Victoria fell in love with her professor after seeing him on her first day in his Shakespeare Tragedies class. It was more than a crush: he set her soul on fire. She never told anyone, and she thought wryly the very topic of the class was somewhat cursed. Never staring or giving away her yearning towards him in class, Vic limited herself to well-framed questions about the plays, not sure if they even piqued his interest.
The fantasy wasn't to fill an emotional hole in herself. It was love, lust and longing. Although longing was dangerous to living one's life. She wasn't in love with being in love. Perfect princesses in towers didn't exist. If she wanted to quit the imaginative thoughts, she had ways to trick her mind. She wanted him.
Her favorite scenario, one of a dozen, was him arriving at the door of her house on campus late at night, out of the blue. Her housemates all asleep, he would tell her he had something serious to discuss, and she would whisper for him to follow her to her room. Of course she was only wearing a short baby doll nightie and panties. Once inside, he would sit on her bed and say "I've heard you've been a very bad girl. Pull down your pants.
Her knees would get weak and she would ask, "I suppose I'm going to be spanked."
He would not reply, but motioned for her to lay across his knees. After doing so, she waited forever, or perhaps 20 seconds, for him to touch her, as she tightened her legs together in wretched anticipation.
First he stroked her bare bottom lightly, lingering. Then "Whap! Whap!" He spanked twice, hard, and it both hurt and aroused her.
She gasped and he hissed, "Quiet! Or you'll get it harder."
"Ooh," she purred, and she got six more hard strikes. She whimpered softly as he gazed on her very pink cheeks. Her back arched and he brought one hand up to her nightie, moved his hands over her breasts and found a hard nipple. He pinched it, making her pussy get juicy, and she squirmed in his lap.
With a few more spanks, his fingers slipped between her legs to find those wet lips. When he slid his hand along her labia, she was groaning "Ahh!"
Ripping off her nightie and pushing her down in her bed, he knelt to clasp her thighs and bury his head between her legs. She lifted a leg to rest it on her bed, grabbed the bedpost and he tongued her pussy thoroughly, using unimagined new tricks. He found her clit and nibbled, his hands reaching up to squeeze her nipples. She was gasping and trying not to wake everyone.
"Take off your clothes, Professor," she said to him, like in a movie line. He did so feverishly, kissing her bare skin as he uncovered each part of himself. She kissed him deeply, their tongues hotly mingling, and then she left a trail of kisses down his chest. Was it smooth or hairy? She could only imagine all this.
She knelt to kiss his hard cock, which was jutting out like a man half his age. Licking, sucking, handling it, she drove him crazy until he was on the brink.
His hard cock insistent for her now, he turned her around, and took her from behind, plunging deep, making both of them muffle their cries. They came at the same time, and he held her there so long, kissing her back and neck. She imagined.
At 25, Victoria Simson was one of the older students, and she knew Professor Paul Evans was 36 from university profiles online. With a son. Maybe an average man to some, he shined in her eyes. Dark hair and short beard, slim frame, eyeglasses he used while holding open the large volume of the Bard. However, she liked to make other friends in class to distract her, and the 20-year-olds treated her like one of them. Although she had found some serenity and her style at this age already: French scarves, black and white clothes, South American accessories. Slim body and nice breasts. Few knew her age. She would not be objectified or rescued. She would not stand for hypocrisy or nonsense.
Now it was the end of summer, which she had spent on campus working as a manager of an art gallery, and she was signing up for this professor's Fall Shakespearean Comedies class, along with other instructors' classes.
Vic had spent the last eight years before college digging with her archaeologist parents in Peru, studying and working online, and this was her second and final year in the midwestern university's actual classrooms. The change of seasons, finding courage and wisdom already, and the comfort of knowing her family's money could easily supplement Vic's own savings to cover her tuition and house -- all these made her feel secure.
She avoided the hookup culture. Of course she'd had a lover or two in her teens, but love was important to her. Being attractive was a detriment, although she wasn't perfect, and she told men "No, I'm engaged."
Practically. She and Ajay had met on her first day ever here, dated all last year before he got his master's and took a job in California, but they had an understanding and loved each other. He was dark and handsome. His aunt had even given her a beautiful sari. Ajay would fly out to visit her every few months and was due in a few weeks. The professor fantasy would have to be on hold for now.
