5 comments/ 19102 views/ 20 favorites Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 01 By: roberticus My name is Peggy Pierce and I live with my husband, Matthew, in the faculty apartment of a large residence hall at the University of Texas, Austin. It's a dorm, actually. We moved there two years ago when Matthew was hired as an assistant professor in the psychology department. Both of us had just finished our Ph.D.'s at Stanford (his in psychology and mine in anthropology) and we were thrilled when Matthew got lucky his first time on the market and landed a plumb job at a great school! I wasn't quite as lucky that first time around. I had some interviews for tenure-track jobs at some interesting places. But nothing came through in the end. Still, I felt encouraged. Matthew and I are committed to going on the market together every year for as long as it takes for both of us to find the kinds of jobs we want (the kinds with tenure, and research budgets!) at the same university. We decided to move into the dorm because the summer before Matthew started at UT we finally got married, and threw a big wedding, and went to Costa Rica for our honeymoon. There wasn't time to go apartment hunting in Austin, and besides, neither of us had enough money in the bank to cover the deposit and other expenses on one of the really nice condos like some of Matthew's colleagues live in. Our parents aren't wealthy by any means. Both of us went to state school as undergrads before we were accepted to Stanford, where we met. We had generous scholarships all the way through grad school but we still ended up taking on some serious debt, especially after we splurged for the honeymoon. We looked at pictures of the faculty-in-residence apartments online when we were staying at a fancy resort in Costa Rica, and they seemed pretty nice, actually. The price was right, that's for sure! We get to live in a spacious three-bedroom apartment (furnished!) practically for free, as long as we devote 10 hours a week to organizing fun programs for the students. My job at UT is okay. The chair of Matthew's department worked it out so that I could be a visiting instructor in the writing program. It pays less than an assistant professor (to say the least!) and it doesn't come with any of the nice perks that hubby gets, like funds for research and travel, and a big office on campus. But I make more than an adjunct, and I only have to teach three courses a semester, which isn't overwhelming. There's still plenty of time for me to work on my own research (on "hook up culture" among adolescents and young adults) and I've set up a very nice study in the third bedroom of our apartment, for the days when I'm not in class. The residence hall is quite lovely, actually. It was built in the 1920s, in Spanish Renaissance style. It has yellow-brown brick walls, and a red tiled roof. There are inviting archways all around the first floor, leading you into the building, and big shade trees everywhere outside, and in the main courtyard. There's a particularly nice tree outside our big, living room window. Sometimes, on cool days, I sit outside on one of the verandas with tables where students can read and socialize. One of them even has a decent café where I grab coffee sometimes, or lunch if I'm in the mood to treat myself. Lately I've been in the mood to treat myself more than usual. I know I shouldn't complain. Most of my friends from grad school only wish they could have it so good! But by the second year of teaching the same, not very interesting classes (composition, for the most part) the grind has started to wear me down. Sometimes on my "off" days, at home, when I'm supposed to be writing, I'm too exhausted from all the grading, and office hours, and lecturing the day before to do much of anything. It's frustrating because Matthew's teaching load is much lighter. He gets to teach these small, honors seminars to groups of 6 students who work on independent projects for the most part, and his "classes" are more like rap sessions where he tells them about his own research (on the neurochemistry of sexual attraction) and dispenses advice. He does that two days a week and spends the rest of his time running tests in the lab, or writing in his office. Sometimes I go visit him, and bring sandwiches, and we eat on one of the tables near the psychology building. But lately he's been too caught up in work most days. The really annoying thing is that somehow it's become MY responsibility to organize all of the programs for the dorm. Don't get me wrong. It's not terrible. I can eat up most of the hours by teaching a yoga class in the mornings and arranging movie nights in the lounge on weekends. Teaching yoga is something I really enjoy, actually. Back in Pasadena I got hooked on this new Jewish mind-body yoga program (Lansky is my maiden name) that combines a killer workout, and meditation, with discussion of asana, yoga, and Jewish philosophy afterward. It was just the thing for all the nerdy fitness freaks like me who had vague desires to get back to their spiritual roots in some roundabout way. Anyway, I ended up getting certified as a yoga instructor. So now most mornings I teach a version of what I learned in Pasadena (minus the Jewish parts) in the main lounge of the dorm. I really like most of the girls I work with. Sometimes a guy or two will show up, but they're almost never the frat boy type. The dorm is specially reserved for smart, motivated kids who can maintain a high GPA. I know I shouldn't complain. But some days it's all I can mange to teach my yoga class in the morning, and tidy up the apartment, and catch up on email, and make dinner for when hubby gets home. My writing has really suffered. I've tried to stay positive and keep my energy high (the yoga helps with that) but lately I've been down in the dumps more often than not. I can't deny it. Matthew is a real sweetheart. He's one of the most sensitive guys you'd ever want to meet, and usually he's pretty smart about gender politics and stuff. But for some reason he's been kind of oblivious, lately, about the growing inequalities between us, at work and around the house. I was starting to get the sense that Matthew's good fortune in landing a tenure-track job before I did had shifted the balance of power between us. And I was starting to resent the fact that maybe it wasn't purely good fortune. Universities are always TALKING about how they want to hire women and minorities, but somehow, as the years go by, it never happens. Women STILL hold only 31% of tenured positions in the United States. Things really came to a head between hubby and I maybe 6 months ago, near the start of the spring semester. I was pretty stressed out from trying to whip a hundred freshman into shape in my new composition sections, but Matthew was really enjoying being back to research full time after we took a few weeks off to visit family over the holidays (my folks are in Philadelphia, and Matthew's live in New York). I was getting ready for yoga when Matthew came running through the door holding an envelope in his hand and calling to me excitedly. I had just finished getting dressed and I was inspecting the results in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. I watched him in the mirror as he ran up behind me, and stopped short, and looked me up and down, slowly. I smiled. I knew I looked cute in my little yoga teacher outfit. I just turned 30, but if you ask me, I look better than ever! I was wearing my new brown cotton tank top with spaghetti straps that was tight through the bust (I was excited because it had just come in the mail the day before) and a pair of tight black stretchy pants cut at mid calf. Matthew especially loves it when I get dressed for yoga because it's one of the few times that I'm not wearing my usual dark, funky glasses. He's been all over me since I cut my hair short (I'm a brunette) in the heat of that first Texas summer. It's not a pixie cut or anything. More like a slightly wavy bob, cut midway between my chin and shoulders, with a liiiiiitle bit of layering to lighten up the ends and give it that "messy" look. Still, I've always been a long-locked gal so it was quite a change! Matthew said it was like getting to have sex with a different woman. "You'll never guess!" he exclaimed, when he recovered his poise. "What?" "I got accepted!" "To what?" "To give a paper at the American Psychological Association this summer, in July in Toronto. Remember?" "That's great!" I replied, my stomach sinking. I felt happy for Matthew, but the thing is I really wanted to go to that conference too! There were a bunch of interesting panels and it would be great for my career to get some visibility. But in the end I didn't even bother applying. The university wouldn't pay for my travel or lodging (though Matthew tried to work it out with his chair) and we couldn't afford to pay for it ourselves after blowing our budget on flights home to the east coast for the holidays. "I'm so excited!" Matthew gushed, looking me up and down again. "Maybe we can celebrate tonight?" I knew what he was thinking. Matthew is always telling me that I have the best kind of body: the kind of body that sneaks up on a guy. When people first meet me they might assume that I'm a little on the chunky side, depending on what I'm wearing, because I have broadish shoulders and relatively big boobs for a girl with such a short frame. Plus, I have an impressive collection of cute, little baggy dresses and blouses with floral patterns that I wear for running errands around town, or for nights out, or sometimes for teaching over a nice pair of slacks or leggings. I love them to death, but sometimes they make it look like I'm trying to hide my curves. It's only once you see me in a tight top that you realize that I'm not chunky at all. I just have muscular arms, and shoulders. Plus, I'm stacked for my size. My breasts aren't that big, really, objectively speaking, but they look big on me, and they have a certain perky quality that my boyfriends have always loved. Likewise, it's only when you see me in a snug pair of pants that you realize how tiny my waist is, and how long my legs are (I'm 5'2" but I look much taller from a distance). My butt might be a little round and wide, sure, but it sits high on my backside. I used to think I had a fat butt. That might be part of the reason I still wear all those long baggy shirts and dresses. But now I'm proud of it. I'm much more toned now, with all the yoga. It's kind of hilarious, actually, to watch the boys around the dorm, or the quad, try to position themselves for a good view of my ass. They think they're being all slick and subtle but it is SO obvious. 'It takes a while for guys to realize what you really are,' Matthew liked to flirt with me around the house, whenever I changed into something more revealing. 'What's that?' I'd ask him, giving him a little sassy look. 'A hot piece of ass!' Matthew would tease me, "a shorty with a big booty. What do the frat guys say . . . a short stack? . . . a squatty body?' Matthew was never in a frat himself, but lots of his friends were, and I guess he's always been a little curious about Greek "culture." He likes to keep the edge in our sex life by bantering with me in that frat boy way around the house. And what can I say? I like it too. I know it sounds weird, because the fact is that I absolutely LOATHE frat boys. But for some reason I like it when hubby pretends to be one. A girl can't help what turns her on! After Matthew told me about the conference he grabbed my by the arm, and tried to pull me to him, but I brushed him off, laughing. I told him I'd think about tonight. I was glad for the attention but I was late for class. "There you go again," Matthew muttered, rolling his eyes. "What?" "Brushing me off," he shot back. "What's with you lately?" It was true that our sex life had fallen off a bit in the last couple of months, not through lack of trying on Matthew's part. I felt guilty about it. So I snapped. "Maybe it's about being too exhausted all the time from teaching 100 freshman, and grading their shitty papers, and doing everything—everything!—around the house. And around the dorm too! Including teaching the yoga class that I'm about to be late for! And maybe it's about the fact that I wanted to go to that conference too!" I spun on my heels and stormed out of the apartment. I was particularly sensitive about the sex stuff because the whole time we were visiting Matthew's family in Long Island his mother and her sisters kept pestering me with questions. They're the kind of older women who act like when a girl gets married her womb becomes family property or something. They kept asking me about how many times Matthew and I "did it" on our honeymoon, and whether we were using birth control, and how long it would be before I had a little Pierce in my belly. Not that it was any of their business, but it just so happened that I'd gone off the pill right before the wedding. It was part of this hormonal rebalancing regimen that I learned about in the mind-body yoga class. Matthew and I didn't have any particular plans to make a baby soon, but we hadn't really settled on a new method of "family planning" either. We kept condoms around the house, yeah. But most of the time, in the heat of the moment, we ended up "doing it" without one, and he didn't always pull out. I didn't tell any of that to his mother and aunts though. They would have died of titillation! When I got to the lounge that morning it was pretty much the usual crowd of young ladies, maybe a dozen or so. I said good morning to a few of them as we all unrolled our mats and took our customary spaces on the floor. I was just about to get class started ('Namaste, young ladies, and welcome to mind-body yoga connection!') when I heard the door slam in the back of the room and two guys walk in, just a little too loud. I tried to keep calm but I was riled up from the argument with my husband and I slipped into my professor persona by mistake. "Punctuality, please!" I snapped. "Sorry," said one of the guys, almost knocking over a chair in his hurry to clear some space for his mat, in the back of the room. My irritation only mounted when I realized who he was. I recognized him from one of my new composition sections. Travis Hughes. Classes had only met a few times by that point in the semester but he'd already managed to make a bad impression. I was flustered when he showed up in my composition class the first day because I was pretty sure I remembered him from a few of my yoga sessions at the dorm last term. I don't know why, but for some reason it unnerved me the idea that my "work" life at school, and my "personal" life at the dorm, had crossed somehow. I have different ways of acting, and carrying myself, in each of those worlds, and I like to keep them as separate as possible. I dress conservatively for teaching because I've learned that I have to in order for students to take me seriously, especially the male ones. It's not only because I'm young, short and curvy. It's also because of how I act. I'm tough at first, but once I warm to a student, well, I've been told that I'm "friendly to a fault." I remember one time when one of the older male professors in my graduate program observed my teaching. Afterwards, during review, he kept making comments about how "flirtatious" I was with the male students, and how I might want to dress in a more "inconspicuous" manner. I was furious! But when I got home that night Matthew was able to explain it in a better way, and it started to make sense. Ever since then I've taken pains to avoid showing too much leg or shoulder or "booty" in the classroom. But I had little doubt that Travis had seen plenty of my curves during yoga sessions, and I had a sneaking suspicion that this had something to do with enrolling in my composition section. It was something about the way he surveyed me, coolly, when he entered the classroom. It was quick and subtle, for sure, but for just a split second he looked at me like a guy who knew everything that he needed to know about what was going on underneath the little jacket, cropped dress pants, and leather oxfords combo I'd picked out for the first day—just casual enough to establish a good rapport, but classy enough to command respect. What can I say? From what he'd seen in yoga, he probably did know everything he wanted to about the shape of my "assets." This was more or less confirmed when we went around the room introducing ourselves. I asked the students to tell me something interesting about themselves, and something about why they enrolled in the class. Sections of composition have specific themes at UT, and this one was focused on issues involving sex and relationships in contemporary America. "I'm Travis Hughes," he began, in a deep, smooth voice, without the customary Texas accent. He must have been one of the wealthy out-of-state students who pay higher tuition to come to Austin for it's national reputation as a party school. "I'm a senior pre-law student from St. Louis, Missouri and I'm the Vice President of Alpha Epsilon Pi. I live in Littlefield Hall, though, because I'm serious about school and it's a better place to study. I failed composition back in freshman year (before I hit the books) so now I have to re-take it as an upper-classmen. I picked this section, because, well . . . because I've been to a couple of Professor Pierce's yoga sessions at the dorm and, well . . . she seems like she's a really great teacher!" There was nothing suggestive about the way he said it, but it still rubbed me the wrong way. That typical frat boy attitude of presumed familiarity! It was just so disrespectful, when you thought about it, to tell the other students about a detail of my personal life that I don't always share with them, especially not on the first day. A couple of losers in the back of the room even sniggered for a split second (picturing me in yoga pants no doubt) until I shut them down with my best withering look over the tops of my cat-eye glasses. I noticed that half the girls in the room were kind of leaning in Travis's direction and swooning. "You forgot to tell us something interesting about yourself," I quipped, my irritation getting the better of me. Everyone laughed. Travis shuffled his feet for a few seconds, and then answered, looking me right in the eye. "I like to read cheesy romance novels.' "What kind?" asked an attractive girl in the front row, laughing, delighted by Travis's confession. She was an artsy type, not really the sort I would have expected to go for Travis. She had a fair number of tattoos and piercings and maybe three different colors of dye in her frazzled, shoulder-length hair. She looked like she could use a few days in the sun, and maybe a cheeseburger with fries, but I guess most guys would consider her a hottie. "I don't know," Travis replied, blushing slightly. "What do they call it . . . 'New adult romance . . . slash erotica.' I like stories about bad guys who fall for nice girls and everything ends happily ever after. My best girlfriend got me hooked on them a couple of years ago." "Awwwwwwww!" sighed the girls, right on cue. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but that WAS kind of interesting, even though Travis was obviously using it as a pick-up line with the girls. It was so annoying because you could tell they were eating it up. By the end of the semester there would probably be a long line of pretty young co-eds just waiting to "convert" him, like in the books. Still, I was surprised and intrigued. My research is about "hookup culture" and casual sex among adolescent girls, and over the last few years I've developed a keen interest in the way that so many "young adult" and "new adult" authors are trying to tell new kinds of stories about female sexuality—about losing your virginity, and experimenting, and postponing "serious" relationships. "Hookup culture" gets a bad rap in the media and even among feminists a lot of the time, but in my view that's misguided. My research shows that young women experience real benefits, psychologically and creatively, from 'sleeping around' during their high school and college years, even through their 20s! They're much less likely to be depressed, for instance, then girls who practice serial monogamy (like I did) and then marry young (even younger than me). And they're much more likely to pursue ambitious careers, and to succeed at them. Most of my advanced classes are devoted to getting young people (mostly women) to tell different kinds of stories about their sexuality and their relationships. I was planning to explore some of those themes in basic composition. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 01 "Anything else?" I asked, looking at him carefully. "Uhhhh . . .," he stammered, thinking on his feet. "Oh yeah! I write a column for an online journal about fraternity culture. It's called 'The Player.'" "Sounds great!," I replied, rolling my eyes. The pretty girl with the tattoos laughed. "Thanks," said Travis, not picking up on my sarcasm (typical). "You should check it out!" The losers in the back sniggered again. I shut them down. He wasn't my type at all (especially the frat boy part) but was cute, sure, in a preppy way. He had close-cropped dark hair, and dark stubble, and lively brown eyes, a little mischievous and self-satisfied, maybe, set deep beneath his heavy brow. He was wearing a navy-blue polo, short-sleeved, that fit him snugly in the shoulders and that was open at the collar to show off his chest hair. I almost rolled my eyes when I noticed. The rest of class wasn't memorable, just going over the syllabus and class policy, and I got through it fine. Then, at the end of class, when Travis turned to leave the room, calling out to one of the freshman girls and hurrying to catch up with her, I shot him a quick glance out of the corner of my eye. I noticed the khaki shorts and the Sperry's with no socks. That time I did roll my eyes. He was straight out of central casting. But still, even though I repressed the thought almost as soon as I had it, I couldn't help noticing that he had a pretty nice body. The khaki's were short and tight, and they fit him snugly through the hips and backside. He had wide shoulders. As awkward as it was to see a guy from yoga in one of my academic classes, it was even worse to see one of my composition students show up in yoga the next day. It was irrational, I know, but I felt like he was invading my privacy. I would never dress for "real" teaching in such a revealing way, and I resented the fact that just by being brash and insensitive enough to cross the unspoken boundary between classroom and "home," Travis had already established a kind of special relationship between us, like he knew me in a different way (at least he thought!) than the other students did. There's a lot of intimacy and trust that can develop between a yoga teacher and her (female) clients, and I was bothered by the way that Travis had just barged right into that without thinking how it might effect the others. As the yoga session progressed, and the poses got more and more challenging, I kept catching myself stealing glances at Travis. It was mostly because he and his loser sidekick weren't taking the class very seriously. They kept falling out of the poses, by "accident," and laughing obnoxiously. But the more my attention was drawn to the back of the room the more I started to recognize what the undergrad girls might see in Travis, at least physically. He was fairly tall (maybe 6' 1") and he was surprisingly muscular for such a lean guy. I noticed his shoulders and pectorals bulging when we were practicing some of the more strenuous upper-body poses. And he was very cute, you couldn't deny. But what a typical jerk! It felt wrong to notice a student's body like that in the middle of class but I tried to breathe through it. That's one of the basic principles of mind-body yoga. Don't judge yourself! Just relax, and try to raise your awareness, and pretty soon you'll be able to stand back and observe all the crazy, chaotic thoughts and emotions that arise from minute to minute, and then pass away, in a never-ending stream. Don't judge it! Just keep breathing! "He's cute," I told myself on the inhale as I faced the class in warrior pose, using my butt muscles to squat down low. "He's pissing me off," I told myself on the exhale. "He has a nice body," I told myself on the inhale as I faced the class in cobra, jutting my chest out proudly. "And he's pissing me off," I told myself on the exhale. I was happy, in a way, because the fact that I was noticing all these unexpected, involuntary thoughts meant that the yoga was really working, maybe. I was really tapping into something that I probably needed to work through. It made sense. Guys like that have always been able to get under my skin, for reasons I could never understand. There were busloads of wealthy frat boys at Penn State, and even more at Stanford when I started grad school. I never went to frat parties as an undergrad. I was way too brainy and "political." But I was invited to parties constantly, and I could never understand why it made me quite so angry when guys ran up to me on the quad with their stupid flyers, and flirted with me, and begged me to come to their house that night, and to bring my "little" too, if she was as cute as me. I wasn't in some damn sorority! It was even more irritating when it happened to me after I graduated and moved to Stanford. It was maddening the way they sauntered around the quad like they owned the place, scouting the best "talent" for their parties, wearing those stupid outfits, and those stupid shoes, like they'd just stepped off their yacht or something. I knew I was "supposed" to be flattered to be invited to parties by the rich, popular boys, and that just pissed me off more. It made sense, in a way, that they would confuse me for an undergrad. I was only a couple of years older than them. The boundary between us was purely a social convention, at that point. It didn't have anything to do with any real difference between us, mentally or biologically. I was rolling up my yoga mat at the end of class, lost in my thoughts, when Travis walked up to me. "Thanks for the class, Professor Pierce," he said, wiping his neck with a towel. "That was great!" I thought about telling him to call me Peggy in the dorm, but I decided against it. "Really?" I asked him, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "You didn't seem that into it." "How come?" "All the laughing and falling over?" He looked genuinely confused. "I was just trying to follow your instructions," he explained. "Don't judge yourself! Just do your best and keep breathing! You feel like a real idiot in some of those poses!" "I get it," I replied, laughing, and feeling guilty for assuming the worst about him. "Which poses?" I asked him, wanting to make up for my initial tone. "Huh?" "Which poses make you feel like an idiot?" "Oh . . . you know, that one where you have to stand on one foot and balance, with your other foot on your inner thigh." "Tree pose? "I asked, standing on one foot and showing him. As soon as I assumed the pose I felt really self-conscious. I realized that in order to show it to him properly I had to hold my shoulders back, and stick my chest out proudly, and really stretch my groin, giving him a clear view of my crotch. He gave me a quick up and down, lingering for maybe just a split second too long on my "assets." Then he nodded. "Yeah, that one," he smiled, trying to imitate the pose, and wobbling badly, nearly falling over. I laughed. "I can see what you mean about looking like an idiot," I told him. He just stood there for a second, eyeing my curiously. Looking back on it, I think he was trying to figure out whether my sassiness was just a normal part of my personality (it is) or whether I was flirting with him, even just a little. It was a fair question. Guys are often thrown off by my edginess and my competitive flare and mistake it for more than it is. Either way, Travis seemed pleased. 'There you go again,' I chided myself, "friendly to a fault." "Well, anyway," he said. "Thanks again for the great class. I'll see you tomorrow for composition, Professor Pierce." "See you tomorrow," I replied, cheerfully. I was standing there, lost in my thoughts again, when I saw Matthew waiting by the back door in his teaching clothes. He waved to me and I walked over to him. "Sorry about before," he said. "I just miss you. That's all." "I know," I replied, "I miss you too. Let's have a "date" tonight, okay?" "Okay!" Matthew agreed, smiling. He was about to rush off for class when he turned and asked me something. "Who was that guy you were talking with just now?" "The student?" I answered, pretending not to understand for some reason. "Just some guy from my new composition section. Travis, I think. Why do you ask?" "Because of the way he looked at you when you were talking, that's why!" my husband smiled, raising his eyebrows playfully. "What do you mean? How?" Matthew moved back a step, and flashed me a little cocky smile. He looked me up and down, long and slow. "You're kidding!" I gasped, laughing too. "No!" he replied. "You didn't notice?!" "No! I most certainly did NOT notice!" "If you say so," said Matthew, like he didn't really believe me. He stepped toward me, and took me in his arms, and kissed me lightly on the lips. Then he dashed off to teach. I walked back to the faculty apartment glowing from all the unexpected flirtation with my husband, and from the hunger in his eyes when he showed me how Travis had looked at me. Was it true? I was horrified by the fact that a student from one of my classes had checked me out like that, so blatantly, and that I hadn't even noticed. But I was glad that Matthew enjoyed the show. That was one of the surprising "advantages," I'd learned, of living in a dormitory full of young guys. Now that we've lived in the faculty apartment for over a year most of the students know who I am, and most of the male students treat me with extreme politeness. Matthew is very well liked and respected by the students, and I'm his "lady." It's that simple. That's one of the nice things about Texas guys, even if it does come with a big dose of chauvinism. But I'm short and cute and I look much younger than I am. So I still get hit on from time to time when I'm reading on the veranda, or on my way to yoga, or at movie nights on the weekend if I'm wearing a cute t-shirt or something. For some reason it was great for our sex life, at first. Whenever another "incident" occurred—whenever some punk kid who didn't know me made a pass at me around the dorm—I would always make a point of telling Matthew. He always enjoyed the stories. I enjoyed them too (they were pretty detailed!) though I tried to pretend otherwise. I knew it was weird and wrong but it really got my juices flowing to be the object of so much raw, post-pubescent lust, and Matthew was sensitive enough not to make me feel like a pervert about it. To the contrary! Afterward, we always fucked like rabbits. I thought that cutting my hair short would make me look older, and fend off the advances, but if anything it just made the problem worse! By the time I got home I was feeling energized and ready for a long day of writing. But first I wanted to take a shower. I marched straight to the bathroom, and peeled off my yoga clothes, and ran the water until it was nice and hot, just the way I like it. I paused for a moment to appreciate my shapely chest in the mirror, and my shapely rear. I turned around and stuck out my butt and inspected it to make sure it was still firm and high. Then I stepped in the shower and let the water trickle over me until the glass door was covered with steam. As soon as I started soaping myself I KNEW that I was going to masturbate. And I knew that when I came it was going to be a real whopper! I was about to get my period, maybe, and when the hot water hit me it felt wonderfully soothing on my breasts and nipples. I lathered my chest, and held my breasts up to the stream, watching the suds dissolve. Then I lathered my hand, and slipped it between my legs, and caressed my lips all over. They were swollen too, I noticed. I spread my feet a little wider and stuck my pelvis out in front of me so that the stream would hit my crotch harder and more directly. Before long I was having a nice, little fantasy session about one of my standard themes: my honeymoon in Costa Rica. I was remembering that night at the fancy resort when we had the hot spring practically to ourselves. Matthew and I found a quiet, dark corner where I could sit in his lap facing him so we could fool around a little. We got carried away and he ended up pulling my suit bottom to the side and we had hot sex right out on the open, where anyone might have seen us. "Mmmmmph," I groaned, leaning into the water and letting it run through the dark curls on my front, gently, in long, hot, streams. Before I knew it I removed the detachable showerhead from the wall and brought it slowly to my crotch, almost without thinking. Matthew is handy around the house and he installed it when we first moved in (to my eternal gratitude!). It has three different types of massage and I've thanked Matthew for it many, many times when he's joined me in the shower. I turned the water to warm, and the setting to pulse, and held it maybe 2 inches from my clit, remembering how I rode hubby's cock, long and slow, in the dark corner of the hot spring where the other couples probably couldn't see us, if I kept quiet. I was really revved up. Pretty soon I was picturing what would happen with Matthew in bed tonight, after our little "date." He's put on some weight in the last couple of years, with all the stress of the new job, but it suits him nicely, I have to say. I love the way he can pin me to the mattress now with his big belly while he looks down at me and fucks me. He has a way of looking at me when we have sex that makes it crystal clear that, for that moment at least, I'm nothing but a sex object in his eyes, a little fuck toy if you will, and a hot one at that. He leers down at me, and bounces me with his cock, and it gives me chills all over. We go hiking in the hills most weekends so Matthew is still in pretty good shape, despite the belly. He has a nice firm butt. I like to hang onto it while he fucks me. Before I knew it I was lying on the floor of the bathtub and trying to get in the right position for a big finish. I slid the glass door open and threw my foot over the side so I could spread my legs wider. I pressed my other foot to the wall. I was holding the showerhead close, and letting the water pulse over me, and pretty soon my pelvis was shaking. I was picturing how hot it was going to feel to wrap my legs around my husband, and put my hands on his ass, and make noise for him, and let him know how good he was making me feel. "Ohhhhhh," I moaned, my breath growing ragged. You probably have a pretty good idea where the story is headed next. But I swear to you, at least at the time, I did NOT see it coming. The strangest part was how it happened so seamlessly. Without it even occurring to me that it was strange, or that I should stop it, or that it was something that I didn't want. I'd probably been fantasizing about him for a couple of minutes before I became conscious of the fact. It wasn't Matthew's butt at all. It was Travis's butt, and it felt incredible. In my fantasy I opened my eyes, and . . . there he was, smiling down at me, all smug and cocky. "Ohhhhh fuck!" I gasped. I almost came right then from the sheer surprise. How had this irritating guy managed to worm his way into my fantasies so quickly, to insert himself into my most private thoughts? Part of me was ready to grab the handle, and turn off the shower, and run from the bathroom in horror. But part of me felt like I was too far gone—if felt too good!