Irl Ch 01

IRL

Like all of us, college senior Jackson has fantasies. Lately, all of his are about his philosophy professor. But Jackson has stumbled upon a peculiar way to go a little deeper into his fantasies. Maybe too deep. As he drifts further and further from reality, he is pushed toward a dangerous choice: Does he want the girl of his dreams, or the uncomfortable truth?

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Part One (of Three)

"I enjoyed your paper very much, Jackson." She slowly sips her coffee while her other hand tosses through the pages of my report.

"Thanks, Professor Donahue," I say. By this point in the semester, it feels weird to call her that. We've gotten to know each other pretty well. Plus, she's a doctoral candidate and she's only 26—just four years older than me. But on the other hand, I don't want her to think I don't respect her position.

"Please, Jackson." She smiles at me with warm brown eyes. "I thought I've told you to call me 'Katy.' After all, I'm not even officially a full professor yet."

"Of course. Sorry. Katy," I stammer. Damnit. I knew I should have just gone with 'Katy.'

"This shows a very strong...

command

of the concepts we've been discussing in class," she says. It's a compliment, obviously—but there's something strange about her tone. In the three months I've been taking her class, I've never heard her use this voice before. Each word she speaks seems loaded with mischievous knowing and dangerous purpose. It's sort of frightening. Also, kind of sexy.

"Um, thanks. Yeah, I worked hard on it."

"Oh yes. It certainly seems like you did." Her eyes fix on mine with an unsettling intensity. I swallow hard. The smell of her latte fills the small office, and it makes me think about the first time I had a one-on-one conversation with Katy.

It was the first week of the semester. Ours is the first class she's ever taught, and she admitted to being a little uncomfortable at stepping into the role of professor ('lecturer,' technically, but whatever). She complained that she'd rather just sit around and rap with us about Aristotle in a coffee shop, as peers. "So I was thinking, why don't we do precisely that?" She had said on the first day of class. "Each Tuesday after class, I'll hold a small-group discussion session in the coffee shop around the corner. Just drop by whatever week works best for you, if you're interested. I think that would be a good way for us to get to know each other a little better." I decided to go that first week. She intrigued me. I wanted to know what made someone so young and pretty and tattooed—I could only see the clipper ship on her forearm that day, but she's since mentioned that there are half a dozen—so obsessed with old dead Greek guys.

But when I showed up that afternoon, I found Professor Donahue sitting alone at two tables she had pulled together in the back, with enough chairs for 7 or 8 people. "Hi." She had smiled at me. "Have a seat. I'm sure others will be coming soon." But they did not. I guess hanging out with the prof was not my classmate's idea of a fun way to kick off a new semester. So it was just Katy and me. At first, it was horribly awkward. She looked crestfallen at the lack of response. I imagine we were both sort of thinking the same thing; that it would have been better if no one had shown up. That with just the two of us, it was super weird. But then we started talking. She was fascinating. She was well-read, well-spoken, and well-traveled. She had a quick, chaotic mind. She chased her own thoughts like fireflies on a summer night. She never really got one all the way in the jar; she just moved on the next. And before I knew it, we had gone through three cups of coffee and the entire afternoon. We talked about anything and everything. It was serene and easy and warm; a perfect little refuge from the winter storm that raged outside that day. She quickly abandoned the small-group discussion idea, but I made a point of thinking up a question I could use as an excuse to drop by her scheduled offices hours the next week. And the week after. And so forth. Those chats with Katy became my favorite part of the week.

But today—today is different. All traces of her reticence to be in a position of authority have vanished. Our comfortable, peer-like vibe is gone. She now stares sternly at me with steely, smoldering eyes behind her thick black glasses. Her breezy affability has been replaced by a kind of predatory poise.

"In particular," she says, "I found your perspective on Descartes' wax argument quite unique." She leans forward and places both elbows gently on the table. "Well...not

entirely

unique." My face suddenly starts to feel hot. "In fact, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had once read the exact same argument about that treatise, posed the exact same way." My pulse quickens. "And I was so very curious as to

where

I had seen it before that I just

had

to put some of the text of your paper into Google." My throat tightens. "And I was very confused to find that much of the text in your paper, Jackson, is line-for-line identical to an article published in a philosophy journal four years ago," she says slowly and deadly.

