A Campus Fantasy

This is completely true. The fantasies are mine and the student is real. Both are and were adults. Nothing happened. Nothing has happened. Likely, nothing ever will. But they agree the fantasy as presented here is absolutely true. The story builds from secret thoughts and frantic masturbation to a scene that replayed itself in their minds many times—a frantic fucking with her bent over her desk. They have the deepest friendship and enjoy talking with each other about their deepest secrets.

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He noticed her again climbing the seven concrete steps to the student union. Wasn't she the student who met with him last spring in his office? Her mother and she visited and he was on campus, so he took the appointment when Admissions called.

A pleasant conversation, he recalled. He recalled her eyes, so round and so blue. He had not watched her leave the office, had not seen her lovely hips and pleasant bottom. He saw and noticed now, though.

The steps were only seven inches high, the standard for public stairs, but the treads were deeper. That arrangement was perfect if your legs were long enough. But for someone her size, they made for an awkward pace and rhythm.

It was her lovely bottom he watched. The steps made her shift her weight a bit more than normal. That caused her ass to swing slightly, emphasizing her womanly hips by the way it made her turn her torso. Seven times she shifted her weight, thus. And seven times he got to imagine how she looked under the blue jeans that covered her so tightly.

He didn't intend to be a lecher. He didn't make a point of following her just to stare at the seat of her femininity. She was actually headed in the same direction, only a bit ahead. He maintained his distance and decorum. The stirring in his groin was noticeable only to him.

She was not aware of him in the least, not aware she was becoming an object of fond desire.

He saw her on campus frequently enough to conclude she had one of the finest asses he had ever seen. She was delicately made. Her breasts were small, not calling attention to themselves. He liked small breasts and wondered if they were tipped with small areolae and tight nipples or were capped by wider rounds and flatter ends. He would never know if she were cold or excited, as he was unable to discern even the slightest change of texture in her clothes. They would remain a tantalizing mystery to him.

Her lovely ass, though, he could imagine more accurately. Her jeans fitted snugly around her hips. Her slimness could have made her appear skinny, but her hips made her a convincingly desirable woman. A woman you could lift in your arms and carry away.

Her blond hair was thick and natural, hanging around her shoulders at the right length for a college woman, if there is such length. Meeting her coming toward him in a hallway one day, he got a furtive look at her eyes. Demure. She lowered her face when she saw him, perhaps out of respect or just shyness. Or as likely to avoid men like him.

Her shyness, if that is what it was, attracted his attention and so he then made it a point to try and see her on other days as class let out. He was attracted to her because she was pretty and shy. He felt kind toward her and protective. She stirred him.

Her eyes, now that he had seen them, were mesmerizing. Large deep pools of blue, so big as to suggest she perpetual surprise or, perhaps, on guard. Lovely eyes. Kind eyes.

They were never in class together. He never got to teach her about the things he knew. But, he saw her often on campus in the kind of activities that call for a talented woman. Each time he saw her, he lusted for her. And felt shameful and tried to prevent his lurid thoughts that gave him such strong erections. So, at night he would replay the scene in his mind and stroke himself deeply and ejaculate his lust. It would relieve him for a bit.

After graduation, she came back to campus, one day appearing in front of him on the same steps leading to the student union. Once again, as before, he followed her. She was now more mature, no longer the skinny freshman, now more womanly. Yet, her hips and ass were the same: making her unmistakably sexy without her even meaning to. She was unselfconscious of what was behind her, what was so much in the front of his mind.

She had taken a job in a department somewhere in his organization chart. When her colleague retired, he made her the immediate replacement. No searches. She was the best fit for the role, creative, thoughtful, kind, and very competent. He liked being around her, captivated by her quietude, her smile, her eyes. And she was excellent at her job; none better. In his more noble moments, her competence and professionalism was what he recalled. In his more honest times, he had other, less noble thoughts.

