Aristippus - Nina’s Story

As I opened the door to get out, he raced around to meet me and held my hand as we walked up to the front door. Once inside, he began the grand tour of every room. Though the house was of a mid-century design, the furnishings were clearly all traditional. The kitchen had obviously been renovated at least once, as the appliances were all modern and of very high quality. And there was a very nice floor-to-ceiling wine rack that I'm sure was not original to the house.

After pouring us two more glasses of wine, he continued the tour, which took us down the hallway to the bedrooms. The first bedroom was used as his home office. It had a large oak desk and two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I guess he liked books as much as he enjoyed wine - maybe even more. The next bedroom was simply set up as a guest room, and then there was the master.

His boudoir (if it's appropriate for men to have one), his inner sanctum, the room where the magic happens, or at least that is what I was assuming. The room had a king bed and was very nicely furnished in a traditional style similar to the rest of the house. And I presume the bathroom had also been redone, as it had a large walk-in shower with no tub. I doubt the house was originally built that way, if it was as old as it appeared to be.

Standing beside his bed, there was an awkward moment of silence, as I assumed each of us was wondering who would make the next move. He shyly brought his wine glass up to clink glasses with me, but after a quick sip of wine, I decided this courting ritual had gone on long enough. I set my glass down on the bedside table, then taking his glass from him, I placed it next to mine. I made the next move. Staring him straight in the eyes, I slowly licked my lips, looped my arm around his neck, and brought his lips to mine. We romantically kissed for at least two minutes before slowly separating.

After finally breaking our initial kiss, there was no doubt where the rest of the evening was headed. However, we were both fully dressed. Dr. Olson was still in his coat and tie, and I was still wearing my white and pink dress, my grandmother's necklace, and high heels. This had to change.

Stepping back a foot or two, I helped him out of his jacket and placed it neatly on a nearby valet stand. Then removing his tie, I placed it over the jacket. He was still standing silently beside the bed, so I brought my lips back to his to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

And there was no misunderstanding now. He was just being gentlemanly cautious. But once our embrace resumed, I could feel his hands beginning to lower the zipper on the back of my dress. When I felt the zipper hit bottom, I dropped my shoulders, silently indicating to Dr. Olson that he had my permission to push the straps of my dress to the side. And once he did, a gentle wiggle of my hips, sent my favorite dress to the floor.

I was now standing in nothing but my panties, my grandmother's necklace, and my heels. So, one of us was still clearly overdressed. To keep from tripping myself, I stepped out of the dress as it lay on the floor and kicked it to the side. Whether Dr. Olson previously knew I wasn't wearing a bra or not, I'm not sure. But he certainly knew now, and as he gazed at my naked form for the first time, his eyes almost doubled in size. I took his hands and placed them on my breasts, allowing him to gently fondle me and softly tweak my nipples.

Now that he was busy exploring my body, it offered me time to resume exploring his. Starting with the collar button of his shirt, I unbuttoned each one until I reached his belt. Pushing his shirt aside, I realized for the first time, that men's chest hair must turn gray as the hair on their head does. Now the question was, did the hair below his belt also turn to a distinguishing manly gray?

I hated to pull his hands from my breasts, he seemed to be having such an enjoyable experience, but curiosity was getting the best of me. I slowly dropped to my knees, unbuckled his belt, and lowered his zipper. As I pulled his pants down, his pin-striped boxers came into view, and his erection was very apparent. I placed my hand on the fabric of his shorts and gently rubbed him up and down. His manly bulge only increased with my touch, and as his body shook with sexual anticipation, a bolt of sensual energy also rippled through my own southern region.

Unable to resist the desire to see what those boxers were concealing, I looped my fingers under the elastic waistband, and pulled. Though I was intrigued to see the color of Dr. Olson's pubic hair. What immediately amazed me, was the masculinity of his penis. For some reason, I assumed it would look different. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was honestly surprised to see that it looked just about like every other cock I had ever seen. And as my cool hands made contact for the first time, he gasped for breath, as did every other guy I'd ever had sex with.

