Şubat 11, 2021

Career Counselling

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Friday, May 19, 1:45 p.m. was a miserably hot, muggy day. Though it was still spring, it felt more like summer. We students in Professor Constance Dowdy’s political science class had begun to close our notebooks, signaling to the professor that whether or not she wanted class to end, it had. Our minds were already out the door and headed into a weekend.

“All right, class,” she said with obvious resignation, “That’s all for today. We’ll get back to our regular discussion on Monday. Mr. Lewis, may I speak with you for a moment, please?”

She was talking to me. Tom Lewis. First year, second semester university student. But what would she want to speak with me about? I thought I’d done pretty well when the professor deviated from the discussion topic scheduled for today’s Law and Culture class. She does that every now and then. Today, she wanted us to extemporaneously discuss the case of a 43-year-old Texas high school teacher, a married woman, who was about to be prosecuted criminally for having consensual sex with an 18-year-old male student. Since both could consent to the sex, Professor Dowdy wanted the class to discuss the validity of the woman’s being prosecuted under a different law that criminalized sexual activity between any teacher and student.

While the other luckier students quickly left the classroom, I walked to the lecture podium.

“Mr. Lewis, do you have a few minutes to talk about your comments in class today?”

“Well, Professor, I do have another class …” my voice trailed off. I was lying. Her class was my last one for the week, and I was headed for the university’s swimming pool to do some laps and cool off.

“Of course. I understand. But I would like very much to talk with you. Look, feel free to decline, but would you be willing to come out to the house tomorrow afternoon? I think you have a promising career ahead of you, and I’d really like to discuss it with you.”

Now, I like Professor Dowdy, but spending a Saturday afternoon with a political science professor was not high on my activity list. True, her classes are always interesting, informative, and sometimes even fun. She’s got a great sense of humor, and she’s very open-minded. She’s a great listener. Besides, I really need a good grade out of her class, so …

“Sure, Professor. I don’t know where you live, so you’ll have to give me directions. What time would you like me to get there?”

She smiled, perhaps knowing I’d rather be doing almost anything else. Then she wrote out the directions and suggested I arrive about 2 p.m. She also told me to dress comfortably and casually since the weather had become so hot and humid.

The next day, Saturday, I did my laundry in the morning. Then I showered, as much to cool off as to clean up. I put on some cutoff jeans, a tee shirt and a pair of boat shoes and headed off to the Professor’s house.

As I drove, it occurred to me that I really knew very little about Professor Dowdy. More to the point, I really hadn’t even thought much about her at all. She revealed little of or about herself or her personal life in class. I guessed she was in her early- to mid –forties. She was a full professor, tenured, so she must have at least a master’s degree, probably a PhD. Her attire in class was usually ankle length, loose-fitting skirts with non-revealing blouses and sweaters. She didn’t wear much, if any, jewelry other than a plain wristwatch. I don’t recall seeing a wedding band on her hand, but I just assumed she was married. Her hair was black, but with liberal grays she made no obvious attempt to hide. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and very little makeup. If I were to characterize her daily appearance in class, I would call it non-sexual. Then again, given society’s negative attitudes about teachers being sexually involved with students, that was probably a wise career-protecting move on her part. It worked with me. Even with my 19-year-old raging hormones, Professor Dowdy had never generated so much as a hint of a hard-on.

The directions to the professor’s house were accurate and easily followed. Just a minute or two before 2 p.m. I turned onto the long driveway leading to her house. In the distance I could see the shapely figure of a young woman. Professor Dowdy’s daughter, perhaps? Hmm. Maybe this will be a worthwhile visit after all.

As I got closer to the house, I focused my attention on the woman. Her back was to me while she worked in the roses near the house. She was wearing a broad brimmed hat and dark glasses, a narrow yellow tube top, and very short cargo shorts. Even though I was quite some distance away, I could see the young woman had great legs and a delectable figure. Of course by that time my cock had sprung to life to affirm what my eyes had seen.

I brought my car to a stop just a few feet from her. She continued to work with the flowers while she listened to an iPod through some ear buds. That would explain why she didn’t hear me approach. I got out of my car. The door’s closing got her attention and she turned casino şirketleri around and smiled at me.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Professor Dowdy?” Though it was clearly her, my exclamation sounded more like a question.

