tagMatureBack to School Special

Back to School Special

byBarb36D©

"Continuing education" is what our local tech college calls it. Everyone else refers to it as "old school". This didn't stop me from picking up a few refresher courses, when I was out of work a few years back. At the time I was, what I tongue-in-cheek called, damn near fifty. Of course, the term 'damn near fifty' works from the ages of about 48, until 55.

I certainly never felt that old. Fortunately, I had won the first round of fighting the good fight against the extra pounds that had come my way. Don't get me wrong. I had a few additional wrinkles, my ash blonde hair needed more de-ashing than I had projected, and I've come to refer to a modest amount of thigh dimples as hail damage. However, for the most part, my full-length mirror reported a still vibrant, voluptuous woman. A 34 double-d-26-35, at five-foot-four; this empty-nesting mother of two still had plenty of what it takes to garner plenty of male attention.

Being out of the workforce for over six months sucks on so many levels. The one redeeming thing was the extra time I now had to regroup and take some college courses. If nothing else, at least my waning self-esteem would snap back to attention. I was getting straight A's for the first time ever, and I loved it! Sure, my high grades screwed up the curve for the youngsters, but the hell with them. They've got their whole lives ahead, and a little competition from "mom" couldn't hurt.

It wasn't until my third semester, after registering for Psychology 101, that I questioned whether I would be able to ace this course as well. The no nonsense Professor William Grant was an attractive, but quiet man, well into his sixties. I noticed from day one, with all the young female students showing up in mini-skirts and low-cut tops, that he was going to be tough.

He was tough, but apparently not without an appreciation for a well-turned ankle or ample bosom. The humorous sight of all that nubile estrogen oozing from the front row in his lecture class had me giggling, until he started handing out assignments. "Whoa! Slow down there Professor!" I whispered from the back of the tiered amphitheatre. With a strict voice, he rattled off required text chapters, dates and names like it was some sort of directive from high command.

Glancing down at the front row, as I scribbled notes, I still had to chuckle. The dust was flying, as the young ladies scrambled to brush back their hair. Uncrossing their never-ending legs punctuated with elevated heels, they were completely caught off guard. One particular young blonde simply froze. With her deer-in-the-headlights stare, she was about to taste the molten steel of Grant's demeanor for the first time.

"So, are there pens and pencils on your planet?" His dark eyes sent lasers to penetrate the thickest of skulls in that row. She nodded, but I think that was just what she did, when asked most any question. "...and you DO have one of those?" He added.

Another brainless nod.

"Will we need to call security to help you locate it?" He dryly suggested.

Another nod. "Oh my God, she's gone numb!" I observed.

Slowly turning around, he appeared to be letting the most perfect epithet simmer and boil before launching. Several of us back-rowers breathed a joint sigh of relief, when the brunette next to blondie handed her a pen and opened her notebook. Coming out of his roundhouse turn, and ready to combust, the sight of her with pen and paper cut short what otherwise would have been total devastation.

From then on, one could say, Professor Grant had our undivided attention. I don't think one student dared exhale until class was over. Outside the classroom door in the hall we gathered--the survivors.

"Professor GRANITE, that's what they call him," one of the debs announced. Her young comrades totally agreed with that assessment, as compacts, cell phones and hairbrushes zipped through the air.

Wiping away a smirk, I broke into their well-guarded circle. "So what's the story on this guy?" I asked.

"I heard he's married to a younger woman, a MUCH younger woman," said one of them.

"My girlfriend had him last semester, and said he's tough, but he gives good grades to girls," added another.

"So, you guys just figured 'when in doubt' go with the extra skin theory?" I followed.

"Hey, whatever works! I need this course to complete my gen eds," said the tall brunette who donated the extra pen.

The pretty peroxide blonde victim was nowhere to be seen. "Cindy says she's gonna drop this class, for sure." I guessed Cindy was the aforementioned frozen victim of Professor Granite's fury.

Trotting off to my next class, I made a mental note to pay special attention in Psychology 101. If there was one thing (quite possibly the only sure thing) I've learned since returning to school, it was to really focus on giving each teacher what they wanted. Screw the curriculum; screw the textbooks; even the class itself. Each teacher had their own agenda and they generally graded students according to how well the students adhered to their personal expectations. I mean we're all only human. Once I discover what each specific teacher expects, it's not hard to simply satisfy his/her requirements. It's all about perceptions and fulfillment.

