"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."
He wiped the sweat off his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair, when she uncrossed her legs and kept them open; he stared, helplessly, at the garter hugging her thighs and her exposed cunt.
"Something caught your attention?" She smirked.
"No, I'm...sorry, didn't mean to..." he apologized, nervously stumbling on his words.
He couldn't understand what was going on; he could feel the vibes, yet, he was too scared to let himself believe. Besides, she was a respected professor and he was just a freshman; would he risk punishment, or even being expelled, for some faint signs?
"Don't apologize," she said and caressed her thigh, lifting the skirt even higher. "Confidence is a must in academia; without it, you'll go nowhere, even if your ideas are world-changing."
"Right, yes," he nodded, confused. "I'm just..."
"Relax," she got up and fixed her skirt deliberately slow.
He observed her walking slowly to the door to lock it; his eyes scanned her slim figure, her sturdy, round ass which she wiggled oh so lightly and effortlessly, her large breasts barely hidden under the silk shirt. He sat all too rigidly, his hands crossed over his crotch.
"Well," she bit the corner of her lips and placed her hands firmly on the chair's arms, "maybe, you could use some extra hours; help you catch up with the rest of the class."
"That...would...be...great..." he articulated each word carefully, physically incapable of maintaining eye-contact, her breasts right in his face.
"You're very easily distracted, aren't you?" She chuckled warmly. "Perhaps, we should work on that first!"
"What do..." He started, but, swallowed her rest of the question down, when she unbuttoned her shirt.
His jaw dropped to the floor, when she took her shirt and bra off; her breasts—melon-sized, round, and perfectly firm—looked even bigger in contrast to her flat stomach and thin arms.