“Hi, Tom,” she said cheerily. “I was so hoping you would come today.”

Tongue-tied, that’s what I was. Speechless. Like the dopey 19-year-old I was, I just stood there and stared at her. Shamelessly. Right at her breasts which were contained but accentuated by the very tight tube top. And her legs. God, what legs. Perfectly shaped, tantalizingly rounded thighs, with perfectly tapered calves. Her body could have generated an erection in a corpse. But I wasn’t a corpse, and she noticed the effect she was having on me.

“Tom? Are you all right?” she asked more playfully than sympathetically. I suspect she was inwardly pleased at being the cause of my discomfort.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure Professor,” I lied. “I’m fine. It’s just that I was expecting … I mean, you look so much younger than you are … I mean, I don’t mean that,” I kept stammering until there wasn’t any more air in my lungs.

She just looked at me, smiling. I prayed I would be struck by lightening, but it was not to be.

“Shall we go in the house and get something to drink while we talk?” she invited. “Tom…?” At that point, she apparently recognized testosterone-induced incoherence when she saw it. She took me by the hand and led me into the house, depositing her iPod on the foyer table when we walked by.

As we walked through the house, the furnishings and photographs suggested there was a Mr. Dowdy or at least a man of the house. No children’s photos though. Just Professor Dowdy, a considerably older man, and a few pet shots.

She guided me to the kitchen.

“What would you like to drink, Tom? We’ve got beer, wine, sodas, some fruit juices.”

“Ginger ale would be nice if you have it,” I answered. My mouth was on autopilot. The rest of me was committed to her.

“Ginger ale it is, then. I’m going to have a glass of wine if you don’t mind.”

She got the drinks and motioned for me to follow her to the patio in back. Once I was on the patio I could see her swimming pool. Not you usual splash pool, but a lap pool.

We sat at a round glass patio table protected from the sun by a wide umbrella.

“Nice pool,” I commented.

“I thought you’d appreciate it,” she said, “What with your being on the university swim team. That’s very impressive, you know, for a freshman to make the team in his first year.”

The quizzical look on my face once again caused her to smile.

“How did I know you’re on the swim team, you’re wondering?” she said. “I’ve been watching you at the pool. When it’s warm enough I swim here at home almost every day, but in winter months the school’s indoor pool is much more comfortable. What do you swim in competition?”

“I do the 100-, 400-, and 800-meter freestyle,” I replied.

“Impressive,” she commented sincerely. “Those take a lot of stamina.”

Her eyes bore into mine before she spoke again.

“My personal favorite is the breaststroke,” she said rather thickly. Was she sending me a message, or was it just my imagination. She had crossed her legs, and the already short cargo shorts had ridden even higher on her thighs. Not a ripple of fat or cellulite in sight. My eyes moved more-or-less involuntarily to her tight tube top. Her nipples were more prominent than they had been earlier. Yeah, breast stroking came to mind.

“But Tom,” she continued, “The reason I wanted to talk with you is really about your career, your future. You’re a freshman and what, about 19 or 20 years old? You probably haven’t declared a major yet.”

I shook my head no, trying very hard to look at her face and not the rest of her body. It was a losing battle.

“In class yesterday you handled the discussion topic very well, far better than most of the other students including the older ones. You asked good questions, very relevant ones, to get the salient facts about the relationship between the older teacher and younger student. You also asked about the elements of the law that applied. Overall, you were very analytical. But what really got my attention was that you seemed completely at ease talking about the details of the sexual relationship between them. It was as if the sex between the older woman and the younger man really wasn’t the controlling issue. I’d almost say you seemed very comfortable with it.”

Her tone had once again become professorial, and it forced me to think clearly again.

“Well, Professor Dowdy …” I started to answer but she stopped me.

“Tom, outside class and away from school, please call me Connie.”

“Okay, Professor … I mean, Connie. The sex was something they both wanted. She wasn’t promising him a good grade for sex. He wasn’t blackmailing her or forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do. They both just wanted a good fuck.”

There was casino firmaları an embarrassing pause.

“Sorry, Professor. That just slipped out,” I said contritely.

“It’s all right, Tom. I’ve heard the word ‘fuck’ before. And it’s Connie, remember?”

