Shape

Professor

“I want you, Professor.”

She uncrossed her hands, dropped them on the desk and got closer, leaning forward, tilting her whole upper body toward me. Her loose top hung down, revealing the very sight she knew would win me over.

I stared, I didn’t pretend to avoid them. The dress was designed to make people stare. Her whole posture was perfectly coordinated to force me to stare. So, out of respect for her efforts and attire, I couldn’t but stare.

I wasn’t the kind of teacher that got hit on. I was the one students grew close to, asked for help, wanted to be friends with. I was the nice professor, the one that never got to tell — or hide — any naughty stories, I was always the one others told these stories to. I didn’t have a list of extravagant proposals ready to share with my colleagues during faculty events or as fun quips at parties and social gatherings. I was just the one everyone thought of as kind and approachable, but never as a potential bed trysting partner.

I guess it had to do with my casual looks and demeanor. I wasn’t sexy. At least I never thought of myself as such. Jeans, sneakers, t-shirt or hoodie, and a casual jacket on cold days. I could pull off a dress or a skirt when needed, moderately high heels on important occasions, but they weren’t part of my everyday wardrobe. On any given day, I looked average at best. So I had always wondered what it would be like to receive some unwarranted attention from a student, especially a female one. And when I heard stories of young women throwing themselves at some of my colleagues who brushed them off easily and often indignantly, I admit, I felt jealous and a little annoyed. Why couldn’t this happen to me?

“I can take the whole thing off, if you need to do a more thorough examination, Professor.” She smirked. I saw it from the corner of my eye, since I was still focused somewhere lower than her face, then gulped.

I hadn’t seen it coming, this forward and blatant conversation. It was simultaneously off-putting and exhilarating. Was this it? Was I finally discovering what it felt like to be hit on by a student?

I tried to recall how it all started, or at least pinpoint a time when the dynamic shifted, but I couldn’t. She was one of my best students, always present, actively listening, she participated in the extra-curriculars and, as with most of my good students, we had forged a comfortable yet respectful rapport.

There were boundaries between us, or so I thought. But here I was, sitting in my office, when she walked in, or should I say waltzed in, and after a few heavily disguised innuendo-filled remarks, had blurted that sentence out. What was it again?

I raised my eyes and eyebrows, looked at her sternly, and asked, “What did you say?”

“I said I want you, Professor.”

Ah, there it was. The subject, the verb, the object, and the title. Such a perfect, direct sentence. And the way she pronounced it, seductively and slowly, made it all the more effective. I felt my whole body clench, and the moment it relaxed, the slickness between my thighs spread immediately, as if by coordinated magic. I had needed to hear it again and I’d probably want to hear it some more to convince myself that this was real, I wasn’t imagining things.

“Why?” The question escaped me, betraying my lack of confidence.

She smiled. “This is why,” she pointed at me and waved her finger. “Because you don’t seem to be aware of how awesome you are. How beautiful, considerate, and breathtaking you are. How you take care of everyone and never expect anything in return. How, even now, even after what I just said, you are still so blissfully ignorant of the effect you have on me. Because no one seems to have ever picked you up passionately, tore your clothes off, pressed you against a file cabinet or a whiteboard, and let you feel how much and how fast and how often they wanted and needed you. This is why I want you, Professor.”

The innocence had gradually faded from her face with every word uttered in those last sentences. She wasn’t making a statement anymore, she was openly seducing me.

And this wasn’t about grades, recommendation letters, or favoritism. She was genuinely attracted to me, wasn’t she? I almost found that too hard to believe. She sensed my hesitation and quickly moved to dispel it.

She stood up, taking her chest out of my direct line of sight and forbidding me the pleasure of this visual feast. “Professor,” she repeated. If only she knew the effect that word, pronounced by her, had on me. Or maybe she did. “I’m not here to make up for a missed paper or to get a better grade. You know I have a great record, and I honestly wouldn’t mind getting an F, should I deserve it for my work. I am here for you, because of you, because I am attracted to you,” she pinched her lips adorably, then continued, “attracted isn’t enough of a word to describe this feeling. I can’t look at you without being consumed by how much I desire you.”

Her voice went down two octaves, the contralto vibrations feeling rushed and unorganized without their masterful command. “I’ve built up fantasies of the many ways I want to have you, and they are,” she shook her head and sighed, “terrifyingly clear. I can almost,” she paused for effect again and accentuated it with a confident smirk, “taste it.”

I caught myself smiling, my lips extending and arching in a manner that I couldn’t stop. She didn’t need to hear my words to know she had won me over, or at least the parts of me that she wanted to taste and that immediately took charge of my decision.

She stepped to the side while holding my stare, and walked around the desk. She was now in front of me, in my personal space, invading it like she had the right to. My mind flipped through all the teacher/student fantasy channels that the R rated industry had long ago given an image to, then settled on the video feed of ignorance and confusion.