This method of breaking things down to basics is not dissimilar from my assessment of relationships, for that matter. Give a man (any man) what they think they want, and life is a breeze. Detecting Professor Grant's perceived wants might be challenging, but discovery is a great part of the fun for me.

My next scheduled class that day was a typical no-brain-required, skill-building, typing and filing course. The woman-of-little-words "teaching" the course directed us to do computer-assigned exercises. Essentially, she was really no more than another piece of furniture. We learned early on not to ask her questions, as she was completely self-absorbed with ignoring us and cruising the Internet. This is the sort of moronic course that gives scholastics a bad name. However, this class was definitely relaxing, after having to deal with PSY 101. Fortunately it was also what I like to call a D&G class. Once a student completed the required exercises, they were DONE and free to GO. Being a fair typist, the drills were easily accomplished; and I was done and gone in no time.

This gave me extra time to catch a bite to eat. Making my way across campus, I wandered into the huge, crowded cafeteria/commons area. Loading my tray with a sandwich, fruit drink, and snacks, I followed the conveyor belt to the cashier. Apparently the cashier had failed her remedial math course, as it was taking forever to service the kid in front of me. Glancing around for an open table, I caught sight of none other than the infamous Professor Granite himself, having lunch with a colleague. "Hmm, and the table behind him is open," I thought, when the cashier finally totaled my tray.

"Tree, nine-tee-fi," she reported, holding her hand out like a common peddler craving a donation. Actually, by the looks of her, I assumed this was probably her second job. I handed her four ones, received my nickel, and quick-stepped to the open table. Settling in and diving into my ever-so-healthy repast, with my back to the professor, I caught a bit of male-to-male dialog.

"You mean out of all those foxy young things, there wasn't one honey that tripped your trigger?" The colleague asked.

"I go through this every damn semester, Mark. For some reason, these teenyboppers all think that by pretending to be women that will impress me somehow," the professor stated.

"Oh come on! I saw some of those so-called teenyboppers coming out of your L-2 class. They looked pretty womanly to me, Bill," Mark objected.

"Pretenders I tell you, all of them," Grant replied between bites.

"Personally, I think you're losing it," Mark observed, with his mouth half-full.

"Is that so? Could it be I'm just content with my marriage, and don't require such diversions?"

"I know you better than that, AND I know about Sandra too. So, don't feed me that BS," Mark shot back.

Seldom in my life have I been privy to men chatting about the opposite sex. So, hearing this sort of locker room banter coming from two refined academics was revealing. What I over heard next ranked right at the top of insightful, if not totally surprising.

"You may THINK you know me, and let's not bring Cassandra into this," Grant countered.

"Look Bill, just because you're sixty-five doesn't mean your sex life is over. Hell, with a wife twenty years younger, most guys would be riding high!"

"Sixty-six," Bill corrected, then avoided the younger wife remark.

"And Sandra?" Mark pushed.

"Nothing is as simple as it might appear. Things get complicated," Grant offered little.

"Okay, okay, whatever... but there must have been one or two of those pretenders..." the younger Mark (I guessed to be in his late forties) backed off and tried to lighten the borderline serious conversation.

"Well, in all honesty, there was this one rather attractive woman," Grant admitted.

"Oh REALLY; one of the front-line girls -- which one? That tall brunette with the legs that went clear up to her armpits?"

"No, I said a WOMAN. She wasn't in the front row, thank God," Grant revealed, with what I surmised to be a smile. She was more toward the back; had on a yellow blouse. Now there was a woman!"

Scarfing down the rest of my sandwich, I glanced down at my yellow blouse and nearly choked. Surreptitiously as possible, I snaked my hands into my windbreaker, and pulled my jacket up to cover my blouse. "Oh my God, Professor Granite has eyes for ME?" I swallowed hard, as Mark prodded Bill for more information.

I was no more than an innocent interloper up until that point. Now I was dangerously close to spying, for all intensive purposes. Problem was, I suddenly felt like that same deer caught in the headlights. Frozen to my chair, I dare not get up and risk being recognized by either one of them. Silently sipping my juice, I prayed for the Starship Enterprise to beam me up and out of there. Luckily, the professor's recollection of my appearance was limited.

