Season’s Greetings

She continued, "You sat there for months trying to look up my skirt, and you thought about nailing me on my own desk." It was true that she had a habit of sitting on the edge of her desk during class. Maybe it was more comfortable that way, or maybe she was subconsciously teasing the male students.

Her tirade continued, "I teach here; I've worked for this, I demand some respect for it. I'm not one of those twats you're used to banging around here. You've got some nerve, being in my office and showing off your erect cock."

I looked down, "Ah, it doesn't look erect to me."

She put her ruler down; she came up behind me and started rubbing me. She was careful to avoid the sore places. Her warm hands went down the side of my hips and thighs; she brought them up and slid them under the tail of my shirt. In a few moments she put her face near my ear and softly said, "It came back up again, hasn't it?"

I decide to play it as cool as I could manage, "So what are you going to do about it?"

She suddenly got worked up again. "Come over here and I'll show you."

She sat down on her desk and pulled her skirt up. I shuffled over with my pants half down and looked between her spread legs. Her pantyhose were crotchless; there was a big open place that revealed her undersides. It wasn't merely a slit; it looked like a whole panel had been cut out, but it was obviously designed that way. I had never seen anything like it; none of my girlfriends had owned such a garment.

There was something else notable. I said, "Professor, interesting stockings you have, but you're not wearing any panties beneath them." Her thick bush was visible.

"Well I'm a full professor here; one of my perks is that I don't have to wear underpants if I don't want to." All that and tenure too, I thought. She put a hand down and started rubbing herself. "If you want that incomplete, you'll go down on me -- right now."

"Whatever you say." I knelt down and started by kissing her inner thighs and then her pubic area. Her flesh felt hot to my lips.

She moaned and said, "Please, don't toy with me like that. Lick me, kiss my cunt; I'm sure you know how."

For a second I thought, she's more than a bit bossy, but I didn't delay. Indeed, I did know how to do this. I decided to enjoy the opportunity and deal with any drama later. As I licked her cunt I found out how wet she already was. Just from paddling me. Interesting how this lady has her deeply kinky side, but then I have one myself.

I held her thighs apart and said, "Professor, you're such a hot lady, you know that?"

"Am I now? You have no idea what a filthy slut I can be." That was getting down a bit lower, verbally, than I had expected her to go. I must have been thinking a bit slowly, but something else became obvious: she had prepared her little stockings surprise just for me.

I stopped for a moment said, "Do you like how I'm doing this?"

"Oh yes, very much. Could you lick my clitoris a bit and then I'll also touch myself there?"

While doing this I heard her say, "Not every man likes this. I'm very happy you do."

I stopped again, "I've heard about that. So why don't they?"

"Oh, some claim to not like the taste of cunt. But they like getting their own cocks sucked."

I would have liked that particular act very much, but I limited myself to a complement, "I think you're cunt is just delicious."

We worked it out as if we had been lovers for a long time. She held one leg back and up while her other hand rubbed her pussy. I used a hand to hold her other leg up. She talked quite a bit during it, saying things like, "That's it, kiss my hot pussy, lick my clitoris; yes, that's perfect." As she approached orgasm she grabbed my head and held it place as she gyrated her pelvis against my mouth. I lost track of how many times she chanted, "I'm coming, oh, I'm coming," but it was at least a half-dozen.

Then she leaned back on her elbows and panted; I stayed kneeling on the floor. For a moment I appreciated the pleasure I had given to her, but then some doubts crept in. What happens now? I assume I'm getting my incomplete, but is she just going to send me on my way?

I heard, "I assume you're still stiff?"

She'd see it anyway. "Yes, I sure am."

"Then get up and use it for what it's supposed to do."

I wanted to confirm that, "Excuse me?"

"Stand up and fuck me right here on the desk. It's not that complicated."

It was a vigorous but brief coupling. I was twenty-one and very charged up; there wasn't much I could do to slow it down. We held each other around our torsos as she rubbed my back under my shirt. She obviously knew my ass was too sore to touch, and I guess I was grateful that she considered that.

She said a few things along the lines of, "Oh, please, I know you've fucked a lot of girls here; please stick it in me -- it's my turn now." Maybe she was concerned with competing with younger women on campus. Then I was beyond such thoughts. After less than five minutes of thrusting I strained to say, "Please ma'am, I'm going to come; please let me do it."

