The final bell for your last class of the week rang with a sound that was pure music to your ears. A collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the lecture hall, but you were having a hard time joining in. It had been a hell of a week, a grind from start to finish, and the thought of the weekend was a sweet, distant promise. Still, there was one consolation that had made the last hour bearable, even captivating: your new professor.
She was a vision, a walking, breathing distraction. Her long, wavy red hair was a cascade of vibrant color, and her emerald-green eyes held a spark that seemed to promise both fire and ice. She moved with a fluid grace that was hypnotic, and she smelled faintly of something floral and clean, a scent that was both intoxicating and maddeningly out of reach. For the past fifty minutes, you’d been having a hard time concentrating on anything but her.
She wore a heavy gray sweater, the kind that was meant to be cozy and unassuming, but it did little to hide the truth. Even through the thick knit, you could see the sharp, defiant points of her nipples, and you were almost certain she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath. The sight was enough to raise an unanswerable question in your mind—and elsewhere—if she was willing to go without a bra, what were the odds she was wearing any underwear at all? The question burned, a wildfire of curiosity and desire. For the fourth time in as many minutes, you wished you could wrap your lips around her aureole, to feel the texture and taste the promise she so casually displayed.
“Class dismissed,” she said, her voice a soft, final note that broke the spell. You started to stand, gathering your books, but her next action brought you to a halt. She pointed a pencil directly at you, the lead a tiny, sharp weapon. “I need to speak with you.”
A wave of dread washed over you, cold and immediate. What could have gone wrong so early in the semester? It was only the third week, and this had to be a new record, even for you. Your mind raced, replaying every minor transgression, every missed note, every moment of blatant staring. You rested your books on the desk and patiently waited as the rest of the class filed out, their chatter fading as they disappeared down the hallway. You nervously walked up to her desk, the silence in the room suddenly deafening.
Her long, wavy red hair draped down over her shoulder like a cloak, obscuring half her face and making it that much harder to think of her as a superior, as someone who held power over your academic future. You tried to focus on the papers on her desk, on the meticulously organized pens, but it was no use. She was a magnetic force.
Then she looked up, and you saw her emerald-green eyes. They weren’t just looking at you; they were looking into you. You were certain she could see the truth written on your heart, the unbidden thoughts that had been consuming you all hour. You quickly looked away, hoping she couldn’t read your mind, hoping the blood wasn’t rushing to your face. But it was too late.
She reached over, her hand oh so gently, oh so deliberately, placing itself under your chin. The touch was electric, a current of heat that shot straight through you. She lifted your head, forcing you to look into those most enchanting eyes, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice a low, teasing murmur. “You weren’t having any problem looking at me in class.”
The jig was up. She had caught you staring. A flush of heat spread from your neck, turning your cheeks a shade of red that was definitely a new addition to the painter’s art. You were mortified, a nervous wreck.
Then she gave off a laugh that sounded more like the tinkling of bells than a human utterance, a melodic sound that instantly put you at ease and sent a shiver down your spine. She told you that she didn’t mind and, in fact, was quite flattered. Her eyes dropped, a slow, deliberate journey down your body until they rested on your crotch. “Quite flattered,” she repeated, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
Once more, you made a new chromatic effect, your face a deeper shade of scarlet than before. You were stunned into silence. She just smiled, her eyes twinkling with a shared secret, and then she asked you what you had planned for the night.
You were slightly stunned by her forwardness, but you managed to stammer out that you had only planned to possibly go out drinking with the guys and then crashing.
“That sounds rather dull,” she said, her smile widening. She leaned forward, pressing her ample bosom against your arm, a soft, yielding pressure that made your heart pound against your ribs. “Wouldn’t you rather come to my place for a drink?”
Not wanting to let the spell break, not wanting this to be a dream from which you would wake, you managed to ask where she lived. You explained that you would like to get a shower and change before you went over. She grinned at your nervous politeness and said that the two of you could stop over at your room for you to grab a change of clothes, and you could take a shower at her place.
Not believing your luck, you agreed. You suggested that it might be a good idea for the two of you to meet on neutral ground and suggested that she wait for you at the student union and that you would meet her there in 10 minutes. She agreed and told you to make sure that you brought your black denims and the gray flannel shirt you had been wearing last week.
This definitely confirmed your suspicion that you hadn’t been the only one looking. Those were your tightest jeans, the ones you wore to feel a little more confident, the ones that hugged your thighs and hips just right.
It took you about 3 minutes to get to your dorm—a new school record. Another two to find your clothes—a task that normally took a full twenty minutes. You grabbed the jeans and the shirt she had specifically requested, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm in your chest. The next four minutes were spent getting back to the student union, leaving you a whole minute to rest. You stood there, leaning against a pillar, trying to catch your breath and calm the wild thoughts in your head.
Just then, she walked in, her red hair a fiery beacon in the crowded hall. She looked around as if hunting for someone she couldn’t find, gave you a quick, conspiratorial nod, then left. You gave it a few minutes for comfort—to let the last of the crowd disperse and to pretend that this was a random encounter—then you got up and followed her out. She was sitting patiently in her car, a sleek, black sedan that seemed to purr with quiet power. The door clicked open, and you slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled of roses and something else, something distinctly hers, a scent that was already becoming addictive. You nervously sat back, and you were off.
About a block away, you hit a red light. She turned to you, her eyes twinkling, and without a word, she leaned over and kissed you dead on the lips. The kiss was soft and firm, a shock that slowly wore off as you leaned into it. When she pulled back, you looked at her—she seemed to have a look as if this was an everyday occurrence, a casual, spontaneous act of desire. You were breathless, a little dazed.