"I don't recall her name, actually. You know how first days go. I'm lucky to get them all present and accounted for," Grant said.

"There must be something about her that made an impact?" Mark continued.

"Very attractive figure, you know. Nice, big... you know," Grant stated possibly gesturing for greater impact. I couldn't tell.

"Jesus, look at the time! I've got a class in five. We'll have to continue this later, you devil," Mark growled.

I heard them shuffle and return their chairs on the squeaky linoleum floor. Glimpsing the two of them, from the corner of my eye, the gods had prevailed; I had escaped undetected. Enlightened by their conversation, I possessed all the necessary information to exact a plan of action.

*******************

The Seduction

A week later I geared up for my classes. I also prepared a little something extra for the professor. As it was unseasonably warm, I donned a super-tight tube top. Covering it with a starched white shirt, I wiggled into a cream-colored cotton skirt. The lightweight slinky skirt, cut right above the knee is one of my favorites. Just to keep things interesting, I opted for a white garter belt, white satin, French-cut panties, and thigh-high flesh-colored hose.

"I'm taking your Camry in for a tune-up, so you'll have to drive the SUV today, Barb," yelled hubby, just before I heard the front door slam.

"Screw that big ole' thing. It's warm enough today for the jeep," I decided.

The jeep was Donny's latest pride and joy. The ugly WWII vintage replica was the closest thing on the property resembling a convertible, and today was definitely top-down weather. Tossing my books and purse behind the front seat, I hopped in the stark two-seater and switched over the ignition. Hiking up my skirt to find the pedals, I shifted into gear and hit the road. Now I ask you, what could be sexier than a mature blonde, in a tight tube top, hauling ass down a country road in a rugged old jeep?

Sexy or not, by the time I reached school, I logged over a dozen stares, and several tips of the caps from the locals. Brushing back my wind-blown hair, I grabbed my books and headed for the lecture hall and Professor Granite.

I arrived only a minute or two before class. Planning on sneaking to my previous seat, I saw it was already taken. Amazing enough, almost the entire front row was vacant. The debs were in the classroom, but apparently had given up on their initial frontal attack. Well-camouflaged in less-than-daring regular day jeans and tops, they sat with notebooks and pens ready to work. I smiled and quietly strutted to the front row. The classroom door opened promptly at 10:00 a.m. Professor Grant walked stoically in, carrying his books on his left hip. His right arm was in a dark blue sling, and he winced as he let the books flop down on the desk. Not used to using his left hand, one of his books fell to the floor at my feet. Turning in my desk, to swing my legs to one side, I leaned down and picked up the fallen textbook. Handing it up to him, our eyes met.

"Th-thank you," the nearly white-headed man offered, as his left hand took hold of the book. His eyes suddenly glued to mine, as he seemed to be completely unattached from the immediate motor activity of retrieving the book. Letting those same eyes wander down my torso, he caught himself lingering on my chest, and quickly snapped his head back.

"You're welcome," I softly replied, smiled and half-batted my eyes.

Instantly he tried shifting back into control mode. He walked behind his desk to broaden the space between us, as he began barking instructions to the class. Except for shooting me an occasional glance, he was business-as-usual.

Since this was our first formal class, role call was taken. I was sure he had no idea what my name was, until my name came up. "Barbara Bodecker?" He called.

Raising my No. 2 pencil to the side of my face, I replied, "Here." Fixing his eyes on me, I sensed he was etching my name into his long-term memory bank. Crossing my legs broke his gaze, as he continued checking the rest of the names.

After a series of open discussions on personality disorders and a chapter quiz, he announced a fifteen-minute break. Like so many sheep corralled in a too-small pen, the majority of the class emptied into the hall. Being the sole remaining sheep, I got to my heeled sandals and slowly sauntered toward the door.

"Thanks again for... you know," he smiled.

"My God, he SMILED!" I returned his smile with the cutest one I could conjure up. "So, did you break it?" I asked, coaxing his eyes from mine to his arm in the sling.

"No, no, just a sprain... I think," he said with a degree of embarrassment. "Working in the garage last weekend. I don't know. I must have pulled it, or something."

"Better have somebody look at it, ya know; just to make sure," I recommended.

