It's eight years before, and you're a junior in college, trying to concentrate on a history paper, but utterly distracted, like you are today, by lurid recollections of hot sex. It was so unlike you, everything you had done that weekend. Good Catholic girls like you simply didn't do those things. But you had been with me, and I had helped you unlock something inside you that you didn't even know was there. A few months before, when we hadn't even met, you were certainly no virgin. You'd had your share of boys you'd dated briefly, boys who had gotten you out of your panties after a night of drinking, and had fucked you quickly and coldly on the narrow beds of their dorm rooms and in the slovenly rooms of their fraternity houses. Guilt had always followed the morning after, along with the hangover, as you looked back on the night before, ashamed at what you had done, while all the while wondering why it had been so unsatisfying.
I was your professor that semester, doing my best to make you and your classmates see beyond the difficulties of poetry, and help you glimpse its possibilities. You were that beautiful girl who sat in the class and clung to my every word, as my lectures helped you make sense of things that had seemed so senseless before. I had to struggle not to deliver the lectures to you alone, to you with your wide glowing eyes and your beautiful figure that showed through your khakis and button-down shirts. Those shirts that I wanted so desperately to unbutton, so that I could devour the soft warm flesh underneath.
How was it that we had become lovers? The details escaped you now. You had discovered that your fascination with me had become physical. I was that young, freshly-minted PhD that seemed barely old enough to be on that side of the podium. One day I had smiled at you during class, and to your great surprise, your heart skipped a beat. I asked you to come see me after class, and you sheepishly agreed, wondering how you would conceal the desires that were beginning to well up inside you . . .
You stare at your blank computer screen as you feel the wetness grow between your legs again. That weekend had been only the latest in a string of weekends with me. With each encounter, you had given yourself over to passions that you did not even know you had. You had learned to scream as you got fucked. You had had your first real orgasm, and had discovered that could have them over and over again. You had learnt the pleasure of having your cunt eaten skillfully, and of cumming all over the face of a lover who was thirsty for every drop that came out of your body. You had been tied up. You had given me your virgin ass. And with each encounter, the guilt had faded as the desire and pleasure grew. You still wore the same khakis, the same button-down blouses. The same gold bead necklace still hung primly around your neck. But you knew now that your preppy, Catholic girl-next-door look was now just a fa
