Id in a Candy Store

Everyone, at some point, wants what they cannot have. We're like kids in a candy store, learning that our wants exceed our means, and that sometimes having all that you want can be bad for you. I think we all go through a "puppy love" stage, when we idolize someone, and in our late teen years we have crushes. However, when you're an adult like myself, going back to college and you find your instructor attractive, I'd have to call it lust.

Lust like that is straightforward at least, or should I say mine is. I'm no Don Juan, but my experience is broad enough to make me feel justified in offering these opinions to you. Perhaps you'll come to see my point of view, and maybe even share it.

Nonetheless, it's clear to me that I'm not the only one in class taken by our professor, although I suspect I'm the only one writing about her. Her name is Gwen Nere, at least as far as you know. Let me tell you more about her, and I'm sure you'll see quickly why I'm lusting so badly.

Of all the Gwen's assets, it's her mind that appeals most to me. That first day of classes, I'd planted myself by the door on the back row and listened to her discussing her background. Gwen's got two masters degrees, and a double major bachelor's as well, but I learned that teaching isn't her passion. She's a professional ballroom dancer, one of the best in the country, or she was until last year when she became pregnant. With her impressive acaademic resume, she's teaching a few classes at the local junior college while she works on returning to peak dance form. Not that the baby did much to her shape from what I can tell.

Her figure is somewhere between an hourglass and a lithe dancer's shape, with enough curves to leave no doubt of her femininity. She stands about 5'6" or so, and wears her hair in a tight paige boy cut that I like because it shows off the graceful curves and light musculature of her neck. Her eyes are a light grey, and her face is noticeable for its strong jaw and somewhat narrow lips, although the latter are usually curved in a smile. When she laughs the sound is clear and strong, and I would pay a dear price to make her giggle intimately. I'm betting it would sound closer to a purr.

Gwen's typical attire seems to be entirely based on black. She's normally dressed for dance practice after class, and I thank the gods that she is. Her dance slacks are something between a slack and tights, cut looser than tights but of the same material, or so it seems. Her tops are often a dancer's blouse, with generous amounts of her ample cleavage showing, and nearly hang off her shoulders on either side. Once I realized this was common dress for her, I became a front row student.

Gwen seems to like me well enough, for a student, probably since I'm one of the 2/3 of them passing the class, and one of perhaps 5 who will comment in class and not just sit there in dead silence looking bored. There are two desks available at the front, and she's taken to perching cross-legged on the corner of the one directly in front of me. I feel honored to have scored the seat dead center of the classroom, because nearly every session she's leaning down for some reason or other and I get numerous opportunities to examine the soft swells of flesh she reveals with each such movement.

It's also a prime spot for watching her write on the whiteboards, since she stands like a dancer, often wide-legged and at other times posing without realizing it, one arm cocked on a hip and one leg bent at the knee to show her inner thigh as she explains some finer point I'm paying NO attention to. Her loose-cut leggings don't conceal as much as frame the firm dancer's ass she's earned with a lot of sweat.

Sadly, both Gwen and I are married, but I'm glad hers seems to be a happy marriage, not that I've delved into it much. Even though I find myself fantasizing about her often, my past experience has led me to believe that bedding a married woman is similar to being a brush jumper. In case you aren't familiar, brush jumpers parachute in front of wildfires with only a few tools and a small "shake and bake" fire resistant tent, in order to cut firebreaks. Literally, they charge into a wildfire with no backup and no way out except thru it.

One of the more titillating experiences I've had in my life was making love to a new mother (also married, and not to me) in her own bed. That very nearly gave me a fetish for breast milk, which I find quite tasty when taken straight from the source. I can say she certainly appreciated it, too. However, I have some regrets about my actions that day. The lusty dog in me would do it all again at the drop of a hat, but I know that emotional maturity and my own survival require me to rein in my appetites.

That's all I have to say about Gwen for now. Out of respect, and out of that same survival sense I spoke of a moment ago.