When you arrived at her apartment, it was on the outskirts of town. It was a secluded spot, and you were sure that no one you knew would recognize you here. The thought was both a comfort and a thrill. You slowly headed up the stairs that led to her flat, watching her supple ass all the way, the tight fabric of her slacks hugging every curve. You were almost positive she was wearing nothing beneath, a delicious fact that made your mouth go dry.
You reached the top of the stairs, and she opened the door to her flat, a place of soft light and clean lines. She gestured toward a doorway. “You can take your shower in there.”
You shut the door behind you, breathing a sigh of relief. You had made it. You were here. You were alone with her. You got undressed quickly, your heart still racing, and stepped into the stall. After a few minutes under the hot water, you heard what sounded like the door to the bathroom opening and softly closing.
Just then, the shower door slid open. Your breath hitched in your throat. There she stood, completely unclothed, from her soft red hair to her two bare feet. She was a masterpiece. Her breasts were full and firm, her hips flared in a way that seemed made for pleasure, and the flame red hair between her legs was a vibrant, enticing promise. You stood there in amazement as she asked if she could join you.
You blinked twice, as if to make sure she was real, and said, “Sure.” She slipped in beside you, her warm body a welcome presence in the cool steam. She closed the door and picked up the soap, her movements slow and deliberate. She began to lather your chest, her hands soft and firm, the foam a cool, creamy sensation on your skin. Just then, the soap slipped from her hand, a small, playful act. Not missing a beat, you picked it up and, without a word, began rubbing it over her firm, soft breasts. They were far from a disappointment. They were perfect. The feel of her skin, the weight of them in your hands, the way they moved as you lathered them up—it was everything you had imagined and more.
You then eased your way down to her stomach, running the soap in slow, sensual circles. You felt a hand on the back of yours, and she slowly guided it to the flame red bush at the apex of her thighs. You felt her hot, wet passage on your fingertips, and you began to slowly rub, your thumb finding the slick entrance to her core. Her fingers guided yours, leading them to the very source of her pleasure, until her clit emerged from its hood. You ever so carefully made circular motions with your fingers just above her panic button, her moans becoming more frantic with each pass, until she could take almost no more. “Stop,” she gasped, the word a plea, a command.
She then turned around to rinse herself off, and you got your first real glimpse of her firm, round ass. It was perfect. Just as your mouth began to water, she turned and took the soap from your hand and began to once more wash your chest and stomach, then slowly moved her way down till she was holding your erect cock in her hand. She gave you the most expert hand job in history, her grip firm, her touch knowing, her eyes locked with yours. Just as you were about to blow, she stopped and said that you had better rinse off and get dressed for dinner. She then got out of the shower and left the room, leaving you standing there in a state of exquisite torture.
You quickly hopped out of the stall, dried yourself off, and got dressed, your fingers fumbling with the buttons on your gray flannel shirt. You found your black denims and pulled them on, the tight fabric a constant reminder of the promise that awaited you. When you got out of the bathroom, she was standing there, a bottle of wine in her hand. She was wearing the tightest pair of black slacks you had ever seen, and they accentuated her muff well enough so you were positive this time that she was wearing no underwear. She informed you that dinner would be ready in a couple of minutes and suggested that the two of you go into the living room and have a drink while you waited.
The conversation over drinks was anything but sexual. She asked the standard “what are you going to do with your life” questions, the kind of small talk that always goes on when you don’t know what else to say. Dinner also proved to be nice but far from exciting, a simple meal that was delicious but seemed to serve only as a prelude to the main event. It wasn’t until dessert that things began to heat up.
She walked over to the refrigerator and took out only a can of Redi-Whip. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. She announced that she was dessert and set the can down on the table, a glint of mischief in her eyes. She undid the zipper to her pants, which you noticed went all the way from the front to the back, a tantalizing detail. She stepped out of the slacks and sat down on the table in front of you with one foot on each side of your chair. She was completely naked, her body a feast. She handed you the whipped cream.
You took the can, your hand shaking slightly, and sprayed a little bit around the outside of her quim, the cool foam a sharp contrast to her hot, ready skin. You then aimed the nozzle and shot some up inside, her hips involuntarily arching at the sensation. You leaned forward and began to run your tongue all around, making sure you got every last bit, your head lost in the pleasure. You almost brought her off, but just like she had done to you, you stopped, leaving her on the brink.
She was hot and ready, her eyes wide with a combination of desire and frustration. “You aren’t going to get away that easy,” she said, her voice a low growl. She grabbed your wrist and led you into the bedroom, her grip firm and possessive. She pushed you backward onto the bed, and before you could even register what was happening, she had yanked the jeans right off your body. She then began to massage your cock, her hands working their magic until it was hard and ready.
She eased her hot quim over your cock, her muscles gripping you, swallowing every inch inside her hot, spasming cunt. She gave out a long, low moan as you felt every muscle grip and release through her orgasm, a sensation that was both overwhelming and intoxicating.
Then, after what seemed like forever, she looked down and grinned. “Now it’s your turn to go to heaven.” She slowly lowered her warm, soft lips around your cock and slid up and down, a masterful rhythm that sent your mind reeling. You were on the edge, teetering between reality and pure pleasure. She gave one last deep throat, and you blew your load deep down her throat, your body convulsing with release.
The two of you lay there in the afterglow of your passion, wrapped in the warmth of the moment, only to continue once more the next day—but that is another story entirely.
