The Professor

D
r. Thomas Grayson
is the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Six-foot-something of lean muscle, sparkling blue eyes, and British charm that just doesn’t quit. I find him irresistible. And whenever we meet, the look in his eyes tells me the attraction is definitely mutual. There’s just one barrier to what feels like an inevitable, and smoking-hot, hook-up: He’s a visiting Professor at my University, where student/teacher relationships are strictly taboo. 

It’s a good thing then, that, I’m not scared of taboos. In fact I embrace them. I’ve paid my way through college dancing at Clouds, Maryville Maine’s hottest Gentleman’s Club. I’m one of the club's top earners, due in part to my special talent for seduction. I know what gets under a man’s skin, and I’m determined to use my assets to get to the Professor. 

I caught a glimpse of the alpha sex-god that lives behind that reserved exterior, and by God I wanted more. But just when I thought we were really heating up, something changed and he backed off. Way off. Guarded and remote, he made it clear there was more that stood between us than I realized. 

Then one night he walked into my club, and I got one more chance. But with just one dance to seduce the Professor, I was going to have to go further then I ever had before. Who knew you could feel so naked with all your clothes on?

T
he hottest guy
at Wagner University isn't a quarterback, a pre-law egghead or a music major. It's Dr. Thomas Grayson, PhD in English literature. A particular expert on the classics, with a focus on Regency and Victorian era fiction, he's currently on loan from Northbrook University in London, to the humble little college I attend in New England. At just thirty-two, the rumor is he's the youngest professor to have ever been offered tenure at Northbrook. I don't know if that's true or not, I just know the good Professor is seriously fine. He must be at least six feet tall as far as I can tell, and honestly he's just the most delicious stereotype of exactly what you'd expect an English Professor to be. British accent, tousled mane of wavy brown hair, and the most incredible piercing blue eyes, perpetually accompanied by a pair of sexy horn-rimmed glasses. He's a killer dresser, if a bit on the predictable side for a man in his profession. I wouldn't be surprised if he's got a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches in his closet.

The first time I saw the Professor, he wasn't wearing those glasses. In fact he wasn't wearing very much at all. I'd just come home from the Friday night late shift at my job, and figured I'd blow off some steam and rinse off some sweat with a few laps in the University pool. I work crazy long hours, doing very physical work, so a languid session of backstroke, is just what I need to relax after my shift.

See here's the thing about me, don't judge, but I work at a strip club. Well, technically it's a Gentleman's club, in that we have a variety of entertainment - burlesque dancers, singers, even the occasional comedian. Me, I'm a stripper. That cliché, the one about the co-ed that's paying for her education by taking it all off for strangers every night? Yeah, I'm that cliché. What can I say? I enjoy stripping, and it pays well. Really, really, well. So well in fact that when my baby sister Charlotte decided she wanted to go to fashion college in NYC, I was able to send her, in style. And a few years ago, when I finally decided I wanted to go to school too, I already had nearly half my tuition saved up. Working at Clouds, the best naughty entertainment club in all of Maryville, Maine, has allowed me to enroll in University full time, afford an apartment off campus, and pay my own bills. I only work two nights a week, a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. Because of stripping, I, Jane Claremont, at the tender age of twenty-four, am just six weeks away from my business degree. And I won't have a single college loan to worry about when I graduate. Of course, deciding what I'm going to do with that degree is another matter altogether. 

I figure I can worry about that minor detail after I graduate. For now, during the week, I focus on getting good grades. During the weekend my goal is to inspire the fine patrons of our club to turn over to me all of the hard earned cash they've got in their wallets. I'm one of the biggest earners at Clouds, and it's not just because I've got fantastic tits and know how to work a pole. It's because I have a special gift for seduction. I can intuit a customer’s needs and desires in under thirty-seconds. Once I know what they want, I set about giving it to them. Whatever their fantasy, innocent or whore, bad-girl with a dominant streak, or coy little angel in need of corruption - it's my pleasure to make it come true.

