Don't Stand So Close To Me ......... (Closed)

Don't Stand So Close To Me
Closed for Soulweaver and ObscureInsanity. Please PM either of us with any comments ...



Mike sat back in his chair, his feet on his desk and his hands clasped behind his head. He let out a soft whistle, he was pretty damn pleased with himself. That little beatch had had this coming for such a long time. “Ansley . . . beatch . . . Ansley Harris . . . beatch . . . Yesssss Professor Anderson, anything for you Professor Anderson.” With his eyes closed he mimicked her lilting and quite fake, tone. “Yes,” he thought. She really had this coming.

Eyes closed, his mind drifted back. As soon as he’d seen her and her two little hanger-ons in his lecture theatre, he’d known her type. “Advanced Hieroglyphics and Egyptian Studies 200 level. Yeah, right, and he was Dirk Rambone, porn star.” It was obviously just an elective filler class for them, and they had thought that occasionally flashing the professor some cooze would get them enough credits to pass. At least at first. But Michael Anderson, Associate Professor of Egyptian Antiquity Studies at Red Lake Private University for girls, wasn’t easily intimidated. Despite his outwardly calm manner, Mike was a deep thinker. He had always prided himself on giving back two times the grief to anyone who’d ever dealt him any, and over the years this had helped him keep any real trouble out of his ordered and measured life. And these damn tarty girls, but more Ansley in particular as the ring leader, were going to prove no exception.

Their teasing had started innocently enough, little whispers and giggles. Soon dropped books which required extended, ass high picking up. For a while they’d moved to the front row. Daring to sit with short skirts and legs splayed akimbo, eyeing him intently while sucking on pencils or absently twirling their hair. The others had gotten bored with the game though when their test results started being returned with “E”s and “F”s. But not Ansley. In fact, she’d gotten worse. Much worse.

“Yes,” Mike grinned to himself, “She’s gonna get it reeeeeeal good.” He reached out and picked up the gold embossed nameplate from his retentively organised desk, a gift to himself upon securing this cream teaching post, and idly polished it on the sleeve of his cardigan. They had no idea of who they were really fucking with or what he was capable of. Because this wasn’t the first time Michael had dealt to prissy little spoilt rich girls. He had a well proven plan all organised, and now all it needed was to wait for just the right rainy day to put it into action.


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Mike’s gaze drifted out through the window and over the immaculately manicured concourse. Little groups milled around, a study in social pecking and acceptance. There were the sporty jocks, hair tied up and assets mashed into underlying sports bras, usually one size too small because to be large was the bane of all sportsmen and women, stretching and flexing and all ready to rush off to some practise or rather. Then there were the clumps of bookish nerds, overly thick glasses and skirts too long, noses buried into text books and desperate to be ignored. And of course, there were the socialites. Clusters vying for the unofficial title of most popular and strutting to either maintain or establish a peeking order, within the groups and within their own clan.

Ansley’s group were in the centre as usual, perched around a statue of the schools founding mistress, their colourful attire just managing to meet enough of the schools code to deflect too much attention, but a garish counterpoint to the rather stern, verdigrised bronze, of Miss Marjory Meeples, books under one arm and riding crop outstretched in the other. He’d often wondered about that statue and if the rather devilish grin it seemed to portray was a faithfull rendition or just the artistic snerk of an artist who had made a loss on what had turned out to be a ridiculously demanding project.

His wandering eyes focused. The girls were pouting and Ansley was obviously in tirade mode, pacing backwards and forwards, disturbing the whole flock with her agitation. The wannabes knew just enough to keep out of her way but the other two, her left and right hands, were nodding, fawning and fuelling the fire. His face softened into an unblinking, unseeing stare as his mind drifted back to the confrontation which might just prove enough to break the camels back . . .


“ . . . . . . . an F on this last test?" She had slammed her text books down and all the things neatly stacked and organised on his lecture desk had promptly fallen over in sympathy, or fear, or fear and surprise.

He'd leaned back looked at her, patiently, and silently waiting. He swore she carried on for 10 minutes or more before finally her voice tailed off and she was staring back at him, all apoplectic in the face with barely suppressed rage, frustration and maybe a little touch of something else. Still he started at her, allowing his eyes to run up and down her form just because he was sick of her, them, having it all their own way.

