"Hello, Professor."
I looked up from my papers. I hadn't even heard the door open. It was Luna, my graduate assistant, slipping into my office like a wisp of incense smoke, greeting me in her distinctive, throaty accent that seemed to be a mixture of Eastern and Northern European languages, all of them native.
"Hello, Luna," I greeted her, feeling immediately pleased and disconcerted to see her.
She was exceptionally, unsettlingly smart; she always struck me as much older than her mid-20s. Like, hundreds of years older.
She was exceptionally, unsettlingly beautiful, and she was looking particularly Luna-like today, with her blue-black hair spilling down over a form-fitting, mid-calf-length indigo dress. She was a self-described goth chick, but in an elegant Morticia Adams way, rather than a teenage-girl-in-torn-fishnets, just-got-back-from-a-My-Chemical-Romance-concert way. At least in public.
"I wasn't expecting you today," I said.
"I know. I waited until your office hours were over," she replied, closing the door behind her and flicking off the light switch so the room was only illuminated by the late-afternoon sunshine filtering through my one small window.
As she stepped across the room toward my desk, I noticed that she had changed a couple of things since we were in the lecture hall together earlier today. She had replaced her wine-colored lipstick with a deep plum, almost black; and her eye shadow was pronounced and smokier. And she hadn't been wearing the fingerless lace gloves in class.
"So, is this visit an professional one, or a social call?" I asked, still pretending I was the one with any authority here.
In response, she reached down and grabbed me by my necktie, and prompted me to get on my feet. Standing up I was considerably taller than her, even in her heeled boots, but I was noticeably not the one in command of the situation. "A little bit of both, actually," she responded, turning and leading me by my tie over to the loveseat underneath the window.
She backed me up against it, and deftly reached past me to flip the blinds shut. Then she turned away from me and lifted her hair up, giving me access to the zipper of her dress.
"We, um, shouldn't be doing this here," I told her, but I had already started to pull the zipper down, powerless to resist her.
"Mmm," she responded. "So you've said." Meanwhile, I had reached the small of her back, revealing the large but delicate tattoo that spanned across her shoulder-blades, and the thin straps of a black bra.
She shrugged her shoulders out of the dress and peeled the three-quarter-length sleeves off of her forearms. I noted that her lace gloves ran up to her elbows. Then she bent slightly at the waist to push the garment down over her hips until it slid to the floor and she could step out of it, giving me the most mesmerizing view of her exquisite backside.
Beneath her demure dress she had been wearing a provocative and imaginative combination of lingerie. Her black leather boots laced up high on her ankles. Beneath those she was wearing dark black stockings with suspenders; but beneath those she was wearing what must have been fishnet pantyhose. Her derriere formed the perfect upside-down heart, with the tiniest waist-to-hip ratio I had ever seen, accentuated by the narrow waistbands of her black thong panties and garter belt, both riding over her hipbones. I gasped in spite of myself.
She turned around, smiling knowingly at me, spread her fingertips across my chest, and gently pushed me until I dropped down onto the seat of the sofa. Then this intoxicating woman straddled me, her knees on either side of my thighs, and draped her slender wrists languidly over my shoulders.
I scooted my hands under my legs. I never touch her without an express invitation.
"I liked your lecture today," she began. I nodded and thanked her. It was part of our dynamic, the way she pretended that I needed or deserved her doe-eyed approval, that I was "allowing" her to seduce me. We both knew I was completely powerless in her presence.
She had been my student for six years now. I had been her submissive for two months. I teach a freshman-level Humanities course, five hundred undergraduates in a lecture hall twice a week. She's one of five graduate assistants that then lead groups of twenty-five students in small discussion groups twice a week. She's the only graduate assistant who ever coaxed me into letting her lock me in a chastity device.
My eyes were fixed on the way her bra pushed her perfect breasts together, at the silver chain and the tiny key that was trapped between them. Then I let my gaze move down, past her amazing, flat little tummy, to where her legs girded mine. Her left thigh bore a rather menacing tattoo; her right was unblemished and milky white in the fading light. And I was between them, lost in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
"So, tell me something," she said, rocking gently on my thighs, her pubic mound inches from where my cock was getting desperate in its cage. "How long has it been now?"
"Ummm... eight weeks," I replied. Eight weeks since the start of the semester, since the evening when I began to believe that the most exotic and alluring graduate student I had ever met was actually going to sleep with me. And when, instead, she coaxed and teased me into agreeing to a sexual game that was far more intense than mere intercourse.
"Huh. Do you remember what it felt like to get hard?'
