The Professor And The Ballerina

This story has a very slow build ... It isn't a stroke story, so give it time ... It's for the passionate reader of erotica ☺

I woke up earlier than usual this morning so that I could drive my roommates, Shaun and Anabelle, to the airport. I was too tired to be conscious of the jealous pang I felt toward those lucky two, and their being able to travel home for the Thanksgiving holiday. The traffic on the bridge as I was driving back made me grumpy and impatient, and by the time I got to rehearsal, I was annoyed and awake ... sans caffeine.

Of course Dana, (our prolific Choreographer and resident instructor,) was in an even grumpier mood - as per usual, no less - and he was taking it out on the 7 of us who had shown up to this brutal rehearsal, (and please don't think I'm being snobby when I say that the out of the seven people who had actually shown up for our rehearsal, 6 of them desperately needed to do so; because they were either off-tempo, or lazy, or both!) I was only there because I was a principal dancer, knew what I was doing, and was expected to help teach the less skilled dancers in our company.

I was annoyed that I had to dance with Brett, (the understudy for our Prince Charming,) rather than my real, partner, (and aforementioned roommate,) Shaun. (Don't get excited, Shaun is gay, and that's not where this story is headed.)

Turn, turn, turn, ...as I'm practicing Aurora's dance in the enchanted forest – Sleeping Beauty – with stupid Brett, my stand-in Prince Charming. I can feel my body responding more rigidly, my muscles more tense than they might normally be because I wasn't dancing with Shaun. Shaun and I had lovely chemistry and perfect timing, and when we danced together, we evoked emotion in one another that translated to the audience. We took them on a ride. Shaun and I, we sizzled ... Brett and I, we barely simmered.

I lean back for a dip in Brett's arms and I could see the lust in his eyes – his undressing of me – which only makes me disgusted and on guard. Dana interrupts my silent disdain with a bark to "dance with meaning and passion, Miss Anderson! Meaning and passion!" like I always do ... what's wrong with me?!? I had to get out of my own head. I suddenly realized that I hadn't smiled all day. I smiled a mostly fake smile, and tried to relax.

We took a 2 minute break, and I guzzled eight ounces of water. I paced around the studio, kicking air with my foot, and rolled my head in half-circles. I leaned down to stretch out my legs and back, and breathe deeply ... avoiding eye-contact with all. I'm frustrated and trying to let it go ...I attempt to convince myself that only this moment matters: Brett is Shaun, and that I honestly don't care about rehearsing this performance instead of flying home for Thanksgiving, because my Aunt Stephanie is coming to the opening in two weeks, and she is bringing her best friend with her ... her best friend who just happens to be on the Board of the ABT, (American Ballet Theater.)

I smile. And this time it's real.

Getting accepted to the ABT at nineteen would make a huge impact on my career. That much I'm aware of, and besides, I mused silently, turkey makes you fat, anyway. I grinned sideways at no one in particular, and let the passion flow through me as I began our pas de deux again, momentarily forgetting how deeply I despised Brett. This pleased Dana greatly.

"That's it, Ellie!" He clapped his hands together, and after we had finished, he dismissed us early for the holiday, with a stern warning to stay away from carbs and alcohol.

Of course the only reason my parents let me attend Cornell was because I made a deal to major in Anthropological Archaeology. What a little "daddy's girl" I was, which is why I had forever and always been "everyone's favorite." As I unlaced my toe shoes, my mind wandered to the monstrous paper I had yet to finish for my Anth320 course, one that I actually hadn't even begun because I'd been completely consumed with Sleeping Beauty and being the most perfect Aurora anyone had ever seen grace the stage.

After ninety minutes of living in Aurora's dreamy forest-world, and sweating out my frustration, I made my way across the frosty campus to Your class – Anth320. I arrived at the tail-end of Your instructions that we break off into study groups and discuss how our papers were developing; bouncing ideas, issues, road-blocks off one another.

Class, however, was nearly empty, (just the die-hards who wanted to ace Your course, and me.) Emily was the only other person there from my group. She smiled and brightened when I walked in. I like Em, she's easy to talk to, (despite my breezy, privacy-please-demeanor,) and she seemed like she had other interests besides rocks, bones and isopleths. We never really hung out beyond class – I only have heard her mention that she has an older boyfriend, and she wants to be a cartographer. Our contempt for being lone souls on campus allowed us to bond on this particular day.

