Graduate Seminar in Creative Writing (closed for SueTeri)

[paulboulder]

It was the first Monday in September. Dr. Richard Duro made his way through the slender passageways of Main Hall, the oldest and most historically significant building on the campus. The narrow hallways were clogged as always with students milling about on the first day of classes. Richard was a lean, muscular man from a Mediterranean family. He had bright brown eyes, a warm smile, and wavy black hair that was just beginning to get specks of gray in it. Fit and not looking 50 years old at all, he greeted students as he walked to room 501 on the top floor. 501 was his favorite room to teach in, with large windows overlooking the campus quadrangle. There was an extra spring in Richard’s step today because the class he was going to teach was his favorite class – graduate creative writing. The students were always so fun to interact with in this class.

Walking into the room, he put down his books and looked on his iPad at the class roster. There were a number of graduate English majors on the list he knew, and one, a woman, based on the name Teri Tytarse, that he didn’t recognize. Hmm, he thought.

Students started to filter into the room. Richard greeted the ones he knew by name and chatted with them about their summers. A very striking and attractive woman, probably 35-40 years old, quietly came in with them and sat in the second row. She stood out as a woman surrounded by others who were only a few years removed from being girls. She wore a lovely black cowl-neck sweater that hugged her firm breasts well and khaki pants. Richard thought, “well, that must be the one I don’t recognize on my roll.”

At the top of the hour, Richard started the class with an ice-breaking exercise. The energy of the room was stimulating as the students got to know one another. The new woman seemed to fit in pretty well, although she was not in on all the running jokes some of the students had with each other. Afterwards, he went through the syllabus and assignments and called roll. Yes, the name he didn’t recognize on the roll was indeed the new non-traditional student. She said, "present" and smiled warmly when he called her name and welcomed her.

Soon class ended. As the other students picked up their backpacks and Richard gathered his papers, an unfamiliar voice asked, “Dr. Duro? May I speak with you a moment?”

 

[SueTeri]

Richard looked up to see the older student standing before. He noticed that that the sweater did not hide her visible erect nipples pressing against the black fabric, evidence the she was not wearing a bra.

“Teri Tytarse.”

Richard couldn’t help noticing how her steel-blue eyes caught the light — sharp, calm, assessing him as though she already knew his answer. There was something deliberate in the way she moved, every gesture unhurried, confident. The air between them shifted; polite formality gave way to something quieter, charged.
“Ah yes. How can I help Ms. Tytarse?”

“Please Doctor…Teri. I’m working on my Master in Human Sexuality. My advisor suggested taking a creative writing elective. She suggested your class because she said you include erotica writing. However, I didn’t see on the syllabus anything about erotic writing. I wanted to verify that will be,

 

[SueTeri]

Richard looked up to see the older student standing before. He noticed that that the sweater did not hide her visible erect nipples pressing against the black fabric, evidence the she was not wearing a bra.

“Teri Tytarse.”

Richard couldn’t help noticing how her steel-blue eyes caught the light — sharp, calm, assessing him as though she already knew his answer. There was something deliberate in the way she moved, every gesture unhurried, confident. The air between them shifted; polite formality gave way to something quieter, charged.

“Ah yes. How can I help Ms. Tytarse?”

“Please Doctor…Teri. I’m working on my Master in Human Sexuality. My advisor suggested taking a creative writing elective. She suggested your class because she said you include erotica writing. However, I didn’t see anything on the syllabus anything and I wanted to verify that there will be.”

 

[paulboulder]

Richard Duro was struck by Ms. Tytarse’s question and gaze. He felt a little electric surge from interacting with her – there was a keen intellect - and more - smoldering behind those steely blue eyes. It attracted him, as did her obvious physical charms.

“Yes, Ms. Ty…”

“Please, call me Teri – we’re both adults, and,” she said, looking around the now empty room, “the youngsters are gone,” she added, with a slight angling of her head.

