The Student

In my five years at the university, I've never seen or met anyone like her. Not even close. Even the way she walked into class on the first day. It was less of a walk and more of a glide. Floating across the room above the other trudging students. Easing into her seat front and center, making it hers. Making the whole room hers, as if the school were built for her. Waiting for her presence.

Her eyes were piercing, probing, knowing all my secrets. Never wavering, always present in the moment. Sitting around her, the other students seemed so... common. The girls either shied away or were jealous of her, and the boys were... boys. The day after I read her first paper, I didn't care what any of them had to say. It's wrong to say I didn't care, but I couldn't listen. How could I? She had such an effortless command of the language. I imagined the letters and words and sentences had the same affection for her as I, and would line up in the most charming manner, just to please her. She once completed one of my essay assignments in French, as if to say I wasn't challenging her enough. I handed it to a colleague of mine in the Language department and it left her speechless.

What's more is not WHAT she did, but the WAY she did it. She didn't hand in that paper in a defiant manner, and she wasn't showing off. She just did it to do it. I sensed she had an old, wise soul, one wise to the ways of the world, cognizant of her stunning beauty, avoiding the usual pitfalls and discretions of youth. I could only understand fragments of the French assignment, but the sound of the language, the construction of it, captured her physical appearance perfectly. The curves, the sounds, the rolls of the tongue, the lilts, the simplicity of this classic beauty.

I even had to adjust my teaching style for her. The sight of her crossing and uncrossing her legs meant I had to spend more time behind the desk instead of roaming the aisles, my preferred style. I couldn't be as imposing a figure to the students, especially in my seemingly non-stop state of arousal; I was relegated to one section of my classroom (MY classroom!) each time she sighed in a certain way. Or glossed her tongue over her lips. Or leaned ever so slightly forward to allow a hint of cleavage. Or fondled that "infinity" symbol on the end of her necklace, reminding me that there was a brilliant brain behind that smooth, flawless skin. Not that I could concentrate on the subject matter as it was. Not at all. From the moment she floated in her room and took that seat as hers, she took my class, my thoughts, my authority.

My strength had become my weakness.

I endured the daily torture, at once relishing and dreading the time the clock would strike 1 and I would be turned back into that lovesick kid again. I read her papers, looking for a weak spot. Scanning her body, her legs, her breasts, her ass, for some imperfection. Her papers and the way her language evolved reflected the way my attraction to her evolved. Organically. Naturally. Effortlessly. The other students might as well have been writing in crayon. They might as well have BEEN crayons. I could focus on nothing but her. I gave the rest of them Cs.

She continued to learn at a frightening pace. Of course she became my star student, as if she wasn't already. Her wit easily rivaled my own. Our discussions grew increasingly fascinating as she became less of a student and more of a sparring partner. Yet, she never let any of it get to her, her beauty, her brilliance, she maintained a genuine modesty through it all. As if she had been witness to true greatness.

As endearing as she became to me, I found myself spending nights wondering how to get my power back, my classroom back. Fantasies of getting her back to my apartment, of seducing her, of handcuffing her. Of fucking her. Even in my dreams, she seemed to thwart my every attempt. She was sand through my fingers. She was above it all. She was above THEM all.

Time passed. The spring weather had her wearing shorter skirts, but somehow I remained calm. I had finally formulated my plan.

One afternoon, the last week of the semester, I asked her to stay after class. I approached her at my desk. She maintained the eye contact which had not wavered all semester. Not a defiant look, not anger... just... her. I told her I was reclaiming my class that day. Of course we had developed that shorthand, even though the dialogue had never been sexual, and she knew immediately what I meant. Respectfully she declined. She told me her submission would have to be earned and fondled her necklace in the way I had grown to love so much. Once again, she surprised me. In all my fantasies, in my wildest dreams, I somehow thought her naïve to the world of D/s, but the look in her eyes told me otherwise. I was closer now to her than I'd ever been before, and that's when I saw it: hanging at the end of the necklace wasn't the symbol for Infinity, it was a pair of handcuffs.

Instead of a rejected frown, I smiled, in a way I hadn't smiled all semester. For all 16 torturous weeks. She knew I had something, and now her curiosity had gotten the best of her. I let her wait, I let her ask me again, and then I explained it to her.

Why did she think I'd changed the curriculum after the first week? The assignments had been geared toward her. Toward me learning more about her. A writer, a TRUE writer, will respond when pushed. A passionate writer will put her entire being into the story. She doesn't lie; she CANNOT lie.

While she had been studying English, I had been studying her. Everything about her. Her submissive nature. Her fantasies. Her longing to be taken. HOW to be taken. Her deep, dark secrets.

For the first time, her eyes avoided mine. I could see the memories of the last months rushing by, flashing in her lovely brain, the subtle word cues, the things she had unknowingly admitted between the lines. As I got closer, I took her necklace in my hand and stared into her eyes deeply. The tension and electricity crackled in the air as my dominant male energy grew in strength and overtook hers. We could both feel it. She let out a single gasp and it was the loveliest sound I'd ever heard. I had been waiting patiently, hours, days, months, to hear her breath escape her in such a way. A wisp of fear, excitement, and submission all in that single, glorious moment. I let go of the necklace and let my finger run between her breasts. I felt her give in as her breath intensified. Seeing her become a girl and lose control sent my blood pounding to every inch of my body. She could see how erect I was becoming as my cock strained at my pants. She almost reached to touch me, but she hesitated at the last second, as if waiting for my permission, but I wasn't going to give it to her. Not yet. I had earned this moment and I was going to relish every second. I told her I was going to take her completely. Worship her and dominate her. Punish and reward her. She leaned in to kiss me, but I backed away. I told her I wanted her wet first. I wanted to know if I'd gotten to her. Truly gotten to her.

I ran that one finger down her skirt and felt a chill overtake her as I got to her bare thigh. I went slowly. Painfully slowly. Thinking of those painfully slow days and nights where all I could do was think of her. I suspected I would feel a little wetness when I got to her panties, but her juices were already running down, as if meeting me halfway. As though she could express how badly she was yearning for my touch. I rolled my fingers in it and put them in her eager mouth. Watched her for a moment, enjoying her lack of words and the power I now had over her. Soon, I'd have her begging me to fuck her...