Memoirs Of A Baby Boomer Academic Ch 01

I have to admit that as a baby boomer in the academic world I really struck it lucky - universities in the 60s and 70s were expanding rapidly, meaning there were plenty of job opportunities and the arrival of the pill and reliable contraception had led to a revolution in women's sexual attitudes, which I was more than happy to exploit.

Ah, those were the days I thought to myself, as I finished marking a number of student essays, Now that I was nearing retirement I didn't feel the need to work late to show my enthusiasm, but I was keen to finish the papers before the weekend. Being Friday evening, the faculty building was virtually deserted as most staff had better things to do than work late. It was becoming dark outside as I picked up my briefcase. but walking down the passage I noticed that my colleague Tim's office door was ajar, meaning that I was able to hear a woman's voice as I passed along the passage.

"Yes, yes!" she seemed to be saying. Strange, I thought in passing, it certainly didn't sound like his wife, Barbara, who usually played bridge on Friday evenings with a group that included my wife, Lucy. Once outside I turned down the path leading beside our professorial offices to the faculty car park. I couldn't help but notice a sliver of light from Tim's office window. Somewhat guiltily I peered through the gap between the poorly drawn curtains. I immediately recognised the woman - she was a rather statuesque blonde in her late 30s who had attended my Shakespeare course the previous semester.

I had gathered from the faculty gossip that she was from Germany and was taking courses in English literature partly out of interest but also to occupy herself as her husband was a high level banker on secondment in Australia and was frequently away on interstate business.

It was more than obvious that she had acquired a new interest - Tim had both hands on her generous breasts. Her bra had been pushed up under her chin giving him unrestricted access to her pointy nipples surrounded by large areolas. As I watched he lifted each breast in turn to lick and suck them. Her head was thrown back in pleasure. Through the doubled glazed window, I could just hear her groans of pleasure. Her hands were guiding his mouth from one nipple to another. I could see them thickening and becoming more prominent with her growing desire. Transfixed, in part I must admit with jealousy,

I watched her push him away then drop to her knees. Her hands went straight to his belt. After momentary confusion while both struggled to undo the buckle, she managed to pull down his zipper and free his rampaging cock. Having achieved her objective she took it deep into her mouth as he moaned with pleasure.

What a fool he is, I thought, we're not in the 1960s or 70s when attractive female students were considered fair game for male academics. These days there is a raft of rules about relations with students. This is the sort of behaviour that will get you censured, if not dismissed. On the other hand, I was conscious that I was becoming sexually aroused. While previously most men over sixty had found it a challenge to maintain a strong erection, the ready availability of Viagra and Cialis had given us, the baby boomer generation, the opportunity to maintain a fulfilling sex life, provided, of course, we could find a willing partner.

Tim and I were virtually contemporaries, so I felt I could scarcely begrudge him an enthusiastic fuck with a partner probably 30 years' younger. If only it was me, I thought. My wife, Lucy, in her late 50s had developed the top-heavy appearance of many matrons. Actually, I had no problems with her heavy-weight boobs, but her increasing weight seemed to be associated with a general loss of libido. I still cringed from her response the previous week when I had pressed myself against her back as she finished the dishes. I was running my hands up under her blouse, to caress her nipples, only to be rebuked with a curt comment - "Surely you're a bit old for that."

Watching with increasing fascination I saw Tim pull the woman away from his large and well lubricated cock and set her on the edge of his desk. Her skirt was pushed up around her waist. As she raised her backside he slid her panties down her legs, leaving her pussy with its swollen pink lips begging to be fucked. Tim needed no further invitation, spreading her legs to give him full access to her treasures. He lifted her knees up to his chest to give himself the opportunity for a full-blooded thrust as she reached between her knees to direct the tip of his engorged cock straight into her wet and welcoming cunt.

