Ms. Nolwick's Writing Class

Ms. Nolwick was my personal narrative professor in college, and she was the sexiest woman I've ever known. My first few days in her class I was disappointed. I was only taking the class to fulfill some bullshit requirements that had nothing to do with my major, but at least the assignments were pretty open-ended, not rigid and annoying like in high school.

Around the third week of classes, my class just before personal narrative was canceled. I tracked down a soda machine and bought a diet soda, then walked to Howard Hall, and sat on a bench near room 231. I read over the reading assignment for today(something I normally never do for a bullshit class), and it was actually enjoyable. The writer was actually interesting. This was a welcome change of pace from my reading for my majors courses(in mathematics), and I decided I'd have to take the time to read at least some of the assignments. I finished the short assignment for the day, and walked over to 231. After several minutes of pacing, and tapping out an irregular beat on my half-full soda bottle, students began to push out of the classroom, none of them as quickly as their tired-looking professor. Not everybody can love their work.

When the constant flow of bodies subsided, I walked into the room, and someone was still packing up his book bag at my favorite desk. I surveyed the room's circular seating arrangement and finally decided to settle at a desk three spots counter-clockwise from my regular seat, right next to the table that Ms. Nolwick liked to sit on during class. Normally I'd have chosen to sit a little farther away rather than closer, but since I'd just done the reading I thought it might be a good day to make a good impression and perhaps improve my participation grade. The last student finally zipped his bag, slung it over one shoulder, and headed for the door.

No sooner than he's stepped out, Ms. Nolwick strode into the room, laying her messenger bag on the desk and smiling at me.

"Eager to get started today, Thomas?"

I'd never really looked at her before(I normally spend most of the class staring at the reading assignment, so that I don't accidentally make eye contact and get called on.), but she was stunning. Her dark brown hair was moderately wavy and fell gracefully around her shoulders. She wore an open, black button-down sweater over a black undershirt, and a long gray skirt that came down to her mid-calf. The kicker was her boots. (pardon the pun) Red leather knee-high boots with a square-toe and 3 inch block heels. Normally, I'm morally opposed to leather, but if it looks that good, who am I to object? I wanted to drop to my knees and worship her, licking every inch of her boots... moving up ever so slowly to plant a kiss on her knee... wrapping both hands around her booted-calf and sliding up to her thigh...

"Hey Thomas, wake up!"

I came back to reality with a start. "Err, oh. Hi, Mrs. Nolwick." I was more than a little surprised that she knew my name.

"Ms. Nolwick. It's hard enough to find a decent man in this city without you scaring them all off by addressing me like I'm married." Her tone was playful, not at all like you'd expect from an English teacher who is correcting you.

"Oh yeah, sorry. I can't imagine you'd have any troubling finding men, though." I spoke truthfully, and immediately regretted it.

"Oh, that's sweet, Thomas. But I guess you're right, I don't have any trouble finding men at all. DECENT men are a far rarer beast, however." She rolled her eyes at the end of that statement.

"Can't help you there." I had no idea what I was saying at this point. I felt so awkward. This woman was my professor, and I was lusting after her like a fourteen year old boy hot for teacher. Weirder still, one minute into our first conversation, I'm hearing about her dissatisfaction with her love life. I chuckle just a little.

"Yeah, I'm beginning to think no one can. So you were pretty far away when I came in. Thinking about the reading, or daydreaming about your girlfriend, or what?"

I panicked slightly. What was I going so say? "No, I, err, well... we just broke up, actually." It was sort of true. I'd dumped my old girlfriend at the beginning of the summer. I hadn't really wanted to get involved with anyone back at home, so hadn't been with a woman since May.

"Oh. That's too bad. Maybe you can write about it in a couple of weeks when we do our relationship essay."

"Maybe." Another student came in and she turned back to unpacking her notebooks, leaving me to daydream...

* * * * *

The weeks passed by and I became more and more infatuated with Ms. Nolwick. I don't think the woman owned anything but knee-high boots. She had the red pair with the square toe and block heels, a black pair with a square toe and block heels, a black pair with a rounded toe and block heels, and a black pair with a pointed toe and a stiletto heel.

On a few occasions during the semester she'd leaned across the desk to reach for something and her skirt had rode up just far enough for me to see that she wore black stockings of some sort. I imagined they were thigh-highs, with a lace top. I imagined that she had them in a variety of colors. Black, red, white, purple... I imagined her lying on her back in front of me, on my knees, each of her ankles resting on my shoulders... I turn my head to kiss her boot... reach up with both hands and grab the outsides of her legs... running them down to her stockinged outer thighs... bracing my palms against the floor, and lowering myself down to kiss her bemused face.