...Fuck. Fuck shit fuck.

Katy leans back again and tosses her wavy brown hair. Her eyes still haven't left mine. "What's strange, Jackson, is that four years ago, you would have been...what? A senior in high school? Is that right?" She lets her words hang in the air, making it obvious that I have to answer.

"...Yes, ma'am." Now, deference seems even more appropriate.

"Wow. And in addition to your busy high school schedule, what with classes, and dating, and, what, football, did you say you played?"

"...Lacrosse."

"Lacrosse, of course. In addition to all that, you managed to find the time to write some astute analysis of Descartes for publication in a respected academic journal? How very

advanced

you must have been."

"Professor Dona—Katy. I don't know what happened. There must be some kind of mix-up or—"

"Please. Don't," she snaps. "I'm not an idiot." She's right. I don't even know why I bothered. There's no way around it: I've been made.

"...Yes. I'm sorry. I copied some of the paper," I say. I want to stare at the desk, at the floor, at anything but those eyes. But for some reason, I can't look away from them.

"You're such a smart student, Jackson." She sounds genuinely disappointed. "Why would you need to do something like this?"

"Look, I love your class. I really do. I mean, that's why I'm in here so often. And I've worked hard, so far, but it's just that last week—things got really crazy in my other courses and I wound up super underwater and, you know, I didn't want to turn in something shitty. Not for you. And so...I guess I panicked."

"Well. You understand what I have to do now, don't you?"

"Maybe, maybe we could handle this between you and I? Without reporting it," I plead. "Please, Katy. I could get expelled."

"Oh, you most certainly

will

be expelled. The administration has a zero tolerance policy for plagiarism."

"This was a one-time thing, Professor. It was a stupid mistake. But...you don't really think I deserve to be kicked out for it, do you? I mean, come on. It's me. We're like...you know."

She just cocks her eyebrow at me. "Yes? We're like what, exactly?"

"I mean, we're kind of like friends, right?" I say meekly.

"Friends? You think we're friends?" She lowers her glasses to look over the rim at me. "I may have failed to maintain proper boundaries this semester, Jackson. So let me apologize for that, and set you straight: we are not friends." The words sting a little. "You are a student. A promising student. A student I've enjoyed teaching. But a student, nonetheless. And I am a professor. That's my job. And if I let this slide, I could lose that job."

"But, nobody has to know," I say frantically. "I'll write a new paper. I'll write fifty new papers. Or you can just forget about it and say I never turned one in. I'll take the zero. Please. I'll do anything you want."

She stares at me for a long time. Like she's thinking deeply. She takes her glasses off and lightly bites one earpiece. Finally, her full, pink lips break into a smile, and she tosses the glasses on the desk.

"Well. There may be a...mutually agreeable solution." Katy stands, strides slowly to the door, and locks it. Then she turns to face me.

Now that Katy's out from behind the desk, I can see her body in all its splendor. Even under the incredibly stressful circumstances, I can't help but notice her curves. Truthfully, it's not the first time I've noticed. My interest in Katy—what lead me to the coffee shop that afternoon and back to this office so many times since—it may not be 100%...platonic. It's not like I've never noticed her full, perfect breasts, which now strain against her beige button-up blouse covered by a jacket. I have, more than once, been distracted in class by her plump, round ass, which is now hugged tightly by a gray skirt. I can't say I've never drifted off thinking about what her well-toned legs—her heels are doing some awesome things for her calves today—would look like resting on my shoulders. But all the while, I was keenly aware that she was completely unattainable. She's A) older, B) my professor, and C) so beautiful as to quite probably be 100% out of my league.

But now, she stands in front of me, arms cocked on her wide hips, staring at me—and I can't tell if she's mad, anymore. Her eyes seem to roam over me, searching for a reaction, assessing me for...what, I don't know.

"Um...what kind of solution?" I ask, breaking the silence. She starts to take small, tentative steps toward me. Her black heels click on the hardwood floor.

"I think you're very charming, Jackson." She stops directly across from me, and leans against the desk. She's inches from where I sit now. "I've always enjoyed our chats, ever since that first afternoon in January."

"Uh, me too. It's been great. To go a little deeper into the...concepts, and stuff. I like the way you explain things."

