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“We’re all adults here,” my French Films professor pointed out so astutely, “but I feel it courteous to warn you that there are some sexually explicit scenes in this next film.”
And with those words, he had the immediate attention of every half-asleep student in the room.
“Because I believe this is an excellent film and a good representation of French culture, I’m going to show it. But because I value my job and in no way want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, I’m making the essay following this film extra credit. If you don’t want to write the paper, don’t come to next week’s class when I’ll be showing the film.”
And wouldn’t you know it, all fourteen students in the tiny, bullshit elective class showed up to watch. He was right, there were some very steamy scenes in the film, the title of which I can’t remember. He was also right that it was a decent film, unafraid of its sexuality as are many French films. And the content was no more explicit than some R-rated films I’ve seen in mainstream cinema, and certainly no worse than late night premium cable channels.
As the lights came back up, I looked around the room to see everyone else shifting uncomfortably in their seats, or staring intently at our professor, M. Stewart, proudly displaying their fake comfort level with the content we’d just seen. We knew based on the three films we’d watched so far in the semester, there’d be a post-viewing discussion and an expectation of total class participation. And, of course, there’s only so long you can hide in a class of slightly more than a dozen students.
“So,” M. Stewart began, “Who would like to start off our discussion?”
One of the squirrel-eyed fakers shot her hand up, and M. Stewart nodded once in her direction.
“I thought the character development was excellent.” she spat out, likely feeling that she was off the hook for having contributed her weak support of the film.
“How so?” he folded his arms as he encouraged her to say more.
“Well,” she could no longer maintain eye contact, twiddling her pen against her notebook, “I mean, watching Sandrine go from a shy woman who let people walk all over her to a confident woman was interesting to watch.”
“Mmm..” M. Stewart nodded, though clearly not satisfied with her stiff answer.
A male student from the back of the room spoke up. “I liked how the director didn’t spend a lot of time on wardrobe and makeup. His characters are natural and so are their surroundings. Gives a real life feel to his work.”
“Very observant, thank you.” M. Stewart crossed the room and stood very close to my desk. “Anyone else want to comment more on Sandrine’s development as a character?”
I waved my hand slightly, just to catch his attention. “Jane,” he nodded.
“I think Sandrine’s development as a person and as a woman were tied to her sexual awakening.”
A slow smile crept across M. Stewart’s face, and he relaxed against the dry erase board, folding his arms. “But, so little of the film focuses on Sandrine’s sex life. Can you back up your claim that sexual awakening is a central theme?”
“Well, in the beginning of the film, she is a pushover in all things – work, her love life, with her friends and family. But when she meets Etienne, for what seems like the first time in her life, she is challenged both mentally and physically. I think this is where she draws her character strength and motivation.”
This seemed to loosen things up a bit, and the rest of the class found it easier to comment on all things related to the film, without being so focused on saying something that would make them seem like a pervert – or worse, a virgin.
Afterward, the room cleared out pretty quickly. I finished packing up my things and headed toward the door, just to the left of M. Stewart’s desk. I’d just opened the door to leave when he said my name.
“Jane,” he looked amused, “I wanted to thank you for your contribution to class today.”
“Oh, um…” I stammered, caught off guard, “Sure. I enjoyed the movie, thanks for showing it.”
“I must say I was surprised and a little impressed by your…candor.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk, peering at me from atop his black rimmed glasses.
I pulled the door back closed and stepped fully back into the classroom, now straight in front of his desk. Monsieur Stewart – or, Mike, as I’d happened to hear his colleagues refer to him – was one of my favorite professors. He graded fairly, let us out of class a few minutes early from time to time and seemed to understand that in grand scheme of things, his elective was of less priority to the majority of us who weren’t French majors. He was clean-cut, but not dorky. Attractive, but not distractingly so. He was chill, but kept shit moving in his classes. He was relatable but didn’t try too hard to be everyone’s buddy and insert himself in his students’ lives. Which is why I found him singling me out weird and a little frustrating.
“Monsieur Stewart,” I stuck one hip out, and braced my hand on şişhane escort my heavy tote bag. “Are you trying to say you’re surprised that I brought up sex before anyone else did?”
