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I fancily wrote a little something. Very quickly. So ignore ..
🕑 Added 2023-11-01 21:39:12 +0000 UTC I fancily wrote a little something. Very quickly. So ignore the typos. All of this is real fyi.I just had some creative fun, and wanted to test my ability to creatively write again. So apologies if this isn't your thing. **BUT My dream of fucking a professor might actually happen** Let me know if you want to hear more of this. I was bored of writing my essay and got distracted lol.***I'm convinced one of my professors finds me attractive***. There’s a magnetic pull between my Professor Ben and I. His charismatic disposition, once undoubtedly the heartthrob of many a college girl 20 or so years ago. Have now seemed to have gracefully weathered with time.He looks matured, something that my body can’t deny but crave. The weight of fatherhood and the demands of his profession may have carved subtle lines on his face but one can't deny the raw allure he still possesses. I could see women in their 30’s fawning over him, swiping right. If Ashley Madison still existed, he’d have a field day, picking whoever he wanted.
Lately, my academic journey has been a turbulent one. The distress isn’t so much from the course rigors as it is from balancing life itself. This academic year feels intrinsically different, perhaps the aftermath of the self-discovery I underwent in Bali.( If you know, you know) There, I embraced a more freakish, heavy horny side of myself, and it’s as if I've undergone a renaissance of self-awareness. It’s been liberating.
Anyway. Back to the enigmatic Professor Ben. While I tend to skip the live lectures, preferring the recordings ( while chatting filthily with y’all) the seminars – an intimate gathering of just five – demand my presence for grade considerations. (10% of my grade!!!!!!!) My appearances there are often unceremonious. Seriosuly. Think yoga attire, accompanied by my mat carried on my bag as I usually book a hot yoga session at a nearby hot yoga studio. Now that the weather is cold and my body is small, goodbye to mini skirts unless accompanied with skirts. My seat is positioned strategically across the room is a window.Given our evening tutorial timings, the world outside is swathed in darkness, turning the pane into an impromptu mirror.When I pretend to gaze outside, I can clearly see him stealing glances at me through this mirrored illusion. Always lingering. Even when I’m not looking. Especially when I’m not looking. He smiles so brightly when I walk in, and then his face turns. As if scolding himself.
Ben’s gaze unfailingly finds mine.Always and always lingers for moments longer than everyone else faces. Initially, I attributed this to my habitual seating on the right side of the room or as my mother used to tell me when men looked at me’ ‘maybe you remind him of a friend or cousin sweetie’’. I thought to myself that maybe his gaze is always drawn to the right side of the room, maybe he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. I’m not so close to anyone on my course to bring it up and ask the if they notice it too. However, a recent change to the left side only saw his attention still cemented to my face. It’s uncanny – like a preacher deeply connecting with a disciple, our eyes lock without fail.
Today I headed to class.I wore an off-shoulder top with my yoga ensemble. Again I was late, his face lit, and he blushed as he ushered me in. The thought of him missing me last week briefly crossed my mind, but then I discarded feeling like a stupid girl who hangs on to an unrequited love. Ben was on one his philosophical rants again, and my hair, usually restrained in a tight bun like a ballerina felt stifling. On impulse, I released it, letting my wild curls cascade freely. And just like that, amidst a lecture, Prof Ben lost his train of thought, his eyes fixated on me, unmistakably caught in the moment's allure. I felt my breathe leave my body. I wondered if he thought me about my hair falling down my back while he bends my body in different positions. This time it was noticeable, and the four other students looked to the left side to see what made him stop, one of my classmates gave me a knowing look. I don’t know what to think, I have un insatiable hunger for sex and everything arousing. But with Ben, it seems like he’s just starstruck or distracted. By my face out of all things, never does he look at my body, and perhaps that is my fault for wearing long sleeve tops.
His gaze on me feels distinctly different, not rooted in lustful carnal fuck the living day light out of me energy, that heavy lustful desire that follows me on nightclub dance floors, and in public spaces. The same lust that makes men on the tube fix their trousers, when I’m wearing fishnets and smiling at them. His gaze seems weirdly like an admiration for beauty. I know the look of raw lustful feral fuck me energy. I know it too well. This is not it. It feels unfamiliar. A terrority I do not know. Men view me trough the lens of desire, the kind that wants them to empty their balls in me( and I LOVE it) but this is a lease that does not overlook my the delicate intricacies of my features. I don’t know what my next steps are. Its as though apart of me knows there has to be a feral raw lustful desire trapped within him, and rather than feeling flattered at his admiration for me, I grow angry and frustrated. Why dont you focus on the loud allure of my physicality my body screams. Almost begging.
Alas,
Lingering after today's lesson, I waited wanting to feel the weight of his gaze. To revel in it. The unspoken words it carried. His approach was tentative, the timbre of his voice betraying a hint of nervousness. Ruffling his papers, and accidentally dropping them. He suddenly bursts out inquiring about my Halloween plans, his words faltered and stumbled over each other. I'm no novice in discerning when a man's interest is piqued by my presence; I've tread that path countless times, and this wasn’t the baseless fantasy of a na!!ve girl. As I candidly shared that I was at a renowned kink club, dropping its infamous name, his reaction was unmistakable. A blush of deep crimson spread across his face, his composure visibly shaken. With an almost confessional tone, he admitted having visited the same place in the past. The revelation, combined with our setting, seemed to overwhelm him, and he promptly made a hasty retreat, leaving an air thick with unanswered questions and palpable tension. I froze on the staircase. I am so frustrated. I yearn for him to accknowledge that I could satisfy him with my mouth, with my tight holes. Why cant he see that? His exit feels like a cold gust of wind, putting out any fire of a potential fuck. Why when our eyes m33t so frequently, and him prodding me for my plans, does he shy away from the desire to fuck my little body? The mention of a kink clcub was an open invitation, a door slightly ajar for playful flirting, and perhaps an admittance of mutual attraction. Instead his nerves took the forefront, and he fled the scene. Leaving me yoga matt in hand, frustrated. I will get this man to cave in. I will get him to fuck me.
