Sexual Lessons Part One

Sexual Lessons
Part One

By Lucy St. Vincent

Copyright © 2013 by Lucy St.Vincent

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I am a professor: once upon a time, I was a professor of the classics, but now I am a professor of seduction.

Girls are usually fraught with disappointing experiences in their youth unless they are fortunate enough to stumble upon a more experienced gentleman (emphasis on the world gentleman) who understands the fine art of seducing a woman.  At least once in their lives I would hope that women would experience such a man.  My aim is to make it so.  Women needn’t be content with gropers, bra-snappers and penis plungers who leave poor innocent victims to wonder, “
Is this what it’s all about
?”  No indeed.  Someone has got to teach these young men about sensuality and restraint and tantalization: how to make a woman feel treasured, not like a receptacle: how to make her insane with desire.

I was lured into my present profession because of an encounter I had with a professor way back in my own college days.  I went to see my sociology professor to dispute a grade a received on what I thought (at the time) was a rather well written and researched paper.  I believed it deserved an A and I had only received a C plus.  I was a young woman accustomed to receiving As.  All the time.

Upon entering the office of aforesaid professor, I had my talking points prepared, as I have always been a woman of precision and planning.  I must admit, that I was already attracted to Doctor Edelstein and rather relished the idea of repartee in his office.   He had a charisma that ensured his classes were filled each semester.  It wasn’t just his compelling subject matter, however, or the way in which he delivered it that attracted the masses to his lecture hall: he was undeniably attractive in the most classic sense of the word.  To leave it to the reader’s imagination, let’s just suffice it to say that he was tall, dark and handsome.  And then some.

“I’ve come to ask you about my grade,” I stated boldly, entering the room, not bothering with niceties.

“I supposed as much, Ms. Redding.  What is it exactly you wish to dispute?” 

As he said this, I could feel his eyes traveling up my body, my well-shaped calves, my loose flowered knee-length skirt, the white blouse that was sexy in a school-girlish sort of way and that I had just undone one more button on as a last-minute impulse.

I approached his desk on which he was leaning, stopping about a foot from him.  Even then, I was aware of the sexual power I had over men, though I had never used it to my advantage, though I
had
indeed used it.  Unfortunately, I had, until then, chosen boys my own age: boys who couldn’t see beyond the end of their own dicks and wanted a quick fuck and fumble.  All of my sexual encounters had thus far left me feeling quite disillusioned.  What good was it having sexual powers if they resulted in no pleasure or gain?  (In this instance, I must admit, I hoped at least my powers would lead to some change of my grade.)

Alas, a grade change was not in the cards for me on that day, but something else
was
.  As I started to plead my carefully planned case, Dr. Edelstein beckoned me closer.

“You’ve got a stray curl driving me crazy,” he said, lightly reaching over and tucking the errant hair behind my ear.  As he did so, his hand ever so gently caressed the groove behind my ear and lingered for a few seconds.  My body thrilled.

“There, much better.  Carry on.  I’m no longer distracted.”

I found myself a bit flustered, a feeling I wasn’t accustomed to.

“It’s just that…”

“And that button,” he interrupted me, “it begs doing up.  I can see the lace on your brassiere.  I’m sure you didn’t mean to show me your cleavage now, did you?”

I blushed and began buttoning up the bra.

“Allow me,” he said, once again stepping forward and doing up the button.  As he did so, both of his wrists lightly brushed my nipples as his hands very slowly placed the button back in its slit.

I was flushing furiously.  There was no more thought of grades.  His eyes were now gazing overtly at the entirety of my body.  There was no embarrassment on his part.  I was a different story, however.  I stood in front of him, completely undone.

“Miss Redding, surely you’re not embarrassed, are you?  You are one of the most poised and solicitous members of my class.  How can this be?”

“No, I’m not,” I said, lying bold-facedly.  “It’s only that I am only rather shocked at your unprofessional behavior.”

“Are you now?” he said without a trace of concern.  “Come sit down on my couch and let’s discuss either my behavior or your grade, it’s up to you.”

He motioned me toward the sofa and he sat directly across from me on an armchair.  It really was a very cozy office indeed, in retrospect.  He drew his chair just a little bit closer than necessary and said, “Well, what’s it going to be?”

“I just don’t think it’s fair…” I began.

“Oh, you’re going to talk to me about fair,” he interrupted.  “You of the lovely thighs peeking so seductively out of your skirt.  You with the body of a goddess hidden beneath your school girl garb.”

He leaned over and stroked one of my thighs underneath my skirt.  I gasped.

“Many people would think it unfair that you have been graced with all the beauty you have and they are mere mortals, fair lady.”

I was breathing heavily.

“Spread your legs just a little bit wider so I can see those thighs.”

I obeyed.

“Pull up your skirt, Miss Redding.”

