APRIL
I guess I have a lot to thank Mrs. Johanssen for - not just the sex. She helped me get my act together; I went on to finish my graduate degree and I never looked back. Nowadays I'm a psych professor at a reputable college on the East Coast. It's a pretty good gig; it sure beats working for a living.
As you probably imagine, it really happens; I've become accustomed to the young coeds approaching me. Some kind of nervous young thing shows up in my office and the pitch is always the same. "Oh, Professor, can I talk to you . . ." What follows is some kind of sob story about how she's been too busy to complete the term project on time, or how she'd like a little assistance with the subject material; a little personal assistance, right?
I always listen to their spiel. The bottom line is always the same theme, some variation of: ". . . little one-on-one, just you and me, Dr.?" By the time they get to this part I usually can't hold back my grin anymore and it's on. I learned early on why shrinks really keep a couch in their office. Sometimes it doesn't even get that far; I've bent girls over across the top of my desk and laid pipe standing-up doggie-style, and I've lost track of the number of blowjobs I've received sitting at my desk. This is probably the most convenient scenario because I can answer the phone and from out in the foyer it looks like I'm busy at work; except for maybe the look of total ecstatic agony on my face while under my desk on her knees Little Miss Sweetheart of Sigma Chi is hard at work polishing my knob with her wet mouth.
Considering the above, I was quite intrigued the day April came into my office. April was one of my older students. Real older. I put her in her mid-to-late-forties; she certainly didn't fit in with the younger t-shirt and baggy khaki's set. She seemed to try to come across with a casual style to fit in but was almost too chic somehow. Swishy crushed silk skirts with wide leather belts that emphasized her round hips, loose blouses worn open just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, and a quite bit of gold jewelry. The effect was some kind of stylish hippy-chick Gypsy adventuress.
From my point of view April definitely had it going strong. A good-looking brunette, her hair was cropped short, done about her face in a teased, windswept style. April had a great body; big tits and a nice round ass from what I could discern, but certainly not 'full-figured' or fat in any way.
Needless to say, I'd taken notice of Ms. April in my lectures. Or should I say Mrs. April; part of her extensive jewelry collection included a wedding ring set with a diamond about the size of a hen's egg.
I often wondered what brought an older girl like April back into the college scene. Some rich guy's wife, looking for something to do with her spare time? An aging trophy wife, perhaps, working on getting some real credentials against the day she gets traded for a younger edition? Not that it mattered; as far as I was concerned April was a VERY good-looking woman who just happened to be getting up there in her years.
April always sat in the front row; that's how I knew the minute details of her jewelry accoutrements. Hell, I always hovered near her in lectures because catching a whiff of her perfume always gave me a woody. Oh, and did I mention the view down the front of her dress was simply magnificent?
She even had nice ankles; April usually wore ankle-length high-button boots, either that or those gladiator-type wedgie sandals that strap around the calf. It was almost as if she was trying to bring attention to her feet and ankles - I guess she was self-conscious about her ass or something, even though she had no reason to be.
Today April wore a figure-hugging dress of black crushed silk done in a calico pattern that buttoned up the front, with a bit of lace showing about her ample cleavage. With her high-button boots she had a sort of a Cher theme going; gypsies, tramps and thieves. Especially the tramp part.
"Hello, uh, April, isn't it?" I said, playing the absent-minded professor bit. I didn't want to make it obvious that I drooled over her on a regular basis. "You're in my, let me see if I remember, uh, Psych 201 class, aren't you?"
"Yes, Professor. I, uh, wanted to talk to you about my work in the course . . ."
No shit
, I thought.
April! Whoa . . .
"Y-e-e-e-s?" I said, drawing it out. This was going to be good and I wanted to enjoy every second of it.
"Well, I . . . . . . uh . . . . . .I'm finding the course workload a bit
overwhelming
, and . . ."
Waiting for her to get to the point, I was asking myself over and over again if this was really happening or if I was imagining the whole thing. Having a beautiful mature woman coming across like a coed in her late teens or early twenties was blowing all the norms. I was getting signal overload and at the same time I was totally intrigued in a very sexual way.
". . . I was wondering if you could give me some time. Maybe some assistance . . ."
Bingo. There it was. For some reason I wasn't grinning like a wolf.
"Uh, what part of the syllabus are you having difficulty with?" I asked. I'll admit I was a bit nervous too, so I shuffled through some papers on my desk. I mean, this wasn't your run-of-the-mill, garden-variety, just-had-her-cherry-popped coed we're talking about. This was a fully-grown woman, a very beautiful woman - obviously at the very sexual peak of her life - and she was coming on to me like a dozen alley cats in heat. It occurred to me that this was no time to be playing games so I looked up from the mess on my desk, straight into her eyes.
The look in April's green eyes was all business; she obviously wasn't into playing any kind of stupid games, either.
"I have a place where we can go . . . to . . .
talk
," she said, quite simply.
I returned her look. "Meet me in five minutes, April, out the parking lot. You know my car?" Everybody at University knows my car - there aren't too many AC Shelby Cobras in the world, and there's only one on campus.
Let me tell you about my car. I'm a psychologist, right? I'm constantly analyzing the people around me, myself included, right? So when my mid-life crisis arrived I decided to Hell with being in denial. When women hit this stage they go nuts, buy lots of jewelry or have affairs; guys go out and buy themselves sports cars. I figured I'd been working my balls off all these years, now it was my turn for a fast car.
You don't really buy a Shelby, that is, unless you have about 500,000 lying around that needs to be spent; you build a Shelby. There are quite a few custom car companies that offer Shelby kits; I bought my kit from a South African company that owns the rights and the drawings to the original Shelby's. Most kits come with a fiberglass body; there's one company out there that advertises carbon fiber bodies, but they're never in stock. The insane maniac who runs the South African operation teamed up with this aircraft factory in Poland that used to make MiG fighters; nowadays they fabricate bodies for the finest Shelby replicas on the road out of aircraft grade aluminum. That's right, I said aluminum; the entire body only weighs fifty pounds!
My Shelby is silver with a black stripe down the middle. The usual blue and white Ford color scheme is so limp dick; I wanted something that made a statement about raw power and speed. I wasn't going to paint it Ferrari Red - I mean, sure, it's a projection of my penis, but I don't have to be obvious about it. And I wasn't going to paint it Rubber Duck Yellow like the Dean of the Humanities Department's Porsche Boxster. Give me a fucking break. I had it done in the colors of my favorite NFL football team; the Oakland Raiders. My silver rocket-ship-with-wheels is powered by a 427 cubic inch stroked supercharged V-8 engine. Like I said, power. Raw power.
But I digress. This story is about ass; a very special piece of ass in particular. The only reason I mentioned my Shelby is because of the effect it had on April. When I opened the tiny side door she kind of squealed at the tan leather interior. I went around my side and stepped over the door and settled myself behind the wheel.
You don't get into a Shelby as much as you strap it on; much like climbing into the cockpit of a fighter jet. Even though mine is two inches wider and has a lowered floor to handle my physical size, there's still not a lot of room, and then there's the three-point restraint system.
I helped April belt her way into the shoulder straps, which had the effect of nicely emphasizing her boobs. When I reached between her legs for the crotch strap she instinctively tightened up until I held up the strap and showed her the metal tab.