“Miss . . .” he leaned forward, pretending to have to read her name from the header on her paper, “Miss Harris? Indeed, at first glance it would appear that yes, your paper has been incorrectly graded. But by me? I would suggest that your childish tantrum has clouded your reason. Please re-read the examiners mark, this paper was not graded by me. In fact, as a closer examination would reveal, the authorising signature for the final grade is in fact the very Dean’s whom you seem so eager to confront with my . . . apparent failings.” Her face resembled a chameleons as it ran the full gambit of available colouration. You could have heard a pin drop in the 150 seat lecture theatre as her mouth flapped open and closed.

“Would you like me to continue? Yes, I can see you do. It’s not like me to confront in public Miss Harris, but only because you wish me to continue I think I have to say that the Dean requested to view your paper personally, and had it independently graded. While your answers are, as you quite rightly point out, perfect, that is exactly the reason why they have been crossed. Each cross on your paper displays a word for word rote regurgitation of the test paper model answer. In short, in case anyone here is having trouble putting two and two together,” he craned his neck around Ansley and slowly swept the room, “In short, the Dean suspects you of having access to the examination paper and cheating, Miss Harris”

He slowly stood up and picked up her textbook, handing it to her with exaggerated slowness. “Ansley, if you still wish to talk directly to the Dean I’m sure he will see you if you make an appointment, he is after all a very busy man. Now if you will take you seat, or leave, I have other students waiting for their lecture . . .”



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It took quite a while for Micheal to realize he was now something of a minor celebrity. The remainder of the lecture had gone remarkably well considering, everyone was unusually attentive and a few even managed to ask some semi-intelligent questions towards the end. But it was in the staff café room later that it finally dawned on him how much people were talking about the exchange with Ansley this morning.

Firstly, when he'd walked in a few teachers had looked up from their newspapers and coffee to nod to him. No one ever nodded to Micheal Anderson, he was invisable. Text messages were flying around the either, an inordinate amount. To the point where he was thinking of abandoning this normally serene haven and heading back to the sanctuary of his office to escape the mind numbing chirps and buzzing.

A busty brunette pushed a chair over and sat down next to him, leaning in to catch his eye under his well thumbed copy of Egyptology Monthly. He ignored her and ducked lower. She pushed closer so that her nose nudged the book. In frustration he put it down and regarded her with his best “this had better be good” look. Elizabeth grinned at him. “You don’t know do you?” She winked at him as if they had shared some post coitial secret. “As if she would be so lucky,” Mike mused to himself, resigned to talking until she either grew bored or the clock struck relief in the form of the next round of lectures.

“What is it Liz?” He sighed tiredly while wincing at her grinning face. She certainly was attractive, beautiful almost, and had a body which wouldn’t quit. Unfortunately she drank and swore like a trooper and had a “history” of fucking all the new faculty arrivals. She’d duly been stalking Michael for the last few months, sitting next to him whenever he forgot to wedge himself into a corner and even manufacturing a flat tire one day under the guise of getting his assistance. Mike had subsequently rang roadside assistance and escaped as soon as the greasy towie had arrived. He’d wondered for days afterwards if she paid with cash or favours.

“Why you’re a hero Mikey silly man. Everyone is texting about you and how you took that stuck up Ansley Harris down a peg or two today.” Mike looked genuinely surprised, “What do you mean? All I did was talk to her about her latest exam failure . . .” He grimaced and pulled back as she poked him in the ribs. “Awww not even. You gave her a verbal spanking by all accounts. Not before time of course, but no one's ever had the guts to try anything that public before. Her old man is some sort of County big wig and the last Professor to try it ended up with a years worth of parking tickets,” she smirked. “Anyway, I’ve gotta dash but,” she leaned in close to his ear as she got up to leave, pressing her soft breast into his arm, “but heros are soooo hawt, so stop being an ass and ring me.” With that she flounced out of the room leaving Mike to sit in a puddle of confused amusement.

Maybe he should just fuck her he thought, the memory of her hard nipple against his bare arm stirring thoughts of her bent over and leaking. No, his . . . kinks usually scared most women away and this place was too small for that sort of reputation to survive. He’d moved here to escape all of that for a while and to enjoy a little solitude.