“OK, Teri,” he said, smiling warmly, “we absolutely allow erotic writing in this class. Because of the current political climate, we’ve been advised as faculty to not put certain things in writing or say them aloud in class, and erotica in literature and writing classes is one of those topics. I enjoy reading and writing erotic content myself, actually.”

“Very good, Professor…”

“and now, let me correct you. When the youngsters aren’t around, feel free to call me Richard. We’re both adults,” he said warmly.

“OK,” Teri said, laughing, “Richard, thank you for that information and your permission to include erotic writing in my work for this class. In my Human Sexuality courses, we often use journaling as a way to process what we are learning and how we are feeling about the course content. Journaling is also a research technique in my field, where subjects journal daily and researchers analyze their writing for particular themes” Then she paused, tilted her head slightly down, then looked up at him, and said: “I really enjoy reading and writing erotic content. I’d welcome your feedback on it.”

There was a brief silence as they looked at each other but said nothing.

Richard broke the silence and said, “I look forward to it, T…” he was about to call her by her first name, but saw a student coming in for the next class and switched to formal address. “Ms. Tytarse. I will see you on Wednesday. Looks like we need to clear out of this room for the next class to come in.”

 

[SueTeri]

Teri moves through her kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, wrapped only in an orange-and-white striped apron that clings to her waist with a casual knot. The scent of grilled chicken mingles with citrus and mint as she slices blood oranges and fans avocado into a bowl of peppery arugula, her dirty blonde hair pinned loosely, a few strands brushing her cheek. Her friend Tiffany sits on high stool at the marble top island and takes a sip of wine as she watches Teri plates the salad with mismatched ceramic bowls.
“Let’s eat on the deck,” Teri suggested as she unties and pulls it the apron over her head. She is naked like her best friend and lover.
Tiffany is the one who introduced Teri to nudism. After living in the dorm after their freshmen year, they moved into creaky old house where the windows stayed open and the furniture was mismatched but loved. Tiffany, already comfortable in her skin, would pad through the kitchen after showers, and towel in hand but rarely used. One afternoon, while folding laundry and talking about shame and freedom, she asked Teri if she’d ever tried being naked just for herself—not for sex, not for rebellion, but for stillness. Teri hesitated, then laughed, then tried it. That first moment—bare feet on hardwood, wasn’t transformative all at once. But it planted something. Over time, nudism became less about exposure and more about reclamation. Tiffany never pushed, only modeled. And Teri, slowly, began to feel the difference between being seen and being whole. It was Teri’s deceased husband that took to nudism and the alternate lifestyle of swingers.
Teri filled the goblets with chilled white wine, the citrusy aroma curling upward as she handed one to Tiffany. They grabbed their salad bowls and strolled through the sunroom, sunlight dappling the floor beneath their bare feet, then stepped out onto the deck. The glass-panel railing framed a view that looked like something out of a dream: a lagoon-style pool with a beach-entry perimeter, a waterfall cascading from the top of a stone grotto, and steam rising from a hidden hot tub nestled among tropical plants like a Jurassic spring. Off to the side, the pool bungalow stood ready—its outdoor kitchen and bar gleaming in the late afternoon light.
They settled at the table, the air warm and fragrant with jasmine. Tiffany swirled her wine and asked, “So, how’s it feel to be back at the university?”
Teri took a bite of salad, arugula and grilled chicken mingling with blood orange and mint. “Definitely different being much older than the average student,” she said with a shrug.
Tiffany grinned. “Lots of hot young guys and gals you’d like to jump their bones?”
Teri laughed, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, there are plenty of cute boys and coeds. I got hit on by a couple of guys between classes at the Student Union.”
2 / 7
“Why wouldn’t you?” Tiffany said, raising her glass. “You’ve got a smoking hot bod, and you’re in better shape than girls half your age.”
“I am twice their age!” Teri shot back, and they both dissolved into laughter, the kind that echoed off the glass and into the garden, full of memory, mischief, and the kind of friendship that never ages.
“How are your classes?” Tiffany asked, swirling her wine as the late sun warmed the deck.
“Foundations of Human Sexuality is okay,” Teri replied, taking a sip. “The professor reminds me of Dr. Ruth—tiny, fierce, and full of stories. But my Sex Research Methods class? That one’s going to be fascinating.”
Tiffany leaned in, genuinely curious. “How so?”
Teri smiled, a glint of memory in her eyes. “Remember that party house we went to way back? The old antebellum mansion out in the middle of nowhere?”
Tiffany nodded slowly, recognition dawning. That place had been one of their more surreal adventures—Teri and her husband, Tiffany and her ex, all deep into the swinger scene, exploring on-premises clubs and private parties with curiosity and trust.
“It turns out,” Teri continued, “that house belonged to a retired professor of sexology. She used it to study human sexual behavior—ethically, with consent. We signed waivers acknowledging the cameras in every room, gave permission to be recorded. After she passed, she donated the house to the university’s Department of Sexology. It’s now a research site.”
“You’re kidding,” Tiffany said, eyes wide. “You’re telling me researchers watched me in action? I remember that night—I was a woman possessed.”
Teri laughed softly. “They documented everything. Remember the photos they took of us naked against the wall? That was to assign us participant numbers—‘M’ for men, ‘W’ for women followed by a number. They tracked types of encounters, frequency, partners… everything.”
Tiffany leaned back, salad forgotten. “Do you think they still have our numbers? Our videos?”
“I’m sure they do,” Teri said. “They told us the database holds thousands of entries. It was all for research—anonymous, archived, and probably still referenced.”