"Yes, my... my wife is taking me to Physicians' Clinic later," he said, as I made my way closer to the door.

"Good. Let's hope that's all it is--a sprain." Batting my eyes one more time, before swinging the door open.

The balance of the class was Professor Grant's typical lecture. Pens and pencils whizzed behind me, as he addressed us on psychology terms and our homework assignments. Unlike the previous week, he seemed more on edge, and paced almost continually from one side of the room to another, as he spoke. Perhaps his injury was nagging him, or was it some other form of distraction that provided the increased anxiety?

He dismissed the class and I gathered my notes and books. Once again bringing up the rear, I lingered to let the students hurry outside.

"Is that the clinic over on Sixth and Main?" I asked, turning back to the professor.

"Yes, that's the one."

"That's on my way home. If you want to save your wife the trip, I'd be happy to drop you off," I boldly offered.

Shifting his eyes to consider my offer, he smiled again, "Oh you don't have to..."

"It's right on my way, and I'm not busy... Come on, what time do you need to be there?"

"Probably around 3 o'clock, but..."

"No butts about it, I'll meet you out front at two-thirty then," I grinned and hurried out the door, before he could turn me down.

Three o'clock would mean finding something to do for two hours after lunch; plus the clinic was nowhere near the direction I was headed. Armed with nothing but my textbooks, I decided to spend the extra time in the library. Searching the Internet, I found all sorts of tidbits about Professor William Grant.

Jumping in the jeep, I pulled around to the main drive at two-thirty on the dot. Out strode the older gent. Walking toward me, he was all smiles.

"My God, where did you come up with this old beater?" He laughed, climbing into the jeep.

"Hey, I'll have you know this is a genuine, certified, old beater," I mocked.

Turning over the ignition, I watched him nervously scan the immediate area. "Afraid to be seen in such an old crate, or maybe you're not wanting to be seen in the company of the sexy blonde driving it?" I joked, hiked up my skirt, and shifted into first gear.

"Hmmm, you are a keen observer," he quipped, as the jeep sped away.

Running my fingers through my shoulder-length ash blonde tresses, I shook my head to catch the wind. "What a simply beautiful day!"

"It is THAT," the normally reticent professor agreed, his eyes trained on my legs. Hard-shifting the old tranny in the open jeep, my lightweight skirt caught a breeze. This blew it up almost into my lap, clearing showing my garter straps. "Great day for a picnic isn't it?"

Hearing no response, I figured he hadn't heard me over the engine's roar. "GREAT DAY FOR A PICNIC!" I repeated.

"YES, it IS!" Grant yelled back, tearing his fixed stare from my legs.

"Don't you ever just wanna take the day off and play hooky?" I asked, letting the breeze sweep over my bare thighs.

"You're a bit of a free-spirit, aren't you Barbara?" The professor observed.

"Anything wrong with that? Is that a sign of having a particular personality disorder, or something?" I smiled, brushing the hair from my eyes.

"No. As a matter of fact, it probably means you're a healthy, well-adjusted young woman," he answered, with the hint of a wink in his eye.

"Young? Ha, not hardly! Unless being in your fifties is considered young."

"Ah the wonders of perception. I would have guessed early forties," he politely stated, when I suddenly noticed his seat belt wasn't buckled. It hadn't occurred to me until then that his sling prevented him from buckling up.

Quickly pulling over to the curb, I leaned across his lap. "I'm afraid neither one of us are as good at observing as we should be. Naughty us, we forgot our seatbelts," I said, reaching over to grab his safety buckle.

In the process of pulling the belt across his lap, my arm brushed against the distinct signs of an erection. I stopped immediately, wrapped my fingers around his rod, and brought my eyes to his. "Well, that's one less thing you need to have the doctors check. That seems to work just fine," I leaned in to whisper in his ear, fixing a tighter grip. "AHHH!" His back arched, while his head swiveled from side to side. Letting go of him, I returned to my seat and strapped my safety belt over my shoulder and between my boobs. That gave him something else to ponder, as I shifted into reverse.

"Sorry 'bout that. I didn't mean to embarrass you," I mentioned, placing a hand on the back of his seat to twist myself backwards. "Just checking traffic, what are you checking?" I added, practically thrusting my tits at him.

"Just checking your tits, actually. They're incredible!" He surprised me.

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