A Story I Wrote Because I Want To Fuck You


It was a year after he'd finished Senior Writing Workshop ENGL 4252,
and he hadn't technically graduated but he wasn't enrolled anymore
either, so he wasn't sure of Professor Cunningham's office hours.  He
hung around in the faculty/grad student lounge around the corner,
flipping through old academic journals and literary magazines on the
Ford-era sofa until he heard a key in a door.  He waited a moment so
it wouldn't seem like he was pouncing on her just as she got back from
class -- he knew how claustrophobic the small offices could feel
immediately after a thousand questions from freshmen wanting to know
what would be on the next quiz.

When enough time had passed, he left the lounge and headed down the
hallway, glancing in the open doorway as he passed.  "Professor
Cunningham," he said, smiling.

"Oh," she said, and smiled back.  "Come on in!  Are you headed anywhere?"

He shook his head.  "Just loitering.  I was using the lounge since
it's so quiet this time of day."

She nodded.  "Hardly anyone teaches in this building on Fridays
anymore, it's because they're doing more big lectures in the new
building down by the dining commons.  Have you had a class there yet?"

He shook his head, and closed the door behind him.  "I'm not in
classes anymore."

"Oh, of course not."  She brushed her hair out of her eyes and
gathered it up between her hands, fastening it with a scrunchie she
was several years too old for but was still practical: the humidity,
especially in the warm months, made her hair frizzy in that awkward
manner of a particular sort of woman.  She looked far from glamorous
at the moment, and he doubted she had many other moments you'd call
_glamorous_.  Her face was a little red, flushed.  She was perhaps a
little stocky, with thick hips and legs.  Her clothes were plain and
unflattering -- a brown thick skirt that made too much noise when she
walked, a light blue button-up sweater inappropriate for the heat --
and rumpled from the end of the day.

But even so.

"Anyway, Professor Cunningham, I dropped something off in your box, I
don't know if you got your mail yet."

She nodded, walking around the stacks of this and that to the corner
table she had put near her desk as an in-box.  "Call me Jeanie, you're
not my student anymore."  She brushed her fingers through the back of
her hair and flipped the cover sheet open.  "I haven't had a chance to
take a look, though, did you want a critique?"  It was hot in the
poorly ventilated room, stuffy, and she unbuttoned the top few buttons
of the sweater to a yellow shirt underneath.

He grinned.  "Well, actually, it was published.  I forgot to drop a
note in, the post-it fell off in my backpack.  Remember I sold those
stories for contributors' copies when I was in your class.  Well, this
one I got paid."  Not much, but paid nevertheless.

She brightened.  "Really!  Congratulations, that doesn't surprise me
at all.  Do you mind if I take a quick look through?"

He shook his head and leaned against the wall, which was hard concrete
with thin sheets of corkboard over it.  He didn't want to sit in the
chair in front of her desk, it felt too student-ish.  He just watched
her reading, and in particular watched her pause after the first page
before flipping, as though uncertain she would keep reading.

"This is--" she said at one point, but didn't finish the sentence.  He
moved closer, looking over her shoulder.

"What?" he asked.  "Did I staple the pages in the wrong order?  I
didn't number them or double-space, since I wasn't turning it in for
class or anything."

She shook her head and her hair -- auburn, curly, soft despite the
frizz -- brushed against his cheek.  "It's fine," she said in an
undertone, and flipped the page.  He stayed where he was, both of them
leaning awkwardly over the desk, and she flipped the next page too
quickly.  She wasn't reading all of it.

"Is this--" she said and again didn't finish.

"What?" he asked.

Again she shook her head.

He smiled.  "No really, what?  I'm sorry, does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Is that meant to be me?" she asked.  "I mean, the professor in this,
the writing professor you --"

"My protagonist."

"Your protagonist.  The one he, well --"

"Seduces?  I don't think it's quite a seduction, though.  He writes
stories about her without telling her they're about her.  It's almost
more of a manipulation than a seduction."

"Okay," she said.  She was still looking at the pages and not at him. 
"I started skimming a little, I was distracted.  And then they have
sex."

"Yes," he said.

"Is it --"

He laughed.  "What?"

She straightened up, which put them very close together with no room
for either of them to back away.  He could smell her perfume and her
sweat beneath it, mixed with the soap from his shower.  "Are you
trying to tell me something?" She said it jokingly but obviously
wasn't joking.

"I thought you might appreciate it," he said.  "I mean, instead of
just -- calling you or something.  I thought you might like this."

"I, I'm flattered --"

"We kissed at that party, remember?"

"I do," she said, and touched not her lips but her neck with her
fingertips.  "We were both -- we had had too much to drink."

He slipped his fingers over hers, on her throat.  She pulled away, but
not strongly enough to force the issue.  "You especially.  You told me
your husband never fucked you the way you liked anymore.  That you
didn't get it hard enough, rough enough."

"I'd never say something like that sober," she said, and made to pull
his hand away, but he stroked her throat with the length of his
fingers and squeezed.  She gasped, the tiniest of gasps that sent a
shiver through him and made his cock rock hard at an instant.  "Oh
God," she said.

"Turn around," he said, and she didn't.  He squeezed again, gently,
caressing the tender flesh beneath her jaw with the balls of his thumb
and forefinger.

"You know I can't do that," she said, and then of course she did it anyway.

It was easier to hold her throat from behind -- more intimate, hotter.
 He reached around her to unbutton her sweater as he caressed her
throat with the other hand, steady, soft, gentle but unyielding.  He
wanted it to be soft enough that she knew she could get away so that
she'd know she chose not to.