In those secret moments, he undressed her and studied her porcelain skin, able at last to discover the nature of her demure breasts. He conjured an image of sucking them lightly, then moving his face along her flat belly to the thatch of brown hair. He imagined he smelled her and it relaxed him. She was fecund mellow, calming and arousing all at once.

In his masturbatory dreams, once he had licked and tasted her the intersection of her thighs, with both hands on her hips, he turned her over onto her stomach. There was her fine, smooth ass. Dimples on her sacrum reminded him of the dimple in her chin, deep and attractive.

He imagined roaming his face over one smooth half of her ass and then the other. He rested his face on her bottom cheeks looking towards her legs and watched his fingers as they raced up along her imagined thighs to the wonderful intersection and then touched lightly along the cleft. He grasped her and felt the muscles under the white, perfect skin.

In his mind, he traced the cleft with his tongue, teasing her. Then in a made-up idea in his arousal that surprised even him, he licked her between the halves, touching the tiny star at the join. His cock leaked silvery drops as he imagined exploring her deeper.

In the vision, he pulled her hips up, still belly down, positioning her for better access to her swollen nether lips. She was moist and willing, though quiet. She spread her knees leaving no doubt as to her eagerness to be taken this way. Her breathing told him she wanted him

to continue. That and soft whimpers when his tongue touched her sensitive clitoris. With his nose pressed against her rosebud entrance, he dove his tongue in and out of her vagina, dropping it to lick her clitoris with the flat of his tongue; rasping it gently. His face was buried in her, suffocated by her, intoxicated by her beauty and aliveness.

As he stroked himself, he mimicked the pictures in his mind, his tongue stabbing at the air, his face moving left and right trying to bury itself in her softness. When he came, he thought

he heard her moan. Lifting his own cum-covered wrist to his mouth, he drew it across his face as it were her juices he was tasting.

She was fixed in his mind and he returned to his imagination again and again to give himself pleasure and to imagine that he might be man enough to please her. Such is a man's foolish imagination.

In bits and pieces, he has recollections. A banquet. A dress. A new haircut that emphasized her eyes and broad smile. Dimples in her cheeks and chin. She was kind and friendly, able and competent. He had enough respect for her, and enough good sense, that he strove mightily to keep his lustful feelings separate from his demeanor and deportment toward her.

He was ashamed he had such lust for her. Yet, he was unable to escape it. Like Reverend Dimmesdale, no amount of torturous self-punishment would rid him of his desires for this Hester Prynne.

It happened one day that a tragedy shook the little community and the whole campus mourned. At a funeral service later, he found himself next to her. She was clearly distraught, having known the student before the tragic accident.

Now he had a chance to be the gentleman he strove to be, to offer her some comfort. As the crowd of mourners poured out of the church, they found themselves standing near one another. She was in tears, so he reached to put a consoling arm around her shoulders. She curled into him and sobbed against his chest causing him to surround her with his arms, protecting her, allowing her to cry freely. He leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head, surprising himself for the spontaneous, yet genuine affection he displayed. The sweet smell of her clean hair filled him more strongly than the incense the priest had burned.

Others were crying, talking, milling about, oblivious to them holding on to one another. He made no move to end the embrace. He felt proud and happy. He was holding her, comforting her. He had not creeped her out. He was always so worried that the power of his untoward thoughts were easily read and would offend her.

He closed his eyes in sympathy with her feelings. But in closing his eyes, the libidinal ritual he had indulged in so often came to light in his mind's eye. He became erect. His cock recognized that holding her so close, feeling her muscles tighten as she cried, feeling her inspirations, and hearing her soft sobs, were the substance of things hoped for. This was not a fire drill.

He dared not move lest she feel his hardness and be repulsed by him. Yet, he wanted her to feel it, to know the effect she had on him. Poor miserable man. He was torn between the noble wish to be a gentleman, safe and trustworthy, and the carnal man with desires and longings that he could not promise or pray away. He was aware of the total inappropriateness of lust at a funeral, yet he could not help the feeling of elation at having her so close, her body against his and his arm around her.

