Ass

My last class of the day ended at 5pm. The weather was wretched enough that nobody stayed behind to ask the professor questions–no doubt a relief to her, as she looked anxious to get home too. My mind was wandering, and as I packed up my bag I scarcely heard one of my classmates talking to me. “Hey…hello…earth to Vivian–” she tapped me on my shoulder. “I was trying to ask you if you wanted to grab a quick bite with us at the cafe?”

I forced myself back to the present, and gave my friend a quick smile. “Nah, not tonight Liz. I’m swamped with readings, plus I’ve got a paper for my China class…” my voice trailed off as my thoughts sped along, unbidden, from the paper to the class to the professor who taught the class.

Liz, perhaps noticing my not-quite-finished sentence, peered at my face and said, “You look a little off, are you feeling sick or something?” I shook my head and forced another smile. “Just a little tired, that’s all. You girls go along without me.”

Liz shrugged, saying, “Ok, suit yourself!” and headed out with everyone else. As the classroom emptied out, I took my time putting on my jacket, scarf and gloves before heading out the building. I needed the time to think.

Picking my way around icy patches on the way back to the dorms, I thought about the folded piece of paper resting in my pocket. I had torn the page out of my notebook–the page where Professor Jameson had written down his address earlier today before instructing me to go to his apartment tonight.

His apartment was about 30 blocks south of campus, a 15-minute subway ride, which meant I had time to change into something more appropriate for the evening and to drop off the books from my other classes of the day. Reaching my room, I changed out of my rain-splashed jeans and damp socks and shoes, and upon reflection, also shed the boring grey sweater and shirt I had on, thinking I should wear something a little nicer for the evening. Catching my reflection in the mirror, it occurred to me that my panties were stained from my morning meeting–correction, morning _sex_ –with my professor. “Probably should change that too,” I muttered to myself, and took off my panties.

All the while, my thoughts flashed back to this morning’s “office hours” with Professor Jameson. We never got around to talking much about academic stuff… And as the events replayed in my head for the millionth time today, I found myself getting really wet again. It was 5:30, and I didn’t need to be at his place ’til 7pm. So I slipped my naked body under the bedcovers, shivering a little, closed my eyes, and sliding my hand down between my legs, touched myself and fantasized about my professor. I thought about his lips against mine, his hands travelling over my petite frame, his mouth travelling down and covering my nipple, licking and teasing and biting softly. Pinching my nipples with my other hand, I alternately rubbed on my clit and fingered myself until I climaxed, moaning his name into my pillow.

When my breathing returned to normal, I got up, slipped on my bathrobe, and headed for the shower. I had showered this morning, but I’d been quite a ‘dirty girl’ in between then and now–screwing my professor during office hours qualifies me for that label, I think. I still had at least an hour before I needed to leave, so I took the time to shave my pussy, getting it all nice and smooth.

After drying my hair and rubbing some lotion over my body, I put on a black lacy bra-and-panties set, short skirt, knee-high boots and my favourite burgundy sweater, which wore slightly off-the-shoulder and was a cashmere blend, soft enough to wear against my bare skin. I grabbed my bag, now emptied of everything except for wallet, cell phone, and notebook, put my jacket on, and headed out the door.

Down on the subway platform waiting for the train to arrive, I had some time for reflection. I conjured up an image of Professor Jameson and held him there in my mind’s eye, recalling the hazel-green tint of his eyes and the defined angles of his cheekbones and nose, a face that would give someone the impression of a stern, intractable personality, were it not for the softness of his lips. His chest was toned, strong…I remembered how he felt, as he held me against his body and kissed me gently, stroking my hair as I lay in his arms earlier today… In his arms, straddling him, in his office chair, in his office, at school… “Oh god,” I shook my head, thinking and smiling wryly at myself. “What the hell do you think you’re getting yourself into, sleeping with your professor?”

That the mutual attraction existed was undeniable. Of course, I had really made the first move, wearing a miniskirt to class that day early in the semester (when the weather was actually warm!–so long ago), and sitting in the front row, showing off my legs and accidentally letting him catch a glimpse of more.

