The Undergraduate

He's been staying over here a lot lately. Sleeping in his arms, lounging at his feet, writhing under his hand, I've been so happy and I feel a sense of fulfillment that I never thought was truly possible. He's a teacher at the university, and keeps early hours. My classes start early as well, but being a student, I have considerably fewer obligations. This leads to an early bedtime for him, but I usually stay up for an hour or so reading. For the most part, my reading consists of a good novel or perhaps a story on Literotica, but tonight, I got my hands on something far more interesting. It was poking out of his bag, and I knew instantly what it was. "Field Sketch Pad" it says on the cover, but he keeps a journal in it. I know I'm not supposed to read it, I'm under strict rules to respect his privacy, but honestly, I just couldn't help myself. The journal was in my grip within seconds, and my will-power was nothing more than a dim whisper in a far off distance. I caressed the cover like I was shaking a present. Flipping through the pages, promising myself I'd only skim through it, I happened upon his entry from a few months ago. I suppose the thing that really caught my eye was my name. So, I settled down with an orange soda and a clove cigarette and decided to read it through.

January 13, 2003

It's ten twenty pm. I should be sleeping. But erotic desire grows like the shadows that accompany the setting sun. I slept with Sara again this afternoon. Her bed of poppies makes me forget. I easily loose myself in indulgent sensual gratification with her. She stood bent over in front of the mirror. I pulled her panties down. They looked like wilted petals at her feet. She spread and extended her arms to brace herself. I suddenly grabbed my leather belt administering several blows to her tender young thighs and ass. I swung like my mother, in a maenad rage: indiscriminately. Red welts blossomed over her fertile pale flesh. Not exactly the flowers of spring. Somehow I thought that flora endemic only to Bard. She was moist like morning dew. She liked it. The crack of leather against leather and the feel of leather against flesh excited her more than I'd ever experienced. She always says, "To love is to serve" More likely an appropriate epitaph than a paean to sexual liberty. If she weren't getting it from me, she'd be getting it from someone else. After all, everybody's got to get their kink. But maybe I don't want the burden of that kind of confidence, so I unjustly disparage her lifestyle. However, she's safe with me. I know when to stop.

It didn't take me long to locate my own journal entry from the same day:

January 13, 2003

The handprints on my bedroom mirror catch the lamp-light like low hanging clouds in a blue sky. I can still hardly believe it. My afternoon started out as any other, in the regular way. Japanese class came to an uneventful end and Amber didn't even bother to ask me what I was doing for lunch. She knows me all to well. I caught her disapproving glare as I said goodbye and headed to his office. She of all people should understand what it's like to have a secret wish, someone you fantasize about, long for, but lack the courage to confess. She can understand the intensity of imagined lovers, those who we cherish from a distance, nearly bursting with the desire to share ourselves intimately with them. But she just glares.

I vividly remember the fantasy which spawned this unhealthy fascination with my english professor. It was my first day at the university, and I was already feeling miserably lost and small. I didn't know anyone, and the campus was an overwhelming maze. Everybody seemed to know what they were doing except me. So, map in hand, I found my way to my nine o'clock english class. A small group of students were standing outside the doorway. "Is this Mr. Johnson's first semester english?" I asked one of them. "Yeah," replied a girl with short dark hair, "But he's still holding class." Pleased that I was actually early, I was content to wait and passed the time by matching up my schedule with buildings on the cryptic campus map. After about ten minutes, it slowly became clear to us that the class were standing outside of was, in fact, our own. One of the girls tried the door handle, but it stubbornly refused to turn. Our entry barred, she did the only reasonable thing - she knocked.

This was my first sight of him. Irritated at the disruption, he opened the door to admit the late-comers, and told us that this was no way to behave in college. "I expect you to be on time from now on" he coldly shot at us. I shivered. Part of me was enraged at being treated with such contempt, but it excited me undeniably. I slunk along the back wall and felt ridiculous as I hopped onto a stack of chairs. He continued explaining the rules of the classroom, emphasizing punctuality, and I was quickly enchanted by his voice. His words moved through my body, pulsed over my skin, and made me imagine what he might sound like in the grips of lust. My imagination took hold of me and ran. "Ms. Connelly," he would say, "I would like you to stay after class so we can discuss your tardiness." I would demurely agree, unable to combat his cool confidence. His large hands would grasp my waist and bend me over his desk, secure in the knowledge that I would offer no resistance. Then this cruel disciplinarian would lift up my skirt, slide down my panties, and administer his punishment. Large palm-prints would appear in red on my now bare skin. My flesh sufficiently warmed, I would hear the distinct sound of unzipping.

Lost in this fantasy, I almost failed to notice dismissal. I tried to catch his eye before I left, but he was all business. This is how our relationship had remained for the last two years. He had indulged me in idle conversation, even forming something of a friendship with me. So I dutifully run to his office every day after class, eager to drink in whatever companionship he offers, and today was no different. My boots squished softly in the grass as I tread across the courtyard to the library. The glass doors which claimed to be automatic always kept me waiting too long before allowing access. My hurried footsteps echoed off the tall silent ceiling before bouncing around the sterile walls and coming back to me, promising me that I was almost there. The dull square pattern in the tile floor glinted reluctantly in the fluorescent light. The elevator button clicked pleasantly at me in recognition and a ding introduced a waiting car. The still quiet air was broken only by the comforting hum of an elevator working properly on the long ride up. Another ding announced my arrival at the third floor. Other students were busy at the computer terminals and took no notice of me. They couldn't sense my bubbling excitement, or detect the nervousness in my walk thinly concealed behind a casual composure. The continuous carpeted corridor was lined with shelves of books. "Fun With Whittling" said one cover in an attempt to be enticing, but it had no chance of distracting me. "Engineering Mathematics" said another in small block text, making no attempt to hide its arid nature. "120 days by Marquis de Sade" leered up at me from the desk on which it had been tossed. I rounded the corner and my landmark sleeping student lounged gracelessly in a chair.

