I was 25, and I had developed my first ever schoolgirl crush.
I was a first year law student and he was my professor. He had attracted my attention slowly – there was nothing particularly extraordinary about him, but I'd always been the type to be more attracted to someone once I had a sense of his personality. Professor Smith was in his early fifties, with graying brown hair, blue eyes, and academic looking glasses. Your average middle-aged law professor, for the most part. But after a few days watching him lecture, I found that there was just something about him that compelled me. I had taken a place in the front row because it was one of the few left by the time I got to class on the first day, but I soon became glad for my position as I sensed his eyes on me a little more often than they should be.
I started to fantasize about him constantly, in and out of class. Every time he made a gesture or spoke, I was mesmerized by his hands and lips, imagining how they'd feel on my body, whether he'd be rough or gentle. I imagined the taste of his breath and skin, wondered whether the hair on his body was brown or gray.
For the first time in my academic life, I started going to office hours on a regular basis. It felt pathetically transparent – some of the questions I invented bordered on the inane. Yet it had become a sort of ritual. Twice a week I would show up, ask him about some tangential point he'd made in class. We'd talk about it for a few minutes, and then go on to talk about anything and everything else until someone else showed up to talk to him. Once, when nobody else did show up, I stayed there talking to him for three hours.
The excuse that I thought of that day was a book that I "needed" to write a paper. Actually, the book was from 1970 or so and I doubted it would be useful, but it had the advantage of being unavailable at the law library, so I thought I would ask Professor Smith if I could borrow his copy.
When I arrived at his office door, it was closed. I took a deep breath and knocked, twirling the end of my long, wavy dark hair around my finger. Even though I did this often, I got nervous every time. That day I was wearing my favorite perfectly broken in jeans, and a white t shirt with a deep v-neck that made my skin look tawny and showed a hint of cleavage. My breasts weren't very big, but they were being assisted that day by the only push up demi bra that I owned.
I never wore anything outright seductive, to his class or to office hours. I didn't want to be obvious – even though I knew how ridiculous that was. Not even the densest person could fail to see that I was seriously infatuated with him after watching me eat up his every move with my eyes in class. But I wanted him to think of me as intelligent, interesting maybe funny – not some stereotypical bimbo who wanted to fuck her professor. I was too old for that sort of thing, and it was undignified.
"Come in," Professor Smith called out after I knocked on the door. I opened the door and stepped inside his office.
I thought that his eyes lit up a bit when he saw me, but was I imagining things? "Hi," I greeted him.
"Katherine, come in," he said, gesturing with his hand and smiling. His smile was what I loved the most about him – how it was so genuine, and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "What's on your mind?"
"Well, I've been working a bit on the paper," I said. "I was thinking of using that book – the one by Shaw? that you mentioned in class the other day, but the library doesn't seem to have a copy of it."
"Really? I suppose it's gotten outdated," he said. "But I have a copy here – should be on the top shelf -- you're welcome to borrow it."
"Actually, I don't see it," I said, stepping over to his bookshelf and scanning the titles. The shelf was filled with old, worn casebooks that probably came from his own days in law school twenty some years ago. "What did you say it was called again?"
"That's odd, it should be there," he said, getting up from behind his desk and coming to look at the shelf himself.
I had never stood this close to him before, close enough to touch him. He was just about a foot away from me, and I could smell him – just the faintest, clean soapy scent, as if he'd stepped out of the shower minutes ago. I did my best not to inhale audibly. I thought to myself that I would love to bury my face in his armpit and just breathe in the smell of him. God, what was wrong with me?
"Ah, here it is," he exclaimed, reaching out and pulling a thick volume off the top shelf. "This is the one I was thinking of. Sorry, I think I told you guys the wrong author in class. It happens with old age," he smiled and shrugged, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling.
"Oh, don't be silly, it looks like you've got a few good years left in you," I teased, then wondered if I'd gone too far. A flush spread over my cheeks, but the professor chuckled nervously.
"I appreciate your confidence in me," he said.
"No problem," I smiled nervously, holding his gaze even as I felt my blush deepen. It was like a train wreck – I couldn't look away even though I wanted to. For a moment, he seemed flustered, but he gathered himself, cleared his throat and glanced sideways.