I tenderly stroked him several times, but my mouth was literally watering to taste him. And it wasn't but a matter of seconds until my lips first made contact. I sucked him for a good four or five minutes. And though I didn't feel his climax was imminent, his knees were beginning to tremble. Removing him from my mouth, I nudged him backward into a sitting position on the bed. And then, holding his legs up, I removed first his shoes and then his slacks.

I neatly hung all of his clothes on the standing valet, and before returning to the bed, I removed my grandmother's necklace and placed it on his dresser. Then standing in front of him, I gave Dr. Olson an abbreviated strip tease as I lowered my white lace bikini brief and playfully tossed them at him. I didn't know if he wanted me to keep the high heels on or not. But as I approached the bed, he pointed to them and shook his head - no.

I was actually appreciative of that, as I'd never been in or on the bed with my shoes on in my life. But I know some older men get a kick out of it, so I wasn't sure. Apparently, high heels weren't a fetish of Dr. Olson. But that's not to say he didn't have a fetish, as I'll get to later. Sitting on the bed to unbuckle the straps of my shoes, Dr. Olson wrapped his hand around me and held me snuggly until the second shoe hit the floor. He then immediately pulled me over into a reclining position next to him.

Now both lying side-by-side on the bed, we resumed kissing and snuggling for several minutes. But his boxers were down around his knees, and I very much wanted to resume my oral exploration of his cock. Breaking our kiss, I sat up, worked his underwear to his feet, and tossed them to the floor. I didn't reposition myself between his legs as I resumed my fellatio, which I normally do. I remained seated hip-to-hip and merely bent over his mid-section. I think I was just in a hurry to get him back into my mouth, and it allowed him to continue exploring my body.

After four or five minutes of sensual sucking, he apparently decided it was his turn to please me. He pulled back, flipped me to the center of the bed, and snuggled down between my legs. I had had my dessert; it was apparently his turn to dine at the Smorgasbord of the Y and enjoy his. And what I soon learned about older men is that size does not matter nearly as much as experience.

I've had my pussy eaten more times than I can remember, but never by anyone more than five years older than myself. And never, by anyone as skilled as Dr. Olson. In fact, by the time my second orgasm was subsiding, I began to wonder if his Ph.D. was actually in Human Sexuality. He indeed was a master, and I could have let him eat me all night. But he hadn't had a release yet, and I certainly wanted to give him that. Besides, at this point, I really wanted to fuck him.

Pushing his head up from between my legs, I wheezed, "Fuck me... please fuck me."

And as I raised my knees and spread my legs as far as I could, he repositioned himself, and effortlessly entered me. I am no virgin, and I have had some wonderful lovers in my relatively short lifetime. But this was true bliss; Dr. Olson was clearly a master. Without ever changing his primary position of missionary sex, he slowly and tenderly brought me to climax after climax. And when his release finally arrived, I was a quivering, soaking jumble of nerves - a hot mess, as some might say. Honestly, I had never had some many earth-shattering orgasms in my life.

And what really impressed me, was that after a short rest, he was back at my crotch, eating me out again. I've heard of guys eating their partners after sex, but I've never actually experienced it. There is an old expression that goes - Big game hunters eat what they shoot. But all the dudes I've previously slept with are either afraid of the taste of their own come, or they think they are. It's ironic that they want their girlfriends to swallow their load, but they're afraid to even taste it themselves. Maybe they feel that if they taste their own semen, it will make them gay or something. But I can assure you, Dr. Olson is not gay, and he apparently loves it.

It's probably needless to say that I spent the night. Saturday morning, we slept late - I love king sized beds. But once up, we showered together, and he fixed me the most fantastic breakfast - or should I say brunch. We spent the afternoon together, he cooked me an amazing dinner, and we had sex two more times before he finally took me back to my dorm late Sunday morning.

