An Awaening in English Lit

Note: This is more of a literary exercise, however there is an erotic scene or two. Also to you who have not read D.H. Lawrence's "Lady Chatterley's Lover" do so, and not just for the "fuck scenes" dp

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"Professor Donovan?" Constance called out to her English Literature professor as he turned into the hallway in front of her. The young tall dark bearded man turned, his piercing blue eyes catching hers. She felt blood flow into her cheeks every time he looked at her. It was a schoolgirl crush, which embarrassed her; she wasn't a schoolgirl any longer. She had been in University for seven years now working on a masters degree and had blossomed into a beautiful young lady from the shy awkward teenager she had been when she started. "About this 'C' on my paper, I thought I did better, you have never given me less than a 'B+' on anything before this."

They walked towards each other. He took the report she handed him and quickly thumbed through it. "You could do so much better Constance, all you wrote throughout this paper was how pathetic of a character Nicholas Nickleby was. The report was scathing."

"Well I hated the book professor." Constance looked up at him while he thumbed through her report.

"Listen to this, 'Charles Dickens tries to make a character that we feel sorrow and pity for, but instead all one can feel is distaste and anger at the poor choices he made...' You go through the whole review criticizing and belittling Dickens's writing style." He handed her back the paper.

"But that was my opinion, just because he is a classic author does not mean he's above criticism." She said, beginning to feel a small sense of anger creep up inside her.

"That's fine Constance, but if you are going to hate it, hate it a lot, show emotion in your convictions. You didn't convince me you hated it. It sounded more like you wanted to write a negative report." He smiled at her, "you have great writing abilities; you have to learn to express the dark parts of yourself though. I'm glad you came to me, I have been thinking about your grade on this a lot, I know that it is a big part of the course and it'll drag your average down. Why don't you do another report, I will average out the grades."

She was happy again, his soft blue eyes melted her heart. She pictured herself in his arms, holding her close to him, the smell of his wool shirt and cologne awakening her senses; his beard tickling the top of her head as he held her close.

"Constance," he said, snapping her back to attention, "by the end of the semester okay?"

"Yes sir. Any book you can suggest?" She asked.

"How about something a little more risqué than Dickens, Lady Chatterly's Lover is a book you may detest as well, another pathetic character, although I love her dearly. Have you ever read it?" He asked.

"No, but I've heard about it, and yes it is much more risqué than Dickens." She replied, "I promise, if I hate it, by the time you are done reading my report, you will too!"

He laughed, "I certainly hope not, but if you manage to sway me, an A+ will certainly adorn the front page."

"Thank-you again Professor, I won't let you down." She said and turned to walk to her next class.

At the end of her last class, she made her way to the Library. All the copies of D.H. Lawrence's best-known novel were out. Constance went to a local bookstore and bought a copy. She sat down in a nearby coffee shop and started reading. She did not intend to ever like the book. She despised writers who wrote of the woes of people; very few could make a character both pathetic and likable. Romeo and Juliet were just two horny kids who took sex too seriously and died needlessly. Yes, even Shakespeare was not immune to her cynicism. She read a few chapters and finished her coffee. She was just about to drop the book into her bag when Professor Donovan walked in.

"Constance," he spotted her and walked over. He looked down at the book, "I see you're getting started all ready, what do you think?"

"I'm only a few pages in, it's definitely well written." She replied, settling back into her seat and contemplating having another coffee.

"And of Lady Chatterley?" He asked. She could tell that he had an absolute fondness for the character.

"It's difficult to tell, like I said I am only a few pages in, I think I may grow fond of her, after all we do share the same name." She lied, already destining herself to hate the Lady. She was feeling something else to, a hint of jealousy.

"Well, I'm sure you will love her." He said. He pulled up a chair beside her, "would you like to stay and have a cup of coffee with me, or were you just leaving? I promise not to discuss literature at all." He laughed then took a drink out of his steaming cup."

"I was about to head home, but one more cup won't hurt me." She motioned to the lady behind the counter to refill her cup. He broke his promise and all they talked about was literature she didn't mind, it was her favourite subject too. He was an aspiring writer, 'trying to write the great American novel' as he put it.