She lowered herself until her face was level with mine, stared into my eyes, and smirked again. This wasn’t a seduction as much as it was an assertion of power; she had kneeled in front of me but I was the one crumbling defeated at her feet.

I wanted, nay needed, to break the eye contact to peek into her dress again. I could see it hanging loose from the corner of my eye, but I wouldn’t dare. This whole display felt more like a taunt, one she would win whether I looked or not, but I had to keep a semblance of dignity.

When I didn’t flinch, she got her face closer. If I wanted to, I could check out its details but I was focused on her eyes, green with dark golden flecks. The naughty flicker in them had me spellbound, waiting hopelessly for her next words. Or actions. Why was I so desperately rooting for the second option?

“Professor,” she repeated, that tenure title somehow inverting the power equation each time it left her lips, putting her in charge and making me more vulnerable. “I think about touching you every day.” I shivered and she pretended not to notice. “I imagine how soft you are, every…” she broke our eye contact to take a lingering look at my lower abdomen and thighs, “…where.”

“I picture,” she brought her eyes back to mine, “your mouth, gasping for air when I come close. I don’t want to just kiss you, I want to know how much you,” she emphasized, “want to kiss me. I want to lean in, open my lips, and then stop.” She parted her lips and let out a steady stream of air in my direction, the hotness of her breath doing nothing to appease the rising temperature of my cheeks. “I want to pause to see that flash of disappointment in your eyes when you realize that I stopped, and watch in awe the raging battle between your pride and your lust. Would you wait for me to lean again or would you erase the remaining distance yourself?”

I frowned involuntarily. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be the one reaching for her, and that image of me, recklessly surrendering my vanity to this young woman was as alarming as it was exciting.

She didn’t smirk, she openly smiled this time. “Can you picture it too, Professor?” Without waiting for the obvious answer or catching her breath, she continued, “But it’s not just a fantasy, it’s not just a story I tell myself before I go to bed, and it’s not just an image I paint of you to feed my attraction. It’s what I want to do,” she closed her eyes for a brief moment then reopened them with a newer and stronger resolve shining through, “it’s what I will do.”

The fatality of that statement hit me like a high-speed train. I believed her, I knew I had no choice in the matter — or maybe my choice had already been made. Still, I equally feared and anticipated the moment I’d have to face and accept the veracity of her promise.

She sighed. “I lied to you before,” she looked for the confusion in my eyes. “I said I’m not fishing for a good grade, but I am.” Her face kept its serious expression, devoid of any smile that would calm my apprehension.

Before I could ask myself whether I would give her a higher grade for her efforts, and before I could be terrified of the certain answer, she started to explain herself.

“The only good grade I’m interested in getting is the one for pleasing you. Because you deserve to be happy. You always do everything you can to help all of us and you have earned the right to have someone do their absolute best for you.” For a few seconds, the assertive look disappeared from her eyes and I saw kindness in them. It was equally confusing and flattering. Was that a glimmer of something more than a physical rush, was it true affection?

She caught herself, shifted both her tone and expression back, “And I don’t just fantasize about being that someone, I will be that someone.”

She smiled again, this time not to show her superiority or to prove her point, but because of the sheer joy that thought brought her. In that second, it occurred to me that while this entire scene was a display of her power, it was all caused by me. I was the one that provoked that rush in her, I was the object of her obsession, I was the audience for her show. Without me, there’d be no one to woo, no one to seduce, no one to dominate. She may have been in control, but I was the reason she needed to be in control. So I smiled back, this time deeply touched by her emotions.

Although the dynamic had shifted, I needed her to stay in the lead. I forced a gulp and feigned a tremble, telling myself that I was faking those reflexes for her own benefit, yet knowing fully well that I was never such a good actor. I guess part of me didn’t want to admit that even though I was just the audience, I couldn’t entertain the thought of the show ending, and that was my cross to bear.

She broke our eye contact and stood up. I immediately started thinking of the different things I could say, or do, to keep her in my office and my personal space, but I stopped as it became apparent that she wasn’t leaving. She just took a step toward my desk and I didn’t notice I was swiveling to follow her movement until it was too late to stop the chair’s rotation. She grinned, hoisted herself up swiftly, sat straight, and towered over me.

With my eyes now level with her chest, I was faced with the conundrum of either looking straight and giving her breasts the thrill of my stare, looking up to feed her feeling of dominance, or looking down and facing another hidden monster in — and between — her legs.

She sat silently for a few seconds as I battled the different options then chose to raise my eyes to meet her. When they landed on her face, the corners of her lips pinched for the bourgeoning of a smile, but she quickly regained control and straightened them. Her eyes dropped to her lap, as if to force my own to follow. And follow they did, which led to the sight of her crossing her legs slowly and seductively, then leaning slightly to the left to hold herself with her extended arm on the desk.

