"Please, sit down, Mr. Anderson," Kylie gestured at the two leather armchairs. "I imagine," she continued, after he took a seat, "you know why I called you in my office."
"Yes..." Rob lowered his glance.
"Very well," she cleared her throat. "So, anything in particular I should know?"
"Not really, Mrs. Stevens, I..." he paused; "training is really intense, and..."
"Yes, Mr. Anderson, I know," she sighed heavily. "You are not the first athlete to take my class. You thought it'd just be some easy credits, right?"
"No, of course not, I..." he protested, vainly.
"Look," she said softly, "I get it. Your interest lies in sports, not academia. I don't blame you, nor did I ask to see you to change your mind."
"You're flunking me..." Rob said somberly.
"No; not yet." He raised his eyes hopefully and she offered him a broad, warm smile. "It's still early in the term, Mr. Anderson; however," she pointed her index finger at him, "you need to make some changes, if you want to pass."
"Mrs. Stevens, I..." he cleared his throat, "what do I have to do? I mean, training, practice, and working out takes up most of my time, I don't..."
"Mr. Anderson," she interjected, albeit gently, "you knew from the get-go it'd be hard; that's not an excuse."
"Yes, I know," he apologized. "It's just... I can't fail, you know? I just..."
"Why don't you try a little harder to convince me?" She leaned back on the desk chair and crossed her—visible from the high slit of her skirt—legs high.
"I'm doing my best," he struggled not to look at her legs, hugged by the thin, black nylon-stocking.
"Do you?" She raised her eyebrow and curled her lips. "I don't think you've ever read even one of the assigned stories. Not one," she leaned forth and put both arms on the desk, purposefully squeezing her breasts struggling to remain inside her tight shirt.
His back stiffened and he crossed his legs, trying to fix his jeans without being noticed.
Kylie did notice; her smile widened momentarily, then she leaned closer to the desk, her breasts resting on her crossed arms. She wasn't entirely certain of what she was doing; her true intention behind calling Rob to her office remained unclear even in her own mind.
On one hand, she did want to talk to him about his grades, his effort (or lack thereof), and to help him improve and not flunk her class. On the other hand, in a classroom filled with liberal arts freshmen, mainly young girls and wannabe writer-boys that could not tell a pen and their dicks apart, Rob was the ray of sunshine penetrating the grey clouds of a rainy afternoon.
Tall, athletic, handsome, and with kind eyes, he was the one toward whom her gaze constantly moved during her lectures; and, besides, she did enjoy the way he looked at her, that lustful concentration that gave away it was not in her words he was interested.
"I'll try harder, Mrs. Stevens," he finally said, his lips lightly twitching. "But," he added after a long pause, "I might need some help. I just don't understand some of the things we talk about in class."
"Like what?" She leaned back, kicked her leg high and crossed it, allowing the skirt to rise even higher.
"I've heard you talk about allegories, metaphors, hidden meanings...I just don't see any of that, when I read a story."
"What do you see?" She smiled.
"A story," he shrugged, feigning apathy; his gaze often dropped to her legs, his turgid member suffocating inside his tight jeans. "Just a story someone felt had to be written."
"Well," she licked her lips, "you may have a point there; nevertheless, you have to learn to read a story through different lenses, to analyze it. If," she pointed out, "you want to pass."
