Gotta Have It

After so many classes that I’d sat through to earn my necessary continuing ed credits, it seemed like with this Late American History class, the universe had finally realized that it owed me something. That something was Professor Richard Lumley. (His fellow lecturers called him Rick, but I liked Richard.)

Tall, slim and bookishly handsome though he was, I might have passed him over if I hadn’t heard his voice: dark, full, perfect. I heard it and I got wet. The class had been delicious torture from the moment he opened his mouth.

I imagined seeing Richard loosening his tie and coming up next to me, saying wicked, dirty things to me and touching himself, maybe even pulling his penis out of his neatly creased pants and rubbing himself, while he lectured—privately.

I shifted in my seat, ground my cunt against the plastic of the chair. I wondered if I was leaving a wet spot on my skirt. I certainly felt like I was overflowing with fluids—fluids and desire and wanton, desperate need.

My fingers stole from their clutch on my clothing to under the short skirt’s hem, slid up my thigh and finally got to where I burned. Oh, yeah, there had to be a spot. My underwear was soaked through—common enough for Richard’s class—and I almost shuddered as I touched the flesh beneath.

I knew I should stop, that I should pull my hand back and pick up my pen and take notes and pretend to be the respectable woman that I was supposed to be, at least before going to the car and frantically fingering myself to orgasm. But I didn’t want to, not this time. This was the last class, and this time I was determined that I was going to enjoy the lecture… fully.

I spread my knees wider; slid a second finger against the slick, hot silk of my panties and brushed my clit as I listened to Richard explain post-WWI socioeconomic fluctuations. He strode from one side of the room to the other, his voice echoing as he moved. I watched the flex of muscles beneath his pants, the tightness of his ass as he turned to face the opposite direction, the grace of his fingers as he touched his mouth in a brief, thinking pause.

I wondered if he could see me, all the way in the back, my thighs spread, my hand beneath my skirt, my cunt wet and dripping. Sweat broke out on the back of my neck as I imagined his eyes finding me, watching me, and I moaned.

I was not loud enough to disturb the two fortysomething women in front of me who had been chatting through every class, up front that they didn’t want to be here in the first place, but apparently my moan was enough to draw Richard’s attention.

His gaze sought me even as he continued to speak. He stared for a moment with a slight crinkle between his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite understand what I was doing, and my heart tripped in my throat when he paused oh-so-briefly and swallowed hard before snatching up the thread of his monologue.

His attention made me daring. I paused in the slow rubbing of my clit and moved my fingers, letting him see the lilac silk of my panties. Then I pulled the silk aside and felt the naked, hot flesh of my labia. I parted my lips slowly with one finger, the excitement nearly unbearable, and his eyes followed every movement. My fingertip slid in easily, and I nearly groaned at the sensation.

Richard coughed suddenly, twisted and headed for his desk. As he’d always paced in front of the class before, I was fairly certain what exactly he wished to hide behind the thick wooden panels. The glimpse of a thick bulge filling his pants as he slid into his seat was just mouth-watering confirmation.

He continued to speak, though I wasn’t following anything he was saying anymore. I heard his voice caressing the individual words and felt them falling on me like gentle touches after he said them.

I heard “…No doubt incredibly…hard…” and smiled at the pointed look Richard cast my way.

My fingers were sunk to the second knuckle now, and I shifted, unable to sit still as heated ecstasy radiated from my pelvis up to my breasts and down to my knees. My nipples were hard against the thin fabric of my shirt and I lifted my shoulders, drawing his attention to the peaks.

His hands were beneath the desk. Was he touching himself, I wondered? Was he rubbing himself while I fucked myself with my fingers?

The image was thrilling. I thrust my fingers faster and pressed my clit with my thumb. I felt my climax welling, sitting right within reach, but I didn’t want to come yet.

Richard hesitated momentarily, then he pressed on with the lecture, peppering the room with how the stock market “plunged deeper and deeper,” and how some women just had to “take matters into their own hands” to survive.

I tilted my head back, unable to take any more of the driving pleasure, and let the sensation rip through me. I bit my lip, shuddered and finally exhaled a long breath and let my fingers slide free.

While he watched with hungry, intent eyes, I brought my wet fingers to my mouth and licked them one by one.

Richard looked pained. I found the expression oddly charming. I carefully rearranged my panties and slid up in the seat, bringing my legs together. The air smelled of musky sex and my pulse was pounding. My face had to be brilliantly flushed.

My timing was perfect. Within five minutes Richard had wrapped up the class—I half listened, more watched as he gave the class a flash of a smile and then stood up. His pants weren’t tented, and I didn’t know if I was disappointed or curious as to what had happened behind the panels of the desk.

Richard’s eyes caught mine. “If anyone is interested in further…exploration…I do hold other sessions throughout the year. Feel free to email me,” he paused and turned away to write an email address on the board behind him, “if you’re interested.”

I took a moment to write the address on my hand, winked and walked from the class with a bounce in my step.