I was teaching English at the community college a couple years back, just an evening class that included an odd mix of students.
I had any number of older students going back to school, even a few middle-age women, empty nesters with time on their hands. There were a few young adults, taking classes they never took in college to start with, some needing degrees, some needing help in communication skills and some just bored with nothing else to do.
And then there were the regular students, most going for associate degrees or a head start before going off to a bigger university. Alex was in that group, a young teenager still in high school but taking college-level courses before going to State in the fall.
She was different than the rest, an A student all her life, an over-achiever who played sports, sang in the church choir and was a cheerleader from the time she was old enough to jump.
Alex was a striking girl, tall and athletic, confident enough at 18 to wear short skirts and low-cut tops, and always in the front row in the center of the classroom.
"Morning Professor B," she said every day as I walked in.
She always had a big smile, which made her blue eyes sparkle, her long brunette hair tied back in a ponytail, her long tanned legs stretched out and impossible to avoid staring at, which I did every day.
She she knew it, too.
"Morning Alex," I would say playfully, "Morning class."
No one would ever respond.
We talked about great works of literature mostly, occasionally requiring a paper, sometimes a quiz on Mondays, but lots of reading. You could tell who'd read the work and who hadn't.
Not that I cared. I was paid well, a visiting professor, a writer in residence and a man long past giving a damn about college students. I did it out of curiosity mostly. That and the money.
But the truth is, I came in every evening because Alex would be there.
I was in my mid-40s, divorced twice, basically retired to a life at the beach. My ex was out of state and both my daughters were in college. I had never been more on my own. Never happier. And never hornier.
I dated several women around town, one an old friend of my ex who was still married to a guy neither of us liked very much. We'd had a threesome together when we were in our 30s, and we ended up cucking him. But that was another story altogether.
By now, I was branching out, looking for something kinkier than sex with a married woman or even sex with any woman. I wanted to have sex with a teenager again.
I wanted to fuck Alex,
And she knew it.
So every day was an erotic adventure, me standing before the class talking about Faulkner or Hemingway, and having a conversation with Alex, who raised her hand every time I had a question, and more times than not knew the answer. It had become a game, and most everyone in the class knew it.
She was good at the game, too.
Alex would cross and uncross her legs several times during the hour, sometimes opening them enough to see her panties, sometimes opening them enough to let me know she was wearing no panties.
It was all a part of the game. Then after class, she would linger and hang out at my desk while I gathered my things, then she'd follow me to my office, where I never closed the door behind us. She would sit on the edge of my desk and ask questions that had nothing to do with English, questions about college boys and my exes and sometimes my sex life.
"Do you have lots of sex?" she asked once, smiling at me and making my cock stir.
"Yes," I told her. "Do you."
She blushed and told me about her ex-boyfriend, a basketball player who'd left for college. She would tell me how unsatsfying it was, how he seemed nervous and unsure about sex.
She wanted more. And she wanted someone who knew what he was doing.
"I just want to feel the power of a man," she said another time. "I want to know what it's like to be..."
Her voice trailed off. She shrugged. She really didn't know what she wanted, but she assumed I did.
Our conversations were never long. She would flirt for a few minutes, drop hints, the subjects veering ever more toward the obvious, then she'd touch my arm, brush her hand across my chest as she rose, then walk out.
It was a very intoxicating game she was playing. And she was winning. But so was I.
One evening, toward the end of the semester, she dropped by after class and said she needed help with something. I need you to talk me through something, was how she put it.
Then she came right out and asked if she could come by my house.
"I know where you live," she said. "I go by there all the time."