 

[SueTeri]

They sat in silence again, this time not from surprise, but from awe. The past wasn’t just memory—it was data, ritual, and a kind of legacy. And now, Teri was studying the very systems that once studied her.
“My Tuesdays and Thursdays are devoted to the study of the Kama Sutra,” Teri said, sipping her wine with a mischievous glint.
Tiffany’s eyes lit up. “You mean you’re going to learn how to do all the positions? Is there a lab for this class?” Her excitement was almost childlike, bubbling over with curiosity.
Teri giggled, the sound light and warm, like a breeze through wind chimes. “There’s more to it than just the positions, Tiff. The Kama Sutra has seven main sections and around thirty-six chapters. It covers the art of courtship, marriage, relationships outside of marriage, even social customs and emotional etiquette.”
Tiffany frowned, momentarily deflated, but her persistence held. “But you are going to learn the positions, right?”
Teri rolled her eyes with affectionate exasperation. “Yes, we’re going to learn the positions. In fact, our Indian professor said she’ll have a couple demonstrate each one for educational purposes.”
Tiffany’s face lit up again, satisfied. “Now that’s a class I’d audit.”
They both laughed, the sound echoing across the deck and into the garden, where steam still curled from the hot tub like a secret waiting to be shared.
They sat in silence for ten minutes, the kind that only old friends can share—unrushed, unguarded, and full of unspoken memories. Then Tiffany leaned in with a mischievous grin. “So… any professors you’d like to sleep with?”
Teri turned beet red, smirking as she looked away, refusing eye contact. Tiffany laughed and slapped her hand playfully. “You little flirt! Spill it.”
Teri hesitated, then gave in with a breathy laugh. “It’s my creative writing professor—Dr. Richard Duro. Oh my God, Tiff, he’s so hot. I think he’s around fifty. Wavy black hair with gray at the temples, those dreamy brown eyes… maybe Italian. Gorgeous tan skin. Tall, lean, and toned. He has this quiet intensity when he talks about in creative—I swear, I nearly melted.”

