It's September sixteenth, and that means it's time for your daily fuck on Taboo Tuesday. The campus is silent, cloaked in a late evening darkness. The only light comes from the third floor of the Humanities Building, a single, warm, inviting square, doctor Evelyn Allister's light. I'm in her office, surrounded by towering walls books. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and her faint, expensive perfume.
We're supposed to be discussing my final paper on the Viennese Secessionists, but for the last hour the conversation is felt like a slow, deliberate seduction. She is everything I want to be, brilliant, endinggmatic, and utterly in control. She's in her forties, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a severe, elegant beauty that makes my heart ache. My admiration for her began as purely academic, but it has slowly secretly morphed into a desperate, aching crush. Thanks to my religious upbringing.
I'm only just beginning to understand that my desire for women is a real and powerful thing, and has found its singular focus in her. The eroticism in Shield's work isn't just in the nudity, Clara. She rises from behind her massive desk. It's in the tension the line. Come here, I obey. My leg's feeling a little weak as I walk over to where she stands by a bookshelf. She pulls down a heavy art book, its pages filled with stark, angular nudes. She opens it on electern, her body close
to mind, her shoulders brushing. See her long manicured finger traces the contorted leg of a woman in a painting. See how the artist's line doesn't just outline the form, but possesses it. True beauty requires a confident hand. As she says the last words, the back of her hand brushes against mine, a touch that feels anything but accidental. My breath hitches, The air is electric. Does she feel the same way about me that I do her? It
seems impossible. And then she closes the book with a soft thud and turns to face me, her eyes dark and unreadable. But theory is one thing, Clara. Her look is intense. Practical application is another. Entirely, just as I'm trying to get a handle on whether she is making a move, she heads the female body is not just to be viewed and appreciated. It is to be touched. And as she says the word touched, she takes my hand and lifts it up to her lips. Her tongue
lightly licks my fingertips. I came here for a grade, but the look in her eyes is a different kind of test. Not I desperate to pass. I decide right then to let her teach me everything. I close my eyes as she sucks on my fingers. She pulls me in for a kiss, and her lips meet mine. The kiss is a revelation. It's not the clumsy, mechanical kiss of the boys I've known that was lacked any sort of passion. The boys wanted to kiss me, but I didn't want to kiss them. This, this is different. She
knows I want her. I don't know how, but she knows it. Her kiss is slow, expert, and utterly devastating. She's teaching me what a woman's mouth can do, and I'm a wrapped student. Her hand comes up to cradle my jaw, her thumbs stroking my cheek as she deepens the kiss, taking complete control, she pulls back, leaving me breathless and dizzy, less than one a ghost of a smile and her perfect lips forms. She takes my hand and leads me to a warn leather sofa in the
corner of the office. Lie down. I lie back on the cool leather, my heart pounding of frantic rhythm against my ribs. She doesn't join me, though. Instead she kneels on the floor before me, a queen kneeling before her subject. She slowly pushes the fabric of my skirt up by thighs. Her case is intense and unwavering Egon's shield, believed the body was a vessel for ecstasy. Her voice is a
low academic purr let's test that theory. Her mouth is on me, and the world dissolves into a kaleidoscope of pure, unadulterated sensation. She is an artist and my body as her canvas. Her tongue is a brush, painting slow deliberate strokes along my inner lips before focusing on my clit with a schular's single minded intensity. I've never felt anything like this. It's a pleasure so sharp, so focused, it's almost painful. My hands gripped the edges of the chaise.
My knuckle's white as she brings me to brink then pulls back a control, absolute patience. Clara. The best discoveries require thorough research. She returns to her work, and this time she doesn't stop. She drags me over the edge with a calculated, perfect precision. My orgasm is a violent shuddering wave that rips through my body, A stoundless scream torn from my throat. It's a moment of complete and total discovery. I'm left panting on the chaise, my body
a trembling, hyper sensitive mess. She rises, gracefully, retrieves a silk handkerchief from her desk, and gently dabs the corner of my mouth. As I'm pulling myself together, I close a tangled mess. She looks at me, her expression once again cool and prefaceorial. Your paper showed excellent promise, Clara. She has a wicked glint in her eye. But your practical work is truly exceptional, an A plus I believe