textfiles/sex/EROTICA/S/safesex1.txt

Archive-name: School/safesex1.txt
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Archive-title: Safesex - 1
 
 
Most married people have a story about how they met their spouses. About my
ex-wife, the story isn't so interesting. But the story of how I met
my fiancee is a little different.
 
I had better start by explaining about Amy.  I had noticed her on the first
day of class. Sitting in the front row of the classroom, looking very serious
as she took notes, she had a certain attraction that was greater than the sum
of any parts I could analyze.
 
What was it about her? I generally prefer tall women, but she was the 
sort of young woman who I tended to think of in her absence as taller
than her 5'5" frame.  Her face was fresh and pretty, rather than beautiful,
but without a single flaw in her complexion. Her figure was not the kind
that made you do a double-take, yet when you analyzed it you could only
conclude that it was perfectly proportioned: curvy but slim hips, and
breasts that were medium sized or maybe just a bit smaller. Her hands
were graceful; her eyes were bright and inquisitive; her shoulder length
hair was straight and tidy; her teeth were white and straight. Kind of
the girl-next-door look, not a flashy kind of beauty, but one that would
wear well over a long period of time, I thought.
 
In one way, I have misled you in my description of Amy. While her eyes may 
give the impression of intelligence, in point of fact she was not a very 
successful student. I didn't feel she was actually stupid, but it didn't 
take long for it to become clear that she was not going to do well in this 
class.  Maybe she didn't work as hard as she needed to. Maybe she was missing 
some of the background material the other students already had. Maybe it was 
a full-blown case of math anxiety. Who knows, maybe it was simpler than 
that and she just wasn't very smart. None of this made her any worse in my 
eyes, since there's more to a woman than just book learning. She had plenty
going for her even if she wasn't another Cantor.
 
Amy was not a flirt, during class or afterward, and on that first day there
was nothing to make me think that anything unusual would happen during the
quarter. My thoughts that day were directed toward giving a good introductory
lecture. Although I appreciate the decorative value of the female students in
my classroom, I had never harbored any illusions that they were there for my
entertainment.  First, because sexual harrassment is wrong; second, because
math is just not the greatest turn-on for most gals ("wanta come up to my
place, have something to drink, and memorize some dynamite multiplication
tables?"); and third because I'm too afraid of getting caught and losing my
job. I don't think I'm a prude on the subject, but I know I've gotten some
kidding from a couple of my friends about my somewhat oldfashioned attitude.
Maybe I've missed out on some good times along the way as a result, but I
have to believe I've missed out on a good deal of needless trouble as well.
Better to take the safe course, I've always thought.
 
A few weeks into the course I administered the quarter's first quiz. I
graded it strictly, since that first quiz of the autumn is for some students
the shock to their system necessary to get started working on the course
material. I emphasized to everyone that a poor grade on the quiz did not
mean that they couldn't get a good grade for the course, but as expected
the looks on some of the students' faces indicated that a serious
re-evaluation of their chances had taken place.
 
It's at this point that usually ten percent of the class decides to drop the
course, and a larger number decides that they had better schedule some office
time with the instructor. That's the whole point, of course, to shake the
sleepy ones out of their doldrums. This class was no exception, and I found
myself overbooked with students wanting help.
 
Amy was one of the students who signed up for office hours. She had never
come up to talk with me after class, as many of the other students often
did, so this was the first time we had spoken with each other. Based just
on her looks and manner, I had her pegged as a Political Science major, or
American Lit. Maybe even Art. I was mildly surprised when she told me
that she was in the pre-med program. The College Algebra course she
was taking from me was required in her program; more than that, she told me
she had to earn at least a B. Although I didn't say so, I was dubious about
her chances. I gave her my usual pep talk, tried to explain some topics she
found confusing, and gave her references for further study. But as she left,
I didn't get the feeling that I had done her much good. Maybe it was because
she kept calling herself dumb the whole time she was there.
 
Although some of the students came back for second or even third visits
during my office hours the next two weeks, Amy did not. I didn't think
anything about that fact, since many of the students in a given class
aren't really that motivated, and with upwards of 80 students in the
class I didn't have the luxury of looking after each one if they didn't
seek out attention. Amy attended each lecture, but never asked questions,
and her notetaking appeared to be an exercise in trying to take down each
syllable I uttered and each symbol I wrote on the board. With some
students, this would indicate a lack of real interest in the material,
and a desire just to know the probable contents of the final exam, but
looking back I now interpret Amy's methodology as sheer desperation. I
can guess that Amy's reluctance to visit me again was more a reflection
of her fear of failure than of a lack of motivation.
 