"You reached for my cock," he murmured into her ear.  "That night at
the party when we kissed, when my tongue was in your mouth you started
to reach for my cock."

She shook her head, and shivered as he slipped the sweater off her
shoulders, tossing it onto one of the piles of books.  Her breasts
were large and the yellow T-shirt clung to their shape, a bra strap
showing at the wide collar.  He removed both methodically, remaining
behind her as he undressed her, and then ran his hands up her back,
palms flat and slow against her skin.  When they reached her
shoulders, he brought them down her sides and then up her stomach
before sinking his fingers into her breasts.  They were heavy,
deliciously heavy, and she moaned when he touched them, her nipples
already hard and hot to the touch.

"I want to fuck your titties," he told her as he squeezed them hard,
pushed them against his palms and each other, pinched and rubbed the
nipples.  "I'm not going to, I just want you to know that I want to. 
That I'm not going to get my fill today.  I want to bite your titties
until they're bruised, but I won't because I don't want you to have to
explain the marks to your husband."

"Oh God," she moaned, and then, "What are you going to do?"

He pushed her forward hard enough that her hands splayed out to find
something to grab, to keep her balance.  A stack of poetry chapbooks
on top of Norton anthologies tumbled to the floor, skidding across the
hard surface, and he lifted her skirt up, yanking her underpants down,
wiggling them back and forth until they dropped.

"Okay, we have to stop now," she said, trying to stand back up.  "This
has gone too far, I'm sorry.  We're not going to do this."

He pushed her down hard, and more books when flying as she flailed for
support, but he had her firmly by the hips and she wasn't going to
fall.  When she'd steadied enough for him to free a hand, he pushed
his jeans down.  He wasn't wearing any boxers, and the denim had been
rubbing his cock all day, so when he spread her thighs, the feel of
her soft warm skin was incredible -- like velvet.  He pushed himself
into her and then grabbed her hips again, shoving at her until his
crotch smacked her ass.

"Oh God," she murmured.  "Oh God yes."  But she kept struggling, like
she didn't even know she'd said it.  She pushed herself up, one hand
on the edge of the desk and the other on the wall, but he shoved his
hips hard and they both groaned.

In the story she'd been more willing, practically throwing herself at
him.  He'd used words like coynte and queynt, allusions to Chaucer and
Robespierre, iambs and alliteration.  Maybe if he'd written about her
resisting she would have been more willing.  Maybe people were just
perverse like that.

She crouched her knees just slightly, enough to make the angle
perfect.  "That's it," he said, and could better feel now how sopping
wet she was.  Maybe every professor fantasized about fucking a
student.  He had always wanted a professor, and it didn't even matter
much which one.  "Take it," he said, and his cock felt electric,
alive, charged.  "Take it!" he said again, smacking his open palm down
on the curve of her ass, which was pleasantly firm for her age.

She groaned and grunted, "Yes!  Oh fuck me fuck me!"
He smacked her ass until she cringed and wet
her thighs her queynt a-flow with such intense
arousal -- fear, too, shame, he thought perhaps --
and when she cringed he smacked her harder still
till his hot hand hurt and he heard her heave.

Her breathing was heavy and ragged but he didn't think she'd come yet,
she was just overwhelmed -- it'd been a long time, he knew, since
she'd been spanked more than a token slap, unless something had
changed since their drunken talk at the January term party off-campus.
 He doubted anything had, or she wouldn't be so wet now.  Her ass felt
warm as he rubbed against it, pushing deep into her.  He knew his cock
wasn't huge, but right now it felt it, as though she'd inspired an
extra inch out of him, and with a few more inches they'd have an
iambic foot: in-OUT in-OUT oh-GOD oh-GOD fuck-ME.

He grabbed her tits, wanting that heaviness in his palms again, the
contrast of those hard-dimpled nipples.  God, like the revolutionary
hadn't said: the titties were pleasin'.  He smacked one of them and
pinched the nipple, pulling it, and he could feel her shake against
him as she came close to coming.  "I want you to come for me," he said
against her neck, and bit it, in the moment not caring about any marks
he might leave that could be recognized later.

His hands slid across her bare shoulders and around her neck, and he
squeezed.  She stiffened at first and then suddenly softened in a way
she hadn't yet -- giving up, giving in to him more deeply than she had
even when he caught her by the queinte.  Her groaning was deeper now,
more primal, like animalistic grunts as he drove his cock into the
wedge of her sex like a hammer and tightened his grip around her
throat.  It was all he could do to keep from coming before her, and he
focused on that throat, on suffocating her, choking her, on the way
the noises she made changed as his grip did.

Finally she shook violently, pushing more books over and toppling the
glass vase with the plastic flower in it, gulping breath when he let
go of her throat.  He slipped out of her in the commotion, and grabbed
her by the hair, pushing her down on the ground, shoving his cock in
her mouth.  Despite the abrupt pain she must feel from landing on the
hard stone floor, he was gratified and immensely turned on by the look
of hunger on her face as he jerked off into her mouth, and the way she
looked up at him.  She looked nothing like she had since that night
they kissed and for a moment he wished they'd been fucking all that
time.

Her office was a mess now.  He pulled up his jeans and looked around. 
The story was crumpled by her hands, books were everywhere, papers all
over the floor.  She stayed there, sitting with her back against the
wall, catching her breath.  "That was so wrong," she murmured,
sounding surprised at herself.

He buttoned up and left the room a wreck;
went home lust sated well and cashed the check.

-