"What sucks is that I won't get to see any of my family before I go to Italy for winter semester." I lamented, but in truth I wasn't really all that saddened by the thought of this, even though I did love my family. I guess my independence had some positive aspects, after all.

"You can come to my folks' place in Syracuse for turkey dinner, if you want." Emily proposed. "My mom is like Martha fucking Stewart, I know she'd be thrilled to have someone new to fawn over." Emily offered. "And she loves going to the ballet, so she'd be glued to your side all night, totally enamored by the prima ballerina, pestering you with questions and showing you off to her friends." Emily smiled sweetly.

I smiled politely, ready with my response. "Thanks, that's really kind, but I just want to ... I don't know – sleep in and just chill. Write this paper. Things have been so stressful lately. And I finally have the place to myself. Maybe it will be good..." She looked slightly deflated. I felt kind of bad for not taking her up on her offer.

"No worries, Ellie, I totally get it. It will be good for you to just relax." Emily smiled thoughtfully at me. "I'll bring you leftovers if you want." She winked at me, and then we got down to actually discussing our papers.

You walk over to our desk as Emily is packing her bag to leave. I don't look up as you stop just in front of me, but I feel you there. I smell you there as I read a lonely paragraph I just scribbled down.

My body temperature unwittingly on the rise, as my ears perk, and I suddenly feel flush and dizzy - my heart involuntarily races.

"Oh hey, Professor." Emily acknowledges you, zipping up her pack.

I look up, heart pounding, and notice your gaze is fiercely directed toward me. There's something about your crystal blue eyes that seem to pierce my very soul. I always feel so exposed around you. This time was no different – I was completely disarmed.

"Ellie, please come by my office after class." You demand firmly, but politely, and then dismiss us by walking off. My stomach flip-flops.

Emily shoots me a curious look, and I roll my eyes, wondering if this request had anything to do with my paper on "CULTURES: Exploration of Cultural Symbolism through Fantasy." I knew I had probably crossed a line with that when I had written in my declaration several weeks ago after we turned in our outlines. It seemed to be my theme lately with all of my professors: challenge authority.

I hug Emily a tentative, quick good-bye, and then high-tail it toward your quiet, dark office just down the hall from our now empty classroom. I feel like a ghost, tip-toeing down the silent hallway, the snow gently sprinkling a thanksgiving layer outside, and with each passing moment the population on campus dwindles to less and less. My soft step echos gently against the cool interior of the building, and the butterflies swarm furiously in my stomach.

Your office is smaller than a janitor's closet, the walls crackling with thirty-seven years of paint - currently a hypnotic sky-blue. You rule the miniscule space with your tall presence, making me feel tiny and childlike, as though I sense I'm about to be scolded. I secretly wish I had showered after ballet rehearsal, instead of just throwing on a cardigan and wrap skirt over my dance clothes, and tying my sweaty hair up in a ponytail. I could smell the ripe, sweet stench of my own body odor.

I unconsciously nibble on my fingertip, and stand in your doorway, waiting for you to acknowledge me. You know I am standing there, but refuse to meet my gaze. I knock gently on the frame of your door to try and steal your attention away from the paper you're reviewing. I shift the weight of my backpack, and quietly clear my throat.

"Sir?" I bit my bottom lip in embarrassment. I couldn't understand why I felt so disarmed around you. "You wanted to see me?" I inquired, quietly.

Still not looking up from your material, "Ellie, come on in, shut the door behind you."

I move inside and feel my heart beat harder. Was I actually trembling? My cunt felt flush with luscious heat. Wow. That was a rush. My eyes fired with quick, hot tears. I swallowed the feeling away, and tried my best to ignore my insides and concentrate on scholastics. I didn't try to decipher my feelings.

"Take a seat." You command, still not raising your gaze. I rest my bag against the weathered leg of your old chair, and sit down on the edge of the leather seat.

As I was thoughtfully composing my retort to the reprimand I was expecting from you, you lift your head, pause momentarily, and smile. I look away, shyly smiling with no will of my own to hide my desire. I suddenly felt silly – you reduce me to such a stupid little school-girl.