 

[SueTeri]

Tiffany raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sounds like someone made quite the impression.”
Teri nodded, cheeks still flushed. “After class, I asked him a question about erotica writing, and the way he looked at me—so focused, so respectful—it stirred something I hadn’t felt since Roger. After he finished answering my question, I nearly ran of the classroom to the nearest restroom. Going into the first stall, I fingered myself and rubbed my clit feverishly until I made myself cum.”
Tiffany softened, sensing the truth beneath the tease. “You’re smitten.”
Teri shrugged, her smile tinged with vulnerability. “It’s been a long time since someone made me feel that alive.”
Once again they sat in silence sipping the wine as the crickets chirped and light bugs flickered in the backyard.
Tiffany leaned back, swirling her wine, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You remember that Econ professor? The one who looked like he hadn’t touched a woman since the Reagan administration?”
Teri snorted. “The one who nearly choked on his linguine when you told him your boyfriend had a deal—two coeds for one passing grade?”
“Oh, he thought we were bluffing,” Tiffany said, voice low and wicked. “Until we got him up to that hotel room and I unzipped my boots like I was peeling off a decade of shame.”
Teri laughed. “I swear, when I dropped my dress, he clutched the bedpost like it was a lifeline. I thought we’d have to call 911.”
“Thank god for the little blue pill,” Tiffany said, raising her glass. “Otherwise, he’d have been one and done before I even got my bra off.”
They both dissolved into laughter, the kind that came from power reclaimed—not just over men, but over the stories they’d been told about what women should want, should do, should hide.
“Oh, shit, Tiff,” Teri muttered, glancing at the slim silver watch on her wrist—the only jewelry she wore. “It’s 1:30 in the morning.”
They gathered their empty salad bowls and wine goblets, bare feet brushing against the cool stone patio as they moved inside. Teri followed Tiffany, her eyes drawn to the sway of her hips, the heart-shaped curve of her buttocks. She’d always admired Tiffany’s hourglass figure—especially the defined dimples of Venus that framed her lower back like parentheses of desire.
Both women were similar in build, though Tiffany’s legs were slightly shorter than her torso, the inverse of Teri’s long-legged frame. The contrast had always fascinated Teri—how their bodies fit together like mirrored puzzle pieces.
In the kitchen, Tiffany rinsed the bowls and goblets, handing each to Teri, who placed them in the dishwasher with practiced ease. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was charged. Naked, relaxed, and familiar, they stood facing each other, the air thick with memory and want.
Teri met Tiffany’s gaze—green eyes burning with the same hunger that simmered behind her own steel-blue ones. She crossed the tiled floor like a lioness, deliberate and fluid, her body humming with anticipation.
She cupped Tiffany’s face in her hands and kissed her—slow, deep, and familiar. Eighteen years of shared breath, shared skin, shared nights. Their hands moved instinctively, tracing ribs, hips, and breasts, fingers curling around softness and muscle.
Their hands moved instinctively, tracing ribs, hips, and breasts, fingers curling around softness and muscle.
Teri’s palms slid over Tiffany’s skin—warm, slightly dewy from the night air, with a fine grain like polished sandstone. Her fingertips grazed the swell of Tiffany’s breasts, feeling the subtle shift in texture as she reached the areola: soft, ridged, and responsive. The nipples stiffened under her touch, firming like tiny buds in spring air, and she circled them slowly, watching Tiffany’s breath catch and deepen.
Tiffany leaned in, her collarbones rising and falling with each inhale—slow, deliberate, like waves against a dark shore. Teri pressed her lips there, tasting salt and wine, feeling the pulse beneath skin.
Their bodies aligned, torsos brushing, thighs grazing. Teri’s hand slid down Tiffany’s belly, following the gentle slope past the navel to the hairless pubic mound. She cupped it, feeling the heat radiate and into her palm. Tiffany tilted her pelvis forward, a silent invitation.
Teri parted the labia with practiced ease, exposing the slick inner folds—glossed with arousal, flushed with blood. Her fingers found the clitoral hood, teasing it back to reveal the pearl beneath: taut, engorged, and pulsing. She circled it slowly, then pressed with rhythmic intent, feeling Tiffany’s hips roll in response.
Tiffany moaned softly, her breath now staccato against Teri’s neck. She reached down, mirroring the gesture, fingers slipping between Teri’s folds, tracing the same path—labia majora, labia minora, clitoral shaft. Their bodies moved in tandem, pelvic tilts syncing like dancers in a ritual older than language.
Tiffany slid her fingers between Teri’s thighs, gathering the slickness there. She raised her hand between them, offering her glistening fingers like a communion.
“I love it when you get excited for me,” she whispered.
Both women leaned in, tongues meeting Tiffany’s fingers, tasting the honeyed salt of arousal.
“Let’s go to your bedroom,” Tiffany said, her voice low and certain.
She led Teri out of the kitchen, across the threshold toward the master suite in the other wing of the house. Teri followed, knowing sleep would have to wait—this night was far from over.