My dick surged against the fabric of my underpants. I crossed my legs and looked up. Ms. Nolwick was walking around the room passing out our writing assignment. Today she was wearing a deep blue skirt with a black top, and her round-toed knee-high boots with the block heel. I actually gasped a little to myself. I consciously wiggle my dick around in my pants, enjoying the feel as it pressed against the fabric, imagining pressing it against the carpeted floor while I worshiped Ms. Nolwick on my knees.

Finally she reaches my desk and hands me a copy of the assignment. "I really look forward to reading yours, Thomas." Her smile is magical. I love her. I want her.

I look down at the paper she's handed me. It's time for the relationship essay. I look up, and she raises an eyebrow. A voice calls out from across the room. "Mrs. Nolwick?" She rolls her eyes privately, to me, and turns.

"What is it, Kelly?"

"Do we have to write something real for this, or can we make something up?" She scrunched up her face at the end of her question. Kelly was not attractive. I know why she asked the question: she had never had a relationship, so how could she write about a real one.

"Well, I'm glad you asked, Kelly. Everyone, this IS a personal narrative class, so your essays DO need to be about you." Kelly shifted uncomfortably in her seat and started to speak up. "However," Ms. Nolwick said, cutting her off, "this is not a history class. So, you don't necessarily need to write about something that happened to you... You can make this an exercise in fiction if you want. I mean, honestly, I'll never know anyway, so you can try to trick me, or you can write a fantasy piece, or, of course, you could write about something real. But it should at least be something that could happen to you, or that you want to happen to you. It needs to be about you, and a relationship involving you. That's it. Any other questions?"

It was 4:50, so everyone started to pack up, someone asked how long the papers needed to be, and everyone left the room, including me.

* * * * *

I laid on my stomach in my bed with an open notebook, trying to write about my most recent relationship, with Carrie. The essay is due tomorrow. There trash can across my room is full of balled-up pages of empty writing. I remember my relationship with Carrie... I remember her... I remember the sex... but I don't remember us. None of the passion, is there, not even from the breakup. Thinking back, it's like a movie with poor acting. A sequence of events is clear enough, but there's nothing to feel at all.

I crumple up another sheet of lined notebook paper, and throw it across the room. It swerves wildly to the left and lands near the space heater. I scoot to the edge of the bed and reach out with my pen between my fingertips to knock it away, and squirm back to my semi-comfortable writing position. I place the pen in my mouth and begin chewing lightly, and lay my head down on my arm to thinks. I scan my brain for any sign of passion. Nada. I can't feel anything about any girl I've ever been with.

I decide to tap into some passion the only way I've been able to since I ended it with Carrie: I put a DVD in the player and turned it on. I skip directly to the third scene. The girl's name is Alaura, a perfectly beautiful name I can never bestow on my daughters now, because of the pornographic associations this movie has built up in my mind.

It's a simple soft-core tease movie. The first shot opens to an empty, drably decorated office. The camera pans up to the wooden door with the frosted-glass window. The door opens, an in walks Alaura, closing the door behind her. Her breasts are unnecessarily large, but still alluring restrained behind her 2-button black jacket. The camera pans down, passing over her short black skirt, which doesn't even reach the top of her thigh-highs, and further down to her black, round-toed boots.

I lick my hand and thrust it down my shorts. I squeeze my dick, which has been hard since the arrival of the boots on the scene. I've never been thrilled with my penis size. My girlfriends have always said it's plenty, and the medical studies I've looked at place it at just above average, at six and a half inches, but it just seems small and pathetic to me. I watch too much porn, I guess. No matter: it's more than enough to jack off with.

On the screen, Alaura has leaned back against the desk, bringing one leg up to her chest, resting her booted heel on the edge of the desk. I rub the underside of my penis slowly. She places her hand on her booted leg. I think of Ms. Nolwick. I grab hold of my penis tightly and squeeze a few times. I think back to yesterday. She was lovely. I pictured clearly her round-toed boots, so perfectly filled out by her soft calf. I swallow twice. My hand slides up and down my shaft. The movie muted, my eyes shut tight, it's just me and Ms. Nolwick. My mind's eye movies up her body, past her boots. I see her deep blue skirt clearly. I swallow. My hand squeezes the head of my dick. I'm starting to sweat.

Her skirt does not hug her bottom tightly, but it suggests what a perfect round ass might lay beyond. I want it. I want to squeeze it, to rub it, to bite it. I imagine myself on my knees, facing her behind. She's leaning against the table, like that first day we spoke in class, but I understand the invitation. I reach up with both hands and grab those perfect mounds of ass through her skirt, placing my each of my thumbs in the nook where her legs begin to curve outward into her buttocks. I moan with desire. She lets out a short laugh and thrusts her ass toward my face.

