Author's note: I took a break from continuing the other series that I'm working on for this story, which was inspired by one of my fans. Enjoy!
Samantha, a graduate student in my seminar on French literature, was late to class. When she had joined the department more than a year ago, in the fall after finishing her undergraduate degree, I had barely noticed her. She was a quiet type, diffident in the presence of her fellow students and reluctant to share her ideas in class. Just another lost student who had strayed into grad school in hopes of avoiding the "real" world, I thought. But after her first year, it was clear that she had undergone a dramatic change.
I always teach graduate seminars with the chairs in a circular formation – I find that it encourages discussion and puts the students at ease – so I had a very good view of Samantha that day as she entered the classroom ten minutes after we'd started discussing the assigned reading. She was wearing a very revealing white tank top and a short plaid skirt.
I couldn't help but stare as she sat at the tiny desk and crossed her legs, lifting her ass slightly and pulling down her skirt as best she could. I glanced up at her and saw her smiling at me. She had caught me looking.
Upset at myself for the lack of focus during class, I snapped back to attention. Michael, one of the best students in the class, was making a point about the affinity in prose styling between Camus and Houellebecq, but Samantha's entrance had made me drift off somewhere in the middle of his comments and lose track of his point. I had to improvise.
"How many of you agree with that?" I asked the class, trying to avoid looking at Samantha.
"I agree on the thematic level," she said, and I was forced to look at her, "but not on the stylistic level. There are too many differences to count."
This was indeed quite a change. The old Samantha never would have spoken up so boldly in class. I wondered what had happened to her over the summer. Was it merely a case of being a few months older, more mature? But why had she begun to dress in such a provocative way?
For the rest of the hour, we discussed the reading plan for the rest of the semester: de Sade, Bataille, Céline and Millet, among others. The title of my seminar was "Textualité / Sexualité: Narrative Theory and Eroticism."
Despite what outsiders might consider to be rather prurient subject matter, I strove to keep the class discussion focused on theoretical, not physical questions.
At the end of the session, the students slowly trailed out of the classroom, all except for Samantha. She approached me as I was shoving my lecture notes back into my messenger bag.
"Hi professor Carver."
She flipped a stray piece of black hair over her shoulder. She was quite petite, probably 5'0" or so, and her stature afforded me an amazing view of her breasts, which were large for her diminutive frame. Through the sheer fabric of her tank top, I was able to ascertain that she was not wearing a bra, and that her small nipples were erect.
"Hello Samantha. Did you have a good summer?"
"Sure did!"
She smiled up at me with large brown eyes and full lips. For a split second I thought about what it would be like to kiss her. I quickly banished the thought from my mind.
"So, professor Carver..."
"Please, the grad students call me Alec."
"Alec."
She paused for a minute and played with her hair again.
"Alec, I just wanted to apologize for being so late to class. I didn't mean to cause a disturbance."
"Don't worry about it. Just try not to make it a habit."
"I won't."
"Anything else?"
She smiled at me and twirled her hair.
"Do you like my outfit?"
"Um, sure I guess," came my inarticulate response. This 24-year-old woman had reduced me to the level of an undergraduate!
"I saw you looking at me."
"I was looking at you because you came in late," I snapped, "make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Or what?"
"Or you're grade will be affected," I said, confused by her challenge to my authority. As a young professor (I was only 30) I was particularly sensitive about keeping control of my classroom.
"Darn," she said as she walked towards the classroom door. She turned around and looked me in the eyes before leaving, "I was hoping you would say you'd have to spank me."
She winked, then closed the door behind her. As she exited the room, I could see the top of a lower-back tattoo peeking out from above her skirt. I was sure that I hadn't seen it last semester, or perhaps I hadn't paid attention. Just another part of her change, I guess. I was young enough to know that those tattoos were called "tramp stamps," and had heard the jokes about how they gave men something to look at during doggy-style sex.
This thought accompanied me on my way to the nearest bathroom, where I jerked off into a wad of toilet paper, imagining Samantha's cute ass stretched over my lap, wriggling in vain to escape my blows. It took me all of what seemed like 15 seconds to cum.
Our next class meeting was a week later. Once again, all of the students were in their seats at the top of the hour except for Samantha. Part of me was relieved. Maybe she'd dropped the class?