"Do you?" She gives me a skeptical look.

"Uh...yes?"

"To be honest, Jackson, sometimes I grow suspicious that you're not all that interested in philosophy." She sits up on the desk, and her skirt hikes up her creamy thigh just enough to spark one's imagination. "Sometimes, I wonder if you're not just here to see me. Maybe because you like me?" She crosses her legs, and I try like hell not to stare at the perfect view of them.

"What? No."

"You don't like me?" She feigns a pout.

"No! I mean, I do. I mean, you're a great teacher."

"I think you know that's not what I mean. Do you find me attractive?"

"I mean...of course you're—you're beautiful, but I, I mean, you're my professor. So, I know it would be inappropriate to...um, well—"

"It's okay. We can't help who we're attracted to. I can't help that I'm attracted to you, for instance," she says flatly.

"What?" For a second, I wonder if I heard her right.

"Please," she laughs. "You didn't think I humored you all those afternoons in here because I thought I was molding the next great American philosopher, did you?" To be honest, I had never really thought about why she never seemed to mind my incessant (and often fabricated) questions. I thought she just really liked teaching, maybe? "I was here for the same reason you were, Jackson. I think you're cute."

And with that, she slides off her gray jacket and tosses it aside, her gaze still unflinching. The cut of the blouse underneath reveals just the first hint of her generous cleavage. My sweaty palms grip the chair's arms tightly, as if I'm trying to hold on to this preposterous moment for dear life.

"Do you know what it's like, Jackson, to complete a doctoral dissertation?"

"...Not really, no."

Her sigh seems to release a bit of caged, rattling heat from deep within. "Imagine the most difficult term paper you've ever written. And then imagine making it 200 pages long. And then imagine that your entire livelihood depends on convincing three extraordinarily cantankerous old men that every word of it is perfect."

"...Yeah. That sounds bad."

"It is, Jackson. And it leaves no time in one's life for anything else. Friends. Fun. ...Men." Her hand toys thoughtlessly with the top button of her blouse. "Are you starting to get my meaning?"

"...I think so, yes." I struggle to keep my voice steady and my hands from shaking.

"Suffice to say, it has been a very lonely, frustrating year, Jackson," she almost moans each word, seething with something powerfully repressed. "And that is where you come in." Looking at me, she undoes the top button of her blouse. "You need me to keep quiet." Her hand slides down and undoes the second button. "I have my own needs. Deep, white-hot needs." Her mouth forms each word slowly as she undoes the third button. "And I need someone to take care of those needs in a way that is...uncomplicated. And conducive to my schedule." The fourth button. Her blouse hangs open and reveals her blue and purple lace bra and a tattooed clockwork design on her shoulder. "And if you can do that for me, your problem goes away." She undoes the last button now. "What do you say, Jackson? Sound like a deal?" She pulls off the blouse and casts it aside.

I learned from Professor Donahue that Plato had this "theory of forms." I'm not sure I understood the whole thing, but I remember something about how everything we see is just an imitation of an ideal type that exists in another world. So, every chair we see in our world is an imitation of some perfect, ideal chair. As I look at Katy's full, C or D-cup breasts as they strain against the sapphire fabric of her bra, with its delicate lace pattern dancing over her milky skin, there is no doubt whatever in my mind that

these

are the ideal boobs.

"Well?" She asks, and I realize I've been staring without saying anything for...I don't know how long. "If you'd rather take your chances with the Dean, that's fine." I want to speak, but my throat is so dry and tight that I worry nothing will come out. "I mean, if you don't think you're the man for the job, I understand," she says. I want to move, but I feel glued to the chair. She notices me glancing nervously at the door.

"Don't worry." She scoots off of the desk and takes a step toward me. "No one's coming in." She straddles me where I sit. Her ass on my ragingly hard cock feels incredible. Her face is so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of her breath. "You've got me all to yourself," she says. She leans in, and whispers hotly on my ear: "You can do whatever you want to me."

And that's when I grab the nape of her neck and bring her lips forcefully to mine. The kerosene hits the flame and we alight. A surprised "oomph!" barely escapes her as our lips mash together desperately. My free hand grabs her waist and pulls her into me. She moans deeply and grinds her hips into me, rubbing herself against the bulge in my denim. Her hands explore my body as our tongues reach out to taste each other.

