Memoirs of a Kinky Academic

This is a work of fiction. The relationships portrayed in this story are also a work of fiction and any resemblance to a person is purely coincidental. Names are removed due to the sensitive nature of the text.

Preface

I've always had a thing for authority. Any authority will do: police officers, teachers, popes, et cetera. This kink is the quiet passenger in my head who adulterates my thoughts into the realm of the puerile. I have even let it place myself, professionally, in a position where I am surrounded by authority. Professor, Dean, Provost, Department Chair, Faculty and Staff, all titles with various levels of authority, buzzing around a central bee hive called academia. With the ranking of graduate student, I am perfectly ordered in the hierarchy, too. I am no longer an undergraduate, which makes my sexualized games higher risk yet more reasonable, considering I have passed from the legal eighteen to a now matured woman of twenty seven years. I'm not untouchable; I am a lovely temptation desperate for attention and under the nose of authority.

A-U-T-H-O-R-I-T-Y. It has a pleasant ring, doesn't it? They're higher up than you. They have control over you, whether you want it or not. That's my desire, force with authority. They have the authority to take whatever they want, those burned beasts of research. They quietly address me with confident prose, inviting me into their offices. They're getting to know me, surely, but are they thinking what I'm thinking? They know that their door is closed, they know that I'm quietly waiting as they're babbling about some bullshit paper due next week (in fact, I was reminded of this several times), and all I can think of is them calmly walking from opposite their desk, grabbing me, gripping my hands, finding my mouth. Simply and informally feeding their practical needs. We're a stone throw away from being animals at this rate, responding only to hormones and ignoring those inappropriate signals. You can't kiss your graduate student. You can't fuck your primary investigator, your trusted PI.

Yes, you can. But, you'll be in a heap of trouble. Remember that thing you learned in first grade when you kicked Billy in the shin for being a shit head? Yeah, that's called consequences, a word you learned as you sat in the principles office waiting for your mother to pick you up from school. Fast forward: twenty years later and that same little social rule is the sword of Damocles. Consequences are everywhere, little road maps reminding you that kinky, lusty people do not belong in this asexual society where you must have heterosexual, monogamous relationships; you most definitely cannot fuck your PI.

If you ignore the consequences and fuck up their heterosexual, monogamous marriage with their loving spouse, everyone blames you and ultimately you get kicked from the program. You're just trying to get a damn degree in so you can fuck who you please in peace and have a steady income to lure them with. Slippery slopes are awful when you really think about them. I'm a good person morally, but hell, I like to fuck. And I like to be fucked by authority.

Biology

Of course, I really did not mean to become attracted to him. I found him charming and receptive to me just as a student, period. Older men arouse my authoritative fetish, but he was a double whammy: funny, attractive, and educated. I took several classes from him, including the whole undergraduate biology sequence. He was someone I wanted to learn from, be it science or romance. I'm hard to miss in a classroom since I prefer to sit up front and constantly ask questions. I would often stay after class just to continue conversations. I can never get enough personal time and honestly, it was innocently desired.

He was patient with me. My interest in science was waxing and I needed the course credits anyways. It was blatantly obvious he was married and he spoke of his children often. What I did not yet know was he was in the middle of separation that became divorce. The ring was a token symbol, and I never move across that metaphorical line unless I'm told otherwise. His office wasn't terribly messy but showed signs of a heavy work load. His desk was piled with ungraded papers, lab reports, and random nick-nacks acquired through years of teaching. I asked him how he was doing and he got that look in his eye. That distressed look. The topic swayed to unfortunate personal events and I listened despite actually feeling uncomfortable. How could I have forgotten that he is a human as well? He has to stand before me and tell me about things I don't necessarily care about. . .but he has to eat, breathe, fuck and sleep as well. I think it dawned on me that biology knows no hierarchy other than its own. Humans create authority to keep order and my illusion of power is given entirely away because of that. I got flustered and I slipped up:

"I'd like you to come to my graduation and my party afterwards."

"...Oh, sure! I'd be honored."

"I'd also like you to know where I live while I'm still in town."

I'd blurted it out unbidden, my face bright as day, and felt as cold as night. The invitation was a little bit more than what would have been perfectly acceptable in any conversation, much less a professional setting. I could see he was struggling to calculate my intentions. He was under the impression that my feelings for him were completely neutral, other than being an engaged student. I had just thrown down my facade and he now had to deal with a female student, her crush on teacher painted in a hot flush on her face. With an older man's charm, he handled the situation gracefully:

"I'll keep that in mind."

The door was shut. He had the option of jumping on me, a trembling, moistened girl that had just dumped out her intentions by accident. In the fashion of a true sadist, he calmly sat behind his desk as the conversation hung thick in the air. He had a way of smiling that said his profession afforded him the luxury of keeping pretty girls in his office for his own amusement, if only for a few moments while he grilled them on their test scores. If only I wasn't an over-achiever, I'd have more occasions to be disciplined by him.

In these early years, I still hadn't quite figured out what I wanted, whether I was dominant or submissive, top or bottom. In the case of wrangling with authority, I will allow my usual dominant personality to bottom explicitly, relishing each moment like a wanton slut. So while still conversing politely, I blatantly fantasized that he grabbed me by the wrists, upturned me upon his lap, and spanked me while sheets of homework fell from unsecured piles on his desk. This naturally exaggerated my still-evident flush until I quickly searched for a different topic to keep my silent, kinky fetish passenger distracted: Graduate school.

He came inside me, despite my efforts to stop my mental picture show, making my legs tremble in my much-more-real chair. Surprisingly, in reality, he also came to my graduation with a different type of gift for me: a book on the periodic table that he'd signed with a well wishing. I eventually moved away to continue my education and took some of my belongings with me, including the book he gave me. I never read the book, but I would sometimes, flip it open to read his message:

*****,

You are one of my top students and will continue to be a top student in whatever subject you study. I will miss your presence greatly and I will always fondly remember our conversation in my office.

Take care,

*****

A year later, while removing it from storage, I found a post-it note hidden behind the dust-jacket. It was a number pattern that referred to different pages in the book. He's created a clever little code just for me. Like an Easter egg hunt, I followed it to each page. There was a subtle pen mark next to letters in the paragraph, hardly noticeable unless you've been directed to the page. It formed:

"I want you."

I dropped the book like it had transformed into a snake. My heart was pounding. Bold and blatant, but careful and calculated. . .and somehow, I'd still missed it. What a way of sending a message. He was unique in his way of quietly expressing how he felt for me as well. I can safely say he set the ball in motion for me, not entirely unbridled, but a missed opportunity none the less. I wish I had let him expose more of me.