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[Author’s note: This is my second story for Literotica. It’s a definite change of pace. I would describe it as Literary/academic/noir/erotica. I would love to hear your comments on this story.]
* * *
It was the third Friday in September. The late afternoon sun was fading, and dusk was coming on fast. Unlike those who talked about how much they loved fall, Winston found all this a depressing prelude to an even more depressing winter season.
He had just taken his recycling out to the curb when he noticed a smallish light approaching. In a moment or two, he saw that it was someone on a bicycle, and then as they got closer, he saw it was a woman.
“Professor Fletcher?” The bicycle stopped, and the woman got off. He couldn’t quite make out who she was, but even in the fading light, her bright red hair stood out.
Then he realized he recognized her from his class, even though the class had only gone two weeks so far. In class, she looked like the typical (hot) co-ed, wearing miniskirts that put her quite shapely legs on view and had totally gotten his attention, but thus far, she hadn’t said much during class discussion. Actually, he couldn’t remember her having said anything at all. He couldn’t tell if she was bored, or if there was something else going on.
“I’m Victoria — you know, Vicki, from your class?”
“Oh sure, I remember you. What’s up? What are you doing riding around at this hour? It’s getting pretty dark to be riding a bike.”
“Well,” she had gotten off the bike and had moved in closer so he could see her clearly, “you had told us your office hours, but I have another class then, so I thought if I happened to ride by and see you, maybe I could get a chance to talk to you.”
Did Winston see red flags flying? Was he too naïve to notice? Or did the whole girls’ college thing change the rules entirely? Would it be appropriate to be rude and refuse?
“I mean, if you’re busy, that’s fine, I don’t mean to intrude…”
Winston had absolutely nothing going on. The truth was, in spite of being surrounded by co-eds, he was living in the outback. He might as well have been teaching in a convent. This Friday was the start of another weekend with not a damn thing to do. He was an awkward fit at dinner parties with married faculty members, and potentially even more awkward at gatherings of feminist-dominated female faculty where he was the token male and always suspect. And although there were occasional lectures by outside visitors, they were usually scheduled during the week.
“No,” he said, with only a slight beat of hesitation, “it’s fine. I don’t have anything on for the evening. Why don’t you come on in and we can talk.”
Vicki walked her bike up to the house and leaned it up against the wall near the garage. Then she came around and entered the house.
Winston remembered her outfits from class, basically mini-skirts and tight-fitting tops, which, with her slim physique and dazzling red hair, made her eye-catching. Tonight, however, she was wearing a knee-length black skirt with lavender stockings and a slightly prim white shirt with a rounded Peter Pan collar buttoned all the way up to the top. She was also wearing high-heeled shoes, which seemed an odd choice for a bicycle ride.
“This was just one of those spur-of-the-moment things,” she was saying. “I hadn’t realized how early it started getting dark these days. I guess I was just used to summer.”
The front door of his house opened directly into his living room He motioned her to a seat on the sofa. He sat on a chair facing the sofa. This seemed a suitably decorous arrangement for an out-of-office office discussion.
Victoria sat on the sofa, kicked off her high heels and tucked her legs up, and looked around the room. Lots of Americana-style cherrywood furniture — no doubt it came with the house when he rented it — but also stacks of books everywhere, with not nearly enough bookshelves to hold them.
“Do you have anything to drink?” she asked. “If you have any wine, that would be great. I mean I’m 22, so that’s not a problem. You wouldn’t be contributing to the delinquency of a minor or anything.”
Winston had a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in his kitchen that was still half full. He wondered momentarily about this, but hell, it was Friday night. He got two glasses, and brought them and the bottle out. He filled the glasses, and put the bottle on the side table next to him.
“Cheers,” she said as she lifted her glass to him. “Cheers,” he replied. He wasn’t sure this was entirely by the book, but it was a lot more pleasant than another fucking weekend with nothing to do.
“And by the way, while I’m here, do you mind if I call you Winston? You’re still pretty young, and I’d rather be a little less formal. And I know they call me Vicki in class and on campus, but Victoria is my real name, and so if you’d like to call me Victoria that would be cool.”