Things had calmed a little after that, for a few days anyway. Mike had quickly forgotten the incident as he threw himself into his work and his after hours research project. If he could get the transcript he was working on translating completed and published, then he might be able to swing a position further up-state somewhere, and something that paid a little more than nothing and a view of young untouchables. It was quite a surprise then to be sitting here contemplating what he was about to do, and how he’d let that little bitch put him in this postion.



.

Ansley had not come to class in three days; she faced her peers, sure, and even went so much as to give one of her two 'besties' a tape recorder so she could at least attempt notes for another future test, but she didn't feel obligated to feed the fuel of rumor and lower herself any more than she had already sunk.

She had decided to make it seem like no big deal. 'Yeah, I cheated,' she'd admit, while she actually had studied with some lower-than-she nerd that helped her remember stuff in acronyms. Why admit that? Why not let him feel comfortable with his conviction? Ansley was a lot of things, a cheater though, not in a million years. Plus the entire idea of her cheating in college and getting away with it without academic probation was unfathomable and quickly put her right back on the top of the social queue.

"So-and-so got expelled for cheating," whispers would circle. "But Ansley managed to just get a slap on the wrist!"

That was because daddy could bail her out of anything. She was a daddy's little girl; daddy knew people who knew people who knew more people, that's why...


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When Ansley got home the day of the confrontation she turned on the waterworks. It was good for her that the maid saw her, and tried to console her. Of course, she denied the woman the help, and she locked herself in her room until her father got home. When he did get around to coming home (at nearly 10-o-clock) the maid told her father the predicament, and that she had no idea what had happened. He knocked on her door and begged her to tell him what was wrong: he said that he'd do anything to solve it.

Bingo.

She opened the door and rubbed her eyes, already dressed in pajamas. Her eyes were red from crying (well, faking to cry, at least) and she sniffled a bit.

"Daddy, there's an impossible project!" she sniffled.

"What are you talking about Pumpkin?" he asked, concern filling his voice; his blue eyes grayed and looked rather icy. He was a noble looking man, strong chin, regal pointy nose. His hair was thick and red like hers, though it was graying close to his sideburns and around the back of his ears. He looked like a kind man, though if you crossed him in any way that affected his daughter or anyone else he cared about his kind smile would turn into an evil glower in a matter of milliseconds.

"I have to do a research paper... and... I have to do the researching without being noticed!" she sniffled. Her father looked a little beside himself, he wasn't sure how her not being noticed would be a problem.

"Daddy don't you get it?! Everyone knows who I am because they know who you are!"

Realization filled his eyes, he shook his head and laughed.

"We can hire someone to do it for you!" he said pleasantly.

"N-no.. that won't do... I have to show that I was there, record it and everything!" she started sobbing again.

Her crying made him feel distraught; he pattered her head and tried to coo her to stop crying. It didn't work, in fact, she cried extra hard.

"Let daddy think about a solution and I'll get back to you, okay pumpkin?" he pleaded. She sniffled and looked up at him, eyes drenched and red. She nodded miserably.

Not an hour later her father was knocking on her door again; she had to suppress a grin when she opened it. To his left stood one of the valuable police chiefs, tall, dark, and handsome; he had a locked box in his hands. Her father told her to make herself presentable and to come down to the study when she was done. She did as she was told and went downstairs to hear a lecture about how dangerous it was that they were even going to lend her such valuable equipment. She had to swear on pain of death that she would not tell anyone that she used the equipment when proving she had actually researched and did as the assignment specified.

The chief then went about telling her how it worked, where it would go, where the recording would be (on her personal computer, as it were). It was actually simple, really. Like she anticipated, she could wear a necklace, have one of the jewels removed for the time being and the tiny camera would go where the jewel used to be. Yes, it was simple!

After a few more swears that she wouldn't tell a soul, not even her close friends, and a few hundred dollar bills passed under the table from her father, she was in possession of the top secret equipment. She had to control her excitement when thanking the man and her father, and she had to force herself not to grin as she passed by the maid to go up to her room.

Flawless. Part one to destroy Professor Micheal Anderson was complete.

