The professor is bored, frustrated, and disappointed by the lacklustre attitude of her students, particularly cocky but fit failing student and rugby star Craig. This super intelligent and hard nosed lady doesn’t suffer fools gladly, as both her aspiring suitors and Craig are about to find out. Will her upcoming blind date finally prove to be The One and inject some much needed excitement into her life? Or maybe she will have to create her own excitement during some private ‘tutoring’ sessions with Craig…
Poor, passable, dreadful, ok-ish, decent, dire, mediocre.
That was the repetitive pattern of my marking. I sighed heavily; annoyed at the sub-standard level of work I was subjected to reading. Mostly C’s, a few D’s and a very rare B. This particular class was getting tiring, there wasn’t a single shining student in this group, and they were meant to be third year undergraduate Physics students for God’s sake.
The thought briefly crossed my mind that I, as their lecturer, may in some small way be partly responsible for their lack of achievement. The thought was gone as soon as it arrived. No, it was definitely down to their lack of ability rather than any deficiency in my teaching methods. I, Dr. Helena Roderick, was an experienced Professor and had worked damn hard to get my doctorate, and these students should have the tenacity and intellect to at least earn my respect – but none of them had so far.
As I sat in my office approaching the last couple of papers, my mind drifted towards the evening ahead. It was already 6pm and I had a dinner date planned for 8, I should have been on my way home by now. It was actually a blind date of sorts. My friend and colleague Dr. Stella Hendricks had recently met a man and didn’t want to face the awkwardness of a first date on her own – so I was tagging along and he was bringing a friend too, a double date.
I had to admit I felt a tingle of something resembling excitement – these days my life was filled with lecturing average students, research work, and dinner for one. The science conventions I attended bi-annually were the highlight of my year, and that was really rather sad. Though I’d dated over the years, the pot of eligible men seemed to be fast diminishing – I wondered if that old ‘plenty more fish in the sea’ chestnut was the most wildly inaccurate platitude ever. I was ready for something new and exciting in my life – or should I say some one new and exciting. I’d been seeking Mr. Perfect for so long, maybe this guy would finally be the one.
I didn’t have time to finish the marking, I needed to get ready. I was about to drop the remaining papers in the drawer for tomorrow morning when I noticed that I was holding the research paper from one of my most notorious students, Craig Barrow. Somehow Craig had made it into the third year on a wing and prayer, but his luck was running out fast. In truth, I knew how he’d made it this far. As the star player in the University rugby team he was likely to go professional as soon as he graduated in a few months. If he graduated.
Everyone loved Craig; he was a twenty-one year old charmer with the world at his feet, on the brink of sports super stardom. Premier league club teams had already scouted him, so his focus was firmly on sports. Mine, however, was firmly on physics, and I knew that if he failed this paper there was virtually no chance of him graduating. After a quick scan through I could see that he’d produced the usual drivel. I sighed again and sat leaned back in my chair. For some reason I hesitated before marking it with an E, which was very unusual for me as I generally delighted in marking down students like him who were time wasters, skipped lectures, fell asleep during my talks, submitted late papers and simply had no aptitude or drive for my subject. In fact, I had been well aware over the last couple of weeks that Craig’s luck was running out. I only had to mark this paper with the poor mark it deserved and I would have my revenge. But for some reason I hesitated. I reasoned that I would leave it until tomorrow and slipped it into the drawer with the other papers.
I always thought I’d be married by 40 years old. That’s how it was supposed to go, wasn’t it? Pour yourself into your study and then your chosen career, be open and attentive to possible suitors, and at some stage the one will come along. At least that’s how I’d assumed it would go. It’s not like it was a plan I had mapped out, it was just there, in the back on my mind. Married at 40 – ha! I laughed to myself as I got ready for the date in the ladies room by my office, re-applying my makeup and combing my chin length copper hair. Seemed like I was about to miss that target.
It turned out that I didn’t have the same control over my romantic life as I did over my studies and my career – in fact, I’ve come to realise that the principals I always applied to the latter were completely ineffective on the prior. Show up, apply yourself, work hard, be committed, continually learn, be better than the rest – all of those values that had netted me so much success in my working life had done nothing for my love life at all.
