The Conference Pt 01

The Conference (Part 1)

Kathryn M. Burke

1

My name is Paula Watson. I can't complain about the life I've had—it could easily have been far worse. The good part: I'm forty-five years old, a tenured professor of English at a large state university that shall remain nameless; I've published a few books in my field, and I've been told I'm a pretty good teacher—empathetic without being soft, critical without being nasty. Maybe I have something of a sharp tongue (exhibited more on paper than in person), but I actually think most people are fairly decent deep down. Anyway, my circle of acquaintances doesn't include many scumbags or rascals or layabouts. The bad part: three years ago my husband of twelve years left me (yes, it was for a younger woman—what else is new?), and ever since then I've not been terribly enthusiastic about tying my fate with a man. Even casual dating seems to have fallen by the wayside.

And to any guys out there reading this: I'm rather nice to look at, if I do say so myself. I'm fairly tall for a woman (five foot eight), slender but wiry, with ample curves at bust and bottom that still turn heads every now and then, especially among the old goats in the department.

My story begins with my trip to the Modern Language Association convention. This is a place where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of professors of English (and other languages) meet every year to deliver pompous and learned papers; but there are also heaps of graduate students and other younger folks seeking job interviews with prospective employers. It's always held over a period of four days between Christmas and New Year's, and it can be quite a circus. This one—in Philadelphia—was, for me, a bit more of a circus than most.

It appeared that my university reserved a whole block of rooms in the main convention hotel for both the attending faculty and any graduate students who wanted to come along and check it out. I sensed this because I kept seeing the same people going in and out of rooms close to my own at all hours of the day and night. I was, mercifully, in a single room (I don't do well with roommates), and I of course recognized some of the people in nearby rooms; but, because our department is pretty large, there were others (I mean graduate students) whom I only knew by sight, or not at all.

One guy in particular caught my attention—or, I should say, I caught his.

He was a tall, lanky fellow with unkempt black hair and a sort of shuffling gait, almost as if he was an interloper who didn't quite belong there. But I'd seen him around the department over the past year or two, even though he'd never taken a class with me. At our first encounter in the hallway, I'd done nothing but nod in his direction; at our second, I gave him a brief smile—more out of recognition than of any genuine fondness. I mean, I really didn't know the guy!

But the look he gave me on both those occasions was a bit disturbing: it's as if he couldn't take his eyes off of me, and when he saw he coming down the hall to my room he stopped what he was doing (which was trying to get into his own room with the little plastic key the hotel had given us) and stared at me from the moment I fished out my own key from my purse, inserted it into the lock, opened the door, and went in.

Let me be clear: he didn't look at me in anything like a lewd way. I mean, I was nearly twice his age, and I didn't flatter myself that I was such a beauty that he would find me so fascinating to look at. Truth be told, the expression on his face was not one of desire, but of—

fear.

I didn't give it much thought: it's not my place to psychoanalyze the traumas of graduate students. But matters took a different turn on the third day—or, I should say, night—of the convention, the last night we'd be staying here before returning to campus the next day.

I'd been involved in a late session, and it was close to 10 p.m. before I was able to pull myself away. Standing in front of the door to my room, tired from all the brainwork I'd had to do all day, I wanted nothing more than to get inside and go to bed.

But that graduate student (I might as well tell you his name—Jerad Sanders—although I didn't learn that until later) was just coming out of his own room. When he saw me he stood stock-still, as if I was an apparition out of a ghost story.

I smiled weakly at him—the best I could do at the moment—and struggled to stick my room key the correct way into the lock. I finally managed it and opened the door.

But the next thing I knew, Jerad had rushed toward me, forced his way in, and closed the door behind me. He was now standing right in front of me as I found myself with my back to the door, staring up at him.

In fact, he was only an inch or two taller than me; and, as I say, he didn't exactly have the build of a football player. Even so, his unauthorized entry stunned and unnerved me. What did he mean to do? Did he really intend to—

No, I wouldn't say that word. I wouldn't even

think

it.