How clichéd was this? A student crossing her legs on a professor’s desk to seduce her! It doesn’t get any more trite. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from watching and enjoying every second of the show. There’s a reason some actions become stereotypes and it’s that they’re goddamn sexy.

She moved her right palm and started rubbing her thigh through her dress, then slowly raised it to her neck. She kept it there, nonchalantly caressing the soft skin with feathery light touches.

“You know, others fantasize about undressing people, but I don’t want you to be naked, Professor.” She paused and waited for my reaction. When the confusion, laced with the fear of this seduction coming to a halt, became apparent on my face, she smirked again. “I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you look breathtakingly sexy wearing nothing but those earrings,” she hummed and pursed her lips, “but I really, really want you to keep your clothes on… at least the first time.”

She observed my reaction to those last words. When she saw my eyelids contract in happiness at the thought that there would be more than one time, she continued.

”See, the moment people shed their clothes is the moment they become vulnerable and their intentions so apparent. I like a challenge. I don’t want you to be exposed and powerless,” she winked, “well, maybe later.” She shook the thought out. “I don’t want to stop trying to guess your next move. And I don’t want to win by making you lose a shirt or a pair of pants.”

She swept her eyes across my entire body, telepathically wrangling the very fabric of my being. She may have wanted me to stay fully dressed to keep me in control, but I had already surrendered everything beneath the clothes to her will. The scenario, I admitted to myself, was intensely erotic.

“I want you to keep that t-shirt and those jeans, but give me your body. I want you to stay in control, but allow me access. I’m a bit selfish like that.” She shrugged and closed her eyes. “There’s something incredibly… titillating,” a proud smile accentuated the use of that word, “about the image of your cleavage, jailed behind your bra and shirt, hiding from my eyes, but no stranger to my touch.” Her smile spread into a larger enthusiastic grin. “I want to be the thief who sneaks a hand past the clothes and steals caresses from your skin.” She sighed and reopened her eyes. “I want to be the one you let in.”

She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath. Part of me wanted to rush the rest of the fantasy out of her. The other was enjoying the deviously slow journey to the other side more than it wanted to let on. I sat in silence, watching her reopen her eyes and part her lips ever so slightly. I wet my own involuntarily. The look on her face as she noticed the unintended movement betrayed her pure lust.

She raised her eyes to meet mine again. “You’re wet, aren’t you?” I breathed heavily, refusing to give in to her. “I haven’t even touched you and you’re already wet.”

That observation perplexed me because of how true, how so very true it was. She had yet to lay a single finger on me, but I was only a few seconds away from heaving breathless as if she’d been ravaging me for hours. How could a few words possibly do that to me? And more importantly, how much more devastating would it be if I let those words become actions?

“But you’re not nearly as wet as I am.” She lowered her right hand to her leg, snuck it under her dress, and cupped herself with it. She rubbed ever so slightly, her smile dissipating, her eyes darting up to the ceiling, then raised her finger to her nose and sniffed. “Mmmm, yeah.”

This wasn’t just too much, this was the very definition of torture. Blissful, lascivious, masochistic torture. She focused her glare back on the junction between my thighs. I squeezed them involuntarily and felt my palm glide toward the inner part of my right thigh. I desperately needed to mirror her gesture.

“You know how much you want to get that hand into your pants?” I didn’t try to answer, realizing the rhetoric nature of the question. “It’s not nearly as much as I want to get my own hand in them.”

She adjusted her posture then leaned forward. Her right index crossed the distance between us and stopped fractions of an inch away from my left thigh. She started moving it slowly up, making sure it never made contact with my jeans. If I raised my leg slightly, I could easily have the very object of my desire: her finger on me. But I sadistically sat still, loving the goosebumps that spread through me by proxy.

“Anything bothering you, Professor? Any itch you want me to scratch?” She laughed heartily and continued her distant assault on my thigh.

An invisible link forged between her index and my skin, the gap between them being filled with raw tension. The sensation traveled with her finger up my thigh, then toward the middle, and stopped as she hovered right above my clit. As if by magnetism, I felt it tingle, grow, and reach out trying to meet her. My eyes fluttered, confused between the desire to stay open and soak in every detail of that scene, and the overwhelming need to shut down and enjoy the intensity of my arousal without any distractions.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to stop my finger here?” Probably as much as it was for me to not grab her hand and shove it down my jeans. “The visual image of your pussy dripping wet now is too hot. Scorching hot. And to think that it’s because of me?” She licked her lips with a deliberately slow movement.

“If I tell you to clench now, will you?” She drew a small circle in the air above my jeans while the muscles underneath contracted of their own accord. I whimpered. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” She forced a shrug and stared at my eyes. “Relax now.” She had skipped the question and gone straight for the order. I shouldn’t have found it that sexy, but I did, and now my body not only obeyed her, it did so without the pretense of fighting.