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She strutted into the lecture hall exactly 72 hours after the confrontation. She was wearing a tasteful summer dress, a-line, it accentuated her curves, sure, but it wasn't as short or revealing as the rest of her attire. She had glasses on, they were her actual prescription: she'd much rather be wearing her contacts; she even went so far as to put on a cover-up to hide her exposed arms and further cover her bust. She didn't even acknowledge the professor as she took her seat; Instead, she avoided looking at him altogether as she took out her textbook and the paper that was due today. She made sure several times that the writing sounded not only like her, but nothing like the book, all while still keeping on topic and answering the questions asked.

When her friends came in, they were surprised to see her; each hugged her and did the over-rated European air kissing, complimented her clothing and accessory choice, then took their seats beside her instead of behind her. Neither girl knew what was planned; she'd have to go at this alone.

Ansley had her legs crossed today. When she finally looked at the professor there was no rage or anger in her eyes. She was amused, sure, but she didn't show it. She just stared blankly at the man, her head reeling with thoughts of how she could get him alone, if she could get him alone, if she had to stalk him to get him alone. She took a pen out of her purse and tapped it on a legal pad a couple times and waited, wondering.

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At first he didn’t recognise her. He wondered immediately who she was though, a new student and rather fetching with it. His practised eye watched her every movement as she glided gracefully down the aisle, barely acknowledging any of the stares, her gaze fixed ahead on the front row, scanning for a clear seat. She was stunning, breathtaking really, a perfect bend of coy and yet managing to radiate some sort of innate smoldering sexuality.

He was chewing on the end of his pen as was his habit at times when his thoughts strayed, when suddenly he sucked in and almost choked on it. God, it was her, Ansley! He turned away to face the blackboard, fumbling at his chalk and making an unnecessary change to a cartouche of Amenophis III while he struggled to collect his thoughts. “Jesus I’m going nuts,” he chided. “Get a grip Mikey, it’s just a fashion change, under it she’s the same crazy stuck up tart.”

He turned, outwardly composed and continued with his lecture on the development of Hieroglyphics in the New Dynastic Period. He continued to steal glances at her though. She was putting on an impression of a model student, and to be fair, she was doing rather a good job at it. Too good a job. The imagined combinations of studious intelligence and slick wanton flesh was proving to be a very real distraction for him. Female students he could handle. To be confronted with so many of his fantasies wrapped up in one convenient take home package though, was another matter entirely.

He tried to continue but his heart wasn’t in it and he was aware he had began rambling. His thoughts kept straying to her legs and the more he tried to banish them, the more intrusive and lewd they became. “Fuck this,” he thought. He gave out some extra readings, announced another test for Friday and bid everyone to leave their due papers on the desk by the doors, before dismissing the now exuberant throng. As the theatre emptied, he casually moved to stand in the aisle next to Ansley, subtly blocking her access. Far from fussing, she sat there not looking up, but packing away her things with an air of deliberation.

The hall quickly fell silent, the last two to exit were Ansley's girls, lingering in the exit with a few uncertain looks back towards their now unfamiliar Queen. Mike looked down and straight into the top of her bulging cleavage, white with the unfamiliar pressure of being restrained so completely. He licked his lips. When he spoke through, it was calm and with practised ease, “Ansley, please accept my apologies for the other day, that really was most unlike me and . . . completely unforgivable. Before you leave, I’d just like to offer any assistance to make up any missed work. You can take a little extra time on the paper due today if you so wish. Anyway, I’ll be in my office if you need anything . . .”

He walked away rather briskly, the heady waft of body heated soap from her overpowering while so close. He quickly bundled up the students tutorial research papers and had walked the corridors to his office, too afraid to look behind and with a familiar growing ache in his loins . . .




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Once in his own domain Mikes nerves began to calm a little. What a dumb ass he thought, this is another game of hers for sure, there was no way a spoilt cow like Ansley ever gave up this easy. He wasn’t sure how but she’d done her research well, landing a hit right to some of his biggest weaknesses. It had caught him by surprise but now he was ready.