But what _was_ I getting myself into? There was a hint of some bursa escort sort of power game unfolding. After our first tryst earlier in the semester, I had avoided him, not knowing what to expect after such a seemingly irresponsible act. He had also paid no attention to me, at least not until he called me into his office this morning to discuss my paper proposal. Not wanting to bring up what had happened between us, I squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze, until he broached the subject by tossing onto the desk the pair of panties I had accidentally left behind in his office after our first sexual encounter. Things snowballed from there–I sucked him off, he demanded that I play with myself for him to watch–or else he wouldn’t discuss my paper with me!–and we concluded with some pretty hot fucking in his office chair.

There was still something slightly unnerving about this morning’s encounter, though–something darkly mysterious about the glint in his eye when he asked if I wanted to suck his cock, something commanding and presumptuous about his tone of voice when he ordered me to put my legs over the arms of the chair and finger myself.

And yet, what was it that Foucault said? It was in the readings on gender and sexuality that we had been assigned in class… It is an acting out of power structures by a strategic game that is able to give sexual pleasure or bodily pleasure. Of course this wasn’t s/m we were talking about here, but wasn’t there something about power relations, and the acting out and transgression of those boundaries, those rules, implicit in this, a professor and his student? I wanted to act out the role of the wanton yet submissive student, and at the same time relished the power of controlling his pleasure… And my professor…what did he want? Strategic games, indeed…

The metallic clanking of the train as it roared into the station jarred me out of my thoughts. I shook my head again, thinking to myself, “You’re always trying to rationalise and intellectualise these things… Maybe it’s sex, nothing more–and if it’s good, why overanalyse it?”

It was still early in the evening and the subway car was packed with rush-hour commuters. I quickly grew tired of the young man whose bicycle handlebar was poking into my ribs, and decided to get off the subway a stop earlier than necessary. Walking out of the station and back up into the cold windy night, I noticed simultaneously that the snow had started up again, and that I had left Professor Jameson’s directions in my jeans pocket back in the dorm. No matter, though–I had read it over enough times during the day to memorize the address. I walked briskly down Broadway and then turned onto a street of charming old brownstones, my heart beating faster as each step brought me closer to my professor’s home.

It was three minutes to seven when I arrived at number 265. I walked up the steps, raised a gloved finger and rang the doorbell. A soft chime sounded from within, followed by footsteps and the sound of a lock turning. Professor Jameson stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the flickering flames of a fireplace on the far side of the living room. He quickly glanced up and down the street, and then, smiling faintly, stepped back to let me enter.

He had changed since this morning, exchanging the tweed jacket, shirt and tie for a sweater and pair of jeans. A more casual look, for sure, but still refined and attractive. He locked the door behind us and left me in the entryway, saying back over his shoulder, “Take off your jacket and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.”

I shed my winter outerwear, hanging my coat on a peg by the door. Not wanting to track melting snow all over the hardwood floors, I bent over to unzip my tall leather boots, making my skirt ride up in the back. An appreciative sound came from across the room, and I turned around to see Professor Jameson leaning against the open doorway to his kitchen, staring at me. Blushing from the unspoken compliment, I walked across the room towards the welcoming fire.

I took a seat on the small sofa and surveyed my surroundings. A decorative vase (Ming dynasty style?) offset a row of books on the mantle. A few scrolls of Chinese calligraphy hung next to the bookcases lining the wall. From my vantage point, I could just make out the titles–mostly academic but including classic and contemporary fiction and a few travel books. A thick rug lay invitingly in front of the fireplace, and the sounds of glasses clinking in the kitchen mingled with soft jazz from the stereo.

Professor Jameson soon returned with two glasses and a bottle of wine. “You _are_ old enough to drink, aren’t you?” he asked teasingly, and without waiting for my answer, proceeded to pour two glasses of chardonnay, and handed one to me. I took the proffered drink with a small smile of thanks, and was about to raise it to my lips, when something about the way he was looking at me made bursa escort bayan me stop. “Wait…” I said, setting the glass down on the coffee table. “Professor– Look, I don’t know what to say. We still have a semester of class to finish out, so really, I probably shouldn’t be sitting here at your home, should I?”