Trembling, I slide my hands down from her heavenly ass... I pass over her thighs, it feels like electric, even through the material of her skirt... finally, I reach the hem, and begin to slowly lift it up. I grow more and more excited with each millimeter the skirt ascends. It seems to take an eternity. The fires of my desire for her threaten to consume me, but paradoxically, the delicious anticipation sustains me. I hold my breathing in check as I keep lifting and, finally, her butt is exposed. Her ass cheeks are framed perfectly like the art they are: slightly separated by a black lace thong. I lean forward and bite her gently on the left cheek.

"Nnnnhhhhuh." She moans softly, and I see that she has reached down to rub herself. I kiss her on the ass over and over again. Finally she turns back around and flashes me that wicked smile. "I think it's time for you to lick my asshole, bitch." I'm not about to argue. I pull her thong down around her thighs and spread her ass apart with my hands. Her beautiful asshole is right in my face. It's perfectly clean and inviting, just slightly pinker than the rest of her smooth ass flesh.

I dive in without hesitation. I start with a few long, bottom-to-top slurps, and then brush my tongue up and down over her soft asshole. I moan into her ass as I service her. "Oh yeah," she coos in approval. "You're so eager! You love my ass, you filthy bitch. Lick it. Fuck it with your tongue!" I do just that. I stiffen my tongue muscles to a point and shove it right into her asshole, wriggling it around trying to go deeper and deeper.

She pulls away momentarily, and climbs up onto the table to rest on her hands and knees. She digs around in her bag, and finally produces a bullet vibrator, white and roughly the size of my thumb. She moves the vibrator between her legs and hisses "Get back to work, slave. I want to feel your wet tongue in my ass while I cum." I dive in even more enthused than before. I stick out my tongue further than I knew I could. At that moment, I must have had at least three inches of tongue up her hot ass. Ms. Nolwick is now moaning hard and regularly. She is getting closer.

I massaged my swollen member with my right hand while I massage her tight asshole with my tongue. I thrust it in and out of her, move side to side, swirl it around. I wasn't just licking her ass, I was making love to it with my tongue. The increased frequency of her moaning encourags me. My tongue pumps faster and faster, in and out of her ass. My hand pumps faster and faster on my cock. Sensing she is nearing orgasm, I thrust my tongue as deeply into her ass as I can, and leave it there. She calls out, "Oh my God, you're such a good bitch!", and I feel her asshole clenching and un-clenching around my tongue.

I fire a shower of sticky cum into my right hand and spiral back to reality. I open my eyes and blink several times to dispel the blurriness in my vision. The movie ended some time ago. I finally remember passion. I clean up my mess and get to work writing about my latest fantasy, changing a few details to cover my ass.

* * * * *

Ms. Nolwick is circling the room, handing back relationship essays. She comes to my desk and grins. She folds my paper in half, longways, and hands it to me. I open it up to see my grade. Instead I see a post-it note that reads "See me after class." I swallow hard. I never dreamed my story could get me into any trouble. Ms. Nolwick hadn't seemed like a prude, and I changed enough that she couldn't have deciphered it was about her. I sweated and fidgeted through the whole class. Finally, people began packing up to leave. My mind raced. I considered leaving also. I could always plead forgetfulness if confronted later.

Too late. Ms. Nolwick approached my desk, "Hey Thomas, I wanted to talk to you about your paper."

"Uhm, yeah, I noticed there's no grade on it?", I try to play innocent, as if I don't realize I'm in trouble.

She reaches toward me, toward my paper, and flips up the post-it note with her long, polished fingernail. Behind the slip of paper is a red 'A' with a circle around it. I let out a nervous laugh, "Oho! Well, you hid it!"

"Yeah, I did. Just a dirty trick to make sure you looked at the paper closely enough to see the note before you left class."

"Well, it worked. What did you want to talk about?" My thoughts raced wildly. If I wasn't in trouble... was she coming on to me? I dared to dream.

"Well, I'm offering a creative writing seminar in the spring semester, and the subject is erotica. I wanted to personally invite you to take it. Usually it's loaded with frat-boys who want credit for reading Penthouse Letters, so I try to pull in as many serious students as I can when I teach it."

"Oh." Well, I certainly hadn't expected that. I take a moment to think. "Well... sure. That sounds cool."

"That's wonderful! Here's the course number. If they won't let you in, I'll sign you into the course manually. I'm sure you'll do fabulously."

"Well, thanks. I'm glad you liked my essay." I'm sure I'll do well, too, with my own personal muse teaching the class every day.