He tossed his head back and laughed, seeming to find me a lot funnier than I intended to be. When he returned his gaze to mine, I raised my eyebrows, impatiently reminding him that he had not answered me.
He suddenly became more serious again, “Every time I show this film, it is interesting for me to see who the first person will be to broach the subject of the film’s sex theme.”
“You still haven’t asked me a question.” I continued staring at him, though I set my tote bag on the floor. “Do you want to know why I am so comfortable talking about sex? Do you want to know I felt pleasure watching those scenes?”
M. Stewart narrowed his eyes. “I’m not allowed to ask you those questions. They’re inappropriate.”
“I have found that women have the power when it comes to sex. It explains repression, rape, and a lot of the other fucked up things about American sexual culture. We’re obsessed with sex, but we’re unable to just be who we are. As human beings, we can trace the root of almost everything we do back to sex.”
He cocked his head to the side inquisitively, as if challenging me to say more.
“Although I will say, I find men to be the more predictable of the two sexes.”
Another small smile, “I don’t think many would argue with you about that,” he said.
Without pause, I raised my sweater, and pulled my bra over my breasts. “For instance, I’ve just exposed my tits to you. We both know I’m not supposed to do that.”
He leaned back in his chair, pressing his palms against the back of his head. “How do we know that?”
“The college handbook, your wedding ring, the fact that you’re old enough to be my dad.”
“I’m supposed to tell you it’s inappropriate, report you to the discipline board and have you expelled permanently from the college. Aren’t you worried I’ll do that?”
“Do I look worried?” I tucked my sweater under my chin and used my free hands to caress the creamy skin of my smallish boobs, tweaking the ginger pink nipples a little. “I could lean over that chair, and feed one of these nipples into your mouth, without you ever asking me to or giving me permission. And you wouldn’t stop me.”
“No,” he responded with a dry voice, never taking his eyes from my chest, “I wouldn’t.”
I put my sweater back down and picked up my tote bag. “That’s why I’m so comfortable talking about it. You’re the one who showed us the film. How could I get in trouble for talking about it when that’s what we’re expected to do?”
“Not many women your age are that aware of their sexuality,” he offered, “In fact, I’m not sure many of them ever figure it out.”
Once again, I placed my hand on the doorknob. Before I left, I turned to M. Stewart, “I’d take care of that long, thick problem of yours,” I nodded to his crotch, “Those khakis are pretty unforgiving.
Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting that to happen on this average Tuesday. But I crossed the idyllic quad feeling satisfied with myself, and dying to get my fingers between my sopping pussy lips.
After the following week’s class, M. Stewart sat on his desk as I made sure I was once again the last to leave.
“I made myself cum thinking about you.” he offered plainly, as if he were reminding me of next week’s assignment.
“You’re not the only one.” I called over my shoulder as I left the room.
The following week, he somewhat angrily slapped a quiz on my desk. It had a “D” written on it, and he added, loudly enough for my classmates to hear, “Not your best, Jane. See me after class.”
I knew what he was up to, and I was fucking pissed. Beyond pissed. I stayed in my desk and waited for the room to clear out. As usual, he leaned against his desk, arms folded, as if he were waiting. I made no motion to move, nor did he. I did not speak. Finally he said, “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”
“Is this how you think this works,” I took my quiz and angrily threw it at his face, “You want me to ask you if there’s ‘anything, anything at all I can do to bring my grade up’ while I lean over your desk and bat my eyes?”
He looked at the floor, slightly embarrassed, and shifted his weight.
“Is this some kind of role playing bullshit to you?” I demanded. “There’s not a single wrong answer on that quiz.”
“I know,” he relented meekly, as he sat in the chair behind his desk, “And I never would have recorded that grade officially.”
“You’re being cheap,” I pointed my finger at him, once again standing before his desk. “Just ask for what you want. I’ll either give it to you, or I won’t. Either way, you’ll go home and stroke your cock imagining I did.”
“I’m sorry,” he offered.
“Don’t ever embarrass me like that in front of my classmates for something I don’t deserve.”
“I want to see you şişli anal yapan escort again,”
I stood up straight. “Be more specific.”
“I’d like to see your pussy.”
“Because I’ve already seen your tits. And I loved them, but I don’t know how long you’re going to keep this up and I’d like to see if the hair on your pussy matches your red hair before you get bored and give this up.”
