Power Play Pt. 02

MORNING: "Intensification"

"Something urgent?"

"No." I caught John's eye and realised that he might've grasped that I was frantically putting the phone away when he entered the room. Guilt entered the picture. I forced myself into greater composure. "Something at home. No big deal," I calmed the waters.

A few seconds of hesitation. His eyebrows went down. "Alright." He pulled a chair to sit opposite me. I watched him intently, waiting for the purpose of his visit to be revealed.

He took a break. "Alright. There is no other way to say this. There have been complaints about you."

Dead silence seemed to follow that statement, instantly and temporarily wiping out any memory of the morning rendez-vous and the digital exchanges later. "What? Who?" was all I manged to utter. His countenance was serious enough to suggest this wasn't a minor thing he was bringing up.

"Apparently two students claiming that the content and the manner in which you conduct your lectures denies them, quote unquote, their lived experience."

I would've gone paler on my face. My muscles felt tenser suddenly and I couldn't tell whether this was due to the implications I knew this news would bear for me professionally or because of how angry it was instantly making me.

"Excuse me?" Dead silence again. "Is this a joke?" More silence and attempts at averting looking at me. "What specifically are you talking about?" This was not a question, really, but a counter-attack on my part. "Hold on—Why are you telling me this? You're not my superior."

"The Dean is otherwise engaged at the moment." Ok, so now I had a bullet-proof piece of evidence that this was serious enough.

"I need to know more about these accusations. Who exactly is complaining and what is it about?"

"I don't actually know much about it. I was simply asked to communicate to you—" he hesitated, and it was clear that it brought him no pleasure to do so. "Communicate to you," he went on nonetheless, "that you are required to attend a disciplinary meeting headed by Dean Withers, Dr Cortez and Dr Carruthers tomorrow morning at 9am." He was now looking down at his feet, avoiding eye contact. "You'll receive a formal letter in your pigeonhole by the end of the day."

My mouth went dry and lost the ability to speak for a moment. "I am sorry," he said. "You don't deserve this." However he wished this to come across, it sounded like a death penalty.

He rose without a word and took the steps between the desk and the door. He stopped there and opened his mouth to say something, but visibly changed his mind. I was on my own a few seconds later.

I clenched my fists as the world swirled around me. Rage and confusion reigned supreme. No information, no formal anything, and being informed by a third party nothing to do with anything. Wasn't this just typical of this place! And the idea that I'd be outnumbered 3 to 1 in the meeting on the following day topped it all up.

Some "offended" young mind decided to be "appalled", I was sure, that some part of history of Stalinism, suggesting that others in history before his or her life had suffered more than the life she had, was denying her oppressed life. I had no way of knowing this now, but I was certain some part of the debate was taken in the wrong way by someone, and the university supported them in this. Geez.

I don't know how long I sat there, raging in the empty room, trying to rake my memories for what this could've been, in this mist-like deranged state of mind. It could be 5 minutes or 30 minutes.

"Fuck," I eventually cursed under my breath. It was dawning on me that it would've been one of the group I had just taught who had voiced that "grievance" to the university's authorities. This likely explained the bizarrely good behaviour today during that session. They probably knew already they were about to get their revenge.

I knew the day at work was effectively over. I had no more sessions to run that day and it was quite clear that Mark's dissertation, in the light of this, was not going to get marked. I needed to get out of here, and fast. It was possible to work from home anyhow in such cases, although I certainly did not plan on doing any such thing. It was an unholy whirl of emotions just now and I needed out.

I didn't even collect anything from the room. I didn't pass through the Common Room or any other place. I simply walked out of the door into the street.

* * *

It was a perfectly sunny day, which offered immediate contrast to the bleak nature of the news just received. I walked away from the university buildings, far away to remove any possibility of anyone from there who knew me to speak to me. Walking fast, carried on the raging wave of anxiety, I eventually found an independent café, well-tucked in the shade of a large oak tree, away from the prying eyes of the passers-by.

It was only here, with my cup of cappuccino, that my heart's pounding began to slow down, giving rise to thinking back about Hollie, who quickly and successfully pushed out the anxiety about tomorrow's meeting to the margins of my consciousness.

At first, I was consoled by the mental image of her soft lips and expressive eyes. Then, in a split second, the memory of her last phone message came back. Fervently, I practically ripped the phone out of my pocket.

A long message awaited me there. My heart pounded whilst I was looking at the digital words. Her words took the entire screen and then some more.