Not surprisingly, when I gave the midterm exam, Amy's score was the
lowest in the class. Sometimes a foreign student will do poorly in a
class for a while, solely because of the language barrier, and will
eventually catch on to the concepts and move up in the rankings. But
when an American student like Amy finds herself near the bottom, it's
much rarer for progress to be made as the quarter goes along. What's
more, she was a sophomore, whereas most of the students in this class
were freshmen. I have seen many freshmen start out slowly, because of
the new environment college represents, and then catch fire as the
quarter goes along, but this is much less likely with a second-year
student. Again, with perfect hindsight, I can speculate that Amy knew
this would be a tough course for her, and she put it off until her
advisor insisted she take it.
 
I don't know a teacher who doesn't feel awful when a student tries and
still fails. The worst part is returning the graded exam paper to the
student, seeing her take it with low expectations in her eyes, and
watching her face fall when she sees that she has failed to come up to
even those low expectations. Amy didn't cry, but you could see she wanted
to.
 
I rather expected that she would visit during my office hours that day, and
wasn't sure what I should or could say to help her. Honesty may be the best
policy, but I also don't like to discourage a student who is willing to
try-try-again.  But once again I was busy enough with the students who did
show up that I didn't have time to dwell upon the matter when she didn't.
 
The next class session two days later marked a change in Amy's manner. It was
difficult to describe exactly, and someone watching her for the first time
might not have thought anything of it. She was dressed the same, in her blouse
and jeans. One odd thing was that she was taking hardly any notes, and another
was that she had a very strange smile at times. Not a self-confident smile,
certainly not a happy smile, one that was forced and seemed to be directed at
me. But it was also hesitant, and anytime I really looked in her direction she
dropped her gaze after a second. I couldn't have put the reason into words at
the time, but I felt somewhat flustered, and found myself stumbling in my
delivery to the class.
 
After class, she walked down the hallway toward my office. For more than
an hour she lurked in the hallway, wandering away for a few minutes, then
returning to check if I was alone. I had seen this sort of behavior before,
when a student is too embarrassed to let classmates see how badly she is
doing. I was sure it was killing her to have her friends know her troubles.
Pride goething before a fall, you know. It was late in the afternoon before
the last student left and she finally entered my cramped office. Quietly
she said, "I need some help." I told her that I had a few minutes, and
motioned for her to sit down with me at my desk.
 
She listened as I went over her exam with her, nodding her head and murmuring
"uh huh" when I would pause to see if she was following my explanations. But
even more than the first time she visited, I got the feeling that I wasn't
getting through to her. Unlike earlier in the classroom, her face was almost
expressionless when I looked at her, and she rarely looked up from the exam
paper. A couple of lightly humorous remarks I made evidently did not register.
She seemed distracted by something. Finally, it was almost five o'clock,
and I told her, "I have to leave soon.  Perhaps you can come again during
my office hours next Tuesday."
 
She touched me lightly on the arm for a moment, and said "please, I need a
lot of help.  Could we schedule some make-up time before that?" It was a 
hesitant yet determined touch, not quite seductive and yet something more 
than just an instinctive touch on the arm. I crossed my legs, my own 
instinctive reaction to hide the possibility of her seeing the beginnings 
of the erection that was stimulated by her touch. Was I imagining things? 
Was she coming on to me? With some girls I would have been sure, yet Amy 
seemed so innocent. She had not looked me in the eye when she spoke, which 
would have given me a better way to gauge her intentions. I certainly did 
not want to embarrass her, or myself, by making an inappropriate comment 
based on what was quite possibly my own imagination. I managed to utter, 
"what do you mean, make-up? You haven't missed any lectures or exams." 
She seemed embarrassed at her miswording, and mumbled, "I dunno, I mean 
some extra help. I really need to learn this material."
 
I exhaled. Yeah, I guess I had read into her question something she hadn't
meant. I hoped she hadn't noticed my reaction, or at least would forgive me
if she had. It was an understandable mistake, after all.
 
Except, she continued, "it's pretty hard for me. Or maybe I'm just making it
harder than it needs to be. Sometimes I like to, y'know, make things hard.
That's what my boyfriend says." Was it just me, or did she also realize the
double entendre she was making? She wasn't looking at me, and there was
nothing else in her manner to suggest anything like that. I decided to try
to back away from that line of conversation, just in case she was trying to
lead me on.  I replied, "well, I suppose I could come in for a while tomorrow.
How about 10?" She continued to look at the papers in front of her, and said,
"I've got classes most of the day tomorrow. Would you have time sometime this
evening?"
 
