and writing, which is what would earn me tenure. But for some reason, I couldn't treat teaching that way. I loved it, loved talking about the past, loving teaching the students to think in new ways, to challenge themselves, to examine their preconceptions about the past. I should have mailed it in, but I couldn't.

Even on my most jaded days, there was something liberating about standing before a room of students and using my words to open new worlds to them.

And the students, bless their hearts, appreciated it—a good looking young professor teaching a required course who actually gave a damn. So often, their semester-end course evaluations began—"I thought I was going to hate this class, but....." I still enjoyed the rewards of turning on young minds, even if only a few per class.

So when Melissa sat there in the second row, right in the middle where she always sat, and listened, and thought, and took notes, and grinned at my lame jokes, and, during the boring bits ever so occasionally allowed herself to fantasize about being with this professor, she couldn't have possibly known that he would sometimes allow himself to fantasize too.

To a teacher, it's very interesting to see himself through a student's eyes. Professors have to perform several times a week. A good teacher, and even a bad teacher, has to put together a performance for each class. The eyes of 20 or 50 or 200 students are on him the entire time. They notice his demeanor, his mood, his gait, his pace, voice. In their minds, they critique his clothing, his hair, his shoes. If they like him, they reflect on his shoulders, his face, his eyes, his charisma or lack thereof, the way he moves.

What's most interesting is that after 10 years of lecturing several times a week, leading discussions, answering questions, I've developed a certain skill. I can look a pretty female student in the eyes and answer her question about Martin Luther while simultaneously imagining her stripping in my office. I can do both these things—put together a fairly complex answer to an arcane question about the Protestant Reformation while imagining the taste of her nipples, the sound of her rapid breathing, the feel of her hands in my hair, the feel of her full lips on the head of my cock.

I can do both these things while standing at a podium in a lecture hall in front of 65 people, revealing only one half of mind. I think it's a pretty damned impressive skill.

And that's why Melissa could have never known what I was thinking that evening in Western Civ. Because as I lectured about Henry IV and that damned Pope, I caught Melissa's eye. Any experienced teacher can look at a student and know if they're paying attention. In this era of cell phones, lots of students don't even try to appear engaged. They stare into their laps, texting their girlfriends or frat brothers. Other students are better at it—they lock eyes with you, nod, but it's clear that they're thinking about the latest episode of American idol.

When I caught Melissa's eye, she had that intent gaze of the intelligent student. But with that certain smile on her face she sure the hell wasn't thinking about Henry IV. She was thinking about Professor Jim. She had that little smile, the wide-open eyes, the pen in her mouth, spinning. I really couldn't blame her for daydreaming. In fact, I was flattered.

So while I talked about the Angevin dynasty, I looked at Melissa and thought about how incredibly hot she was.

A senior, she had long brown hair, brown, piercing eyes, and strong jaw line. She played on the lacrosse team, and had a lithe, athletic body, strong shoulders and a flat belly. She walked with a confident grace, with her long legs, narrow waist, and trim, round ass. She was just the kind of student who turned me on—smart, sexy, strong—and she seemed to like me.

As we locked eyes, I explained the religious justification that the Catholic Church used for Papal authority in some detail. But I gave the other half of my mind—the fun half—free rein to explore Melissa's body in my mind's eye.

I take a great deal of pleasure kissing a woman from head to toe, taking tremendous satisfaction from the growing pleasure I can give her with my mouth and tongue. In this moment, I mentally kissed Melissa from her lips, to her neck and shoulders, across her naked chest, across her belly, lingering on her thighs, kissing, licking so lightly as I began to move to her inner thighs and beyond.

I was a master, I always thought, a zen master at compartmentalizing, at hiding my little perverted flights of fantasy.

So how could she have known? How was it that at that moment when one half of my brain was describing Catholic dogma and the other half was raising goose bumps on Melissa's firm thighs, that she gave me that look? Her placid, concentrated face changed its expression. Melissa gave me a quick but definitely naughty smile. She half closed her eyes...and smiled. She shifted in her chair. She moved her legs so slightly. Wearing her shorts for lacrosse practice, she moved one leg, closing it slightly, then opening it ever so slightly.

And suddenly I realized... Melissa knew! Incredibly enough, she had read my mind. She had broken my code, seen through my well-practiced façade.

And this is where my performance, my act honed over a dozen years and hundreds of lectures, failed me, failed me miserably.