Then, again, there was the unmistakable rush of blood that flooded to my cunt, making me feel like a complete and unusual slut. I tried my best to focus. I sit on my hands to try and hide my disarmament from you, and also, in an effort to avoid the childish habit of nail-biting.

You let the silence settle between us, studying how I deal with the uncomfortable feelings that you had stirred within me.

"How are things, Ellie?" You ask me sincerely, disrupting the quiet. My fiery heart felt as though she'd explode if I opened my mouth to respond.

"Good." I manage a one-syllable word to escape from my pursed lips, clearing my throat, searching for the courage which seems to have escaped me.

"Good." You nod, reading every emotion that was flying through me, logging my reaction into the diary in your mind; narrowing your eyes as you assess my truthfulness.

I look down with lusty shame. The energy between us makes me dizzy.

"I heard you telling Emily Givens that you were staying in town, here - alone, for Thanksgiving. Is that true?" You are fatherly in tone, genuinely concerned.

I nod in confirmation, not meeting your gaze for fear that you will know just how much the timber and texture of your voice awakens the unfamiliar feeling of arousal within my tiny body.

"I'd like for you to come over to my house then." You let the weight of your offer permeate your office ... surround me, engulf me, enticing.

My eyes meet yours in surprise. This was not what I had expected. I noticed a change in your eyes. Do you feel the same passionate connection as I do?

"My wife, Anne, is a fantastic cook. We'll be doing the traditional spread: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes ... and it will just be my wife, and our two boys, Eric and Jeremy." You smile, reading me to see what I thought of your offer.

It was a far departure from the fantastic, erotic scene I had conjured up in my head, but then again, I knew you were married, so what did I expect? I literally shook my head to clear my thoughts.

I immediately dismiss my infatuation with you as a silly, school-girl crush-on-her-sexy-smart-professor, and decide to approach this offer with real maturity and professionalism.

"Sir, I absolutely couldn't impose like that. I feel like I'd be intruding on a very personal moment for your and your family. I mean, after all, it's Thanksgiving." Kudos, to me for the polite decline.

"I insist, Ellie." Your tone of voice didn't sound like you were going to accept anything less than my submission to your request.

I wanted to take you up on it so very badly, if only to have the chance at seeing where you live; what your life is like. I had met your wife before at an event on campus, but only briefly. She seemed like a lovely, charismatic, intelligent woman. I could tell you loved and adored her deeply.

"I already spoke with Anne, and she was adamant that I invite you. We would love to have you, Ellie." You smile at me, and my heart feels like she's melting into molten lava and dripping like hot wax throughout the insides of my being.

After a long and arduous pause I relent.

"Ok." I squeak out a small surrender, trembling a little from simply being out of my element – my realm of expertise. I felt like I had little control over my feelings and emotions and desires.

You're pleased with me. This I can sense.

"We do an early dinner. Be there at 4pm – just bring a bottle of wine. That's' it! We have everything else covered." You scribble your address on a piece of paper, tear it from the pad and hand it to me. Our fingers touch briefly, sending hot charges racing through my body.

"See you then." Our eyes lock and your warm smile sears into my memory. I am the first to look away – as though you were playing a game of "chicken" with me – who could hold the wanton gaze the longest.

I turn and walk out of your office, feeling you watch me as I go. My gentle footsteps echoing through the quiet halls of the now empty building. My ass swaying unintentionally outlined by the tights and the wrap skirt, I feel your eyes undressing me as I go.

Thanksgiving Day – 4pm

I pull my car over to the side of the curb in front of your house. My hair is clean, shiny, soft and straight - hanging well past my shoulders, my little bangs sheltering my forehead and framing my fresh, moist face, cherubic face.

I'm dressed in a cute, slightly revealing Rebecca Beeson top of deep cranberry, which hugs my curvy body like a second skin, along with a perfectly tailored pair of jeans, and knee-high chestnut brown boots. I throw my vintage camel coat over my shoulders and glide to your door. I ring the bell with the bottom of the wine bottle, shifting my weight back and forth in nervousness.

You open the door a few moments later, giving me just enough time to let my mind wander and wonder what the night had in store.

"Happy thanksgiving, Professor–" I smile nervously, fluttering my eyes, unwittingly and glancing down in embarrassment.

You cut me off. "Leo, please, Ellie." You insist on the informal, taking the apple pie, (that I had lovingly baked earlier this morning,) out of my right hand, scolding me with your eyes for having done so, but smiling in delight at my culinary skills.