I reach both arms underneath her and I stand, without breaking the kiss. She makes a small squeal of surprise as I carry her to the desk and set her down there. I pull back just long enough to look at her face; she looks a little shocked at my sudden show of force. In a good way. She wraps her legs around me. I kiss her neck. Her head snaps back and a low moan escapes her lips. "Oh

God

, Jackson!" she cries as my tongue traces a line along her neck. She runs one hand through my tousled brown hair as the other grabs my ass. My hands reach behind her to find her bra clasp. "Mmmm. Yeah?" She says. "You want to see those tits? The ones I've caught you staring at so many times?" I unhook the clasp. "How many times have you pictured what they look like naked, Jackson?"

I groan. "So many times, Professor Donahue."

"Jackson. Really. We're certainly on a first name basis now," she says as she slips the straps from her shoulders and the bra falls away. "...Aren't we?"

However ideal they looked clad in that high-end bra, they are infinitely better exposed. They hang perfectly, like ripe fruit just about to fall. Her nipples are already hard. I take the pinkish bud of one breast in my mouth, while my hand greedily squeezes the flesh of the other. I bite lightly and she squirms beneath me. "Uuugh, yesss," she moans. "That's it. I love the way you touch me. I love those rough hands on my skin." Katy's hands roam under my shirt, clawing at my back.

"Ugh. Get this thing off," she says, tugging at my shirt. "After all, I'm lying here all exposed..." She gently caresses her own breast. "And this is all about quid pro quo, remember?" She bites her index finger as she feigns another pouty look. I stand up and rip my t-shirt off. Katy looks pleased. "Ummmm," she purrs, as she runs her hands down my chest and abs. "I'm so glad you tried to plagiarize."

"And I'm glad we could work out a 'mutually beneficial solution,'" I say smugly, and then dive hungrily back to kissing her awe-inspiring tits. My hands reach for the hem of her skirt. I find the zipper and start to pull it—

"Wait. Jackson. Stop." Katy pushes me away. My heart stops cold. Oh, no. She's come to her senses. She's changed her mind. After we've come this far...I'll combust if we stop here. "I think I should be clear about something," she says, stroking my face with a bent finger. "We haven't worked out a solution yet."

"But. You said that if we—"

"I'm sorry if I mislead you. I didn't mean to imply that there were...participation points, available. You can't just stick it in me, get yourself off, and expect me to honor my end. I'm not one of your little college girlfriends. I'm a woman, Jackson. A very sexual, very frustrated woman. If you want to make this count, it has to be fast and hard and long and sweaty and—most importantly?" She grabs me by the neck to pull me down and whisper in my ear again: "You have to make me come all over your cock."

I smile smugly down at her. "And you're worried that will be a problem?" With excruciating slowness, I start to unzip her skirt. I can see the matching blue and purple lace of her panties peeking through.

"I don't know. A lot of boys your age aren't sexually experienced enough to really please a woman," she says. It sounds like a dare.

"Don't worry, Katy," I say as I tug her skirt off her hips and slowly down her legs. I barely notice the beautifully-done mermaid on her thigh; I'm too anxious to get her completely bare. "I plan on making you remember this for as long as I've been dreaming about it." The skirt slides past her black heels and crumples to the floor. She lies on the desk totally naked except for her panties, which have a dark, damp spot spreading through them. She's very wet.

"Oh? You sound very confident," she says. "But I don't even know yet if you're...

physically

capable of making a lasting impression." At first, I'm not sure what she means. Then her eyes travel to the bulge in my jeans. "Well? Are you adequately equipped for the task, or should we just stop now?"

I grin, step back, and place both hands behind my head, making it clear that the ball is in her court now. "Why don't you find out?" I ask.

She needs no more encouragement. She slides off the desk and onto her knees. Her big brown eyes look up at me as she undoes the belt buckle and rips it off with force. "Mmmm," she hums with anticipation. "I've wondered what you have under here more than a few times." Her eyes stay fixed on mine as she very slowly undoes the button and lowers the zipper of my jeans. My cock is straining so hard against the fabric that it hurts. She pulls down my jeans and boxers in one slow, smooth motion.