How had she known that I wanted her? When doing my lecture-fantasize routine, I had trained myself to lock my eyes on the student's eyes. The eyes must never, ever drift. The student must never know what I am thinking. Even if she is wearing a low-cut top. Even if she is wearing shorts. Oh, those athletic shorts...

But Melissa was not the typical student. She was something extraordinarily attractive to me. And in a moment of incredible weakness, the fantasizing half of my brain finally defeated the professor half, the half that had always been stronger. When Melissa shifted that leg, presenting me with only the briefest moment of invitation, probably unconsciously, for only a split second... my eyes overcame the discipline.

I looked.

Those tanned thighs, so statuesque, so perfectly smooth, and so sexy, set off and explosion of fireworks inside my serious, professorial brain.

And Melissa, who, by this point I was convinced could see my thoughts through my skull, somehow saw my eyes shift from her face to her legs.

Suddenly, everything changed. That flirtatious, teasing smile on her face quickly disappeared. It was replaced by another look, the deadly serious look of surprise, then of desire, the painful realization that one is being pursued and that one is excited to be pursued. That look was so incredibly sexy on her gorgeous face that my heart jumped in my chest.

And this is where my finely-tuned discipline failed me completely. My right hand, holding my lecture notes, began to shake. Still lecturing, though with considerably less confidence, my eyes darted around the room. I was so incredibly excited by Melissa.

I labored to keep my cool. Was anyone noticing my meltdown? It didn't seem so.

Most of the students were taking notes on my ramblings, which, by now, I had completely lost track of. Others were blissfully ignoring everything, checking the time on their cell phones as they prayed for class to end.

Melissa's face, on the other hand, was turning red. There was no hint of her smile. Her face seemed to be burning. She seemed to be struggling with some thoughts in her own mind. Embarassed? Aroused? Or some combination? She was squirming now, looking side to side, taking deep breaths, the product of an anxious and conflicted mind struggling to control itself.

To an outsider who did not know what was going on, we must have been quite a sight. The student, squirming and red faced, trying to regain her composure, embarrassed, nervous, seized by a kind of erotic tidal wave. The Professor, panicked, hands shaking, fearing that he had blown his cover, had ruined his reputation. I was afraid I'd now forever be known as one of those "pervy professors," as some of my senior colleagues were known among the students.

This entire uncomfortable incident, this fireflash of exposed sexual tension, must have lasted only about 30 seconds, though to us it seemed like an eternity. Throughout it all, I continued stumbling through a discussion of the Medieval Papacy, and not very elegantly it must be said. Finally, awkwardly, our eyes met again, Melissa and I, two embarrassed, flustered people, scanning the other for signs of condemnation, judgment, opprobrium.

And then a wonderful thing happened. We both started to smile, nervously at first, then more broadly, feeling relieved that the other was not angry. Then I, in the middle of my lecture, began to laugh. Chuckling at first, I tried to stop myself. But like the kid laughing in church, there was no way I could stop myself.

Trying to get a grip on myself amid this absurdity, I looked up and there was Melissa, also cracking up, looking at me and laughing, hand over her face. The rest of the class just sat there, trying to figure out what I was laughing at, some kind of whacked-out inside joke about Henry IV? They weren't sure, but a few joined in, chuckling for the heck of it.

I glanced over at Melissa, gave her an affectionate and happy smile. The tension had been broken. And I thought, well, hey, all's well that ends well. No harm, no foul. Now just finish this lecture, pull yourself together. Afterwards, I'll go back to writing my never-ending book and try to forget about this embarrassing incident.

Melissa, however, had a different idea. Yes, Melissa had a very different idea.... Just remembering it sends chills down my spine.

Since she was sitting in a side row of the classroom, and there was no one next to her or behind her, she was essentially in isolation. I could see in her beautiful eyes that she made up her mind to do something, though I had no idea what.

As I launched into a disquisition on feudalism and the French aristocracy, Melissa stretched her arms and smiled. Her hands moved to her legs, and she sort of absentmindedly squeezed the outside of her thighs. Her fingers played over her thighs. She looked straight at me. She smiled.

Ah, students like Melissa reminded me why I still loved teaching!

I lectured, but kept one eye on Melissa. She licked her lips almost imperceptibly. I watched as she casually looked once to the side, and once more over her shoulder. She confirmed that none of the other students would have a good view of what she was about to do.