He took a sip of wine before answering. “Whether you should be or not, you remain sitting here, so that seems to make your query a moot point. And seeing as how you are in my house, we might as well dispense with the formalities. Call me Ian. Now drink–it will warm you up from your trek down here.”

Still wary and slightly unnerved by my own seeming rashness in coming here tonight, I took a small sip and surveyed him carefully. “You wouldn’t be trying to take advantage of me, would you?” His hazel eyes met my dark brown ones. Arching an eyebrow, he said back evenly, “We both know I don’t need to get you drunk to have my way with you.”

There it was again–the matter-of-factness, the assertion of power. Having no good response, I took another sip of wine. Perhaps sensing that I had resigned myself to staying there at least for a while, Professor Jameson settled into the armchair across from me.

“Since our office hours do not seem to be terribly productive, and since I had no other engagements tonight, I thought we might meet here–it’s more comfortable than the office anyways. Let’s talk about your work. Do you have the proposal on you?”

I silently took my notebook out of my backpack, and started to hand it to him, when he shook his head “no.” Giving me one of his inscrutable half-smiles, he said, “Come here and sit on the armrest so we can look at it together.”

As much as I hate deferring to authority, especially when it that very deference that is expected of me, there was something intoxicating about his presence, his ability to make me want to please his every wish and whim. Maybe this is what drew me to him to begin with, though I was not aware of it. I complied with his request (or was it an instruction?).

Holding my notebook and proposal page so that we could both read it, Professor Jameson was silent for a few minutes, reading and muttering comments to himself under his breath. “Ok, I think this will work alright, but I have some questions for you. Are you proposing that the causal arrow points one way, from increasing international influence to changing gender and sexual norms, or is it more of an interdependent process? What I mean is, maybe you should think about it like this. In the cultural milieu of places like Shanghai in the 1920s, the intellectuals and elites are redefining…”

We continued in this vein for about 20 minutes or so, with him making comments, challenging me with questions, and me nodding, following his arguments, making counter-arguments–the sort of intellectual parry and riposte that I so enjoyed.

During this time, I had emptied my glass of wine and was halfway through another glass he had poured. I probably hadn’t realized how thirsty I was, from my two-hour class earlier in the evening and the trip over here, and then being so close to the man who so excited me… Though my 21st birthday wasn’t for another month, I won’t pretend I hadn’t gone out drinking before, and I suppose I held my alcohol about as well as any other Asian girl my age (aren’t Asians notorious for having low alcohol tolerance? Something about the way our bodies metabolise it–). Which was to say, I was still possessed of my senses, but was certainly more buzzed than I had planned to let myself get.

And what this all meant was that I had been so engrossed in the conversation, that I had scarcely noticed, or maybe I just didn’t care, that my professor’s hand had been sliding progressively further up my thigh as we spoke. When he was satisfied that I had absorbed his thoughts and comments about my paper proposal, Professor Jameson took my nearly-emptied glass and set it on the coffee table next to him. Then, in a gentle but swift motion, he pulled me into his lap, so that I sat facing him. I didn’t protest, but sat there, skirt riding up, feet dangling slightly off the ground, head swimming slightly, drunk not so much on the wine but on his intelligence, his ability to quietly exert power over me, and of course his sexy body, which was cradling my petite frame.

I noticed his eyes travelling from my slightly damp (the moisture from the snow was still lingering), long dark hair, to my neck and shoulders, exposed by the sweater that hugged my body. With a soft touch, he traced the outline of my lips, then brushed his fingers lightly down my neck and along my collarbone. His tall, strong build contrasted so with my delicate frame, and it thrilled me to have him touch me like that–as if we both knew he could break me if he wanted to, and yet he was so gentle. He laced his fingers through my hair, tilting my head back to place a soft, lingering kiss on my lips, escort bursa his tongue pushing into my slightly open mouth, as we sensuously explored each other through a kiss that seemed to stop time. Then, twisting me around in his lap so that I sat with my back against his chest, Professor Jameson encircled one arm around me, holding me firmly to him, and with the other hand, traced soft circles up my inner thigh, all the while kissing me softly on my earlobe and my neck and shoulders.

