Office Hours

"Hi Professor Hall, mind if I come in for a minute?"

"Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?"

I can't believe that I'm rehearsing such a simple salutation. If this was some ordinary beer-swilling male college student, this would be a hell of a lot easier. Then again, the only reason I'm doing this is to just prove to myself once and for all that men really are the same no matter how old they are, that I was deluding myself into thinking that this professor with his fresh PhD in English Literature was any different from the horny bastards who'd paw at me at parties.

Never mind that I'm staking my own dignity, and perhaps even my own grade in the class on this. At worst, I would have a B+ in the class in Renaissance Literature. At best, an A-. I'm a decent enough student to do most of the reading and put in a couple of cents during class discussion, but I'm no fucking apple polisher. Then again, I'm certainly not the type of girl who exchanges sex for better grades. If that were the case, it would take more of a drastic jump, like a failing grade to an A for it to be worth it. Not some paltry half-grade difference.

No, this challenge was entirely personal, almost selfless. The only problem is that if everything went down the way I planned it, I could risk David losing his job. It was strange that I always thought of him in terms of his first name, perhaps because he was so much closer to me in age than my other instructors. As much as I wanted to do this, I didn't want to get him hurt in the process.

This is my quandary.

I turn around in the hallway to watch him exit from his 9:00 a.m. class to walk to his office for his office hours. As usual, he's carrying a stack of papers and books. Sometimes I wonder if he ever bothered considering getting a briefcase for everything. I've only glanced at the inside of his office in passing, but for a new professor, it's a nice enough office, not like the large static rooms filled with cubicles for the TAs. The ceiling is surprisingly high in such an old building. The wall behind him has shelves filled with books. Perhaps he just grabs what he needs at the last second, maybe without even thinking. Then again, knowing his meticulous nature, this probably wasn't the case. The wall of books behind him seems to loom so tall, overwhelming him and his desk and the pathetically cute, but somewhat dated iMac the school has equipped him with.

I notice that he has dropped a piece of paper and hastily walk down the hall to pick it up before the passing period stampede can trample it to shreds. It strikes me as odd that a specialist in 16th century English Literature would have a 17th Century poem such as "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell. Oddly enough, despite the flagrant display of chauvinism in it, the poem is one of my favorites. I definitely agree with the carpe diem philosophy. Humans don't have a particularly long lifespan, so we should enjoy ourselves while we still can. Then again, this poem is just a rather obvious ploy at getting beneath a lady's skirts. And yet again, if someone had written this poem for me, it would have worked, mostly because no one has ever or would ever write poetry for me.

"Excuse me, Professor Hall? You dropped this." I wave the paper at him in time for the door to nearly slam in my face.

He stops the door with his foot and kicks it back open, setting down a stack of books to prop it. "Thanks Jane."

"Marvell, huh? Sort of odd that you'd choose him for a lesson in Shakespeare."

David smiles and looks up at me as he finishes adjusting the stack of books. "That's right, but I wanted to give my class a taste of what direction literature would take after the Shakespearean sonnet."

"That sounds cool." I hate the Shakespeare class I'm in now since I thought that the old professor was so stodgy and set in his ways that a new idea would give him a coronary. "I wish I was in your Shakespeare class too."

"Why is that?"

"Because I'd get to take that class, then come to your office hours to hang out with you and then go to your Renaissance Literature class."

"That would be at least six hours we'd be spending together." David chuckles as I think about the myriad things I would do with him in six hours. "Are you sure you wouldn't get sick of my company? Or that we'd run out of things to say to each other?"

I step into his office, slightly nudging the books so that a couple of them fell. "I'm sure some other students would drop by and interrupt with more legitimate questions on assignments and such. Then I'd be forced to leave and come back later."

"You wouldn't believe this but—" He pauses when I look up after bending down to my knees to readjust the books, stretching my shirt a bit lower to reveal my collarbone. "Students don't really come to see me during office hours. I sometimes worry that I made my courses too easy for them."

"Well, do their grades reflect on this theory? Are all of your students getting As this semester?" I stand up and walk to the chair in front of his desk, a surprisingly comfortable leather chair despite being patched multiple times with duct tape. After a flashing fantasy of me sitting in that chair my legs spread over his shoulders as he grasped my hips and licked me with fervor, I ponder over his next to last statement, thinking about how lonely he must get if nobody visits him. I even recall how happy he seemed when he just saw me in the doorframe.

"No, not exactly." He looks away for a moment and clears his throat. "Then again, grades are a confidential matter that I can't discuss openly with a student."

I move forward in my chair. Something in the way he said the word "confidential" with the subtle bite of the "k" sound gliding into the soft "f" and flourishing off into whisper sound of "sh" turned me on even more. "Well, I could go over there and close the door so we can discuss the matter in confidence. Or at least I could ask you how I'm doing in your class. I mean, that is the point of office hours, right?"

"Yes." He stands up, gesturing with his hands and nearly knocking over his mug full of pens. I couldn't help but wonder if he had the slightest idea of the dreadful delights I wanted to visit upon him. "Closing the door won't be necessary. It gets stuffy in here."