At last she composed herself and looked up at him. Red rimmed her blue eyes, now wider with pupils open after minutes of being closed in grief. She was lovely and he wanted to kiss her. Her head tilted just so, her throat so lovely, her jaw lifted, her body still pressed against his, his arms around her still.

But they shifted a trifle and the moment receded. Did she feel anything?

They broke the tableau and mingled with their colleagues and went back to work in separate vehicles, never speaking of the moment lost.

As the years and careers moved onward, they moved in and out of each other's ambit. Then they were again cast together at work. She reported to him once more. He tried to be a decent supervisor, to help make her job easier. He failed as often as he succeeded. His own influence limited, and therefore disappointed her in simple requests to make her work easier.

They met regularly in her office. Management-by-walking-around, he called it. He wanted to see her in her element, to understand her job from her vantage point. With doors closed and an hour kept inviolate, their conversations became more friend-like, work things taking less time. They confided. They asked. They conferred. They enjoyed having such history together. They described failures and successes in their personal lives.

He strove through all those years to remain the gentleman he wanted her to see. And he had convinced himself that he had succeeded in convincing her, of selling her on the image of himself he tried so hard to create. But it was all to no avail, because she knew him too well.

Driving together back to campus one day, they passed a strip bar. He loved looking at naked women and would have been a regular but for the easy chance of being seen there. He made some comment to laugh away his anxiety.

It did not work. She pierced him saying, "Oh I know you better than you think. I know you have plenty of secrets."

A flood of adrenaline coursed through him. His chest hollowed out. His mouth dried and his hands sweated. What did she know? Could she possibly know how long he had dreamt of touching her, of tasting her? How often his hand had stroked himself to surging orgasm thinking of her lips on his cock? Could she know, too, he desire to have her sit on his face, to smother him with her wetness? He felt unmasked and at her mercy.

At the same instant fear gripped him, he had a sudden inspiration. Could he just then tell her? Was her insight an invitation to confess? His heart raced and he could not muster a coherent word. The brief illumination faded into grey. Good that it did.

"Imagine," he later pondered, "how would I ever explain my sexual anxieties and my fantasies to a woman who reported to me? I could not." So, he drove his yearning deeper in his soul where he fought to keep it hidden even from himself.

Time and tide. Days and years. They met again when their careers had taken them far apart. No more employer/ employee relationship. No power differential. No confusion over roles and duties. Just old friends. He was thrilled to see her again. He was so proud of the woman she had become. The bumps and scrapes of life had made her more lovely. Her skin was still as flawless, and smile lines and lines at the corners of her eyes vanished as quickly as they appeared.

He couldn't sit close enough to her. He was captivated and wanted to touch her. Just a casual touch, friendly. As friends do when they drink together recalling, their history, they found courage to admit things to one another, and be caring. He became lost in her eyes. Her beauty and kindness had not dimmed. Her voice was deeper, calmer, more resonant. It was nice to know how she had grown and matured. He felt lucky to have been able to watch her mature over the years.

At last he felt the need, the permission, perhaps, to confess to her. He tried to use oblique words, but they were not honest and she did not react. So, he told her plainly that he masturbated thinking of her. It just came out while they sat together. The confession that had taken years to develop ejaculated out of him in words that were too plain to mistake. She bolted upright in surprise. But not in disgust.

He pressed on to get the demons out all at once. More and more he told her about his desires. He sought her blessing and her forgiveness. Once started, he could not stop. She might not have known the depth and breadth of his pain and desire for all those years, but she understood. She had seen into him.

Their relationship opened up pools of hidden desires, of choked thoughts. She did not reject him. He told her when he had masturbated, revealing his fantasies to her, telling her of his pleasure. She accepted his confession as if it was the most normal thing to do. As if she were his confessor, indeed.

Their friendship was deep and connected, and had become the more so through the confession, though they were now in distant cities. A few days might go by then one or the other would reach out. They talked about their jobs, their families, their successes, and their worries. He would ask what she is reading and how she is thinking about things. He takes her advice. There are also other aspects of their deep friendship. Other aspects indeed!

