"Professor Adams?"
I glanced up from my desktop computer screen and turned to see a female student standing at my office door. She looked every bit as sexy as her voice had sounded.
It was Monday afternoon, the first day of winter semester at our state university where I taught creative writing. Had she been in one of my classes today, I would not have forgotten her face.
"Come in," I said.
She slipped into the chair next to my desk, pulling her backpack onto her lap.
I caught a whiff of perfume, understated, with hints of musk and cinnamon. She had bedroom eyes, large, dark and liquid, and brown hair that fell past her shoulders, thick and unruly. I wondered if her bulky sweater and loose-fitting pants hid equally attractive assets.
"Thanks for seeing me, Professor Adams."
"Of course."
When she crossed her legs, the change in posture stretched her pants enough to allow an outline of their shapely length to appear.
"I'm Bethany, in your Tuesday-Thursday afternoon workshop?"
"Okay."
She handed me two manila folders she'd taken from her backpack. "I was wondering if you'd have time to read two stories I wrote. I've been working on them on and off for over a year."
I stifled a laugh. "Over a year?" I placed the folders on my desk. "Some of my students work on their stories for over a day!"
She smiled. "I love to write."
"What year are you?"
"I'm just a sophomore."
Her answer surprised me. She looked to be older than that.
"I took a couple years off after high school to travel and work," she said, as if reading my mind.
"Good for you."
She ran a hand through her hair, causing her bulky sweater to stretch across her chest in a manner that revealed her large breasts. "Yeah, I didn't want to start college until I had some idea of what I wanted to study."
"And what is that?"
"I'd like to be some kind of writer. I think I have some talent in that area, although I'm not sure all my high school writing teachers would agree necessarily."
"Why do you say that?"
"I showed a draft of one of these stories to the teacher I had right before I graduated and she said I shouldn't write stuff like this."
"Like what?"
Her coquettish grin caused rumblings in my nether region. "She told me--she said she found the subject matter offensive."
"I see." I wondered what subject matter would disturb a writing teacher. But then I remembered that our campus lay in a part of the state known as the "mini-Bible belt."
"So, Professor--"
"--please. Most of my students call me Larry."
"Okay, Larry. So thanks. I'm really looking forward to this class."
My curiosity was such that normally I would have read her stories immediately, but the start of a semester is always crazy busy for me. I left my office later than usual, but with her stories in my briefcase to read at home.
My wife, Lynn, texted me as I finished supper. There was an 'emergency' on the other side of the state that she and her boss had to attend to. Lynn worked for a public relations firm and used to come home almost every night around dinner time. Six months ago, things suddenly changed. She began traveling with her boss, Bradley, to see out-of-town clients and often wouldn't come home for several days at a time.
If I saw her at all, it usually was in the morning before I left for work. She'd grab a shower and then leave again, dressed in a slinky blouse with a plunging neckline and a skirt that came to mid-thigh. She said Bradley encouraged her to dress 'business casual.' I called it 'business slut.'
Our marriage was heading for the dumpster anyway, well before Lynn started 'traveling' with Bradley and dressing like a whore. We hadn't had sex in almost three years.
Her text said they'd be gone two days. She didn't mention anything about coming home to pack. I didn't bother to reply.
Most evenings I usually worked on personal writing (I was in the middle of a novel), but today had been long and busy and I was tired. I considered watching Netflix. Then I remembered Bethany's stories in my briefcase.
***
The plot of 'An Office Affair' was predictable to the point of being a cliché: married man has affair with his secretary. Perhaps to make readers more sympathetic to the man, Bethany had given the wife's character an unnamed exotic illness that prevented her from having sex. The husband still loved his wife, but, hey, once in a while a guy needed to get laid!
The manuscript had numerous writing errors, however the description of the sexual activity between the boss and his secretary impressed me. Bethany seemed to possess a vivid imagination and a good eye for detail.
On page three, Bethany began describing the first bedroom scene and as I followed it over several pages I became aware that I'd been absentmindedly stroking my penis. In fact, I had a sizable erection. I undid my trousers and started to masturbate.
My arousal increased the more I read.
As I often do when reading fiction, I inserted myself into the story, taking over, in this case, for the randy husband character. At the same time, I began imagining Bethany as the secretary. Thus when the husband went down on his secretary, I visualized the scene as me licking Bethany's pussy.
Later in the story, the secretary fellates her boss until he's ready to erupt--only to deny him a release. After a second time, the boss takes matters into his own hands. He tosses her onto the bed face up, and starts fucking her mouth. Of course, in my mind it was me fucking Bethany's mouth. When the boss finally explodes down her throat, I lost it.
My climax was so intense that some of my ejaculate landed on top of my desk. Only after I regained my senses did I realize I'd soiled a page of Bethany's manuscript. I grabbed a Kleenex and blotted the stain until I was satisfied that unless she studied the page with a magnifying glass she wouldn't notice the faint smudge.
Already fatigued, and now pleasantly relaxed, I walked the few steps from my desk to my bed, got in without undressing, threw a blanket over myself and promptly went to sleep.
Regarding the bed in my study, I purchased it soon after I became convinced that Lynn was cheating on me. I no longer could sleep in 'our' bed in the master bedroom. In fact, I avoided even going into 'her' bedroom.
***
The following afternoon, Bethany and eight other students filed into my classroom, sitting in tablet-style chairs arranged in a circle. All of the students looked to be a few years younger than Bethany. None of them, however, were as provocatively dressed. Her mini-skirt and blouse with a plunging neckline challenged me to include the other students in my eye contact.
Bethany came to my office after class.
"Knock, knock!" she said in a playful voice.
My heart pounded in my throat.
"Come on in," I said.
"Did you get a chance to read my stories?"
