tagExhibitionist & VoyeurOur Fourteenth Encounter: Classroom

Our Fourteenth Encounter: Classroom


For Jo, my special muse

It is a Friday, and I have only one more class to teach before I can relax during the upcoming long weekend. As I walk to class, my mind is on our upcoming canoe trip and the details associated with it. As I approach the classroom, I hear the usual buzz of students ready to end their week and get on with the weekend.

I walk to the front of the class and place my notes on the podium. I glance around the room, noting that most of the class is present. As I scan the front row, I see you sitting there, smiling up at me. I try to conceal my surprise, but several particularly attentive students turn to look at you to see what has caused my demeanor to change so suddenly. I stutter a weak greeting to the class while fumbling with my somehow disarranged notes.

My mind is clouded by your presence. Recollections of our many encounters push aside the practiced lines of my oft repeated lecture. I thumb through my notes while attempting to collect my thoughts. I look up, and you are still there, smiling. Some part of my brain that I cannot control directs blood to my cock and it swells in anticipation of yet another encounter. I shift uncomfortably, making sure that the bulge in my pants is hidden behind the podium.

I begin to lecture, more from instinct than anything else. I note a quiver in my voice that I hope is not noticeable to the class. I glance around the room as I speak, responding to the attentiveness I observe. When my eyes return to the front row, I look at you in turn. What I see causes me to stumble through the next several lines of my lecture.

You are sitting there, pretending to take notes. You have eased your legs apart so that I can see directly up your short, tight skirt. What I can see is your shaved pussy framed between your smooth thighs. You know I am looking at you, but you do not look up. Instead, you listen to my voice, searching for the change in pitch that will indicate that my mind has registered what you have exposed to my hungry eyes. When you hear that change, you smile, but you still do not look up.

I hurry through the rest of my lecture, trying to keep my eyes averted from your exposed treasures, but like a magnet, they keep pulling me back, forcing me to focus on them. As the hour wears on, I believe that I can see your pussy lips begin to part as they become engorged with your arousal. I interpret the glistening I see as seepage of your sweet juices from deep inside you. I notice that you are moving your ass every so slowly back and forth on the hard wooden seat of your desk, as if we are involved in a slow, sensuous fuck here in front of the class. Your eyes are closed and you have stopped taking notes. I know from past experience that you will soon begin to moan as the sensations in your cunt become more pronounced.

I make one final point in my lecture, then dismiss class early. Because it is Friday, no one stays to ask questions, and soon we are alone together. You have not moved, and your eyes are still closed. I sit in the seat beside you, facing you, so that I can slide my hand up your skirt. My fingers reach your pussy, and it is wet as I imagined. My fingers quickly caress your clit, your engorged lips, your gaping slit. I slide two fingers up inside you, relishing the warmth that engulfs them.

You slide down in your seat, spreading your legs farther apart, drawing my fingers more deeply inside you. I fuck your cunt with my fingers, thrusting them deep inside you. As you approach orgasm, contractions squeeze my fingers, trying to hold them inside you as I thrust them more rapidly in and out of your now flowing pussy. You moan, loudly, and I glance around to make sure we are not being observed. We are still alone, so I continue to fuck you with my fingers. Your hand is on my cock, squeezing it through the fabric of my pants. You cum, jacking your ass up off of your seat, thrusting against my fingers. Your hand clamps on my cock like a vise, creating a mixture of pain and pleasure that nearly causes my to cum. You make a series of quick, convulsive movements, and then slump down in the seat, your energy spent in the throes of your orgasm.

We stay that way, you slumped in your seat, me with my fingers stuffed up your cunt, until we hear the jingle of keys that alerts us to the approach of a janitor. With a final wiggle, I gently remove my fingers, thus allowing you to sit up and adjust your skirt. By the time the janitor appears in the doorway, we look like a professor and student discussing the main point of today’s lecture. As he moves to empty the garbage can, we slip out the door into the hallway that leads toward my office.

We pause outside my office door, but I take you by the hand and lead you outside into the cool air of early evening. We walk hand in hand toward the nearby coffee shop, passing a few students along the way. Once inside, we settle into a quiet corner booth where we can talk without fear of being overheard.

You are sitting across from me in the small booth. We order coffee and then begin to catch up on the recent details of our separate lives. Work, spouses, activities, upcoming obligations, life’s frustrations and joys are all covered in a matter of minutes. Our conversation, usually so free and open, now seems stilted and tenuous. We both sense the change, and it makes us more self-conscious. We fumble with our cups, slowly sipping their contents, wondering what will come next.

Finally, the conversation turns to us—where we have been and where we are going. We speak of sneaking away and having wonderful, fanciful, encounters, but then we have to part and return to our separate realities. The separations are always difficult, but they are quickly forgotten when we are together again. Now the time between our encounters has grown from days to weeks as our work and family commitments have overtaken us. The joy we find in each other’s company is undiminished, but the drag of the outside world is slowly pulling us apart.

The mood of our conversation becomes somber. That feeling of gloomy despair that precedes the end of a relationship creeps into our booth and wraps us in its folds. We talk of continuing, of working harder to find time, of being together more, but we both know that what we plan is unlikely to occur. I place my hand in the center of the table, and you place your hand in mine. We sit, silently, eyes locked together, hearts heavy with the agony of this difficult moment.

We agree to part, to give ourselves a few days to think, to see if there is a way to continue. We agree on a time and place to meet again. I see a tear trickle down your cheek as you pull your hand from mine. You rise, and as you move toward the door, you ask me not to follow. The door closes behind you and you are gone. I sit for a moment, collecting my thoughts, remembering the great times we had together, before I, too, rise and wander off toward home.

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