All names, and most of the detail in this story is fictitious. If I've accidentally used your name, my apologies.
"Ohmigod! I left the tape recorder running the whole time!" The formerly stylish Jillian Willson leapt from my desk, forgetting how wonderfully nude she was, and sprinted for the table across the room. I said "formerly stylish" because having shed her Voguish clothes, she was just a very charming and sexy woman, now glowing with the joy that I had just been privileged to unleash.
She laughed sheepishly as she clicked off the power.
"I'll have to be careful how I use this in my office. I think I'll just listen to it on headphones while I work on the article." I nodded agreement, while at the same time feeling compelled to let my eyes enjoy her 40ish curves. She ran the tape back and forth a bit. The subtle sounds of lovemaking were lost on this dictation-type machine: there was just a sound of rustling papers as she swept aside some of my reports in order to make room to perch on my desk. The moment when her fingers had ripped my zipper down its track was lost. But we did hear the tremulous, rising moan that had marked her second climax, the one with me in her. The little one that came first, as I fingered her to eagerness, was barely audible.
"I can hardly believe this, but I want to get on your lap and just snuggle with you for a while!" She pranced childishly back to hop onto the swivel chair with me. It felt like the right thing to do... we enjoyed cuddling and caressing each other. As our lovemaking coasted along, I thought about her words, that she could "hardly believe this." In a few moments, I could tell, I would not be able to collect my thoughts-- I'd be too busy sating the journalist's unleashed libido.
Right now, though, I was thinking back to the way that this had begun. Before I even had heard from Jillian, I received a message about her from my former colleague at the University of _______________, Professor Johnson. He had gone on to another school, but we had sometimes met at conferences and swapped stories.
Johnson was a bit disturbing to me, but we were able to talk with each other. As an assistant professor, I had watched this young instructor working hard to take advantage of his abilities with hypnosis. If he had worked as hard on his research, he would have been at the top of his field. Instead, he did receive high marks on his classroom instruction, but those grades were skewed by the intense devotion of the most attractive women in his courses.
I used to try to get him to relax a bit, be more selective, and get to know the women instead of just using them. He, in turn, thought I was a foolish older romantic, enjoying long conversations with the women who connected with me through our thoughts, words, and only after that, sometimes by sharing our physical pleasures.
"Johnson," I muttered, "when I go into a woman, it's because she wants me, and she wants to express her own femininity. It's 1996, damn it! If she wants it, she should have it, but she also wants it to be worth remembering. She wants to know that I'm going to remember her for the rest of her life and mine, and she's going to remember me, too. When she's an old woman, it's going to warm her heart when she sees something that reminds her of me, or when she remembers the little gift she gave me to put on my office wall-- and she's going to remember suddenly realizing where all those other knick-knacks in my office came from-- but she's going to be proud of herself for that, sure that she's the one whose image will stick with me."
Johnson had listened to my romantic spiel with one eyebrow raised.
"With the time you spend preparing one co-ed or colleague for a dreamy trip to bed with you or for a ride in your leather swivel chair, I can have one fucking me, another making dinner for us, and a third shining my shoes!" Johnson had then sighed and looked at me like I was hopeless.
On one occasion that I remember vividly, one of his conquests turned up in my office and lifted her bulky-knit sweater to show me a message written in lipstick on her perky breasts. It was an invitation to join her, in more ways than one, at a party at Johnson's place. I said "no, thank you..." but she never registered a conscious reaction to me one way or another. For a minute, as she stood in an accepting pose before me, her body signalled her intense readiness for sex. Then she simply pulled her sweater back down over her swollen breasts, carefully stretching it over her erect and sensitive nipples, straightened it up, and walked away as if nothing had happened. It was fortunate that I had been visited by one of my intimate colleagues earlier in the day for a wonderful cup of coffee and lovemaking, so it was not as hard to do the right thing as one might believe.
When I had returned his recent call, I realized that nothing had changed with him. He still felt compelled to show off. A 19-year old named Tara came on the line, so to speak, at Johnson's direction. He asked her to tell me what she had been doing, and in a sweet voice, she explained how good his cock had tasted in her mouth. She excused herself, because she really wanted to get back to tonguing his shaft.
My recollection was interrupted by the realization that Jillian's motor was no longer idling. I could feel the energy building in her loins, tensing, flexing, and then she was on top of me, taking me firmly by the hand and guiding me into her wetness. We came in a mad whirl, and then both of us collapsed in the chair, spent.
When I awoke, some hour later, Jillian had gone down the hall to freshen up. I lay there enjoying this moment, and resumed reviewing the moments that had led to this sweetness.
In that recent phone conversation, after he had brusquely ordered the hungry Tara to hold her horses and let him alone while he talked with me, Johnson had warned me that Jillian Wilson was headed my way. He was steering her to me, because HE did not want anything to do with her.
"She's trouble. She wants to write an expose' about professors who abuse their power over students-- sexual favors and that sort of thing. Can you imagine someone doing that?" Johnson sounded genuinely worked up about it. Or perhaps his anxiety was coming from Tara's hungry desire for him.
"Can I imagine a professor abusing his-- or her-- power?" I innocently inquired.
"Damn you!" Johnson burst out. "You know what I meant. Can you imagine someone spending time on such a worthless topic. I mean, she's got an editor, doesn't she? Is her editor passing up the chance to make it with every hungry graphic artist or free lance writer?"
"I don't know."
"You know what I mean. You're just lucky that I still feel kind of bad about the way you were run out of the university. So I'm tipping you off that she's coming your way."