"So, your window doesn't open? That's a shame since you get such a nice view of the quad from this side of the building." I crane my neck, turning to see some people playing Frisbee outside.

"It opens, but it does a weird thing to the pressure of the room, even if it isn't windy outside. My papers would blow around."

I look back at his desk, covered in folders and stacks of papers and imagine the poor guy chasing papers around the room, frantically trying to put everything back in their place. Then again, if there was any symbolism in my presence in his office, it would be like an open window, mussing him up a little since he was so put-together all the time with his tightly buttoned-up shirts and neatly-pressed pants. I notice that his desk is one of those rather tall wooden numbers with a panel in the front. I imagine hiding beneath the desk, surprising David with a lunchtime blowjob. I recall from prior experience with one particularly jaded lover that I could deliver an effective blowjob—to the point where the guy couldn't remember his own name for a good five minutes or so. Granted, it wouldn't be romantic, being cramped in that wooden box, knees cold against the hard tile floor, but blowjobs aren't exactly known for being particularly romantic in the first place. I wonder what his cock would look like, pulled out from the confines of his black slacks through the fly. Would it be long, perhaps a little narrow as it tapered to the head? Or, would it be shorter, but thick enough to strain my jaw as I blew him or stretch me out while fucking?

"So, did you have a question?" I look back up at him after staring at the bottom of his desk for so long.

"Uh, yes. I wanted to check up on how I'm doing in your class, along with a question I had on this paper assignment." Good, this would buy me time to plot things out a bit more. I hadn't expected to get into his office this early. I wanted to start things off slow, with questions via email followed by a scheduled meeting outside of office hours. Then again, as they say, the best laid plans...

"Well, you certainly have nothing to worry about. Your attendance has been nearly perfect. You participate when you are here, and you've never turned in an assignment late..."

I glance back at the desk. It looks like a solid piece of furniture. Perhaps it could take the weight of two human bodies. Mussing him up would be more effective if I just shoved all those papers off of his desk, lay on top of it and let him fuck me there. Either that, or I could grasp at things in the heat of the moment while he bent me over the desk. That would be interesting considering how high the desk was. I would have to be wearing high heels or stand on my toes or something. Or maybe I could lie back on the desk with my legs up on his shoulders as he fucked me. Either way, he'd still be almost fully clothed, with his tie undone, a few buttons undone on his shirt and his fly open or pants partially down exposing his ass. Maybe I'd spank him once or twice as he fucked me. That way he'd sweat through that carefully-constructed shell of his and be unable to hide it later. This would only work if my pants were off or if I was wearing a skirt. Damn. No skirt, no high heels. If anything is going to happen at all today, it's going to be awkward and cumbersome.

"So, what was your question about the paper?" Shit. I haven't even started writing it yet, or even thinking about a topic, definitely no shape to be in as far as asking relevant, intelligent questions are concerned.

"I haven't really started it yet, but I think I have a topic idea." I begin glancing around the room as if it would help me find a topic. "The representation of sex acts in Spenser's Faerie Queene."

"Interesting." His usually down-turned lips curve slightly upward as he stands up again. "So, what was your question?"

"Do you think that this is an ... appropriate topic for a paper?" I lick my lips during the pause before "appropriate."

He laughs as he walks behind my chair. "I'd hardly think that you would be so prim as to be squeamish about discussing sexuality in a paper."

My heart starts to race as I feel sweat beading between my breasts. Had my somewhat unsavory reputation followed me into the ivory tower after all? All else fails, feign innocence. "Why would you say that?"

I nearly jump out of my chair as he leans forward close enough to brush his arm against mine to pick up a book which had mysteriously made its way next to me. Even though I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt, I feel exposed enough to hear the whisper of his wool blazer against the goosebumps of my arm. "You're not that squeamish in class discussion."

It was funny that I completely forgot about that. Perhaps my subconscious desire truly did spill over into my academic pursuits. Then again, from what I recalled, David usually turned his lecture in that direction before turning us loose in discussion.

"Then again," he rises enough to look me in the eye from a distance of a mere couple of inches, "Not that many people really participate in discussion. I'm not sure if I'm making them uncomfortable or just boring them."

I can smell some sort of cologne on him, not expensive, but not heavy to the point of stinging the eyes. It is more of a warm, earthy smell, almost like suede with a few fresh notes like citrus and something a bit spicy like cloves. I felt completely enveloped by it as I breathe harder. "I-I'd hardly say that you're boring them. I mean to say, you don't bore me at least."

"Thank you for that." He withdraws from this unnervingly comfortable proximity. "Did you have any other questions?"

"No." I hear myself say as I stand up and slowly step backward to the curiously closed door. Funny, but I don't recall even hearing the door close, just the rattling of my foot nervously tapping against the chair leg. "Thank you."

As soon as I get around the corner of the hallway, I lean back and close my eyes. I can't help but hear the voice of one of my previous lovers in my head, whispering "You're in over your head, little girl." I wonder, is David playing into my hands, or am I playing into his?