After The Lecture

I knock on your door. I've been pacing up and down the corridor for half an hour, working towards this simple action, when I got sick of myself. What's the worst that can happen? Actually, I reason, best not to open the door on that, not if I want this door opened, as it were. So I knocked.

'G'day Sir,' I croak. Is that really how I sound? Really really? Ker-rist, that's embarrassing to find out.

You don't seem to notice that I sound like one of Jim Henson's Muppets. 'Jane, my God, what are you doing here? I thought you would've taken the first flight out of here once you submitted your thesis.' You sound genuinely pleased to see me.

I laugh. 'Thought I'd come mix it with the plebs - the semester's not quite over, and the babies might need me.' I've been your tutor these 15 long weeks, and taken half your tutorials, saving you from your marking. A torturous 15 weeks, working alongside you, becoming more and more desirous of your touch.

'You're a beautiful woman,' you say, 'Willing to sacrifice pleasure in the pursuit of undergraduate excellence.' That knicker-melting smile.

Did you just call me beautiful?! 'It's a hard job, but someone's got to do it,' I joke.

'And nobody does it better!'

You're not helping. 'And, I think I may have inadvertently agreed to attend the end of year Ball,' I add. 'That'll teach me to answer questions when I'm trying to do 27 other, more important, things.'

'Ah, they got you too?' You ask. Suddenly, you realise I'm standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. 'Have you got time for a chat?'

Baby, I've got so much time for you. 'If I'm not interrupting?'

'Not at all - step into the club room.'

Your tenure and seniority has assured you one of the better offices, an L-shaped room with all the expected detritus of academia - solid desk with PC, bookcases and conference table - but also an alcove, out of sight from the door, and a small ensuite. These offices have always been the Swingers' offices but the fact you inhabit one has always seemed incongruous. I've known you since I was a 20 year old undergrad, and I've never heard you speak of a wife, or even a girlfriend, and you're certainly not a notorious skirt chaser. A shame - I wear so many skirts in the Canberra summer... So rather than a fur coverlet and mirrors on the ceiling, your alcove has been fitted out as a gentleman's retreat. I wasn't at all surprised when I first noticed the leather club chairs, was more surprised by the images that flashed through my head. My silk slip pushed up over my hips, my naked bottom on the cool leather, your hands on my thighs, pushing them gently apart... Ahem. Yes. But I recognise the privilege of being allowed in - you have colleagues who have yet graduate past the conference table.

Sitting with knees touching, I'm very aware that I've dressed with baser pursuits than academia in mind. My tightest business skirt is mid-thigh now I'm relaxing in the chair, the merest hint of my lace-topped stockings apparent. My white blouse, short-sleeved in the Canberra November, is undone far enough to display my golden tits if I lean forward. Remind me to lean forward...

You're in your usual teaching gear - trousers and a business shirt. The long sleeves are rolled up, displaying your sexy, golden forearms, the shirt open at the collar, displaying enough broad, hair-dusted chest to make me want to slip my hand in, and explore...

'Sir, are you off the clock yet?' I ask. I'm sitting on my hands to stop myself from grabbing you by the shirtfront and screaming, THERE IS ONLY ONE ANSWER, DAMNIT!

You glance at your watch. 'Technically, it's only twenty to 5...'

'And in reality?' I push, as gently as I can in the circumstances.

'It's twenty to 5 on a Friday in the exam period. I was off the clock about 3 and a half hours ago.'

Good answer! 'In that case...' I reach into my shoulder bag, the brown leather tote you laughingly called my Tardis whenever I pulled out the vital item - bottled water, tissues, painkillers, bandaids - and remove a bottle of champagne. 'I wanted to celebrate my success with the man who never doubted me.'

You're flustered, unsure. 'Really Jane, it's not necessary - I wasn't even your supervisor.'

'And that's exactly why you never doubted me. You've mentored me, you've allowed me to teach, to lecture even,' A favour bestowed on a chosen favourite, I hope, 'And you waded through my drafts.' I say with some finality. 'Please Sir - celebrate with me.' Before you can continue your protests, I'm darting over to the window, popping the cork, and laughing as it spirals over Union Court. 'It'd be a shame to waste it now,' I tease, licking the sweet stickiness off my fingers.

'You are the most remarkable woman,' you sigh, fetching the wine glasses I knew you'd have.

If only you knew.

We make the toast to academia and bright futures, settling back into our chairs. 'Thank you for this,' I say. Playing hard and fast with the truth, I add casually, 'It saves me drinking a bottle of champagne by myself tonite.'

'Surely you have friends to celebrate with, Jane?'

'Of course,' I reply, 'But no one special enough to drink champagne with.'

'I don't believe you,' you splutter. 'You're clever, and funny, and very attractive,' Hello! 'I can't see you without a young man hanging on to your every word.'

Ouch. 'The only young man who hangs on to my every word is my nephew, and that's because I see him so seldom that every visit is a chance to spoil him, much to his mother's delight.'

'Oh,' you reply, obviously discomforted. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it.'

'It's fine,' I say, taking another sip of the cool bubbles. She shoots... 'I'm sure your girlfriend tells you how difficult it is dating someone on a teaching/researching/publishing schedule like yours.'