—and I should relax and let it happen. "Don't judge yourself!" I thought, holding the showerhead closer to my crotch and kind of pressing myself against it. I closed my eyes. I saw Travis! He smiled down at me again, his fists pressed hard into the mattress and his shoulders bulging. He looked me right in the eye, observing me closely, as he reached down, and held himself in place, and eased himself inside me. "Ohhhhhh jeeeeesus," I groaned. He laughed. He covered my mouth with his, kissing me hard. Then he pulled back, looming over me, and looked down at me, knowingly, like he really had my number. Like he knew exactly what I was, and exactly what I needed. A hot piece of ass . . . a shorty with a big booty . . . a "short stack" . . . just dying to be fucked. "Don't judge it," I urged myself. He started thrusting into me in a playful, kind of rhythmical way (almost teasing!) that made the mattress rock, and made my breasts bounce wildly, full and high on my chest. He laughed again, enjoying the show. He bent down and tasted my nipples, sucking them loudly. I wrapped my legs around him tight. "Ohhhh, ohhhhhh," I moaned, a little louder than before. I was mad with lust, despite the shame I was feeling, and despite the resentment I felt toward Travis for turning me on (somehow) when I disliked him so viscerally. "Don't judge it!" I said, out loud this time. "Just breathe through it." I turned the showerhead to jet, not even thinking, and when the stream made contact with my crotch it felt electric and my butt shot straight off the floor. I moaned louder than ever. "OHHHHhhhhhhh gaaaaaawwd," I cried, as the first wave hit me. "Don't judge it!" I gasped, as I pictured his hard cock disappearing inside me, and surfacing again, wet with my juices. "He pisses me off," I said on the inhale, as Travis filled me with his cock. "He's hot!" I observed on the exhale, his eyes teasing me as he withdrew, lazily, and the second wave crested. "He pisses me off," I thought on the inhale, scratching him all over. "He has a beautiful body," I thought on the exhale, as he filled me again, harder this time, and the third wave hit. It just kept going and going! I knew it was ridiculous (it was such a cliché!) but in my fantasy his cock was long and fat and it was blowing my mind because it was bigger than I was used to. I was holding the showerhead by the shaft with both hands, and pressing it to my clit, and kind of humping it with my groin. It looked really hot. The showerhead is stainless steel and it's shaped kind of like a big phallus, with a long, thick shaft and a big round knob at the end where the water comes out. I was holding it in both hands and my whole body was flushed and red and I was humping it with my pussy like it was the answer to all my problems And then the fourth wave crashed right on top of me, and I couldn't breathe, and everything went white. "Doooooooon't . . . juuuuuudge . . . iiiiiiiiiit!" I moaned as Travis fucked me and fucked me with his big, fat cock, and I squeezed his ass, and he sucked my tits, and I wrapped my legs around him and starting coming and coming and coming on his cock and he held himself inside me and then his body went stiff. A minute later, when I came to my senses, I was lying on the floor of the bathtub, breathing hard, with my pelvis still shaking. I was in complete shock, and not just from the force of my orgasms. I turned the showerhead to pulse, and held it to my chest, and just lay there a long time with the water running over me. That was the moment when I should have realized that something momentous had just occurred in my life. I should have realized that I needed to be very careful. I should have realized that I'd just met a guy who, for whatever reason, in just a few short months, would change my life in ways that felt out of my control, and that I'm still struggling to understand. It was nothing special about him. It was more about my husband and I and where we stood in our relationship. Travis was just the right kind of guy in the right place at the right time. He knew how to slip into the cracks between Matthew and I, and drive us apart (in some ways), and together (in others), and he forced us to reevaluate some of our assumptions and beliefs. I should have realized but I didn't. Once I recovered from my orgasm I stood up, and threw on my bathrobe, and marched straight to my study. I sat down at the desk, and opened my laptop, and I didn't stand up again until Matthew got home and I'd written pages and pages of sharp, clear prose. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 02 Part 1 My husband Matthew and I overslept the morning after our little "date," which had been steamier than usual, I have to say. On the surface it was nothing special. Just the normal routine. I put on a push-up bra, and a low-cut top, and then I cooked Matthew a casserole. When he got home we ate it. I was so worked up from my fantasy session in the shower that morning about Travis (my frat boy student), and by how hot my husband looked in his professor outfit with the chunky glasses, beard, and skinny tie, that I could barely keep my knees together during supper. I didn't eat much. I just watched hubby chew his food, and swallow his wine, waiting for the moment. Then I led him into the bedroom, and stripped him, and pushed him onto the bed. Then I stripped for him, real sexy, and then I . . . what's the term? Oh yeah. Fucked. His. Brains. Out. For like over an hour. Again, it was nothing special on the surface. Just the usual sequence of "poses." Cowgirl with me on top to get the engines revving, then doggie when Matthew couldn't take it any more and flipped me over for some of that sweet tail, then missionary when he wanted to look at me while he finished. He pinned me to the mattress with his big belly and fucked me slow and deep, staring down at me and leering hungrily, and then I wrapped my legs around him, and he came hard inside me. What can I say? We got "carried away" again. My mother would probably wet herself with excitement if she knew. Afterward, Matthew wanted to give me some special time with my vibrator, but I brushed him off. I'd come plenty hard that day already, thank you very much, and I was nice and relaxed from the serious boning my husband had just given me. Sometimes he really knows how to scratch that itch. I felt free and open, and, even though I wasn't planning to, we ended up having a long talk about my fantasy in the shower, when Travis fucked me. I don't know what came over me, but I just dove right in. Matthew and I are both academics with a strong interest in psychology, and both of us went through long, messy divorces between our parents when we are in our formative years. And both of us conduct research on sexuality and relationships. So we know all about the grim statistical likelihood of ending up in a sexless marriage. Sometimes when you look at in cold, hard numbers (just charts and graphs) it seems like the "sexless marriage" should just be renamed "marriage" to simplify things. Sometimes it seems like it's inevitable. Like if you actually STAY in your marriage (a full 50% end in divorce) and stay faithful too (some studies have found that as many as 60% of married people cheat) then you are practically destined to end up in a sexless marriage, eventually, at least according to the clinical definition, which is having sex no more than 10 times a year. Matthew and I are DETERMINED to avoid that fate using the only weapons that a couple has: communication and trust and a sense of adventure. Both of us were starting to get a little bit anxious about the recent drop off in our sex life now that we'd been married for a year and a half. We've been together for seven years total (we met at graduate school when I was 24), and we've always had an active and fulfilling physical relationship. But it's true that we settled into a predictable rhythm a few years ago (maybe one or two times a week, depending) until the excitement of graduation and the wedding sent our libidos through the roof. What had a VERY nice honeymoon in Costa Rica and then we fucked liked rabbits for the first few months we lived in the dorm. But for a while now we've been back to the standard rate of 1.5 times a week, and though the sex is still good, it isn't always fantastic anymore, like it was that night. I was feeling close to Matthew, and drawn to him, and I wanted more nights like the one we'd just had. So I told him about Travis, even though the shame nearly killed me. I told him about my feelings during class when Travis said what he said, and did what he did, and my feelings during yoga, and then talking with him after, and then Matthew teasing me about talking with him and showing me how Travis had looked at me, up and down knowingly, and how it felt to find Travis suddenly between my legs (so to speak) while I was remembering our honeymoon session in the hot spring and pleasuring myself on the shower floor. Matthew was VERY understanding, to say the least, probably because he wanted to hear ALL the details about my fantasy very badly. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that this is going to be some kind of cuckold story. But it's not. There's nothing wrong with that kind of story, of course, if that's what you're into. But Matthew and I aren't. That's not the guy I married. And that's not the woman he married. You're just going to have to trust me on that. Matthew is the kind of guy who loves me for the no-nonsense, straight-ahead, confident, creative woman that I am, and he's smart enough to realize that part of what feeds all that energy is the sheer physical and emotional pleasure that I derive from good sex: vigorous, athletic, passionate sex with a guy who pushes my buttons. Matthew LOVES it when that part of me comes out, and I love the way he MAKES it come out. I was feeling so satisfied by him, and bonded with him, and I wanted more. So when Matthew seemed into the story (and boy did he ever) I gave him some juicy detail. I told him how Travis flipped me on my back and fucked me in this teasing, kind of rhythmical way that made my breasts bounce wildly, and that he laughed down at me when he saw how much I was enjoying it, and how badly I needed it, and how hot my tits looked jiggling around on my tiny body. I told him how I wrapped my legs tight around Travis's hips and came hard on his cock. "Wow," said Matthew, making big eyes. "That's sounds really hot." "It was!" I replied, "But don't you think it's weird and gross. Fantasizing about a student like that? A frat boy!" "No," Matthew said, shaking his head emphatically. It was an interesting reply. I wanted to ask him whether he ever fantasized about HIS students, of course, but I also didn't want to be distracted from what really mattered at the moment: me. I had something to work out here, clearly, and I needed help. "I don't think it's weird at all," Matthew said. "It makes sense, actually." "How?" "It's neurochemistry!" "How so?" "Look," he explained, "we all know that teaching is a sexy business. I mean, the whole thing is just very libidinal. Why else would there be such a strong connection between how highly students rate the effectiveness of a teacher, and whether they rate her (or him) as 'hot'! If the teacher is a little bit 'sexy' in some indefinable way, then she (or he) will be a better teacher. And here's the best part: if they are a better, more effective teacher on any given day then they will feel more sexy afterward. Because it's been shown, in study after study, that effective teaching releases a small dose of dopamine, the pleasure hormone, the same hormone that gets released during orgasms, but in mega-doses. Some new research into the science of student/teacher "crushes" shows that, sometimes, this little rush of dopamine can become "focused" on a student who has made an active contribution to a good class. When our brain releases dopamine, we feel attracted to the object of our attention. It's that simple. That's what happened with you and Travis. It was a little bit forward of him, I suppose, to disrespect your personal boundaries and tell the other students about your yoga sessions. But at the same time it helped to break the ice. Then he confessed something embarrassing about him in front of the other students (his love of cheesy romance novels) and that made THEM feel relaxed, and then they opened up too. Get it?" It made sense, up to a point. Travis HAD been very helpful that first day of class, and maybe I HAD felt a flutter of attraction toward him (khaki shorts!) at the end of the session when I realized what a good class I'd taught and received my little dopamine reward. But still, I asked Matthew, how did I get from a flutter of attraction in the classroom to coming my brains out on the floor of the shower with Travis's smug smile in my head and his big cock inside me? "That's simple too," Matthew replied, laughing, and tickling me in the ribs. He loves it when I get all dirty like that. And then he explained. You see, the initial dopamine dose was "reinforced" after yoga class, when I talked with Travis, and realized that he'd really learned something in the session because I'm a good yoga teacher too. I got another dopamine reward, just a little bit bigger, and this created a link between my first arousing "image" of Travis (khaki shorts!) and this new arousing image (sweaty t-shirt!) thereby compelling me to draw closer to the object of my attention, to fully experience it. So: when I was looking for a little escape and inspiration at the end of my shower, a little orgasm and dopamine hit to get the day started right, it made sense that my brain would "focus" on Travis, because he'd shown himself to be a good source of the hormone I was craving. Ergo, humping the showerhead like a mad woman while I pictured being Travis's fuck toy and coming on his cock! The amazing thing about Matthew isn't simply that his research is about questions that truly interest me: Why are fantasies so powerful? Why do our brains love dopamine so much? Why do some images arouse, while others turn us off? It's also that whenever I REALLY trust him with some deep, heavy shit, he NEVER judges me or makes me feel ashamed or guilty. To the contrary, he was happy for me that writing had gone so well that day. "It doesn't bother you if I fantasize about another guy?" I asked him, slipping my hand under the sheets and taking hold of him. I stroked him slowly, smiling mischievously. "If I fantasize about a hot student . . . a frat boy?" "No," Matthew groaned, shaking his head, and exhaling hard. "Especially not if it turns you into such a sex fiend afterward." I was so grateful for his understanding that I slid my hot, little naked body right down the length of his and gave him some amazing head. But then, afterward, as Matthew was drifting off to sleep, I told him that I wasn't completely satisfied with his explanation of why I got so turned on by my fantasy of Travis. Because the really striking part of the whole experience was how I was the MOST turned on by precisely the aspects of Travis's appearance and personality, and really of frat guys in general, that I find the MOST infuriating and offensive. That knowing smile that seemed to cut right through me and tell me that Travis knew exactly what I was, and exactly what I wanted, even if I didn't. "What's that?" Matthew asked, sleepily, his ears pricking up just slightly. "You know," I answered, blushing. "All that stuff you call me: shorty booty, short stack, whatever. Basically, what got me off the most was when he looked down at me like we could dispense with all the play-acting because we both knew that from the moment he slipped his cock inside me, for as long as he wanted, I was nothing but his fuck doll. Plain and simple. That blew my mind." "Hmmmm," Matthew responded, waking up for just an instant, and looking at me seriously. Then he crashed. Anyway, when I woke up (late) the next morning and went to find an outfit for yoga I realized that I'd forgotten to do laundry and I didn't have a thing to wear. One of the annoying things about living in the dorm is that we have to use the communal washing machines in the basement with the undergrads. It's a real pain. I was flustered because if I didn't put on something RIGHT AWAY then I wasn't going to have time to for breakfast before yoga, and then I would feel like crap all day. It was Friday (another "off" day) and I wanted to keep the momentum going with the new piece I was writing. I dug through the hamper, frantically, pulling out a seemingly endless succession of dirty yoga pants. They were all way too smelly to wear. So I pulled open the drawer in my bureau where I keep my hot weather yoga clothes (for those Texas summers) and pulled out the only bottom I could find: a pair of gray "sihouette yoga shorts" with a wide black waistband. I found a matching black sports bra, and slipped it on, and contemplated the results in the full-length mirror. I looked hot! I thought about throwing caution to the wind and teaching just like that. The girls would probably get a kick out of it. But then I remembered that guys show up at the class sometimes too (sometimes Travis!) and I reconsidered. I noticed a cute little burnt orange hoodie on a hanger in my closet. It has a zipper down the front and the word "TEXAS" emblazoned across the chest in big letters. Matthew bought it for me a couple of years ago during his campus interview at UT and he gave it to me as a surprise gift when he told me he'd been offered the job. I never wear it. I slipped it on my shoulders, and zipped it up, and inspected it in the mirror. Cute! I looked 10 years younger, somehow, like one of my students. It might be a little uncomfortable for the really challenging poses, but if it turned out to be just the girls then I could just slip it off and teach class in the jog bra. I turned around and stuck my butt out, trying to decide if the shorts were too racy. I knew they probably were. Matthew refers to them jokingly as my "booty shorts." They're not obscene or anything, but I guess he has a point. Screw it, I thought to myself. I was late. So I dashed into the kitchen. Matthew was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper on his tablet when I breezed past him. As soon as I turned my back on him, standing on my tiptoes and leaning over the counter so I could reach the nutrition bars in the cabinet, he was on me in a flash. "Wow!" he gushed, his hands all over me. "What brought this on?" "No laundry," I told him at first. But then I decided to play with him. I smiled at him over my shoulder, bending over the counter a little further. He pressed up against me, right on cue. I wiggled my ass. "Maybe I just appreciate the good, hard, boning you gave me last night, and maybe I want to show YOU a little appreciation." "I appreciate it!" Matthew gushed, grinning like a madman as he stared down at me in the tight shorts. "I KNOW you do!" I teased, grinding against his boner. Then I dashed off to yoga. As soon as I walked into the lounge one of the usual girls, Rhonda, noticed the shorts right away. "Damn, Peggy, your booty is poppin' in those shorts! If I keep coming to yoga, can I have a butt like that? " "Good morning, Rhonda," I smiled, brushing off the compliment (which I LOVED!). Rhonda is a beautiful, dark-skinned girl from Houston, and a real southern charmer. I like her because she's kind of short (like me) and curvy (like I used to be, before yoga) and because she's a scholarship kid who is outgoing and a hard worker and you can tell she's going places in life. What can I say? Everyone likes a happy story. Other than that it was just the usual girls. We smiled at each other, and muttered a few sleepy good mornings as we arranged out mats. Then I noticed a new girl. Someone who surprised me. It was Lacey Evans, from composition class. I made a point of learning her name after the first day because she struck me as an interesting character. She's the attractive girl in the front row with the tattoos and piercings, the one who flirted with Travis, maybe, even though he didn't seem like her type. She had her dyed hair pulled back in a short ponytail, and she was wearing this cool grey tracksuit thing with neon stripes down the side that really showed off her skinny body. She was standing awkwardly near the front of the room because she didn't have a mat. "Here, borrow this one," I offered, pointing to my spare mat in the corner. I always bring an extra for occasions like these. "Thanks," Lacey replied. She looked self-conscious. "I didn't realize you live in Littlefield Hall!" I said. "Welcome to the class!" "Uhhh . . . thanks, but . . . I don't live here actually." I smiled and nodded, realizing my mistake. "I slept over at a friend's," she explained, recovering her poise. "And I've heard good things about this mind-body yoga class. So I figured I'd give it a try." "Great," I smiled, wondering what kind of "friend" she meant, and who it might be. I had a pretty good hunch. It was time for class to begin, so I gave the room a quick scan to see if any guys had shown up. None so far. Good, I thought to myself, standing in the front of the room, facing the girls, and unzipping my TEXAS hoodie. I was just pulling it off my shoulders and saying "Namaste" to the ladies when who should walk in—Travis and sidekick. Sidekick's reaction was kind of hilarious, actually, when he saw me sticking my chest out in the jog bra to slide off the hoodie. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes bulging. His jaw literally dropped. Travis got a pretty good view himself, I suspect, but he recovered himself quickly, elbowing sidekick in the ribs and scowling at him. I thought about putting the hoodie back on, now that there were guys in the room, but I felt too embarrassed, somehow, to let them know that it bothered me to be seen that way. So I tossed the hoodie to the corner and started class. It was an interesting session. I tend to work intuitively when I lead a class, letting the mood and energy of the room dictate the sequence of poses, flowing from one to the next. We started out in downward dog, pushing our hands into the floor, and letting our hips swing backward, enjoying that delicious sense of relaxation in our back and butt. I held the pose for a long time, closing my eyes and breathing smoothly. I pictured Matthew behind me on the mattress last night, filling me with cock. When I opened my eyes I noticed that some of the kids were having trouble holding the pose. Rhonda and Lacey were in the front row and neither of them had very much upper-body strength, at that point. Their arms were shaking. But Travis was holding it like a pro. I did a quick scan of his new yoga outfit. He must have just ordered it or something, to look good for his new hobby. And he did look good, I admit. On the bottom he was wearing a pair of grey knee-length yoga shorts with a drawstring that fit him VERY snugly through the hips and pelvis and quads. And on top he was wearing a navy blue tank top that fit him snugly through the chest. "He has beautiful arms," I observed on the inhale, watching his shoulders flex. "And a nice bulge," I noted on the exhale. I did another quick scan of the room to see how the other kids were holding up and when I came back to Travis's spot I noticed that his eyes were open now and pointed straight ahead, fastened on the girl in front of him: Lacey. She had her backside held high and enticingly in her tracksuit and Travis was really enjoying the view, judging by his satisfied expression. "He's staring at her ass," I observed on the inhale, watching Lacey shift her hips, subtly, like she knew he was watching. "I feel jealous," I observed on the exhale, flowing from downward dog into cobra pose and instructing the class to follow. Cobra is one of my strongest poses. It's the one where you lie on your stomach, and place your hands on the floor near your shoulders, and then extend your arms beneath you as far as you can: raising your shoulders, and arching your back, and sticking your chest out proudly. I was facing the class and I knew that I was probably a sight to behold wearing just the jog bra up top. I could feel my stomach muscles tensing. I surveyed the room to check on the kids. Most of them were doing okay but when I got to Travis I was surprised to see how flexible his back was, for a beginner, and how far he could extend his lean, strong arms. "He has a gorgeous body," I observed on the inhale, watching Travis's eyes range over the assortment of female booties on display in the row in front of him. I watched his gaze come to rest on Rhonda's backside and I could swear he gave it a little nod of approval. "He's a dog," I observed on the exhale, feeling the resentment wash over me. We held that pose for a long time too and my eyes kept finding their way back to Travis. I could tell from the way he kept watching Lacey, somehow, that they were already lovers. And from the way she kept wiggling her ass for him, not so subtle anymore. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 02 "Travis fucked Lacey," I observed on the inhale, imagining the two of them flirting and fooling around in his dorm room the night before. "I feel jealous," I observed on the exhale. I could also tell by the way that Travis's eyes kept wandering to Rhonda's butt that he wanted to fuck her next. He'd probably succeed. "Travis will fuck Rhonda," I observed on the inhale. "I feel jealous," I observed on the exhale. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through all the complicated, difficult emotions that were coming up that morning. I closed them for a long time, concentrating on the pose and feeling my chest push out further and further as my muscles loosened. When I finally opened my eyes I got a big shock! Travis's eyes were wide open and they were glued to my body. He seemed a little blissed out (that can happen in yoga) and he didn't notice that I was watching him. I could practically feel his eyes on my body, sliding over me. I could feel them on my throat, and my collarbone, and on my breasts in the black jog bra that made them sit high and full on my chest. And I could feel them on my ribs and on the tight, hard stomach that I've worked so hard to develop and that makes me feel so proud. "He's staring at my body," I observed on the inhale, feeling a wave of excitement and happiness surge through my body. "My crotch is tingling," I noted, exhaling audibly, almost sighing. The rest of the class followed the same rhythm. I pushed the kids really hard, letting my competitive streak get the better of me. I would assume some challenging pose and hold it for as long as I could until pretty much the whole class had fallen out of it and everyone was just watching me, admiringly, Travis included. It didn't exactly go along with yoga philosophy (focusing within and all that) but it made me feel fantastic. It was just so satisfying, somehow, to watch Travis's attention begin to drift away from the younger ladies like Lacey and Rhonda when their strength gave out and they collapsed to the floor, and toward me at the front of the room, until it was just the two of us holding the pose, standing and facing each other, keeping our expressions neutral, but struggling hard to see who could last longer. Every time it happened I felt that little wave of excitement and pleasure again. It was just like Matthew said. I was teaching a good class, and getting those little dopamine rewards, and it was making feel more and more attracted to the object of my attention. You should have seen us in goddess pose. Travis looked particularly tasty, I have to admit, in his new yoga outfit in that one. It's the one where you spread your feet wide, and turn them outward, and then squat down as low as you can, until your legs and butt and everything starts burning, and then you raise your arms above you, holding your back nice and straight and pushing your chest forward slightly. We held that one for maybe thirty seconds after the rest of the kids had given up, just facing each other, and breathing through it, and straining until our whole bodies were shaking. I could tell from the way the girls were watching me that my body looked amazing in that pose, and in the skimpy outfit. And I could tell from the way that Travis was looking at me (not leeringly any more, but more in disbelief at how strong I was) that he was seriously impressed. I won't deny it. It felt good and powerful to impress a strong, young guy like that. The pose was particularly well suited for showing off Travis's powerful leg muscles, not to mention the prominent bulge in the front of his tight, new shorts. I felt that wave of dopamine wash over me again when Travis's legs wobbled badly and he fell out of the pose, kneeling on his mat and shaking his head. "I beat him," I exulted on the inhale, savoring the sense of achievement. "I'm a terrible teacher," I thought on the exhale, laughing inwardly. Then we did some deep relaxation poses. I was standing at the front of the room after class, lost in my thoughts again, when Travis walked up to me. "You kicked our ass today, Professor. I've got to hand it to you. It was really inspiring. I'm definitely coming back next class to see whether I can keep up better." "See you then!" I smiled, laughing at the compliment. Travis turned away and jogged a few steps to catch up with Lacey, who was already exiting the room. I watched him walk up behind her, and grab her loosely by the arm, and whisper something funny and maybe a little bit dirty in her ear judging by the way she threw head and back and laughed, delightedly. Then he pulled her arm, firmly, and led her down the hall, toward his room, I suppose. Both of them were walking fast, and looking down, and trying not to laugh. It must have been something about their body language because I knew that Travis had just asked her if she wanted to fuck, and I knew that's where they were going. Back to his place to fuck. I could understand why. Some of the poses we practiced that day (like goddess) are specifically designed for opening the sacral chakra and enhancing libido. Before I knew it I was walking with MY head down, hurrying to get back to the faculty apartment and into the shower. Jesus I was turned on. I was picturing what Lacey and Travis were probably doing at that very moment (Travis peeling her out of the sexy tracksuit, and feeling her up, while Lacey caressed the bulge in the front of his yoga shorts before Travis untied them and they dropped to the floor). I felt a little embarrassed at myself, maybe, practically jogging through the hallway (busy with students) in my rush to get home and screw myself silly with the massage showerhead. But the best part was that I didn't feel guilty at all. Matthew was fine with it! He understood my fantasy, and he encouraged it, so I could just relax and give in and enjoy myself. As soon as I got to the bathroom I turned the shower to hot and stood in front of the mirror and peeled off my yoga outfit. I admired my naked body in the mirror for a minute or two while the room got nice and steamy. My legs were practically shaking with excitement and anticipation, picturing what the water would feel like it when it finally hit me. Then I saw it. There was a yellow post-it note stuck to the mirror with the words "Open Me" printed in Matthew's adorable child-like scrawl and an arrow pointing down to the drawer next to the sink. I opened it. Even though there was no one around I blushed deep red, from head to toe, when I saw what was inside. It was one of those waterproof vibrators! It was long and pink and shaped like a wand. There was a piece of paper next to it, folded. I opened it. "I was saving this for your birthday next month, but after last night I thought you might need it now! Love, Matthew." Before I could even think the words "Thank you!" I picked up the vibrator, and spread my feet a little wider, and started experimenting with my new toy. I brought it slowly between my legs, still shaking with excitement, and let it massage me gently all through my dark curls, and then down a little lower. I reached my other hand between my legs from behind to make sure I was wet. I was soaking! I just stood there for a minute or two, watching myself in the mirror while the vibrator relaxed me. I wished Matthew could see me. My phone was lying on the counter and I had a crazy idea to pick it up, and snap a couple pictures, and text the best one to my husband. But then I remembered that he was teaching that morning. Better not, I decided. But I picked up my phone anyway and started striking sexy poses in the mirror, trying to decide which one would make the best thank you present for Matthew. I spread my feet wide and arched my back until my breasts were really sticking out (like they had been in cobra). I made a sultry "orgasm" face into the mirror and snapped off a picture. Nice, I thought, inspecting the results on the screen. I'd give it to him later, when he got home. Placing the phone down carefully, I stepped into the shower, my knees wobbling. I wrapped my hand delicately around the shaft of the showerhead and pulled it slowly from the wall. I was so unsteady on my feet from the surprise and anticipation that I was afraid I'd fall over and hurt myself if I tried to stay standing. So I lay down in the tub, keeping the glass door open so I could throw my leg over the side. I switched the showerhead to pulse and held it maybe six inches from myself. I was so revved up and sensitive that I needed to start slowly. I closed my eyes and let my shoulders and head fall back until they were resting against the cool tiles. I held the vibrator in my other hand and brought it right to the edge of my wet folds. I switched it to the lowest setting and started probing myself with it, holding the pink tip inside my swollen flesh while the hot water soaked me, pulsing me all over. It felt indescribable! I was so turned on by my husband, and so grateful to him for his thoughtfulness, that before long I was fantasizing about the best sex we ever had: in the hot spring in Costa Rica on our honeymoon. It's my favorite memory to fantasize about because it's one of the only times that I've had sex in anything you could describe as a public setting, which is something I've always been curious about, but that Matthew has been reluctant to try. I brought the showerhead a little closer to my pussy, maybe 3 inches away, and probed myself a little deeper with the vibrator, relaxing my stomach muscles as I eased it inside. I remembered how it made me jumpy with excitement to sit in Matthew's lap facing him in a dark corner of the spring. We were close enough to the other couples that I could hear the tone and rhythm of their conversations and sometimes I could make out a word or phrase. I could see them, too, through the steam, because they were in light and we were in shadow, mostly. One couple was just cuddling and chatting but the other couple kept alternating between long, passionate kisses and little private jokes that made both of them laugh archly. Through the steam it looked like their arms and hands were busy beneath the water. I remembered sitting up a little higher so that my breasts were clearly visible above the waterline. They were wet and glistening in the little bikini top I was wearing. I liked how hungrily Matthew was eyeing them, and how nervous he seemed that someone else might steal a view. I pushed them together with my arms and Matthew groaned with pleasure. "Sssshhhhhh!" I teased him, bringing my hands to his chest and leaning in for a hot, wet kiss, "We don't want the other couples to hear." Matthew laughed, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. I spread my hands flat on his chest and massaged his pectorals a little, savoring their firmness. I started moving my hips. Matthew was rock hard and I could feel his heart thumping against my palm. I moved my hips a little faster, pressing tighter against him. "Mmmmmmmmm," I purred, "I am so horny." "Yeah?" Matthew asked. I nodded. "I wish you could fuck me," I told him, pouting at him a little, and blushing, and pushing my breasts together harder. "Yeah?" he asked. I nodded again. I remembered the thrill of electricity straight to my crotch when Matthew smiled at me in that leering, self-satisfied way he does and reached his hand beneath the water and slid his swim trunks right down to his knees. I remembered staring down at his cock through the water, hungrily, and pulling my bikini bottom to the side. I set the showerhead to stream and turned the vibrator a click higher and probed myself a little further, holding the tip maybe two inches inside me. I closed my eyes and remembered holding Matthew's cock in my hand while I sat down on him slowly, still facing him in his lap. I groaned a little harder than I meant to when I finally had all of him inside me. "Shhh," Matthew scolded me, looking scared almost. My heart was hammering against my ribs. We were finally doing it. We were finally fucking where someone could see us. I remembered Matthew wrapping his arms around me and holding me close as I started grinding my hips, and then working my pelvis, just a little, my breath coming in ragged bursts. "Shhhh," Matthew scolded me again, seeming annoyed this time. His face was bright red. He tried to pull me back toward him. I'd leaned away from him a little for a better angle and my breasts were bouncing now in the bikini top. He grabbed me by the hips and thrust his cock inside me, roughly, his irritation bubbling over. "Ohhhh," I groaned, too loud for sure that time. We both laughed. I hunched my shoulders toward him and leaned into his heat so we could have the privacy he was craving while I fucked him nice and smooth. It was the hottest thing I'd ever felt and I didn't want him to stop. When I opened my eyes in the shower I laughed for real this time. I was fucking myself with the vibrator, long and slow, my butt rising high off the floor