Winston wasn’t at all sure about this. What were the rules about first names and students? Having his students call him Elazığ Escort “Professor” in class was his standard practice, and he had no intention of changing that. But here? And did he really want to refuse what seemed like a friendly request from a student who had taken the trouble to seek him out?
“Don’t worry, I won’t call you Winston in class. That’s just for here, right now. And you can call me whatever you want.”
“So, what’s on your mind about the class, Victoria?” he asked. He would be delighted to have an interesting, big-picture conversation about the course, beyond the usual kinds of homework-related questions that students asked in the classroom.
“Well, Winston, I don’t know if this is really appropriate for me to say, and I would never say it in class, but I guess the thing is, I kind of feel like the course is missing the boat? I mean you titled the course ‘Eros and Literature,’ and that sounded really sexy, but so far, this is all the same stuff I could’ve gotten in any number of absolutely standard, mind-numbing courses I’ve been taking since high school. I mean let’s face it, Oedipus? So yes, he is fucking his mother, and he gets punished for it, but there’s nothing erotic about it. He doesn’t know he’s fucking his mother, and she doesn’t know she’s fucking her son. It’s not like they’re getting off on that. It’s just the Gods screwing with him. And seriously, gouging his eyes out? The whole thing is ridiculous. It’s not erotic, it’s just fucking stupid.
“And then, Fanny Hill? Winston, it’s just another standard Tom Jones-style 18th-century novel only with lots of fucking. I mean, do you really think that’s erotic? With all that old-fashioned language? Do you think there are people in the class jerking off to that? Come on. And then the other books. Lady Chatterley’s Lover? It was a big scandal at the time, but now they could teach that in any regular lit class.
“Henry Miller was a sad misogynist. You’d be better off teaching Anaïs Nin. And Lolita? Humbert Humbert is a disgusting pervert, but academics love him because they think he’s one of them. They think he’d fit right in at a faculty cocktail party. And he would. He could’ve brought along his 12-year-old ‘niece’ and they would’ve all thought it was charming. He is more sophisticated and witty than any of them, and he would have been the center of attention with everyone hanging on his every word.
“But, suppose Humbert had been a grungy coal miner with no education and missing half his teeth, holding a 12-year-old, middle-class girl captive, and raping her, they’d all be out with pitchforks. You could never teach a book about something like that.
“I mean you can’t imagine how men were acting towards me at that age. I was definitely trying to look hot for the guys a few years older than me, but not for a bunch of pervy old men with wives at home and daughters twice my age.”
Winston could sense that something had hit a nerve there. Victoria paused, and after a moment continued, “I guess I just think you’re missing the whole point, Winston. That stuff isn’t erotic. The paintings on the walls of Pompeii aren’t erotic. They’re old. I get the feeling that you wanted the title of this class to look really risky and edgy, but instead, it’s just another boring academic lit class. I’ll bet you probably wrote a paper on at least one of these books in one of your graduate classes, right?”
Winston tried not to grimace. She was right, very embarrassingly right. In fact, more than one. He had thought he was being very cool and daring. Now he was wondering.
“And you’re supposed to have the option where people can write fiction as their paper for this class? Where are they going to learn what it takes to let them write any kind of seriously hot fiction? Something people can jerk off to? I mean that’s what I was looking forward to. I want to read about and talk about kinky stuff, the freaky stuff that really gets people off. Where they’re embarrassed about even saying the words.”
WTF? Winston was totally not expecting this. Sitting here, all civilized, drinking wine, and now this? And besides, while she had been saying all this, she had been moving a bit in her seat, and her skirt had been riding up above the top of her stockings. All of a sudden, somehow, the situation was beginning to swerve out of the control he thought he had established.
As far as what she was saying, wow. He felt like he had been gut-punched by everything she had said. And the problem was, she was right. Not only had he just run back to the safety of the “classics,” he wasn’t even sure what it would mean to really teach eroticism. Would it be porn? Is that what she was wanting? He was trying to think, but he was also severely distracted by the sight of her skirt riding up above the top of her stockings, revealing the garters holding them up.