Her legs moved open. Since she was wearing shorts, I caught just the slightest glimpse of her pink panties up inside the leg of her shorts. I tried not to gasp, but she surely noticed my reaction.

Melissa proceeded to tease me mercilessly. She moved slowly, understanding the rhythm of my lecture, and knowing that I couldn't look at her all the time. My eyes had to scan the entire class. But when I did next look back in her direction, the fingers on Melissa's right hand were tracing over the front of her shorts at her crotch. Her fingers lingered over where I imagined her clit was. She lightly tapped her fingers on that spot, over her grey athletic shorts, looking at me, smiling.

How could Melissa have knows that I love to watch a girl touch herself? That it makes me crazy? But by this point I was convinced she could read my mind. I saw Melissa's turn into a tiny smile.

She slid her right hand under the waistband of her shorts. Her hand must also have made its way under the waistband of her pink panties, because the expression on her face changed noticeably. The smile was gone. All I could see was the hand shaped bump inside her shorts. I could also see that her nipples were now visible through her University lacrosse tee shirt.

She positioned herself discreetly so that no one in the room could have seen her, even if they'd thought to look at her lap for some reason. Melissa kept her eyes on me as she moved her fingers incredibly slowly inside her shorts.

I could see her sexy thighs, opened half way, moving ever so slightly as she applied pressure to her pussy. I could see the outline of her fingers. I could imagine how wet her pussy must be, reading the expression of increasing pleasure and agony on her face.

Melissa's left hand moved casually to her opposite shoulder, before she slowly, imperceptibly lowered it to brush against her erect right nipple, which was pushing hard against the material of her sports bra and tee shirt.

Again her beautiful face became flushed. She squirmed. She bit her lip. Her eyes were half closed. I so envied her teasing and exploring fingers.

I could not believe what I was seeing. My favorite student, Melissa, was masturbating for me in class, and only she and I knew about it. She had a slightly pained look on her face.

As I continued to lecture and answer questions about the aristocracy in the Holy Roman Empire, I glanced over in time to see Melissa's hand move lower. She must have been sliding her finger between the slippery lips of her pussy. Suddenly her fingers began to move more quickly, side to side, beneath the grey cloth of her shorts. She must have been rubbing her clit faster.

My eyes were now on her most of the time. The rest of the class became nothing but an apparition, of which I became increasingly oblivious.

All this time I stood behind the podium, my hard cock painfully pressing against the front of my khakhis.

Just when I thought I couldn't take any more, Melissa, sweet, erotic Melissa, slowly withdrew her hand from her shorts and looked directly at me with her flashing eyes. I could barely make out the glistening slickness on her fingers. Melissa smiled a little at me as she raised her hand, and turning her hand and moving her fingers in a little wave, showed me that they were wet.

She brought her fingers to her mouth, and rubbed her middle finger around her lips. Her tongue darted out to lick the finger. Then she pushed the finger into her mouth, moving it in and out shallowly, while I watched. Then she slid the second finger into her mouth, pushing both fingers in deeply, closing her eyes, and tasting. And as I almost passed out, finally, her hand disappeared again inside her shorts.

Her face took on a new urgency and her hand moved more quickly. Based on her movements, I guessed that Melissa had slipped two fingers inside her tight wet pussy. I tried to control my breathing, which was speeding up almost out of control.

Within another minute, Melissa began to push her thighs together tightly. I could tell she was coming.

Her face turned bright red and she tensed every muscle in her body, and she gave a little moan. Melissa's thighs crushed the hand playing between her legs as she twitched, trying to stay perfectly quiet. Her orgasm seemed to go on for an hour. After some time, she pulled her hand out of her shorts. She looked to be in pain, and leaned back in the desk where she lay.

Her face was so beautiful at that moment, placid, flushed, physically spent, and utterly content. I wonder if she knew how much I enjoyed looking at her in this condition. I had the feeling that she did.

For the final ten minutes of class, Melissa avoided my eyes, pretending to take detailed notes on my lecture. When I dismissed class fifteen minutes later, she closed her notebook, put it in her backpack, and quickly left class with the rest of the students, without a word to me. I felt like I'd seduced one of my students—or had she seduced me?

All I knew was that I certainly was glad that the university had provided me with funds for a research assistant. And I knew that first thing the next morning I'd be offering that position to Melissa. After all, we had a lot of work to do before I could finish my book...