I had to get control of the situation. Believe me, I'm no delicate flower, and I usually don't take guff from men. Maybe that's partly why my husband left me: aside from my advancing age, I may not have been quite as deferential to him as he hoped. My many years as a professor had given me a sense of my own authority, and I wasn't about to back down even in this alarming situation.

But I, like most women, had to admit the unwelcome fact that this guy could do pretty much what he wanted with me if he really wanted to. That said, I wasn't going down without a fight.

"What are you doing here?" I said sharply. "Who are you? What's the meaning of this?"

"I'm Jerad," he muttered. The mere fact that he had given me his name surprised me, although of course I could have figured out who he was once we'd gotten back to campus. Then he uttered those words that caused my heart to sink: "I—I want you."

So that's how it was going to be. Just what I needed at a time like this! Exhausted and sleepy, I would now have to fight off this randy schoolboy if I could manage it.

And yet, something about him struck me as odd. Incredible as it may sound, there was nothing threatening in his attitude, even though he was standing inches from me and not letting me move away from him. His face didn't register hostility or anger or arrogance or any of the other emotions I might have expected in this situation. Once again, the predominant emotion he seemed to be exhibiting was a kind of alarm or terror.

And there was more to it than that. As he gazed up and down at me, he looked

pained.

"I want you so much," he whispered.

And then he brought his face close to mine and kissed me on the mouth.

I let him do it. If that was all he was going to do, well, I suppose I could endure it. The kiss wasn't violent at all; in fact, it was soft and tender, almost hesitant, as if he'd never kissed a woman before and wasn't quite sure how to do it. His lips felt good against mine. I've said that I've not lately been putting myself "on the market" as far as men and dating are concerned, and maybe I wasn't aware of how much I'd missed male companionship—and intimacy. But that didn't mean that I was going to let this young man—good-looking as he was—take liberties with me.

And yet, the fact that I didn't resist seemed to encourage him. He pulled me away from the door, wrapped his arms around me, and began showering my face and neck with kisses. All the while, he kept saying things like "I want you," "You're incredible," "You're so pretty," and so on. I hardly knew how to react to this outburst of passion, verbal and physical—so I just accepted it.

But then, when he slipped a hand onto my bottom (over my clothes, of course), I knew that he wasn't going to be satisfied with just words and kisses.

Soon afterward, he took hold of my breasts with both hands. I don't suppose he could have felt very much, given that my tits were covered with a bra, a blouse, and the thick wool jacket of my business suit. But as he started desperately tugging at the buttons of the jacket, coming close to tearing them off, I said sharply, "Wait, Jerad."

The tone of my voice must have startled him, for he stopped what he was doing and just stood there staring at me with that same mixture of fear and almost painful desire on his face. I was now facing a decision: what exactly should I do? Should I order him from the room? I didn't think he was much inclined to go. Should I yield to him? That galled me a bit, even though it could be said that I'd already led him on a little by not objecting to what he'd already done.

Anyway, in a deep corner of my mind and heart I couldn't help being touched by this young man. There was something so refreshingly

honest

about him: he seemed to wear his emotions on his sleeve, and he spoke his mind with utter sincerity. If he thought I was beautiful and fabulous and wonderful—well, that's what he genuinely believed. I don't want to mention how long it's been since I was in bed with a man; and, confronted now with the prospect of intimacy with a guy who was far from bad-looking and clearly smitten with me, it became difficult for me to turn him down.

So I said, "Please don't tear my clothes. I—I'll take them off."

I moved toward the center of the room, turned my back to him, and began undressing. This business suit I was wearing really was pretty expensive, and I didn't want him damaging it! So I carefully unbuttoned the jacket, removed it, then unzipped my skirt and let it slide down to the floor. At the same time, I kicked off my shoes. It took a little more effort to take off my pantyhouse. That left me in only my bra and panties. I still wasn't absolutely certain I was doing the right thing—but surely I'd now gone beyond the point of no return. So with a sigh, I unclasped my bra, shimmied out of it, and then pulled down my panties and tossed them aside.

I turned around to look at him and display myself in all my nudity. And I gasped.