Her eyes closed in pleasure as she leaned back on the desk, while Tim groaned in satisfaction as his balls met her damp matted public hairs. As I watched the lips of her cunt gripping around his hard and slippery cock as he pistoned in and out of her. I had an urge to pull out my cock to masturbate to relieve my own arousal but resisted. As a senior professor I didn't want to be caught pleasuring myself in public. By now her legs were around his backside pulling him deep into her while he was leaning forward to bite and pull her nipples which were standing up like the old time erasers on the end of writing pencils.

God, I wished I were the one burying my cock deep into a young woman's welcoming cunt. Walking to my car I couldn't escape the flood of memories from my early days as a tutor then lecturer in the university's English department. The older lecturers who had joined the staff in the 1960s spoke of the sexual bonanza that the availability of the pill had created, changing the university from a marriage market for well brought up middle class girls to a place where sex without the risk of unwanted pregancy was available with a wink or a sidelong glance of invitation.

I found that there were still plenty of opportunities several years later but my older colleagues warned me to be careful - while the sex might be great many of the young ladies were soon looking for an exclusive relationship with maybe the hope of marriage down the line.

My first year as a lecturer in the Arts faculty giving a course on Shakespearean literature attracted predominantly female students, many of whom were more focussed on social activities than serious study, but as part of my duties I was required to hold tutorials for up to a dozen students at a time. That proved an excellent opportunity to assess not only the degree of academic interest of the individual students but their personality and physical appearance.

I soon found that a number of the students, particularly the young women, took the view that working more closely with their tutor would enhance their grades - not, of course, that I would give them better marks than their work justified, but my door was always open to guide and assist any struggling student, particularly if she was attractive and interested in a bit of slap and tickle.

After a few months I had polished my technique. I would ask the student to sit down beside me at the long tutorial table where we could both spread out the working texts. Some of the girls were quite brazen in their approach and scarcely made any pretence of raising serious issues, but I always pointed out that while I was happy to help, I wasn't going to do their work for them. Usually they took the hint and started to make a reasonable effort. Once I felt that they were at least taking the session moderately seriously I could then decide if I was really interested - in essence did they turn me on? If so, I would lean towards them so our forearms touched. Some would immediately break contact, but the more forward would return the pressure, albeit perhaps more subtly.

Next would be an occasional contact from my knee against their thigh. The more adventurous would start to play footsie under the table, but with the more reticent I needed to assess their degree of interest. Usually this involved me "accidently" knocking my expensive pen from the table, so it rolled between their legs. With embarrassed apologies I would bend down over their lap, placing one hand on their thigh while with the other hand I rummaged around on the ground between their feet. Amid the initial confusion I would be able to stroke a calf or rub a thigh while still apologising for my clumsiness. The more responsive would either hold my hand against their thigh or spread their legs in invitation. Without more ado I would slide my hand up towards their panties, and at the same time try to kiss the side of their neck beside the collar bone.

I can't say that my technique always worked, but even those who rejected my advances didn't seem too fussed. In those days of the double standard girls were used to rejecting unwelcoming offers without further complaint. Once I had my finger in the girl's panties, I reckoned that I was generally home and hosed. I could usually slip one hand up under her blouse and bra to caress a breast while the other stroked her clit until I could feel that she was wet and willing. In the early 1970s it was generally pretty plain vanilla sex. I'd sit her on the edge of the table, pull down her panties, pushing her skirt up around the waist to see her wet and welcoming cunt.

Some preferred me to spend more time pulling and biting their nipples, and a few wanted me to lick their clit first, but generally within five minutes I was in balls deep while both of us moaned in pleasure. A few preferred the alternative position where I sat on the chair while they rode my hard cock, and if time wasn't pressing I was willing to enjoy some caressing foreplay until we were both ready for a second round. I had to remember to ask if they were on the pill, as I couldn't afford the embarrassment of an unwanted pregnancy, but I kept a supply of condoms just in case. Many were happy to return for further tuition of an intimate nature, but I tried to keep relationships restricted to the office.

