This chapter of the story deals strictly with Professor Jones. Like the first chapter it contains a good bit of imagination, things the character draws up in their own mind. I am putting these in
italics
to help clarify that fact. Hopefully they will come through in the final product this time. As a rule, my stories are meant to draw you in, tickle your imagination and make you a part of it. As such, I tend to leave a lot of descriptive details out. Professor Jones could easily be your next door neighbor, or the woman you saw at the grocery store.
She might be short, she might be tall, long dark hair or short blonde. She is as real as you want to make her. Please make her as real as you can. My story will reveal her inner self, the reality of what she thinks, what she feels and what she needs. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.
Bridget Jones sat at her desk, staring at the pile of papers. She had already skimmed through most of them, and determined very few actually deserved reading. It was one thing to spew out some pornographic images that served as nothing more than male masturbation material. It was quite another to put together a comprehensive story that flowed with real to life characters and a story line that seemed believable.
That had been the whole point of using such a difficult subject. Of the twenty-six papers turned in, she judged over half to fall way short of the mark, and not worth a second glance. Of the rest there were maybe ten worth at least skimming through again, and maybe three that she actually would read. She took a sip of her wine, and sat back, staring out the window. Her husband, Mark, was in the back yard working on one of his projects, an old truck that was more rust than it was truck.
"Christ, he spends more time with that truck than he does with me." She thought, reaching out and grabbing one of the folders.
It wasn't always that way. Their first few years together were filled with sex, sometimes three or four times a day. But that had died off after Kevin was born. At first, she had lost interest, the pressure of raising a child, holding down a full time teaching position as well as working on her master degree ad left little time for anything else. By the time her hectic pace had slowed, and Kevin had grown, Mark no longer had the interest. Oh, they still had sex, once or twice a week, but it was almost mechanical, a short episode of inconvenience in a busy day. She missed the passion, the trembling desire.
Pulling her red pencil from behind her ear, she adjusted her glasses to sit more comfortably on her nose before leaning back and opening the folder. It was one of those she had already decided was not worth reading, so she skimmed through it and quickly made some comments as to the general nature of the paper. It was too bad that the student had put so little thought into it. It was obvious the author was disgusted with the subject of bondage, just by the hurried way they rushed through the actual scenes. She and Mark had tried it once. Bondage wasn't her thing, but she saw how some people could find it erotic.
Bridget quickly went through those that she had considered not worth reading, making what comments she deemed helpful. By the time she was done, she had finished her wine. After refilling her glass, she settled back into her chair with the three that she deemed worth closer scrutiny. She quickly put a face to each of the authors, as she scanned the pages one more time. All three were on the subject of incest, which didn't surprise her. The subject was probably the best to be able to create real to life characters. It's easy to breathe life into a brother or sister when you already have one. Plus the pitfalls and emotional traps can make such tales truly captivating. What did surprise her however, were the students, in particular, David Wilson.
Although his other papers had always been filled with detail, he tended to rush through them, always in a hurry to get from one bit of excitement to another. He never took the time to develop things, to flesh them out. In this one he had devoted three entire paragraphs to removing a bra. Even the few places that he seemed to rush, things melded well, as the characters seemed as rushed as the story did. She knew she could tear it apart grammatically, but that wasn't the point. This was a creative writing project, and she wanted to judge it as such.
By the time she started to read the shower scene, Bridget was beginning to feel a part of the story. She paused to take another sip of her wine and realized her glass was empty again. She filled it back up and began reading again. Without thinking, her hand drifted down between her legs, lightly caressing the swell of her womanhood. She felt she knew the woman in the story, felt her torment.
The soft click of the door and the gentle rush of cool air told her that she was being watched. She wanted to look over, to see her admirer. She knew who it was, who it had been for weeks. She was afraid, afraid of what might happen, but even more afraid that it might end. She leaned against the wall of the shower, her hands caressing her body, seeking satisfaction she had been denied for so long. She wanted to call out his name, to reassure him, to encourage him, to invite him in. But she was afraid, afraid that he wouldn't, that if she slid back the curtain and invited him in she would break the spell and he would flee. Instead, she just stood there, her fingers shaking as they caressed her flesh. Her admirer, just by his presence, fueled the fire within her, helping build the excitement until her legs trembled, threatening to buckle. She almost called out his name, as her body tensed, her orgasm washing through her.
Bridget read through the paper, every scene jumping to vivid life. She knew all of it, had lived through all of it. The quick glances half-caught, the shadow in the doorway watching her as she changed, the lingering hugs that seemed so much more than they should be, it was all real to her. It had been real, so very real. It still was. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair.
They were standing face to face. Her robe was hanging open, her bra and panties hiding little. She could almost feel the blazing desire within him as he stared at her, sending her own need bursting into flame. He stood there shaking, already a man, but still a frightened little boy. Even his fear mirrored her own. She wanted him, wanted him to want her. She tried to smile, but it felt awkward. She reached out, trying to reassure him as she lifted his hands to her chest.
Bridget jumped at the sound of the door opening. Her son, Kevin stood in the doorway.
"How's it going?" he asked, standing in the doorway.
"Oh, uhm, I'm fine." She replied, quickly pulling her hand away from her groin.
"God he looks good." She thought, staring at her son.
She knew he'd been peeking at her when she showered. And his casual brushes against her in the kitchen had become more daring lately. Just looking at him had her already moist pussy pulsing with desire. She wondered what he would do if she ...
She stood up, and looked over at her son. Watching his reaction she reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse. His eyes went wide, but to her relief he didn't bolt out the door. She could see her hand shaking as she held it out to him, urging him to her. Her voice cracked as she whispered his name, trying to encourage him. As their fingers touched she jumped, the feeling almost electric. She knew she should stop this insanity but she couldn't. She pulled his hand to her chest, guiding his fingers to the clasp on the front of her bra.