He had stripped a lot faster than I had: I guess it's easier for men to do that. And what I couldn't help noticing—aside from his broad shoulders, the fine coating of hair on his muscular chest, the strong thighs and shapely calves—was his member. It was enlarging as I gazed at it, and I suspected that when at full erection it would be maybe eight or nine inches.

My jaw dropped as I said, "That's quite some apparatus you have there."

He didn't pay the slightest attention to my lewd compliment. His gaze was fixed on my own body. I like to think that I have some impressive assets of my own—at least from the male perspective. Large, shapely breasts (38D), fairly flat stomach, flaring hips, and a thick tuft of hair at my delta. (I knew many young women shaved, but I've always felt that the only females who do so are porn actresses.) He had also probably gotten a nice look at my curvy bottom.

He approached me slowly, almost hesitantly, and wrapped his arms around me. He muttered the words, "So pretty," almost to himself. I have to say it felt really nice to be embraced by a naked man: the contact of skin on skin, even before any actual coitus occurs, is truly thrilling. I knew he could feel the press of my heavy breasts against his chest, and he extended a hand down the length of my back to stroke my bottom, which he seemed to find inordinately fascinating. He gave me light little kisses over my face, neck, and shoulders. This whole episode was now as far from being "non-consensual" as it could possibly be.

I realized I wanted him nearly as much as he wanted me.

It wasn't merely the rather long sexual drought (much of it self-imposed) that I had undergone. (Trust me: the available men of my age group are in many ways fairly hopeless, burdened down with vengeful wives, unruly or demanding children, money concerns, and a host of other problems that make them pretty unappealing even for a quick toss in the hay—assuming I would even be interested in such a thing.) It was that this virtual stranger's seeming obsession with me, which in certain circumstances might be creepy and threatening, somehow struck me as infinitely touching and—yes, I'll say it—flattering. How many women in their mid-forties can gain the attention of a man half their age—a man who could have the pick of all the sexy twentysomethings whose continual presence on college campuses make women like me despair of ever attracting men of any age?

So when this strapping young man exhibited such desire for me, how could I not feel an augmented sense of self-worth?

He led me to the bed, and I lay down on my back, waiting to see what he would do. Would he just plunge right into me? I wouldn't have minded that—God knows I was already wet enough from the bizarre but exciting scenario of the past few minutes. But instead, he draped himself on my body, his head on my chest; and, after first inhaling deeply as if absorbing the essence of my body-scent, he seized my breasts and began squeezing them, getting a full sense of their shape and contours; then he kissed and licked them, sucking on the nipples (already erect and protruding pertly), and even paying attention to the tender undersides.

Then he slid up my body and, in a single effortless motion, entered me.

I let out a gasp. The long absence of the male organ from my vagina, and the unusual length of his member, made me feel almost like a virgin as he proceeded deeper and deeper into me. Men simply don't have any idea of what it is to be

filled

in this way; and I have to say that for a woman there is always just the faintest smidgeon of violation in the act, however much she may want it. The male may feel an exquisite sense of warmth and wetness and enfolding; but the female, in taking a penis into herself, inevitably feels herself to be a

recipient,

even a sort of victim. It's the fundamental inequality of the sex act: a man can go into a woman, but a woman can't go into a man.

But after that initial sensation, all I felt was pleasure. And my body reacted instinctively as it always did in this situation: without thinking I threw my arms around his neck; my legs were raised, my knees were went, and I wrapped them around his hips as he thrust more and more forcefully into me. All the while, he was plastering my face with a multitude of hot kisses, and his hands were eagerly squeezing my breasts and my bottom, at times stroking my back and thighs and anywhere else they could reach. Once he even slipped a hand between our bodies and placed his fingers on either side of his cock as it pumped me, almost as if he was making certain he was actually in me and not experiencing some insane delusion or wish-fulfillment fantasy.