Again, I obliged.

“And perhaps that button could be undone after all, and maybe even one more.  I think I was wrong in my first supposition.”

I was only feeling now, not thinking.  I was putty in this man’s hands.  Yes, he was taking advantage of me, but I wanted him to: more than anything.  I had never been flirted with or teased or even caressed before.  I had never even experienced foreplay: to put it bluntly, I had only been fucked.

The professor had a hand on each thigh now and was gently caressing them.  My legs were open wide.  My pubic hair tumbled out of my white cotton panties, as was the accepted fashion in those days.  I felt no shame.

“Would you mind awfully taking your panties off?” he said, as though he were asking me to get him a glass of water.

I did as I was asked.

“Oh,” he said, his voice shaking ever so slightly.  “A woman’s pussy is so irresistible to me.  There is nothing more right now that I want to do than eat you.”

Eat me?

At that time in my life and in the lives of most young women my age, this was foreign vocabulary.  I wasn’t sure what he meant.

But then he was on his knees on the sheepskin rug that separated the armchair from the sofa and his head was in my pussy and he was separating the hair and my vulva and his tongue was inside me exploring my depths.

He moved his hands up to my breasts and began to gently caress and then more roughly pinch my nipples.

I was full of moans and juice and absolute surprise and ecstasy.  Rest assured, grades were no longer on my mind.

The good doctor tongued and fingered me to my first-ever orgasm as I slid forward with wide-open legs on his sofa chair.  As I came, gasping noisily, he put his hand over my mouth and said, “Oh no, Ms. Redding, this calls for restraint.  Please no noise, or I shall have to stop.”

Stop
? I thought. 
He isn’t done?  There is more?
  He went on for another fifteen minutes, causing me to come and come and come, playing with my breasts, my anus, helping me with my own hands to find and bring my own self to climax by stimulating my clitoris.  It was all an absolute revelation.

And he didn’t fuck me.  He didn’t unzip his pants.  He didn’t ask me to do anything except to succumb to the pleasure of his gifts. 

When finally it was over, I could bear no more, and class was about to begin, he said, “So, Miss Redding, I know you came in here for something, but I can’t quite remember what it was.  Do you?”

I shook my head as I did up my buttons and pulled on my panties.  “I think I came in wanting something, but I got something better.”

“Let me walk you to class.  It’ll be such a pleasure seeing you in the audience this afternoon.”

I was still reeling and wasn’t even sure I had my blouse buttoned up straight.

“I ask only one thing,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Most people just take and never give.  Learn how to give.  Learn how to be a lover.  If you like, I can teach you more.  We have time.  But I will tell you now: you need to work for your grades.  You deserve the grade you got, and no amount of seducing me will change that.  I am more than willing to tutor you, though,” he added.

For the next three years, I had weekly, sometimes biweekly tutoring sessions with Dr Edelstein.  It was because of him I became both a professor of sociology and a professor of seduction. 

Eventually, my professorial, sexual, and my emerging entrepreneurial skills came into play.  I grew tired of the grind of academia, the low pay and the limited opportunity to indulge my greatest passion: satisfying the needs of my body.  Over time, I came up with a plan that would combine my skills and desires into a lucrative and fulfilling avocation.

I now own a “boarding house” for college men (who must be “of age” so I don’t get myself into any trouble) where I charge a great deal of money for these lads to live and learn.  You might call me the “den mother” of these gentlemen who come to me with little or no experience, but with driving hormones that no doubt cause them to spend endless hours in the shower jacking off or cowering under their sheets and missing class in order to expel their manly fluids.  My role is to guide these potential Casanovas in the ways of seduction and lovemaking.  Of course, there is some benefit in it for me as well.  There is no use denying that.

I own a large old Victorian house close to campus that has been renovated to accommodate both my boarders and the “classroom” facilities I require.  I accept fifteen lads each year to come and live with me.  I censor them very carefully before acceptance, looking for a high degree of commitment, a strong record of academic achievement, and a willingness to learn.  They must be quick studies because I am not a particularly patient woman.  I’m not particular, however, about race, color or size - I am turned on by a variety of men. 

But therein lays another key to my scrutinizing process: they must turn
me
on.  If I am going to be their professor and work with them in the “lab,” I expect to feel at least a tingle for them before accepting them into my rigorous program. 

I also have no time for egomaniacs.  If they are already full of themselves by the time they are young men, there is little or no chance that they will ever make great lovers.  Large egos make bad lovers because the focus is always on them.  They can be the most attractive, well built, well hung samples of manhood I have ever laid eyes on, but I will not for a moment consider allowing them into my lair if they have so much as a swagger.  I get paid well for what I do, but I don’t need unnecessary challenges that are sure to prove futile.  I can spot a selfish lover a mile off.