Mr. Sexy

I can almost feel it working as I follow the student guide with blonde hair down to there, legs going up forever, and a butt-twitcher skirt along the catwalk skimming the tops of labs on one side and looking out into a campus quad through a massive glass window on the other. Eyes raise to us as we pass and then stop and stare—most men staring at Gail; most woman and some men staring at me. But I am used to it; it isn't something I do; it's something I am. I don't deny it, and, at the same time, I don't deny I use it.

I like to fuck. I don't see it as my fault that I'm packaged to find it easy to do that.

I can feel her tremble as I touch her on the arm to stop her progress so that she can explain to me what is going on in one of the labs below. She turns, sweeps strands of straight, golden-blonde hair out of her face, and smiles a shy smile for me. I can tell from that and her trembling that I can have her.

I've found I can have almost any woman—and many men too—with them pursing me rather than the other way around. It's just the way it is. A science colleague and lover once told me that, in addition to the look of me, it was pheromones—something I exuded that made others want me. I scoffed, but she claimed to be serious, and it certainly worked with her.

Gail answers with surprise. "I understand you've devised the Boudin Variation, which uses. . . ." Rather than listen to her rattle off what I already knew so well, I concentrate on her expression, which is as much one of admiration—almost worship—as surprise. She seems to realize that I'm not really listening to what she says but am concentrating on her—personally. I give her that special smile, and she melts into the walkway. This is going to be very easy. I hadn't wanted her at the start; now, feeling myself harden, I do.

"Yes, we experiment with that too at Michigan," I say. "I just wasn't familiar with that brand of equipment."

"I thought you—that Michigan—are far ahead of us on that process, Professor Boudin," she murmurs, still a bit breathless because I've left my fingers on her forearm, burning my brand into her, testing on whether she will withdraw. She doesn't.

I know it's a question on why I'm interviewing for a post here. I'm king of the labs at Michigan—their current hope for a Nobel Prize. They give me everything. Why would I ever leave there? "One can stay in one place too long," I say. "Life can get too complicated, too much of a rut. I'm not much for long-term commitment."

Just the once, I'm signaling. There's no chance of something building from it. Take it or leave it, little girl. If you're good with a one-time fuck, I'm your man.

"Perhaps after the tour, we could go for coffee," she ventures. ". . . I'd like to hear more about the program at Michigan."

Home free. "Perhaps a drink at my hotel instead."

I feel her shudder as she nervously brushes down the front of her miniskirt, the skirt I know I'm going to pull down those long, long legs of hers along with her bikini panties before I bury my face in her cunt.

When I've had my fill of her this way on the foot of the hotel room bed, she sinks to the floor in front of me and takes my cock in her mouth. Who knew a young woman so innocent and fresh looking could give such expert head? She can deep-throat it all, and that's saying a lot. It's not the first time I think she was assigned as my student guide as a recruitment ploy. It would be hard for my reputation not to precede me.

I lift her up and turn her toward the bed. She positions herself—one knee on the bed, the other foot on the floor, thighs spread, arms stiff arming the bedspread, the material bunched up in her small fists, emitting mewing sounds—as I roll on a Trojan Magnum.

I reach up and brush her hair to one side, exposing her neck, a throbbing vein. She's open to me in more ways than one. If I were a vampire, I believe she still would receive me.

She gasps, groans, and tightens up at the entry, but I hold there a few seconds to permit her to adjust before I reach around to take one full breast in each hand, press my lips to the throbbing vein, and thrust with my hips.

"Oh, daddy, daddy. Yes, daddy, yes."

* * * *

I "get" it when Sheila mentions knowing Muriel Cleese, wife of one of the deans at Michigan. I should have gotten it when she met me at the door of her columned colonial house a block from the campus and said, "I'm afraid John can't join us. Some sort of mishap at a lab at the college. He said we should go ahead with the dinner, though, and he'd be along when he could be. You do have to eat somewhere, and Cook has it prepared. John says he'll talk with you tomorrow if he doesn't make it back soon."

If she knows and talks with Muriel, I wonder if she volunteered for the required "dinner with a faculty member" duty. I would suppose so. She has dressed the part. A voluptuous, dark-haired, well-ripened beauty in red silk, letting off a sensuous slithering sound with each tightly orchestrated movement. Brazilian? Argentine? It didn't matter. Not young by any means, but curvy, well preserved, both hard and soft bodied, each where it counted. Mammaries to die for slithering around inside the silk material and plunging neckline.

Candlelight on the table. Smoothing out any wrinkles. A sensual, knowing smile.

Referencing Muriel Cleese says it all. But not the best recruitment move in anticipation of my decision for a change. Under these circumstances, I would have fucked her anyway, given the opportunity, without the reference to Muriel. She obviously wants it; she's boldly feeling me up under the table and giving me bedroom eyes before we've finished desert.

But it reminds me that it's the students and the Muriels of Michigan—the possessiveness of and battles between them—that have me shopping for another post—less stress; fewer complications. Being reminded of that doesn't mean I'm not going to fuck Sheila, though.

In a guest room, because she "just couldn't do it in the bed she shares with John," she wants to ride me, and I let her. Another expert blow job. Does this college have a class in it? First time I've had a woman fuck me with her pendulous breasts, hiding my cock in her cleavage and fucking it with her hand-kneaded tits. Staring into my face with lustful eyes; murmuring what must be dirty words in Spanish. Or is that Portuguese? Who the shit cares? Either sounds sexy when my cock is being rubbed between her breasts.

