tagErotic CouplingsJane and the Professor

Jane and the Professor

byScheherazade73©

He was an ugly man by most anyone's standards, but he was masterful with words, a skilled and electrifying lecturer, every class an intellectual whirlwind. There were never any free seats; everyone got to his class early. Jane had, as she always had in all her classes, selected a seat at the front of the room. Before she knew his power, before she lost herself to her helpless infatuation, she selected her seat like the teacher's pet she was and was now always closest to him when he was at the podium.

There were too many students for him to know them all by name. He never even bothered with attendance. But she knew he knew her name, because after the first exam, when she'd handed him her exam book, he'd deliberately studied the cover. And then, as she stood there uncertainly, he'd looked up at her, winked, and whispered, "Thanks, Lady Jane." A glorious buzzing suffused her to hear her name spoken by this man she so idolized.

On the first hot day of spring she wore very little like most girls in her class, but unlike the others she was somewhat uncomfortable with the exposure. While the other girls stretched their golden limbs like lionesses, Jane wrapped her pale arms around herself and pressed her legs tightly together, cursing the fair skin so out of place in the bronzed throng. But when he stepped to the podium and paused, just for a fraction of a second, taking her in, she knew he has noticed her. He made a real effort after that day, but several times she caught him sneaking glances, distracted. Toward the end of the class she brazenly stretched her legs in front of her and watched in delight as she struggled to avert his eyes from her creamy flesh.

The heat wave continued, and each day she dressed for class with care, wanting him to realize she had preened for him, had thought of his voice in her ear as she dressed: If it isn't lovely Lady Jane, so beautiful, look at you, my God, I want to touch you, words that enflamed her as she hurried to class, and as she touched herself in secret late at night, alone in her bed.

Her fantasies about her professor, which had begun in earnest after the first hot day of spring, were constant. They began as romantic: they would bump into each other at the coffee house, he would grab her wrist after small talk and pull her to him, kissing her mouth so softly it was like a whisper, breathing against her, Jane, I need you, Jane, I must have you. He would take her to a field, feed her cherries, and lay her down among the wildflowers, worshipping every inch of her. Or he would declare his passion for her and whisk her off to Europe; make love to her throughout England, whispering the beautiful names: Gloucester, Leicester, Essex... each like a million little tongues on her skin. Always it was his voice that tipped her desire, claiming her completely.

Soon her fantasies grew more erotic, waking her in the night with an ache to be filled by him, so intense that her skin ached. In her dreams he touched her and teased her until she begged him, and always he looked at her and said in that rich, mesmerizing voice, "Tell me what you want, Jane." Her sleep was so disrupted that she walked around in a drowsy haze most days, able to concentrate only on her obsession with her professor.

They had a project due, and though she had no trouble with her topic she signed up for an office appointment, blushing furiously as she scribbled her name in the Friday 4PM slot, the only one left because all of her classmates would already be at the bar. She endured the lecture on the Howards by resting her head in her hands, covering her closed eyes, the better to savor the sound of his voice. That Friday, she willed herself to his office and was filled with relief to see him sitting at his desk, slightly disheveled. She had been so afraid, so irrationally afraid, that she'd approach the top of the stairs to find a dark, locked office.

And what an office it was, tucked away in the attic of Wingate Hall, but with surprising light, and the blissful, dusty smell of old books.

He was silent, smiling neutrally as she approached, half-dizzy with embarrassment and confused lust. "I came," she blurted, and perceived just the tiniest arching of one eyebrow, a widening of his pupils, and then a smoothing over as he registered her meaning. "To talk about the project."

"Yes," he said. "The project. Good. Please," he motioned to the chair next to him, "have a seat."

"I want to explore artistic depictions of Elizabeth," she stammered. He nodded, and she continued, explaining which portraits she'd like to use, relaxing as she spoke, her eyes never leaving his.

"Sounds fantastic, Jane," he praised when she had exhausted the explanation of her plans. "Sounds like you have it well in hand." He smiled at her kindly, but there was an extra warmth, she thought, and she grasped for more time. She'd done all the talking, and she'd been uncharacteristically silent, when all along she'd hoped to hear his voice so she had something to take home with her, something to use in the night when the fever kept her awake and the only way she could fall asleep was to replay his voice in her head while she fingered her cunt to orgasm after violent orgasm.

"I love this office," she offered.

Now his smile was bemused. "As do I," he replied. "In fact," he continued, rising from his chair, "I usually wind up getting locked in here on Friday nights" He closed the door softly and stood at a safe distance from her.

"Is this what you want?" he asked quietly, as she stood there, chest heaving with shallow breath.

Face flaming, she shook her head no, then yes.

"Tell me." He walked toward her slowly. "Tell me what you want."

He was seconds away. Every inch of her burned. She tried to speak, but her body wouldn't cooperate.

He knelt in front of her chair. "Can I tell you what I want? What I've wanted since I first saw you?" he was running his fingers down the sides of her calves, very lightly, in feather strokes that made her weak, his eyes locked on hers.

