The Mentor Ch. 01

"Oh, you go so deep!" she moaned. "So deep!"

Knowing he couldn't hold out much longer, he lifted her off his cock and lowered her to the floor, grateful for the momentary respite.

"Turn around," he commanded. "I want to fuck you from behind."

Her eyes widened.

"Oh yeah," she breathed, "I love that. Do that."

He took her hips in his hands and turned her to face the bookshelf, bending forward, her hands gripping the shelf.

"Spread your legs," he said in a low, authoritative voice. It sent shivers of excitement through her body. She couldn't see him, for she was facing a row of books, but she did as she was told. She was standing in her boots, bent over with her ass in the air, her legs spread. She felt a ribbon of wetness drip from her pussy down her inner thigh. He took his glistening, rock hard cock in his hand and gently rubbed her now swollen, pink pussy.

"Do you like it like this? Huh?" he teased. "From behind?"

"Mmmm-hmmm," she said, panting. "So much." He slowly pushed his cock half way inside her and back out again.

"You like that? You want me to go deeper?"

"Oh yeah," she gasped, "go deep, go really deep."

He shoved himself into her again, three quarters of the way into her warm wetness. She moaned loudly. He pulled back out.

"Do you want me to fill you up, baby? Huh? Do want me to fuck you now?"

She was breathing heavily now, arching her back, her ass raised as if begging for his cock.

"Yesss!" she moaned, "Please fuck me! Fuck me now!"

He took her hips in his hands and pushed his cock all the way into her pussy. He felt the tip pressing against her cervix. She let out a moan.

He started to pump her, thrusting into her, burying himself inside her dripping wet pussy. She let out a moan with every thrust, feeling him fill her up completely, spreading her. She was moaning "fuck me, fuck me" but it was so guttural, so primal, it was almost incomprehensible.

With one hand, he reached around and found her clit, swollen and hard, and started to rub it; with the other, he found her breasts and pinched her nipples. A moment later, her pussy started to contract around his cock and her body began to shudder.

He felt his own orgasm start in his extremities, gather in his groin and then explode out his shaft, shooting ropes of cum deep inside her.

As her orgasm engulfed her, the last thing Eve remembered were her hands gripping a bookshelf holding a row of best-selling books by the acclaimed author Brett Michaels.

Eve opened her eyes as she lay in bed, her finger slowly rubbing her clit, still breathing hard as she came down from her orgasm.

* * * * *

The following Monday, Eve scrutinized herself in the mirror. She added a little mascara to her lashes. This was unusual for her, as she was lucky enough to look striking without, or with very little, makeup. Still, there was something about going to his class that made her want to look her best.

She turned from side to side, examining her reflection. Her breasts filled out her sheer blouse and her jeans clung tightly to her hips. She thought about buttoning her blouse a button higher but then didn't.

"He already thinks you're a prude," she thought to herself.

On her way to the seminar room, she thought about what she might find there. It was an advanced class and she was the only junior in a group of seniors and grad students. What would the other students be like? Would she be able to keep up?

When she entered the seminar room, the other students were taking their seats around an oval table. Prof. Michaels was pulling papers out of his briefcase. She took a seat next to a serious looking woman wearing glasses.

Around the table, she saw her fellow students for the first time. They looked older than her, more...worldly. Each looked fiercely intelligent and serious about their craft. There weren't a lot of smiles. At the head of the table sat Prof. Michaels.

"Welcome to Advanced Short Story Writing," he said in his deep voice. "Each of you has been selected for this course based on the excellence of your writing. However, this is not a place in which you may rest on your respective laurels. You will be expected to push yourselves, and to push each other."

Eve glanced at the other students sitting opposite her. The thought of this impressive bunch pushing her was pretty intimidating. Prof Michaels continued.

"I have some ground rules. Criticism must be specific and, where possible, constructive. There will be no personal attacks nor will I allow disrespect to be shown to anyone. At the same time, there will be no hiding either. Writing, and criticism, can be a painful process but I want each of you to put yourself out there -- it is, quite simply, the best way to learn."

Eve was starting to feel a bit sick to her stomach. The thought of this group giving brutally honest criticism of her writing was daunting to say the least.

"I've had a chance to read each of your stories. A few of them showed promise. Most of them need work. A couple were substandard efforts in my view. No, I will NOT be disclosing in which category yours fell. Suffice it to say, you all need to raise your game. Any questions?"

Across from Eve, a nice-looking guy with a shock of light brown hair covering his brow, raised his hand.

"Yes, David."

The young man, David, gave a mischievous smile.

"I was wondering if we'd be given the chance to critique your work?"

He asked his question in such a charming way, that it didn't seem arrogant at all. Professor Michaels smiled.

"Good question. Yes, you will. I want us to be equals in this room. I will be subjected to the same gauntlet as you. Any other questions?"

Eve thought about asking whether it was too late to transfer out of the class, but her hand stayed by her side.

"Good, then we'll start today by getting acquainted. We'll go in a circle and tell a little about ourselves and what drew us to the craft of writing."

Eve listened as the students each told their stories, eloquently and with deep intelligence. One woman, seemingly in her 30's, came back to school after starting a family. She had been an editor at a magazine.

Another woman was a Rhetoric major and wanted to be a novelist.

A man with wire frame glasses was working on his third novel. He was, as yet, unpublished.

The young man with the light brown hair and mischievous smile, spoke next. He had studied theatre to be an actor but became interested in writing after performing in "Arcadia" by Tom Stoppard. He ended by telling the joke about the Polish guy who went to Hollywood because he wanted to make it big in show business. "He became a writer." Everyone laughed and he flashed a movie star smile. Eve liked him immediately.

When it came to be Eve's turn, she cleared her throat, trying not to sound too tentative.

"Well, I've been writing as long as I can remember," she began. "Diaries, poetry, the school paper. I started writing fiction when I was 15. I would like to be published, not just for the money, but because I think it will allow my voice to get out there. I want to reach people with my writing, I want to touch them. I know I have a lot to learn, and I'm honored to have a chance to learn it here with you all. For me, the important thing will be to commit -- to write truthfully and from the heart and that's what I'm working on right now."

She caught Prof. Michaels' eye. He nodded appreciatively.

At the conclusion of the first class, Prof. Michaels collected their revised stories. Eve felt a sense of dread handing over the reworked pages. What if he didn't like the changes she'd made? Would he decide to rescind his judgment that she had promise as a writer? As the last student filed out of the room, she took a breath, stood up, and handed him the pages.

"I'm looking forward to reading your newly committed writing," he said with a smile.

Eve let out a nervous laugh.

"For better or worse," she said, with an attempt at nonchalance.

Prof. Michaels smiled kindly.

"I've no doubt it's for the better."

Eve nodded and continued to the door.

"Oh, and Eve..."

She stopped and looked at him.

"I've rearranged my tutorial schedule. Would you mind very much if we held ours during the weekend rather than on Monday?"

Eve thought a moment.

"No, that'd be fine."

"Good. Would two o'clock Saturday suit? We could meet at my home if that's alright with you?

"Sure."

He pulled out a sheet of note paper, scribbled on it and handed it to her.

"My address and phone. See you Saturday at 2pm?"

Eve smiled.

"Thank you. Um, see you Saturday."

As she left the seminar room, she noticed her heart was pounding.