"I suppose it's a dream of every wannabe, I've started a lot of books, but I think I'm more of a reader than a writer. What about you, why are you so interested in English lit?" He asked.

She told him of her love for reading, and that she didn't know what to take so she picked something that interested her. She also told him her view on supposed tragic figures and how she felt there was no way of making them likeable. He laughed and spurred on the conversation, and drank coffee, they were very much enjoying one another's company.

After they were finished he paid for their drinks. "Thank-you Professor Donovan," she said.

"Please, I hate being called that makes me feel old, it's Oliver, just Oliver, although next week in class I suppose it has to be Professor Donovan again." He laughed and shook her hand. "It's been a real pleasure talking to you, it's hard for me sometimes to find someone with as much passion for the written word as myself. We will have to do it again sometime."

She hoped so as well. She walked back to her small apartment elated. Even though it was a chilly November evening, she had her jacket unbuttoned. Her "schoolgirl crush" fed by the kindness of Oliver. She unlocked her door and stepped in. She lived alone and tonight, was glad. She threw some supper together from the leftovers in her fridge and sat down on the sofa, her plate on her knee and Lady Chatterley's Lover in her hand.

Constance had decided to give the book a chance, to read it with an open mind, after all if Oliver loved it so much perhaps she would too. He had admitted at coffee how much he despised Charles Dickens, but had never had the courage to write poorly about his work. He told her that he applauded her courage in writing a negative review, but reminded her she needed more passion in doing so.

She decided to start fresh, she removed the receipt she was using as a bookmark and started again. This time she opened her imagination, pretending that she was Lady Chatterley, trapped in a loveless, sexless marriage. She felt a bit like that sometimes. She wasn't married, but she had yet to meet anyone who stimulated her. The men she dated were just boys and all they wanted was to get in her pants. Not that she could blame them.

She wasn't vain, but was very proud of her body. It took little effort to keep in shape, she worked out very occasionally and ate what she wanted. Her butt remained firm and her small perky breasts continued to defy gravity. Her stomach was soft but flat and her legs well shaped. She looked stunning in skirts just above the knee, and still wore mini-mini skirts on the rare occasions she went clubbing. Her navel was pierced; a small jewel adorned her belly button, a gift from a former lover. She never considered any of the boys she dated as "boyfriends", they were just lovers, someone to pass the time with and occasionally reap a small amount of pleasure out of.

Most boys just wanted her for her body. She did nothing to dissuade them. She would wear tight, short tops barley covering her breasts and would grind her small frame into them on the dance floor, teasing them. She liked to tease. She was just over five feet but she would dominate them, making them beg for her. Usually she would just let them drop, but if aroused just right she would go home with them, but leave right after, usually disappointed. Lately though it wasn't enough. She had decided to put all her concentration on school. She hadn't been out all semester, her grades improved and she was glad. She felt at twenty-six it was time to take her life seriously.

She finished her supper slowly, taking more care in her reading than in eating. She got up and put the dishes in the sink, then put some water on to boil. It had started raining and she could feel a cold chill enter her apartment. She went into the bedroom, slipped out of her jeans, and unbuttoned her shirt. She let them fall to the floor while she admired her body in the mirror. "Maybe I am a little vain," she thought to herself while unclasping her bra and letter her perky freckled breasts droop slightly as they were unrestrained. She slipped her red panties down, admiring her closed womanhood, hiding behind a mat of neatly trimmed dark hair. She slipped her fingers down her front and spread her lips, a pink rounded nub capping off the top. The lips of her labia hiding a smooth passageway to her love canal. She ran her fingers down to it, dipping them in slightly. A tingle moved up her spine when she closed her eyes and pictured Oliver doing to her what she was now doing to herself.

Her thought was broken by the whistling of the kettle, she grabbed her flannel pyjamas off the foot of her bed, quickly put them on and went out into the kitchen. She unplugged the kettle, leaning over it, letting the hot steam warm her face. She grabbed a large mug from above the sink and dropped in a camomile tea bag, then grabbed her book and went back into the bedroom.