I let her think she's in charge. Rising over me, marveling at the size of me. Wondering out loud if she can take me, when both of us know she could sheath a Volkswagen bus. Sucking me inside her puffy labia. Milking me dry with shimmering vagina muscles. Riding, riding, riding me. Sucking every bit of cum out of me. Disparaging the offer of the condom. Wanting it natural, raw.

Sitting afterward at her kitchen table, her in just a wrapper, barely holding her inside; me naked, because "I want to see your beautiful body move, your lovely big cock rise again."

So, we're going to do it again. I'm game, but I look at my watch. John is taking his sweet time.

Drinking coffee—black and strong—and a good cognac. Her hand stroking me under the table.

Fucking her belly down from behind on the kitchen table, while she laughs and wiggles her ass until I've given it all to her, settling down to a rhythm of long, deep slides, listening to her gasp and moan. Her passage shimmering, grabbing and releasing. Me getting as much pleasure as she is. A slow build to a mutual explosion.

"Oh baby, baby. Yes, baby, yes."

Barely dressed again and leaving when her husband's car pulls into the driveway, with John giving a cheery wave. Sheila standing at the door, barefoot and still only in her wrapper.

OK, I get it. Preplanned. Has she called him while I was showering and dressing and told him it was safe to come home? This is what I can have if I sign a contract?

Only it's what I already have at Michigan. It's why I'm leaving Michigan. Still, Sheila had one talented cunt.

* * * *

Priscilla Compton, the chair of the department, closes and locks the door behind me when I arrive for my interview. The shade over the window in the door to the corridor comes down. No attempt whatsoever to hide the maneuver. Stays very close to me as I enter the office. A fiery redhead, with the mane of a lion. A pullover sweater with nothing but wrestling melons inside it. Side zipper to the skirt, already at half mast. I'm sure she has nothing on underneath—the sweater or the skirt—something that it would have been nice to have someone bet me on, as she doesn't. No surprises here. We have history from graduate school.

"We can talk later," she says in a husky voice. Couldn't be clearer. She's only gotten better with age.

I pull the sweater over her head and rub her quarter-sized aureoles with my perpetually five-o'clock-shadow cheeks. She groans, and the nipples stand at instant attention, filling out, and begging to be sucked. I suck them, one after the other. We're standing in the middle of the room, swaying against each other. Moaning, she reaches down and unzips me and moves a hand into the slit. She gasps, "Oh, fuck, Mr. Sexy. Drop dead sexy and ready for it. Don't make me wait, Mr. Sexy. I want you inside me." She begins to climb me with her legs but changes her mind and maneuvers me toward a chair.

She fucks me in the desk chair, she naked, me fully clothed except for my shirt unbuttoned for her hands to roam and my fly unzipped for her to ride my cock, facing me, as I sit in the chair and she straddles me, I valiantly try to get her breasts in my mouth, one after the other. Sucking and fucking. Her breasts, long and pendulous, are maddeningly arousing, the nipples needing to be teethed and sucked.

On my back on the desk, leveraging off my heels on the floor. Priscilla saddled on my cock, riding me hard, as I cup her breasts, thrumming and pinching the nipples, and counterpunch in long, deep thrusts. Another power woman; wanting the cock, wanting me working it inside her, but wanting to think she's in control.

"Yes, you stud, you stud. Fuck me, yes, fuck me. Work those tits."

As if whatever I do is at her command. Can she ever get enough?

That's the interview. She offers me the position—me knowing the position entails more than a teaching spot; she's making quite clear she wants a boy toy—as, dressed once more, she lifts the shade and unlocks and opens the door to the outer corridor.

I say, my eyes on the wrestling puppies inside the sweater, that I'm certainly considering it. And I am, in fact, wondering what she's doing for dinner—and who she's doing afterward. I wouldn't mind showing her what I've learned since graduate school what I can do on top.

She says, "I'll enjoy having you work under me. I think you'll enjoy it too."

Not as much as she has. She's fucked me balls-aching dry. I'd almost forgotten that about her.

* * * *

Dean Raffer, tall, elegant, impeccably groomed and dressed, flashes me a brilliant smile as I'm ushered into his office and sit in a chair facing his desk. He stands and comes around the desk, sitting almost sideways on the desk in front of me, the heel of one spit-polished tasseled loafer on the carpet, the other leg bent and dangling. Showing me a slim profile with a good chest—his studied "best side." His crotch is puffed out in the tailored slacks. He's hard—I could tell when he was watching me enter the room that he would be—and he wanted me to know it.

Reaching over and grasping my knee with his manicured hand, the fingers long and strong. "We would love to have you on the faculty here, Robert. We could have ever so much fun."

Talking to my basket, not to my eyes, lips parted and tongue darting out.

As I rise from his grip, I tell him I'm strongly considering it—but I'm not. I'm already thinking about the next college where I can interview. This is just the sort of stress and complicated life that is prompting me to leave Michigan. I can't help it if I am the way I am—not that I really want to help it, mind you.

"What do you have on for dinner tonight?" he asks. "We could—"

"Alas I have plans," I answer, trying to show regret in my eyes, but the plane schedules back to Michigan already going through my head. If I call ahead, I know Muriel will drop everything and meet my plane. But it will cost me.