Her legs were spread wide, but her voice seemed almost matter-of-fact as she said, "Of course, please do; put your hot spurts into me." I pressed into her as she pulled on my back, and then I shot off inside of her. Had there been anybody in the hallway they surely would have heard me yelling.

The immediate aftermath was strange; I had never in my young life had such abrupt sex before. We hadn't even had coffee together yet, much less our first kiss. As I caught my breath, my first thoughts were a mixture of boastfulness -- wow, you just fucked a professor right in her office! -- and something more disconcerting: who the hell is this person, really?

I looked into her face -- her glasses were again pushed back on the top of her head. I think she was more than a bit perturbed herself. Our coupling had been so quick that I was sure she hadn't had her own orgasm during it.

She pushed gently against me -- a sort of nudge -- and I fell out of her. I opened my mouth to say something but I couldn't think of anything. I suppose with her greater experience she was able to improvise for this situation.

"Would you like a drink?"

I did remember that alcohol was not served on campus. "Where?"

"Right here. I have some Amaretto in my desk. Sit down, over there."

There was a small sofa against the wall, a meager-looking item that the college had provided. Most of the furniture at the school looked like caste-offs from car wash waiting rooms. I pulled my clothes together and got myself over there; she got up and retrieved the bottle and two plastic cups from a desk drawer. My battered ass pressed against the red vinyl-covered cushion and I winced as I sat on it.

She sat down next to me and offered me a cup. She said, "Amaretto; just the thing for the holiday season."

I wasn't able to reply. Just a short time ago I had come up the staircase dreading the negotiation about my grade. Professor Janssen now smoothed back her skirt and looked much the same as she had when I came in. Only her expression was very different, but I couldn't deduce what she was thinking.

I gulped about half the sweet liqueur in the cup. As she sipped hers she looked away from me. For a little while, perhaps it was merely a minute but it felt longer, we just sat there drinking and staring at the far wall. I distracted myself with a colorful framed illustration that I later found out was a print of Ben Shahn's "Ohio Magic." Then she looked at me as if expecting a comment.

For some reason I said, "I haven't had that many girls here a City."

She seemed amused, I think, and she had a quizzical expression -- and then she laughed, "Do you think I was accusing you of being a player of some kind? Okay, how many is it then?"

Why is that any her business? But everything was different now. I said, "Four."

She was on my left side; she moved closer to me and put her arm around my waist. "You're still pretty young; I know I caught you by surprise."

I tried for some masculine aplomb which I only partially achieved, "Hey, that was all pretty cool. I mean, you don't have to explain yourself."

That immediately struck me as the wrong thing to say, but she replied, "But now you know how perverse I really am."

"Well, I am too, as you also just found out."

She changed the topic a bit, "I've seen that girl who sometimes meets you after class."

Now she was really probing into my life, but I decided to reveal the truth, "She doesn't go here; she's from Fordham, I mean Fordham University." I left Donna's name out of it.

She pondered something for a moment. "Paul -- and please, call me Marilyn -- what I was going to ask you, would go downtown and have dinner with me and then come over to my apartment?"

For a second I thought of the most irrelevant details; I speculated about what kind of restaurants she went to and how I was expected to pay for one. I expressed my confusion by saying, "The kind of restaurant I can afford is something like Brew Burger."

She laughed again. "I'm not worried about that. I mean, they do pay me well enough here." Then she blurted out, "I've never had an affair with a student before."

"Well, I've never had one with a professor before."

I could see where I was being led. Why can't someone so smart and attractive find someone of a suitable age for herself? Then I remembered the less than scintillating male faculty headquartered here in Wagner Hall. Pretty slim pickings. It seemed strange that this sophisticated Marilyn would pick me for a paramour -- someone about seventeen years younger, with crummy clothes and also way overdue for a haircut. In addition, I wasn't exactly "ripped," as the expression is now, but maybe she was impressed by my interest in history.

I considered just spending the evening with her, getting my grade in about a week, and then bailing out. What could she do about it? It might be awkward to run into her on campus after that, but so what?

Maybe she was on a similar line of thought, because she interrupted my reverie, "You really aren't surprised to find that I'm so kinky?"