The sheets on her bed were strewn every which way. She had had a restless sleep the night before and had not bothered to make her bed this morning. She organized the sheets, fluffed up her comforter and crawled in. It was only 7:30, but she wanted to read for a while and it was too cold in her apartment outside of the covers.

A little ways into the book, Constance really started to fall in love with the character. She did not think she was the pitiful woman Oliver had said, but one full of passion, dying to let it out. She supposed Oliver loved Lady Chatterley because of her vulnerability, but she loved her for her strength. She closed the book, already almost a third of the way through it. She had another fitful sleep, this time not restlessness of unease, but restlessness of unspent passion. She woke up from a dream long before the sun came up.

In her dream she felt warm strong hands caressing her body, she was laying on her stomach in a big soft bed, a glimmer of morning light cascading through the window. The hands pushed up her back, and rounded over her shoulders, squeezing them, kneading them, gently, and sensually massaging. His hands ran back down her side, his thumbs pushing into her back firmly but tenderly as he ran his hands down to the gentle rise of her buttocks. He sat back below it, his naked seat resting on her thighs. She could feel his cock resting on the side of her leg.

He massaged her ass, squeezing the flesh, grabbing handfuls then letting them go, running his thumbs between her cheeks as he ran his fingers over the rise and down to the back of her thighs.

She was laying now, like she had been in the dream, her eyes closed, wanting to relive every moment of it, sometime in the night she had removed her night wear, and was now laying completely unclothed. She ran her hands down as her dream lover had, letting them slide over her rear, and pushing her legs slightly apart. She lifted herself up slightly so she could touch the soft mound of her pussy. She was still damp from her night of lustful dreams.

She lifted herself up for him, spreading her legs, allowing his strong hands to gain access to her anxious womanhood. He slid one hand under her, lifting her further, then sliding his long finger from her clit, gently caressing it, then parting her lips sliding down the soft wet ramp to her canal.

She could feel his fingers as her own, massaging her sexuality with tenderness, bringing her to the brink of orgasm. She worked her hands into herself, moving her fingers up and down her wet slit, gently squeezing her clitoris with one hand while sliding her fingers inside herself. A shiver ran up her spine as she began to stroke herself harder. She was awakening a sexual beast inside her as he (she) touched her(self). She had been on the brink of orgasm all night, now, awake and aware, it came. She almost screamed as her body quivered. She had found the spot inside her, she could hardly move. Her body tensed as she felt her insides convulse, her body tense. She felt like she was floating high above herself, watching as her body melted away. She had to stop. Touching herself brought such intense pleasure it was pain.

Constance fell asleep again, tired after her half wakeful orgasm. She awoke an hour later to the soothing sounds of a forest day, gently coaxing her awake on her alarm. She remembered her dreams from the night before and was almost disheartened to not find Oliver's naked body lying next to her, breathing softly in sleep.

It was still cold and the rain from the night before had turned into a drizzle. She stepped away from the window and pulled her pyjamas back on. She had found them at the foot of her bed, no doubt thrown away in the heat of some imagined pleasure. It was Friday morning. Her first and only class of the day started in an hour, a math class she had to take as part of her courses. She detested math and the Professor who taught it, an old woman who talked in a low whisper but would yell if anyone asked her to speak up. Barking at people that if they wanted to learn they had to sit up front, then would turn around and quietly talk to the board again, going through endless calculations without good explanations.

Constance started her coffee pot and took a shower. The juices from her self induced cumming of the night before still present on her crotch and legs. She washed her long dark hair, then stepped out of the shower. She would have to blow dry it today, it was a half hour walk to the University and it was nearly freezing outside.

She put a slice of bread in the toaster and poured coffee in a travel mug, waited for the toast to pop and covered it in strawberry jelly. With coffee and toast in hand she hurried out the door to school.

She walked into class a few minutes late; luckily Professor O'Grady didn't notice her slip in. Tardiness was another matter that caused the 'low talker' to raise her voice. She couldn't concentrate on the class at all. Her mind kept drifting back to Oliver's imaginary hand caressing her body. She caught her self once starting to move her hand into her lap, and then had to snap herself awake. She was afraid if she let herself get any deeper into her fantasy world she would have an uncontrolled orgasm for the whole world to hear.

