Anne Ch. 01

I watched as Anne arranged herself in the chair across from my desk. She had obviously put a great deal of thought into her outfit. A pink blouse, snug against her breasts, two buttons undone, showing just enough cleavage to be interesting, but not so much as to seem like she was showing off. A dark grey skirt, pleated, with a slit in the back, belted high on her waist. Nude stockings with pink pumps, the heels just spiky enough and just tall enough that she could have worn them either to work or to a club. A single diamond suspended just below the hollow in her throat.

All in all, a very alluring package.

And she knew it. Crossing her legs just so, one pink pump dangled almost, but not quite carelessly in front of me, leaning forward just a bit to take a paper from her bag, a hint more of dark cleavage as she leaned my way, then gone as she straightened. It was a performance that I was sure she had practiced at home. Just for me.

"And what brings you by to see me today," I asked.

I knew Anne well by now. She had first crossed my radar screen two years ago when she showed up in my freshman survey, looking like anything but a freshman. Dressed a little to well for 18, and certainly looking a good bit older—24 or 25, perhaps--she entered the classroom early, with an odd mix of self-confidence and anxiety playing across her face. How could a woman so sexy seem so unsure of herself, I'd wondered at the time. Later, I learned it was because she had put off college for half a decade to work, to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, and so now was nervous that she'd waited too long.

She hadn't.

One of the best students I'd taught in years, she earned a rarely given A+ from me, a grade I give out to only the very exceptional students.

After that, she took no more of my courses, because I teach history and her heart was in creative writing, but she did stop in to see me with some regularity...usually at least once a month. When she dropped in, it was always as though she had decided on the spur of the moment, as though she was passing by and only then remembered my office was there.

But I knew better.

Each time she wanted something from me. Approval. Advice. Reassurance. All these things I gave her freely. She was, after all, very bright and very beautiful, and so I enjoyed both looking at her and speaking with her.

I also knew she wanted more.

I knew that because for more than 20 years I had been married to a woman like Anne. A woman who only felt whole when she was responding to my needs, my demands, my whims. At first, I had been repelled by this aspect of Karen's personality. But over the months we dated, I came to realize that she was incomplete, and that she only felt complete when I told her what to do, when to do it, and how. For many years I thought about trying to change her, to help her with therapy, or some other transformative act. But I didn't do that. I didn't do that because she was happy as she was, strange as that might seem to you (it was strange to me at first). Instead, I came to the conclusion that if I tried to change her, she wouldn't understand and would only be unhappy. And I wanted her to be happy.

So I left her as she was and gave her the things she needed. Things that only I could give her. Had she survived the cancer that stole upon her without warning, without symptoms, without mercy, I would still be that thing that completed her, that satisfied her inner, unspoken cravings.

But she didn't survive.

For two full years I wallowed. Lost, incomplete now myself, almost inconsolable, I immersed myself in our children. But then they too began to push me away, not because of something I did or didn't do, but because they were in their late high school years, ready to fly on their own, and pushing parents, even grieving parents, away was their job. When they moved out and began their own lives, I immersed myself instead in my work, in my teaching, in my students.

Until Anne arrived in my office the first time, I had not felt the stirrings of passion since Karen's death. I had not been celibate, of course, but none of my lovers had brought the real me back to the surface, the me that had gone into hiding for almost five years. During that first conversation in my office, though, I felt something I had not felt in a long time, a feeling that grew slowly but inexorably, tempting me to act.

And now, there she was, in pink and grey, and I knew what was inside her, because I could see it looking out from behind her eyes.

"It's an essay for my fiction class," she said, proffering it to me.

I didn't reach out immediately, because it was up to her to convince me to even look at it. She wavered for a moment, then pressed on.

"I was wondering if you might read it before I turn it in tomorrow? Tell me what you think?"

I nodded, then extended my hand for the paper.

"What parts, exactly, concern you," I asked.

She looked down at her hands, then back up, a faint tinge of red suffusing her cheeks.

"There's a fair amount of sex in it and I'm worried it might be too explicit. That my professor might take offense and mark me down for it."

I made a face that I hoped said, "We'll just see about that," and took out my reading glasses.

"Sit quietly and don't fidget," I told her as I began to read. "I don't like to be distracted while I'm thinking."

"Yes sir," she said.

Good. Obedient. As I knew she would be.

I read the paper and it was just what I expected it to be. Excellent. In fact, it was good enough that, with a little toning down of the explicit sex, it could be expanded into a short story and sold to a magazine.