I straightened my blue pencil skirt and white sheer blouse. The whole relationship thing was a slippery beast, so many variables, so much outside of my control. I’d decided that perseverance was the best attribute I could apply, and so I had continued to date whenever the opportunity came along. But so far, none had gone further than two or three dates. My parents always said I was too focused on my career, but I knew deep down that the truth was, I’m just very picky about men.
I slipped my high heels back on and my tailored jacket, appraising myself in the mirror before gathering my things ready to leave. I was pleased with my appearance. I always wore well-fitted skirt suits and heels to work. With my regular morning runs and dedicated healthy eating, I had a good figure, tall and toned, and I knew how to show it off to its best. I always wore heels to work too, well aware that my legs were long and shapely and perfectly accentuated by high heels.
I’d seen the glances my male colleagues often gave me, I had no doubt that some of them fancied me. They were all, however, either too old or too married to turn my head. I was also pretty sure that many of my students had developed crushes on me over the years, I’d certainly been aware of their eyes on me, the testosterone oozing from them. I would never consider going there – no matter how youthful or attractive – not only would it break the rules and risk my career, I was only ever attracted to intellectuals, and thus far, none of my students had come close to my own intellect. No, I was happy enough just to let the young male students look.
The spring evening air was warm, the sun still above the horizon, perhaps a promise of the summer heat to come. As I walked along the path across the campus grounds to the car park, I noticed the Rugby team out practicing their drills. The path took me right past one of their practice areas where I could see some students playing and also some other, older men too. Hmm, they must be from the academicals – the graduated alumni university team. It was hard to tear my eyes away, and I slowed my pace as I approached, watching the men running and tackling each other – a fine display of muscular legs and masculine brawn. I naturally added an extra sway to my hips as I passed the field, still watching them play. I was aware of eyes on me as I sauntered along. I knew I looked good to them and I liked them watching me.
What can I say? It turns me on to be found attractive by men. Despite being single pretty much forever, I had a very healthy sex drive, one that was not regularly fulfilled enough unfortunately, which only fuelled my furtive imagination. An active imagination is often a by-product of a higher than average intellect, and in my case, active was an understatement. As I walked past that field of pumped up rowdy men, my mind went into overdrive, the fantasy playing out feeling almost as real as if it was actually happening.
I imagined changing course and walking directly towards the group of athletes, feeling their interest pique as I approached, and then feeling their excitement grow as I began to unbutton my blouse, pulling down my bra to flash my pert breasts at them. As I imagined this scenario, my body reacted almost as if it was real, my heart quickening, a flash of hot lust shooting through my groin, turning me liquid inside. I imagined the men surrounding me, reaching out, desperate for a look, a touch, one of them pulling up my skirt as I leaned over the bench by the side of the field. I imagined some of them taking it in turns to screw me from behind as I pleasured others with my mouth and others still with my hand. Hot and rough. I liked it rough – though only where sex was concerned. The men in my fantasies would never be relationship material. My future husband would be an intellectual, not a bit of rough, of that I was certain. But still, it didn’t stop me fantasising.
My phantom Mr. Right had always eluded me, to the point I’d started wondering if he existed. He had to be very intelligent but not more so than me, he had to be very attractive but not more so than me, he had to be successful but not more so than me, he had to earn good money but not more than me. It dawned on me that maybe my parents were right – though I would never tell them that – I might be a bit of a dominant control freak after all. My students certainly thought so.
Most of my students were scared of me, and those who weren’t too terrified of me probably fancied me, and that was nice to know. Mr. Right had never come along though. I’d had a few relationships, but nothing longer than six months. I had flings too, but they had died down. I was getting more discerning as I got older. It had now been nearly eighteen months since my last fling, and over two years since my last relationship ended – had I been that focused on her work?
As I wandered along the path, I noticed Craig, and wondered how somebody so big, strong and macho with sporting flair ended up studying physics – and doing so poorly at it. He certainly was handsome though and always had a group of fawning girls watching him play, even during practice sessions like this. I supposed that they were technically women as they were probably all over twenty-one, but that was still nearly half my age. A nasty urge overcame me as the path led past a group of girls sitting on the grass and watching him play.
“Craig,” I called, and he immediately ran over to the touchline where I was standing.