Still, the knock on the door jangled at his new calm, was it her he wondered, and why did he care so much? The door pushed and she stood just inside, looking at him with a measuring stare. He stood, his mouth suddenly dry. She breezed forward and launched into a speech, prepared he guessed but nevertheless finely judged. She actually had the spuds to say she was sorry. As her soft voice worked the range he began to struggle a little. He was acutely aware of a slow twitching, an uncoiling which was about to undo their little kiss and make up charade.

Fortunately she finished and began looking around appraising his room. He nodded inside, she really was a worthy opponent, cool and calculating, for a moment he wondered how she’d look broken and used, her hair all damp and sweaty and her sex red and puffy. His cock moved. He was about to sit down to cover it up when she placed her assignment on the desk, tapping it as if to prove a point. She looked undecided for a moment, an uncharacteristic flash of confusion. Mike stashed that away for later ponderings, he had a great mind for minutiae and could recall most things at will when he could be bothered.

Abruptly she turned and headed for the door, reaching out for the knob, her slight pause was perfectly timed though. Either it showed that she did have a few vulnerabilities which he could exploit to his advantage or she was a supreme actress.

“Ansley, please, Miss Harris. Stay, sit and I’ll mark your paper now if you like?” The offer hung in the air like fog and neither moved.

He sat down rather too quickly but she turned and moved back to the chair opposite, sitting and slowly crossing her legs while working hard on a look of bored indifference. He wasn’t sure if her staying was a good or a bad thing, but he forced himself to focus and gave her a warm smile, partly genuine for if nothing else, her presence made a change from the neatly ordered bookshelves packed with Liddell and Scott, Loprieno, Gardiner and Edwards.

He began to read. Despite himself he was soon lost in her work. It was well ordered, structured elegantly and . . . more importantly, she’d balanced her arguments well with accurate referencing to support her conclusions. Finally he sat back eyes closed. It was almost faultless. What’s more it appeared to be her own work, there was just enough of her “style” in there for him to be aware of the truth of it.

Micheal Anderson opened his eyes and stared at her as if for the first time since she’d entered his office. “Miss Harris, do you mind if I call you Ansley? Ansley, I’m afraid . . . I can’t give your paper an “A”. There are a couple of very minor interpretational errors of course, but given the limitations of the texts you had to reference from, sometimes this universities text book list is rather cheap, so yes, despite that, I feel your paper is worth an A+ . . . very well done.”



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She fidgeted nervously; her eyes took positions all over the room, his book shelf, his filing cabinet, most anything he had sitting in there she evaluated meekly. It was an awkward thing, sitting here, in his atmosphere: a professor's atmosphere... one where he could freely judge her, not only for her appearance (he could be snide and say something rude if he really wanted to, that was unnerving in itself), but her paper... she wondered if these walls had ears... what would they say he said about her...?

Her heart sunk when he said he couldn't give her an A. She had worked extremely hard: at least twelve consecutive hours on that paper! That bitter taste came back to her mouth. She grasped the arm rests of the chair she sat in, about to stand when he said:


"yes, despite that, I feel your paper is worth an A+ . . . very well done."


Ansley blinked a few times, allowing what he said to sink in; her grip on the chair loosened and she sat back a little. Her eyes began to brighten. A grin overtook her face, a genuine, full-cheek extension to the tune of her eyes squinting and her face hurting grin. An A+? Why, that would give her a D in the class, she'd need to ace her next assignments and tests... but... She could wind up with a B. Yes! That was stellar!

"Th--Thank Y.." her eyes grew wide, her naturally pallid face paled to a sickly shade of powder white. Horror set in her eyes and she quickly bowed her head, sitting lifelessly still; she hardly breathed. No, no... why did she stutter? She hadn't... stuttered since... third grade... she had to go through humiliating classes full of other kids with speech impediments. Her alcoholic mother would laugh at her when she made a mistake: "You stupid girl, its TH-ANK Y-OO" she'd laugh in her intoxicated splendor.

She could start crying right here. Right now. Thinking about that, thinking that he probably had a snicker on his face. She mouthed the words "thank you" hidden behind a curtain of her soft crimson mane. Articulating the 'th' sound silently. She mouthed 'thank you' again.