"Well, I hope the book is helpful – even if it's a bit dated, there are some interesting ideas in there."
"Yeah... I'm sure it will help," I said, feeling vaguely disappointed. He seemed to want to end the conversation – one of our long talks was not about to ensue. I worried that I had overstepped some line. "Well, thanks," I smiled with false brightness, and slipped the book into my messenger bag, preparing to leave.
But then, his hand was on my shoulder. I stopped dead, and my knees liquified. He had never touched me before. I meant to say "yes?" in a casual, normal sort of way, but once I saw his face I actually choked on the word. It was the way he was looking at me. It was a look of naked desire that I could feel in my stomach.
His eyes were searching mine and it was almost unbearable to maintain visual contact with him. The skin on my face and chest was on fire. "Tell me if I'm wrong."
"No," I said. "You're not." When my voice came out it sounded distant, unfamiliar, like someone else was speaking. I felt lightheaded.
We stood there in a state of suspended animation for a moment, his hand on my shoulder. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Professor Smith had always seemed so concerned with ethics (something I admired about him). I couldn't imagine that he was actually going to kiss me during office hours. On the other hand, the devil on my shoulder reminded me that all law school grading was anonymous, by ID number only, so would it really be that unethical?
I stopped pondering the ethics of the situation as the professor slowly moved his face closer to mine. My heart started doing a crazy, erratic dance at the realization that this was actually going to happen. I closed my eyes as his lips brushed mine, letting them linger softly for a moment. Then I pushed into him, kissing him harder, slipping my tongue between his lips, exploring his mouth. Kissing him like this I could barely remember how he had seemed so far away, so inaccessible. Our bodies seemed to fit perfectly together as we embraced and the taste and scent of him were simply comforting, like nothing bad could touch me as long as he was holding me. It was a pure, almost childish feeling – the kind of security and warmth that usually disappears when we grow too big to be held on our parents' laps.
Still kissing me, he ran his hands gently under the hem of my t shirt. I raised my arms as he ran his hands up my sides, sliding my t shirt off and sending delicious chills down my spine. Then he undid the front clasp of my bra and slid it off my shoulders. He supported the weight of my breasts with his hands, moving back a bit and looking at them with undisguised appreciation. Cupping them gently, he lightly ran his thumbs over my nipples. They began to harden under his touch, humming with a lovely ache. He took my nipples between his forefingers and thumb, beginning to pull gently, teasing them out to their full length. I whimpered as the desire for more pressure, more force, became agonizing. In response he pinched, tentatively at first, and harder when I started to squirm. I felt my cunt starting to open up, pulse with blood, become slick, wet and swollen. His cock had grown hard and was pressing insistently against my thigh.
My fingers worked quickly to unbutton his shirt. I untucked it and slid it off his shoulders, and lightly ran my fingernails down over his chest, his stomach, tracing the thatch of hair that led downward from his belly button. His erection was straining insistently against his pants. I moved my hand down to caress it through the cloth, and he groaned. I pushed against him, backing him up against his desk. He unbuttoned my jeans, and I pulled them down and stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
He wrapped his arms back around my waist and moved in closer to me, pushing his bulging cock against my crotch. I wriggled and writhed against it, desperate for stimulation. He slid a hand down my stomach and into my panties. His palm cupped my mound, and I gasped as his fingers gently split my pussy lips, stroking the length of them and covering them with my juices.
His face was close to mine and he whispered in my ear. "My god, Katherine, you're so wet. You feel amazing."
"Mmmh," I moaned. The feel of his breath against my skin sent delicious shivers all through my body, and hearing him say my name was a delicious aphrodisiac. It made me gush. My cunt was so slippery and I could feel the blood pulsing through it, the muscles contracting and releasing like they were desperate to grip something, anything.
He crouched down and firmly grasped my ankles, pulling them apart so that I was standing against the desk spread eagled. Even with my underwear on, I felt incredibly exposed in this position. Then starting at my knee, he ran his fingers gently up my inner thigh. He came tantalizingly close to my pussy, running a finger just under the elastic of the crotch of my panties. I squirmed, trying to get his fingers to move just an inch inward, even though I knew my efforts were pointless. With his face so close to my pussy, I could hear and even feel him breathing in my scent as he ran his hands over my thighs, my ass, everything but what I wanted him to.