It was in my second year that I learned that treating young women as disposable pleasure providers was not always a simple matter. The girl in question was a new arrival from India, called Diya, enrolled in my Shakespearean literature course. That term we were studying Measure for Measure, a rather difficult play by Shakespeare with a confusing mixture of themes. The predominant aspect of the plot is the Duke of Vienna's plan to clean up corruption and licentious behaviour by handing control of the Duchy to a judge, Lord Angelo, who then becomes a tyrant, sentencing a citizen, Claudio to death for getting his girlfriend, Juliet pregnant before going through a formal ceremony of marriage.

Lord Angelo indicates to Claudio, however, that his life will be spared if he can persuade his sister Isabella, who is about to enter a convent to become a nun, to sleep with him, Lord Angelo. She refuses, regarding her honour as more important than her brother's life. There are a variety of moral issues, and a rather ambiguous ending with the Duke returning to save Claudio before proposing marriage to Isabella as an alternative to becoming a nun. The play ends without her giving the Duke a clear answer.

I scarcely noticed Diya at first as she was fairly short and stocky, with a substantial bust -- not my preferred female shape, but I soon noticed that she had a sharp mind, and a killer smile. In tutorials I could rely on her as one of the few students who was properly prepared and willing to proffer an opinion, something all tutors value. I couldn't help noticing that she seemed to be studying me in a quizzical fashion - not speculatively as a possible sexual partner but as something of a puzzle.

Each student was expected to prepare a short paper on their chosen theme from the play. They needed my approval for their theme before they commenced. Following a tutorial Diya asked if she could speak to me about her topic. As usual I arranged for her to sit beside me. To my surprise she indicated that she'd prefer to discuss linguistic issues in the text rather than the more obvious moral themes. I could tell that she was quite nervous in spite of her determined attitude. She explained that Indian cultural attitudes were very different from those in Australia, so she felt uncomfortable discussing sexual themes in the context of the play.

In her society arranged marriages were the norm, and the newly married couple were expected to produce sheets following the marriage night showing blood from the breaking of the bride's hymen. Virginity at marriage was taken as a given, not a voluntary matter as in Western society.

I was taken aback, but had considerable sympathy, and didn't doubt her ability to produce a competent paper, although I did point out that there were issues with the text as Shakespeare's original version had never been found. I pointed out a couple of anomalous areas while we shared the same text, and quite inadvertently touched her forearm. She shuddered, reacting as if shocked by a jolt of electricity, halting in mid-sentence. Her sudden movement startled me. In the confusion I knocked her pen onto the floor.

We both bent down to pick it up, with my hand reaching it first. As we straightened up our heads touched, and I couldn't resist taking her chin in one hand and kissing her on the lips. Her immediate response astonished me. A huge tremor ran through her body, and after a moment's pause, she leaped up, clearly in some distress, and rushed out, running down the passage to the ladies' toilet. I was completely nonplussed. She hasn't seemed outraged by my kiss. I then noticed that the seat of her chair was wet. Racking my brains I remembered reading about women who had an involuntary reaction to their first sexual stimulus, not something I 'd ever heard anyone having experienced firsthand.

I cleaned the chair seat with some tissues then tried to decide what to do. After a few minutes she knocked on the door and entered, still distressed but somewhat embarrassed. "I'm so sorry," she said in a trembling voice, "I've got no idea what happened".

I felt for her, a young woman in a different culture feeling judged by a male lecturer after an incident she couldn't explain, so on impulse I put my arms around her to give her some comfort. Fortunately that was the way she interpreted it, as she relaxed with her head on my shoulder, and hesitantly tried to explain; " Mr Alexander, I've always felt a strange attraction to you - it's as if we have been associated in a previous life. I'm sure you'll think it's all foolish Indian spiritual nonsense, but when you touched me it was as if my body was responding to an earlier memory."

I was lost for words, and conscious of her breasts pressed against my chest. I had noticed that she had a small package wrapped in toilet paper in one hand, which I assumed were her wet panties. The thought of her body against mine naked from the waist down under her light-weight skirt was unexpectedly erotic and I felt my cock starting to respond to the thought. To avoid her feeling my tumescent cock rising against her groin, I gently separated us.