“I’m not bored,” I said, “But I can’t show you today.”
He looked at me quizzically, “Are you on your period?”
I laughed, “No, but I’m wearing pants. And in order for me to spread my legs and show you my pussy properly, I’d have to take them all the way off. It won’t give me enough time to cover up if we hear someone coming down the hall.”
“Fair enough.” he shook his head, laughing, “I guess I should thank you for being smart enough to keep me from getting fired. At least one of us should be.”
“No one’s getting fired or kicked out,” I assured him. “That only happens when one person secretly loves the other and has a vendetta when the other person doesn’t feel the same way. Or when they both get sloppy.”
“I love my wife,” he looked me straight in the eyes, and I knew he meant it. I also knew no man in his position was strong enough to say no. For some reason, I felt no guilt whatsoever in exploiting that.
“I know,” I said, throwing my bag over my shoulder. “Pussy. Next week.”
As a gift from the weather gods, the last of the chilly winter weather gave way that following Tuesday to a pleasant, breezy spring day. I chose a black and white striped cotton maxi skirt with a white tank and gray cardigan. I wished it were warm enough for sandals, but settled for green flats instead. Obviously, I wore no underwear.
During class, I purposely crossed and uncrossed my legs several times. Once or twice I even hiked the floor-length skirt a little higher than necessary, revealing my smooth calves but nothing else. I pulled my purple polished toes from my shoes and ran them up and down the legs of the desk. I smiled to myself everytime I heard M. Stewart lose his train of thought, or stumble over his words. At 10:25, I made myself a bet that he would end class early. I thought, ‘If he ends this class before 10:50, I’m treating myself to Starbucks’. I smiled to myself at 10:43 as I struggled to decide between a caramel macchiato and a vanilla latte.
I left with everyone else, in part to torture M. Stewart, but also to throw off anyone who might have started noticing me hanging back. I went to the restroom down the hall to kill time for everyone else to leave. While I waited, I did a hygiene check – breath, pits, crotch.
I went back to the classroom and found M. Stewart making no motion to pack up his things. He was sitting in his chair with his legs propped up on the desk, in that cliched, hyper-masculine power pose.
“I knew you were coming back,” he looked at me over his shoulder. Maybe he needed to say that, needed me to know that I hadn’t tricked him.
I dropped my bag and tapped on his legs. Obediently he dropped them to the floor. I leaned against his desk, and used my wrists to scoot my butt farther back. I used my feet to turn his chair toward me, and braced one on each side. Without an awkward amateur striptease, I hiked my skirt up to my hips and let my knees fall apart. I chucked to myself as I imagined visiting the gyno, while he was probably experiencing one of the naughtiest moments of his life. Though I acted cavalier, it was truthfully one of the most erotic of mine, too.
He sucked a breath in and stared at my cunt. I leaned farther back and used my fingers to spread my lips, allowing him to see my tight opening. Probably my asshole, too.
“Hmmm…” he seemed to be considering something.
“Your pubic hair is just how I pictured. Dark red and trimmed. I’m surprised.”
“Surprised? Most redheads have carpet that matches the drapes.”
He nodded. “I like it, but I thought most girls your age didn’t like any hair. I thought most of you were shaved or waxed bald.”
“Why am I a ‘girl’ today? The first time we talked like this, I as a ‘woman’.”
“Are you always going to mince my words? Challenge everything I say?” He didn’t seem perturbed at all.
“I’m not offended, I just wonder why the switch.” I explained, “I have to believe there’s a reason you think of me as a young girl today, with my pussy spread open in front of you, as opposed to thinking of me as a woman the day I showed you my tits.”
He didn’t answer me. Instead, he inhaled deeply. “I can smell you from here.” He stated flatly.
“Does that gross you out?”
“Not at all. You smell nice. Aroused.”
“I am aroused. Very aroused.”
“You’re an exhibitionist,” he clarified proudly, “You like showing yourself to me.”
“I don’t know about that,” I laughed, “But this is pretty hot.”
“Can I touch şişli bdsm escort you?”
I thought for a moment. “No.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I offered honestly.
He stitched his eyebrows, confused.
“I don’t want you to touch me, but I haven’t decided why yet.”