"Not really. I should have told you this: I've done this kind of thing before, I mean spanking games -- sometimes with the girl as the bottom." I hoped that somehow reassured her.

She tried to make light of it, "Oh wow, how did we find each other?" You found me Marilyn, I didn't find you. "By the way, I'm sorry I acted like such a bitch during all of that."

I decided to placate her with a complement, "That's okay; I knew it was part of the game. You were quite convincing with it." I didn't add, convincing as a dominatrix. Then I said, "Where do you live, anyway?"

"Perry Street, down in the Village."

"Then you can pick the restaurant."

I thought, well, this could be something interesting for the holidays -- a mature lady girlfriend. Except, I already had a girlfriend. I had previously juggled more than one woman -- spinning plates is the phrase used now -- but I had thought I had matured beyond that. It now seemed that I had been wrong.

"Marilyn . . ."

"I know, I understand what you're thinking -- like about that girl at Fordham. Let's just take it a step at a time." It seemed that everyone in that decade took it a step at a time -- and the future would sort itself out later.

Then she put her other arm around me and kissed me. It was the start of a very 1970s romance -- first S&M, first muff licking, first intercourse, and now the first kiss. Marilyn said, "My, I can taste my pussy on your face." Then she laughed at me, "You're actually blushing." I hoped she found that endearing rather than ridiculous.

I attempted a joke, "I don't think Lee Marvin would blush."

"So he's someone you want to model yourself on? Probably he would blush too! Anyway, my car is parked over in the lot by Convent. We should probably go soon."

"You drive up here? I mean, I see why you don't take the subway." The New York subways have never been charming, but they were really rolling slums back then.

"It's something I treat myself to -- I pay for a garage downtown. It's a Volkswagen Dasher."

I could detect something like pride of ownership. Considering the circumstances, I had a very odd thought. I admired the Dasher myself -- it seemed so trim compared to waddling American cars -- and I wanted her to let me drive. Probably it was fortunate that I stifled that request. Then she got up and said, "Before we go, I have to get my underpants."

"What underpants?"

"The ones I took off before you came here. They're right in my desk here." Yeah, along with spanking implements and the liqueur -- everything an ambitious academic needs in her office.

When she took them out I noted that that they looked like bloomers, not the usual kind of feminine undergarments that I had seen removed for my benefit. Marilyn looked rather coyly at me as she pulled her generous drawers up. "Well, you didn't expect me to put these under the pantyhose, did you? I get these at Sears."

"Marilyn, I'm not up on everything women arrange to have under their clothes." It didn't feel natural yet to use her first name.

"Actually, in warmer weather, I like thigh-high stockings; sometimes even garters with straps. Old-fashioned, but they're so sexy. You'll see."

I caught the hint; warm weather was months away and she expected me to still be around. I was on track to graduate in June -- but I put that out of my mind. We would deal with that when it happened.

We put our coats on and then we stood there looking at each other. Before I could speak she interrupted me, "Don't think; just act."

"Who said that, William Blake?" I just made that up, but it sounded like something he might have written.

"No, I did. Now, there's a really nice Italian place on Cornelia Street. Then, if you're not pressed for time, you're invited to my place.

I knew that invitation was for more than an after-dinner cocktail. She wanted that second sexual release she had missed while being hastily banged on her own desk. I said, "The semester is over; I'm not exactly pressed for time." I regretted my failed wit, and I continued, "Sorry, I'm not Cary Grant as you must know."

She smiled and gave a dismissive wave, "Somebody else wrote all of his lines." She took my hand in hers, "Come on, you're doing fine. Let's go already.

As we left the office I remembered that I did have one more task this semester; that was to finish the incomplete paper about the Franco-Prussian war. At that point it had become a minor issue. I was about to start a romantic adventure for 1977 with two girlfriends. The first one had to never find out about the second. At least Donna and Marilyn were at different universities.

In a few minutes I was sitting in the Dasher as she started the engine. We glanced at each other and again I sensed there was an awkwardness between us. We had gone from a teacher-student relationship to lovers so quickly. Since she was older and more experienced, I waited for her to comment.

She looked uncertain for a moment, and then she smiled, "Hey, Season's Greetings!"

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