"Why don't you come back tomorrow, and we can finish discussing your assignment," I suggested. She gave a tremulous smile of assent, collected her papers, packing them and the tissue wrapped parcel in her backpack. Leaving, she gave me a small wave goodbye and left, closing the door behind her. I sat for some minutes trying to process what she had said, and wondering how I was going to handle the meeting next day.

The meeting the following day proceeded in a manner totally different from what I expected. As she entered, I stood up, planning to give her a friendly peck on the cheek. Instead she seized my head and gave me a full-on passionate kiss, thrusting her tongue deep into my mouth. The combination of her attractive scent, the firm body pressed against my torso and the erotic kiss produced an instant response as I ground my rising cock against her lower stomach. I slid a hand between us seeking to cup one of her breasts. As I started to pinch a nipple, she suddenly seemed to realise what was happening. "No," she insisted, lifting my hand away. "We have to talk!" I could not help but think that she'd left it a bit late to have second thoughts as I felt on the verge of tearing her clothes off to ravage her on my desktop.

She looked at me beseechingly, still holding me with both arms. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. I dreamt last night that I was Isabella and had to explain to the Duke why I wouldn't sacrifice my virginity to save my brother. Claudio was there begging me to help and as I watched, he morphed into you. I found the dream so disturbing I couldn't get back to sleep." She seemed almost in tears, so I cuddled her against my chest. Perhaps that wasn't the most sensible move as my body responded to the pressure of her female form, and without thinking I bent down to give her a kiss. She responded hungrily, and gave a deep sigh, taking my hands and leading them to her breasts.

"I want you to enjoy them and touch my body, - make me feel alive" she whispered. "I'm sure we must have been lovers in a former life". I enjoyed the pleasure of unwrapping her torso, button by button then pushing up her bra to reveal her firm round breasts with large dark brown areolas. As I hafted each breast, enjoying their smoothness and weight, her nipples grew, standing out like little cherries, begging to be sucked and pinched. She sighed with pleasure as I dealt with each in turn. Taking one of her hands I pressed it to my groin so she could feel my hard cock. Strangely I didn't feel the need for haste - I could tell that she had made her decision and was willing to relax to enjoy my attention to her body.

Her other hand undid the buttons on my shirt allowing her to stroke my chest. I lifted her up onto the edge of the table and reached under her skirt feeling for the waistband of her panties. Anticipating my unspoken request, she raised her hips allowing me to slide them off over her shoes, leaving her cunt in plain view. I had read that Indian women were often hairy, so was not surprised to see a thick bush of black hair. Leaning forward I ran my hands up her thighs, spreading her pubes to reveal the pink lips of her vulva, glistening with drops of moisture. Bending down I ran my tongue up her slit, provoking a shiver of pleasure. Her clit stood out pink and proud, allowing me to nibble it.

Diya groaned, seizing both sides of my head to hold me there. I took the opportunity to slide two fingers into her slippery tunnel, feeling the obstruction that I expected, proving that she was still a virgin. As I licked and nibbled her groans became louder. She was panting like a runner striving for the finishing line. Her thighs locked around my head like a vice. Through my fingers I could feel her cunt beginning to spasm. With a shriek her hips bucked upwards as a jet of fluid burst out. She fell backwards on the desk with her legs hanging open and relaxed. After a few deep breaths she raised her head.

" God, that was fantastic!" she said. "No wonder literature is so full of stories about couples wanting sex at any cost."

She sat up and putting her hands around my shoulders, kissed me deeply. "It must be your turn," she said, reaching down to stroke my cock which felt on the verge of bursting through my zipper. It sprang out as I lowered my trousers, giving her the chance to grasp it.

"I've never seen an erect penis before. It feels hot and eager." She stroked it, obviously enjoying her ability to stimulate me as I groaned in pleasure. She continued, "It's as if it has a life of its own." Before she could direct it into her ready cunt I pointed out that I needed a condom, as neither of us wanted her up the duff. Once rolled on I wasted no time in sliding into her until our pubic hairs met, lifting her legs over my shoulders to provide the maximum depth.