on the in strokes and my pubic hair pressed tight against the nozzle of the showerhead so that the stream was massaging my clitoris. I remembered how exhilarating it felt to finally cross the boundary between fantasy and reality. We were fucking for real. The hot spring was real, and the cock was real, and my husband was really fucking me, right out in the open, where anyone might see or hear. I kept pushing him right to the edge of his comfort zone and then backing off when I sensed his annoyance. I rode him a little bit harder, and pulled away just a little, and let my breasts bounce a little more wildly, in plain view. I loved the way he punished me, every time I crossed the line, with a quick, hard thrust of his cock straight to my center, knocking the breath right out of me. And then it happened again, just like the day before. In my fantasy I was holding my husband in my arms, with my legs wrapped around him, and his cock filling me. I felt my orgasm build. But when I closed my eyes again it wasn't Matthew at all. It was Travis. He was looking right through me with those rich brown eyes, set deep beneath his heavy brow. "Ooohhhhh fuck" I gasped, in surprise and pleasure, holding the vibrator all the way inside me and the showerhead tight against my curls. I closed my eyes again. Travis was smiling. He could tell how badly I needed it and how ashamed it made me feel. To need his cock like that. To need it so badly that I was letting him fuck me with it right out in the open where anyone could see. He thrust up into me, forcefully, my tits bouncing hard and then settling into place. I leaned toward him, trying to conceal myself. He laughed. He just sat back and relaxed and watched me ride him and ride him, almost like my hips and pussy had a mind of their own and I had no conscious control anymore over how fast or energetically I fucked him. I was running my fingers through his short cropped hair and holding my breasts to his face and closing my eyes so I could savor the sensation of his cock plunging into me and out of me and my pleasure rising. And then he did it! What I wanted him to do, without ever saying it. He reached his hand behind my neck and pulled the string and my bikini top fell off of me and my breasts spilled right into the open. I felt the night air on my nipples. I tried to lean toward him to hide but he wouldn't let me. He placed his big hand right in the center of my chest and kind of pushed me away from him, using his other hand to support my lower back so I wouldn't lose my balance. He gave me a hard, deep stroke or two to show me what he wanted, raising his eyebrows to encourage me. I was so revved up from the thrill of finding myself suddenly exposed, and from the way the new angle pressed my clitoris against the base of his cock when I thrust down on him, like a match striking a hard piece of flint. Before long I was doing it. Travis leaned back, and smiled smugly, and watched my tits bounce wildly while I fucked him just like he wanted, almost frantically, right in front of everyone. "Ohhhhhh fuck," I gasped again. There was no way that anyone in the hot spring could have failed to see or hear but I was way past caring. My whole body and brain were focused on the single problem of how to get my clitoris to hit the base of Travis's long, hard frat boy cock at just the right speed and angle to send those hot sparks all through me, over and over, and how to make my breasts sway and heave for him in just the right way that he'd get longer and fatter so he could fuck me deeper and wider. Nothing else mattered. Not my job or my husband or my reputation or the fact that I'd never be able to look anyone at the resort in the eye again without wondering whether they'd seen me get fucked and used like that by a guy ten years younger than me, my frat boy student. I didn't like him one bit, and I didn't know how I ended up in the hot spring with my legs wrapped around him. But he looked gorgeous, and his cock was pumped full with blood and desire, and he knew just what I wanted. What I'd always wanted. I opened my eyes in the shower and watched the spasms run all through my body in big, hard waves. My thighs were shaking, and my pussy was throbbing, and my stomach was clenched, and my tits were jiggling and then I just let it all go. I let my breath out in a big rush, and relaxed my stomach and my pussy and my legs and everything and when I closed my eyes Travis was smiling at me and laughing and I was coming on his cock and it was all the way inside me, filling me completely. My hips bucked uncontrollably and Travis held me tighter around the waist so that I wouldn't fall off him and I could ride out my pleasure. "Mmmmph, mmmmppph," I grunted, sharp and loud, as my hips quaked violently and Travis filled me to the root. I could tell he was close, somehow, though his expression never changed. He looked smug and satisfied. Like he didn't need to finish. But I knew he wanted to. I nodded at him, pleadingly. I bucked my hips, and pouted for him, and begged him with my eyes. And then he closed his eyes and I felt it. I felt him pulse inside me and pulse inside me and I felt my pussy spasm and pulse in return, inviting him deeper, coaxing his seed. Travis pulled me to him roughly and sucked my nipples, loud and hard, and I felt one last throb of pleasure as his last burst filled me. It was one of the hottest fantasies I've ever had, and one of the biggest orgasms, and at first I felt kind of guilty about it. Why did it thrill me so much? The idea of being used and fucked by a younger guy like that, on my honeymoon, where the whole world could see? And by a guy who was obviously a total cad and liked to play power games with women, games he usually won. Just the type I've always hated. "Don't judge it," I told myself, holding the showerhead to my scalp and letting the hot streams course through my hair. I focused on my breathing. I remembered Matthew explaining to me the night before about the neurochemistry of student crushes and how it was completely normal. I relaxed and savored the moment, my whole body glowing. There was no need to feel guilty because Matthew had told me that he was fine with it, and because I'd tell him about it tonight. He was definitely in line for a big reward. When I finally recovered I threw on my bathrobe and marched straight to my study. I wrote for three straight hours. It was the same piece I'd started yesterday. I called it, "A New Breed of Bad Boy." Part 2 After a hard morning of writing I felt elated and I decided to treat myself to a salad and an iced coffee at the café on the veranda outside the dorm. I threw on a bra, t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of sandals and grabbed my purse from the little table near the door. When I got to the veranda, and ordered my salad and coffee, it was so crowded with students that there wasn't a single empty table. I looked around, flustered, trying to decide what to do. Then I noticed my student Lacey sitting alone at a table in a dark, shady corner, her nose buried in a paperback. I took a deep breath and walked over to her. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 02 "Mind if I share your table?" I asked. "Suit yourself," she answered, smiling when she realized who I was. She went back to her book. I sat down and started on my lunch, scrolling through emails on my phone to gloss over the awkwardness of sharing a table with my student. I didn't want to seem desperate for conversation or anything. I kept stealing glances at the cover of Lacey's book. I was pretty sure that I recognized the author's name, and I was pretty sure that I remembered her as one of the darker, edgier new stars of the erotica scene. I'd read some blurbs and reviews of her books (I'd almost bought one or two) and they usually featured a little rough stuff, if memory served, some light bondage and BDSM themes, maybe a little anal and group sex, though they were mostly about good girl types who stopped just short of genuine nastiness or humiliation. Lacey was still wearing the same tracksuit she wore to yoga but her face was made up with heavy eyeliner and mascara. I surveyed her profile, a little enviously. She was a very pretty girl, with delicate features—the kind of girl who still looked pretty (prettier even) with a ring through her nose and a stud through her eyebrow and her hair dyed so many shades of mauve and pink that I had no idea what her natural color might be. And she had the kind of long-limbed, naturally thin body that still looked sexy and appealing even though she wasn't nearly as toned as I was. Lacey must have sensed me appraising her because pretty soon she looked up at me, eyeing me curiously. "So what do you do, anyway, on the days you're not teaching?" "I write." "Oh yeah? What kind of stuff?" "My research mostly." "What's your research about?" "It wouldn't interest you," I replied, scrolling through my messages on my phone and trying to brush her off. "It would, actually," Lacey assured me. "I'm used to hearing people talk about research. My dad is a Professor in the biology department. That's how come I live at home." "A faculty brat, huh?" Lacey nodded, smiling. The fact that her dad was a professor made me feel comfortable with her. Like we were part of the same tribe. So I told her about my research. "My research is about 'hook up' culture and casual sex among adolescents and new adults." "Oh yeah," Lacey responded, surprised that I worked on something that seemed genuinely interesting to her. "What about it?" "Well, basically I'm trying to see whether 'hook up' culture is degrading and dangerous for young women, in the way that the media and many feminists portray it—you know, because it supposedly turns women into 'targets' for predatory males—or whether it promotes psychological well-being and professional success." "How so?" "Well, by allowing young women to postpone serious relationships while they do all kinds of positive things through casual sexual encounters—experiment with new desires, build a social network, build confidence and self-esteem." "That's so cool!" Lacey replied, enthusiastically. "Does it?" "That's what my research shows, so far," I replied. "I've interviewed hundreds of young women about their sexual histories and I've found a strong correlation between being sexually adventurous by embracing casual 'hook ups' and good stuff like feeling happier and being more motivated academically. But it's tough to get work like mine published. There's still a big knee-jerk reaction against the idea that female 'promiscuity' might have any positive effects at all. And it's not just from people like the stupid, moralizing trolls on sites like Literotica! There's plenty of 'slut-shaming' from male scientists as well, even though they should know better." "Well, I hope you don't get discouraged," said Lacey, warmly, "because I think you're onto something very interesting!" "Thanks," I smiled. I sat back in my chair for a minute or so and appraised Lacey carefully. I genuinely liked her. And I liked talking with her. And I had a pretty good hunch why she was so interested in my research. She definitely looked like the adventurous type herself, the kind who'd probably taken lots of grief already, in her young life, for being too 'loose' and 'easy.' I knew that she would make a very interesting subject for one of my interviews and I was dying to ask her. But the more I thought about it the more I had to admit that my interest in her sexual history was more than purely academic. Because what I wanted to hear most of all was the story of how she ended up sleeping at Littlefield Hall last night. I knew it was wrong to probe into the private life of a student like that. But I was dying of curiosity, and before I knew it, without much conscious thought at all, I slipped into my anthropologist mode. I knew from long experience that the best way to get a young woman to open up about casual sex (to overcome their fear of being judged) was to work up to it gradually through casual chit-chat. She never knew what hit her. "So, did you enjoy the yoga class this morning?" I asked her, cheerfully. "It was cool, yeah!" "How did you hear about it?" "From Travis," replied Lacey, flushing bright red. "Travis from composition class?" I asked, trying to play dumb. "What did he say about it?" "He said that you're a really good teacher and that class makes him feel really energized at the beginning of the day," Lacey replied, blushing again. "Actually, if you want to know the truth, he said it makes him feel really horny, and that I should try it too. He wasn't kidding." She paused, considering how far she could go. "We had quite the session back at his place after yoga, if you know what I mean." "I think so," I nodded, smiling and flashing my eyes. We both laughed. "Is Travis your boyfriend?" I asked. "Not exactly . . ." "Oh?" I replied, careful to keep my tone neutral. "How long have you known him?" "Since the first day of your class." "I see." From there it was like taking candy from a baby. "Tell me about it." I prompted her. "Who initiated the 'hook up'?" "Am I one of your subjects now?" Lacey asked, dropping her head to the side, almost flirtatiously. "Do you want to be?" Lacey nodded. Then she told me everything. She told me how Travis had caught up with her on the quad outside class the first day and asked her if she wanted to have coffee. She was planning on going to the cafe anyway to kill time before her next class, so she agreed. They found a table. She told me that she knows Travis can come off like an arrogant prick sometimes—and in many ways he is—but that in a weird way his surplus of confidence makes him easy to talk to. There's absolutely NO awkwardness or nervousness at all. And there's NO question about what he's after: sex. She told me how she knew that the whole purpose of their little chat over coffee was to establish enough of a casual acquaintance with her that he could ask for her number and maybe call her one night for a hook up. He'd done the same thing with a couple of her friends, and neither of them regretted it in the least, so Lacey was excited by the prospect. "I know he's a frat boy and all," Lacey told me, blushing, "and normally I wouldn't go within a mile of one of those losers. But come on, he's HOT!" Besides, she continued, they had enough in common that they could even be friends, maybe. They were both upper classmen retaking a class they'd failed back in freshman year, before they got serious about school. And they both liked to write. Lacey writes erotic fiction (she told me) and Travis writes this VERY juvenile column for an online journal about fraternity culture called "The Player." She told me that it was extremely sexist and predictable, on one level, but on another it was kind of refreshing in its candor about how and why young people end up sleeping with each other. And Travis is actually a pretty talented writer. He's funny and clever. She was glad when Travis asked for her number, and she was glad he used it. "He called you last night?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "No, he texted me." "Tell me." "Well," said Lacey, lowering her voice and leaning toward me a little across the café table, "I was all curled up in bed reading a nice, steamy story on my phone when the first text arrived. It said 'Are you up?' I laughed. It seemed like an innocuous question but I knew what it meant. Are you up for sex? I sure was! My friend Jeanie was his regular booty call for like two months last year and she told me that he's the hottest fuck she's ever had, and that he always made sure she had a very good time. My heart was racing. I reached my hand down into my shorts and I was wet already! I thought about taking the direct approach and just texting him back: 'You bet I am! ;).' Basically, anytime you put ;) in a text to a guy like that he knows damn well that it's on. But then I decided I wanted to flirt a little first. I didn't want to seem desperate, not that he would have cared. 'I'm awake. Obviously,' I texted back. 'What are you doing?' he asked. 'Just reading,' I replied. 'Something naughty?' he asked. I smiled. I liked the direction. 'Naughty enough,' I replied, "what are you doing?' 'Can't sleep,' he typed. 'Awwwwwwww,' I replied. I thought about just leaving it at that, but then I added, 'Anything I can do?' My heart was hammering now. It always really gets me going to be forward like that. And Travis had made his intentions perfectly clear, which I appreciated, so there was no shame in letting him know that I was ready and willing. 'Do you want to come over?' he asked. I sure did! But I played it cool for the moment. 'What for?' I countered. "It was a minute or two before he responded. I knew he was planning his next move. Trying to make sure that he'd seduce me. I appreciated it. It meant that he really wanted me. That he'd be disappointed if I turned him down and he had to go to the next girl on his list. 'Do you want to watch a movie?' he asked, finally. I laughed out loud this time. When a frat boy like Travis asks you over to watch a movie it only means one thing, and both of us knew it: do you want to come over and watch the credits to some shitty Netflix movie before we bang in my bedroom. 'What kind?' I asked, enjoying the buildup. There was another pause before he replied. 'How bout we make a movie first then watch it after?' I laughed again. It was a hot idea, I admit. But I wasn't giving him that! Not on a first booty call. 'Haha,' I typed, 'You are bad.' I didn't hear anything from him like two or three minutes and I started to worry that maybe he felt shut down. I shouldn't have. I should have know that Travis would be confident enough to take it in stride and try again and I was glad when he did. 'How about Magic Mike?' he asked. I smiled, delightedly. I mean, it's standard frat boy procedure, of course. There's no movie in history that can get a sorority girl to drop her panties quicker than that one. But what can I say? I like the stripping scenes too. And it was the perfect come on. It was direct enough to make his intentions clear. This was for straight up sex. Nothing more. Well, maybe a little light conversation before and afterward. I enjoyed spending time with him at the café that afternoon so the prospect of talking with him again was enticing. And the movie he 'picked' (not that we'd ever watch much of it) sent a clear message that he wanted it to be fun for both of us. Maybe he'd even give me a show, like the guys in the movie! 'Where do u live?' I typed. He gave me his address. I threw on my tracksuit, grabbed my overnight bag (just in case), and headed straight over. "How did you know you could trust him?" I asked. It was one of my standard interview questions. "It's like I told you," Lacey answered. "He always treated my friend Jeanie very well. They were fuck buddies, maybe even friends with benefits for a while and he was always very discreet and respectful about the whole thing. Plus, he let her be 'his girl' a couple times." "His girl?" I asked. "O come on, you're not that old, are you?" Lacey teased, rolling her eyes. "It's when a frat guy takes you to a party at his house and tells all the other brothers that you're 'his girl.' It means that none of them can hit on you, or bother you, and they all have to be on their best behavior. It's cool because Travis's house actually throws some pretty good parties. My friend Jeanie met some really cool people there, artsy types like her, and now she goes to clubs with them downtown sometimes. It's annoying and frustrating that you have to go to frat parties to meet new and interesting people who AREN'T in frats, true. But what can I do? I didn't make the world. I'm just trying to live in it. Anyway, it's way more fun to go to a frat party if you're someone's girl for the night. That way you can just relax and let go and not have to worry about getting hit on my drunk losers all night." "What does the frat guy get out of it?" I asked, genuinely intrigued. "He gets sex afterward," Lacey answered, holding my gaze steadily. "But not at the house, necessarily. Most likely he brings you home after the party, and if he's up for it, you fuck him." "So it's like an exchange?" I probed, "Protection at the party for sex afterward?" Lacey nodded. "And you don't find that degrading?" I asked, careful to keep any trace of judgment from my tone. "No," Lacey shook her head, making big eyes. "I find it kind of hot, actually. I mean, every girl likes a good prostitute fantasy every now and then, right?" I laughed. I knew what she meant. I found the whole scenario weirdly enticing myself. "Were you hoping to be his girl," I asked, "when Travis texted you?" "Maybe," answered Lacey. "But I didn't get my hopes up or anything. I knew it would be fun regardless. I was satisfied with just a booty call, if that's all it turned out to be. If it was just the first dance scene of Magic Mike and then some good sex afterward . . . I was cool with that." "WAS it good sex?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, even though my heart was racing for some reason. "Hell yeah!" she replied. Then she gave me the details. We were sitting far enough away from the other students at the café that she didn't have to worry too much about being overheard. She told me that his room is really interesting. "I mean, you'd swear a gay guy lived there," she laughed. "It's a two room suite but he lives alone. He's worked out some scam where the guy he was supposed to share the suite with lives at the frat house so Travis can have his very own bachelor pad. The main room is pretty swank. A plush sofa and over-sized armchair. Stereo and flat-screen. Mood lighting. But the best thing about it is the rug. It's this THICK white shag rug and it covers the whole floor and its made out some expensive material because it feels really soft and not scratchy at all against your skin," Lacey paused, blushing. "That's where we did it. Right there on the rug. That's what it's there for, I guess." "How did it happen?" I asked, swallowing hard. My mouth was strangely dry. "I knocked on the door and he answered it right away," Lacey began, like she was savoring the memory. "He was wearing his new yoga outfit. You know. The one from this morning?" I nodded. "Well," continued Lacey, pleased that I'd noticed his outfit, "he held open the door and just looked at me for a second, up and down. 'Hey beautiful," he said, smiling. He held his hand out. I took it. He kind of pulled me inside, subtly, like a real gentleman almost, except I knew why he was doing it. He wanted to check out my ass in these cute sweatpants. I was glad. My ass looks GREAT in these pants. That's why I wore them. I let him look for a while and then I turned and faced him. I dropped my eyes to his crotch. He looked HOT in those shorts. And his shoulders in that tank top? Yum! Don't you think?" Lacey asked, appraising me carefully. I nodded. I was used to this kind of thing when I interviewed young women. When they got to the really intimate parts, the parts about who did what to who, and where, and how it felt, they always wanted you to assure them that you understood what had been so irresistible about the scene. That it couldn't have played out any other way. "He sat me down on the sofa and asked if I wanted a drink. I shook my head. He asked me if I wanted to smoke some weed? I shook my head again. 'You sure?' he asked, holding the pipe out toward me and taking a hit himself. 'I have to drive,' I explained. 'You can sleep here if you want,' he told me, exhaling the smoke. 'In your bed?' I asked, my stomach swirling for some reason. He nodded. 'Show me,' I told him. He took me by the hand to help me stand up and then he led me into the bedroom. It had big heavy curtains over the windows and a big wardrobe thing against one wall. But the best part was that against the other wall there was a real bed, king-sized, with carved wooden posts and a headboard and a comforter and everything. I don't know why, exactly, but it was the sexiest bed I've ever seen. It made me wet just looking at it. I turned to him. 'Give me the pipe,' I told him. He gave it to me. I took a long deep breath and held it, savoring the smoky richness, and then I breathed out in his face. The weed went straight to my crotch, just like always. I couldn't wait to get his clothes off him. 'I like your shorts,' I told him, stepping a little closer and reaching my hand to his crotch. He smiled, all cocky. I let him. I knew he was enjoying how badly I wanted him but I didn't care. Whatever made him hard was fine with me. 'Is this were we fuck?' I asked, massaging him a little. He shook his head. He reached his hand out toward me, real slow. He held the zipper of my hoodie between his finger and his thumb. Then he eased it down. I wasn't wearing a bra. 'Nice,' he told me, surveying the view. My tits aren't big or anything but they're shapely enough. Guys always like them. I expected him to reach out and touch them, maybe suck them a little. That's what usually happens. But Travis didn't. He was very appreciative. But he didn't touch me. Not yet. He led me into the living room and sat me down on the sofa. Well, he kind of pushed me, actually. Before I knew it I was sprawled on the sofa with my hoodie unzipped all the way and Travis standing over me, leering down at me in his tight shorts. I could see how hard he was. And then he . . . he gave me a little show. Magic Mike style. He moved his hips a little, and smiled down at me, and then he peeled off the tank top, real slow, and tossed it at me when he was done. I laughed. He has an amazing body. Don't you think?" I nodded. Lacey smiled. "The he untied the shorts," Lacey continued, "taking his sweet time with the strings, and then he slid them right off his hips and down to the carpet. Then he just stood there. Stark naked. Then he moved his hips some more." "What happened next?" I asked. It was one of my standard questions but I realized right away that I'd asked with a little more curiosity than was strictly appropriate. "Duh!" said Lucy. "I blew him, didn't I? I mean, no offence Professor Pierce, but you would have done the same thing in my position. He looked delicious. He let me suck his cock for a while, holding my hair back so he could watch me, and then he held me by the shoulders and stood me up facing him. I slid off my sweatpants, shimmying my hips. I thought about taking the hoodie off too but I just left it the way it was, open at the front. Travis nodded, approvingly. Then he motioned for me to turn around. I did it. I knew what he was thinking. I knew that he wanted to see my naked ass so he could decide which way he wanted to fuck me first. I had a pretty good idea what he'd choose. And I was right. Before I knew it he had one hand on my ass and the other on my belly and he was positioning me just how he wanted on the shag carpet. On my knees with him kneeling behind me. Then we fucked." Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 02 "Did you enjoy the sex?" I asked. It's important for my research that my subjects describe the mechanics of the encounter in some detail. At the very least I need to know what kinds of penetration occurred, and who initiated. "Ummm, hhmmmmm!" Lacey nodded. "I'm not going to go into too much detail, but let's just say that before last night I thought that 'doggie style' was just one position. But it's not. It's like eight or nine different positions, with subtle variations. And they all feel amazing, if the guy has what it takes." "What's that?" I asked, my breath quickening just slightly, enough that Lacey might have noticed. "Why do you like doggie?" Lacey asked, smiling mischievously. I was ready for something like this. Lots of times young women will want you to "confess" something about your own desires before they tell you about the really dirty bits of their casual encounters. "Because it's good for deep penetration," I told her, not batting an eye. "And for . . . a little rough stuff." "You bet it is!" Lacey nodded, laughing. "Well, let's just say Travis gave me a whole new definition of the words 'deep' and 'rough.'" She just sat there, eyeing me, letting the words sink in. "Do you think you'll get to be his girl?" I asked. Lacey nodded, smiling. "I do think so!" she said, looking suddenly thoughtful. "But it's not just because of how good the sex was. It's because he wants something from me too, in exchange. He wants me to take him somewhere." "Where's that?" I asked. "To a club I know, downtown." Lacey answered, shrugging me off. "Someplace Travis can't get into by himself." "What kind of club?" I asked. "The secret kind," Lacey answered. Then she said goodbye and left. Part 3 Needless to say I didn't get much work done that afternoon. I went back to the study and tried to write but I couldn't concentrate. My hands were jittery. I ended up searching for information about Lacey all over the internet, trying to figure out what club she was talking about. I couldn't really imagine a club in Austin that a popular frat guy like Travis wouldn't be able to talk his way into without the right girl escorting him. I searched and searched. But I couldn't figure it out. I tried to work again. But before long I was googling Travis. Obviously! I found him on Instagram and spent a good 30 minutes going through the photographs. It was kind of irritating because his whole profile was obviously VERY carefully arranged to provide some quality eye-candy to curious females. There were lots of pictures of him shirtless at the beach or the gym or whatever. And there were lots of pictures of him dressed up in a suit and tie. He looked good both ways. He was built like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. And he knew it! In many of the pictures he was smirking at the camera with that annoying self-satisfied expression he always made in my fantasies in the shower. All of the sudden I remembered what Lacey told me about Travis being kind of an interesting writer. I was definitely curious. I found his column on the online frat guy journal and started scrolling through the titles for one that looked juicy. His most recent submission was titled "How to be My Perfect Girlfriend." I clicked on it and started reading. It was a list of 50 suggestions for ladies who wanted to date him. At first I couldn't figure out what the heck Lacey was talking about because it seemed like total frat guy horseshit. None of the suggestions had anything to do with the girl's personality or accomplishments! They were all about how to turn him on and please him sexually. There were suggestions like: "(8) blowjobs in the morning; (9) blowjobs in the afternoon; (10) blowjobs before dinner; (11) be spontaneous! (See 8-10 for ideas)." Wow, I thought to myself, rolling my eyes, frat guys like to get their cocks sucked, huh? That is SO informative. Still, the more I thought about it, the more I was kind of glad to be reminded that guys like my husband got turned on by spontaneous oral. And the more I thought about the column from Lacey's perspective, the more I started to think that it was "refreshing" how candid Travis was about the fact that it was in it purely for the sex, that being with him wouldn't entail dealing with any of his emotional baggage. Another suggestion read: "(20) have lots of guys in your friend zone to take you shopping or drive you to the airport or talk to you about your feelings after I screw you into ecstasy." And I had to admit that there were some helpful reminders about the kinds of outfits that guys like my husband like best: "(22) wear sundresses (If I ever say no to something you ask me, just ask me again wearing a sundress)". I got kind of excited, too, when Travis described the physical traits of his ideal girlfriend. There were suggestions like: "(25) have short hair (so I can bite your neck more easily); (30) Be short and tiny! (so I can throw you around in bed); (35) Look like Nathalie Portman." I don't know why it turned me on so much the idea that I might be Travis's "type." The thing is, I'm short with short hair, and more than one guy has told me that I look a little like Nathalie Portman, Matthew included. In fact, one of the most demeaning comments a student ever left about me on ratemyprofessors.com read: "She reminds me of Natalie Portman. She's like 25 years old but looks about 15. She's tiny and dresses up everyday. She's funny all the time even when she tries not to be." The comment annoyed me so much I practically memorized it. I started wondering if maybe Travis thought that I looked like her too. Before I knew it my hands were in my pants and my middle finger was slick with my fluids. I was pretty ramped up by the time Matthew texted me. "Did you get the present?" he typed. "Yes!" I replied, adding a bunch of those Emoji female orgasm faces. One of the young ladies I interviewed told me about them one time and I think they're kind of funny. "Glad you enjoyed it," Matthew replied. Then I had a crazy idea. "Can u come home? Now!" I asked. "Why?" I took a deep breath for courage. "I am horny and I want to fuck." "Wow!" he replied. "I can't though. I have a meeting in 15. Can you wait?" "No!" I answered, jokingly, but I was a little irritated too. I texted him again. "Can I use my new toy again?" For some reason it made me VERY excited to ask his "permission" like that; to confess to him that I needed to come so badly that I couldn't even wait for him to get home in two hours; that I needed it right now. "What do I get in exchange?" Matthew answered. I laughed. I felt happy that he was taking time out of his busy day to flirt with me that way. I tried to think what would turn him on the most. I remembered Travis's column. "A blow job?" I waited a minute while my husband considered. "What kind?" he asked, teasing me. I remembered Travis's advice. "In a sundress?" I typed, my stomach fluttering. "Deal!!" he replied. Right away. I thought about leaving it at that. But the thing was I felt guilty. I KNEW that I was going to be looking at pictures of Travis while I used my new vibrator and even though I had Matthew's permission to fantasize about him if I wanted to I couldn't help thinking that looking at actual photographs of Travis's actual (very hot!) shirtless body while I had an actual (very big!) orgasm was crossing the line somehow. That it was cheating. I took a deep breath to steel myself. "Can I ask you something else?" I typed, my heart hammering. "OK" "Can I look @Travis on Instagram some more? While I use my new toy?" It was a minute or so before Matthew replied. I felt nauseous from anxiety. What if it hurt his feelings, or disgusted him? The idea that I was so horny to fuck because I'd been looking at pictures of my frat boy student online. "What do I get in exchange?" he typed, finally. I laughed again. I have the BEST husband ever. I tried to think of something really special to give him. Then I remembered the photo from my morning session in the bathroom. I pulled it up on the screen and considered. This will kill him, I thought! Then I sent it to him. The reply was practically instantaneous. "Wow!!" "Deal?" I asked. "Deal!" he answered. I threw down the phone, picked up my laptop, and practically ran to the bathroom to find my new toy. I pulled it out of the drawer and walked fast to the bedroom. I wanted to make myself nice and comfortable on the bed. I was so excited from the amazing story Lacey had told me, and from flirting with my husband in that new way (sexting with him!), and from the rush of having that picture of me out in the ether like that, where anyone might see it, and from the idea of my husband giving me permission to pleasure myself silly for the second time that day to my fantasy of having sex with a hot frat boy from my class, and from the fact that I wanted to pleasure myself to pictures of Travis so badly that I traded my husband a blow job and a nude shot (full frontal with a vibrator in my hand!). Before I knew it I'd stripped out of my clothes and I was spread-eagled on the bed, stark naked, with a picture of Travis on my laptop, shirtless at the beach. I was all ready to get started when I had an idea. I jumped up and went to the hamper and pulled out my Texas hoodie. I put it on. Then I stood in front of the full-length mirror and tried to imagine whether Travis would like it. I knew he would. I pictured knocking on his door. I pictured him opening it. I pictured him looking me up and down. I held the zipper between my fingers and eased it down slowly. I tried to imagine how it would look to him if I undressed for him like that, my breasts spilling into view as the zipper parted. I imaged how hard it would make a randy frat boy like Travis if he booty called his thirty-year-old professor, and she came to him, and she was wearing nothing under her hoodie. In my fantasy he was all over me. Before I knew it I was on the bed with my vibrator turned all the way up, deep inside me, and in my mind Travis was fucking me. He was fucking me with more urgency and passion and disbelief than any guy had fucked me in a long, long time. Since I first met Matthew. It was like the tip of his cock was the head of match and he was fucking me deeper and deeper until he finally touched the end of a long, thin fuse somewhere deep inside me, sparks flying, and the fuse kept burning and burning, deeper and deeper, straight to my core, and then it exploded in a flash and the whole room went white. By the time I woke up, spread eagled on the bed, it was almost time for Matthew to come home. I knew just what to do. I walked straight over to my closet and picked out my shortest sundress and threw it over my head. The doorbell rang. I walked out to my husband in the kitchen, my hair still tousled. "What's for dinner?" asked Matthew, leering at me in the sundress. I shrugged and yawned, stretching my arms above my head until the hem of my sundress started to rise up slowly. He looked me up and down. "Have you been masturbating that whole time?" he asked, shaking his head, and playing like he was angry. I nodded. "Naughty girl!" he scolded me. "I'm starving," I told him. "You better order a pizza." Matthew pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the number. I watched him place the order. He looked delicious in his professor outfit: those pleated suit pants. I walked up to him until I could feel his heat. I reached my hand toward his lap and held the zipper of his slacks between my forefinger and thumb. I eased it down slowly. "That's right," said Matthew into the phone, his voice catching a little as his eyes widened, "just one large regular pie." I worked my fingers inside his boxers and pulled out his cock, feeling it stiffen at my touch. "Twenty minutes?" he asked the pizza guy. "That should be plenty of time!" He smiled at me hungrily. I smiled back. Then I dropped to my knees. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 03 All in the game for a frat guy and his female professor Part one "What do you think of this outfit?" I asked my husband Matthew, turning from the full-length mirror to face him. He was lying on the bed in his boxers and undershirt reading a stack of student papers. It was midterm season and we were both swamped with work. There hadn't been time to take my usual teaching outfits to the cleaners that week, let alone do laundry, and I was desperate for something to wear to class the next day. Matthew looked up and gave the outfit a quick once over. "It's nice," he answered, smiling, then dropping his head again, lost in his work. "Nice, huh?" I muttered to myself, turning back to the mirror and giving myself a good, hard look. Maybe that was the problem. The pieces were older and more worn than what I normally wear, but still, it was a fairly typical outfit for me, at least on a teaching day: a baggy cardigan from H&M over a cute, navy blue dress with a white floral pattern. It was roomy in the bust, and cut just below the knee, but still made me look young and attractive, I was pretty sure, especially with the dark tights and the shoe boots. I struck a pose in the mirror, trying to picture myself in front of my composition students the next morning. Class had been going smoothly enough that semester but lately I'd been feeling vaguely dissatisfied. The first few weeks had been electric, one of the best experiences of my short career. It helped that I was so comfortable with a few of the students from getting to know them around the dorm where my husband and I live to save money: at the yoga class I teach as part of our responsibilities as faculty-in-residence, and sometimes at the movie nights I organize for the kids in the lounge on the weekend, and sometimes over lunch at the patio café. Lacey was especially good (she's the skinny girl with the piercings and the mauve hair) and so was Travis (the infuriating but also kind of undeniably hot frat boy she was sleeping with). They were always prepared and eager to participate and the rest of the class took their lead. But for the last few weeks I'd sensed them drifting away. As if I'd lost their attention. That kind of thing is normal enough with the stress of midterms and all, but this semester, for some reason, I wanted more. I'd been dealing with a lot of rejection from job applications and grant proposals and such and doing a good job in the classroom had become a real source of confidence and pride. I struck another pose in the mirror, squaring my shoulders and letting my chest push forward a little. It wasn't so bad, was it? I mean, it didn't make me look chunky or anything. Right? It was actually kind of . . . "nice." Matthew's half-hearted compliment rang in my ears. "What do you really think of it?" I asked Matthew again, louder this time, spinning on my heels to face him. "Huh?" he asked, looking up, his glasses on the end of his nose. "The outfit!" I chided him, stamping my heel for effect. He laughed. "It's nice!" he told me, cheerfully, shrugging his shoulders. Then he went back to his papers. I turned back to the mirror, fuming silently. "Nice and frumpy," I muttered, letting my shoulders slump. One time, back in grad school a few years ago we got in a ferocious argument about something or other that ended with both of us completely unloading about the annoying quirks that drove us bonkers about each other. Matthew ended up telling me that if he had to see me in one more "frumpy dress and cardigan" on my teaching days he was going to lose his mind. He apologized afterwards, of course, and he's never said it again. But I've never forgotten it either. "Maybe he had a point," I thought to myself, scanning the ensemble. I've always been self-conscious when I teach, especially back in grad school when I was a little less experienced, and when I wasn't so toned and strong and centered from all the mind-body yoga. And hiding my curvy parts has always been a way to feel more comfortable when I'm in the front of the room and everyone has their eyes right on me. But the trouble was that sometimes, like for the last few weeks, everyone's eyes WEREN'T right on me. I could tell that my students weren't feeling passionate about the class anymore, even the ones who were making a game effort to pay perfunctory attention to whatever topic we were discussing. I couldn't help wondering if my "frumpy" teaching clothes were part of the reason that I had so much trouble holding the full attention of my classes for the entire semester, or why I never seemed to be the person to "nail" the job interview, or the conference talk, or any of those important things. "Why can't it be more like yoga class?" I asked myself, smiling inwardly as I remembered one morning at the beginning of the semester when Travis and his sidekick walked in while I was standing in front of the lounge before yoga class in my short shorts and sport bra, unzipping my Texas hoodie. I sure had their attention that day! Wasn't it kind of ridiculous concealing my body under all those floral dresses and baggy sweaters when I taught yoga to guys and girls who were the same age as my students, and sometimes WERE my students, in outfits that left VERY little to the imagination about the shape of my assets. And they are some shapely assets, I reflected, sliding the cardigan from my shoulders and letting it drop to the floor, then sliding the tights down too. I pulled the dress over my head and looked at myself in my bra and panties. I'm not a sliver above 5' 2" but I have long legs and arms and a high waist that give me the proportions of a much taller woman. And while my breasts aren't large, objectively speaking, they sure LOOK big on my petite frame. And my bottom half, well, like I told you last chapter, Matthew likes to call me his "shorty with the big booty." What is it, exactly, that drives guys so crazy about a short girl with a nice, firm round ass? I know I probably sound obnoxious bragging about my body this way, but you have to understand that I've worked hard for it, and I didn't always have it, and I still can't quite believe how great I look now that I've kind of grown into myself. I'm probably a little attached to how good it makes me feel and that's probably something I need to work through in yoga. I was rifling through the clothes in my closet, yanking the hangers off the rod and throwing them to the floor, one by one, when suddenly I saw it. It was there in the back corner where I've kept it ever since Matthew gave it to me as a present last Christmas. I'd just been rejected for yet another full-time faculty job and as I opened the package Matthew told me that maybe this would help me to spruce up my professional image. I remember my cheeks flushing bright red when I pulled it out and held it up to the light. It was a classy combo, sure, but it wasn't really my style: a soft gray pencil skirt, cut tight through the hips and shorter than I normally wear and a fitted, white mid-sleeve blouse with ruffle detailing. I could tell that my chest would practically be popping out of it, if I could ever bring myself to wear it. 'You don't like it?' Matthew asked, studying my expression. 'It's nice,' I assured him, not wanting to spoil the holiday, 'but . . . what's wrong with my regular clothes?' 'Nothing!' Matthew assured me, sweet as can be, 'but . . . I just thought this could help you . . . sell yourself a little.' 'Sell myself?' I repeated, my irritation rising. 'You mean like a prostitute?' Matthew was horrified. 'No! No! Not like that, like a . . . confident professional.' We managed to avoid an argument but I never tried on the outfit. I knew he was disappointed. "What the hell," I thought, my cheeks flaming as I removed the skirt from the hanger and bent over to slide it on. I zipped it up the side slowly, inspecting myself carefully. It was tight through the hips, just as I expected, but it wasn't nearly as short as I'd thought at first, maybe two inches above the knee. The waist was cut high, and my legs looked long and lean. I loved the way that the fabric stretched tight across my pelvis (you could even see a cute little bump in the front) and how the gray color looked cool and sophisticated against the warm brown of my legs. I'd have to wear some pantyhose, sure, but the skirt could really do the trick! I tried the blouse on too, buttoning it slowly from the bottom. It was definitely snug, I noted, fastening the buttons across my breasts, and even a little transparent. I'd need a white bra for sure. And my boobs! Jesus. It wasn't obscene or anything but it left no doubt that I was one busty young woman. Still, something about the combination between my shapely figure and the cool, white, frilly fabric looked especially appealing, especially with the top two buttons undone and the classy skirt on the bottom. I walked over to my bureau and picked out a chunky necklace and a wrist full of silver bangles. Not bad, I thought to myself, my stomach doing flips. I took a deep breath and turned to face Matthew. "What do you think of this one?" I asked, crossing my ankles and placing a hand on my hip. He looked up from his papers. "Wow!" he gushed, his eyes bugging. He sat bolt upright, pushing the papers to the side. "What brought this on?" "I don't know," I teased him. "Maybe I wanted to wear something a little less . . . nice. Do you like it?" He nodded so hard I thought his head would fall off. "You sure?" I teased him again, savoring his enthusiasm. "Almost," he teased me back, squinting his eyes, and playing it cool. He surveyed me closely. "There's just one thing I need to see." "What?" I asked, a wave of anxiety rising in my belly. Matthew's really good at knowing when to switch the mood that way, when to pull back a little after he's gotten me going. "Turn around" he told me, flashing me that pretend frat boy smile—all cockiness and lewd desire—that melts me every time. It's like he can see right through me: what I really want. I uncrossed my ankles and turned around for him, my hand still on my hip and my heart racing. Matthew whistled, long and low, leering hungrily. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I like it." "PRETTY sure?" I asked him, shooting him a look over my shoulder. "Yeah," he answered, "I just need to see one more thing." "What's that?" "I need to see my hot professor write something on the board for me." I smiled to myself, my stomach surging. I couldn't believe what I was doing but I walked to the wall near the bed, and turned my backside to hubby, and pretended to hold a piece of chalk in my hand and scrawl big letters all over the blackboard. Jesus it felt hot to have his eyes on me like that. I pictured how tightly the grey fabric was stretched across my buttocks and how round and firm they must look. "Up higher," Matthew told me, enjoying the show. I laughed and stood on my tiptoes to reach the top of the "board." "Down lower," he ordered. I laughed again and kind of squatted down, sticking my ass out to reach the lower right corner. I don't know how he snuck up behind me so quietly but before I knew it he was all over me. Matthew's also really good at knowing when to make the first big move. I felt his hands on my breasts, and his breath in my ear, and his cock pressing against me, fat and hard. "So you DO like it," I teased him. "Yeah," he answered, his voice husky with desire. "And I'm not the only one who will." "Oh yeah?" I asked, my heart beating faster and faster. "Who else do you think will like it?" "All those horny college guys in your class, that's who," purred Matthew, nibbling my ear and grinding his cock into my ass. "Oh yeah?" I encouraged him, my lips moistening. It surprised me every time, and it made me feel kind of queasy to be honest, but there was no denying it. It was like there was a direct wire from my cortex to my crotch and every time my husband breathed those particular words in my ear in that husky, about-to-fuck-me voice ("guys . . college . . . horny") it sent a hot current straight to my groin and then all through my body. I couldn't wait for the next part. "Anyone in particular?" I asked him, my heart hammering now and my knees shaking. "Yeah," he answered, backing away from me a little so he could raise the skirt over my buttocks and explore them with his big hand. Then he leaned forward over me again, cupping my breasts through the blouse and breathing in my ear. "I think Travis is going to like it very, very much." "Oh Jesus," I gasped, my knees giving way. We'd been playing this game for weeks but it still made us crazy hot. We were having sex four or five times a week—inventing little scenarios between Travis and I that always ended with Matthew and I getting lost in the scene and fucking like horny teenagers. "You are so bad," Matthew teased me, easing his hand down the back of my panties and testing my wetness. "That really makes you hot, doesn't it, the idea of Travis seeing you in the skirt?" "Yes," I gasped, as Matthew's finger caressed my folds and then entered me slowly. "And fingering you at the backboard?" "Oh God!" I groaned, as Matthew slid two fingers inside me and held them as deep as he could, curling them slowly. "Making you come at the blackboard?" "Oh Jesus!" "Who?" Matthew teased. I knew what he wanted. This was the part of the game that always sent us right over the precipice: the shame and excitement and raw desire as I lost myself in the role he wanted me to play, and the role he was playing for me. "Who am I?" he demanded, his fingers curling me toward him. "Nobody special," I teased him, my hips moving in rhythm with him now to pull his fingers deeper, right where I wanted to be touched. "Oh no?" he asked. "Too bad. If I'm nobody special then I guess I won't be able to make you come, will I?" I felt his fingers withdraw inside me as I followed him with my hips, desperate to keep him inside. "Who am I?" he asked, thrusting his fingers hard and laughing when I grunted. "Ummmmph" "Who am I?" he asked. "Who's fucking you with his hand?" I was crazy with lust at this point, and desperate to come, and I couldn't hold out. "Ughh . . . Travis!" And there it was. That first, hot, fiery flash of shame and resentment and disbelief as I admitted my fantasy to my husband: how hot I was for my cocky, frat boy student. And then that sweet rush of relief as the confession streamed out of me and as Matthew's teeth found my neck and his spare hand slid down the front of my panties. It was insane how he quickly he could make me come this way, time after time. I eased back toward him as he stroked my clitoris with the hand down the front of my panties while the fingers of his other hand probed me from behind. He kept a nice stiff wrist so I could rock and buck against it just how I wanted, and so I could find the right spot, and so he could press against it just right. It wasn't three minutes before my orgasm coursed through me in surge after hot surge. Matthew bit and kissed and sucked my neck and told me what a bad professor I was and how good he was going to fuck me and then the next thing I knew I was face down in the mattress bent over the side of the bed with his cock buried to the root inside me. I loved how big and fat he felt whenever he took me this way. "In character," I suppose you could say. Doggy style always makes a guy feel bigger, especially when he takes you by surprise, and anyway Matthew WAS bigger, literally, because playing the role of Travis always made him extremely hard. He felt huge inside me. I was stuffed with cock and before I knew it he was sliding himself out, and thrusting himself in, over and over, so hard that my cheeks were shaking and I was grunting out for him and whining through my nose. "Ugggh . . . Traaaaaaa-vis." "You like that?" Matthew demanded, slapping my cheeks with his pelvis and angling his cock. "You like that frat boy cock?" "Ummmmph . . . yes!" I gasped, raising my tail up high. "What do you love?" "Your cock . . . I love your cock . . . I love your big . . . fat . . . long . . . hard . . . arrogant . . . frat boy cock and I love it when you fuck me with it" "Awww Peggy" I felt that old familiar surge, deep inside me, and I knew he was about to explode. "Not on the skirt!" I told him, a little frantically, reaching back for him and finding his ass and them pulling him toward me, holding him in place. "Not on the skirt . . . okay?" "Where?" "In my pussy . . . okay? . . . I want you to come in my pussy." "Awww fuck . . . awwww Peggy." I raised my tail, and closed my eyes, and pulled him as tight as I could as I felt his cheeks tense, and his rod stiffen, and then it was pulsing and our bodies were completely still. Part 2 Afterward Matthew and I lay next to each other on the bed for a long time, barely touching, our heads turned to each other as we caught our breaths, kissing and laughing. I know it's a cliché for a woman to say this but I really did love this part the best—even better than the boning, though I loved that part too. I loved it when I could lay next to him during those long quiet minutes with both of us still glowing and know exactly what he was thinking and feeling: how hot I am, and how good the sex is, and how lucky he is to get it, and how weird it is that the sex has been so much better, mind-blowing really, since we've added this new dimension. After a while I got out of bed and pulled the ironing board out of the closet, and the iron too, and set them up near the bed. I stood there, naked, for a long while, lost in my thoughts, watching Matthew finish reading his papers while I ironed the blouse and skirt. They were a little wrinkled from our session but I could still wear them the next day. I felt calm and free, mostly, but the longer I stood there the more my doubts got the better of me, and the sense of queasiness returned. I was starting to feel bad that for the last few weeks, pretty much every time I had sex with my husband, I had the image of Travis's deep brown eyes, and heavy brow, and playful expression in my head while I pictured every detail of his hot body that I knew so intimately, in a way, from yoga class. And I was feeling even worse about the fact that pretty much every morning, right after yoga, I practically raced to the shower and fucked myself silly. "You don't think it's weird that I'm always fantasizing about Travis when you fuck me?" I blurted out suddenly. Matthew looked up and laughed. "No," he shook his head. "I don't get it!" I exclaimed, scowling at an especially stubborn wrinkle on the back of the blouse. "I don't get how I can love you so much, and how guys like Travis can piss me off so much, but every time I picture that it's Travis fucking me instead of you it makes me cum my brains out! Don't you think it's weird? Like there's something wrong with me? I mean, I thought that women were supposed to be the naturally monogamous ones and that men were supposed to the ones who were biologically programmed to shoot their sperm all over the planet, in any female they can find. I don't get why the idea of fucking someone else . . . some totally random frat dude . . . why the idea of . . . well, CHEATING makes me feel so wild!" This was a new habit I'd developed—just coming straight out with my darkest thoughts and trusting Matthew to deal with them—and it still felt strange. "It's not true, actually, about women and monogamy," Matthew responded. "I've been meaning to tell you." "Tell me what?" "You know that new assistant professor in the psychology department. The one they hired last summer?" "Claire Blazer?" I asked, feeling a surge of jealousy. "The tall skinny one with the boy haircut? She's a lesbian right?" Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 03 "I don't know. Sort of. But anyway, she's been doing some great research. She gave a talk about it last week to the department and I was blown away." "What's it about?" I asked, my jealousy mounting. I'd had a grudge against Claire ever since Matthew's department hired her for a tenure-track position (I'm just an adjunct). She's a twenty-something academic superstar who works on a topic that's not that different than mine (female sexuality) but unlike me has the professional image to go with it. I looked her up on ratemyprofessors.com the first time I heard about her and you wouldn't believe how "amazing" and "life-changing" and "mind-blowing" she was in pretty much every student comment, not surprising really considering that blazing chili-pepper at the top of the page. She has that combination of delicate, feminine features and a skinny, not especially curvy body that makes it easy to wear tight clothes and still look professional and crazy sexy at the same time. "Well, she's designed some really interesting experiments that show that during long term relationships, contrary to our expectations, women's sexual desire decreases at a greater rate than men's. Her idea is that women's sexual arousal may be more attuned to relationship contexts than men." "Meaning?" "Meaning that for a guy sexual desire tends to stay relatively constant in a long-term relationship because for the guy, in terms of pure arousal, it doesn't matter WHO the female is to him. It just matters that she has the physical attributes that make him aroused. But for women WHO the guy is matters a whole lot." "I don't follow." "The basic idea is that while men in long-term monogamous relationships are always complaining about how badly they long for variety, their interest in sex seems to remain roughly constant. They still want sex with their wives or partners. But women seem to lose interest in sex in monogamous relationships. People used to think that this was because women have a lower libido, and because married women have already 'gotten what they wanted,' meaning a husband. But in Claire's research it seems that women haven't lost interest in sex at all; they've just lost interest in sex with their long-term partners. Her experiments show that when you introduce novel stimuli to women in long-term relationships—basically the image of some hot, new guy, or girl if that's what they're into—then their sexual arousal goes through the roof. That's what I think Travis is for you, or at least the fantasy of Travis. It's just a novel stimuli that's making you feel really, really aroused and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that." "Interesting," I replied, thoughtfully, turning my attention to the blouse. I had to hand it to him. Matthew is a true scientist—always curious and fearless about entertaining strange, new ideas when the evidence seems to support them. And he's a true husband, always pushing me to be curious and fearless too when he thinks that a new experience will make me feel happier and more fulfilled. Not for the first time in the last few weeks I felt grateful for his reassurance. And not for the first time I felt that flutter in my stomach when I pictured class the next day. Part 3 I don't know that I've ever felt more awkward in my skin than I did the next morning striding across the quad. I was running a little late because of how long I spent in front of the full-length mirror trying to work up my nerve. Like I said before, the skirt and blouse weren't obscene by any stretch but they were a big change nevertheless. I knew that my students would be struck by the contrast, if nothing else, and that they couldn't help themselves, really, if they gave me a closer look than most mornings. And I knew that some of those looks, to say the least, would be directed below the neck, and that a few were bound to glance over my chest and rear. How could they help it? Even if their intentions were perfectly innocent—curiosity and surprise—they were bound to notice my figure. And I knew that a few of the students, especially the guys in the back, would probably like what they saw. I remembered Matthew's expression last night when he looked up from his papers. Was I really going to let my students see me wearing that same outfit? I considered wearing my long wool coat for the walk to class, or maybe even my cardigan to teach in if I chickened out at the last minute. But it was hot for late March—even for Austin—and I was running late and neither of them seemed right so in the end I decided against both. I wasn't two minutes out the door before I regretted it. It was a bright, clear morning and the quad was busy with instructors and students hurrying to class. The sun was low in the sky and behind me and the skirt was stretched tight across my rear, and my hips. I could feel my backside burning. It felt like there was a spotlight trained directly on me. I was walking faster than normal and at every step my buttocks strained against the fabric. I tried to keep my eyes pointed straight ahead and my stride purposeful but every so often my curiosity would get the better of me and I'd glance to the side to see how people were reacting. I kept catching the students looking at me for just a beat too long, scanning me quickly. Not that I could really blame them. The blouse was stretched tight over my breasts, and though I tried to step carefully in my flat-soled shoes I could feel myself bouncing. Too late now, I told myself. I took a deep breath in, holding it in my chest, and tried to remember my relaxation techniques from mindfulness yoga. I let my focus soften and breathed out slowly, trying to tune out everything except the pure physical sensations of walking, and breathing, and feeling the sun on my back, and how the skirt and blouse fit me snugly in a way that made them easy to move in (like yoga shorts, almost) and after a while I started to feel more comfortable. And then I realized how much I enjoy walking in the mornings, and how great it is for getting the heart beating and the lungs pumping, and then I lifted my head a little, and my gaze too, and pretty soon I was staring straight in the eyes of everyone who passed. It felt incredible! It was like as soon as anyone came within my sphere of vision they were in my complete control. As long as I looked right at them, and smiled calmly, they wouldn't DARE look at me anywhere else except straight in the eyes. I could tell, somehow, that a few of them had taken a good long look at me from a distance but somehow that didn't matter, as long as they were polite and discreet when we were face to face and made it clear that they respected my authority. I even started to enjoy my power over them. I noticed this slacker guy looking at me sidelong from under his long, dark bangs and I shot him a little questioning look, arching my eyebrows in disbelief. He dropped his eyes to the ground and flushed bright red. I laughed to myself, lengthening my stride. By the time I reached my classroom I was flying high. Most of the students were already seated, and it was just about time for class to start, so I marched straight down the center aisle to the front of the room, placed by briefcase flat on the desk, and turned to face my students. It felt electric! Every eye in the room was directed straight at me. I scanned the room and noticed Lacey in her usual seat, right up front in the center, kind of smiling at me bemusedly, and I noticed a couple of the slacker guys in the back kind of eyeing me from under their customary Long Horns baseball hats. "Hats off gentleman," I chided them. It was our usual routine. I continued to scan the room and finally my eyes found Travis, in a seat off to the side. He was sitting straight up in his chair and I swear his eyes were bugging out of his head a little, like my husband's had been the night before. I remembered Matthew's comment (from after we had sex) about how he liked the blouse because it showed how "surprisingly busty" I am. I knew that Travis had seen my ample c-cups on my petite body plenty of times in yoga outfits, but I also knew that it would be a particular thrill for him to see them 'on display,' as it were, in a teacher outfit. He nodded at me and smiled (almost sweetly, it seems to me now, looking back on it). I felt my cheeks flushing red so I started class. "Alright ladies and gentleman, let's get started!" I turned to the blackboard and wrote the topic of the day in big block letters: "Affirmative Consent." The University was debating whether to institute a new policy for sexual consent, and it was pretty controversial, so I'd decided that discussing it in class might generate some passion. "So from the reading last night," I asked, spinning on my heels and catching one of the slacker guys checking out my butt, "who can define the term 'affirmative consent' for us?" Lacey's hand shot straight in the air. "Go ahead." "Affirmative consent is a knowing, voluntary, and mutual decision among all participants to engage in a sexual activity." "Meaning?" "Meaning that all of the participants have to actively and consciously state that they want to engage in a sexual activity together or else they haven't given consent." "Good! So how is that different from traditional definitions of consent?" One of the sorority girls raised her hand tentatively. "Go ahead!" I encouraged her. "Well, the most important part is that affirmative consent can't be passive. Silence or lack of resistance doesn't count as consent." "Okay. Good. But does it have to be verbal?" "No" she shot back, her confidence rising, "it can be through actions too." "Can you give me an example?" The sorority girl seemed flustered, but Lacey stepped in to rescue her. "Well, for example, if a guy wanted to give you oral sex, and he asked if that was okay, you wouldn't have to say 'yes it is okay for you to give me oral sex.' You could just . . . I don't know . . . you could just slide your panties down real slow and give him a naughty look or something." "Hell yeah, you could" muttered one of the slacker guys in the back. "Gentleman, please," I chided them, shooting them one of my patented stern looks over the tops of my cat eye glasses. "Okay. Good. I think we have an accurate definition now. So . . . what do we think of it? Does it make sense? Do you agree that this should be the standard for sexual consent on our very own campus?" From there the conversation really took off. Lacey piped up right away that she thought the change would be very positive because some recent studies showed that as many as 1 in 5 female undergraduates experienced some kind of sexual assault at some point during their college years. And Travis jumped in to agree that it was almost like an epidemic and something really needed to be done about it. All of the girls were listening attentively, and nodding their heads, and chiming in with smart comments, and I was practically glowing with happiness at how well the conversation was flowing. But then I started to notice that most of the guys were staying quiet and I knew that some of them must have objections. "What about you?" I asked, challenging one of the slacker guys in the back. "You're awfully quiet today." "I don't know," the guy muttered, kind of sliding around in his chair and shuffling his feet beneath the desk. "I guess it makes sense, but it's just . . . well . . . isn't it kind of confusing? I mean, what about spontaneity and stuff. Or . . . well . . . what if a girl is too embarrassed to actually say that she wants oral sex or whatever, but she actually does want it, and it doesn't end up happening because she couldn't bring herself to actively consent." "I kind of agree," offered another sorority girl sitting near him. "I mean, the whole idea of having to voice things so clearly and . . . kind of . . . clinically like that seems like a real turn off." "I guess it depends what you think is worse," snapped Lacey, her irritation rising, "the fact that 1 in 5 girls gets raped during their undergraduate years, or the possibility that a few shy girls might not get their pussies eaten because they were too shy to communicate about what they wanted." The whole class busted out laughing. Lacey was growing on me more and more, though I didn't appreciate the spicy language, and told her so flatly. "I think Lacey frames the public health issue here in a very important way," I proceeded, once the class had calmed down. "And remember, you have to keep in mind the range of responses that can count as affirmative consent." I walked to the board, and turned my back to the students, and wrote a question in big letters: "What counts as consent?" "Can anyone give me another example?" Travis spoke first. "Like if you're having intercourse with a girl," he said calmly, kind of eyeing me curiously to see how I'd respond. "Sorry . . . a young woman," he corrected himself, noting my displeasure, "and you want to get a little wilder and rougher, and so you ask her, 'can I give it to you rougher,' and then she wraps her legs around you and starts riding along with you. That would count, right?" "Hell yeah!" said the slacker guy again, and everyone laughed. "What do you think?" I asked Travis, ignoring the outburst. "Do you think it would count as consent?" "I do," he replied, "and that's why I think you guys are seeing things all wrong," he continued, turning to the sorority girl and the slacker guy who had spoken out earlier. "Affirmative consent isn't a turn off at all. It's totally hot!" "Why?" asked the girl. "Because it's hot when you have to come straight out with how much you want to get with someone, and how much you want to do something all hot and nasty with them. It's hot when a guy has to say it, and it's hot when a girl has to say it too! I mean, what's hot about the idea of a partner who's just kind of passive and non-communicative? It's kind of creepy if you ask me. It's like the ideal bedmate is somebody who's drunk or asleep or something, or maybe even a zombie. I just don't get it. Like, with affirmative consent, if I'm fooling around with a young woman in my dorm room and I'm thinking that I want to take things to the next level, then I have to ask her straight out . . . do you want to have intercourse now" (he flashed a little smoldering look from beneath his heavy brow and I swear the sorority girl swooned) "well, the young woman can't be passive if she does want to have intercourse with me, she has to say: yes, yes I do want it! I want it very much! Or something like that," he added, suddenly embarrassed by how lost he'd gotten in the little scenario. By now the whole class was in hysterics and I was smiling too. "Careful of that hetero-normativity mister!" I teased him. "Sorry, sorry," he replied, raising his hands in mock apology and taking it in stride. "I mean, my PARTNER has to say yes I do want you to have intercourse with me." "Much better!" I told him, smiling warmly. "Well, that's all we have time for today. See you next class." The kids packed up their books and things, and I packed up mine, and before I knew it I was back in the fresh air and sunshine, striding across the quad, full of satisfaction. "Professor Pierce," I heard from behind, and when I spun to see who was calling I saw Travis jogging up behind me, looking well turned out as usual in a navy blue polo and slim fitting shorts. "Are you walking back to the dorm?" he asked, smiling, a little out of breath. I nodded, eyeing him curiously. "Mind if I walk with you?" "Suit yourself," I replied, remembering Lacey's line from the café yesterday. He fell into stride next to me and we walked silently for a while. Travis broke the ice. "That was a great class today! Really interesting topic." "I'm glad you liked it." I told him. Then I paused. I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to compliment him on his comments and how insightful they were. But for some reason I hesitated, looking at him sidelong as he strode along next to me. I know it sounds ridiculous but I was kind of afraid that if I complimented him too profusely, as I sometimes did (one of my male professors back in grad school had even criticized me for the tendency) then he would think I was being flirtatious. And for some reason I was very nervous that he would think I was being flirtatious. Now why would that be? I wondered to myself, stealing another glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Jesus he looked tasty this morning, his pecs and shoulders straining beneath the polo and his brown eyes sparkling with happiness. It was pointless to deny how physically attractive I found him, and how attracted I was feeling to him at that very moment. I thought back to my husband's 'scientific' explanation of teacher student crushes the other night: how successful classes release a little dopamine reward (the same pleasure hormone that gets released during orgasms) and how sometimes that rush of pleasure can get associated with a student who has made a particularly helpful contribution to class. Can it ever! I thought to myself as I caught Travis looking sidelong at ME and felt that familiar surge in my stomach, and in my loins. I had a pretty good idea what I was going to do as soon as I got back to the faculty apartment, and the thought of it made me blush fiery red! My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of some of Travis's frat brothers greeting him across the quad. "Yo Traaaaaaavis!" bellowed the tallest of the bunch, in a suggestive tone that really bothered me for some reason. "Yo Traaaaaaaaavis! What's up?" "Nothing, nothing, bro," Travis told him, kind of hurriedly, almost as if he was embarrassed. "Too bad, bro! Toooooooooo bad," said his frat brother, in that same tone again, and then we passed each other by. "Sorry about that," Travis muttered, after a few awkward seconds. Now HE was blushing. "About what?" "About my frat brothers . . . it's just . . . well . . . I guess they thought I was . . . you know . . . working you." I stopped in my tracks and faced him, folding my arms across my chest. "Working me?" "Uh, yeah," he stammered, unsure of his next move. "It's just . . . well . . I have kind of a reputation that way . . . and, no offense, but you are pretty young for a professor . . . and, well, they probably thought you were an undergrad in the business school or something . . . and . . . that's why they were acting like such hounds just now." Suddenly the whole strange interaction seemed crystal clear. Had they really thought that I was an undergrad who Travis was trying to sleep with? Had the fact that i was thinking about Travis's hot body somehow shown on my face? Did they think, just looking at me, that I WOULD sleep with Travis? I wanted to be mad at him, but he looked so cute and harmless all embarrassed all of the sudden, and part of me even appreciated the way he'd come right out and admitted how offensively his frat brothers were behaving. "It's okay," I assured him, smiling warmly. "I don't blame you for your friends. Even if they are sexist jerks. Besides, you were really great in class today. You said some really smart things about affirmative consent and I appreciate the way that you defended the idea so passionately. A lot of guys wouldn't have the guts to do that." "Thanks!" Travis gushed, touched by the compliment. "It's funny because I felt really prepared for class today. We've been talking about a lot of similar topics in my advanced psychology class. I even wrote an essay about affirmative consent last week." "What class?" I asked. "Claire Diamond's," said Travis. "You're taking a class with her?" I asked, a wave of jealousy just washing right over me. "Yeah!" Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 03 "And she lets you call her by her first name!" "Yeah," gushed Travis again, "She's really cool that way!" He paused and watched me carefully, realizing that the remark might have offended me. "I mean . . . you're cool too of course, even though you make us call you Professor." "Don't worry," I teased him, flashing my eyes. "I'm not jealous or anything." Travis nodded. We were matching each other stride for stride, and looking right at each other, and I could tell, somehow, by the sudden calmness and thoughtfulness of his expression that Travis was pleased by my remark. I understood why. Looking back on it I suppose that was the first time I ever REALLY flirted with him, overtly and knowingly. He caught me off guard with the news that he was taking a class with the "mind blowing" Claire Diamond, and by the information that she was so informal with her students, and I suppose that part of me wanted to be informal with him too, to be Claire's equal. And looking back on it from Travis's perspective I suppose that was the first time he might have suspected that he was making some progress with me, however infinitesimal. We were back at the dorm by that point and before I knew what was happening Travis surged ahead of me a couple of strides and held the door to the main entrance open for me, smiling his charming smile. I had a funny idea that I knew the reason. I remembered Lacey's story from the café the other day about how Travis might have SEEMED like a gentleman when he held the door to his dorm room open for her when she came over for their first booty call, but how she knew why he was REALLY doing it: too get a nice, good look at her backside in those cute track pants. I remembered what I was wearing at that very moment and I swear my knees wobbled for an instant. I took a deep breath and without even thinking, really, I strode right past him through the door. It was almost like I slid right out of my body and watched myself do it. I could feel his eyes on me and—I can't be sure really—but that might have been the first time that I ever swung my hips for him, just a little. Needless to say the first thing I did when I got back to the faculty apartment was to march straight into the bedroom, open the drawer to my bedside table, and pull out the new vibrator that my husband had given me. And needless to say the second thing I did was to slide my panties right out from under my skirt and spread my legs wide. And I don't really need to tell you what I was thinking about, do I? "Do you want me to fuck you?" Travis asked me, the sweat dripping from his brow. "Yes. God yes." And then he fucked me and fucked me and the whole room went blank. Part 4 The next day was kind of frustrating, which was a funny thing because it started off really positive. I got a great night's sleep, for one thing. Hubby and I ended up having some crazy sex (again!) and I think all of us know that there's nothing like some good, hard athletic fucking before bedtime—with a guy who pushes your buttons—to make a girl sleep soundly, and give her sweet dreams. I stretched out in the bed, waking slowly, and remembering the details from the night before. I was still wearing my teaching clothes when hubby got home late from some conference in the psychology department. I'd worked straight through the day after my little vibrator session and I was nearly finished with the draft of a new article! When Matthew walked in the door I was curled up on the couch reading a story on my phone. In one of my interviews with Lacey the week before (she had turned out to be a GREAT subject and we were conducting weekly interviews to keep tabs on the details of her sex life) she told me that she maintains a Tumblr page where she posts sexy images she comes across on her digital travels and where she sometimes posts her experiments with erotic fiction, not stories exactly, more like fragments or sketches. The one I was reading that night was pretty hot, actually. It was a little scenario about a young female coed who visits her hot thirty-something professor in his office on campus and the two of them end up having sex on his desk. Standard fare, of course, but something about the way that Lacey just dropped you straight into the action, and lingered on the right details, really got my engine running. The professor in the story was kind of a Matthew type (all beard and skinny tie and chunky glasses and a big round gut—kind of like her daddy's—that the girl finds insanely hot) and he has no idea what he's in for when the girl comes in the room and starts wrapping him around her finger. I was totally engrossed when I heard Matthew walking quietly across the rug, and felt him standing over me. I could practically sense him leering. My phone was in one hand and the other was buried in my panties. I wasn't REALLY masturbating—yet—but I was definitely headed in that direction. I thought about stopping but when I opened my eyes Matthew was looking at me with such raw hunger, fingering myself lightly like that in my pencil skirt and blouse, and when I scanned him up and down I saw how hard he was already in the dark wool professor pants and it sent an electric jolt straight from my crotch to my cortex. I started fingering myself just a liiiiiitle bit faster, eyeing him back. "Good story?" he asked. I nodded. "What's it about?" I told him. It felt so hot to tell him the details while he watched me getting more and more aroused, and touching myself for him, and by the time I finished my breath was coming in ragged bursts and my middle finger was inside me to the knuckle. I was thrusting against it, subtly, with my hips. "So he looked like me, huh?" I nodded. He was close enough to me know that I could the cigarettes on his clothes, and the whisky on his breath. "How was class?" Matthew asked, gloating down at me. He knew how much it would turn me on. "Good," I answered, kind of gasping a little, despite myself. "Did you wear the outfit?" I nodded again, my hand still working. I was pretty far gone and before I knew it Matthew sat down on the couch next to me in one smooth motion and the next thing I knew after that it wasn't my finger inside me anymore. It was Matthew's. And Matthew has always been very skillful with his hands. I guess that's part of why I married him, when you really think about it. "How did it feel," he asked me, his voice husky, "How did it feel wearing the outfit?" "Good," I said, my pleasure mounting. "Yeah?" he encouraged me. "Tell me more. Did you feel hot wearing it?" "Yes," I gasped. "Did Travis like it?" "Oh God" I grunted, thrusting my hips. "Are you sure?" I nodded. "How come?" Then it all came pouring out of me. "Because he was sitting straight up and looking right at me the entire class, and because he talked more than he has in weeks, and because he . . . oh god . . . he walked me home from class . . . Oh God . . . and because . . . his friends saw us and they thought that Travis was 'working me' . . . and then when Travis got embarrassed and apologized, I felt bad for him, and kind of warmed up to him and then I kind of . . . well . . . flirted with him I guess . . . Oh God . . . and then he held the door of the dormitory open for me and I knew why he was doing it but I walked through it anyway . . . and I kind of . . . I don't know . . . swung my hips for him . . . and then I came home and I fucked myself like you wouldn't believe . . . and I came so hard . . . oh fuck me!" By the time I was halfway through the story I was cumming on hubby's hand and by the time I was finished he had carried me into the bedroom, and dropped his slacks, and for the next hour at least he fucked me every which way, the tension and desire just pouring off his skin. The next thing I knew I woke up calm and refreshed and ready to teach yoga. I bounced to the closet—shit, I was running very late—and threw on the first pair of long yoga pants I found. Then I threw on my jog bra and a baggy t-shirt over it. I still had some serious bedhead but I had to rush straight to the kitchen if I wanted to wolf down a nutrition bar before class. Hubby had already left for work so I just stood against the counter, swallowing the bar and staring into space. I caught myself wondering what Travis would be wearing. But when I got to the lobby I was in for a big disappointment. Most of the usual girls were already assembled, including Lacey, but Travis was missing. And so was Rhonda, I noticed. I had a crazy idea to ask Lacey where he was but then I realized how obvious that would seem. It was five past the hour already so I started class. Class that day was definitely an interesting experience. As I told you last chapter, the whole point of mind-body yoga is to focus on the physical sensations, and let your thoughts and emotions just wash over you, and above all the golden rule is: don't judge it. Whatever happens happens. The point is to observe it objectively and then let it go. So in pose after pose I kept observing my feelings of disappointment that Travis wasn't there, to see me and to be seen. "Don't judge it," I told myself, in downward dog, when I started to chastise myself for acting like some bubble-headed teen. There was no point denying it. I had really been looking forward to doing yoga with Travis. And I guess at some level I'd kind of dressed for him, in a way. The outfit wasn't as revealing as some of the other ones I'd worn for him, but it was way more . . . well . . . intimate. It was the kind of outfit that your girlfriend would wear for a Sunday morning around the house after you'd taken her dancing the night before and then screwed until dawn. I realized that I'd intentionally decided not to brush my hair, because I knew the bedhead looked crazy sexy, and that I was disappointed and maybe even angry that Travis had decided to sleep in, or maybe do something else that morning. And then the jealousy rose when I realized that the "something better" he was doing that morning was probably Rhonda. Class was finished in a blur and I walked back to the apartment in a daze. I was feeling mad frustrated because yoga always made me feel sexually aroused those days but for some reason the thought of masturbating to my usual fantasy—good old frat boy Travis using me with his big, hard cock—felt ridiculous to me now. I took a quick shower, threw on a t-shirt and jeans, and went to the study to write. But it was no use. After 90 minutes of staring at the screen I retreated to the patio café for a latte. I wasn't surprised at all, somehow, to find Lacey there in her customary tracksuit. I was glad. We didn't have an interview scheduled for that day but I was dying to talk with her and find out about Travis and Rhonda. I walked straight over to her table and sat down without asking. "Hey!" smiled Lacey. "Hi." I answered. I sat for a few seconds while Lacey finished her text. It was humid as heck outside, and you could tell it was about to rain. I heard thunder in the distance. "So listen," I told Lacey, when she finally looked up, trying to sound casual. "It turns out that I can't make our appointment tomorrow" (which was a total lie) "so I'm wondering if we can do our interview today instead." "Sure thing," she answered, eyeing me quizzically. "But it sounds like it's about to rain or something." Lacey and I usually conducted our interviews outside, so I knew what she was getting at. "Good point. Let's go back to my place." "Cool!" said Lacey, smiling brightly. I ordered the latte to go and then we walked pack to the faculty apartment and made ourselves comfortable on the sofa. "Did you sleep at Travis's last night," I asked, getting straight to the point. We had a practiced rhythm for the interviews by now. 'Yeah." "Tell me." "Well, you probably noticed that Travis wasn't there this morning?" "Yes," I answered, rolling my eyes. Lacey laughed. I hadn't said anything directly to her at that point but I guess she knew by then that I enjoyed having him in class, and that I maybe had a little crush on him even. In the course of our interviews I'd needed to answer a number of questions from Lacey about whether I found Travis attractive, or hot even, or whether I thought he was funny and smart. She even asked me one time if I ever fantasized about him. That one I didn't answer. "Well, you probably noticed that Rhonda wasn't there either." I nodded. My stomach sank. "Yeah, well, things got a little crazy between the three of us last night." "Tell me." "Okay I will. But you have to promise not to judge me. Okay? Like in yoga class, right? Because there's something I haven't told you yet because I was afraid you would think less of me." "What's that?" "I haven't told you that a couple of weeks ago Travis asked me to help him 'work' on Rhonda, because he really wanted to get with her, and tried lots of times, but she was holding him off. Rhonda's not a virgin or anything but she's pretty inexperienced. She's had sex with a few regular boyfriends at most. She's never had a random hookup, or a booty call, or friend sex or any of that good stuff. And Travis! That boy can not stop talking about how hot she is every day after yoga." I felt my jealousy surge. "But that's not the only reason Travis wants her," Lacey continued, watching me closely to see whether I'd keep my promise not to judge her. "It's because of some stupid contest at his frat house. 'The player's club' I think they call it. "What's that?" "Well, basically it's a year long contest for the senior brothers to see who can amass the highest number of points for having sex with different kinds of girls in different ways." "And what kind is Rhonda?" I asked, my anger almost boiling over. I had to struggle hard to maintain my poise. "Ummm, well, I guess she's an African-American girl, for one thing. And Travis hasn't scored one yet. And she's Phi Beta Kappa. And she's a 'good girl,' you know, a girl who doesn't hook up." "So did you work on her?" I asked, my tone sharp despite myself. "You're judging me!" Lacey chided me. She seemed genuinely hurt. "Look, I know that the idea of it is SO degrading. Points for having sex with different 'categories' of girls! And I know that it probably confirms for you that Travis is just a typical frat guy jerk. But the thing is, in the moment . . . it wasn't degrading at all." "What do you mean?" "I mean he treated Rhonda well, last night. He was even sweet in his own way." "How so?" "Don't get me wrong," Lacey proceeded, convinced that I wasn't judging her any longer. "He dominated her too. Jesus he fucked her hard, by the sound of it. But, well, you know how Rhonda is a little bit self-conscious about her body, about being on the chunky side? He was sensitive about that. He made her feel beautiful. I mean, it's all in the game of course. Travis is smart enough to know that sweet-talking a girl about her beautiful body is the best way to get her wet and ready, to make her really let go. That's the motive, in the end, I suppose. You get points for convincing a girl to try different positions with you and stuff. But from Rhonda's perspective, what does it matter? She felt awesome all night and all morning." "How did it happen?" I asked, now genuinely curious. "It wasn't hard. I ran into Rhonda at the café the other day and she was VERY curious. She asked if Travis and I were sleeping together and when I said yes she wanted to hear how it started. So I told her the same story I told you on the patio the other day, you know, our first interview. I told her about how Travis chatted me up after class the first day, and texted me the next night, and how we fucked doggy on his big shag carpet and Travis gave me a whole new definition of the words 'deep' and 'rough.' 'Is he your boyfriend?" Rhonda asked. I shook my head. 'Good, because that boy is hitting on me like all the time.' I nodded and laughed. 'You like him don't you?' I asked. 'Maybe a little, but not like a boyfriend or anything' 'I know,' I reassured her, 'you just think he's hot, right?' She nodded. 'So why don't you sleep with him?' 'I don't know,' she answered, clearly flustered. 'A guy like that. We call him a fuckboy back home in Houston. Fuck 'em and toss 'em. I think it would feel degrading to give myself to a guy like that.' 'It won't," I told her flatly. 'Travis isn't like that. You'll hang out and talk and have sex a few times and you will definitely enjoy it and you'll learn things too and it will end well. Believe me. He's been through this before. He knows what he's doing.' 'I don't know,' said Rhonda, but I could tell she was thinking about it. "From there it was like taking candy from a baby. I texted her the next night and asked if she wanted to meet me over at Travis's place and hang out. 'What's the plan?' she asked. 'Just listen to some music, maybe smoke some weed.' 'I'm not into that,' she answered. Such a good girl. 'Okay, just listen to music and talk, then. Come on, it will be fun.' Ten minutes later we heard a knock on the door and Travis opened it for her in his usual way and checked her out from head to toe. She looked hot in that tracksuit let me tell you. I smiled to myself realizing that she'd worn it because of my story about how much Travis liked mine. And I knew that Travis must REALLY like hers. That boy is crazy for her ass. He will not stop talking about it every morning after yoga." "Well, it wasn't long before he got what he wanted. The cocky bastard. We talked for a while and got to know each other and then I put on same dance music. Then we danced. We fast danced all together, and grinded a little, and then I slow danced with Travis, and then I slow danced with Rhonda, and then Travis and Rhonda slow danced and before the song was over he was making out with her and their hands were all over each other. He led her into the bedroom and when I made a move to follow them he shook his head no. I guess he knew she wasn't ready for anything but some one-on-one, at this point." "What did you do?" I asked, with a little more anxiety in my tone then was strictly appropriate. It was like I could feel how jealous she must have been. "I was cool with it. I wanted to go home, but Travis and I had drunk a few beers and I wasn't good to drive. So I just pulled out my trusty phone, and found a nice juicy story, and settled myself on the shag rug for a good solo session while I listened to them in the next room. They made a lot of noise! I got bored listening to them after a while and I must have drifted off to sleep. When I woke up they were quiet and my back was aching from the hard floor. So I went to Travis's bedroom and crawled in next to them. They were both still naked, and Rhonda was draped all over him. They were out cold. The whole room smelled like cum and sweat." "But when I woke up in the morning they were right back at it. I smiled to myself thinking how badly Travis must have sweet-talked Rhonda to convince her to have sex with him again while I was in the bed. I didn't want to spoil things so I just turned on my side a little and watched them through the slits of my eyes. Rhonda was on her back with her brown legs wrapped tight around Travis. Her mouth was open in a big O and she was looking up at him like he was a god or something. And he was looking down at her and enjoying the bounce of her breasts while he fucked her gently, keeping a steady pace." "I watched them for a while and then I slipped out of bed quietly and got dressed for yoga. I was planning to go straight home after that but then I realized that I'd left my phone in Travis's room, plugged into his stereo. And you know what? When I got back to his room (his door is always unlocked) they were STILL fucking. And not only that. They were still fucking in exactly the same position. Curiosity got the better of me and I spied on them through the bedroom door." Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 03 "They make a beautiful couple, physically, let me tell you. I think they fucked that way the whole time we were at yoga. For a whole ninety minutes, without shifting positions or anything. I could tell somehow by the way they looked. Rhonda's eyes were glazed. She was covered in sweat. She looked like she was drunk or something. Drunk on cock. I can understand why Rhonda loved it so much. Travis is really good in that position. He does that James Deen thing where he puts his forehead right up close to you and looks deep in your eyes. It's funny. He has a big cock, yeah, but objectively it's not gigantic or anything. I've had bigger. But Travis has a way of making it FEEL big. It feels fucking enormous actually. He holds it deep inside you and just kind of stuffs you with it while he looks in your eyes seductively and kisses your lips and neck and tits. And then when he has you good and wet and loose he pulls out of you slowly, almost all the way, and then eases back in, until you're stuffed again. And he does that over and over and over until you get louder and louder and your whole body is letting him know how bad you want to be taken like you need to be taken, hard and fast. And then he leers down at you and does it. He just cuts loose and FUCKS you. He has this way of thrusting that makes your tits bounce really hard and there's something so hot about being objectified like that. And it makes Travis really hard! He just loves it and he gets bigger and bigger inside you. And then he changes the angle, and fucks you shallow, right against the g-spot, and then you . . . well . . . you cum. You literally cum on his cock. It happened with me and it happened with Rhonda. I saw it myself at least two times this morning and I bet he made her come twice as many times as that, at least." "Are you jealous of Rhonda?" I asked, my throat parched. It struck me that it was a question for me as much as her. "My heart, no," Lacey answered. "But my pussy . . . yeah, a little bit. But it's okay. He'll get tired of her soon, and let her down easy." "How do you know?" "Well, let's just say that Travis tried to flip Rhonda over at one point this morning, right on cue. But she felt embarrassed about her ass, and Travis didn't push her. That's why they fucked in missionary for so long. He was taking her lead. And believe me, Travis will fuck her and sweet talk her for as long as it takes to get her to take him from behind. That boy is an absolute fiend for doggy style, and he is crazy about that girl's ass. Rhonda has no idea what she's in for. If she thinks he feels huge while she's on her back, she should just wait until he stuffs it in from behind and gets those sweet cheeks jiggling. She's going to die!" "How long do you think until that happens?" I asked, feeling a rush of adrenaline. "Probably next Friday night. Travis is taking us to a party at his frat house. We're both going to be his girls. It's going to be a crazy party because we'll have just taken our psychology midterm in Claire Diamond's class." "You're taking that class too?" I asked, my anxiety plain. "What do you mean too?" "I mean, I knew that Travis was taking it" (I felt flustered by the question) "but I didn't know about you." "How did you know about Travis?" "He told me after class yesterday," I replied, trying to keep cool. "We walked home together." "Really? You mean the day you wore the blouse and skirt combo?" she asked, smiling knowingly. I nodded. "Tell me." So I told her the story. "Interesting," said Lacey, when I was done. "What do you mean?" "Let me ask you one more question," she proposed, placing a hand and my knee and leaning toward me confidentially. I nodded. "Did Travis hold the door for you when you got back to the dorm?" I nodded again, my cheeks hot. "And did you let him?" "What do you mean, did I let him?" I snapped, resenting the implication. "I mean did you walk through the door, and did he walk through behind you?" I nodded. "Ha!" Lacey laughed delightedly, "Professor Peggy Pierce . . . . I do believe that you are Now. Being. Played." "What do you mean?" "I mean that Travis is working you, couldn't you tell?" "What on earth are you talking about?" "Oh don't play dumb! Travis is a very simple boy and he's very clear about what he wants. And there's only one reason that he would walk home from class with a woman." "What's that?" "Because he wants to have sex with her, duh!" "I'm his professor!" "He'll just see that as a challenge!" laughed Lacey, her hand still on my knee. "It makes perfect sense now. He's always going on about how hot you are. And I know he's got a thing for brainy professor types. He's dying to have sex with Claire, for instance." "Claire Diamond?" "Uh huh." "How do you know?" "Do you want to hear the story?" I nodded. "Well, Travis went to Claire's office hours the other day, partly out of curiosity about what it would be like to talk with her alone, but more because he's not doing that well in her class. He got a C on his last essay and she's shut him down in discussion a few times. Anyway, at the end of their appointment Travis noticed her yawning and asked if he could bring her a coffee. He said she looked at him a long time, as if she was thinking about some funny idea she just had, and then she told him that yes she would like a coffee but she could use the fresh air and she'd walk to the café with him. They ended up sitting down in a quiet corner and talking for a while. I don't know. She's a funny one, Claire." "What do you mean?" "Well, from the sound of it, I guess she flirted with him a little. She asked if he had a girlfriend, for one thing. And then without Travis even asking she told him that she had a boyfriend but that he's a professor at Yale and they're long distance. Travis was surprised by how forward she was being about her personal life, but that boy is nothing if not cool. He decided to push his luck. 'Sounds tough,' he told her, flashing her his sensitive eyes and giving her a little playful smile. She let it hang there, eyeing him. 'What do you think is tough about it?' she asked, finally. 'Being separate like that,' said Travis. 'How come?' asked Claire, kind of leaning toward him across the table. She has beautiful eyes, don't you think? And that boy haircut really sets off her delicate features. I want to kill her sometimes for being so smart and pretty, don't you?" I nodded. "Travis thought about his answer carefully and then he pushed his luck again. 'I guess I think it's rough being long distance because you have to go without sex.' He said it straight out and then just let it sit there on the table between them. Claire smiled in the end. 'See,' she told him, 'that's why you're not doing well in my class.' 'What do you mean?' asked Travis. 'Look,' explained Claire, "understand that I'm asking this purely as an academic question, right? 'Sure,' agreed Travis. 'Why do you assume that just because my boyfriend is in New Haven that I don't have sex?' Travis was clearly caught off guard and he told me that Claire pretty much laughed in his face, enjoying her power. 'Do you assume that my boyfriend doesn't have sex?' she asked him. 'Yes, pretty much,' he answered. 'So you assume we're monogamous?' asked Claire, leaning in a little closer. I couldn't believe what Lacey was telling me! I was having compunctions about two seconds of mild flirting with Travis on the quad the day before, but just listen to how Claire acted! I wanted to say something but I didn't want to break Lacey's flow. "'I guess I did assume that,' Travis answered. 'And now what do you think?' Claire asked, her eyes flashing. 'Well, now I'm beginning to wonder if I really stuck my foot in my mouth, and you might be one of the 5 percent of American couples who explore some form of responsible non-monogamy.' Claire smiled delightedly. 'I like it when you say it that way,' she told him. 'What way?' he asked. 'Responsible non-monogamy,' she repeated, in a deep, booming voice. 'You make it all sound VERY serious.' Travis pushed his luck again. 'Is it serious?' he asked. Claire smiled mischievously and leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'So now you're assuming that I am responsibly non-monogamous?' she asked. 'Well,' Travis answered, 'I'm not assuming it exactly but I guess I kind of inferred it from the available facts.' Claire smiled again. 'I like it when you say that too.' 'What?' asked Travis. 'Inferred it from the available facts' she answered, mocking him again. Then she flashed her eyes. 'It brings out your brainy side.' Lacey paused for a sip of her coffee, and for effect too I suppose, and I waited quietly for her to continue. "Travis didn't know how to play it so he just let it hang there. Then he asked, 'Is your boyfriend brainy?' Claire eyed him for along time. 'He's a smart guy, yeah.' 'What's he look like?' asked Travis. Claire eyed him again. 'You are a very strange young man, do you know that?' 'Just trying to be friendly,' he replied, smiling cheerfully. Claire changed the subject. 'Are you going to the mid term gala for the psychology department next week?' she asked him. 'Yeah,' he answered. 'Me too,' she told him. 'Are you bringing a date?' she asked. 'Well,' explained Travis, 'Me and my friend Lacey talked about going together.' 'Lacey from class?' 'Yeah.' Claire gave him a knowing smile. 'And is Lacey responsibly non-monogamous?' she asked him, lowering her voice just a little bit more. 'Who's making assumptions now!' asked Travis. 'I just inferred it from the available facts,' Claire countered. 'Well, is she?' 'I would not describe her that way, no,' said Travis. 'How WOULD you describe her?' Travis considered carefully before answering: 'I would describe Lacey as . . . sex positive.' Claire laughed out loud. 'I REALLY like it when you say THAT.' 'What?' asked Travis. 'Sex positive,' repeated Claire, in a pretty good imitation of Travis's husky 'bedroom voice.' I was in complete shock as Lacey paused for another sip of coffee. Had Claire really carried on a conversation with a student THAT full of sexual tension and innuendo! "Then Travis did something really bold,' Lacey continued. He asked Claire if he could ask her a personal question. 'You may.' answered Claire. 'Are you?' asked Travis. 'Am I what?' asked Claire. 'Are you bringing a date to the mid-term gala?' 'No,' Claire sighed, 'I'll be out on my own.' She picked up her bag and stood to leave. 'Have you been to this gala before?' 'Yeah!" said Travis. 'And is there dancing?' 'Yeah,' he said again. 'And do you and Lacey like to . . . 'dance?'' 'Yeah.' 'And what does she say, are you a good partner?' She crossed her heels and folded her arms and waited for an answer. 'She says I know what I'm doing.' Claire smiled broadly. 'Well make sure to save some dances for me, okay? Tell Lacey that she can't keep a skilled partner like you all for herself.' Then she left." I sat there silently for a minute or so, reflecting on the story. "Anyway," chimed Lacey. "Travis is obviously very excited about the whole thing, and he's dying to see what happens at the gala next week.' "Why?" "Because that would be the ultimate prize in the contest, duh! I mean he's already going to win by a mile and everything, but that would put him at legend status. All time legend." "What?" "If he had sex with his professor, dummy! That would be the ultimate prize." "So do you think he has a chance?" I asked. I think Lacey could sense how much turmoil I was going through inside. "I don't know," she answered, "I mean, you heard the conversation. To me . . . yeah, that sounds like a lady who is giving some serious thought to the idea of having sex with Travis." Then she stood up and said goodbye. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 04 The plot thickens for a frat guy and his female professor. Part 1 I suppose the next week is when I should have realized that things were getting a little bit too intense and real for my taste. But the funny thing about this entire story is the way that, in the time and in the moment, everything that was happening between my husband Matthew and I (and between me and Travis and Lacey for that matter) seemed benign somehow, positive even. And I guess in a way it was. It's something that I'm still struggling to figure out. Saturday morning I slept later than normal and by the time I woke up Matthew was already gone. I picked up my phone groggily (it was almost 10 a.m.!) and saw the text he'd left me. "Thanks for last night, babe ;) Sorry I had to run." I rolled my eyes and laughed. He knows I love it when he plays the chauvinist jerk (as long as he's still his sweet sensitive self most of the time) and he knew I wouldn't really mind that he was at work on the weekend. I understood that he needed some extra time in his lab to finish the draft of an important paper. And besides, I was in no mood to complain. I threw the sheets to the side and stretched out long and slow and naked in the king-sized bed, watching the sunlight filter through the curtains while I remembered ALL the details of our late night session. I felt well rested, and well fucked, and truly connected to the man I love. The night before was nothing special, really, at least at first. Both of us felt exhausted from a hard week of pre-midterm stress and we decided to stay in. We ordered Chinese and caught up on our favorite shows. Then around 9 p.m. or so Matthew asked if he could read over the proofs for ANOTHER article he was about to publish (he was so prolific that semester!) and I shrugged my shoulders and agreed. We'd had sex several times that week already so I wasn't too disappointed. An hour later he was stretched out on the sofa in his undershirt and boxers, poring through his papers, while I did some gentle relaxation yoga on the carpet nearby. I was wearing my panties and a loose t-shirt over my favorite red lululemon bra with the spaghetti straps, and I must have looked crazy cute because at one point I looked up and Matthew was watching me with a big grin on his face. "Care to join me?" I asked him, flashing a flirtatious smile. Sometimes we did a little partner yoga, though not much lately. "No thanks. I'm beat. Plus, I've got to get through these proofs before the weekend so I can work on my new article. Sorry I have to be at the lab this weekend." "That's okay," I told him, "I could use the time too." "What for?" He seemed genuinely curious so I told him, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "It's just, well, I'm not sure what to teach next in my composition class. Our little unit on 'affirmative consent' was a real hit, and the class seems SO engaged and passionate right now, and I don't want to lose the momentum. But the thing is that I've also FINALLY gotten some momentum going on my own writing. The interviews with Lacey have been fantastic and with a few more weeks I could probably finish a full draft of my article on hook-up culture and self-esteem. I'm excited about it, Matthew! I think it's really good!" "You should just teach your research then." "What do you mean?" I asked him, uncrossing my legs and easing into a forward bend. I felt a little thrill in my groin when I saw Matthew peering down the front of my t-shirt. "You should just assign them some of the things you've been reading for your own paper, and you should just go into class and talk with them about your research. That way you don't have to take so much time away from your own writing to prepare. That's what Claire Diamond does, and I've been doing it too. It was great advice, actually." "I don't know," I replied, feeling that same surge of jealousy I always felt whenever someone mentioned the AMAZING Claire Diamond. "That might work for a tenure-track professor teaching Psychology classes, but I'm just an adjunct teaching basic composition. What if the Chair found out that I'm not covering the usual material? What if the students complained?" "So what?" shrugged Matthew. "It's not like they'll fire you. The Chair knows that we're married. And besides, it's not that different from Claire's situation. She's teaching Intro to Psychology this semester, not some advanced seminar. But she's not using the assigned textbook or anything. She just marches in there cold twice a week and talks to them about her research. I asked her if she was scared of getting in trouble and she said something really funny." "What's that?" "She said, 'So what if I do? This school isn't big enough to hold me anyway.'" "What does that mean?" "It means that she doesn't really care if she gets a bad reputation in the Psychology department here because she's got her eye on bigger and better things. Her entire goal is to spend as little time and energy on teaching as humanly possible so that she can publish as many major articles as she can and get a job at an Ivy like her boyfriend. She is DESTINED for stardom, if you ask me." "Oh my god!" I exclaimed, catching his look of fawning admiration. "You're attracted to her, aren't you?" "No!" he replied, genuinely shocked, but laughing all the same. "You are!" I countered, laughing too. "No! No!" he insisted, "I just think she's . . . kind of cool. That's all." "Yeah right!" I replied. "I bet you do." I eased forward a little further, stretching the backs of my legs and breathing deeply while I studied my husband's expression. Then I closed my eyes and plunged right in. "So . . ." I asked him, "Have you fantasized about her?" I know I should have felt jealous of Claire, but the thing is I would have been happy, in a way, if Matthew had confessed to me that he was attracted to one of his colleagues, and even that he fantasized about her. I still had some qualms about all the play-acting we were doing about how badly I wanted my arrogant frat boy student Travis to fuck me, and I suppose if Matthew was fantasizing about Claire I would have felt more like we were on the same level. But Matthew didn't confess. "I don't fantasize about her!" he snapped, scowling slightly. "I mean, it's not like with you and Travis!" I felt really stung. How could Matthew turn on me—and judge me— when HE was the one who'd encouraged my fantasies in the first place! I just sat there silently for a few beats, eyeing him coldly. Matthew realized how much he'd hurt me and he apologized right away. "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean anything by it. I guess I'm just tired or something. Besides, you KNOW I don't mind the fantasies about Travis. They've been great for our sex life! I think that's part of the reason that both of us are so productive this semester, even with the stress of midterms. It's just like what your research shows about casual hookups and mental health and all of that good stuff. It's like . . . I don't know . . . it's like the fantasies about Travis are giving us all of the psychological benefits that you've always argued that young people get from 'sleeping around' and having a variety of partners." "What do you mean?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. I was irritated on one level (I wasn't sleeping around!) but on another I was curious. "I mean that you're getting all the psychological benefits that come from the excitement of having a new partner: self-confidence, lower anxiety, creative inspiration, increased libido. It's just like what I was telling you about Claire's research the other day. You know, about how women in monogamous relationships need new stimuli to trigger their arousal. I've been reading more of her articles and I think you'd find them really interesting." "How so?" "Well, according to Clare, female sexuality is all about the desire to be desired." "Huh?" "She means that what arouses women the most is when they feel overwhelmingly desired. And according to her that intensity of desire is only possible with a new sexual partner -- a new stimulus. It's like your fantasy of Travis as this sex-crazed frat guy who can't keep his eyes off you in class! Claire did this cool experiment where she had men and women watch erotic pictures of men and women having sex and tracked their eye movements. She found that the men looked at the women almost exclusively, but the women looked at both genders. What turned them on were the desired female body, with which they identify, and the man's lustful gaze, for which they long. Like Travis's gaze. It's simple really: women want to be wanted. Uncontrollably wanted." "You think Travis wants me?" I asked, flashing my eyes. I could tell how turned on Matthew was getting with all that brainy talk about 'novel stimuli' and 'lustful gazes' and there was no point denying how turned on I always got at the mere mention of Travis. Matthew nodded, long and slow. I had my legs splayed wide in a split and I was bending toward him, holding my toes. "How come?" I asked. "I've seen the way he looks at you," said Matthew. He kind of leaned back into the sofa and looked me up and down slowly, savoring my assets. "He only looked at me that way like one time!" I teased. Matthew was always needling me about the time he "caught" Travis checking me out at the end of yoga class, back in the first chapter. "I bet he was looking at you like that the other day when he walked you home from class . . . when he held open the door for you and you walked right through it." "You think he was looking?" I asked, playing the innocent. I crossed my left leg over my right and then twisted to the left, slowly, in a way that gave hubby an enticing view of my backside, or at least half of it. Matthew nodded, smiling. "I bet he didn't look." I shrugged, twisting a little further. "Why should he? He gets plenty of looks at me in yoga." Matthew laughed, enjoying the banter. "Yeah," he countered, "but not from the back. I bet that's the whole reason why he walked you home, the dog. I bet he had it all planned out: that he'd chat you up, and get your guard down, and then he'd hold the door for you and get rewarded with a nice long look at that sweet booty!" I eased out of the pose, my whole body tingling, and just sat there on the rug for maybe 30 seconds, watching my husband. "You know what Lacey told me the other day?" I asked Matthew, finally. "What?" I took another long breath and plunged in deeper. "She told me that Travis thinks I'm hot. She told me that he's always talking about it after yoga." "Really?" exclaimed Matthew, his eyes going wide. "Yeah," I shrugged. "And you know what else she told me?" Matthew shook his head. "That he was . . . I don't know . . . working me the other day. She told me that Travis is a very simple boy and that the only reason he walked me home after class was because he . . . well . . . he liked what he saw in the outfit you bought me, and because he . . . well . . . wants me." "Really?" I nodded, laughing. Matthew's eyes were so big I thought they'd pop from the sockets, and judging from the bulge in his boxers I could tell he was VERY excited. Then he asked something strange. "So does he have a chance?" It was all part of the game, of course. I knew that Matthew was just encouraging me to throw myself a little deeper into the fantasy. But I could tell, somehow, that deep down my husband was feeling anxious too. "Are you crazy?" I reassured him, batting my eyes and twisting slowly to the right. "What are you saying? That somewhere in that big, stupid Neanderthal brain of yours you actually think that I would have sex with Travis? Is that why you've been fucking my brains out for the last month? To keep me happy?" "Maybe," replied Matthew, his face relaxing. "But I'm his teacher!" I protested, twisting further to the right. "Yeah, I know you're his teacher," he countered, rolling his eyes. "Three mornings a week in the student lounge!" I laughed again, exhaling in a rush, as I twisted just a liiiiiitle bit further. "Does it make you jealous that we do yoga together?" "Should it?" he asked, his eyes fastened on my bottom. "No baby, its just yoga!" I purred. Matthew laughed. "Tell me about it," Matthew told me, sliding a hand into his boxers, slow and casual. "Is Travis good at yoga? Do you like doing it with him?" It felt SO exciting to watch him take hold of himself that way, and even stroke himself a little while he watched me do yoga, and I decided that I'd give him the best show I could. "He's good, yeah," I sighed, lying back on the carpet and stretching my arms above my head, my legs spread wide. "He's very strong. You can tell how powerful he is in some of the poses, especially his shoulders and hips. And his abs . . . hello! Can you say 'ripped?' But he's tight too. Lots of lean, muscular young guys are inflexible that way. He needs lots of work." I flashed him a saucy look. "Do you think you can help him?" Matthew asked, his hand working just a little bit faster, but still slow and subtle. "Maybe," I shrugged, my eyes closed tightly, stretching myself longer so that the hem of my t-shirt rode up, exposing my stomach. "But not in class. I think Travis would need a little personal session back here at the apartment. Maybe some partner yoga. Maybe some massage work too." I kept my eyes closed tightly, my stomach in knots. It excited me, sure, our new game, but I was always nervous that I would push Matthew too far. That I'd confess too much and he'd feel hurt, or disgusted. I shouldn't have worried. I don't know how hubby moved toward me so quietly and quickly but the next thing I knew his voice was right in my ear, husky with desire. "So why don't you do it?" he asked, his breath hot on my face. I opened my eyes and turned to face him, my heart pounding. He was lying on his stomach with his head turned toward me, his brown eyes glazed with lust. I knew what he wanted. I scooted over to him, and straddled him, and sat on his butt. I started massaging him slowly. "Because I'd be too afraid," I told him, breathily, working his shoulders. "Of what?" asked hubby, groaning with the pressure. "Of what might happen!" I answered, laying it on thick. "You know how yoga and massage are SO good for libido and arousal, right? And you know how horny those college guys can get, especially the frat boy type. And you KNOW how badly Travis wants me." I paused for effect, digging my fingers deep. "What if Travis lost control? What if he couldn't restrain himself?" "Awww Peggy," Matthew groaned, as I worked slowly down the length of his spine. "What if he . . . I don't know . . . what if he got all hard and excited while I was massaging his back, just like I'm doing to you right now, and then he . . . I don't know . . . turned over or something!" "Like this?" Matthew asked, turning over slowly. I laughed delightedly, rising off him a few inches so he could turn on his back. Then I eased back down. His cock felt fat and hard beneath my weight. I could tell that my panties were a little damp—already!—from all the teasing and flirting "What are you doing, Travis?" I asked him, feigning surprise. He gave me that pretend frat boy smile that I love so much and I knew that we were in character now. "I don't know," Matthew shrugged, smiling cockily, his eyes devouring me. "Do you want me to turn back over?" I bit my lip and pretended to think, wiggling my butt just a little, barely perceptible. I could sense myself moistening. "It's okay," I told him, pouting a little with feigned displeasure. "I need to work on your front side anyway." I reached out my hands and started massaging his chest, slow but firm, through the undershirt. Matthew has let himself go a little bit in the last few years, with the stress of tenure and all, but he's still very powerful through the shoulders and pecs. I had to learn forward to reach him and he could see right down the front of my loose t-shirt. I felt his cock stiffen. "That's nice," purred Matthew, smug as can be. Then he reached down for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. "What are you doing, Travis!" I exclaimed, trying to stifle my laughter. "It's okay," he assured me, in a husky whisper. "It's just a massage." I pouted again, biting my lip, and wiggling my bottom. "Okay," I told him. "But keep your hands to yourself." I leaned forward again and worked his naked chest, and then his ribs, and then the sides of his big hard belly. My panties were soaking! "Awwww Peggy," groaned Matthew, as I slid against him subtly, in rhythm with my hands. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the delicious sensations of his flesh beneath my fingers and palms and my lips against his hard cock, through his boxers and my panties. It wasn't two minutes before I felt Travis (I mean Matthew) moving HIS hips too, though I pretended not to notice. And it wasn't two minutes after that before I felt him reach down for the waistband of his boxers and work them down to his thighs. "What are you doing!" I protested, my breath coming in ragged bursts as I massaged his naked torso. "It's okay," he whispered. "Ugh Travis," I moaned, biting my lip and sliding against him just a liiiiiitle bit harder. "It's okay," he whispered again, holding me with his eyes while he reached one hand to his cock and held himself by the root. "We can't do this," I gasped, kind of slumping forward. "It's okay," he groaned. "Just go with it. You know you want it to happen." "I can't!" I protested, pouting, leaning back now with my hands on his knees while I grinded my hips, abandoning any pretense that this was just a massage. "Awww Peggy!" he grunted. And then I did it! I pulled my panties to the side, still leaning back with one hand on hubby's knee, and then he smiled cockily, still holding himself by the root, and angled his cock so that my wet folds could wrap around him and slide along his full length, forward and backward, over and over. It was the perfect motion. His cock was pinned to his stomach from my weight, and my clit kept striking the ridge of his crown at the top of each stroke, shooting hot sparks through me. "We can't do this!" I gasped, as my pleasure mounted. Then Matthew angled himself sharper, and I plunged my hips, and then he was inside me, filling me with cock. I don't think I'd ever ridden a guy as long and hard as I rode my husband that night, or with such wild abandon, at least at that point. I bucked my pelvis, and ripped off my t-shirt, and the bra too, and I then leaned forward over him while I thrust and thrust, my breasts hanging and bouncing at his lips. And then he sucked them and bit them and licked them so hard they were sore the next morning, and so was my pussy. I rode him like that, right there on the carpet, for maybe twenty minutes and then hubby couldn't stand it anymore. So he picked me up and carried me to the bed and laid me on my back and fucked me good and proper, cumming deep inside me. We dozed off for a few hours and then we woke each other and had sex again, slow this time, before we drifted to sleep. Part 2 Next thing I knew it was morning and I was alone in the bed, feeling happy, mostly. It had been a long time since my husband and I had sex twice in one night that way. I know that I should have felt satisfied, at least physically, even though Matthew would be working all weekend. Lots of women don't get nearly as much sex and satisfaction from their husband's as I was getting from mine that semester. But the thing is (and you have to promise not to judge me!) all the sex we were having just made me want more and more! You know how it gets sometimes when the sex is really good, with a "new stimulus?" When it stops being something you're doing because of some abstract idea about what you SHOULD be doing, or because it has all kinds of practical effects like lifting your mood, getting exercise, and bonding with your mate. Do you know what I mean? When sex—when fucking, really!—becomes something that's simply about pure physical pleasure, and passion, and then it crosses a boundary and it becomes a pure need. Does every woman feel that way, or is just me? I guess that's why it pushes my buttons so much when my husband teases me about how I SEEM all good and innocent on the outside but on the inside I'm really just a "hot piece of ass," a "fuck doll" if you will. Because the thing is . . . well . . . it's kind of true. When my libido is high like it was that week I can get a little compulsive about sex. I think that's part of the reason why I was always too scared for random hookups and friend sex and all that good stuff when I was younger. Why I always had sex in the context of a long-term relationship, except for a few experiments. I guess I was scared of the chaos. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 04 I was lying there naked, lost in my thoughts, when I heard the alarm on my phone. Shit! I exclaimed, reading the reminder. I was late for yoga! I'd completely forgotten that some of the girls asked me to schedule an extra Saturday class that week to help with the stress of midterms, and that I'd agreed. There wasn't time to do anything except jump out of bed, throw on my yoga outfit from last night (replacing the panties with some long leggings) and sprint to the lobby while I wolfed down one of my trusty nutrition bars. My hair was a tangled mess (at one point Matthew had held my head down on the pillow and just POUNDED me from behind) and I swear I could smell a little semen, though he came inside me both times. We really need to have a conversation soon about going back on the pill. I wasn't expecting anyone to be there except the studious girls who requested the class, but when I reached the lobby I got a big surprise. The girls who asked me were there, sure, but so were Lacey, Rhonda, and Travis! I felt my stomach drop for some reason as I spread out my matt in the front of the room, but then I regained my focus, doing a quick scan of my body while I checked my breathing. I explained to the group that we'd be doing some gentle, restorative poses that morning that should really help with stress and anxiety. And then we settled into child pose, curling up with our knees beneath our chests and breathing slow, like babies in the womb. We held that one for a long time, and then we rolled onto our stomachs and settled into sphinx pose, holding our elbows beneath us for support as we lifted our torsos from the floor and opened our chests, breathing smoothly. I scanned the room to see how the kids were doing. We'd practiced that pose lots of times already that semester so must of them were pros by then. I couldn't help admiring Travis's shoulders and pecs, powerful like my husband's, but leaner and more toned. I could tell somehow that he and Lacey and Rhonda had enjoyed a long, and probably very interesting night together. Their hair was tousled, and their eyes looked red and swollen. And despite the fact that I'd enjoyed myself too I couldn't deny my feelings of envy. "Don't judge it!" I reminded myself, softening my gaze, and breathing in deeply through my nose. Oh my god! Was that my husband's cum I was smelling so strongly, I observed myself wondering, or was it . . . Travis's cum! Lacey and Rhonda were in the front row, as usual, not three feet away from me, and the scent of sweat and sperm was so strong it practically made my head swim. I know it sounds nuts, but like I told you, I was already feeling horny that morning and for some reason the scent of them intensified the sensation. "Don't judge it," I reminded myself again, feeling my insides loosen. The really crazy part was that the more aroused I became the more I felt . . . well . . . ANGRY with Travis. It was impossible not to notice the way his eyes were glued to Rhonda's butt. I don't think he looked at me once the entire session. He was in the second row, right behind her, just like always. Rhonda and Lacey were both wearing pretty much the same kind of yoga shorts that I wore to class one time at the beginning of the semester, the ones that Matthew calls my "booty shorts." Both of them bought a pair after they saw me in mine and now they wore them to almost every class, for Travis I suppose. I caught myself wondering if Travis had reached his "goal" with Rhonda—if he'd sweet-talked her into taking him from behind—and I felt one, last, intense flash of jealousy and arousal as the class came to a close. Afterward, while the kids rolled up their matts and chatted casually, Lacey walked over to me. "Can I talk to you today?" she asked, in a whisper, glancing over her shoulder at Travis and Rhonda who were making these DISGUSTING moony eyes at each other. "You mean an interview?" I asked. "Yeah," Lacey nodded. "There's something I HAVE to tell you, and I don't think there will be time this week with all the studying I have to do." "Okay," I agreed, shrugging my shoulders. "Come over to my place in like twenty minutes. I could really use a shower." "Me too," she said, rolling her eyes. "See you in twenty." Part 3 By the time Lacey knocked on the door I was freshly showered and dressed in a tank top and shorts, my hair still wet. Lacey's was too. She wore her customary tracksuit. We poured ourselves tea and settled on the sofa. "What's up?" I asked her, smiling warmly, in interview mode. I reminded myself to remain calm and neutral, though I was dying of curiosity. "Last night was CRAZY!" she gushed, flashing her eyes. It wasn't until that moment, somehow, that I realized that she'd changed her hair. It was something about the way she had it pushed back, flat against her skull. It was maybe a few inches shorter than Lacey normally wore it (maybe shorter than mine!) and the color was less mauve now, and more purplish, I suppose . . . more blue really, though it was hard to tell while it was dark and wet. Whatever the case, it really brought out the handsomeness of her features, her boyishness even—her dark heavy brow and thick lashes (kind of like Travis's) and her delicate, but surprisingly square jaw. She wasn't wearing any makeup, as far as I could tell. Neither was I. "Tell me," I told her, flashing my eyes back. I have to keep objective when I interview the girls, sure, but I need to encourage them too. They need to trust me and feel comfortable telling me things. "Well," began Lacey, stretching her arms and smiling (they looked so skinny in the tracksuit), "It all started when Travis and I were studying over at his place. Both of us are pretty freaked about the midterm in Claire's class. She's a funny one. I mean, there's no syllabus or anything in that class. She just comes in and starts talking about her research and pretty soon kids are asking questions and discussion just kind of flows from there. But it's hard to say what the class is ABOUT, exactly. It's called Intro to Psychology but it's more like the psychology of sex, I guess. We talk about ideas of consent, and monogamy, and polyamory and lots of cool stuff but when it comes time for papers and exams its hard to figure out how to put it together, you know? And to top it all off Claire is a TOTAL hard-ass! She will shut you down right away if you don't know exactly what you're talking about in class, and she's a tough grader. I got an A- on the first essay, but she was really critical. And Travis got a C! That sure got his attention. He's working his butt off for that lady!" "So what happened last night?" I asked, finally, my tone a little sharper than I meant. Would she get to the point! "Like I said, we were studying at Travis's and after a while both of us got tired and we started fooling around. Just making out and stuff. But it had been a while, maybe since last weekend, and I felt really turned on. I put some serious moves on that boy, but he held me off. 'We should text Rhonda,' he suggested, smiling. 'Awwww,' I whined, 'I don't want to be the odd girl out, again!' 'Maybe you won't be,' said Travis. His expression was hard to read. Then his phone buzzed. It was a text from one of his brothers. A few of them were hosting a low-key dance party over at the house, with a pretty cool DJ I know from downtown. 'Even better!' said Travis. Then he texted Rhonda. By the time she got there, maybe ten minutes later, we were fooling around pretty hard. We weren't having sex or anything but we were definitely headed in that direction. When Rhonda knocked we were both surprised and without even thinking I stood up, and zipped up my tracksuit, and opened the door. I smiled when I saw her. She was wearing her tracksuit too. Naturally! And she looked fantastic. It was pink and plush and it clung to her in all the right places. It made sense that she wore it. I guess both of us were comfortable by that point dancing with Travis without being all dressed up or anything. Just being ourselves. 'Hey beautiful,' I told her, holding the door wide open, and stepping aside. I do a pretty good imitation of Travis sometimes. Rhonda smiled at me and laughed. And then she walked right past me, swinging her hips. Wow! The brothers at the house were going to lose their minds. You should have seen Travis's expression. He looked her up and down while she walked over to him and then he took her in his arms and gave her a long, wet kiss. 'Hey beautiful is right,' he told her, smiling. Then we walked to the house.'" "What was Travis wearing," I asked, realizing too late. Lacey played it cool, which I appreciated, though I could sense her satisfaction. "White polo. Snug. Open at the collar. And some HOT jeans, cut low and cuffed at the bottom, with a big belt. Studded." I nodded. "Anyways, the party was in full flow by the time we got there. The DJ was doing this cool trance thing with a light show and there were maybe fifty people dancing. So the three of us made our way to the center of the floor and started doing our thing. I stood to the side and watched them for a while, just getting my groove on. They were bumping and grinding and laughing and having a great time. Travis is a really good dancer. And Rhonda is okay. She's not the smoothest, actually, but what she lacks in technique she more than makes up for with enthusiasm. And booty. Travis LOVED it when Rhonda turned around and shook her rump for him in the tracksuit. It was funny because all the sorority girls in tight dresses kept coming over to Travis and shaking THEIR rumps for him too. But he only had eyes for Rhonda. I mean for a guy like Travis, in the middle of the 'player's club' contest, sorority girls are a dime a dozen. They aren't worth any points at all! But for them Travis is the ultimate prize. You could see how frustrated and disappointed they felt. And pretty much every guy in the place had his eyes glued to Rhonda. A few of the bold ones kind of circled around her, wondering how close they could get. Suddenly I knew just how to play it. Just what Rhonda would love best. Travis too. For this part of the night, at least, I needed to be the second boy. I needed to be Travis's bro. Rhonda was facing Travis at that point, grinding on his leg and shimmying her chest. So I eased up behind her and worked her from the back, pressing up against her. She smiled at me over her shoulder and grinded closer to Travis, her chest against his. Then he turned her around so HE could work her from behind, and she could grind on my leg. It felt electric the way her tits were bouncing against mine. We danced that way for maybe two hours—just pressing her between us, and turning her around, over and over—and then we walked back to Travis's. The three of us were flirting and laughing the whole time, kind of falling into each other every few steps, even though we were stone sober." Lacey paused for effect, watching me intently, the steam pouring from her mug as she took a long, slow gulp. "Then we had a threesome. Sort of. As soon as we got back to Travis's place he and Rhonda were all over each other. I was surprised by how aggressive she was. I guess she was familiar enough with him by then to drop her shy girl routine. They were making out hard and in no time flat she had his belt undone, and his jeans around his ankles, and his fat cock in the palm of her hand, pulling it and moaning in his mouth. He smiled at her, all smug, and reached his big hand down the front of her pants, kissing her and stroking her and teasing her about how wet and primed she was from all the dancing at the house. She just nodded and moaned and pulled on him harder. 'You ready to be fucked?' he asked. And she just nodded again. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. This time I followed." Lacey paused again, observing me, and I could tell that she wanted me to ask her some questions. To draw her out. Young women often behave that way when they get to the serious parts of their sexual encounters. "Have you had threesomes before?" I asked. "Yeah," she nodded, "but not with a girl." "You've had sex with two guys?" I asked, my cheeks flushing. She nodded, arching her eyebrows. "Yeah, but that's a story for another day, right?" I nodded. "Have you ever had a threesome?" she asked me, her expression calm. I knew that this was the moment where I had to confess something to Lacey in exchange for what she was about to tell me. It happens in lots of interviews so I was prepared, though I'd never told a student the particular story that I was about to tell Lacey. I don't know what possessed me! "Once," I answered, "well . . . almost." "Tell me." "It's not much of a story," I began, taking a deep breath. This was something I'd only told to a couple of my best girlfriends. I'd never even told Matthew! "It was the beginning of my freshman year in college and I ended up at a party with a hot upperclassman from one of my courses. He played lacrosse. It was one of the only times in college that I didn't have a boyfriend and he talked me back to his room. Things got pretty wild. The lights were off and we got naked and had some crazy sex. Afterwards I realized that his roommate was there the whole time watching us, naked on his bed. He was a lacrosse player too. Cute. Technically it wasn't a threesome, I guess, because the other guy never touched me. But I didn't complain when he turned the lights on. And I didn't stop the upperclassmen when he took me again. But you can't tell ANYONE that story, okay? I'm trusting you." Lacey nodded. "So what happened in the bedroom?" I asked, my curiosity plain. Lacey smiled knowingly, and looked me up and down slowly. It wasn't until that moment that I realized how hard my nipples were through the tight tank top. "Well," she resumed, "Travis carried Rhonda over to the bed, and kicked off his shoes, and his pants too, and then he threw her down roughly. She laughed. Then she unzipped her jacket, real slow and sexy, watching him the whole time. 'Oh baby,' he moaned. Then he pulled off the polo and stood there naked, giving her a good show. 'Take off the pants now,' he told her. She did it, smiling, and shimmying her hips. It wasn't five seconds before they were in their favorite position. Rhonda was flat on her back with her legs spread wide and when Travis crawled on top of her she reached for his cock with both hands and kind of pulled him inside her, her knees to her chest, moaning the whole time. He fucked her that way for a few minutes, just feeding her the tip of his cock and getting her wet and loose. I was lying on the bed next to them at this point, still fully clothed, but it was like I wasn't even there. They were completely focused on each other. Then Travis reached for a pillow, and told Rhonda to raise her ass, and then he put the pillow under the small of her back to change the angle. And then he fucked her DEEP. Deep and slow. And Rhonda got really loud! 'Oh Travis! Oh baby!'" Lacey flushed bright red when she realized how loud she'd just been, and how lost in the story, and we both laughed. "I don't know how long they fucked that way—deep and mellow—but it seemed like forever. I was on my side facing them with my hand down my pants, just grooving along with them, if you know what I mean. Travis kept telling Rhonda how beautiful she was, and how amazing her pussy felt, and how hard she made him when her tits bounced, and how incredible her ass looked on the dance floor, and how every guy in the house would have died to fuck her. Rhonda was in heaven, full of all that cock, and all that sweet talk too. Then she turned her head and saw me. I think that was the first moment that she truly realized that she was being watched. She turned bright red, her chest heaving. But she didn't stop. And she didn't tell me to leave. I think she liked having me there, in a way. As a witness, almost. Or maybe as a friend. I think she was afraid that if she was alone with Travis that it might feel too intimate, that she might mistake his skillfulness and attentiveness as a fuck-mate for something more than it was, and that she might mistake her orgasms (the first one was building) for real love. Because make no mistake about it: Travis was working her. The whole time he was fucking her, and kissing her, and sweet talking her he kept raising her leg up just a liiiiiiiiitle bit higher, and turning her on her side just a liiiiiiitle bit further, and fingering her button. 'Oh Travis. Oh baby." It was so hot to watch! She had this nervous but also kind of amazed expression on her face because the further that Travis turned her on her side, away from him, inch by inch, the deeper he could penetrate her, and the harder and thicker he got. She was completely on her side by this point, facing me, while Travis stuffed her from behind, and bit her neck, and murmured in her ear. I had my jacket unzipped and my hand all the way inside me and Rhonda and I were watching each other, flushed red." Lacey paused, eyeing me, and sipping her tea. "Have you been with women before?" I asked. She nodded. "Are you bisexual?" "I don't know," Lacey shrugged. "I guess I'm still figuring it out." She flashed her eyes at me. "What happened next?" I asked, flashing my eyes at her. "Travis kept slow-fucking her for a while, and then when the moment was right, he picked up the pace. Did he ever! I don't think I've ever seen a guy fuck a girl that hard on her side like that. It's a challenging position! But that boy definitely knows what he's doing in bed! Rhonda had her eyes closed, and she was moaning so loud, and Travis looked so beautiful, and before I knew it I kind of scooted over to them and started kissing Travis. I was kissing him, and scratching his chest, and fingering my clitoris and then he reached out and started playing with my nipples while he fucked Rhonda harder and harder and she got louder and louder. 