'I'm not... with anyone.' She scores!

'So you get it - it's hard,' I reply, simply.

'It is. But thank you. I'm touched you consider me special enough to drink champagne with.' Screw champagne, touch me!

'I'll have to enter you in my address book as A Man To Drink Champagne With!' I joke. 'I don't suppose you come out after dark, do you?'

'Why?'

'We're both attending this Ball, apparently. And I'd really like to not have to arrive by myself, have no one to talk to while we're "mingling", and then spend an evening watching undergraduates drink their own bodyweight then hurl it back up again.'

'You do make it sound so attractive...'

'You must rescue me then, Sir. Gallantry surely forbids me going alone?' I'm touching your knee for emphasis, leaning forward. Oh yes. You've seen.

'So, we'll... Drink? Sit through a dinner? Leave as soon as possible?'

'And there'll probably be dancing. So many Balls, all that dancing.'

'Ah,' you start. 'I'm not really a dancer. In any sense.'

Giggling, I reply, 'None of us are dancers. We just hope for the best.'

'No, really, I'm not a dancer. I'm not sure I'm the partner you need for an evening like this.'

I've shown you my boobs. How hard are you going to make me work? 'I'm sure I can teach you.'

'Okay.'

'Okay... what?'

'Okay, teach me how to dance.'

Putting my glass down, I head over to your computer, quickly connecting my iPod in, and turning the volume up. As Gin's 'Oh My' opens, I'm standing in the middle of your office.

'I think it helps if we're a little closer together,' I hazard, looking at you still in your chair.

You look unconvinced.

'Come on, this is a great song.'

Oh my God, I'm beaten in the game of love,
And I fall down, I fall down to my knees I fall,
Oh my God, I'm beaten in the game of love

You walk over to me deliberately. I grab your hands, and start moving. You move... less. I obviously need to introduce the concept in small information sets.

'Follow me,' I murmur. Still holding your hand, I turn on my heel, nestling my back along your front. My hips start swinging, on the heavy bass beat. I'm pull your arm over my shoulder, so you can feel how I'm moving, before turning my head slightly. 'Can you feel it?'

When I feel you start to mimic my movements, I turn back so I'm facing you. Still writhing, I gently place your hands on my hips, before wrapping an arm around your neck and stretching back, offering you my throat, and a look down my blouse. I'm my head's moving, and I'm grinding against you. You've yet to respond, but you haven't stepped away. With the bridge, my hand's on your should and sliding down your chest as I lower myself down your body. I stand back up with a particularly athletic gesture and, with my usual brilliance, knock the pile of folders off the corner of your desk. Immediately, you've broken away from me, and are on your hands and knees, re-filing the papers.

'Um, I'm really sorry?'

'It's not a problem.' You're a million miles away, tracing document runs, putting the rite paper in the rite folder. Screw it.

Deliberately, I stand one leg either side of your shoulders. 'While you're down there...'

You twist to look at me. I've pulled my skirt up my legs to allow me to stretch, and you can see my lace-top stockings, the straps of the garter belt stretching up to the delicious unknown of Under My Skirt. In my sheer stockings and black high heels, the image is at once cliched, but still intensely erotic.

Silently, you stand, clearing the recently salvaged files back off your desk. In one swift movement, you've lifted my up and laid me on the table, my arse at the edge. My skirt's still pulled up, and you gently remove my thong, sliding it down my legs and off my ankle, before kneeling between my thighs and gently, tenderly giving me the best blowjob of my life. You're so talented, and know exactly how to stimulate my clit while sliding your fingers into me, pausing only to throw my legs over your shoulders for wider access. I'm writhing under your ministrations, pushing my pussy against your beautiful mouth, my hands on the back of your head, my vocabulary reduced to Please, More, Don'tstop don'tstop. You don't, and I'm cumming hard, the juices dripping down my thighs and arse. When I return to you Earth, you kiss each of my thighs before standing. I know what you need, and I'm pushing myself into a sitting position to unzip your flies. Firmly, you push me back down onto your desk, pinning my hand above my head. This slight force makes it so much more sensational when you slide into me completely. You quickly establish a rhythm, withdrawing almost completely before sliding back in deep into me. Gently, I struggle against the hand pinning my wrists above my head.

The lust explodes suddenly. Your free hand is ripping my blouse open, tearing at the buttons - you're seemingly desperate to lavish attention on my breasts, as you quickly pull my bra down, exposing my nipples. As you fuck me hard and deep, my nipple is in your mouth, and I'm yelping as you nip and suck. I'm wrapping my legs around your waist, pulling you in deeper, squeezing tightly around you. When I arch my hips and start thrusting back against you, you pace quickens until, with little composure and animal desire, you thrust hard and deep into me, before collapsing on top of me. Your hand releases my wrists, and my hand are running across your body. I'm desperate to touch every part of you, and brand you as my own.

Feverishly, I kiss your neck and jaw. I'm not sure what's happened but if I never have this moment again, I can say that I was loved by you, and I'm a happier, better person for that.

You lift your head from my shoulder and turn to look at me. Our eyes lock as we lie facing each other, side-by-side on your desk.

'You are the most amazing woman,' you breathe.