I hoped that she'd stop her provocative behavior – after all, while it wasn't illegal or even strictly unethical for us to sleep together (after the semester was over, that is) I was going to be up for tenure soon, and I knew that a few of the more conservative members of the department had quite a bit of discretionary power with the tenure board. If there was even a whiff of scandal I could be out on the street.
Ten minutes into the class session, Samantha had still not shown up. I kept glancing at the door, expecting her to come in at any moment. I had spent the better part of my free time in the past week trying not to think about all of the dirty things I would like to do with Samantha in bed – or in my office, for that matter.
As I waited for her to arrive, I spoke to the class without thinking. I heard myself as an other, speaking somewhere outside of myself. My thoughts were with Samantha.
A full half-hour into the class period, the door creaked open. Samantha, dressed in a short black skirt and tight matching t-shirt slowly entered the classroom. I almost gasped when I noticed that she was not wearing a bra, and that her nipples were standing at attention. I felt my cock stir involuntarily as she took her place, once again at the desk directly across from me.
"Sorry, I'm late," she said, interrupting the class discussion, "I had car trouble."
"Quite alright," I mumbled, "let's stay on task."
As the discussion continued, I kept glancing under Samantha's desk. Her skirt once again rode up high on her thighs, but she kept her legs tightly crossed.
A few minutes later, as one of the more loquacious students droned on about critical theory, Samantha reached into her purse and pulled out a lipstick applicator. To my surprise, instead of touching up her already quite prominent lipstick, she palmed the tiny applicator and raised it to her lap, while slowly uncrossing her legs and hiking up her skirt in the process.
"Kevin," I said, "could you tell us what kind of theoretical intervention Bourdieu is making here?"
Somewhere as if in the distance, I heard Kevin begin what I knew would be a long monologue.
Samantha's legs were totally uncrossed now, and though the top of the desk prevented me from seeing what happened next, I watched Samantha's face and filled in the invisible action with my imagination. In my mind's eye, I saw her lift the lipstick to her well-trimmed pubic mound and begin to rub herself. Her face was in ecstasy as she worked the lipstick across her clit.
She was getting herself off in the classroom, in full view of me and the other students.
No one else seemed to have noticed; my position directly across from her afforded me the best view. As Samantha got closer and closer to orgasm, I became more and more aroused myself. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips as she rubbed her clit, even reaching up once to tweak one of her nipples.
A few moments later she was shuddering visibly, her face flushing as her entire lower body twitched under the desk. I couldn't help but look her in the eyes as she came down from her orgasm. She smiled at me.
"...and so cultural capital is sublated into a kind of absolute signifier," finished Kevin.
I snapped back to attention.
"Thank you, Kevin," I said, looking at the clock. There were only a few minutes left in the hour, but my heart was beating so fast I knew I wouldn't be able to continue the discussion. I came up with something on the fly:
"During the rest of our class time, I want you all to jot down some ideas for your final papers. It doesn't have to be anything too specific at this point, but I'd like to see that you've started to give it some thought. It's never too early."
The groans of a few of the students told me that they thought it was indeed too early in the semester to think about their final papers. Nevertheless, all of them – including, to my relief, Samantha – began writing busily. Five minutes later, they had passed their notes around the circle to me and shuffled out of the classroom.
I stuffed the papers into my messenger back and headed to the bathroom for a furtive wank. I thought about Samantha masturbating in front of me in the classroom, then pictured her on her knees sucking my cock. She begged for my cum, then lapped it up as it spurted onto her tongue. I came just as hard as the week before, and almost as quickly.
That day I left early to work in my home office. It's a myth about professors that we can set our own hours and that we don't work during the summer. Sure we can decide when and where we want to work, but we're still putting in upwards of twelve hours a day, and for salaries that are pathetic compared to lawyers and doctors. Still, it was nice to have a change of venue every once and a while, and I was happy to be home at my desk.
After writing several e-mails to various faculty committees, I pulled out the stack of paper ideas I'd collected at the end of seminar. I wrote stray comments in the margins of each one. Some were already quite developed, a few were incoherent, but most were simply mediocre. I sighed.
Then I came to Samantha's. As I read it, my pulse accelerated and my palms began to sweat. I feared for my job, but was incredibly turned on at the same time. The paper read:
