Health 101 -- 10th Installment

Health 101 -- Parent Conference

The initial 69 practicum went well for all concerned, and I was fairly certain that I would offer every member of this class the opportunity to sign up for my advanced class, Health 102, next semester. I was feeling better about Andy's class performances, and fairly sure that I was in no way influenced in that regard by the Dean's nattering about two-million dollar grants, endowed Chairs, or any of that.

Then I received another call from the Dean. He made small talk for a few minutes, and I rather suspected that he was trying to create an opportunity to get into my pants again. I was still a little sore from the glorious ass-reaming he had given me, but my pussy was tingling just thinking about the other part.... I began thinking up excuses, wondering if I even wanted to make excuses, trying to think of reasons why I should NOT make excuses...he really had fucked me most satisfyingly at his last opportunity. Of course, he had learned his best techniques from prior therapeutic sessions with me...but shouldn't I keep this on a strictly professional level?

As a result of my wool-gathering, I missed the preliminaries and only started paying attention again when he said, "I hope you won't mind that I scheduled an appointment for you to meet with him this afternoon."

"What? Who?" I stammered. "and WHY?"

"Mr. Andrew Bakstabre, Sr., would like to meet with you to discuss the details of the two million dollar endowment he proposes to organize," the Dean repeated patiently. "He is also somewhat concerned about his son's behavior in your class."

I considered this silently for a moment. I hate meeting with parents. That would go double for Andy's parent, whom I had already mentally classified as a major asshole. Most of my students prefer not to discuss my classes with their parents, which is fine with me. But for two million dollars....

"Well, since you've already made the appointment for me, I guess I have no choice," I said snippily.

"I guess you don't," the Dean agreed congenially. Bastard. "As I said, the appointment is for 6 p.m. and he would like you to meet him at the VIP room at the Hilton, if you don't mind."

"Six PM!" I squawked. "Nobody has office hours that late--"

"Which is how I know that you are not already scheduled," the Dean continued smoothly. "He requested that you dress for dinner. Now, I'm counting on you, Samantha, to make sure that this money comes to the University and not somewhere else. You are going to have to do whatever is necessary to seal this deal. WHATEVER is necessary. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly clear," I said. "And if he wants a blow job, I'll be sure to tell him how good you are at that. I'll even schedule it for you." I slammed down the phone. God DAMN. All my instincts were screaming "Run! Flee! Danger danger danger!"

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6:20 PM. Fashionably late. I presented myself to the Concierge at the Hilton and asked for an escort to the VIP room. Of course he asked why. When I haughtily gave him the name "Bakstabre" his reaction was most odd. He became quite pale as he summoned a bellman and ordered him to show me to the VIP room. He studiously avoided looking me in the eye when I thanked him before leaving. Curious.

As we negotiated luxuriously carpeted long corridors, I did a mental inventory of my appearance. Hair: good. I had brushed it and even curled it a little. Face: light makeup. Jewelry: tasteful pearl earrings and seed pearl necklace. Dress: the standard small black cocktail number. If that's not good enough for "dinner" he could shove it up his ass. The dress was not designed for comfort; at least, not mine. If I wasn't popping out on top I was falling out of the bottom. But men seemed to like it. My panty hose were some special thing that I tried on a whim and was glad. They were dark enough to make it obvious that you are wearing stockings, with some kind of a smoky-sparkly overtone. They looked so long and slim as I was pulling them up my legs at home that I had had to stop and dry my pussy off before finishing. Okay; well maybe I did rub my clitty just a little bit while I was there. Wish I could have spent more time with her, but I was late already. Shoes: Black patent leather, of course, with heels too high for this kind of carpeting.

The bellman knocked on a large walnut door. Moments later it opened, and I was looking at Andy Sr. at close range. Something about him was rather...overpowering. It wasn't that he was an extremely large man. His height and weight were about average. As were his features, nondescript shade of brown hair, and muddy hazel eyes. But he projected some sort of aura -- power? Authority? Danger? Or just plain evil?

He did know how to dress his body for maximum effect. Or his tailor did, at least. The irridescent black dinner jacket he was wearing did not come off the rack at Suits R Us. His white shirtfront was crisp, dazzling. Hand-knotted silk bow tie. Carefully polished Italian shoes. He smelled like...fresh hay? And maybe a just a tiny hint of patchouli? I did not recognize the scent. Something custom-blended, no doubt.

I offered him my hand and he took it, gently but firmly, holding on just that fraction of a second too long for comfort. His clasp was warm and dry. Slightly rough. Not an accountant, this one. His hands had done real work. I wondered how he would handle my breasts, my pussy. "What the hell is wrong with you!" I scolded myself severely. "You know what an asshole this guy is, and you still fantasize about fucking him?" I really should listen to myself more often.