I love the rush of power I feel when I make a man lose control. And the money isn't bad either. A satisfied customer will pay a premium for a quality experience, and I never fail to deliver. Last night I'd spent the better part of five hours playing a BDSM biker chic for a stuffy CEO who paid $5,000 for the privilege of licking my shoes, and having me call him scum. Not bad work if you can get it.

After a long night of shaking my girly-bits I was looking forward to getting out of my stanky club clothes and into some clean cool water. I stripped off my leather mini-skirt and studded tank top, put my long mahogany brown hair up in a high ponytail, pulled on my tiniest pink vintage bikini, and waltzed out to the pool like I owned the place. Usually I do. I mean what self-respecting, hard partying, college kid, is up at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning? Not a one of them! That should have been my first clue that the hot guy in the pool wasn't your typical dumb college jock.

H
e was swimming
laps when I happened upon him, his lean, well-muscled physique slicing through the water at an impressive clip. No doubt the Professor had expected to have the facilities all to himself. I know I was surprised to find him there, but I definitely wasn't disappointed. Every coherent thought fled my brain the moment I set eyes on him. All I knew was the hot guy now exiting the pool was unbelievably good-looking, and if the bulge in his skimpy swim trunks was any indication, very well hung. He looked so scrumptious, his thigh muscles flexing as he walked out of the pool towards me, that I actually licked my lips at the sight. Rivulets of water streamed down powerful legs and clung, glistening to the dark hair sprinkled across his pecs, and happily trailed down to his...gulp. Did I mention the bulge already? I'd dropped my towel when I'd seen it, and now, stood gaping openly at his crotch. I wasn't sure if he'd noticed me yet, but I knew he was bound to in a matter of seconds. 

The problem was, I’ve been so horny lately, and as a result I couldn't tear my eyes away from the bulge. I haven't been laid in months and the next few weren't looking too good either. Despite my racy occupation I'm not terribly active sexually. School is my main priority, and honestly, I don't have many prospects for sex partners. Strippers as a rule don't date customers and college guys leave much to be desired. The few times I'd hooked up with a fellow student I'd been terribly disappointed. A blow job and a pathetically short round of drunken humping is not my idea of a good time. I've been positively starving for a proper fucking. 

Standing there, wearing next to nothing, yards away from a smoking hot hunk of nearly naked man-meat, was making me seriously wet. I figured this guy's cock had never heard of "shrinkage" since straight out of the pool his member looked alert and in the mood, semi-hard and perfectly outlined through the thin fabric of his tight swim trunks. It looked to me like a candy bar wrapped in the most tempting of packages. I licked my lips again, and then it twitched. His cock twitched. Oh shit!

My chin popped up and my eyes flew to his face, where those baby blues of his caught mine, and locked. My stripper training kicked in and I switched on my flashiest high-watt smile, the kind that has men falling over themselves to tuck one hundred dollar bills into my G-string. I figured I'd charm my way out of this social faux pas and maybe I'd even get his number. But one second held in his potent stare and I knew this guy had little in common with my average Friday night customer. He tilted his head to the side, a muscle in his jaw tensed, and I got the distinct impression he was suppressing a smile of his own. His gaze dropped to my feet and slowly, very slowly ran up my legs like a lover's hand. His eyes stopped abruptly at the apex of my thighs, loitering, intently, on my crotch. I swallowed hard, that stupid smile still plastered to my face, and felt a new wave of wetness flood my center.

I shifted, bending one knee and popping out my hip, and in an effort to calm my quivering nerves, did my best to return his scrutiny with some leering of my own. My eyes traced the line of his neck down to his shoulders and to the smooth sculpted muscle of his arms. His frame was more developed, more cut, than the average swimmer's body. Mother Nature had finally formed the perfect man, and from the look of the tattoos on his right arm, maybe she'd given him a bit of a wild streak. The marks piqued my curiosity, because they were the strangest tattoos I'd ever seen. Simple black bands of varying thickness, they circled his arm at random intervals, their contours bending as his muscles flexed, yielding to the profile of the sinew just beneath the surface.