'Oh Travis. Oh baby.' When I pulled away from Travis I realized that Rhonda was watching me, and that she was really turned on. 'Can I touch you?' I asked. She nodded, gasping, her mouth open in a big O. So I fingered her from the front while Travis stuffed her from behind. She was in heaven, by the look on her face, her eyes glazed. I could tell she was close. 'Can I kiss you?' I asked. She nodded again. So I kissed her, deep and wet with our mouths wide open, and she . . . well . . . she came. She came HARD. I didn't think she would ever stop. It was like she was having a seizure or something." Lacey leaned back on the sofa and stretched her arms above her head, smiling contentedly. "Travis knew it was the right moment and without any hesitation he just rolled her over all the way. She was finally right where he wanted her to be. On his bed on her knees with his cock slid all the way inside her and her pussy primed from a massive orgasm. 'You like that?' he asked, slapping her with his hips. 'Oh god! Oh god!' She had her head turned toward me and a look of utter disbelief on her face at how completely Travis was filling her. She wanted it but she was scared. So I talked her through 'It's okay.' I told her. She nodded. 'Put your legs together,' I told her. She did it. Her eyes practically rolled back in her head when she felt how much tighter that made her, and how much bigger it made Travis's cock feel. Girls always get the wrong idea about spreading their knees from watching stupid porn. 'Awwww Rhonda,' Travis groaned, his balls swinging as he slowed down the pace, savoring the sensation. He has beautiful balls, that boy. 'Now put your head down on the pillow,' I told her. She did that too. 'Awwww Rhonda baby,' moaned Travis, as the angle changed. From there Rhonda was a complete natural. She arched her back, and raised her tail up high, and then Travis picked up the pace again, and she started thrusting back toward him, working her rump just like she had on the dance floor, her cheeks jiggling. Jesus! I thought Travis was going to lose his mind. It was beyond his wildest expectations. All of the sudden, out of nowhere, it was like he was having sex with Rihanna or something. It was the hottest thing I've ever seen. The flesh on her ass was like a big wave and it just kept flowing forward with every thrust, and back again when Travis pulled away. And Travis is no slouch either, let me tell you. He has a beautiful ass, and he can work those hips. And that stomach . . . ripped! Especially from all that yoga lately. If I had taken a video and posted it, well, it would have broken the internet by now! They were absolutely beautiful! I don't know if Rhonda was cumming or not, but she was in ecstasy for the next fifteen minutes as Travis unloaded on her, his jewels slapping her thighs. He fucked her harder and harder until Rhonda was completely overpowered, still thrusting her rump, and then he laid her down flat on her belly with her legs still tight together and just STUFFED her from behind, covering her with his whole body. She came then for sure, screaming his name, and reaching behind her to pull his hair. And then he came too, pulling out of her, and spraying his cum all over her cheeks and back and even her shoulders in big looping arcs. And then I came too, my whole hand inside me. None of us moved or said anything for the next five minutes, stunned by the force of it all. Then we made out for a while, caressing each other, and drifted to sleep." Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 04 Part 4 "Hello," chimed Lacey, waving a hand in my face and laughing good-naturedly. I must have zoned out for a minute or two after that incredible story. I'm sure she knew how turned-on I was feeling. The thing is, being watched having sex has always been one of my biggest fantasies. I wonder now whether Lacey knew that. "Hello," I said, my cheeks still warm. "So," said Lacey, changing the subject. She could tell that the awkwardness was unbearable for me. "Are you and Matthew going to the psychology gala next week?" "I don't know," I shrugged, crossing my arms to hide my stiff nipples in the tank top. "Matthew wants to, but I'm not sure. I don't feel comfortable around his colleagues, really, with them being professors and me just an adjunct. And the thing is . . . well . . I don't really have a dress I like." "We should go shopping!" she exclaimed, making excited eyes. "I know some great boutiques downtown and I think you'd really like them. The designs would look fantastic on you," she told me, eyeing my figure. "I don't know. I should probably catch up on work." "O come on!" she whined, "It will be fun. I used to go shopping with my mom all the time." "You don't anymore?" Lacey shook her head, looking serious all of the sudden. "Why not?" "She died two years ago. Breast cancer." "I'm sorry," I told her, reaching a hand to her knee. I'd been having some funny feelings about Lacey ever since she walked in my apartment that day, and even before that if I'm honest with myself, looking back on it now. But at that moment, for reasons that I'm sure you'll understand, my heart melted for her. "Let's go!" I told her. So we went shopping, and had a great time, and it was a very interesting experience, to say the least. But now it's late, and I have papers to grade, so I'll have to tell you that part of the story in the next chapter. In the meantime, remember the golden rule: "Don't judge it!" Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 05 First scent for a frat guy and his female professor. Part 1 One of the best things about becoming friends with my student Lacey that semester was that while I was new to Austin she had lived there her whole life. She knew exactly where to go for things like stylish dresses for the midterm gala in the psychology department, or later, after graduation, when stuff got a little more intense, for things like club clothes, or even bikinis one time. Our relationship developed a strange rhythm. During the week, in composition class, I would teach her how to sharpen her prose and clarify her logic, or how to transform herself in a different sense—a deeper sense, I suppose—through the basics of yoga. But on the weekends, well, she started to teach ME things too. I guess I'm still trying to figure out what the lessons were, and whether I wanted to learn them. Don't get me wrong. It's not like she became the "main character" in the story or anything like that. She had an important role to play, sure, but it was just a role. I think we all know by now that in the end this is a story about me and Travis. Anyway, Saturday afternoon after our interview (when Lacey told me that scorching hot story about her threesome with Travis and Rhonda, and when she confided in me about her mother's death) she drove me downtown to this adorable out-of-the-way boutique where one of her friends worked and would maybe even give us a discount. Nothing too crazy happened that day, and I'm not saying that anything ever did, necessarily. But the next part of the story will probably surprise you. It sure surprised me! I'm honestly not sure how I would play it now if I had it to do over again. I don't regret it, exactly, but its clear now, with the benefit of hindsight, that this was the moment when the professional boundaries started to get VERY blurry, and when I started to get the faintest sense that everything that was happening to me that semester was being driven and orchestrated by some larger power, that it was beyond my control. Lacey had just pulled into a parking space in her beat up Honda (Matthew and I were trying to get by without a car to save money that year) when she reached across me, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a long shiny, black cylinder thing that I didn't recognize at first. "You want to smoke some weed?" she asked me, not batting an eye. It was one of those new vaporizers that the kids use. "Are you crazy!" I asked her. I was genuinely shocked. Here I thought I was consoling her for the death of her mother by letting her take me shopping, and now, suddenly, she wanted to get high? "I'm your professor. I could get fired for that!" "Suit yourself," Lacey shrugged, raising the cylinder to her lips. Before I could do anything about it she was inhaling deeply. "But you're driving!" I exclaimed. Lacey's car was a stick shift and I'd never used one. "Don't worry!" she reassured me, exhaling in a rush. "All the stores I want to show you are within walking distance. I'll be sober long before we head back to campus. And if I'm not, we'll just grab lunch or something." She put the cylinder to her mouth, and pursed her lips, and took a long breath in, holding it deep in her lungs. Then she sat there for a few seconds, closing her eyes and relaxing her shoulders. She exhaled slowly, almost luxuriously, filling the inside of the car with those rich, sweet fumes. I don't know why, but the sense of smell has always had a very strong effect on me. It must be something about the way that my nose is wired to my brain—to the parts that control memory, and reasoning, and especially pleasure. There are some smells—familiar smells—that I find just about overpowering: the smell of grease on my dad's clothes when he'd been working on his car, or whiskey on a man's breath when he comes home late, certain colognes, and, well, the aroma of weed. The thing is, I really like getting high, though I don't do it very often, and hadn't in ages. But every once in a while, back in grad school, Matthew would bum a joint from one of his philosopher friends and we would take it with us hiking, or to the movies. We always had a blast. Maybe I could ask Lacey for a little and surprise Matthew that night! One of the things I love best about weed is how aroused it makes me, and how hot the sex feels. You know what I mean? Besides, I already told you last chapter about how crazy I was feeling that day: how I had woken up naked and alone after a long night of sex with my husband, playing the role of Travis and sweet-talking me into fucking him on the living room rug, how for some reason all the sex we were having with our new fantasy routine just made me want more and more, how I felt compulsive in that way that I do sometimes when I'm under stress and my libido is high, and how yoga that morning had only made me feel MORE off-kilter, what with Travis, and Lacey, and Rhonda in front of me (right under my nose) in a state of post-coital, post-threesome bliss, the smell of sex and arousal just pouring off of them. . Lacey could sense the wheels turning. "You sure," she asked, angling her head, and narrowing her eyes playfully, "Believe me. It's the only way to shop!" "How come?" "Because it makes you feel AWESOME!" Lacey answered, laughing out loud. "The colors look brighter. And the fabrics feel smoother. And you just . . . well . . . LIKE yourself better. You feel more comfortable in your skin, you know? And you feel . . I don't know . . . more attractive too, I guess." I knew what she meant. I always enjoyed the way that smoking intensified physical sensations, and enhanced the clarity of perception (Matthew explained the neuropsychology to me one time) and how it turned off that constant critical monologue inside my brain for two or three hours. The effect was not unlike the relaxation that follows an intense yoga session, I reflected. I guess in the end I thought it would calm me down. Besides, I really needed the best dress possible for the gala. "Alright," I told Lacey, eyeing her closely. "But you have to swear to keep this secret!" Lacey nodded, smiling, and held the cylinder to my lips. The next two hours were a blur. The shop was in a cool, dim, cavernous space (an old warehouse) with miles and miles of racks hung with every kind of dress you could ever want. "Peggy meet Dani," said Lacey, introducing me to her salesperson friend. "Hey," said Dani, perusing me thoughtfully. She was a tallish, square-shouldered girl with her black hair buzzed on the sides and long on the top, swooping forward over her left eye. She was wearing a stylish white oxford with black suspenders and trousers and she was wearing it well. The neck was open and the collar was popped and her sleeves were rolled up to reveal her muscular forearms, crowded with intricate tattoos. She was an interesting character, and I'm sure that in someone else's story she'd play a major role. But not in mine. It's funny how you can tell that almost from the first moment that you lay eyes on a person, isn't it? Like with Travis and I. "You ladies looking for anything special?" asked Dani. "Little. Black. Dresses," replied Lacey, her eyes sparkling. "You know where to find them," said Dani, shaking her head and smirking. She was very handsome. "You have the place to yourselves for the time being, so have a blast." Did we ever! We tried on dozens of dresses. Lacey was right. Once the effects of the cannabis kicked in it was like every dress in the shop was calling out to me. I couldn't get enough of seeing the different cuts and styles on my figure, and feeling the different fabrics against my skin. I tried on long, sleeveless maxi dresses that flowed down to my ankles, and short party dresses with fitted bodices and flirty hems (I especially loved the one with sequins), and tight tunic dresses that clung to my hips and breasts and showed plenty of cleavage. "That one is hot!" gushed Lacey, admiring an especially tight tunic. "You really have the booty for it. Right Dani?" she asked. "Definitely!" muttered Dani, smirking, from across the warehouse. In hindsight I can see that Lacey was very clever about the way she started slowly and then pushed the boundaries. At first she would wait outside the dressing room while I tried on pieces, fetching new things from the racks for me to try on next. But before long she was standing right at the open curtain (we had the place to ourselves, after all) and watching me change. After a while we kind of forgot about the gala and started trying on things just for fun. Lacey too. She was much more daring with her choices. "I have got to try this one!" she exclaimed, stepping into the fitting room (the curtain still open) with a party dress on a hanger. She unzipped the tracksuit—I was surprised to see that she wasn't wearing a bra—and waved mischievously at Dani, stealing a glance from the register. Then she slid off the track pants and threw on the dress. It had a sexy v-neck bodice that was cut dramatically low (midway to her navel!) and a flare baby doll body with thin straps that crossed at the back. "Cute!" enthused Lacey, twirling at the mirror. "But not for me." "Why not?" I asked. "I don't have the boobs for it," she laughed, turning to me, and cupping her pert b-cups from below. "You should try it though!" she said, scanning my chest. "It would look HOT on you! Don't you think so, Dani?" "Definitely!" he said, a little louder this time, looking right at me through the open curtain, a little closer now. I had just pulled off a dress and I was standing there in my bra and panties. I felt a little awkward, sure, even through the cannabis haze, but with my decreased inhibitions I didn't give it much thought, enjoying the girlish fun. "She'll need the smaller size though," continued Dani, kind of sauntering across the warehouse to the appropriate rack. She walked right to the entrance of the fitting room and handed it to me. I hesitated. "O come on!" prodded Lacey. "It's just for fun!" "Okay," I shrugged, rolling my eyes. I was really enjoying myself at that point, and maybe a little carried away, and compared to the way that Lacey was acting (practically flaunting her tits for Dani every time she changed) trying on the dress seemed tame by comparison. I turned away from them and reached behind me to unclasp my bra, sliding the straps from my shoulders. Then I turned halfway so that Dani could hand me the dress. It wasn't until that moment, if you can believe it, that I realized that Dani was watching me in the mirror, my forearm covering my breasts, mostly. She was watching me very intently. I took the dress from her, watching her in the mirror. "Thanks," I told her, blushing fiercely. Then I lowered my forearm, my breasts spilling forward. Matthew always tells me that I have an "amazing rack"—the kind that "sneaks up" on people because they don't realize at first how busty I am. Dani sure seemed to appreciate my assets. With the fluorescent lights of the fitting room shining down on me it was quite a view! She didn't smile, or turn red, or turn away or anything. She watched me the whole time as I pulled the dress over my head, and arranged my breasts inside it, and considered my reflection. "Wow!" exclaimed Lacey, as I twirled to face them, my whole body tingling. "Wow is right!" agreed Dani, looking me up and down slowly. "You sure?" I asked, twirling to show them the back. "Definitely!" said Dani. I studied myself in the mirror. I would never wear something like that in public, I told myself, but I loved it all the same. The v-neck bodice made my breasts look lush and full, and the flared hem was cut enticingly high. "Maybe I should buy it for Matthew? For vacations or nights out?" I suggested, kind of thinking out loud. "Do you think he would like it?" I asked, fixing my eyes on Dani. "Definitely!" she replied, staring right back. I wouldn't say that I felt sparks, exactly, but I felt something. The funny thing (and I'm being completely honest here) is that I don't really have lesbian tendencies at all. Maybe it was something about what Matthew told me the other night about Claire's research: that female sexuality is all about the desire to be desired. Uncontrollably desired. Whatever the case, I enjoyed the fact that Dani obviously found me a very attractive young woman. There were still no customers so after a while she made herself comfortable in a big plush armchair near the fitting room and watched Lacey and I try on dress after dress. Lacey was hilarious. She would throw the dresses at Dani after she took them off and then parade across the store, topless, in nothing but her panties, to find the next one she wanted to try. And pretty soon I was comfortable being topless with Dani too, though I stayed in the fitting room, mostly, while Lacey found the dresses. We tried on a few more racy numbers, just for fun, and then we settled down to the task at hand. Before long both of us had good candidates for the gala. Lacey was leaning toward a flowing black skater dress with a modest neckline that looked cool and elegant on her skinny body (especially with her new, short blue hair) but still showed plenty of those long, lean legs. She handed her phone to Dani and asked him to take a picture from the front, and a picture from the back. Then she grabbed it. "For Travis," she explained, arching her eyebrows as she tapped out a text. It wasn't ten seconds before her phone buzzed. "I think we have winner!" she sang, blushing, and handing me the phone. He'd sent her a whole screen full of emoji faces with the eyes bugging and the tongue hanging out. "Awwwwww," I told her. "Travis is so cute!" "Sometimes he is," she countered, drily. Then she and Dani laughed. "You should text your husband and see if he likes YOUR dress," suggested Dani. She must have noticed my ring. I handed her my phone, my eyes flashing, and struck a little pose. It was an elegant shift dress with a high neck and a bow tie at the back that just flowed down over my chest and hips (kind of concealing and suggesting my curves at the same time) and ended well above the knee. I was pretty sure that Matthew would like it—Dani and Lacey sure did!—but it was a departure for me so I wanted some reassurance. I couldn't hide my disappointment when, after five minutes of waiting and making small talk, my husband hadn't replied. "You should text Travis!" suggested Dani, scrolling through my contacts. "We know HE'S available. Do you have his number?" "No!" I told her, a little sharply. "I do NOT have his number." "I do," said Lacey, grabbing my phone. "Wait!" I told her, as she tapped at the screen, grinning the whole time. But she didn't. I just stood there in my dress, fuming silently. I couldn't believe her nerve! "O come on!" she teased me, sensing my disapproval. "He'll see the dress at the gala anyway, right? What does it matter if he sees a picture of it now?" It made sense in a way, so I let it drop. Besides, like I told you, I was craving reassurance. Five seconds later my phone buzzed and Lacey answered, smiling, then tapping a reply, then smiling again when Travis answered. "Well?" I asked her, crossing my ankles, and narrowing my eyes, my chest thumping. "What does he think?" "He LOVES it!" said Lacey, making big, bright eyes. Then she hesitated. "But he doesn't think it's right." "Why not?" I asked, just a little too quickly, my stomach in knots. "Well, uh, don't take this the wrong way, but when I told him it was for the psychology department gala he said it was . . . well . . . WAY too sexy?" "What do you mean?" I asked, my cheeks hot. I turned to the mirror and studied myself closely, torn between my pleasure at the compliment (I already knew that Travis thought I was hot, but a girl always likes to be reminded, right?) and my embarrassment at the rebuke. "He says that he doesn't think it's right for an academic setting, not for a professor. He says it would be PERFECT for a swank club, or maybe a wedding, but not for the gala." "Really?" I asked, watching Lacey in the mirror. She nodded, shrugging her shoulders and looking apologetic. "He's right," I thought to myself, as I studied my reflection again. I felt relieved. More than that, I felt . . . grateful. Touched even. I didn't want to go to the party as Matthew's eye-candy—his "girl" as the frat guys would say. I wanted to go as his equal. I wanted to go as a confident, beautiful, rising young academic star—like Claire—with places to go, and people to meet, and the right clothes for doing it. I appreciated that Travis seemed to sense that, at some intuitive level. Looking back on it, that was the moment when I started to see him in a different light, one he used to his advantage. Maybe Lacey was right about this guy. He was a hound, sure, but he was sensitive and respectful in his own way too. "Tell me more about this gala," said Dani, looking serious and thoughtful. I don't know what possessed me but I just plopped myself down in the oversized armchair right next to her and told she and Lacey everything: how uncomfortable I felt being around Matthew's colleagues because they looked down on me for being an adjunct, and how much I wanted to be on the tenure track too like my husband, and how the AMAZING Claire Diamond always had the PERFECT clothes for every occasion that were so professional, and imposing, and crazy sexy all at the same time that I wanted to stab her eyes out. By the time I finished they were both in hysterics. "So let me get this straight," asked Dani, "You need something that's sophisticated and professional but sexy too, and you want to feel comfortable on the dance floor. Right?" I nodded. "I've got the perfect thing," said Dani. Then she stood up and walked into a back room marked "employees only." A few minutes later she walked back carrying the perfect thing. "I had this on hold for a special friend, but what the hell, you can have it instead." It was a khaki green dress with black tights and as soon as I saw them on the hanger I knew that they would fit me like a second skin. And they did. The ensemble was tight, sure, but in a good sense. The long sleeves showed off my toned arms, and strong shoulders in a way that made me comfortable with how the graceful folds of the dress clung to me, slightly, in the hips and bottom, and through the chest too. The cut of the dress definitely enhanced my natural bustiness, and curviness down below, but so what!? I'm busty and curvy. It's not something to be ashamed of, or hide, right? Besides, the color looked great on me. And I loved the way that it felt when I moved and the dress moved right along with me. I felt like I was wearing the perfect combination of a fantastic ball dress, and my yoga clothes, and some sophisticated costume for a sexy android scientist on Star Trek or something! And with the black tights the ensemble would be crazy cute for dancing. The only problem was the bust line. It definitely showed a hint of cleavage, maybe more. "It's cut a little low, yeah," said Dani, easing up behind, watching me in the mirror. "But that's perfectly appropriate for a gala. Especially if you dress it up with heels. And with these." She held some vintage, cut-glass earrings behind my ears so I could see the effect. She was right. I put them on. In the mirror I could see Lacey stretched out in the armchair behind us, looking strangely thoughtful. Pleased even. "What do you think?" I asked, turning to Lacey. "I think it looks amazing," said Lacey, and I could tell she meant it. "But if you want to know the truth we need to ask Travis!" Before I realized what was happening she picked up my phone and aimed it at me. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 05 "Lacey," I protested, only half serious. The thing is, it was less surprising the second time around, and like Lacey said, Travis would see the dress at the gala anyway (if I could work up the nerve to wear it). Besides, I needed an honest opinion. Lacey was going to send him the picture she'd already taken anyway. So I might as well let her take another one while I posed to my advantage. I held my shoulders back, and my hips a little forward, one foot in front of the other, and looked straight at the camera. "Sultry," Matthew described my expression when I showed him later that night. He says that I stuck out my pelvis and my belly too but I think he's imagining things. "Well?" I demanded, my ankles crossed and a hand on my hip. Dani laughed. "He says 'WOW!!' In all caps. With like a hundred exclamation points. He says its perfect." I could feel myself glowing. "Should I buy it?" I asked. "Probably," said Lacey, "But listen, if you want to be sure you have to do one more thing." "What's that?" "Turn around, dummy!" she teased me. "Lacey!" Dani laughed harder, enjoying the show. "Listen Peggy, no offense, but to put it bluntly, Travis will DEFINITELY check out your booty in that dress at the gala and so will every other person in the darned room. Right Dani?" She nodded. "I agree with Dani that it's perfectly appropriate. It's very classy, in fact. But people will be looking. So if you're really going to wear it you better start getting used to it, right?" It made sense, when she put it that way. I hesitated, biting my lip. In hindsight it's clear how inappropriately I acted. Lacey and I both knew that there's only reason, when you get right down to it, that a girl will ever turn around for a guy and ask him what he thinks of the back of her dress. And it's not about the straps, or the neckline, or her shoulder blades, or any of that crap. It's ALL about her booty, plain and simple: if it looks good, and if the guy likes it. I knew that if I turned around, and posed for Lacey, that in no time flat Travis would have the picture on his phone and he would be studying it VERY closely: appreciating my backside, and, well, evaluating it too. I shouldn't have wanted him to. Looking back on it now I almost admire how cleverly he prepared me for that moment, for stepping across that invisible line: by coming to yoga class practically every morning until I was comfortable around him, by participating in composition class, and especially by walking me home from class that day and holding open the door. Somehow he'd already gotten me used to the idea of him enjoying my body. In the end I told myself that I needed a male opinion. So I turned around, my hand still resting on my hip. Matthew says that in the picture I'm kind of twisting my hips, one foot in front of the other, and leaning forward in a way that makes my butt stick out, just a little. He says that something about the way that my head is turned to the side, and my gaze is downcast, gives me an air of shyness and embarrassment that makes the picture insanely sexy. And I guess he has a point, when I look at it objectively. I guess you could say that was the second time that I swung my hips for Travis, that I flirted with him, overtly and knowingly. "Well?" I demanded, spinning around, my cheeks flushed. "He said WOW!! again. But that's not all he said." "Yeah?" "He said it's totally professional and appropriate and please don't take this the wrong way because he has nothing but the highest respect for you as a professor . . . and . . . well . . . he said you are going to look FANTASTIC on the dance floor." I nodded. I know that I shouldn't have felt what I felt. I know that the compliment was right on the edge, no matter how respectfully phrased. I know that I shouldn't have liked it. But I did. It was like I could somehow physically sense the gaze of my hot, arrogant frat boy student just gliding over me at that very moment. It was like I could sense his arousal, and his satisfaction. I liked that feeling. And I liked the dress. So I bought it. "Hungry for lunch?" I asked Lacey, when we were finished at the register. She nodded. We went to the diner next door and ate a big, hot meal. Part Two Saturday night I ended up staying in alone. When Lacey dropped me off at the dorm that afternoon she asked what I was doing later and I told her that I was on my own for the evening. At lunch Matthew had texted to ask if he could go out for drinks with some of the other younger professors (Claire included) who had been working in their labs that day. He asked if I wanted to meet them but I was feeling tired. Lacey asked if I wanted to hang out and watch a movie or something (we were friendly enough by then that it didn't seem strange) but I brushed her off. "I need to catch up on grading," I told her, "and do laundry and stuff." I sat at my desk for a while trying to read student papers but I gave up fairly quickly. I was feeling kind of exhausted from being up late having sex with Matthew, and getting high with Lacey that afternoon, so I ate a quick dinner of leftover Chinese takeout and settled myself on the sofa, flipping through the channels. None of the programs could hold my attention. My thoughts kept returning to how wild things had gotten at the store, and how alive and kind of nauseous it made me feel all at the same time. Once the cannabis wore off the self-doubt kicked into overdrive. I could NOT believe that I'd let Lacey take a picture of my ass in the green dress and text it to Travis, and I couldn't believe that he had it on his phone at that very moment. Maybe it wasn't that bad? My phone was on the coffee table so I reached for it and scrolled through the pictures. I was examining the shots when Matthew texted. "Can I stay out later? Having fun." "Sure," I typed, sighing audibly. "Thanks. What r u doing?" "Watching TV." "Happy?" "Yes." "Good! How was your day?" "Fun. Went shopping with Lacey for a dress for the gala." "Really? Did u find something?" I considered for a moment, biting my lip. Then I texted him the pictures of the khaki green dress. "Beautiful!!" "Awwwwwwww," I replied. I was glowing inside, again, but I felt guilty too. "Can I tell u a secret?" "Yes." "Promise not to judge?" "Always." "I smoked pot with Lacey before we went shopping." "Really?" "Yes. Can I tell you another?" "Yes." I took my customary deep breath and then plunged straight in. "Lacey took those pictures at the store and she texted them to Travis." My phone rang instantaneously with a call from Matthew. He's always really good at knowing when to switch from texts to a conversation. Sometimes you need to hear your partner's voice—the tone and timbre of it—to really understand what's happening between you. "What happened!!??" he asked. "Sorry!" I replied, my nausea intensifying. I explained in a rush. "I sent them to you first but you didn't answer and Lacey had just texted a picture of her dress to Travis so we knew he was available and I was uncertain about the dress—do you think it's too tight and revealing?—so I needed a guy's opinion. Are you mad?" "No . . . But it's kind of crazy! You should be careful." "Why?" "Come on Peggy. Those pictures are HOT!! Travis must have died! What if word got around that you sent them to a student? How would that look?" "Do you think they're that bad," I asked, a wave of dread washing over me. "I mean they're not nude shots or anything," Matthew replied, laughing, much to my relief. "But in the first one—the one from the front—you're kind of sticking out your hips and belly and pouting at the camera. You look . . . sultry. And in the one from the back you're twisting your hips and sticking out your butt. Right?" "That bad, huh?" I muttered, my cheeks flaming. "Are you mad?" "No," he answered, right away, and I could tell he meant it. "I mean, in a different context no one would think twice about those pictures. People post those kinds of pictures to Facebook and Instagram every day. Its just . . . when you send them personally to a guy like Travis . . .." "What?" "Well, it doesn't look good. And it puts you in a vulnerable situation. Look Peggy, there's approximately three things in the world that a guy like Travis is doing right now with pictures on his phone that are that hot that were sent to him personally by a professor as hot as you are." "What!?" I asked, my pulse quickening. "He's either getting off to the pictures, or recovering from getting off to them, or forwarding them to one of his friends so he can get off to them too." "Matthew!" "It's true, Peggy," Matthew insisted, laughing. "I'm not mad or anything. I think it's kind of wild, actually. I'm . . . surprised. You should just be more careful about . . . well, GIVING something like that to a guy like Travis, especially if he's your student." "You're right. Sorry." "Don't be. I'm glad you had fun at the store. And you look amazing in that dress. But I should go now, okay? My friends are waiting." "Okay. Love you." "Love you too." "Maybe's right," I thought, lying back on the sofa and reflecting seriously, though I would NEVER have seen it that way myself. It was just like a guy to understand things from that perspective. Matthew had no problem with the fact that sending those pictures to Travis—"giving" them to him, as he described it—was, to say the least, a flirtatious and intimate thing for a professor to do with her student. He didn't mind that one bit, as he confirmed later that night when he came home drunk from the bar and woke me up in the most amazing way, if you know what I mean. And he didn't reeeaaaaaally mind that Travis might be "enjoying himself" with the pictures either. But it did bother him that by "giving" those pictures to Travis I'd also given him some kind of advantage over me, power even. As he explained in more detail later, the problematic part was that by giving Travis something that should be private ("your ass, basically," Matthew teased me, all in good fun) I'd given him something to "use," something I "needed" from him, which was to make sure that the pictures STAYED private. I sank deeper into the sofa while Matthew's words rang in my ears. I kept studying the pictures. I was trying to decide whether it really was "dirty" somehow the way that I stuck my hips toward Travis in the first one from the front, my shoulders held back and my breasts high and full on my chest in the clingy dress, or if it was even dirtier in the second one from the back when I kind of leaned forward and twisted my hips. What if Matthew WAS right? What if Travis was looking at them, and smiling smugly, right at that very moment, alone in his room. What if he was . . . enjoying himself. Before I realized what was happening my right hand trailed casually down my belly and under the waistband of my shorts, my fingernails combing through my dark curls. It probably won't surprise you that, despite my better judgment, the thought of Travis with his cock in his hand while he looked at the pictures I'd texted him made me VERY excited. You've probably figured out by this point that I have a liiiiiiiitle exhibitionist streak, buried deep inside me. It was like all of the sudden, after talking with Matthew, I started looking at the pictures through Travis's eyes. My fingers trailed lower, combing gently, right to the edge of my sex. I started picturing all of the things that a guy like Travis would want to do to a girl like me who had given him a "private showing," so to speak, or her "assets" in a dress like that. It wasn't hard to imagine some of the things that he would want to do to me from the front, and it was even easier to figure out what he'd want to do to me from behind. The next thing I knew my fingers were testing my wetness (I was drenched!) and the next thing after that I stood up, in a trance almost, while my feet, and my legs, and the part of my brain that controls arousal and desire—the primitive part—propelled me straight down the hall to my bedroom. I sprawled on the mattress, the phone still in my hand, while I reached for my new vibrator in the bedside table. What made me feel hottest was not simply that Travis was probably stroking himself, contentedly, at that very moment, enjoying what I'd "given" him. And it wasn't even the fact that part of his satisfaction might be the knowledge that he'd made just a liiiiiiiiiiitle bit more "progress" with me, that he'd "worked me" just a liiiiiiiiiiiitle bit further. And it wasn't even the idea that he might be starting to believe that he had a REAL chance with me, that sex with me wasn't JUST a fantasy, that I . . . liked him, in a sense. No. What made me hottest of all was the idea of what Travis might be planning for me next. Like I said in the first chapter, a girl can't help what turns her on. And I admit that it turned me on to think about Travis stroking himself, and smirking to himself, while he strategized about how to "use" what I'd "given" him. "Don't judge it," I told myself, the vibrator humming, pressed lightly against me. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes and after just a few seconds I was able to step back from the strange fantasy that was developing in some deep recess of my brain and inching toward consciousness. Matthew was bothered by the fact that Travis might have some kind of weird power over me, now that he "owned" the pictures. But I liked it. I liked it a lot. I liked the idea that a guy like Travis had that power, and I liked it that a guy like Travis would DEFINITELY use it. I liked feeling . . . compromised. My shorts were at my ankles now (I don't know how) and the vibrator was teasing my folds, probing me softly. What on earth was I thinking back at the store that afternoon?! What if Travis used the pictures to get me in some kind of . . . situation with him, some scenario where I wanted the pictures back (I did!) and Travis wanted something from me in return, something I HAD to give him. "Jesus I'm wet," I thought, sliding the round tip inside me and setting the speed to low. It wasn't surprising really. I'd been aroused all day. Ever since changing in front of Lacey . . . and Dani. I remembered her watching me in the mirror the first time she saw my "amazing rack." I remembered her easing up behind me, so quietly and skillfully, when I tried on the khaki green dress. When I looked in the mirror this time it wasn't Dani at all. It was Travis! "It's cut low, yeah, but it looks beautiful on you," he purred, standing right behind me, his breath hot on my neck. "Especially if you dress it up with these." He raised the earrings to my ears and watched my reflection (those playful brown eyes!), smiling imperceptibly. Then he . . . put them on me. Slowly and sweetly. He caressed my ear lobes, and found the tiny holes, and slid the pins right through them. I felt my knees wobble. "Oh Jesus," I gasped, the vibrator now deeper inside me. "Beautiful," Travis told me, his hands on my shoulders, gripping me firmly. In my fantasy he wasn't my student anymore. He was . . . I don't know . . . my hot, charming, aggressive young boss and he'd 'worked me' for months until I agreed to start sleeping with him, and now I was his "girl" and he liked to buy me presents. I liked it too. I liked to thank him. We were alone in the dressing room and the curtain was closed, mostly. "You like it?" I asked, striking a pose. He nodded. "The fabric is nice, don't you think?" He nodded, his fingers stroking the back of the dress, along the length of my spine. "It's not too tight in the belly?" I asked, pouting. He shook his head, caressing my belly. Those big hands. "It's not too tight in the bottom?" I asked. He shook his head, caressing my bottom. "Oh Jesus," I gasped, setting the speed to high. "You're sure you like it," I teased, wiggling my butt against his big hand, just a little. He nodded. He brought his lips to my neck, the current shooting through me. 'How do I know you're not just sweet-talking me?" I asked. He took my hand in his and eased it toward his crotch. "You do like it?" I purred, teasingly, my hand sliding along the length of his shaft through the wool suit pants. And then without even thinking I was working his buckle, and his snap, and his zipper, and the fly of his silk boxers. In the fantasy my fingers found Travis's shaft through his fly and then I just held it firmly, savoring its plump heat. Then I "worked" him slowly, watching him in the mirror while he watched me, his eyes insolent. "Oh fuck," I cried, spreading my legs and relaxing my stomach and pelvis to work the vibrator deeper. I'm not going to tell you every detail. Suffice it to say it was my hottest fantasy of Travis yet. I guess the store was closed or something (maybe Travis arranged a private viewing) and before I knew it Travis spun me toward him, and kissed me hard, my neck bent backward from the force of it as he loomed over me, my small frame held tight in his arms. 'Take off the dress,' he told me. I stepped away from him, blushing, and did what he wanted, pulling the dress over my head, then easing down the tights. I was barefoot. "Nice," he told me, scanning me up and down, stroking my nipples with the back of his hand. I knew what he was thinking. I knew he was enjoying my 'amazing rack' and picturing all the things he could do with it and all the pleasure it would give him. "Are you ready?" he asked. I nodded. Then he picked me up, and I wrapped my legs tightly around him, and then he turned and carried me from the dressing room and threw me down, roughly, in the big plush chair. Do you remember that story that Lacey told me about Rhonda the other day? The one about how she was so shy and self-conscious about her backside that it took Travis some hard work and real patience to get her to turn over for him and take him from behind, and how slowly and skillfully he did that work, keeping her on her back for hours, feeding her his cock, deep and mellow, and then hard and fast. How he changed the angles, penetrating her sharp and shallow, and then long and deep, stirring her with his hips. How she came on his cock? And do you remember the next night how he raised her leg up high so he could penetrate her deeper, and how Rhonda LOVED that feeling, and told him so when he asked, and then Travis just smiled knowingly and started turning her over, inch by glorious inch, until she was all the way on her side and Travis was stuffing her from behind, holding himself inside her, murmuring in her ear while he fondled her button. And how from there it was only a matter of time before she was on her knees and Travis was riding her the way he had wanted to ride her from the first time he saw her, the way he'd plotted to ride her, biding his time, waiting for the moment when he could finally let go, and she would let go with him, gasping his name and pulling his hair while he filled her, and emptied her, and filled her again, over and over, faster and harder, until she submitted to him completely, to the power of his body, and his attitude, and his way of using her with his cock, dominating her really, for his own pleasure. Do you remember that story? Because I sure did. In my fantasy Travis and I did ALL of that, down to the last detail, just how Lacey described it. And I loved it too. I raised my leg high while I probed myself with my toy on the king-sized bed and I pictured Travis above me, pinning me to the mattress while I thrust toward him with my hips, and my pelvis, and even my sexy little belly and pouted up at him to make him crazy with desire so he would fuck me deeper. And then I started turning myself over, inch by inch, twisting my hips for Travis and savoring the new sensations every time the angle changed and the toy cock connected with a different part inside me, massaging all through me. It was like I was practicing. Like I was . . . . training myself almost, mastering this new "pose," flowing through the phases. I turned and turned, and twisted my spine, and probed and probed with the latex shaft and then I was all the way over, on my knees, with my thighs pressed tight together (I remembered Lacey's advice) and I was fucking myself so hard that I started gasping for real. "Oh Travis. Oh fuck me." The walls of the dormitory were made of cement blocks and I'm pretty sure no one could hear me. But I sure got loud. "Oh fuck me. Oh Travis." And then my face was buried in the mattress and I was gorged with latex cock and it was humming inside me and my whole body was humming too, all around it, like the dildo was a tuning fork or something, and Travis had struck it hard against the table and held it all the way inside me, and now it and I were vibrating together, on and on, to the same low, inaudible note. "It was like she was having a seizure," I remembered Lacey saying about Rhonda. I knew what she meant now. I thrust and thrust until my knees gave way and then I was flat on my belly, still humming hard, and then the room went blank. Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 05 Part 3 I must have dozed off for a while after my orgasm because the next thing I knew I was face down on the mattress, naked and groggy, and the alarm clock read 8:30 p.m. "Shit," I chided myself. I'd been planning to do laundry that night (it was Saturday, remember) because the laundry room was always crowded with students on Sundays. I needed to hurry downstairs if I wanted to finish in time (the laundry room closes at 10 p.m.) and have fresh clothes for teaching that week. So I hauled myself from bed, found my bra and panties on the floor where I must have flung them, and threw on the same shorts and tank top that I wore to the boutique with Lacey. Then I gathered my dirty things in the basket and headed downstairs. The halls were strangely quiet for a Saturday night, probably from midterm pressure. When I got to the basement I was relieved because there was only one person there, a non-descript guy in shorts and a baseball hat reading a fishing magazine on the little wooden bench. "Hey," he said, looking up from his magazine. "Hey there," I replied, my voice still husky with sleep. "Oh, hey Professor Pierce," he said next. He seemed flustered. "I . . . didn't realize it was you." "That's okay," I told him. I didn't recognize him either, like lots of the kids who lived there, though most of the students in the dorm knew who Matthew and I were and called us by name. I can't blame him for not recognizing me at first. I don't normally dress in tank tops and shorts and things when I'm outside the apartment, and he wasn't one of my yoga students, so the contrast with my usual attire must have thrown him off. I caught a glance of myself in the full-length mirror near the folding table and noticed that I was fairly scantily clad, in away, and that my hair was a tangled mess. I felt a flash of self-consciousness. The tank top and shorts weren't tight but they showed LOTS of skin. And the hair! There's only one thing that a college guy thinks when he sees a girl with hair like that, especially on a Saturday night. It was more "sex-head" than "bed-head." I looked—there was no other way to put it—I looked freshly fucked. And in a way, I was. "Well, see you," the guy said, standing up and leaving. "Bye." Something seemed funny about him at the time but I didn't give it much thought. It was only much later that I realized that he hadn't taken a laundry basked with him, and that the machines were all empty. That was when I put the pieces together. Because who should come striding into the laundry room, head phones blasting, not fifteen minutes later but my favorite tall, dark, handsome, frat boy student: Travis. Lacey must have told him that I was planning to do laundry that night, and Travis must have "stationed" one of his brothers in the basement to watch for me. But I didn't realize any of that at the time. At the time I was caught completely off guard. I had just put my clothes in the washing machine and added the detergent. I remember seeing my dirty sweatshirt, covered with soap, at the top of the heap and wondering whether I could grab it and throw it on over my tank top before Travis noticed. But I didn't do anything. I just stood there, blushing like crazy, while Travis stepped up to the machine next to me, lost in his tunes, and opened it and started tossing in clothes. It seemed ridiculous to wait for him to recognize me. "Hey there," I said, loud enough that I thought he would hear me. But he didn't. "Hey there," I repeated, louder, my eyes scanning his outfit. Like me he was wearing a tank top and shorts (navy and grey, respectively) and like mine they weren't tight but they showed plenty of skin. And they fit him well. I didn't matter where he went: Travis ALWAYS wore clothes that looked good on him and fit him well. "HEY THERE," I shouted, poking him in the ribs this time. "Huh?" he muttered, turning to me. "Oh, hey Professor Pierce!" he said, smiling strangely, and pulling the buds from his ears. "Fancy meeting you here." "Yeah!" I answered, kind of rolling my eyes. He just stood there for a few seconds looking at me while the smile faded. His brown eyes were hard to read under his heavy brow, but they had that same playful, almost insolent expression as always, more a permanent quality really. For some reason it always made me intensely self-conscious, every time we met, like I wasn't sure what the game was, so I didn't know how I should play the interaction. He had that effect on a lot of people. I couldn't decide how to stand, at first, because he was turned directly toward me, kind of leaning against the washer, and it felt it weird to turn directly toward him. It was something about the way that mirroring his posture accentuated how much taller he was (6' 1" to my 5' 2"). "What are you up to tonight?" he asked, finally, his eyes looking right in mine. It was funny. He was holding my gaze so steadily, like always, but I was certain that he knew exactly what clothes I was wearing on my body. Of course a guy like Travis would scope out a girl like me if he found her alone in the laundry room on a Saturday night—an interesting female showing lots of skin, with toned arms, and a pretty good 'rack' (you could tell in the tank top) and some nice legs, and short, brown, messy hair. He was looking at me the way he did whenever I wore something new and surprising, something he liked. My cheeks felt white hot and I wondered if he could see. "Matthew's out with some friends so I graded papers for a while and fell asleep. Obviously." I told him, rolling my eyes, and pointing to my bed-head. "Yeah, I can see that," replied Travis, his smile returning, wider this time. I don't know why I made a joke about my hair like that. I did it without thinking. I guess I felt uncomfortable finding myself alone and up close with Travis when I'd just fucked myself to sleep with a VIVID fantasy of he and I in the plush white chair (duh!) and I guess that poking fun at myself has always been a way to try to feel less awkward in my skin. Whatever the case, I'm glad that I did, I suppose. Because that was the moment when my attitude toward the situation changed. Up to that point I'd been crazy nervous and thinking about one thing: how to get out of the laundry room and back to my apartment as quickly as possible. But then I saw how much Travis enjoyed the fact that I was joking with him, and being so . . . casual around him. Looking back on it, I guess he was observing me carefully, and considering what it meant for him that on the one hand he made me VERY nervous (it must have been obvious) but on the other I was already comfortable around him, in my own way . . . intimate even. I was wearing a new kind of outfit, in a new environment, and I was behaving toward him in a new way. He was playing it cool, like always, but I could tell that the change excited him. I could tell that he wanted to see where it would lead. My thoughts were strange. It was like I slid out of my body for a few moments and observed us from afar. I exhaled slowly, watching him. Suddenly everything seemed clear. I told myself: "Part of the reason that you are uncomfortable with Travis is because you just fantasized about him, but part of it is also about the pictures you sent him. The pictures are HOT and he shouldn't have them. He knows it and I know it. I shouldn't have sent them to Travis because he is my student and because he wants to fuck me. Not just to fantasize about fucking me the way that I fantasize about him, and that he no doubt fantasized about the pictures this afternoo. He wants to REALLY fuck me. And he's playing it cool because he's been wondering all afternoon whether that fact that I send him the pictures means that there is a snowball's chance of him REALLY fucking me. And now he's excited because he's alone with you, and you're dressed for a night at home, and you just flirted with him like crazy by poking fun of yourself. You didn't mean to, but you did. You were nervous, and you flirted with him. You flirted your ASS off. And then he flirted with you (by teasing you) and you let him. And he liked it. A lot." Suddenly I didn't want to go upstairs at all. And not primarily because I felt attracted to Travis, though I did (there's no point denying it). No, I wanted to stay because I wanted to see if I could "use" his attraction to me to get something from him that I very much wanted. I shouldn't have given him the pictures and I wanted them back. Matthew had been sweet about the whole thing but I was still stung by his comment that I "should be more careful" with guys like Travis. I wasn't some bubble-headed schoolgirl! I wanted to show Matthew, and Travis too I suppose, that I was smarter than they assumed. Isn't that what the AMAZING Claire Diamond would do in the same situation: wrap Travis around her finger by flirting with him, and teasing him, and get exactly what she wanted. "What have you been up to?" I asked him, feeling calmer by the second. "Lacey and I studied together for a while, but now she's watching a movie in my room." "Oh yeah?" The laundry room is in a long, narrow rectangular space with low ceilings and with the washing machines and dryers against opposite walls. There's a concrete aisle between them, maybe five feet wide, and a little bench at the end of the room. At this point I had my back against the washing machine with my clothes inside (it was vibrating slightly) and Travis was facing me with his back against the opposite dryer, his elbows resting on the surface. I noticed that he was wearing a silver chain. It stood out boldly on his brown neck, and then disappeared beneath his tank top, weighed down by something heavy. "And what are you doing?" I asked him, "Besides laundry?" I could tell that he was pleased that I wanted to make small talk with him, and seemed incline to stay a while. "I'm working on a paper," he answered, his eyes narrowing just slightly, studying me harder. "For what class?" "Claire Diamond's" "And how's it going?" I asked, stifling my irritation. "Not good!" said Travis, exhaling hard. I could tell he was agitated. "I'm not doing well in the class. I got a C on the first paper and I really need straight A's this semester for law school. But Claire's class is HARD. It's not tons of work or anything, it's just hard to figure out what that class is ABOUT." "I know" I reassured him, laughing. "Lacey told me the other day." Suddenly I knew just how to play the play the situation. How to spend time with him in the laundry room alone like that, being "friendly," without doing anything too obvious. How to do something "nice" for him that would make him want to repay the favor. "Tell me about this paper," I said, in my no-nonsense teacher voice, the encouraging version. I hopped on the washing machine and just sat there waiting, eyeing him calmly, my legs dangling. I could tell he was looking so I crossed them. "Make yourself comfortable, I told him," flashing my eyes. "Okay," he replied, pleased by the offer. He turned and boosted himself on top of the dryer across from me in one graceful movement. "Tell me," I encouraged him. Then he told me. It was hard to concentrate because as soon as he started describing his paper I realized that I was sitting on top of the washing machine that had my clothes inside. It was one of the big industrial kinds that bolt to the floor, so it wasn't shaking THAT hard. But it was definitely vibrating a little. Subtly. I could feel it on my bottom, and in my breasts too. The whole time he was talking I could feel Travis watching me closely. I just sat there, watching him watch me, feeling myself shake. I don't remember the argument of Travis's paper because, honestly, it wasn't that interesting. Student papers rarely are. I gave him some basic pointers about organization (move this part here, that part there) and how to frame his argument and that was that. Simple. But Travis seemed genuinely excited. "Thanks Professor Pierce," he said, "you're the best." He looked cute when he was full of enthusiasm and gratitude that way. "Call me Peggy," I told him, kind of leaning forward. "We're friends, right?" It's hard to describe exactly how a girl lets her eyes sparkle in that way that gives an air of mystery and suggestiveness to the most banal phrases. It's more an instinct than an art. But I could tell I'd nailed it, judging by Travis's flustered expression, however fleeting. "Definitely," he replied, regaining his cool. It seemed like the right moment. I took a deep breath, and held it, and then plunged straight in. "Thanks for this afternoon," I told him. "Huh?" "The dresses," I reminded him. "Thanks for giving your opinion. It was very helpful." I paused, considering. "You're very sweet, " I added, dropping my head to the side, just a little. "You're welcome," answered Travis, meeting my gaze, his expression bemused. I've got to hand it to the guy. Travis had what you might call a "minimalist" approach to unusual situations involving sexual tension with females. He was a very attractive guy and I suppose that a lot of women had flirted with him through the years, and made the first big move, and that over time he'd honed his approach. Whenever he was uncertain how to respond to a surprising comment, or gesture, he would just keep it simple, and short. "So do you really like it?" I asked him, making big, bright eyes. "Huh?" "The dress." "Definitely," he replied, his expression just a little more playful. "Thanks," I said, smiling warmly. We just sat there in silence, the machine shaking. "Can I ask you something?" I said, after a while, uncrossing my legs. I could tell that Travis was dying to look, but determined not to. He was always so determined not to give me any direct evidence of what a hound he was by nature, even though we both knew that it WAS his nature. I closed my eyes, and yawned, and kind of revolved my head in a circle to stretch my neck, working out some imaginary kink between my shoulder blades. I knew it would give Travis an opportunity to look. When I opened my eyes again Travis's eyes were looking right at mine, but we both knew they'd been all over my body. I was glad. I wanted something from him, after all, so it was a good moment to remind him of how much he wanted me. Isn't that what the MIND-BLOWING Claire Diamond would do? "So can I ask you?" I repeated. "Sure you can," he answered. I took another big breath and then plunged in deeper. "Really?" I asked him, my eyes kind of pleading. "I mean, can I ask you to do something for me, something that might sound weird? "Definitely," Travis answered, nodding his head emphatically. I came straight to the point, my heart hammering. "Will you delete my pictures from your phone?" "Huh?" "I told you it might sound weird. But will you?" "Why?" Travis asked. I should have seen that coming. I should have known that he would just play the ball simply and cleanly, right back into my court. "You know why?" I told him, my cheeks reddening. "No. Why?" "Because I don't feel comfortable with you having them on your phone, okay?" "The pictures of you in the dress?" he asked, playing dumb, his brown eyes now full of mischief. It was like he had me right where he wanted and I had just walked right in. "Yes! The pictures of me in the dress!" "Why do they make you uncomfortable?" "Because they're . . . inappropriate, okay!" "I don't get it," Travis insisted, sliding down from the dryer until he was standing, facing me, just a little bit closer. "I mean, you bought that dress for the gala next weekend in the psychology department, right?" "Right!" "And you're going to wear it, right?" "Yes!" "Then why is it inappropriate for me to have pictures of you in the dress on my phone when you'll be wearing it out in public next weekend? I mean, what if someone takes a picture of you at the gala? Would that be inappropriate?" "No! . . . . but, it's not the same thing." "Why?" I was feeling pretty exasperated by this point and I decided that the only way to get out of this intolerable situation was to just give Travis what he so obviously wanted. I decided to just come right out and tell him why the pictures were inappropriate, and to . . . well . . . flirt with him more. I slid off the washing machine and stood facing him, just a little bit closer, looking up at him now. "I'm uncomfortable because those pictures are . . . . well . .. private," I told him, crossing my ankles and dropping my eyes. "They're more than that," I continued, kind of thinking out loud, "They're . . . intimate. Lacey sent them from the dressing room when I was still trying to decide if the dress was . . . .well . . . too revealing, and I don't feel comfortable with you having them." "She didn't ask your permission?" Travis asked, his expression vague. I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or not. "She asked permission," I said, my cheeks reddening again. I decided to press my case by giving him just a liiiiiiiitle bit more. "I WANTED your opinion. "Then why aren't you glad that I have the pictures?" he countered, now openly teasing. I kind of shook my head at him and rolled my eyes. I could see that Travis was determined to make this as difficult as possible. I only had one card left, as far as I could tell, so I decided to play it. "Come on, Travis, enough playing. You know why the pictures are inappropriate." "I DON'T know." "So you don't like them?" I asked. I don't know what inspired but I struck a little pose for Travis. It wasn't obvious or anything, but it was pretty much the same pose that I struck for Lacey in the store: one foot in front of the other, shoulders back, hips slightly forward. That time I DID catch Travis looking me up and down, quickly. He paused for a beat, considering his move. "I DO like them." "How come?" I asked, pulling my shoulders back just a little bit further. He smiled, appreciating the "maneuver." Then he pushed his luck. "Because it's a beautiful dress and you look great wearing it." I appreciated the compliment, truly. But it was also the perfect set-up for my next line. "In which picture?" I asked, my hand on my hip as I eyed him closely. "The one from the front? Or the one from behind?" I let my eyes sparkle. Travis laughed out loud, just for an instant, enjoying the game. "You look great in both," he countered, playing it smooth. "But you must have a favorite?" I pressed him, still posing. "Which is it?" He paused again. "I like the one from the front." "How come?" "I like your smile in that one." I laughed that time. The guy had game, I have to admit. But I wasn't letting him off that easy. "I bet you do," I told him, closing my eyes, and yawning again, and pretending to stretch my neck, slower this time. I could feel him looking. "So what did you do this afternoon?" I asked him when I was finished "stretching." I stepped out of my pose and leaned back against the washer again, my elbows resting behind me. "What part?" "The part after Lacey sent you the pictures," I said, smiling suggestively. I didn't want there to be any doubt what I was asking. I was determined to have my revenge on him for torturing me about the pictures. I was determined to embarrass HIM, like he tried to embarrass me. Travis laughed, shuffling his feet, looking genuinely uncomfortable. It didn't take him long to recover. "I don't know," he countered, his eyes playful again. "I guess I fooled around on my phone for a while and then I felt tired and took a nap." "I bet you did," I told him. I let the comment just hang there in the space between us. "Look," I continued, when the silence grew awkward. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there isn't anything inappropriate about the pictures. But . . . will you delete them anyway. Please!" Faculty-in-Residence Ch. 05 "How come?" Travis asked again, still pushing my buttons. "Because I'm asking you to, okay? I'm asking you as my friend." He paused, considering, while I held his eyes. Then he surprised me. "I'll do something even better," he replied, sliding his phone from his pocket and taking a long stride toward me while he entered his password on the screen. "You can delete them yourself." He flipped through his messages and when he found the ones from Lacey he turned the screen to face me. He wasn't six inches away from me and the phone was right in my face and I could see myself on the screen, posing for Travis. God it was a sexy picture! What had I been thinking? "How do you delete these," I asked, studying the screen, my pulse quickening. Up close like that I was practically in his shadow. He towered over me. "Here," he said, leaning in closer to show me. Looking back on it that was one of the really decisive moments in this whole story, a moment when the nature of the ending started to seem very clear. I've already told you that smells have a very powerful effect on me, haven't I? Well, that was the first time that I really smelled Travis. It probably won't surprise you that I liked his scent. I liked it very much. It wasn't just the cologne, though I LOVED the cologne. It was raw and sharp and masculine without being overpowering and it had all kinds of subtle undertones, some mysteriously sweet. But it was also the smell of Travis underneath the cologne, his natural fragrance, I suppose: just pheromones, and self-confidence, and raw desire. I read an article once about how men with high levels of testosterone smell more attractive to women and I'm sure that was the case with Travis. I felt drunk, almost, that first time, when his scent hit me. I just stood there against the washing machine (it was vibrating faster now) while I tried to concentrate enough to delete the pictures, holding Travis's wrist to keep the screen steady. I was dizzy with his fumes. I could feel him leering down at me in the tanktop and I'm sure that he could sense my arousal. He always could, even when I couldn't. I deleted the picture of me from the front, and then the picture of me from the back (which really WAS dirty) and then I let go of his wrist. "You forgot this one," Travis reminded me, flipping through the screens. It was the picture of me in the black shift dress. I deleted that one too. "Thanks," I told him, craning my neck to look up at him, still standing in his heat. And then I "repaid" him. "You really are very sweet," I told him. And then I stood on my tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek, just once, quickly, and then I slipped to the side. The buzzer on the washing machine had just sounded and it was time to switch the loads. Travis and I stayed in the laundry room together, making small talk while our clothes dried, and then I went back home and crawled into bed. I don't really have to tell you what I did next, do I? Where I was sitting, and who was standing in front of me, and how far it went, with the washer quaking, once I kissed him, and smelled him, and he took me in his arms. Part 4 When I woke up it was still dark and I wasn't alone. I was naked in bed, face down on the mattress, and I was about to be fucked. "You were so bad to send me those pictures," said a voice, deep and husky, his weight pinning me to the mattress. He smelled like whiskey and cigarettes and some weird cologne concocted of sweat from the workday, and excitement from the bar, and some mysterious musky note that I couldn't quite place. "You must have known how hot they were," he teased me, his face coming closer, his breath hot on my cheek. He worked his hand between my legs, parting them slightly. He must have been doing that for quite some time. I was wet and ready. "What's happening?" I asked, my brain in a fog. "I'm getting you ready," said the voice. He was naked and sweaty and his flesh was pressed firmly against me. "You must have known what would happen when you sent me the pictures." "Matthew?" I asked, still half-dreaming. "No," he purred in my ear. "Who?" He held my hand by the wrist and guided my hand to his crotch and made me feel him all over: his crown, and shaft, and heavy jewels. I knew it was Matthew now and I knew what he wanted. "Travis?" I asked, my voice groggy. "It's okay, baby. I'm here now," he purred in my ear. "You ready to get fucked?" "Yes!" "Not like you have a choice," Matthew teased me, probing me with his crown. God I needed this! I felt his weight shift. "Now that I have the pictures I've got you right where I want you." "Yeah?" "That's right baby," he told me, stirring me with his hips. "You need to do just what I want so I'll keep your secret, right?" "No," I told him, awake now and enjoying the game. "How come?" he asked, his confusion plain. "Because Travis doesn't have the pictures anymore," I teased him, stirring my hips too. Then I told my husband what happened in the laundry room while he prepared me, skillfully, for the hard fuck that followed. I told him pretty much the way I just told you, emphasizing the same details. Matthew LOVED that story. "Travis is a fool," he said, laughing, when I was done. I could feel him looming over me. I was still on my belly and he was still rock hard, slathered in my fluids. "Why?" "I wouldn't have given you back the pictures for just a little innocent flirtation!" "No?" We were moving our hips again now that the story was finished and I was dying for the next part. "No. I would have asked for more." "Yeah? Like what?" "I don't know," said Matthew, holding his cock by the root, and angling it, and then easing inside, his speech slurred. "I think I would have asked you to . . . dance for me a little." "Yeah?" I asked, raising my tail, just a little, and circling my hips. "Awww Peggy," he groaned. "You like that?" "You gonna dance for me Peggy?" he asked. We were fucking now, still slow and shallow. I'd been primed for this moment all day long and we got PRETTY wild. "You like dancing for me baby?" "Ummmph." "You gonna give me a show?" "Unnnnngh." "A private show?" "Ohhhhhh Jesus." We were still fucking and now it was hard and deep and my ass had a mind of its own. It wouldn't stay still. "You gonna dance for me like that at the gala?" "Unnnngh" "You gonna dance for me that way at the club?" "Unnnnngh." "You gonna dance for me that way at the frat house?" "Ohhh fuck. Ohhh Matthew." I knew he was playing Travis, but for me, at that moment, he was ALL Matthew. Suddenly I wanted to see his face. To look him deep in the eyes. With a few practiced motions I signaled what my body wanted and he raised himself off me, just slightly, so I could turn on my back, my legs spread wide. "You wanna dance this way now?" he asked, leering down at me. His belly and chest were shiny with perspiration, and his eyes were heavy with lust, and his cock felt long and fat inside me. I brought my hands to his ass. "You wanna slow dance baby?" he asked. "Oh god." "You like it slow like that?" "Oh god." "Is that how you'd dance at the frat house, huh baby? If you were my 'girl.' If I worked you into some dark corner and asked you for a slow dance all to myself?" "Oh god." "Would you dance for me with your pussy." "Oh fuck." And then Matthew went silent because I gave him what he wanted. My god, I danced for that man. I danced for him with my belly, and with my pussy, and with my lush, full breasts, bouncing high on my chest. And even though Matthew was a little bit drunk that night (and we all know what that means, right girls?) I just kept working him and working him, right to the edge, for as long as it took, right where I wanted to be: with my husband sunk to the hilt inside me, pumping me with seed.