They had finished that leftover bottle of wine pretty quickly, so he took the opportunity to get up and retreat to the kitchen to get another bottle. He certainly didn’t need Elazığ Escort Bayan any more wine, he didn’t know about her on that score, and the whole notion that they would be having a genteel Oxford precept-style discussion had left the station some time ago. Somehow he felt himself trying to hang on, though he wasn’t quite sure to what. Before returning, he stopped in at the half-bathroom to pee, since he was feeling the wine hitting his bladder.
* * *
When he got back with the second bottle, he saw that Victoria had moved his glass to the side table at the other end of the sofa. It also looked as if her blouse was no longer buttoned up to the top, but was somewhat generously open.
“Here, come sit on the sofa for a change, Winston. I promise I won’t bite. At least I’ll try not to.”
Winston sat down facing her on the sofa. Her skirt was at least as high up as it had been before, and now, the movement of her legs made him wonder about more than just her stockings.
She was talking again, but between the wine and the movement of her legs, he was having a very difficult time trying to keep up with her. At one particular moment, when she was passing her glass from one hand to the other, her legs shifted and he thought he caught a glimpse of something. Something red? He looked back at her, looking at her hair, and trying to figure something out.
Victoria was watching him closely, and she saw perfectly well where his eyes kept looking. She had absolutely no intention of trying to stop his distraction, instead she seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly. Was she playing with him?
“Winston,” she said, rolling his name out a bit. Was it the wine, or to establish a more intimate…something? “Winston, when are you going to get into the real stuff of eroticism…kinks, fetishes, taboos, perversions, all the stuff that really turns people on?
“I mean suppose you read a story about a good-looking professional couple and they’re getting ready to go to some big charity dinner. And they know it’s going to run late and be boring, and they’re going to be really tired by the time they get home that night. So they decide they have enough time for a quick romp before they leave, so that they can have sex while they’re both feeling energetic and can enjoy it and it’s not just some duty at the end of the night. And suppose the story describes them having sex. Would that story turn you on? Would it give you something to jerk off to? Probably not, unless you’re in a lot worse shape than I think you are. Generic sex is pretty boring, at least to read. Nothing new, probably nothing you haven’t gotten bored with yourself at some point.
“No, the sex you jerk off to is about violation, it’s doing something naughty, or better still, doing something totally wrong. That’s what turns people on. Breaking rules, violating taboos, feeling guilty, having weird fetishes, being kinky in some way you never thought you would be. Right? Or is after-church sex a real turn-on for you? How about in-church sex? That would be kinky.”
Winston sat there. He wasn’t looking at her so much as he was looking at what she was doing with her legs, more specifically leaving a more open space for him to glimpse once more that patch of red he had thought he had noticed.
What the hell was going on? How had he gotten here? He hadn’t asked for any of this…had he? And why couldn’t he pull his eyes away from where he was looking, and get back to focusing on his discussion with Victoria?
“So, Winston, what’s your kink? What’s your turn-on that doesn’t make any sense? Maybe Catholic school-girl outfits? That’s a big one. In South Korea and Japan, they go nuts over that. Of course, in Japan they also have vending machines where men can buy used girls’ panties — I suppose that’s another big turn-on too. Are you into any of that?”
This was getting way too personal. Winston knew it was time to shut this whole thing down, although he really wasn’t sure how to go about it. Still, he knew he himself was…kink-free?
“Look, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m really vanilla. I’m a 30-year-old white male who likes women. That’s pretty much it. No swinging, swapping, BDSM. Not even a threesome. Not that I was really sure how the mechanics of such a venture were supposed to go. Basically, I’m boring as hell.”
“And do you like being boring? Do you go to parties and walk up and say to people, ‘Hi, I’m really boring’? I mean, I have to confess that looking at your situation Winston, the word ‘boring’ does come to mind. Here you are, you got tenure at a decidedly second-tier, historically women’s college. How’s that for a security blanket they can wrap around you in your coffin? And where do you think you’re going to go from here? You think schools around the country are looking eagerly at Osiris for fresh new talent?
“But let’s forget for a moment about how you are stuck and you are trapped, surrounded by girls you can’t touch, and who, each year, will become that much more too young for you. Let’s Escort Elazığ forget about that and talk about right now. Even before you sat on the sofa facing me, when you began watching my skirt ride up, and began seeing the tops of my stockings, something started happening. I mean what’s the big deal with stockings, Winston? I can buy them at pretty much any department store, and they’re not very expensive. And yet there you were, looking like I was flashing a Playboy centerfold in front of you. You already know what my legs look like, you’ve seen the miniskirts I wear to class. Yes, I know right now you’re also wondering about those peeks you’re getting up my skirt, but I want to know about the stockings.”