He leaned forward, still not touching me, but bringing his face closer to the action. “Don’t you think it would feel good?”
“I think it would feel amazing,” I panted, “I need to come so bad. I think I would orgasm the second you touched me. But for now, no.”
He looked me in the eyes, which signaled me to put my skirt and legs down. I saw the disappointment in his face and decided I couldn’t wait until I got to the dorm to get myself off. I leaned over his desk and brought my skirt up over my ass. I ran my hands over my cheeks, pulling them apart and letting them slap closed over and over again. It caused the sensations to build stronger in my pussy. I ran a finger over my asshole and spread my pussy lips, offering him a different angle. When I could no longer stand the pressure, grabbed onto the desk with both hands and grinded myself against the wood ledge. It felt rough, but I had the fabric of my skirt to protect my skin and I was in complete control of the speed. Complete control. Just how I liked it. I puffed and grunted with my face against the cool laquered wood surface, and pictured him watching the wetness slip from between my lips as my clit smushed against the hard surface. I came hard but kept quiet. I reached behind me once again and spread my labia, offering him what I felt certain was a creamy, whitish cavern of bright red pussy.
When I caught my breath, I stood straight and let my skirt fall. I half expected when I turned around to see M. Stewart masturbating, or at least rubbing his cock from the outside of his pants. Instead, I found him leaned back in his chair, relaxed, with his chin cradled in his fingers as if he were viewing a piece of modern art.
Without another word, I grabbed my bag and left. This time, he didn’t stop me.
I called M. Stewart to make an appointment for extra help with classwork. Obviously, I didn’t need the help and he knew it. Most students email their professors to set these things up, but I figured the least amount of evidence between us gave us the greatest chance of plausible deniability. He didn’t question me when I made the appointment, and didn’t say anything raunchy or weird. At the end, he offered, “We’ll meet in my office, in Turpin Hall, instead of the classroom.” I could only take that to mean that his office was more private and afforded us more opportunities.
I hadn’t decided what I’d show M. Stewart this time, or do to him. I thoroughly enjoyed the build up, and I also knew that touching each other would give way to fucking in one way or another, and that would be the beginning of the end of this fun little game. Neither of us was in love, and I doubted either of us was particularly attracted to the other when it came right down to it. Over the weekend, I’d seen M. Stewart with his wife at the coffee shop. She wasn’t a supermodel but definitely a polished, petite blonde with a tight, tanned body. The complete opposite of tall, plain me with cellulite and a few stretch marks from puberty. I wasn’t fat my any means, and not ugly, but I assumed I wouldn’t exactly be his type under any other circumstances. I also knew I had no reason to be self-conscious. I owned this man at this point, and had owned him since I showed him my tits after class almost a month ago. So funny how men work.
I came to his office and knocked on the closed door. He opened it and motioned for me to come in. I noticed neatly arranged textbooks in stark contrast to the paperwork and empty coffee cups on his desk.
I sat in the chair next to his desk.
“No skirt today?”
“I want to see your cock.”
“It’s not hard right now.” he blinked.
“I bet it won’t take long.” Sure enough, the half-hard shaft he pulled from his trousers stood at a piercing full mast within seconds.
“Seems I’m not the only exhibitionist.” I chided him.
“I guess not. What are we going to do with this?” He gestured to his lap.
“Why do we have to do anything with it?” I asked. “I stood with my tits out and bared my pussy to you for minutes on end.”
“This feels different.”
“I don’t know.” He admitted. “I guess it just feels like if a guy has his cock out, he should be doing something with it.”
This made me laugh. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know why.”
“Well, while I have you uncomfortable and vulnerable, I want to talk about something.”
“I think I know why I don’t want you to touch me.”
He leaned back, cock still jutting from his pants. “Why am I afraid to hear this?”
“I want you to pay me.”
His face all the sudden became concerned. “Excuse me?”
“I want you to pay me if this goes any further.”
“You know you’re upping the stakes from ‘fired’ to ‘incarcerated’, right?”
“Do you honestly think I would tell anyone? You think you’re the only one with career aspirations that this would fuck up?”
He relaxed a little. “I’m not wealthy,” he offered, “Why do you feel the need to ask me for money for something you know we’ll both enjoy?”
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