Someone interrupted you, Professor? What of mine would you like to kiss?... [A regular smiley face followed here, taking on a different eroticised meaning. She was taking it further, and fast.] My lips? My neck that craves your breath and your own lips? [It seemed that the pounding was now in my temples.] Or is it my breasts you're after?...

Whatever it is, it's yours. I am yours.

Wish I knew this straight away in the coffee shop, and I wasn't so bloody shy and stuff. Now I have to wait until you finish work - aaarghh! So hot for you I can't wait.

The message ended here, but there was clearly another to be scrolled down to. My finger moved across the screen automatically. I stared at it.

A photo of a pair of female breasts slid into my screen. Darkish, relatively well-tanned, looking to be cup D. Despite the dark skin colour tones, the nipples and the darker areolas contrasted well with them. Cupping them gently from below were too slender-fingered similarly-tanned hands. I recognised the white nail varnish from the morning. "Holy shit!" I hissed, slightly too excitedly. Luckily, no one sat close enough to hear to judge this. These are mine and are soon to be yours. Want them?

There was one more pic. This time it was her - against a leafy, green backdrop of a garden, possibly a garden through a window - there she was. A huge contrast to the distinguished, female professional from the morning, slim, topless, similarly cupping her voluptuous breasts, her soft delicate light-pink lips parted, revealing white teeth. She both oozed and invited desire.

I suddenly realised how tense I was, feeling slight wheezing in my throat as if I suddenly got a sore throat. A shiver passed down my shoulders and across my chest sending a wave of goosebumps across my body. I shifted in my seat, becoming aware of my cock straining against my trousers. I licked my lips. This girl wants to be yours, today, said the final piece of text under the second pic.

I licked my lips almost aggressively. I didn't think. My fingers were typing, driven still by anger and humiliation of the events at the university, now in the background.

Bad day at work. Real bad. Can be home in half an hour. Are you free in an hour?

I almost hit 'Send', but the pic of her tits, seductive lips and the memory of her from this morning were all working in unison to just give in to the desire. There was no question now what she wanted, so I could just let go. The fact that I was likely at least 15 years older than her, and she was likely in her early twenties, was only spurring me on. I added two more sentences to the text, the thrill of sleaze pumping adrenaline into my veins.

Can you be a good slut?

Then the thrill of waiting, mixed with the awareness of being bad. I wasn't even sure if she was around, of course. That previous text and the pics would have been sent some time ago. Yet, just seconds later, the app informed me A new message is being typed. Waiting, I scrolled up quickly to the pic of her delightful tits and closed my eyes briefly to bring up the fantasy of sucking those in. Man, she was fresh! I was far gone, enough so already to not really consider that she could object to being called a slut.

How that shy thing seemed to morph into a no-barriers young sexpot I couldn't quite figure out just now, but I wasn't even trying to, either. The message came back - she was not appalled at all by being called a slut.

Yeah, babe. I will be your bitch. Do what you want to me. I am free now. Just tell me where to go.

I gave her my address, telling her to arrive in about 50 minutes' time, and left the coffee shop in a hurry.

* * *

It was just 10 minutes of a brisk walk to the Leeds train station near which there are always several taxis waiting. I grabbed one. It would be a bit pricey, given the 20 minute ride, but I cared very little.

Sitting at the back, trying to communicate with an overly chatty taxi driver as little as I possibly could, I was presently looking out of the window, watching the shops, pedestrians and trees passing me by. Smoke-like aura seemed to shroud my mind. It was as if I've jumped into the future already, and premonitions of what was to happen filled my mind to the brim. Premonitions, indeed: it felt evil, dangerous and exciting. Her text talk had left no doubt as to me being able to fulfil the darkest fantasies I had, the dreams of power, control and domination over a woman. There had always been there, well-tamed by both myself and those immediately around me. But one's nature persists and cannot be controlled away. Now, rudely (I didn't care) ignoring the pointless chatter of the taxi driver, who eventually gave up on trying to make the conversation, the realisation that I had the opportunity and licence to unleash the feral, commanding and wild man in me - dawned upon me.

The images of Hollie's French kisses, voluptuous tits, perfectly shaved (I hoped) pussy and my rigid throbbing cock fucking it, all flashing in rapid succession through the remnants of my mind all meant that the realisation came with absolutely no guilt or remorse. Instead, there was just the all-consuming thrill of soon getting a woman.

Having handed over the cash, I went straight for my door without watching the cab leave. Before turning the key in the front door, I sent her the final text.

There's a little walled alleyway to the left of the front door. Take that. This will lead to the back door. That'll take you straight to the bedroom.