The zipper on my backpack seemed to make a jingling discordant song as I approached his office door. I could see him through the window, his back turned to me. He was on the phone. I side-stepped the glass to avoid possible discovery, and waited for him to finish. I wanted to listen to his voice, allow it to wash over me and excite me, fill my mind with endless improbable possibilities. I quickly imagined him telling me to undress, to kneel, whispering my name before each command.

The click of the receiver being replaced on the hook woke me from daydream, and, calming my breath, I knocked on his door. His face disclosed no emotion as he turned to let me in. We had our usual chit-chat about nothing in particular. He complained about his job and I was glad to listen. His desire to leave the school meant we could rush right to my condo to hang out as we did most afternoons. My feet shuffled foolishly on the carpet as we made our way back out of the library and down to my car. I tried to maintain conversation on the short drive back to my condo, but I always find it so difficult to talk to him. What could I have to say that wouldn't sound completely childish and unimportant? What could he find intriguing about someone ten years his junior? So I tried to make jokes, be witty, talk like a daytime tv show host, speaking without saying anything. I stole glances at him as he sat beside me, so unbearably close to me. But this intense proximity ended as it always does when we pulled into my parking lot and made our way into my little home. I made the usual offers of pasta and snacks.

Completely absorbed in verbalizing the inventory of my kitchen, I didn't see him walk up behind me. My heart stopped, my lungs forgot their purpose, and my legs threatened to put me on the floor when he touched me. Large hands on my shoulders gently urged me toward the bedroom. Grasping for my self control through the gnawing confusion of emotion, I relaxed my body and allowed myself to be led. I focused on his movements, became intent on his grip and indicated directions. He stood me before a full length mirror hanging on my bedroom wall above a troop of stuffed penguins who stoically watched guard over my sleep. I couldn't look up, fearful to admit the reality of the situation to myself. Meeting his eyes would surely give him access to all my desires which I kept so carefully hidden. So I gazed numbly at the floor, lost in abashment, awaiting further instruction. His large hand pressed gently on my back, bending me forward. This daydream manifested around me sent me swimming in sensation, unable to think. Instinctively, I reached out to the wall for support and spread my legs, willingly vulnerable. His soft touch on my skin felt like warm milk and I trembled in famishment for him as he slid my panties to the floor. Metal clinking against metal was the unmistakable noise of the thick leather belt being undone. The room was suddenly full with the sharp crack of leather against leather. I waited tentatively, wondering if he somehow knew that pain was the thirst I longed for him to quench. He was quick to answer my suspicions.

I jumped at the sudden strike upon my skin, crying out in surprise. Blows continued to fall, each expertly aimed to form a symmetry of welts along my body. Small screams leapt from me each time he introduced the punishment to my flesh, but my body betrayed to him my pleasure, flooding my thighs with evidence of enjoyment. The incessant bite of his belt found me again and again, and I became weak with the elixir of healing hurt. Each spark of searing agony was a point of connection with him. I was lost, no longer aware of my surroundings, my senses used only to feel him and the parts of me he kissed with pain. The soft carpet-muffled clatter alerted me that he had satisfied his hunger for my screams and cast his implement down, but I was too dazed to register what this might mean. It wasn't until I felt his hands on my hips, the sleek, creamy head of his cock, that I realized my pleasure was to be heightened.

Slowly he pushed into me, allowing me to savor every second of our joining. I bent over further, my hands clutching at the pile of penguins I had lovingly stacked there, sending them toppling to the floor at our feet, breaking their ranks. Seeking stability, I placed the flats of my palms against the mirror in which he had viewed the effects of his craftsmanship wrought upon my face. I eagerly pushed myself toward him, my body driven by its gratification. I gasped and moaned in rhythm with his movements, giving him my voice, and he educed it from my chest with every thrust. Absolute freedom washed over me as I relinquished all control of myself to him, cumming at his unspoken command. Life flared within me, the flame licking at my body, and I was acutely aware of every part he touched. My knees shook and I fought to keep them under me. My hands clawed smudges into the cold glass and my weakened thighs wanted to fall. My senses abandoned to pleasure, I was only dimly aware of the effort to keep myself in position. I tossed my head and bucked my hips, like a mare battling her trainer. His body finally succumbed to his desire, and with a final powerful drive, he embedded himself deeply within me, filling me with the warm liquor of his felicity. Slowly he withdrew, and I stood, turning shyly, to meet his warm embrace. I collapsed against his chest, panting, sweating, reeling, gladly wrapped in his strong comforting arms. He softly stroked my hair and held me close in reward, and I felt as though I might cry from the sense of release. Content filled me, and I felt wholly satisfied.