In the quiet of your office, I curled in your lap, my blouse open, bra tugged down to bare my breasts, your teeth marks in livid pink on my flesh in the aftermath of us.
"Tell me a story," you whispered against my temple. I didn't even have to think, I knew just what to share. Your book lined shelves, your power chair, the big desk, they brought back memories.
I began, "I was in first year university. Obsessed with grades, really, because it was like bootcamp. Students were dropping like flies and I was among the most ambitious. Winners do the things that losers just won't do, right? And I worked so hard on that paper. God. I hated him."
Kissing my throat, you murmured, "Back up. Who?"
"My pysch prof. He wore a hideous brown suit that must have been quite the hit with the ladies back in the seventies when he first bought it. Professor Mordecai. Asshole. He went on and on about sex all the time in class. I wasn't sure if he was really that Freudian or if he was trying to impress his young students with shock value. He was always covered in chalk from the board. I don't think he bathed much."
You squeezed my tit and I squeaked. You demanded, "The story. When does the story start?"
"Right. Sorry. I worked really hard on a paper and it came back with a B. I knew it was better than that and so I went to his office during open hours to challenge him. I heard angry voices and a girl I knew from class came out in tears. She shook her head at me and stormed down the hallway.
"Mordecai was in a foul mood and I almost left but he practically forced me into his office and shut the door behind me.
God. Statues of fertility goddesses, giant cock sculptures, various suggestive and phallic abstract objects. The guy was a perv. And I don't know where he got all that stuff. He must have travelled some--- OWWW!"
You laughed and bit my shoulder again, lightly this time. "The story. What happened? I don't give a shit about the decor."