“Okay, Connie. But I’m still sorry. If I’m going to be a writer some day, I need to learn to choose my words more carefully.”

“Is that what you want to do for a career, Tom? Write?”

I nodded.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a good one. But given the skills you demonstrated in class yesterday, I think you could also succeed as a trial attorney if you put your mind to it.”

As she spoke, she shifted in her chair. Both my eyes and my mind focused on her body again.

“Have you written anything for publication, Tom?” she asked.

“Just some stuff on the Internet,” my mouth said while my mind was still controlled by the professor’s sexy body.

Talk about wishing I could unring the bell.

“What stuff? Do you have a blog or a website?” she asked with apparently genuine interest.

Her question sent a lightning bolt of fear through my body to my brain. Now I was alert, but a few words too late.

“No, just some short stories on a website,” I answered truthfully, hoping to dampen any interest she might have.

It didn’t work.

“What website?” she persisted. She smiled enigmatically and waited patiently for my answer.

“Look, Prof … Connie, they’re not really anything. Just, you know, stuff.”

Then came the bombshell.

“Which website, Tom. Nifty-dot-org, Literotica, alt-sex-stories, EWP? Which one?”

Once again, I was speechless. She had ticked off a few of the better known erotic fiction sites as casually as if she had been recommending books for summer reading. She could have been Ray Charles and read the surprise on my face.

“C’mon, Tom,” she urged with a smile, “I enjoy a good story every now and again. Where have you posted?”

“Connie, look. I’d be too embarrassed to have my mother reading some of these …”

“Tom,” she cut me off. “Understand something: I-am-definitely-not-your-mother.” She paused briefly between each word for emphasis before she continued. “You’re a very mature young man, and I’m certainly a mature woman. If you can handle writing them, I can handle reading them. So where have you posted stories?”

“Literotica,” I responded.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go have a look at them, shall we?”

Before I could protest she arose from her chair, took my hand, and started leading me into the house. Her hand was warm. My eyes fell to her ass as she led the way inside. She must have eyes in the back of her head, because I swear her rear had a little more twitch to it now.

We walked in to a den that had a distinctly masculine décor. Fireplace, dark wood walls, rich leather sofa and easy chair, and a very, very high tech computer on a custom-made wooden desk configured for computer equipment.

“Nice,” I commented lamely as I looked around. “Great computer!”.

“It’s my husband’s, but I use it when he’s out of town. He won’t be back for two more days. I just have to remember to secure wipe some of the files I look at before he gets back. He doesn’t approve of some of my internet preferences,” she said with a slight wink and a smile.

She motioned for me to pull a nearby straight back chair up next to her directly in front of the monitor. She sat in the office-style armless chair with rollers. She logged onto Literotica and navigated through the Site Index and to the Search Members page.

“What’s your pseudonym, Tom?”

“Talespin,” I answered. “That’s t-a-l-e-, not t-a-i-l-,” I corrected as she started to type it into the Username search feature. The Search Result came back quickly with my pseudonym and several similar ones.

“I’m the first one there,” I told her.

She clicked on my username and then on my bio.

“So, you’re a photographer in addition to a writer,” she commented.

“Yeah, I’ve really gotten into the digital stuff, including editing.”

“Ever do any videos?” she asked.

“No, the camera and editing software is still too expensive for me.”

“Well, we might talk about that later. For now, let’s take a look at your stories.”

She clicked on the Stories/Poems tab.

“Quite prolific, aren’t you? So, which one’s your favorite?”

“The one that I think is best written is ‘Irreconcilable Differences,’ but it’s pretty long.”

“Yeah, I’ll save that one until later. How about a shorter one?” She continued before I could answer. “You seem to enjoy writing stories about mature women and younger men. Between ‘An Afternoon with Sam’ and ‘Harvest’s Over’, which one do you think I might enjoy most?”

“Probably ‘An Afternoon with Sam’,” I answered honestly. I expected her to click on it right away. Instead, she hit me with a question.

“Why would I like it better than ‘Harvest?’ “

“Well,” I paused, trying to come up with a good güvenilir casino answer. “A friend requested that I build a story around her. She’s the woman in ‘Afternoon with Sam.’ She told me what she wanted and I wrote it as well as I could.”

