Time is a construct of human invention
Warning:
There is both a gangbang and a non-consensual sex scene in this story. It's the same scene.
Labor Day Weekend, 2021
It didn't take long for Glen to find me. We have a strange relationship. At every professional conference that we both attend, we hook up. It's kind of nice, because I hate these conferences, but I'm ambitious, so I feel not only do I have to attend, but I have to give a talk on my latest research, and moreover for my talk, I have to dress correctly, but nevertheless look both attractive, and a little bit sexy. It's a delicate balance, and Glen's advice is essential.
It's great to have a good friend there, to have someone to hang out with, to cheer me on before I have to give a talk, to share meals with, and in general to tease and have fun with. It's not all one sided, either: I provide the same things for Glen.
The glue that makes our friendship work is sex. The sex is discreet; nobody can know. Apparently, Glen finds me irresistible, or at least he does when we're both at conferences. I find sex with him pretty wonderful, too. It's a win-win situation, or at least it was, until I met Björn Janson, and grew up. I'd have to tell Glen the sex part was over, but I felt there was no need to tell him until the subject, or situation, explicitly arose. Okay, I guess it's obvious and I admit it: I'm a coward, and I hate ending things.
You might think the huge diamond ring and the solid gold band on my left hand would have clued Glen in to some lifestyle changes of mine that occurred during the height of the pandemic. After all, Glen and I had seen each other only by Zoom, and not even once in person for a little over two years.
Our bizarre tradition, however, was that the two of us lived in the here and now, and we never seemed to waste time catching up on each other's news. Glen called it, with contempt dripping from his eyes, nose, and mouth, the "news from Lake Wobegone." Glen never mentioned my new rings, or what they symbolized. Maybe he didn't even notice them? That was unlikely, but possible. He could have been too busy checking out my boobs in my sexy new sweater, than to look at my left hand. You just never know with men, do you? In any event, even if Glen did notice them, they nevertheless didn't seem to be an issue.
The rings were an issue for others, however, as I learned at the welcome cocktail hour that very evening. I had naively thought that the rings would somehow, automatically, make me off limits to the lotharios that prowl our conventions. I realized that while there were not that many women at these STEM conventions (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics), there were precious few who looked as attractive or as sexy as I did, or at least that's what Glen always had said. This made me a minor center of attention, not due to my brilliant mind, but more due to my hourglass figure.
It doesn't hurt that I have shapely legs, nice sized boobs (but not too big), and a pretty face, with a Katie Couric mouth that, according to Glen, gives the best blow jobs in the tri-state area, whatever that means. Glen is prone to hyperbole. I also like to flirt. No sexual pun or innuendo can avoid my notice, and I always have a suggestive parry to offer.
As smart as I'm supposed to be, what had never occurred to me was that for some men, being married, or already "taken," if you will, made me even more desirable(!) As Glen explained it: It's a different kind of achievement to get a married woman into bed, than it is to get a single woman into bed. There's also the (apparent) thrill of bedding another man's woman, behind his back, and all the more so if the woman is at first reluctant, though ultimately, willing; best of all is if, in the final stage of the seduction of the unreceptive, the woman becomes enthusiastic and even demanding.
Then there's always the aspect, as Glen said someone famous had once said, that desire and impossibility are inextricably linked. I was taboo, off limits, not a possible "conquest:" that alone made conquering my body 'impossible,' which in turn made such a conquest all the more desirable, at least for some men.
Glen became my mentor at my first conference after my PhD, when he also became my lover. I had enjoyed the usual slate of boyfriends in high school, college, and graduate school, and it was all good fun, but never seemed to be destined for the long haul, if you know what I mean. I was ripe for the plucking at 25, young and excited, and there was Glen. He was thirty-five, a full professor at Duke, good looking, and the only thing, the only solitary thing, in his field of vision, was me. That made me feel very special.
I wasn't especially easy to get into bed, and never thought of myself as a slut, but at that first convention in Las Vegas, I was on my back in Glen's hotel room only four hours after we met. The only thing that could get me to stop having sex with Glen was my desire to see a special show at one of the casinos. Glen said he would go with me if I went braless. That insistence turned me on, and as Glen felt me up during the show, not caring who might see us messing around, he won my heart.
Now much later, and except for Glen, who was grandfathered in (if you will; from when I was a freshly minted PhD), I never sleep with colleagues. Glen is also ten years my senior, and he was, for me, a guiding light for a young woman with ambition, in a complicated profession.
I like sex, and I don't mind some variety on occasion, but not with men with whom I have to interact professionally. Men aren't stupid, and they figured out eventually that the happy hunting grounds for some casual convention sex lay elsewhere, and they tended, mostly, to leave me alone. Glen had coached me on how to achieve that result, even if I never wanted Glen, himself, to leave me alone. He never did, either.
When the liquor was flowing, and everyone was drunk, however, was when I became a target of opportunity for, well, everyone, and that's when it was especially nice to have the good services of Glen, who would run interference, with the reward that I would try to blow his mind in a Marriott, Hilton, or Hyatt hotel room, sometimes hiding his obvious destination with the Book of Mormon (if the hotel were a Marriott), held tightly right over my naked pussy.
Glen was not 100% effective, however. I would get cornered, kissed, and felt up, if my colleagues thought they could get away with it. For historical reasons stemming from massive insecurities, I had trouble resisting flattery, and if I were a little tipsy, I had almost no resistance at all. Men preyed upon my submission-inspired seeming inability to stop their wandering hands, which at times went outrageous places. Glen knew this, and he tried to protect me when he could, or so I had always believed.
Sometimes, Glen did better at preserving my dignity, then he did at other times. More was at stake now, than just preserving my reputation as a colleague and not a slut. A few events in my past had earned me the nickname of the Stanford Slut, but that was in graduate school, and long ago, and now it was mostly forgotten. Luckily, that nickname was shut down fast, and few people even know of the events that inspired such a horrific but short-lived nickname. Also, I'm not at Stanford, anymore, and haven't been since I was awarded my PhD. Now I'm at Cornell, in upstate New York, in the Engineering College, and I have a tenure track appointment.