Crap. Why the fuck was this happening? How had he walked into this? He’d made a big mistake, but he wasn’t quite sure where or how he could have headed it off. And now he was being asked to explain himself? About something very embarrassing?
“Look, it’s no big deal. When I was an undergraduate, some girls would wear stockings with garter belts. Not too many, mostly pantyhose had taken over. But if I was making out with some girl who was wearing stockings and I was running my hand up her leg and I got to the top of her stocking and to the flesh above it, that was a big milestone. That was a very sexy moment. Pantyhose were like the ultimate anti-sex invention. Anyhow, I guess stockings are kind of a flashback to those days. It’s not like I get turned on by those women in corsets and black stockings and garter belts and stuff in movies, that’s just a boring cliché. This was about real life. Anyway, as I say, no big deal. Doesn’t really matter.”
“Right, Winston,” she said. “No big deal. Kind of like those guys in Victorian England getting turned on by just the sight of a woman’s ankle? Not kinky at all. Definitely not perverted. All very normal. Come on. That’s kinky as hell. And you loved it. Admit it. Which one was sexier? The girl, or the stockings? Which do you remember now — do you remember the girl, do you remember her name, or do you just remember her stockings?”
Winston hated being brought into this whole discussion. But he also didn’t want to end it as long as she kept moving her legs around like that. How gullible was he? On a scale of 1 to 10, his number was moving up fast. He absolutely needed to steer this conversation in a new direction, away from him and his kinks.
“So how about you, Victoria? Do you have any kinks?” Even as he asked this question, he realized that this was 100% the wrong way to deal with the situation.
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m exactly vanilla. I mean I do enjoy wearing stockings and a garter belt sometimes. It can feel pretty erotic, especially when…well, anyway, I think I’m more about things other than kinky clothes or kinky toys. For me, it’s more about the interaction between men and women. That’s what’s really erotic. I mean I would be okay with wearing peek-a-boo lingerie, or not wearing panties, or maybe finding out more about spanking or bondage or whatever, but really, it’s about people. Like maybe, learning more about you.
“Remember that whole thing they teach about drama equals conflict? Two people fucking isn’t drama. It can be fun, it can be exercise, sometimes it can even feel like love, but it’s not drama. But a guy fucking someone else’s wife and worrying that the husband is going to come home and catch him, that’s exciting. Or the woman who finds out her husband was cheating and goes off and finds some random guy to fuck as a revenge cheat? That’s pretty interesting. Or simply anyone feeling guilty about any kind of sex they’re having or want to have. Watching them freak out and identifying with their freak-out is what makes it sexy. A fuck is just sex, but a head-fuck is art.”
She paused and looked at him again. “Professor, shouldn’t you be taking notes on all this?”
Winston sat there. Basically, all his attention was focused on the shifting and restless movement of Victoria’s legs. He knew it was way past time to call an end to her visit. Offer to drive her back to her dorm if it was too late for her to use her bike safely. But that part of his brain had ceased to function.
He sat there, knowing she was waiting for him to make a move, but he couldn’t quite figure out what to do, especially since he knew none of this should even be happening. He was beginning to feel a little like Oedipus, a plaything of the gods who couldn’t get out of the situation he had no part in creating.
Suddenly Victoria stood up. “That’s a lot of wine. I need to hit the ladies’ room.” She walked back to the half-bath beside the kitchen. Winston sat up. Maybe this was his opportunity, when she came back, to suggest that he drive her home. He felt relieved at the thought.
* * *
After about 10 minutes, he heard the bathroom door open and heard footsteps approaching. Victoria walked in. She was naked, except for a lavender garter belt and lavender stockings.
Winston had been feeling confused before, but now he was simply stunned. Victoria had an elegant, absolutely amazing body, beautiful breasts and nipples, a beautiful curve to her waist and another curve to her hips. And then, of course, that bright red patch of bush that he had been so desperately trying to catch a better glimpse of earlier.
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