Author note: If you are familiar with my previous submissions, you should know that I tend to leave a lot to the imagination in my stories. This one is no exception.
Disclaimer: Although not stated explicitly, the scene takes place at a college, not a high school setting, and all characters are over 18 years old.
*****
"I want you, Professor."
She uncrossed her hands, dropped them on the desk and got closer, leaning forward, tilting her whole upper body toward me. Her loose top hung down, revealing the very sight she knew would win me over.
I stared, I didn't pretend to avoid them. The dress was designed to make people stare. Her whole posture was perfectly coordinated to force me to stare. So, out of respect for her efforts and attire, I couldn't but stare.
I wasn't the kind of teacher that got hit on. I was the one students grew close to, asked for help, wanted to be friends with. I was the nice professor, the one that never got to tell — or hide — any naughty stories, I was always the one others told these stories to. I didn't have a list of extravagant proposals ready to share with my colleagues during faculty events or as fun quips at parties and social gatherings. I was just the one everyone thought of as kind and approachable, but never as a potential bed trysting partner.
I guess it had to do with my casual looks and demeanor. I wasn't sexy. At least I never thought of myself as such. Jeans, sneakers, t-shirt or hoodie, and a casual jacket on cold days. I could pull off a dress or a skirt when needed, moderately high heels on important occasions, but they weren't part of my everyday wardrobe. On any given day, I looked average at best.
So I had always wondered what it would be like to receive some unwarranted attention from a student, especially a female one. And when I heard stories of young women throwing themselves at some of my colleagues who brushed them off easily and often indignantly, I admit, I felt jealous and a little annoyed. Why couldn't this happen to me?
"I can take the whole thing off, if you need to do a more thorough examination, Professor." She smirked. I saw it from the corner of my eye, since I was still focused somewhere lower than her face, then gulped.
I hadn't seen it coming, this forward and blatant conversation. It was simultaneously off-putting and exhilarating. Was this it? Was I finally discovering what it felt like to be hit on by a student?
I tried to recall how it all started, or at least pinpoint a time when the dynamic shifted, but I couldn't. She was one of my best students, always present, actively listening, she participated in the extra-curriculars and, as with most of my good students, we had forged a comfortable yet respectful rapport.
There were boundaries between us, or so I thought. But here I was, sitting in my office, when she walked in, or should I say waltzed in, and after a few heavily disguised innuendo-filled remarks, had blurted that sentence out. What was it again?
I raised my eyes and eyebrows, looked at her sternly, and asked, "What did you say?"
"I said I want you, Professor."
Ah, there it was. The subject, the verb, the object, and the title. Such a perfect, direct sentence. And the way she pronounced it, seductively and slowly, made it all the more effective. I felt my whole body clench, and the moment it relaxed, the slickness between my thighs spread immediately, as if by coordinated magic. I had needed to hear it again and I'd probably want to hear it some more to convince myself that this was real, I wasn't imagining things.
"Why?" The question escaped me, betraying my lack of confidence.
She smiled. "This is why," she pointed at me and waved her finger. "Because you don't seem to be aware of how awesome you are. How beautiful, considerate, and breathtaking you are. How you take care of everyone and never expect anything in return. How, even now, even after what I just said, you are still so blissfully ignorant of the effect you have on me. Because no one seems to have ever picked you up passionately, tore your clothes off, pressed you against a file cabinet or a whiteboard, and let you feel how much and how fast and how often they wanted and needed you. This is why I want you, Professor."
The innocence had gradually faded from her face with every word uttered in those last sentences. She wasn't making a statement anymore, she was openly seducing me.
And this wasn't about grades, recommendation letters, or favoritism. She was genuinely attracted to me, wasn't she? I almost found that too hard to believe. She sensed my hesitation and quickly moved to dispel it.
She stood up, taking her chest out of my direct line of sight and forbidding me the pleasure of this visual feast. "Professor," she repeated. If only she knew the effect that word, pronounced by her, had on me. Or maybe she did. "I'm not here to make up for a missed paper or to get a better grade. You know I have a great record, and I honestly wouldn't mind getting an F, should I deserve it for my work. I am here for you, because of you, because I am attracted to you," she pinched her lips adorably, then continued, "attracted isn't enough of a word to describe this feeling. I can't look at you without being consumed by how much I desire you."