I again wondered if I should read something between the lines in her
request? Yet her delivery was so flat, and she seemed so introverted,
that I had to doubt the conclusion I was drawing. "No, I have to get 
to a meeting in a few minutes on the other side of town," I lied. 
"Anyway, maybe you should be trying to find a tutor, who could
give you what you need." I mentally winced at the choice of phrase.
Did she understand the double meaning that could be inferred? I was
ashamed of myself for even worrying about the way to phrase an innocent
question. My conscience was clean, after all. "There's a list of tutors
on the wall opposite the department office," I went on.
 
"I've never had much luck with those guys. They always seem to be as
confused as I am. I'd really, really appreciate it if you could find
some time for me. What about after your meeting tonight?" She seemed
sincere, yet how could she not know how personal her suggestion sounded?
On the other hand,  was I getting worked up over something entirely in my 
imagination? On the third hand, if she was trying to come on to me, couldn't 
she be more original than talking about 'appreciation'? On the fourth hand, 
how many hands do I have, anyway?
 
I pointed out that they keep the building locked after hours. "Maybe you
have a friend who could help?" I suggested. "My boyfriend took Calculus,
but he just makes fun of me when I ask him questions about math. Could I
come over to your house? What time will you get home?" she persisted.
 
My hormones were working like they hadn't in a long time, not since I met the
gal that had precipitated my divorce. I looked at Amy's face. She had for just
a moment turned slightly toward me, but now quickly looked back at her papers,
avoiding my eyes. I made the mistake of letting my eyes wander below her
shoulders. Her words sounded so suggestive as to be laughable, yet her manner
indicated that she was thinking about nothing but studying to raise her
failing grade. How simple it would be if I would just ask her, "are you
proposing a lay-for-an-A, or what?", and tell her to forget it, but what if
I was wrong? Embarrassment, at the least, possibly real trouble with the dean,
if she complained to someone. No, best to play it cool. I should just tell
her, "no, I don't think that would be a good idea." But she was so
attractive to me, the horny part of my brain wanted to find out what she
intended. And so innocent, that the logical part of my brain wanted to
believe that she was completely unaware of the impact that her suggestions
were having on me. With the two halves of my brain pre-occupied like that,
I had no extra brainpower for talking, so I blurted, "you don't know where
I live." Dumb. Or, maybe the horny part of a guy's mind will always win.
 
She responded to my non-sequitur with one of her own, saying, "I've got
a bike." If there was a hint of seductiveness in her eyes, or even humor,
I was missing it. Just a simple, factual statement, like "I've got a
pencil", or "I've got a million bucks", or "I've got a wet pussy just
waiting for you." There went my brain again. Gotta stop thinking like
that.
 
"It's a long ride. I don't know if it'll be worth your time." The horny
part of my mind was keeping this line of conversation going, yet doing so
betrayed the fact that I was wavering in my resolve. If, indeed, she was
even thinking what I was thinking. She replied, "you're the best teacher
I know, I'm sure you'll be able to help me." Not even a hint of a suggestion
of a trace of an improper proposal there, was there? Especially considering
the alternative replies she could have made. ("Oh Teacher, I'm sure it'll
be worth it for you too. Pant pant.") The conflicting sides of my brain
came to an agreement that I was getting worked up over nothing.  Of course,
if I was such a great teacher (to take her remark at face value), how come
she was flunking my class?
 
I looked at my watch. "Well, I don't think you should come over alone. Can
you bring someone along, maybe your boyfriend?" She thought for a moment, then
said yes. "OK, I should be home by about nine. Bring your books," (duh, like
she was going to bring a dildo and some Crisco), "and I'll help you for
an hour or so." I gave her directions to my apartment, glad to have
figured out a way to defuse a touchy situation.
 
I found myself driving home very carefully. My mind was so woozy from the
extra adrenalin I had been pumping, and then the letdown, that I had to
concentrate on the road or I'd run off it. Now that she had agreed to, I
wondered if it was really necessary to have insisted she bring someone.
I thought, so what if she came alone, a few cheap thrills for me, all in
my mind, and she'd never be the wiser. I can think what I want, and as
long as I don't act on it, no harm done. She doesn't even know for sure
that I live alone. For all she knows, I'm happily married to my gay
lover. And anyway, I don't think she means any harm.
 