 

[SueTeri]

In the nearby coffee bistro where students often lingered between classes, Teri sat alone at a corner table, her laptop open and glowing. She sipped her latte slowly, the foam tracing her upper lip, while her fingers picked at a cranberry-orange muffin, nibbling absentmindedly.
Beside her, stacked on the adjacent chair, were the books assigned for the first three weeks of her Embodied Intimacy & the Kama Sutra course: The Complete Kama Sutra, Come As You Are, and The Illustrated Kama Sutra. Their covers were worn, corners softened by use—she preferred hard copies, the weight of knowledge in her hands.
She wore her spin class outfit: a magenta sports bra with iridescent shimmer and high-waisted leggings patterned in electric blues and plum. The fabric hugged her curves, accentuating the roundness of her glutes and the dip of her lower back. She planned to meet Tiffany at the studio later, but for now, she was deep in her notes—highlighting passages on pelvic tilt, clitoral anatomy, and emotional pacing.
She barely noticed the figure approaching until a voice interrupted her focus.
“You know you can read those books online.”
Without looking up, slightly irritated, she replied, “Yeah, I know. I’m a little old-fashioned. I like hard copies.”
She adjusted her turtle-shell glasses, pushing them up the bridge of her nose, and finally glanced up.
Standing before her was Richard Duro—her creative writing professor. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that curled at the edges like a well-written sentence.
“Hello, Teri,” he said, voice warm and amused.
She froze, caught off guard. Her hand lifted in a shy wave, words failing her. Her mind flickered back to last night—Tiffany’s mouth between her thighs, the slow build of pressure, the cataclysmic release. Even then, she’d wondered: could Richard kiss like that? Could he read her body the way Tiffany did—like a poem written in heat?
She felt the flush rise from her chest to her cheeks, her body tingling, her core moistening with the thought.
Regaining composure, she stammered, “Oh—hi, Doctor… I mean, Richard.”
He held his coffee cup casually, eyes scanning her laptop screen. “You look totally engrossed.”
“Yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “Just reviewing notes from class.”
He gestured to the empty chair. “Mind if I sit?”
“Oh—no, not at all.” She quickly moved the books to the table, stacking them neatly. Her fingers trembled slightly, her pulse quickening. She was nervous. And excited. And somewhere between the two, her body was already writing its own story.

 

[paulboulder]

Richard had walked into the bistro Tuesday morning entirely on a whim. He was trying to cut back on his coffee drinking and had been avoiding entering the shop for that reason…the smells and sounds would be too much of a trigger for him to exercise willpower.
Exercising, however, was one of Richard’s passions. Other than his teaching, writing, and playing the piano, working out daily and preparing for road races and triathlons filled many hours of his life. In some ways, it stabilized the rhythm of each day. Every morning he rose early and ran on the hills and trails around the outskirts of town. Every afternoon after work he either swam, lifted weights, or cycled. Monday and Thursdays he swam, Tuesdays and Fridays he lifted weights, and Wednesdays and Saturdays he cycled in addition to his daily runs. On Sundays he often ran again or took a hike in the afternoon.