I was a lot more passive than I usually am during copulation: I just couldn't keep up with the passion he was displaying. I didn't think he could last very long, and sure enough he didn't. In under ten minutes his face registered a kind of frustrated surprise; and then, accompanied by guttural moans and gasps, he sent thick streams of his emission deep into me—more of them than I'd had in a long, long time. It seemed to take an eternity for him to empty himself in my womb, and I could actually feel that viscous discharge filling my cavity. He tried to remain in me even after he'd finished, but to his bitter regret he eventually slipped out.

Well, he'd done it. His invasion of my hotel room had led inexorably to this moment. So was he finished? Now that he had fucked a professor in his own department—one whom he scarcely knew except by sight—would he suffer a spasm of embarrassment, hastily put his clothes back on, and get the hell out of here?

No, he did something quite unexpected. Gazing down at me with that pained look I'd already come to recognize, he whispered, "I love you"—and then, sliding back down my body to cradle his head between my breasts, he burst into tears.

Actually, it was more a kind of soft weeping, but there were definitely tears there. And just as the wetness he'd deposited in me was seeping out of my crevice and making the patented wet spot on the bedsheet, so the moisture of his crying was now bedewing my tits as he poured out whatever anguish and heartache he was feeling.

This whole episode was getting too incredible for words. I can say with some assurance that I'd never had a man force his way into my presence, possess me sexually, profess his love for me, and then start crying about it. What could I do? My maternal instincts aren't exactly robust, but I couldn't help stroking the back of his head with my hand while cooing silly little phrases ("There, there, it's all right," "Take it easy, Jerad, you'll be fine") that made me distinctly feel like a mother soothing her little boy after he'd suffered some emotional trauma he couldn't deal with.

All of a sudden he stopped crying and looked up at me with his tear-stained face. It's as if he'd suddenly remembered something hugely important. And what he said to me was:

"Did you come?"

I heaved a sigh.

That's

what he was so concerned about? Well, it was very touching, but it didn't exactly seem like the most urgent thing in the world.

But to him it was.

"No, Jerad," I said wearily.

His crestfallen look really wrung my heart. I felt I had disappointed him in some horrible way.

"I was close—very close. But I didn't quite get there. I'm sure you know that women don't come from intercourse very often."

He scooted up my body again and peered down intently at me.

"I can make you come!" he said eagerly. "This girl taught me how."

"Jerad, there's really no need—"

"I wanna make you come!" he cried as if the fate of the world depended on my agreeing with him.

"Okay," I said, resigned to the inevitable. "You can make me come."

And he set about the task. Let me just say that, whoever that girl was who had taught him, she did an excellent job.

As he kept his face only inches from my own, as if seeking to follow the smallest fluctuations in my own sensations and emotions, he let his hand drift down to my sex. I think he got a kick out of feeling the mingled moisture of his own seed and my juices as they intermingled in my vagina and continued to leak out of me. He started slowly, getting a feel of the shape and texture of my pussy. Sometimes he stuck his fingers deep into me; other times he stroked my labia with delicate up-and-down motions, both on their outer and their inner edges; but chiefly he focused on my clitoris, which swelled under his touch and seemed to come alive from his caresses.

I felt the waves of pleasure coursing through me as my orgasm approached. I moaned softly, arching my back as I yearned for physical and emotional release; but every time my climax seemed ready to burst over me, he let up on his stroking in a deliberate effort to prolong my anticipatory agony. I had never felt such exquisite torture as I underwent under his attentions. Time and again he brought me to the brink, only to compel me to settle back down. It was like a pot of water that comes infinitesimally close to boiling, but then is taken off the burner, then placed back on it—over and over and over. At one point I was forced to cry out, "Oh, God, Jerad, please let me come!"

At last he took pity on me—and pressed my clitoris against my pelvic bone while continuing to stroke it with circular motions. And then my orgasm did crash over me—one of the most intense I've had in my whole life. I let out a strangled cry and stuck my tongue out of my mouth, staring unseeingly at him as he continued to stare back at me. And his ministrations didn't let up: they kept on minute after minute, as he somehow prolonged my paroxysm beyond all reasonable bounds. I became dizzy and light-headed, gasping for air and clutching the sheets with both hands as if I had to hold on tight while an earthquake was going on under me. I think some tears got squeezed out of my eyes.