Archive-name: School/safesex1.txt

Archive-author: 

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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