Pushing aside my panties, he growled in my ear–“spread your legs for me, slut”–and I complied, despite a mental somersault over his crude yet sexy command. He ran his fingers up and down my pussy lips, sighing a little as he felt the smooth softness of my shaved pussy. Exploring my wetness, getting his fingers wet, no doubt, he found the hard little nub of my clit and teased it lightly with the tip of his finger. I gasped, letting my legs fall even wider apart. After teasing my clit like that for a while, he slowly dipped a finger inside my pussy, sliding it in, and bending his finger to massage my g-spot–how he found it so quickly, I had no idea. After a few minutes, he was able to work a second finger into my tight hole, and started finger-fucking me vigorously, so that I couldn’t conceal my soft moans, my head swimming from the wine and the physical pleasures washing over me. I let my head drop back softly against him, breathing in the intoxicating mixture of his warm flesh and cologne.

How long Professor Jameson had me in his lap, teasing me like this, I don’t know. I lost all sense of time, my entire mind and being dissolved in a netherworld of pleasure. I could feel his hardness beneath me, bulging and straining through his jeans. I wanted him so badly, and yet we had an unspoken understanding that though I had initiated this lustful and forbidden relationship, tonight would proceed on his terms, at his pace. He seemed to delight in teasing me to the point where I was crying out for release, and he knew just how to touch me, from brushing his lips against the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my back, to biting me teasingly on my shoulder, to flicking his finger lightly over my clit, bringing me right to the brink of orgasm but not allowing me to have that full satisfaction.

Then, he gently pushed me off his lap so that he could stand. I swayed unbalanced, and he put out a hand to steady me, giving my ass a hard squeeze for good measure. I was gratified to see the lust burning in his eyes, an intensity that mirrored my own. Saying nothing, he pulled off my sweater and skirt, leaving me in just bra and panties. He stood there for a while, his gaze travelling over me. Standing in his living room filled with Chinese art, I wondered if he saw me as some sort of Asian artefact, too. He lightly caressed my breasts, teasing my nipples so that they were impossibly hard, poking through the lacy material of my bra.

Gently but firmly pushing me down onto the thick, soft rug in front of the fire, Professor Jameson then took off his own sweater and shirt. I lay there, my black hair fanned out across the soft yarns of the rug, chest heaving with desire and anticipation. “You want me bad, don’t you?” he said in Chinese. I was taken aback–though his was an upper-level history class, there was no expectation of language skills, and so I had never really heard him speak the language before. For some reason, it was sexy, hearing the Chinese words formed on the lips of a white guy. I answered back softly, my voice husky with desire–“Yes. I want to make love to you.”

“Who said anything about making love?” my professor retorted wickedly. Now he returned to speaking in English. “Since the first day you walked into my class, since your first question in office hours, your first paper, I’ve noticed you. And you know you wear those short skirts to class because you didn’t want me to just notice your mind, because you want me to fuck that tight little body of yours. You’re going to get it good tonight.” He knelt down, straddling my face, and commanded coolly, “Open my fly, take out my cock, and suck it.”

I reached up with my hands to comply, and he roughly grabbed my wrists and pinned them down, my arms stretched above me. “No–with your teeth.”

What could I do but obey? I grabbed the tab of his jeans between my teeth and pulled with an out-and-down motion. The first button popped open… and then I realized he was wearing button-fly jeans. If my teeth had not been clenched around the denim, I would have grinned–it was unbelievably sexy. I could smell his sex, it was hard and bulging and actually adding to my difficulty unbuttoning his jeans. I kept on pulling downwards, button by button, until his fly was open. Then, gently, carefully, using my teeth still, I grabbed the waistband of his silky boxers and pulled them down, his rigid cock springing out. If his hands had not been pinning my arms down, I would have been rubbing furiously on myself right now, and probably have cum in just seconds. As it was, I eagerly took the length of his cock into my mouth, sucking for all I was worth. I was too lustful to hold back and tease him–I wanted to taste him.

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