“I’ll expect you in my office tomorrow morning to discuss your poor grades’” I said, loudly enough for the girls to hear. He was standing so close I had to strain my neck to look up at him, and it struck me how tall he was. I was mostly used to seeing him sitting down at the back of a classroom or lecture theatre. In his rugby gear he looked alike a different person entirely – all rugged and sweaty, and his broad chest and bulging thigh muscles had certainly caught my attention. Craig’s presence morphed the fantasy I’d been indulging in moments earlier, precluding the rest of the team so that it was only the two of us on that field, in the mud, alone, getting down and dirty. An electric jolt of lust shot through me, but I gave nothing away on my face.
Craig knew he was well loved, but when I told him about his bad result, his face sunk. It was cruel but I enjoyed it. Well, he was a very good-looking young man and he was emitting a heady mix of pheromones at that moment, which were having a rather pleasant effect, but that didn’t stop him from being a slacker in the classroom. Anyway, I had a date with Mr. Right to get to. Pleased that I’d put the cocky prick in his place, embarrassed him in front of his air-brained admirers too, I confidently strode away to my car.
My mother once told me that if you’re single and over forty, every man you meet will be balding, overweight, unkempt and wear thick rimmed glasses. A first glance at my blind date made me wonder if she was right. Sitting across the dinner table from Barry at Jubert’s Restaurant, my hopes of a good steamy night came crashing down. Barry had worn a white shirt and black tie to dinner – he looked like an undertaker, and he kept flattening his wispy comb-over. If it wasn’t for Stella and her date Ross being there I would have left after Barry’s first sentence to me – “Hi I’m Barry and I’m a connoisseur of fine things, like you”
Oh dear, I had hoped he would at least be intelligent, but he wasn’t even remotely, certainly not Mr. Perfect, more like the very polar opposite of it in fact. Barry was short, pasty, and an accountant. It turns out that he was actually Ross’s accountant, and that’s how they knew each other. The more red wine he drank, the more red and blotchy his pasty face became, which was fascinatingly unappealing. The more wine he drank the funnier he thought he was too.
“Technically, having sex with me is a charitable gift,” he slurred at one point. I guess it was an accountant joke, though it didn’t raise so much as a snigger from any of us. Ross seemed embarrassed by him and kept talking to cover for his friend’s evident lack of social skills or etiquette.
No, Barry definitely wasn’t Mr. Perfect. Stella’s date however, in stark contrast, appeared to be very close to being Mr. Perfect – from what I’d seen so far. Ross was everything Barry wasn’t. He was tall, black, a fitness instructor who owned his own gym. He was also amusing, and smart enough to be entertaining (but obviously not so smart as to be a threat to my ego). It was completely unfair – I would say Sod’s Law if I believed in such tripe – because Stella had potential Mr. Perfect sitting before her and she seemed completely uninterested.
She seemed a little distracted the whole evening, actually, cutting conversations short, staring at her phone, out of the window – anywhere but at Ross, as if she couldn’t wait for the evening to be over.
“We need to head home, we’ve got early mornings tomorrow,” she announced right after the main course, refusing desserts, apparently deciding for both of us that the evening was over. I wasn’t about to put myself in a situation where there was a chance I might be left with Barry the accountant, so I didn’t argue.
“Thanks for a lovely evening,” Stella told Ross, her voice devoid of any trace of actual gratitude, and she squeezed his hand, giving him a small smile.
I gave no thanks to Barry, nor declared that it was nice to meet him or that I’d like to see him again – I never could bring myself to lie, even in the name of social niceties, nor did I make any physical contact, but simply gave a polite nod. If only our dates had been switched, I might have found myself going home with a hot gym instructor. That would have been quite a welcome turn of events – I’d been feeling a bit hot and bothered all evening, since my little rugby team fantasy earlier, I could definitely have done with a steamy night of passion to scratch that itch – though I would never cross boundaries and come on to or go home with another woman’s date. I cursed my luck (another concept I didn’t believe in).
Those boundaries didn’t stop me from dreaming about Ross, however. Surely one couldn’t be held accountable for their actions in dreams? They were, after all, just mind movies, a series of random thoughts plucked from the subconscious and formatted into a fantasy of sorts. This particular dream had been rather pleasant actually, and had lingered with me throughout the day. I’d had no time at all to revisit it in any detail, because I’d woken late and my morning schedule was jam packed, but the atmosphere of the dream – the heady lustfulness of it – had remained an ever constant sensation throughout the morning, making me feel somewhat disorientated and almost light headed at times.
Slipping into my office at lunchtime however, I closed the door behind me, poured myself a coffee from the machine in the corner, sat at my desk, and closed my eyes, sinking back into the large padded chair and sinking back into the remains I could grasp from the dream. Surprisingly, it came back to me much clearer than ever before has a dream.
The location morphed around me, in that surrealist way dreams have of doing so, and settled into a room somewhere grand and castle like, featuring a four-poster bed like those one might imagine in the chambers of queens. Suddenly I was sitting central on the bed, naked but for a swathe of some luxurious satin like material draped around me, hugging my body with a sensual embrace, whispering against my skin. I was waiting for him, though who he was I didn’t know, until he appeared at the foot of the grand bed, pulling aside the heavy velvet curtains and appraised me with eyes so ravenous my body spread itself wide open, offering itself up to him in a fever of desire – desire to be devoured.
Ross appeared as a king, golden crown glistening on his head, wrapped in a cloak of deep blue, casting aside his robe and appearing on his knees before me without having even moved. Laying naked now before him my body quivered, desperate to be touched. I put my hands to my own breasts and squeezed them as he knelt between my legs, his body dark and exquisite, chiseled and firm like the most beautiful ebony statue, though this one full and pulsing with life. His erection was standing tall, thick, and firm as he reached down for me, his eyes glistening. In one swift movement we were both standing on the bed, the padded headboard which reached all the way to the roof of the bed, behind me.
Before I knew what was happening or how, my arms were stretched up above my head and out to each side, my hands secured in the bed’s canopy. I stood naked and prone before him, unable to reach out and touch him as I so desperately desired. Able only to offer myself to him to be used as he so wished.
Sitting in my office chair, I gasped at the clarity with which the dream has returned, almost as if it was real, my consciousness barely in the office at all, but firmly in that castle chamber. My breath coming fast with the memories of the dream, my body squirming in the chair, growing wet between the legs.
Those same legs, in the dream, opened wide, an invitation. King Ross, appearing to give himself permission to touch me finally, reached out his hands and took my face in his rough palms, kissing me tenderly, his tongue heightening the buzz of pleasure that was vibrating within me. Then that same tongue, he trailed down my neck, making me gasp, then between my breasts, which he now took in his hands and squeezed, before licking each nipple. Then his tongue continued its journey, trailing down my stomach, down lower, through my patch of curly hair, and down below – down to the singing sweet nub of mine, where it gently began to draw small circles, eliciting from me a groan. His hands gripped my hips as his mouth went lower still, lapping at the juices that flowed from my wet opening, and it was his turn to groan.
“Please, please…” I could manage no more words, but no more were needed.
He stood then, and hooking a hand under each of my thighs he lifted me and plunged into me so swiftly and suddenly I cried out with pleasure and pain. He filled me wholly and I wrapped my legs around him, squeezing tight, pulling him in deeper still as he rammed me into the headboard over and over, fucking me good and proper.
Sitting in that office chair, my hand found its way beneath my skirt in a frenzy of need, my finger slipping beneath my silky knickers, finding myself wet and so ripe and ready. In the memory of my dream I was reaching climax, and at that point in the night I had half woken and reached into my bedside drawer, finding my vibrator, and slipping it inside my slick pulsating pussy. As I remembered the orgasm I’d enjoyed in my dream, extended into an orgasm I’d enjoyed right there in my bed, I slipped a finger inside myself, all ready to welcome the orgasm that my body was on the verge of.
Then there was a knock at my door.
My office door.
Yes, I was in my office, at work.
It took me a second to reorientate myself, then a second further to remove my hand from my underwear and reorder my clothes.
“Yes,” I said, still hot and flustered from the fantasy.
Craig walked into my office, doing nothing to calm the throbbing between my legs, the blood rushing down there, the nerve cells firing and buzzing, in fact the sight of him fired my body up further as snatches of him in his rugby kit flashed into my mind.
“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice professional.
“You told me to come and see you Miss.”