God, you're so handsome in dark navy pants and a dark grey mock turtleneck sweater. I can smell your aftershave mixed with the scent of a well cared for home.

I hold out a bottle of pinot noir with a silver ribbon wrapped around the neck.

"From my family's vineyard in Sonoma." I smiled, nervously, innocently.

A breathe of silence.

"I haven't had a chance to try it yet, but my brother told me that they only made six barrels, and he's ..." I was rambling on now because I didn't know how to deal with the sexual tension that permeated between us, standing in the doorway.

"Come on in, Ellie." You gently take the bottle from my hand, and stand to the side, allowing me to enter.

"Let me put these down so I can get your coat." You set the wine and the pie on the little side table in the entryway, and take my coat from my shoulders.

I breath deeply, keenly aware of the electricity that coursed between us, you behind me. I could feel your breath ever so faintly graze my neck. What were you thinking?

"Relax, Ellie." You press my shoulders down as you remove my coat. You sweep my hair from getting caught up in the removal of it, and I feel tingly inside.

I sigh deeply, and try to oblige.

You shut and lock the front door, and open the hall closet to hang my coat up. I immediately take inventory of your house; noticing every single detail of the entryway in front of me, which seems to lead toward the kitchen. The hardwood floors gleamed with a thick coat of glossy wax, and then were swallowed up by creamy shag carpet as they met the edge of the sunken living room to my left.

"Where is your family?" I inquire, suddenly and keenly aware that your house was devoid of any typical Thanksgiving holiday sounds.

No children playing or running about, no smells of turkey roasting in the oven or pumpkin pie cooling on the window sill.

"Ah, yes." You nod and explain, "I tried to call you yesterday at your house, but couldn't get a hold of you." You smile, apologetically, and before you can continue, I interrupt.

"Oh, Prof – I mean, Leo, I'm so sorry. I turned my ringer off and our answering machine is broken." I stammered an apology, suddenly feeling like an idiot who had intruded on You.

"No, no, please, Ellie." Your voice and stature took command.

"Don't be sorry. What happened was my wife and kids had to go up to her parents house in Hartford. My wife's mother slipped and fell down a flight of icy stairs yesterday morning." You explained with genuine empathy in your voice.

"Oh my God! That's terrible! Is she ok?" I ask.

You smile, brush a few stray hairs from my eyes, "Yes, she'll be fine, but her husband, Anne's father, needed help – he can't cook to save his life, the poor guy."

You laugh. I love the sound of your laugh, so husky, heartfelt and full of sincerity.

"Since we couldn't get a hold of you, Anne insisted that she take the kids and go, and that I stay home, so that you wouldn't show up to an empty house and an odd note taped to the front door." Your grin melted me. I tried not to read into it too much.

"Well, I," I look down at my boots, suddenly saddened by the thought of not getting to be here with you. "I, uh, guess I should go then."

"Ellie!" You admonish me. "Nonsense." You gently grab my arm and point me in the direction of the kitchen, nudging me gently.

You pick up my pie and the bottle of pinot from the table, and nod your head toward the hall, indicating for me to follow you as you make your way to the kitchen.

"I can cook, Ellie." You laugh again. "I think the bottle of wine you brought will go perfectly with the Butternut Squash risotto I'm going to make for us later."

My head was swirling, this was an unbelievable turn of events! You and me – alone in your house with a private dinner in our future?

"What can I get you? Something to drink? Are you hungry? I put out some cheese and crackers in case you were famished when you got here." You indicate the beautiful spread of cheeses and crackers, olives and bread on the butcher's block we were leaning against in the kitchen. There was a fire roaring in a brick fireplace on the other end of the big family room that was attached to the kitchen.

"This looks amazing." I carve off a little corner of Gouda and place it atop a water-cracker disk, gently nibbling in my attempt to quell my insecurity.

"Wine? Water?" You ask, opening the refrigerator and pulling off a cork from an already opened bottle of white wine. You pour yourself a little libation in a beautiful, thin crystal glass.

"Sure, some wine would be lovely." I needed a little something to take the edge off. I decided I would just take this situation moment-to-moment, convinced that I was completely out of my element, but relishing in the unexpected, and curious as to what might happen next.