He bowed mockingly over my hand and ushered me into the room. I tried not to be impressed. The decor was subdued yet elegant. A single table, stage center, was set with crisp linen and sparkling crystal and silver. At one end of the room was a cozy conversation area with comfortable sofa and chairs. At the other end was an ornately carved walnut bar, complete with impeccably uniformed bartender. For some reason, this stilled the danger signals a little. After all, there would be a witness to whatever he was planning. A hotel employee, I assumed.

He guided me to the conversation area and seated me on the plush couch. I sank into it, further than I liked, and pointedly slid over to one end, hoping to maximize the distance between us. Bad move. Of course, he then seated himself squarely in the middle, much closer than I found comfortable.

"Something to drink?" he asked.

I thought quickly. Perhaps it would be easier to deal with him if he were somewhat inebriated. I needed to keep my wits about me though. Perhaps something unidentifiable by sight, which I could replace with soda water at my first opportunity?

"Vodka and tonic," I said stiffly. "Lime. Stirred, not shaken."

He had the grace to smile as he beckoned to the bartender. "Grey Goose and tonic," he ordered. "And I'll have the usual."

The drinks arrived before the silence could become overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Even as it was, I understood that he was trying to make me nervous, hoping I would begin to babble, saying anything to fill the void. I refrained.

I tasted my drink. Perfect! Damn. This would not do. "Could you stiffen this a little?" I asked the bartender innocently. "I would like to be able to taste the vodka." I was hoping that if it tasted bad enough, I wouldn't be tempted to drink too much of it. He nodded coldly and transported my glass back to the bar.

Andrew Sr. waited politely while my drink was modified and returned. Again the uncomfortable silence. Bastard.

I nodded my appreciation and sipped again. Still too smooth for safety. It needed a shot of rubbing alcohol if I was to avoid over-consumption. I set it firmly on the end table and turned to face my adversary, crossing my arms under my breasts. Defensive posture. Must watch the body language. I tried to look more relaxed and in control as I asked him, "Would you like to tell me what this is all about?" I pointedly glanced at my watch. Let him know that I wasn't prepared to waste a lot of time with him.

He was tasting his drink, which appeared to be some sort of whiskey over a single ice cube. Single malt Scotch, no doubt. He raised an eyebrow at me, and for a moment I thought he was not going to answer. "It's about money, of course," he finally said. "How much you want and what you propose to do with it."

That was getting right to the point, all right. I took refuge in my drink. Very strong now. I set it down firmly and picked it right up again. Had I eaten lunch? I couldn't remember.

"I would suggest that you discuss all that with the Dean," I said stiffly. "I am only here because I thought you wanted to discuss your son. If that is not the case," I drained my drink and stood, trying not to wobble, "I really must be leaving."

He stood and caught me neatly as I collapsed.

What followed was an out-of-body experience, seen as through a glass, darkly.

I saw myself lowered floppily to the soft couch. He arranged my limbs tenderly, removed my shoes. Covered me with a soft blanket which appeared from somewhere. I slept.

Moments? Hours? Later I awoke, groggy, head aching horribly, dry throat, sick sick sick...flashback memories of some sort of interrogation...what questions? And why was I answering so politely?...he was supporting my head, holding a cool glass to my lips, I drank. Felt better almost instantly. Sat up, rearranged my clothing primly. But I was still watching myself from some distance away. Peculiar, but not particularly frightening. We conducted some sort of inane conversation, details not worth remembering. I accepted another drink. Felt better still. We moved to the immaculately set dining table. Were served unobtrusively. The food was exquisite. The wine more so. But I never could remember the details.

I found myself liking this man, and vaguely wondered why.

Apparently I agreed to give him a guided tour of my campus facilities. We let ourselves into the darkened building and I led him to the classroom, then the laboratory. I supported myself by holding his arm firmly. Wobbly on my feet, but suffused with a sense of well-being. Andrew Sr. was a NICE man. I described at length my plans to build another laboratory room to be used exclusively in my second-semester "departure from virginity" ceremonies. He seemed to understand completely. He really was a very NICE man. He even held my arm while I signed the contract. I considered reading it but couldn't focus that well.

We left the University campus. I remember a shiny limousine, an attentive driver. Cozy. Then we were back at the hotel, in his bedroom suite. I'm a bad, bad girl. He undressed me slowly, then lifted me easily in his arms and placed me on cool sheets. I watched him remove his own clothing, hanging each piece meticulously. Then he was standing next to the bed, presenting his erect cock inches from my face.

Then he was in me, moving. It felt nice. Instinctively, I felt his orgasm approaching. Too soon. I rolled him over and took control. Sliding up and down on his rigid cock, slowly, taking it all, then pulling back, making it last. His come blasting into me when I could no longer delay my own pleasure. Collapsing onto him, his cock still twitching inside my flooded pussy.

Morning sun woke me in my own bed, in my own apartment. Horrible, horrible headache. I fumbled for a glass of water on my nightstand. Drank. Not water, but helpful. I slept again.

Hours later I awoke, lazily stretched, looked at the clock. Noon?!! What day? Was this Saturday? Must be. I dozed. Eventually I awoke for real. Stumbled to the shower. What had I done?