Soon after I walked into my apartment, the phone rang. It was Amy. "Hi,
I'm glad I found you at home. I thought you were going to a meeting," she 
said in her customary toneless voice.  "Uh, actually, I, uh, found out my 
meeting has been cancelled at the last minute," I said, embarrassed to be 
caught in a lie, and glad that I had thought up a second falsehood that 
would cancel the first.  "Would you and your boyfriend rather come over a
little earlier?" "That's what I wanted to call about. My boyfriend, like, 
can't come. But I still, you know, want to come see you anyway."
 
Hoo boy. And here I thought I had it all worked out. My erection started
to form again, and since I was alone I fingered it idly through my pants
pocket, before deciding that that was an especially foolish thing to be doing.
"Well, I don't know..." "Please, sir, I really need your help. It would
mean a lot to me." There was something about the way she called me sir that 
weakened my resolve. Damn, I wished I could see her face, to help me tell if 
there was anything to my suspicions as to what she meant. I had to go by 
my assessment when I saw her earlier, which was that she was merely naive.
"Well, OK, for a little while." "Um, can I come now? Would that make it
hard for you?" "Uh, give me a little time to eat and clean up, OK? How about
8?" "Um, OK. See you." Click. I wondered what I was letting myself in for.
 
My attention wandered as I prepared myself dinner, and I had a near-mishap
with a paring knife. After my sumptuous repast of spaghetti and meatballs
(no garlic, just in case - who am I kidding?), I decided to straighten up
the place. Chuckling to (at?) myself, I took a few minutes to clean up the
bedroom as well. If I'm going to kid myself, I might as well be thorough.
 
Cleaning up took less time than I expected, mostly because I did such a
poor job of it, and I sat down to read a magazine. But I couldn't
concentrate on it.  I decided, however, that I was really enjoying the
adrenalin rush I was feeling. I began to mull over the possibilities.
Maybe she would arrive wearing a bikini, come through the front door and lead
me to the bedroom, and .... Nah. I didn't know her well, but that didn't seem
to be her style. Maybe she would play it straight for a while and pretend
to study with me, then at some point slip her hand onto my leg and
rub it, moving closer to my crotch until she was giving me a handjob,
then ask if I'd like to do something more. Yeah, that would be nice.
But again, she's coming over just to study, and anything else is just
my hormones talking.
 
It was a little less than an hour and a half before she was to be there. I
decided to do a better job of cleaning the bathroom. After all, a gal might
need to go pee even if she's just there to study. While in the bathroom, I
considered that maybe the wisest course would be to jerk off now, so that
I wouldn't be tempted to actually do anything when she was here. Funny how
those childhood associations with the bathroom continue into adulthood. It's
just a good thing my friend Dan isn't coming over here this evening, I
thought. He had been with me at that bar when I met Deborah, and although
I had been definitely attracted to her, there was no doubt in my mind that
it would never have gone beyond just playful touching and dirty talk with
her if he hadn't been egging me on. Not that I blamed Dan for my divorce.
Maybe I should call Dan anyway and invite him to come over while Amy was
here. Wouldn't that put a charge in her circuits!
 
Maybe Mike; that might be fun for her. Or better still, my three fishing
buddies from up north. Boy, they could be crude; I'd like to see Amy's
reaction when one of them pinched her nipple in front of everyone. There
I go again, I thought.  Even if she is desperate for a good grade, I don't
want to see her humiliated, do I? She is so sweet and innocent, and here I
am thinking such thoughts. Of course, if she is coming over to seduce her
professor, then maybe she isn't so sweet, and definitely not so innocent.
It's not that she has anything bad coming to her, but she might deserve to
be taught a lesson.
 
I sat back down in the living room and resumed reading. Still an hour to go.
I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to clear my head. It was an
unseasonably warm autumn evening, and the fresh air felt good. But the dark
thoughts continued to loom in my head. I thought of the double entendres
she had been dropping. "My boyfriend can't come." "Would that make it
hard for you." "I like to make things hard." Well, if she really is
interested in trading a little hanky-panky for a grade, then she can't
insist on being too particular about every detail of the transaction.
In fact, if she needs this grade as badly as she says she does, she is
in no position to dictate any of the conditions of the deal.
 
I caught myself again at this point. Isn't that the fantasy of a dorky
teacher, that he can get free sex in exchange for a good grade? I felt
ashamed, but not so much so that my erection subsided any.  There's a
first time for everything, even screwing a student. But the situation
would have to be just right.
 