"Thank you," she whispered. She didn't dare look at him, she stood abruptly, head bowed. She was still sort of frozen; she should probably leave now, there wasn't much else to say and she was disturbing him from working on... whatever it was Professors worked on in their spare time. She could feel herself blinking back tears. How embarassing, and here, of all places. She knew she looked vulnerable, she was probably exerting such low self-esteem at this point that he probably thought it comical. Ansley Harris, worlds biggest bitch just had a melt down, and for what? Everyone doesn't talk concisely all day every day. People stutter, why was she tearing her self up over it? She chewed on her bottom lip, forcing strands of her hair behind her ear.

"Right," she said almost inaudibly. "Thank you for your time..."

She stumbled as she turned; she felt her cheeks glow red.

'Chill Out, ' Ansley thought to herself. She inhaled deeply and let out a long sigh, grasping the door handle, opening it quickly and escaping before he could say anything else. Once out of the door her legs gave way and she crumpled up against the wall. It took all her strength not to cry.... that was the first time in a very VERY long time that she felt so small. She felt like a child again, just some stupid kid. She knew that he was probably spinning around what just happened in his mind, he may even be laughing about it. Yes, like her plan would work if he thought she was dumb. Dumb isn't sexy... at least, in her estimation older men liked very intelligent, mature women, not party girls... she was just a dumb party girl... She shook her head and sighed again, looking back towards the door.

'What would happen if I asked him to tutor me?' she wondered, surely the pursuit of higher knowledge was a little more sexy than just a dumb girl. 'But what if he says no, that he's too busy...'

She stood, her legs shaking; she brushed off any traces of dirt from her bottom and the length of the skirt of her dress.

"I'll ask tomorrow," She said quietly, more for herself to believe it than for anyone to hear. She started down the hall, towards more familiar faces and familiar places. Her friends invited her to a party, which she declined; she wasn't in the right frame of mind today to have fun.

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He was speechless. The Ansley Harris had stuttered in his office, and then even more amazingly, almost cried. He sat down confused. He had this feeling, like a ghost image in a mirror, that things were spiralling out of control. A web was being spun in which they both were becoming trapped and neither was the spider.

He shook his head to clear it. That didn’t work, so he opened his filing cabinet, rummaging around in the bottom drawer and pulling out a leather clad hip flask. His nose wrinkled as he unscrewed the cap and the hard liquor bit at his sinus. “Sod it,” he thought. He didn’t give a shit who walked in right now, his nerves were frayed and he needed something. In another time he would have found someone, some hot unwilling flesh to take out his frustrations on. Here the Bourbon would have to do, for now anyway.

He leaned back and let the spirit do it’s work. His thoughts strayed unerringly back to her, drawn as surely as electrified ultraviolet makes its call of love and death to the night creatures. His thoughts matched two images, overlaying them. The slutty, bitchy Ansley and the tearful insecure Ansley. Hot wanton flesh under a modest summers dress. His hand strayed. He didn’t even realise it. His eyes were closed as he put the tearful, pleading face on the steamy, needful body. His hand pushed, bending his own aching need and a groan swirled around the room, unheard by the dusty and uncaring tomes.

For the first time in ages he was close to losing control. He . . . just wanted. His eyes strayed across his desk and his brain wondered. Should he call Liz? Maybe here, in his office. It might just calm him and make it safer for others. He knew, instinctively she’d come to him if he asked, that in itself was fucking dirty. A willing toy, she knew it, he knew it, shit, the rest of the faculty probably knew it. And it might make walking into the staff common room a little more fun. All for a while at least, until he could figure out what to do with the perplexing Miss Harris.

In a trance of need he watched himself pick up the phone …. he didn’t trust his voice. He watched as his fingers danced out a question. The phone beeped ….. his fingers tapped with practised ease, this time instructions, details …… a beep and acquiescing desires scrolled across the screen. No questions, no complaining … she really was a dirty bitch, just as he’d suspected. He wondered why it had taken him so long to give in. If he was honest, he’d never really felt the need until now, then Ansley had opened his locked door and let out the dogs. Of course, the fact that he’d played hard to get and that it had driven Liz into a state where she’d agree to anything, didn’t hurt either.