“That’s right, I did, we need to talk about your poor grades. Sit”
His thighs really were thick, and well toned. I could see them, firm, through his jeans. I stood, and picked up some papers from my desk, walking around and handing them to him, then perching with my bottom on the edge of the oak desk.
“It’s just not good enough Craig.” I crossed one leg over the other, my suit skirt riding up my stockinged thigh slightly, showing the lacy top of the hold ups. I saw Craig gazing openly at my thigh, not trying to hide it, then his eyes travelled slowly up to my face.
I was used to my male students squirming under the weight of the little brazen games I played – using my sexuality to intimidate them. It always worked – they usually left my office a quivering mess. Wrong or right, I enjoyed the power I held over them. Not this one though, this one looked at me defiantly, holding my gaze firmly.
“If I give you the score you deserve for this, you will fail the entire year and then you won’t graduate.”
That’s what did it. I saw his face crumble at the mention of the possibility of not graduating.
“But, Miss, I did try, I really did. If I don’t…” he carried on with some other whiny crap, I stopped listening to be honest. He sounded like a boy, though he looked all man.
“I suppose I could give you some one to one tutoring and teach you a few lessons,” I interrupted him, “but I wonder if I should help you, if it’s worth my time?” I slipped off my suit jacket, revealing my slightly see through white blouse, and I crossed my legs the other way. Slowly.
He smiled up at me, not missing a beat.
“Oh I would appreciate that professor, I will do whatever it takes.”
I have to admit, I enjoyed seeing the rising bulge in his jeans.
“I’m going to work you hard though Craig, you understand that you’ll need to show some stamina and prove you can be as good as I need you to be?”
“Oh I have stamina, I can promise you that. I will work harder than anyone you’ve ever, er, tutored before.” He sure was a confident young thing. He was now beaming, reading completely and correctly between the lines. I uncrossed my legs and lifted my right leg up, reaching it out towards him, hooking my high heeled shoe over his shoulder, his eyes widening as I ushered his head towards my open legs.
“Lets put that mouth of yours to good use,” I said and he didn’t hesitate to comply, slipping out of the chair and kneeling on the carpeted floor in front of me. With one of my feet still on the floor and the other now resting on the chair Craig had just vacated, I opened my legs as I felt his hot breath on my thighs. I thought he’d go straight in for the honey, but I give him his dues, he resisted long enough to tease me a little – running his tongue up my toned inner thigh as one hand reached around and squeezed my bottom. His other hand cupped my crotch, and shivers went through me.
“Oh my Miss, you’re very wet,” his voice had a tremble, betraying his confident demeanor, he was as excited and thrilled by this as I was.
“Yes Craig, yes I am,” I agreed.
He rubbed me with the heel of his hand until his mouth reached the very top of my thigh. He pulled the material of my panties aside, and then started licking me, tiny little hard licks across my clitoris, causing me to gasp involuntarily and grasp the back of his head in my hands.
“You like that Miss?” he asked, grinning up at me.
“Shut up and keep doing it,” I instructed, opening my legs wider still and closing my eyes. He did as he was told and went back to licking my clit, then moving his attentions down lower, he began lapping at the juices of my wet folds.
“Fuck Miss, you taste good,” he murmured, his tongue stiffening and licking harder, pushing into me. Then something else was pushing into me – his finger. No, not one finger, two, three…
“Oh Craig, yes, that’s good. Keep doing that.” I moved against him, rocking my hips as he slid his fingers in and out of me slowly at first. I felt his mouth on mine before I even realised he’d stood, so swept away was I on the electric sensations that were buzzing through me. He kissed me properly, with tongues, hard. I was going to object, but I realised I quite liked it. I could taste my own juices on his mouth. His hand movements got faster as he kissed me, and I kissed him back, pushing my tongue deep into his mouth. Reaching down, I undid his belt, and then his jeans, reaching my hand inside and grasping his stiff cock. His surprisingly large stiff cock.
He groaned then, and that animal sound did things to me that I can’t quite describe.
“There’s a good boy, you’re doing well, you keep on going,” I said, as I stroked his cock and his free hand found my breasts, squeezing through my shirt.
“Miss, I can do better, I can make you feel really fucking good,” he murmured into my neck.
“You think you can huh? How do you propose to do that?” I asked, as he nibbled my ear.
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