For the rest of the semester, I spent every weekend at Dr. Olson's house. Sunday afternoon through Friday afternoon, nothing in my life changed, that is, except for my grades. With Dr. Olson's help, my grades shot back to solid A's and B's. And I don't mean he curved or fixed them. I mean, he inspired me and encouraged me. My interest in school immediately returned, and my grades returned to those of my first two years at BSU.

As for my roommate, she was none the wiser. She always left campus on Fridays after her last class and rarely returned before sundown Sundays. She either went home for the weekend or spent it with her boyfriend. And she really didn't know or care if I was in the room or not. Oh, we got along fine; we just rarely saw each other. She was a sophomore and friendly enough. But socially, we had nothing in common, and to be honest, I think that's why we got along so well. All I really cared about was that we shared the same level of housekeeping, and luckily, we did.

That fall semester of my senior year, I made three A's and a B, including the A I made in The Psychology of Marketing. Now in this class, Dr. Olson may have given my final grade a little push. But not much, as I did ace the final on my own. In the other classes, he simply inspired me and coached me when and where he could. And to celebrate my academic accomplishment, he took me to New York for Christmas.

I had never been to New York City in my life, and being there at Christmas was magical. We stayed in a small boutique hotel in the Murry Hill district. And on Christmas morning, in our hotel room, I discovered what Dr. Olson's fetish really was. I'm sure every man has one, and apparently, his was flannel sleepwear. Several days before Christmas, we were shopping at Macy's. While I was looking at shoes, he quietly disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, he had several boxes with him, and he wouldn't tell me what was in them.

They were too small to be a fur, and I'm sure he knew I wouldn't wear it if it was. And they were too big to be jewelry. So, I just had to wait for Christmas morning. Ripping the first box open, I was shocked to see that it was flannel pajamas. I was momentarily stunned, but when I looked up at his eyes, I realized this was something he must have really liked. As I opened the second box, it was more of the same. Only these were short pants, like boxer shorts. I put them on, and he immediately took me back to bed and made passionate love to me, just as if it was our first time.

When we weren't in bed, Dr. Olson was my tour guide to the city. He knew the city well, and besides taking me to some of the best restaurants I have ever eaten at in my life, he took me to museums all over the city as well as every traditional tourist attraction I had ever dreamed of. On our final night in town, we were walking through Central Park just after sunset, and it started snowing. I could not have thought of a more perfect ending to a more perfect vacation in my wildest dreams.

After six days in New York, returning to the BSU campus was a predictable letdown, but I was so close now that I had to finish. Dr. Olson carefully helped me plan for my final semester of college life. He was actually a professor of Philosophy; that's why his office was in Bryant Hall and not the Psychology building. He just taught Psychology of Marketing as it was a favorite topic of his. So, of course, he directed me to courses in Philosophy and classes that he taught.

I had to take five classes that last semester to be able to graduate on time. And Dr. Olson was very helpful in picking the classes and ensuring I got the professors and times that he felt worked best for me. And two of those classes were PHIL 370 Existentialism and PHIL 420 Contemporary Ethical Theory. The latter was a discussion-style class with only twelve students and required the professor's permission to register for it. Naturally, Dr. Olson gave me permission, which turned out to be one of the most meaningful and life-changing classes I had ever taken.

In Existentialism, we began with the philosophies of the ancient Greeks, such as Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and the one that most crystalized my philosophy of life, Aristippus. Before moving on to the great existentialists, including Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Kafka, and Dostoevsky. The lecture class transitioned perfectly with the discussion class, and I made an A in both. Of course, I had a slight advantage as I was sleeping with the professor. And I'm sure some of the students suspected as much. But we were very careful on campus to keep our affair private. We were also discreet in class, I rarely went to his office, as the receptionist always recorded it on his calendar, and we never met during the week outside of class. He would pick me up off-campus on Friday afternoons and drop me back off after dark on Sunday nights.

When we went out for a date, he would usually drive us the sixty miles to Indianapolis, or we would spend the weekend in Chicago, which was only four hours away. And what I loved about his company, besides the amazingly romantic sex, was that most of the time, talking to him was just a continuation of his seminar class. He was a brilliant philosopher, and I never got tired of listening to him.