He worked down another slug of Bourbon, letting the fiery liquid burn it’s way down the back of his throat. He was sitting in a pleasant state of arousal when there was a soft knock on his door. “Professor Anderson, may I please come in . . . I . . I ha .. have my paper here, sorry it’s so late.”


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Mike watched her enter and his eyes widened in pleasant surprise. She locked the door, the latch sounding impossibly loud in the silent room. She didn’t move from the door but turned, her head down in delicious submission. The summers dress she’d picked was close enough and her black framed glasses near perfect. How she’d managed it in this time frame peaked his interest a little, she must have raced home and back, which was itself very telling.

He cleared his throat and she looked up, just enough to catch his eye. He motioned her over, nodding towards the chair. “The paper,” he held out his hand, ”and please don’t fidget, it will won’t help your mark.”

She placed a paper on his desk and sat down, coyly crossing her legs. He made a pretence of looking it over, while casually watching her. The longer he delayed, the more edgy she looked. Her face was flushed and she squirmed around on the seat, trying to sit still, but failing. He didn’t react and she sank lower, splaying her legs a little and allowing her dress to ride up her smooth thighs. Mike licked his lips, his head down but his eyes watching. Her hand slowly moved, trying or pretending, even he wasn’t sure which, not to attract his attention as it slipped down over the top of her hem. Delicate fingers tugged the material still higher, revealing pink flesh. No panties. Exactly as requested.

Mike picked up his pen and started writing. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, her hand slipping down further, her fingers sliding easily into her glistening folds. He dropped his pen and stared. “Excuse me, just what do you think you are doing? Stop that or I’ll be forced to call the Dean immediately!”

Her head rocked back and she plunged her fingers deeper, “ I . . . ple . . p . . . please don’t Profes . . .professor . . . pleaseeeee. I’ll do anything . . . anything.” She stammered and stuttered almost in time to the wet sloppy sounds coming from between her thighs as she worked herself faster. He stood, the chair wheeling back to slam against the wall, ……. “Anything huh …. Yes, indeed you will ….”

She didn’t look up but rubbed even harder, slick rude sounds now accompanied by little gasps. He strode to her side and reached down grabbing her wrist, stopping her cold. She mewled in protest, fighting to move, to rub, to touch her ache. He withdrew her dew coated fingers, twisting her hand up and rubbing it against her mouth, “Clean them,” he told her as he worked to unbuckle his pants. Her eyes widened, “N ….n ….no, please … I … I c c c can ….mmmmhphhh,” her protests died away as he forced her fingers into her mouth, soon replaced with the sound of greedy slurping.

He picked her up and pushed her forward onto the desk. She fell trying to support herself, but he pushed her down so her face was against the polished wood. The dress was yanked up and over her head, exposing everything except her face. He didn’t want to see her, all the easier to imagine another attached to the body he was using. He roughly pushed at her, not that she was dry, far from it, still, he shoved inside with one hard thrust and she gasped loudly at the shock.

He fucked at her, not with her, not for anything she might need, but at and in her. Long strokes, rough, hard. She squirmed under him, trying vainly to rub her spot against the hard edge of the desk. He didn’t care though, and the more she moaned and twisted in frustration, the rougher he fucked her. One hand held her by the shoulders, gripping her tightly so she couldn’t get up, the other slid down the cleft of her ass, his thumb finding and pressing into her hot little bum. She groaned, loud and long, her face slapping the wood as he fucked and probed, probed deeper and fucked.

In his mind he imagined tears, but the slick hole that sucked at him each time he buried himself betrayed her, “Ye …es …. Ye … es …yess … yess … God Yesssss!” she groaned. He stiffened, Ansley's face floating before him in imagined orgasmic rapture. He shoved deep, hitting something, the head of his cock bumping against a nub of flesh which triggered his flood. Hot cum pumped, and pumped, thick, built up frustration pumped deep.

He sagged back into the chair, his erection still twitching and bobbing, still leaking white gobs of cum. Liz scrambled, her hands slipping wetly over his desk until her mound found the smooth hard corner. He barley registered as she lewdly humped herself to a loud sobbing orgasm, for his thoughts were far away . . . with his Ansley Harris as she sobbed and begged him for more . . .


.