OK, so what could I expect from this young woman? Slam bam, thank you ma'm?
She could no doubt be convinced to give a bit more. Probably a blowjob first
if I played my cards right. Caryn had never been too keen on that particular
activity when we were married, which had made it more of an issue to me than
it rightfully should have. So, yeah, Amy should be made to sample the sausage.
What about after that? I'm not really into anal sex, but maybe just once it
might be fun, with a girl who's not in any position (ha ha) to argue. Would
she permit herself to be tied up? I considered that, and realized that I
didn't have the necessary equipment on hand. The ladies I date aren't very
kinky, and anyway I don't know anything about the subject. That kind of
activity is very tricky or someone can actually get hurt.
 
I realized I was getting too far from my apartment, getting near a bad section.
I turned back. My realization that I was near our small red-light district
caused another wave of guilt to come over me. I have never, never, come even
close to screwing one of my students. Not that I get that many opportunities,
but I have always been careful to not emphasize the power a teacher has
in giving grades, and to not make comments that could be misinterpreted.
Hell, I always make it a point to say "arrive" instead of "come", and
"difficult" instead of "hard" when talking to a female student. It's
a form of sexism, I'm sure, but a benign sort that makes certain that no
one gets any wrong ideas. Now here I am, thinking about the possible sex
acts I might perform with a student who will be, er, arriving in half
an hour. Well, I decided, if she didn't try anything I'd just play it
cool, and if she did come on to me then maybe I'd lead her on a bit before
telling her to forget it. Cheap thrills, I repeated.
 
Besides, there's lots of times professors have students over to their
place. Usually it's a group of students, and the professor is someone
in the Sociology department hosting a rap session (like, wow, maaaan),
but the point is, having a student over does not automatically mean
something is going on. It might not look good to every single old prude
out there, but that didn't make it wrong. Then again, that analysis was
bullshit, since the ideas going around in my mind definitely WERE wrong.
 
I walked back up the steps to my apartment, went to the bathroom, then came
back to the living room and sat down on the couch. The kidneys sure were 
working overtime tonight. Again I tried to read my magazine. The article I 
turned to was about why the U.S. educational system wasn't teaching its 
students well enough.  Just what I needed. I went to the fridge and got a 
can of pop. No beer tonight. I didn't want to do something I later would 
regret and blame it on the alcohol.
 
I went to the bathroom again. Though I felt like I needed to pee, just 
a little bit came out. I caught myself checking whether my underwear was 
clean. Old boy, I thought, you are setting yourself up for a big letdown. 
I went back to the living room, and turned up the thermostat a couple of 
degrees. It was a nice night, but you wouldn't want her to get too cold 
in her birthday suit, I chuckled to myself.
 
Why was I even contemplating such a risk to my career, for just an
evening of fun? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I asked myself what it would
take to be worth the risk. Maybe more than just one night of fun. What
if she could be talked into repeat performances? I felt a major wave of
horniness come over me with that thought. Now, that would be something 
closer to being worth it. The thought of reducing this apparently classy 
girl to the level of common slut was unexpectedly stimulating. But I would 
still have to protect myself somehow, from there being the slightest 
chance of word getting out. What kind of leverage could I have, once she 
had her grade?
 
How many of her other teachers had gone through this charade? I should
make a righteous stand tonight, and explain to her that trying to get
by in school by sleeping with her professors is wrong.  Corny, but the
right thing to do. Yet, when I thought of her, I couldn't bring myself
to believe that she had done this before. If I sensed her leading me
on, and I wasn't sure that I did, I also sensed humiliation and pain,
certainly not what you'd expect from a girl to whom this was old hat.
 
I was going to have to find out, for my own peace of mind, just
what Amy wanted. Probably she was just naive, and had no clue what
her visit was doing to my imagination. If on the other hand she is
already just another slut, then so be it, I don't have to get involved.
 
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. I looked at the clock.
Ten minutes before eight. Heart pounding, I opened the door, and was greeted
by a young girl who asked if I'd like to buy some candy for her school's
fundraiser. Sure, kid, just don't come inside the apartment or you'll get
molested by the pervert with the dirty thoughts. I gave her the two dollars,
shut the door and returned to the couch.
 
I realized that I was disappointed that it hadn't been Amy yet.
I was really looking forward to seeing her, prepared to find out
that she was really and truly coming over just to study, hoping for
it to be something more, dreading that the "something more" was her
usual M.O. for passing a course.
 
About the time I found my place in the magazine again, there was another
knock at my door. It was Amy.
 
(continued)
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