As I looked up from my reading, I let my gaze linger first on her perfectly turned legs, then on her breasts and their slightly hard nipples, and finally her face. A face that said both "fuck me now" and "I'm afraid you think I'm an idiot." I almost smiled at the contrast, but didn't. I knew she had registered how I had taken in her entire body before I got to her eyes, and I liked the fact that she didn't flinch from my gaze.

"It's really quite good," I told her. "I think you hit all the right notes and if you are graded down for the explicit nature of the story, you ought to complain."

She blushed just slightly at the compliment...another attractive aspect of her personality. Too much blushing is off putting, but just a little shows promise.

"I also think you have it just right with respect to how the woman's body responds to the sex, to her lover. But the parts where you describe how the man feels as he enters her, or how his orgasm consumes him...they just aren't quite right. I can tell that they're written by a woman imagining how a man feels in those situations. You need to work on those parts."

She nodded, slightly abashed now. Also good.

"Is your professor male or female?"

"Female, sir."

I almost laughed at that. Fifteen or twenty times in my office now, and suddenly it was "sir"? This was almost trying too hard. But I also knew it was a sign of how badly she wanted things to go the way she'd planned. Unfortunately, for all her planning of this little scenario, the power in the room had shifted away from her grasp.

"Then it won't matter, because she hasn't got a cock and so can't know how it actually feels. Leave it as it is and you'll be fine."

She nodded again, still sitting straight, ready.

"Anything else you want to know about it?"

She looked down at her hands again, then back up at me. In a voice so soft I almost didn't hear her, she said, "Did it arouse you?"

"Speak up, Anne," I said. "I couldn't hear what you said."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. Straightening, her head up now, she repeated herself, but only slightly louder. "Did it arouse you?"

"Of course it did," I replied. "I'm quite hard as a result of reading it. Which is as it should be, no?"

Have you ever watched a woman's eyes change from blue to something close to purple? If the sunlight is just right and her emotions are running in the right direction, it can be one of the sexiest things you'll ever see. Watching that color shift in Anne's irises, I could feel my cock throbbing now against my jeans.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, sir."

"And does it arouse you to know that your writing has aroused me?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," she said, a little louder now. More confident.

"Good girl," I replied.

She smiled, but only barely, as though she understood that to be too happy would ruin the moment.

"You wrote this story with the specific purpose of coming to my office and arousing me, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you've been coming to my office for the past year, hoping I would notice that you wanted more than conversation, haven't you?"

"Longer than that, sir."

Now it was my turn to smile, but also not too much. Just a crinkle in the corners of my mouth.

"Stand up," I said. Firm, but not quite commanding. Anne wasn't one to need commands.

Smoothing her skirt, she stood, wobbling just slightly for a moment on her heels, hands at her sides.

"Remove your blouse. Slowly."

Her eyes never left mine as she unbuttoned her blouse, then tugged it from the belt at her waist, letting it drop to the floor. Her bra was white with an overlay of pink lace, carefully chosen for just the right combination of innocent and slutty.

"Cup your breasts in your hands."

As she did, I thought for just a moment, she might cum right there, but her breathing slowed after the first contact of her hands on her breasts. I could see, though, that she needed more. Much more.

"Put your blouse back on and sit down."

An almost successfully stifled whimper slipped past her lips then. It was not what she expected. Not at all.

But because she was a good girl, she did as she was told. Once she had arranged herself back in the chair, I smiled a real smile this time.

"You are a very good girl, Anne. And I want you to know how much you effect me."

To demonstrate, I stood, so she could see just how large the bulge in my pants was. My cock is not small, and as hard as I was, I knew she could not underestimate the effect she had had on me. Once she had seen, I sat back down, lacing my hands behind my head.

"Tomorrow, you will come back to my office, having rewritten the parts of your story that have to do with the man, his cock, and his orgasm. This version is for me alone. Place yourself inside his body as you write, consider what it must feel like to have a cock as hard as mine is now. Imagine what it feels like to ram that hardness into your lover. And try to experience the rush of semen as it flies from your body."

From the look on her face at that moment, I thought I might have overdone it. If she was not a woman close to orgasm, I'd never met one.

"When you return, you will wear a shorter skirt, but not too short. You will wear a v-neck sweater, and a white bra with purple polka dots. I prefer purple above all colors in lingerie. You will wear no panties or stockings. And you will wear dark pumps with heels like the ones you are wearing now."

"Yes, sir," she breathed, almost unable to speak.

"And between now and your return to my office, you will not experience an orgasm, either on purpose or by accident. Do I make myself clear on this?"

"Yes, sir," she said, more firmly this time.

If you could have been there, you would have seen a look pass between us at that moment. A look that said we each knew what was going to happen next, and over the weeks and months ahead of us.

A look that said we had both found what we had been looking for.