Once Ansley returned home she went straight to her room with several shopping bags draped over her arms. She slung open the door to her walk-in closet and started tossing most of her tasteless clothing onto the floor. Her Rational? She was nearly 21 years old; it was about time that she started acting and dressing like an adult.

Of course, she kept some of her tighter, shorter pairs of jeans, and some tank tops specifically for summer days and lounging around the house, but… in public, well, she was going to adopt a whole new appearance… what would it matter if she did? All of her luck, everyone who followed her or wished to be her would end up dressing almost exactly like her… and then, laughably, Professor Anderson would strike out at one of the female students, looking studious and innocent and nerdy and sexy all in one little package… Naturally, his advances would go to Ansley, she had worked very hard for this, after all…

…Micheal Anderson… advancing on her… she trembled at the thought, as imaginary scenes of him forcing her this way and that played in her head, like a black and white movie, leaving much to the imagination; quick grasps and glimmers and gasps and…

She squirmed, allowing the clothing in her had to fall on the floor. She took a deep breath, leaning her body against the wall in the closet, and closed her eyes. She gently traced her fingertips against the supple, soft, sloping skin just below her neck, downward, towards the milky valley of her bust…

It was in this moment that the maid made her way into her room, asking to assist. Ansley jumped and looked flustered, confused, then shy; she snatched up the shirt that she let fall on the floor and fumbled to put it on a hanger. Her heart was racing, her skin was boiling, her body was aching.

”Of course, you can help…” she said quietly, her voice stung with a strong sound of hatred towards the woman that just interrupted a personal moment between a sexually frustrated college girl and her own impure thoughts.

The maid went towards the clothes on the floor in the room, then started grabbing for hangers to put them away.

”I don’t want those clothes,” Ansley said sharply, giving a bold annunciation on ‘those’. The maid looked at her with a blank expression on her face; then what Ansley had said registered in her mind and made the woman feel and look weak: she messed up... this was twice now...

”I am so sorry, ma’am,” she apologized dolefully; she bowed low and started looking around helplessly for something else to assist with.

”I just need help with those bags over there, the rest of the stuff I think I’ll donate,” Ansley informed the maid, though, she wasn’t entirely sure why she felt she needs to justify throwing away designer clothes; she can always go back to the old clothes after her little rendezvous with the professor.

”Would you like me to pack those, miss? And you can hang your new clothing?”

”That’ll do…”

It didn't take but an hour for Ansley’s older clothing to be packed away and her new clothing to be hung up or folded and put away. She began walking up and down the closet trying to figure out her outfit for tomorrow when the maid announced her leave. Ansley swatted her away without even looking up as she pulled out a light green and white checker a-line sundress with a few little rose buds strewn about the pattern. A grass green satin sash complimented the ensemble. She smiled. Yes, with white stockings and some rose-colored flats… hmm… and of course, a loose fitting, light, grey cardigan. Perfect. The Professor would swoon for sure!

Maybe he’d have an instantaneous boner? Ansley smirked at the thought; oh how embarrassing that would be… And sweet innocent new Ansley would sit there and blush and push her glasses up on her nose, perhaps twirling what little hair there was left after she braided her crimson locks.

The idea was DELICIOUS.

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Ansley pranced into class nearly a moment before the lecture started; she quickly took her seat, looking flustered and lost. Her make-up was barely there, showing the radiance of her beautiful skin, her emerald eyes highlighted by a soft green tint of powder-green eye shadow; she quickly took her seat, her hair was messily thrown into two braided pigtails, her bangs were flippy and wavy and messy. She adjusted her glasses as she threw her book onto the table in front of her.

Her friends acknowledged her, but only briefly, for their attention was taken back to Professor Anderson who had stood to take command of the class. Ansley didn’t even mind that for a second; her silly little reputation was a thing of the past. The only rep that was spinning around about her was that she had a psychotic break shortly after the talk she had behind closed doors with the Professor, so much so that she felt compelled to change her entire wardrobe and had become withdrawn. It was hilarious, really, because the more she rejected her popularity the more of a legend she became, and the more of a reputation was gained by the Professor.

Ansley sat atop the class, peering down at him, awaiting an interesting lesson. A very small smile formed at her lips as she watched him watching her. Yes, she’d most definitely need tutoring, and she would ask straight after class.