I had always enjoyed older men. All of the guys that I had ever been interested in were older, by at least five years. So it came as no surprise when I met my history professor that I found him attractive.
He was pushing forty, but he had aged well. He had blond hair and grey eyes. I thought that they complemented my sandy brown hair and green eyes well. He wasn't the usual stuffed shirt that taught history, he was a riot.
In the begining of the semester I would just sit at my table and watch him intently as he went through the lecture. As the classes continued, I moved closer to the front. Under the pretense of following the notes on the board better, really just to be closer to him as he paced back and forth in front of the class.
I tried all of the usual things to get his attention. I wore low-cut shirts to accentuate my 36c chest and short skirts with bright thongs, so if he looked just right he could see them, once I even went commando for the class. Nothing. I was starting to think that it was a lost cause, but I was willing to try once more before I accepted defeat.
I went to the latest office hour that he had available for conferences. I wore my most alluring, yet innocent outfit that I could find. I was wearing a white fitted blouse, a grey skirt that fell two inches from my knees and my black leather knee high boots. I was wearing virginal white cotton panties and a white lace bra to finish the look. I knew that he was married, with kids, but I didn't care. I wasn't asking for anything that he wasn't willing to give. Hell a quick fuck in his office would be good enough. I walked into his office and told him that I was having a problem with the essay that I was writing for the class.
He wanted to know what he could do to help. I told him that I was writing about the sexual revolution of the 1960s, but I was having a problem grasping the concept. He wanted to know what the problem was. I told him that I was having a problem understanding the drive for the women, I was a virgin. I could see the shock in his look, before he looked away. I pointed out that I knew about opression. I told him that I could understand how no one liked being classified just because of their breasts, as I ran my hands caressingly over my breasts, lingering on the nipples for a moment. He couldn't take his eyes off of my hands.
He cleared his throat as he tore his gaze away from my hands at my breasts. He asked what I thought he could help me with. I told him that all I wanted was an experience to base the passion of the protests on. I presented him with the option of a completely educational experiment. He looked incredibly uncomfortable, yet intrigued at the same time. He told me that this was innappropriate, that there were rules against things between teachers and students. Not to mention that he was married, he didn't say happily.