“I picture myself lazily unbuttoning your pants then lowering the zipper while your body rises to meet my hand. I want to feel how anxious you are for my touch. I’ll wait to see a plea in your eyes, feel a shiver in your skin, and hear a moan in your throat.” Her glare paralyzed me on the outside and made everything rush and tumble on the inside. “And as much as I am eager to lay my fingers on you, I want you to crave it more, to a point where I can pause my hand but you can’t handle the interruption.”

To be honest, we had already tipped that balance a long time ago. The fact that she could draw out this speech as long as she had while I sat and devised plans to get her to shut up and take me, every inch of me, proved that she had more command over the situation than I did.

“And when I feel your hunger… for me,” she smiled, “I know I’d lose all of my patience. I’ll slide my hand beneath your underwear, quickly reaching your pussy. I want to cup it first, then part the lips and enjoy the wetness that’s been seeping out of you. Every drop of it is a testament to how much you… want… me.”

She bit her lower lip; I pictured her biting mine. “I wouldn’t stop kissing you this entire time. I want my tongue and finger to enter you simultaneously Professor, I want you to open yourself to me, let me go and stay inside you.”

She shut her eyes and moaned loudly, the sound arousing the one or two cells that were still suspiciously dormant in my body. Now all of me answered to her, even the parts of me that I never knew could be controlled.

She opened her eyes and stared at me. “Do you see why it’s infinitely sexier if you stay clothed? Just picture my palm stuck between your underwear and your skin. Imagine how possessive that is. How passionate.”

Her voice hitched suddenly, a tender sigh escaping after that last word. “And I don’t want you to spread your legs for me. I want you to close them on me. I want to enjoy the friction of your skin and the warmth of your pussy. I want to know what it feels like to begin my seduction thinking I’m invading you, then end up being powerless and imprisoned by you.”

Her voice, which had kept dropping in tone throughout the conversation, was at its lowest point now, and its volume nothing but a mere whisper. The raspiness became more apparent, the crackles more frequent, and the pauses less deliberate and more erratic.

Her face, her looks, her gestures, everything else betrayed the gradual loss of control. She had dived far enough into the fantasy that she couldn’t pretend commanding it anymore. I relaxed, enjoying the show even more now that she wasn’t premeditating every word and movement. 

“I want the strength of your hunger to weaken me. I want you to grab me so hard that I stop thinking about myself and start doing everything for you. I want to forget all that I am and become nothing but the body you’re holding, the mouth you’re kissing, and the hand you’re fucking.”

I flinched. The verb caught me off guard. I wasn’t used to hearing it in person, not in this context at least. My thighs squeezed as a reflex, unbearably anxious for a release. She noticed the involuntary movement and smiled.

“See this?” She waved her hovering finger above my thighs, which were now pressing so hard into each other that they could almost blend together. “I fantasize about sticking my hand in this delicious sandwich.” She moaned again and retreated her hand, then readjusted her posture. I glimpsed a shadow of fear on her face. Was she unable to control her impulse to touch me anymore? Did she have to put some distance between us?

“I want you to hold me so close that I lose track of where my freedom ends and your will begins. I want your tongue to be so far in my mouth that when you groan, I feel the vibrations in my own throat. And I want your pussy to squeeze my hand so tightly that it starts moving my finger in and out by itself.”

“I want you. I want all of you. Your moans, your shivers, your saliva, and your juices.” She paused to wet her lips. “I want to feel your pleasure so deep within me that it becomes stronger than my own.”

A long sigh whistled through her lips. Every second had been a battle of wills between us, an oscillating balance of craving, surrender, patience, and dominance. And it was all about to come to an end.

She stopped talking for a few seconds. Her palms had found refuge on the border of the desk, the knuckles white from the strength of her squeeze. Her eyes roamed freely across my body, not afraid of the places or durations they stopped for. There wasn’t a grin, a smile, or a smirk on her lips anymore, just a small wrinkle that betrayed her desire.

She finally raised her eyes to meet mine. I stared back. In the silence and the paralysis of the moment, we both agreed.

She stood up and took a step toward me. She placed a leg on each side and lowered herself to sit in my lap. Her hand snaked between us and stopped at the lower hem of my shirt. Her mouth lingered a few inches away from mine.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, but I need you to answer this question,” she paused briefly to clarify her demand, “aloud, with words.” Her glare penetrated my eyes, reaching into my soul. This was the ultimate battle of power. I couldn’t stay silent and avoid actively participating anymore. Would I lose the war and win her, or win the war and lose her?

As if I had a choice! My mouth went dry, the liquids finding another outlet to lubricate.

“You know how much I want you, but the question is can I have you, Professor?” 

”Yes.”