Today, the last Saturday of August, there was a student art show at the gallery. Her roommates, Olivia, K'imia and Jul said they might come by so they all could go out after 11:00 pm, or they would text. She took her backpack (South American striped wool) and walked the few blocks to town. A stop for wine, fruit, veggies; she went in at 6:00-ish to tidy the place up, vacuum, arrange the hors d'oeuvres, and check that everything was ready. Changed into her simple black sleeveless dress, rarely-worn makeup, traded flip flops for heels, and brushed out her dark brown hair from a ponytail to loose down her back.
People started arriving and the gallery had a good crowd by 9:00. She handled a few sales. The obligatory smiling hello to the owner, Sebastian and his wife, hellos to others, and she could step back to oversee things. She liked to make a point of greeting the student artists and commenting on their work. They were the ones standing near their paintings. For the hundredth time she wished she would run into Paul Evans. That was rare.
A young man came in a half hour before closing. He was tall, thin, with messy brown hair and the hole in his t-shirt that gave him away as a student. An arm tattoo or two. She watched unobtrusively to see which painting he would linger at. The crowd was thinning.
But he made the circuit and came near her. Nerdy but a little cute. Gray eyes. She knew she looked older in her dress-up clothes, and he wanted to say something. Finally, he edged up.
"I know you from somewhere."
"And I'll try to guess which painting is yours."
"OK. A literature class. But you wore jeans."
"The Red Knight," she said, as he was saying "Evans' Shakespeare."
They both laughed and she hoped her cheeks weren't too pink. Evans. Ah.
"I'm Vic. Let's look at it." She walked to his painting and he followed.
A large canvas with big slashes of black, white, gray, it was an abstract close-up medieval knight in shadow, a sword dripping with red, which consumed the foreground.
"Eric Hall," she read. "Oh, OK. I think you sat in the back. You never came with us for coffee after class."
"I'm poor. Student loans and all.
"You missed the day Evans bought us all lunch." Oh, that time was a real and an embarrassing memory for her. "Hey, I really like your artwork. I love medieval stuff."
"Thanks," he said. "I like art, but I really want to write."
"Me too! Maybe something set around the time of the first Crusade."
"Are you kidding? That's crazy. I was thinking 1066, around the time of William the Conquerer, and you're thinking 1100?"
"We have got to talk! Not fantasy stuff, right?" She asked.
"Yes, you got it."
She knew he would say yes. She knew the look, even if he was so nonchalant.
"Could you help me gather wineglasses? In half an hour we'll be done and can talk."
He nodded, and she had to turn to her boss to tell him about the sales. Then the gallery was finally emptied out and she and Eric met in the little kitchen. She handed him a trash bag as she washed the dishes. The volunteer on Monday could vacuum.
"Take that to the bin in the alley and I'll be right out." She quickly changed back to shorts and a summer top, flip-flops, and put her hair back.
Locking up, she texted her roomies, who didn't go out after all. Vic emerged to see Eric. "I'm texting my boyfriend." A slight fib.
"OK, I recognize you now," he joked. Damn, she was still beautiful, as he remembered from class. Probably older than him.
They started walking north toward campus, chatting about art, the campus, and classes. He had written for the student news. She had done some magazine articles. She put her backpack down on wide steps that led to the grassy Commons, but too many partiers walked by.
"I know where we can talk, Vic. The Art Building has a courtyard." They headed over and he showed her a path. They climbed steps along some trees and came to a lighted arch. She gasped. Someone had painted partial text of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings with illustrations, over and around the arch. More steps led up a hill to other campus buildings. It was perfectly quiet.
"I didn't know this was here!" She said.
"Not a lot of people do."
"So cool."
They sat, she pulled out a bottle of leftover wine and handed it to Eric. He took a swig and asked, "Have you started writing your story yet? Mine is just a thought."
"I have an outline. It takes place on a small island in the English channel. A girl grows up in a convent and her father will come and tell her something about an advantageous marriage he has set up. But there's a love triangle."
"An island -- that's perfect. I want to set mine in England, but not be specific. My character is a thegn, you remember Thane of Cawdor in Shakespeare. He becomes Tenant-in-Chief in 1066 and falls in love with a village girl. He's a player, if you know what I mean. I'm loving the crusade idea."