That Teri happened to be in the bistro that Tuesday morning when he dropped in was a pleasant surprise for Richard. He’d actually thought a lot about their meeting Monday afternoon and evening. As he swam, his mind wandered to Teri’s sexy figure, her steel blue eyes, her confident, athletic movements, and yes, her lack of a bra. As the laps past by, he realized her not wearing a bra wasn’t some sort of come on or tease to get attention; it was just a statement of who she was – bold, secure in her own body, comfortable with who she was. Richard found this aspect in particular very attractive.

Driving home from the pool and preparing dinner, he also thought about how Teri spoke not only of erotica in creative writing, but also of journaling in her Sexuality classes and in research methods. He chuckled to himself as he sauteed red bell peppers, onions, capers, and garlic to put over his pasta: would she be interested to know that he had double majors in English and Psychology as an undergraduate, and that his honors thesis had been on the parallel usage of journaling in creative writing and cognitive behavioral therapy? Would she be intrigued to learn that his Master’s thesis was an exploration of ribald and erotic tales in classic literature, including Boccaccio’s Decamerone, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, the tales of Don Juan in Tirso de Molina’s El Burlador de Sevilla, and, of course, the legendary exploits of Casanova as recounted in his Histoire de ma vie. Did she know he indulged on Literotica writing torrid sex tales of imagined scenarios he made up? They certainly had a lot of interests in common.

He’d also made note of the fact that Teri did not have a ring on her fourth finger of her left hand. Neither did Richard. It had been almost five years since his divorce from Helen. They still remained friends, and their separation was very amicable, but all the same, Richard missed having someone in his life. He’d been on some dates here and there, and had had a few brief physical flings with women he’d met online, but while these had scratched a physical itch they hadn’t been fulfilling on any other level. Perhaps that was why he found Teri particularly interesting – a confident, physical woman with an interest in many of the same passions he had.

He was surprised, then, and delighted to see Teri so soon; he wouldn’t see her in class until Wednesday. Was it his imagination, or did she seem a little surprised and curiously awkward when he first spoke with her?

Sitting down at her table and smiling, he asked, “Just came from the gym or going after class?”
“Oh, I have a spin class this afternoon. I just figured I would come in my workout clothes, as I only have two brief things on campus today. No formal meetings or anything.”

“I do a bit of cycling myself, but out on the roads. You look like you take great care of yourself,” Richard said. “That’s a great color for you, too.”
Teri slightly blushed. “Thanks, it’s all about staying connected physically and mentally, you know?” Richard watched her carefully to see how she responded to his compliment. She seemed to have taken it well.

“Yes, I do know, Teri. Movement and Mind as one. I run and swim and cycle and lift weights, and sometimes do yoga, too,” Richard added warmly. Then, picking up the Kama Sutra book and thumbing through the pages, he added, “hmm…I can’t say I’ve studied all of these asanas, though,” and laughed. He made a joke out of turning the book sideways and testing out various angles to look at the pictures.

Teri started laughing at his antics and was surprised by the ease at which Richard thread the line between showing warmth and interest without crossing over into something off-putting or creepy. It seemed playful and fun with more than a little bit of sexy charm slyly thrown in. Smiling as she took the book back from him, she said, “well, it’s certainly true that everyone in my class seems to be very eager to learn the course content and do the readings,” and looking over her glasses at Richard, she shot him a wink.

They sat at the table for several more minutes in similar playful banter. Then, looking at his watch, Richard said, “well, it’s been delightful seeing you now. I hope you have a wonderful day, Teri. I look forward to seeing you in class tomorrow. Enjoy your spin class!” He pushed back his chair, smiled, and strode away to his office. As he walked off, he thought to himself, “better to leave with her wanting you to stay and talk longer than to stay too long.”