She nodded mutely.

"I want to touch you," he whispered in a voice she'd never heard. "Just touch you. I want to undress you, and just touch you."

She nodded again, and he reached for the buttons on the front of her dress, loosening one button, then the next as he cleared his throat. He drew his knuckles ever so lightly across her collarbone, up the side of her neck, and smoothed it across her cheek, until she trembled, dew forming on her heated skin. Then he pushed his thumb inside her lips and she closed her eyes and suckled it, allowing him to bury it deep within her hot mouth.

With the other hand, he reached the last button on her dress and drew it slowly off her shoulders until the dress fell away at her waist, exposing a sheer white bra and her lush torso. He pulled his thumb from her lips then, unhooking the bra and springing her ample breasts free, where they stood proudly, the rosy nipples puckered dark smudges on her fair palette.

"Dear God," he whispered, tracing his fingertips in lazy swirls around her areolas until she held her breath for fear of moaning. He cupped the undersides of her creamy globes, weighing them in his hands, squeezing them lightly, then releasing them to run his forefinger over a single nipple until she did moan, deep sound in her throat that she scarcely recognized as her own. "Jane, these are beautiful," he said in a hushed voice. "Exquisite breasts. Just exquisite." He continued to caress her skin, running his fingertips along her arms, down into her open palms, which curled at his touch. She collapsed back in the chair, unable to sit upright anymore, her bones jelly. She closed her eyes and arched her back as he continued touching her, cataloguing every inch of her skin with his gentle touch.

"Stand up for me," he said finally, drawing her up from the chair as he stood up himself. She half stood, half collapsed into him, as he turned her gently around, pulled her to him with one arm around her waist, then removed her bra and slid her dress down till it swished down around her ankles. She leaned into him, dressed only in sheer lace bikini panties, her knees trembling, skin afire. She was wet, afraid that if he removed her last article of clothing that her moisture would drip down the insides of her thighs it was so abundant.

He made a strangled noise in his throat, then whispered in her ear, "I want to watch you take these off," as he slid his finger into the waistband so she knew what he meant. He moved away from her, forcing her to hold onto the chair in order to steady herself. "Take them off nice and slow."

She hooked her thumbs in the sides and slid them down, slowly, her hair falling down around her as she drew them down her legs and then stepped out of them. He watched her every move, his eyes dark with lust, and then he took her by the hips and turned her around so she was facing away from him. He placed her hands on the back of the chair so that she was leaning over it, just slightly, her legs spread, and he ran his hands down her back, long strokes from her shoulder blades to the swell of her plump buttocks, running his fingers into the creases at the tops of her legs as he did so. With each stroke his fingertips drew closer to her aching, wet pussy, and she arched her back and spread her legs farther, wishing he would just stop touching her and fuck her.

"That's my girl," he said in a husky voice. "You love to be touched, don't you, Jane? You've wanted me to touch you all semester, to feel this beautiful skin of yours...you've wanted me to touch this stunning ass..." his fingers were at the insides of her thighs now, just brushing against the moist curls and satiny entrance of her cunt, and he stopped.

"Yes," she whispered, barely audible.

"Yes what?"

"Yes I love to be touched. Yes I've wanted you to touch me all semester." The words came out in a rush. She gripped the chair and fought to keep her knees from buckling. Her breath was caught in her throat, her head buzzing, her skin feverish, his fingers still only millimeters from giving her ultimate pleasure. And then he slid two fingers into her slick channel and she swooned. She shivered and cried out as he worked his fingers almost casually, never going too deep or pulling all the way out, just wallowing in her liquid core. He touched her for what felt to her like hours, though it was merely minutes, her own ragged breath the only sound in the universe she could register. She whimpered, her little cries picking up a telltale cadence, and as they did he knelt behind her, drew his fingers out slowly, and turned her around.

She was a gorgeous picture, eyes wide and damp and unfocused, skin flushed, hair wild around her shoulders, and he was torn between continuing with his fingers and watching her face as she came or tasting her sweet juices as he lapped her to orgasm with his tongue. In the end, tasting her was too tempting, and he buried his face in her slippery folds and ran his tongue over her swollen clit two, three, four, five times until she broke, sobbing and trembling and collapsing on top of him as he held her up, his mouth pressed between her legs and his fingers digging into the cream of her thighs.

It was Jane who pulled away, shaking herself as if waking from a dream. Her brain, which had ceased to work since he started touching her, was rushing back to function at warp speed, and with it her jumble of thoughts, embarrassed and confused, brought her back to the little attic office, the man getting up from his knees, her bra on the floor. He was watching her, watching her transforming back, watching her pull her clothes on hurriedly, and he returned to his professional demeanor.

"I should go," she said, far more steadily than she felt. "I think I'm good...with the project..."

He nodded.

She grabbed her books and backed out of the office, a hurricane of emotions whirling through her. And as she opened the door and let herself out, she realized she had left something behind as her professor tucked his lacy trophy into his pocket.

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