Because they are humans and alive to all that humans experience, they discuss the ways that men and women are aroused and enjoy themselves. He sends her stories as a way to be more than just friends together - a hands off, almost theoretical sexual relationship. Simply, to have some naughty fun together. He would send her links to porn and images of men whose cock he wanted to suck. She, considering a new tattoo, liked images of naked men and women with intricate tattoos. She admitted it was hot to see the video of a guy all tatted up shooting his cum hot and high. It was fun getting the risque´ mail and enjoying a few stolen moments watching and touching herself.

No one would expect either of them to have such thoughts or that they would dare tell one another of them. It became a part of the private lives they have in common that allows them each to be fully human. She is the more circumspect, introverted. He is sloppy, and spilling. No one else knows his deepest secrets as well as she does. He thinks of her often, but now with less guilt and shame.

To be fully accepted is to be fully known. He permitted himself to be vulnerable and exposed, as if naked in her presence. His desire for her to see him naked and so importantly erect, to see his cock at its height and to watch him masturbate; to see what she does to him. And, of course, he wanted to watch her masturbate, to see how she pleases herself, to see her fingers move across and through her swollen lips; see her in the throes of orgasm Probably, it will never happen, but he dreams, still.

They both have flexible desires in sex partners. She listens to him. He asks of her.

He would support and defend her ferociously whatever choices she made about whom to love. If he were able to explore sex with a man, he would like for her to be there when he first took a cock in his mouth. He wants her to watch and to encourage him. To approve. She said it would be 'hot.'

He wondered what it might be like to roll the imaginary clock backward, to be in her office again all those years ago when they were younger. It is a fantasy where there are no consequences or rules, only pleasure and joy. So he wrote this story and sent it to her. She found it charming.

He imagined sitting in front of her desk in the upholstered chairs that were there, facing one another. She was wearing a skirt, convenient for his fantasy, but just how she used to be. Lovely thoughts. The ones he had all those years, his hand lazily stroking his hardened cock, as he had done so many times. Stroking with thoughts of her.

As the office talk cools and the friend-talk warms, their blood rises. A red flush appears on her throat and across her chest. The silky blue blouse pulls slightly as she leans toward him. He wants to peer down her blouse. As she leans, her bra pulls away and her breast is exposed at last. The cups are padded slightly and therefore do not conform to the shape of her breasts. That is why he has never discerned her nipples becoming erect. And now he can see the curve of her breast where it arcs away from her shoulder so gently.

He swallows hard and makes no illusion of not staring at her, nor does she prevent him. He leans in as well. "It's happened again. I'm getting hard sitting here with you."

"I'm glad of that."

Just then the desk phone rang, momentarily chilling the rising emotions. He imagines her standing and turning, and leaning over her desk; her skirt riding high along her thigh as she stretched out across her desk, nearly lying on top of it. He enjoyed the gymnastic reach for the phone. So good to imagine making his move.

He moved closer to her, sliding his hands up the back of her thighs, pushing up her skirt exposing her new panties. Easy to imagine her inhaling deeply when she felt his hands pulling her panties down. All the things that would ever have happened back in the day.

"No. Nothing. Just tried to stifle a sneeze," she would tell the person on the end of the line, as she flattened on the desk a bit to give him better access. In the imagined conversation she parried the questions of the person on the line with short answers only, and did her best to conceal the way she reacted to her rising passion .

Her skin was lovely and he watched his hungry hands roam all over her ass and thighs feeling her. He knew that she was getting wet even before he touched her lips. As his fingers approached the cleft dividing her lovely bottom, he let them drag down lightly. Each time he dragged along that line, he moved a little deeper.

"Uh, yes. I will have to get back to you on that..." she gasped into the phone. She tried desperately to get the caller off the line. Her focus was divided and her body was winning the contest for her attention.