Pixies Place Forums - View Single Post - Art history and Professor Jack

I tried posting this once, but it didn't seem to work. If I'm double posting I hope the powers that be will correct it.

I've wandered around this board alittle, and finally decided to register and post some things of my own. I hope you enjoy
---
Professor Jack

Art History at 7 AM. Who am I kidding. One should never take a class where the professor is likely to turn out the lights and flip through a slide show at this hour. Besides, I'm not even a nice person at seven in the morning. The little cheerleader type to my left giggles one more time, I swear I'm going to hit her.

I can do this, I think to myself with a slight grin. I'm sitting back far enough he won't notice if I doze off. Old geezer probably can't see past his notes anyway. I paste on my best "good student" smile as the door opens— God. Check schedule, check room number. Art history. You're the prof? I'm so going to kill Jennie. She said you were older than the hills, some of the paintings we were going to talk about hadn't been around as long. I bet she thinks she's funny. Yeah, right. Hilarious. You get a kick out of the way my eyes go wide for a moment. Well, well professor. Maybe there is something to be said for the early riser.

My tongue flicks along my bottom lip before I manage to look down at my notebook. I'm sure you notice. I can feel your eyes on me, traveling from the careless knot of hair on top of my head, down to red painted toenails peeking out of my sandals. The cheerleader is giggling again. Holy Hell— she's putting on lip gloss. I've got five bucks that says its cherry flavored.

I'm guessing you're about six feet tall, its hard to tell when I'm sitting down. Dark hair, too long for a professor. It curls around your collar and practically begs a girl to run her fingers through it. Damn, isn't there some kind of rule that says Art History profs are old, dusty, and clothed exclusively in English tweed suits? Not this time. The black turtle neck and slacks make me think of Paris at twilight. You turn to write on the board. Soft black material stretched nicely over a firm ass. I bite my tongue to keep from purring in approval. You say: "Call me Jack." Sure why not. Professor Something-or- other just doesn't suit does it? Obviously over thirty. Nic age, nice smile. The eighteen year-old cheerleaders to my left are drawing hearts around his name right now. They can't help it you all but demand swooning and tittering.

I don't swoon or titter. Go ahead turn that smile on me, it feels good. I enjoy the long hard tug of pleasure between my legs and smile back. You may be a few years older than me, but I'm past the giggle and sigh stage. I sit up in my chair, my sweater clinging in all the right places without trying to hard. Slowly I cross one long, jean-clad leg over the other, pen poised over pad, ready to take notes. At first I don't think you're paying attention, but you drop your chalk when you notice me sucking on the end of my pen, working it slowly in and out of pursed lips. I bite my lip, choke back the laugh. I didn't notice I was doing it until it made him stumble. God, have I already decided to sleep with you? That was quick.