The end of class couldn't come soon enough. She walked away not remembering a single word of it. She was glad for her Monday night tutorial. She could catch up then, it was where she learned everything anyway.

"Constance," She heard as she stepped out of the auditorium. It was Oliver. "How are you?"

"Fine Professor Donovan," she almost called him Oliver. Her loins came to life a little and she had to keep herself from blushing in front of him, actually she almost had to keep herself from running up to him, throwing him against the wall and ripping his clothes off. She shook the thought out of her mind. "I love the book, I started it again with an open mind after our talk. Constance isn't a pathetic creature I don't think, just a lonely one. I think I will love her."

"So much for your 'A+'", he laughed, "how far along are you?" He seemed eager on the subject.

"Where she's walking through the property and discovers the henhouse," She was going to go into details but knew that Oliver knew the story well.

"Yes, the henhouse, you are just getting into the meat of it. What do you think is going to happen next?" They were walking slowly down the hall together, his six foot frame towering over her.

"Well she quite fancies the game keeper I believe. I have a feeling that they are going to have an affair, but I will wait and find out. Clifford is a wretched man though; he says he does not mind if she finds solace in another man's arms but I think he wants Constance to suffer the way he is." She said, "I mean, his life is so wretched to him, he wants to bring all those around him down too."

"You're right," Oliver replied, "perhaps he is more the pathetic creature of the story, but you don't have to like him."

"Professor, why do you like the story so much? It's a wonderful tale, but it doesn't seem like the kind of story a man would love as much as you do." She looked up at him; it was a question that had been bothering her since he first suggested the book.

"Maybe when you've finished I'll tell you, I don't want to taint the story with my interpretation." He finished, "I have a class to teach, have a wonderful weekend and I will see you on Monday."

Constance found a quiet place in the library to read, she pulled the book out of her knapsack and opened it to where she had left off. As she quickly thumbed through what she had read so far something popped out at her that she had missed the night before, "the game keepers name is Oliver," she whispered quietly to herself. Now she was really excited to find out if he was "Lady Chatterley's Lover". As she read on she seemed almost sure of it, she knew enough about the story to know that there was some steamy sex scenes at some point, but she wasn't expecting them so soon. As she began to read them her mind drifted, she imagined that she was Constance Chatterley and Oliver was Oliver Mellors.

As the passages entranced her, she caught her empty hand gently messaging her crotch, she quickly looked around, no one was watching thank god. She snapped her book shut and pushed it into her bag. This was reading for home. She put on her jacket and left.

She got home and drew a bath, as the bubbles filled the tub she slipped out of her clothes and into the warm tub. She submersed herself completely under water then came back up, grabbed a towel she had set beside the tub and dried off her hands. The book was sitting on the back of the toilet where she had left it, she opened it to where she had left off. She read slowly, memorizing every line so she could imagine it over and over again in her mind, with her and Oliver, making love in a small cabin in the woods.

The hot water only further fuelled the orgasm she brought to herself, she slipped back down under the water in exhaustion, her insides still quivering, but it was not enough to quench her lust. "God I need to get laid, this has been going on long enough." She pulled the plug on the bath, rinsed off with the shower and dried herself. It was only six o'clock. She decided she needed a night out, maybe pick up a guy and fuck his brains out.

"Hi Debbie," Constance said when her friend answered the phone, "I was thinking that I really need to blow off a little steam tonight, doing anything?"

"Well it's about time, I was afraid you were turning nun on me girl. Hell yeah, there's a hot new club down on fifth I've been dying to go to." Debbie and Constance made plans to meet at Constance's apartment, order some Chinese and get ready.

The club was fantastic, great music and packed with good-looking people. Debbie had hit it off right away with a young Latino guy and Constance was dancing with his friend. She was up to her usual tricks on the dance floor, teasing him, "accidentally" brushing his cock through his pants whenever she got the chance, trying to make him beg for it. He was. She turned around and ran her hand up his crotch. She could feel his cock hardening, it was huge, that didn't excite her much though; no dick big or small had ever really satisfied her.