Professor Dowdy, Connie, looked me squarely in the eye before speaking.

“Well, Tom, then let’s start with ‘Sam’ and then read ‘Harvest’, too, shall we?”

She clicked on “An Afternoon with Sam.”

It took her about fifteen minutes to read the story. After she finished, she said, “Impressive.” Then she backed out of “Sam” and clicked on “Harvest’s Over.” This time she spent about twenty minutes reading it. As she read, her nipples hardened and lengthened even more and her face slightly flushed. Finally finished, she exited from Literotica.

“You know, Tom, you seem to write very precisely and include considerable detail in these stories. Your young man also seems to be thoughtful and patient with the women. Is it possible these were more documentary than fiction?” There was a slight breathlessness to her voice.

“It’s possible,” I said after considerable hesitation.

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I assume you’ve concealed the identities of the women?”

“Yeah. In fact, I asked each of them to read her story to be sure no one would recognize her.”

“And you seem to enjoy older women. That would certainly explain your participation in class yesterday, wouldn’t it?” Her voice, still with its breathy quality, now had a edge of eagerness to it. Her face and the white skin below her throat were slightly flushed. Her nipples had become even more prominent through the tube top.

“It’s not that I don’t like girls my own age. It’s just that most of them are a little giggly and don’t seem to be really at ease having sex. And a lot of them still see marriage as a natural outcome from sex. Older women seem to be more self-assured, less concerned about long-term relationships and more interested in just having some fun and being satisfied.”

She looked at me again without speaking as if she was trying to make a decision. I chose to make it for her.

I arose from my chair and stood behind her with my hands on her bare shoulders. She didn’t flinch or pull away, but she lowered her hands from the keyboard to her lap.

I laid my hands on the warm, soft skin of her bare shoulders and began to gently caress her shoulders and neck. She seemed completely relaxed when I ran my hands very slowly down her arms. That brought my mouth close to her ear. My lips brushed her ear as I spoke.

“You’re a very sexy woman, Professor,” I whispered, intentionally referring to her by her title. “Are you as good in bed as you are in the classroom?” I asked, assuming control.

“Tom, I’m not sure…”

“Yes, you are, Professor. You’re very sure. You didn’t ask me out here to talk about my career. You wanted me to come out here and see you as a woman with a strong sexual appetite, didn’t you? You’re proud of your legs and ass and tits. Proud that they can still generate a helluva hard-on in a young man, aren’t you? You’re hoping that I will fuck you like your husband doesn’t, aren’t you?”

My hands went under each arm and lifted them toward her head while I spoke. My hands reached her armpits, warm and slightly damp. I hooked my fingers beneath the bottom edge of the the tube top, then pulled it outward and upward over her head, removing it and exposing her breasts.

“Tom, no…” she spoke only halfheartedly, and she made no move to use her hands to cover herself.

I reached around and cupped both her full breasts in my hands while I remained standing behind her. They were warm and soft, surprisingly firm, and I felt the hardened nipples against my palms. She stood up, and I used my foot to kick aside the chair that separated us. She backed up against me and began to grind her ass against me. I pinched her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers and pulled slightly. She had lowered her arms, capturing mine underneath, and now she moved her hands behind her and began to deftly unbutton my cutoff jeans.

I drew her even closer to me and began kissing the nape of her neck, under her jawline, up to her ears, nibbling and tugging on her earlobes with my teeth. I slowly used the tip of my tongue to trace the inside of her ear.

Her hands worked more feverishly inside my cutoffs.

I released my own grip on her breasts and stepped away from her just as one of her hands had begun to surround my erection. A look of surprise crossed her face. I moved to stand an arm’s length away in front of her. My hard, fully erect cock bobbed proudly through the opening she had created, and I made no attempt to hide it from her.

Instead, I removed my tee-shirt, then stepped out of my boat shoes and pulled down the cutoffs and my underpants. I kicked them aside and stood naked before her.

“Now you, Professor,” I commanded.

No longer did she feign resistance or object. She slowly and seductively unbuttoned her cargo shorts, revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath. What at first appeared to be the front panel of a dark thong was, in fact, her thick, black pubic hair, neatly trimmed but still fully covering her outer lips.

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