This is a story about a professor and his adult student, with some very minor dd/lg roleplay thrown in, no major D/s vibe. In case you aren't into that kind of thing I thought I would mention it here.
Nick was one of those professors who sometimes invited his students to his house. He didn't do it with ulterior motives, nor out of the goodness of his heart, a chance to connect with the younger generation. His objective was simple: turn as many bright kids away from the soul-sucking field of academia, before their bright eyes turned dim, their healthy complexions sallow and their figurative bushy tails rough and bristly. Before they gave up everything they ever hoped to have in order to gain the thing he didn't even want now, the dreaded t-word. Tenure.
So far he had been quite successful. The smart young man who looked to him for mentorship five years ago was now running a fortune 500 company, actually earning a living and not moving around for random postdoc positions. The woman who had wanted him to help her with her master's thesis didn't end up completing it and instead moved to South America to run a charitable organization. The girl who had wanted to study the peace building community like an Amazonian tribe was actually doing the work of peace building in Africa. Every couple of months he got a Google alert about the work she had accomplished. Instead of writing about it, she was doing it.
So all told, he was doing great.
But then there was Maura Anderson.
She had been just an anxious looking freshman on one of those dreadful Cultural Anthropology 101 courses he had been forced to teach once in a while. Her dark brown hair was always in a tight bun, like an uptight librarian in a 1990's children's film. Her blue eyes fixed to him on her heart shaped face. She barely took notes, but stayed behind after class. Her smile was slow to arrive, but when it did, a dimple would show up in tandem with it, on her right cheek.
When he asked her what she was interested in, she said the thing they had just been studying. Ritual, she would say. Purity, after another class. Pre-capital and gift based economic systems, she would say and he would smile, in on their little joke now.
She was beautiful, of course. Like most girls in his class - women, he corrected himself -- women in his class, her body was shaped by yoga and a faster metabolism. Round curves but within impossibly taut bodies. She wore jeans and t-shirts at first, but then one day she started showing up in skirts and dresses, exclusively. She stood out in a sea of hoodies, like a sunflower in a field of hay. How could he not notice her?
She came to his office hours, monopolizing his time. But she wasn't a temptress, she was asking earnest questions and he was drawn in by her personality and keen interest. Of course, he was the cynic. He told her not to even think about a second degree if she wanted anything out of life. A house she could buy and actually live in, a family, a marriage.
"But weren't you married, Dr Harris?" Her eyes wide, her lip half-tucked between teeth.
"Two and a half decades with a wonderful woman, whose life I wasted," Nick said, leaning back in his chair. "Wouldn't recommend you being either one of those. The one whose life gets wasted or the one who does the wasting."
"But weren't you happy?" she asked, leaning in closer.
Her dress hid everything but the shape. His eyes would not dip down but she was always tired at 10 am, and stretched arms over her head. The fabric curved around her tits.
Okay, so he did look.
"I was happy, but that doesn't make it right toward her," he admitted, shrugging. "Oh well. Call me Nick, by the way."
"Nick," she said immediately, like it had been a command.
His dick twitched, the treacherous thing. That thing was always eager to make him everything he wouldn't be. The lecher, the dirty old man.
Twenty years of teaching and every couple of years there would be a girl who got that usual crush on a professor. Sometimes she was flirty, aware of her own appeal. Daring. Other times she was timid, awkward, inexperienced. But her eyes would betray her, darkening and intense when she asked him a question in class.
It always tore at him and he never, ever gave in, because of his wife, but because of his ethics, too. It wasn't right that some young pretty thing wasted her youth corrupted by an old man. Even at 30 he had felt too old for the 20 year olds. Whoever she was, she ought to find her own path. Whether that meant fucking some useless frat guy or a doe-eyed poet in her English class or her best girl friend in the name of college experimentation, it would not be Nick Harris, just because the option was there for him.
He was an average older guy. Wheat colored hair with silvers here and there, contact lenses in his brown eyes. Lanky body with a stomach that had rounded slightly from beer. He worked out but didn't obsess over it. He wasn't a fox or whatever dignity some older men got to be actually considered sexy. Yet every couple of years a girl -- a young woman reminded him that in her eyes he might be. But he would never follow through in anything but fantasy.
And then there was Maura Anderson.
Her hair was no longer on a tight bun. She opened it in front of him, like an unveiling of an artwork. It fell, soft and voluminous on her shoulders, down her back.
"Anyway," she said, her hand working through it, shaking it from the roots. "You said you liked brownies in class, is that true?"
"Sure, what's it to you?" He laced the fingers of his hands over his stomach. Was it flirtation? So hard to tell with Maura.
Maybe she just liked cultural anthropology. She had already passed his class, but she kept showing up. She took classes by other professors, and never mentioned them. Her eyes focused on him. His focused on her. Wide pink stripes rose onto her cheeks the longer they would talk, and he would tell himself it was wishful thinking to consider it arousal.
"I'll make you some," she said, her eyes cast down and then rising to his own. "If you'd like."
"I might like," he told her. "Hard to say without a bite."
"Then you need to take a bite, Nick."
She wasn't the flirtatious girl, she was the innocent, he had always surmised. Maybe she was both, eager for the learning. The thought excited him and the wave of disappointment in himself followed. Settle down, he told that monster within himself. She is just a student.
"You can bring them round sometime," he told her, glancing at the clock. "I should get back to work."
"Bye, Nick," she said, getting up.
To prove a point, to himself mostly, he didn't watch her leave but then at the last minute he looked, captivated. He was wrong for it. So wrong.
His dick did not care. After the door clicked shut, he got up to lock it. Hand on himself within a minute. Just to relieve that tiniest of pressure building, he told himself, but he was so hard and the fantasy took over. Her on her knees in front of him, a hesitant mouth over his cock.
"I've never done this before," she says to him in the fantasy.
"You'll do fine, just taste it in your mouth," he guides her and her mouth wraps around the head, hot and wet.
She smiles against it. "It's so soft and hard at the same time."
"Do you like it?" he asks.
"I love it," she tells him and the tongue presses against the rim of the head, the bunching of all those nerve endings.
He came over his own fist, guilt washing over immediately. How could he be like this. A walking Title IX violation. Jesus Christ, get a grip man, he told himself.
She wasn't the hottest girl who walked into his class. She wasn't the most brilliant. She wasn't the one who seemed the most virginal or the one who dressed the sluttiest -- and he sure as hell shouldn't notice these things, but he did. She was just the one he wanted the most.
He shouldn't and he wouldn't do anything about it, just like he hadn't for twenty years.
Yet he emailed her his home address from his personal email and told her he'd be in from 6.30pm every weekday night. He didn't date, he only had solitary hobbies. A gym in the basement and his library of books. The internet to provide everything else. He had nowhere to be but home, and maybe that was the problem.
The night she showed up, it was a snow storm. The worst in years, the news said.
He stared at her, stunned. "How the hell did you drive here?"
"I took an Uber," she said, shrugging. The tin of brownies in one hand, fluffy boots on her feet. The down jacket opened at the door, revealing a dark red dress.
"Did the driver have a death wish?" He shook his head. "Fine, come on in."
