[ad_1]

This was five years ago. I still remember when she walked into my seminar on the first day of the spring semester. I’d long since learned to deal with the fact that some students are attractive, but she was another level. Tall and blonde, at once graceful and gawky, seemingly not entirely in control of her long legs, and a wide, wry smile—her mouth was a little too big, in a Julia Roberts way—that told you she was aware of it. Her touch of awkwardness only made her sexier—she wore a wide, wry smile, as if to apologize for being so impossibly hot. Her voice was lower than you’d expect, and her default tone was gentle sarcasm. Tattoos on both arms suggested another side to her I couldn’t help but wonder about.

On top of all of that—let’s get out with it—she had a spectacular set of breasts, buoyant but far too large for her narrow frame. (But, as I learned, entirely natural). The effect was stunning, and she knew it, but she never relied on it—she sharp as a tack and didn’t need to.

I keep my classrooms professional, but throughout the semester I’d often catch her smiling, as if laughing to herself at things I’d say, and meeting my gaze like a joke was shared between us. I won’t lie, it was a thrill. She did great work—clever, without trying to impress the way so many grad students do—and we had an unspoken bond that seemed to say, only we *really* got it. Quite a rush for me considering I was a divorced guy north of 40 and she was an absolutely goddess. She called me “professor” the way someone might call a physician “doc.”

It was her last semester, and when it wrapped up I figured I’d never see her again. But about a week later, she emailed me on my college profile: “Hey professor, looks like I’m around this summer. Free for coffee sometime?”

Of course I was. And I’d be lying if I said her reaching out didn’t conjure up some far-fetched but exciting scenarios in my mind… but at the end of the day she was an ex-student, and it was just coffee. Nothing unusual. Stay cool.

So we meet for coffee. (Switching to present tense here.) I’m there early, more than a bit nervous, and she strolls in wearing a sundress that comes down to mid-thigh and can’t help but reveal some cleavage, beaming at me with her wide lips. I stand up and she hugs me, pressing her soft, oversize breasts against me. Every guy must feel this way hugging her, I think, but for the first time I’m feeling very glad to be divorced. We chat over coffee, talking about the class, laughing about some of the more unusual personalities among the other students, and then we move on to what we’re reading now, and her plans for the future. There is an electric *something* in the air but I’m trying not to let my thoughts run away with me.

Two hours later we’re still having coffee and she tells me she’d like to keep chatting but her caffeine tolerance is maxed out. Do I feel like taking a walk? I do. The university town is a pleasant place for walking, and as we stroll and chat I notice we’re attracting a lot of looks from passers-by. She seems oblivious, her attention entirely on me, chatting and occasionally touching my arm when she’s emphasizing a point. This must be how the world is for her, I think. For my part, it’s a thrill to just be next to her.

Afternoon turns to evening and we’re still having a good time. I screw up my courage and ask her if she’d like to get dinner. She replies, smiling, “well that sounds better than the leftovers in my fridge.” I take her to my favorite spot, a little Italian place. They know me there, and courteously gestures us to a table and catches my eye, eyebrows raised approvingly. That’s when I realize how this looks—a professor dating a student—and while I’ve at all times looked down on colleagues who’ve done that… well, it’s not bothering me at all now. In fact, it feels pretty goddamn great. Lol, as the kids say.

We order wine and food, we eat and drink and talk. She’s smiling, laughing, holding eye contact—I’m doing something right here. She talks about her childhood growing up on a farm in New England, which somehow explains her down-to-earthness despite being such a beauty.

Afterwards, she asks me to walk her home, and slips her arm into mine. At the first intersection, she asks me which way my place is. I point, and without a word she steers us in that direction.

We’re barely in the doorway when I turn and before I realize what’s happening her lips are pressing against mine. I return the kiss and her tongue slips into my mouth. Suddenly we’re making out hungrily. We stumble into the living room, she’s giggling, and we’re taking each other’s clothes off as fast as we can. “Where’s the bedroom?” she asks, slightly out of breath. I pull her towards it.

What followed was—up to that point—the most incredible night of my sexual life. She was even more beautiful naked than clothed—her bare breasts were the most extraordinary I’ve ever seen—and her awkwardness fell away as we heated up. Sliding inside of her (no rubber, she was on the pill) was without a doubt the most intense moment of my life, period. Yes, we went through all kinds of acts and positions but what it really came down to was the intense, almost overwhelming feeling of being deep inside such a beautiful, vibrant creature. I brought a level of effort and skill I didn’t know was feasible, making her cum again and again. She was a moaner, and her fingers dug into me and her legs tightened and then spasmed every time she came. (She later told me she’d never cum more than once in a session, and never that hard—I think I represented my generation well.)

As the summer went on, it became a thing. We never put a label on it, and I never asked her to. Something in me knew this was just a phase in her life and my best move was to simply enjoy it while it lasted. And I did. First she stayed over a few nights a week—I’d make us dinner—and then Saturdays as well, and then whole weekends. By the end of the summer she was spending more time at my place than hers.

Sometimes the sex was slow and tender, sometimes fast and rough, sometimes both in a single evening. We spent long, lazy Saturdays in bed—fucking, talking, watching movies, and then fucking again. I taught her to play guitar. We had entire conversations with her straddling me, face to face, my cock deep inside her. When her phone rang she’d usually ignore it, but occasionally she’d hold an entire conversation with a friend with me fully inside her, giving me a wry little smile the entire time, her eyelids occasionally fluttering in ecstasy.

We packed a lot into a few short months. It finally ended when she moved away. Within a year she was married, and I realized then what I must have understood subconsciously all along—she had a long-term boyfriend elsewhere, and our summer was her getting her sexual wanderlust out of her system.

And for me, those months together were an ecstatic, blissful gift.

I have no regrets.

NSFW: yes

[ad_2]