And on those out-of-town trips, as well as weekends spent at his house, I was always sure to bring my flannel nighties. Before we relaxed on the couch after dinner, I'd be sure to change into the latest pair he had bought me. And then, as he reclined on the sofa, I'd snuggle up with him so that we could watch a movie together. His favorite movies were Romantic Comedies, and as I nuzzled against his chest, we'd watch them together with his arms around me. And every flannel night shirt he bought me had buttons down the front. I think he loved to unbutton them - one by one - as much as he loved the feel of the flannel itself. And as my breasts were slowly exposed to his touch, he would gently fondle me, until it was time to undo another button.

Then when my top was finally fully open, he would slowly slip his hand under the elastic waistband of the bottoms and gently play with my pubic hair. This was back in the days when women kept a full bush between their legs. And Dr. Olson, being old school, seemed to love it. He clearly loved running his fingers through my short and curlies. I didn't like him playing with my pubes at first, but I soon learned it was one of his greatest pleasures and is now one of my fondest memories of him. As the movie would near its conclusion, he would begin to gently massage my pudendal cleft, just above my clit, until I reached orgasm. And as I reached my first orgasm of the evening, he'd slide a wet finger in me, and keep me coming and coming until I couldn't handle it any longer. Then, as the movie credits started to roll, he'd take me to bed and fuck me silly.

The interesting thing was that he never actually paid me. At least not in money. He did buy me gifts (in addition to flannel pajamas), and he did give me money for shopping. But what I received from him was so much more valuable than cash. It was his wisdom, his kindness, and the gift of his knowledge. And as he was feeding me on weekends, the money I made working in the Register's Office, along with my meal plan, was enough to keep me from ever being hungry for the rest of the semester.

I completed my tenure at BSU that May and graduated Cum Laude by squeaking out a combined grade point average of 3.26. One hundredth of a point more than I needed. And I'm fully aware that I would have never made it without Dr. Olson's help. In a weird way, he was the father figure I never had - a father with benefits, if that makes sense.

As a graduation present, Dr. Olson gave me a twelve-year-old Honda Civic. It wasn't the greatest car, but it was clean, decent looking, and everything on it worked. I wasn't expecting it, and I felt I didn't deserve it. But I guess I provided as much purpose and fulfillment to his life as he provided to mine. I did finally learn where his family was. He and his wife divorced about ten years ago. Probably over his infidelity with a student. She moved back to upstate New York, where they were originally from. Their daughter moved with her and is now married and lives nearby with her husband.

My mom and siblings came to the graduation ceremony. My mom was incredibly proud of me, as not only was I the first member of our family to ever graduate from college, but I was also the only one to ever go. Plus, I had completely done it on my own, with no help from anyone. At least, that's what she believed. I introduced her to Dr. Olson simply as my academic advisor, and she thanked him profusely. But my sister probably suspected something, as I know I gushed over him, trying to explain how much he helped me. As for my brother, he was bored to tears and just wanted to go home.

Upon graduation, I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I had a degree in Psychology, but it was almost useless without a graduate degree to go with it. Dr. Olson strongly encouraged me to go to graduate school and urged me to move out west, where opportunities were much better. I spent my last night in Muncie with him, and it was bittersweet leaving the next morning. But we both knew it was something I had to do.

When I arrived in Los Angeles, I had no money, no job, and no place to stay. Dr. Olson had referred me to a history professor friend of his, Dr. Robert Hansen, at UC Irvine. I tried to get admitted as a graduate student, but UC Irvine is a much more selective school than I expected, and even with inside help, I was only allowed to register as a postgraduate. However, though I was never able to actually enroll in a graduate degree program. I met many people that ultimately led to the creation of the Aristippus, including Dr. Bob Hansen, Celeste Sedgwick, Dr. Sarah Palmer, my ultimate husband Don (the bartender), and of course, my closest and best friend, Lucinda. The Aristippus would have never been possible without the contributions of these gifted people. And I guess you could say - the rest is history.