I was just about to ask him about the tattoos, desperate to break the tension, when I saw his eyes glide across the flat plane of my stomach and up, to linger on my ample chest. He tilted his head back to the other side and narrowed his eyes, a slow study of my tits that had my nipples hardening in response. My breasts felt swollen in the tiny bikini top, the sensitive tips tingling with rebellion, straining to break free and run to the man that was teasing them with his stare. I shivered and my breath hitched, a subtle movement, but enough to send my tits bouncing. His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes for a long moment. I stood, silent. Finally he straightened and raised his brilliant blue eyes to mine, which are hazel, and were, I suspected, now the size of saucers. 

"Hello, darling," he said, his posh English accent a velvet baritone. His lips curled into a slow smile, revealing dimples, and a grin that could charm the knickers off a nun.

"Hello. Come here often?" I asked, and raising an eyebrow, switched from my mega-watt smile to my naughty co-ed one.

"No, actually. I am..." he said "Quite literally, new in town."

"Oh, well do you need someone to take you around? Show you a good time?" I waggled my eyebrows suggestively.

He laughed, a charming boyish sound, and walked towards me. I braced myself, for what I don't know, but I knew this man had a smile like a fiend and a walk like a panther. Everything about his manner screamed alpha sex-god and every cell in my body was tuned into his frequency. He stepped closer, then reached past me, to a deck chair on my left, and picked up a towel that was draped over it, and a pair of glasses. He tucked the glasses into the waistband of his suit, then dragged the towel across his head and shook his hair out, an act that managed to make an impossibly sexy guy, impossibly sexier. He stepped closer still, then angled his body towards me and rubbed the towel absentmindedly over his pecs while his eyes lingered on my tits. 

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do. But I don't think that you'd be an appropriate tour guide..."

I opened my mouth, a bit confused, a tad offended, and determined to inquire why, considering the crackling ball of sexual tension that was volleying between us, he didn't think I was in fact the PERFECT candidate for the job. Unless he had a girlfriend I was going to insist on a phone number at least, chemistry like this deserved to be explored. But before I could speak, he laid a finger on my lips, warm and firm, silencing me. I looked down and realized that impossibly sexy guy also had ludicrously sexy hands. Large with slender fingers and that subtle veining that hints at strength, the kind of hands you could imagine playing piano, or fisting in the hair at the back of your head.

"I assume you're a student here?" he asked.

I nodded in response, and he removed his finger from my lips.

"Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered," he murmured and ran a hand through his hair. 

"Huh?" I said, confused.

He took a step away from me, and drew his towel around his neck. Taking the glasses from his waistband he flicked them open, rubbed the lenses dry with the end of his towel, and slid them onto his face.

Oh holy shit
. I thought.
He's even hotter with the glasses. Smart, Sexy, English, with a possible wild streak? Sign me up!

"My name is Thomas, Dr. Thomas Grayson. " He bowed modestly from the waist, then held out his hand. I slipped mine into his and he shook it firmly, his long fingers feathering across my wrist. He raised an eyebrow and his eyes met mine again, his expression pointed. "Visiting Professor of English, on loan from Northbrook. So very pleased to meet you....Ms.?"

The message was clear by his tone, and in the care he took to emphasize each of the most important parts of the sentence. Visiting. Doctor. Professor. In a nutshell, Mr. Blue-Eyes Bulging-Cock was off limits to students, to me. 

"Oh," I said, disappointment clouding my smile. Now I knew why he'd turned me down. A faculty member fraternizing romantically with a student was a pretty big taboo. 

"Jane," I replied and let go of his hand. "Jane Claremont."

"Well Ms. Jane Claremont..." he grasped the ends of the towel in his hands and angled his head, his expression softening into a weary smile.  "It is inexpressibly delightful to have made your acquaintance."

"You too, Professor," I said, my dismay apparent in my voice.

"Tell me, Jane. What year are you? When do you complete your degree?"

"I'm a fourth year," I said. "But I'll be legit in just six weeks."

"Graduating mid-year then? That's quite an accomplishment."

"I'm impatient, and precocious." I shrugged.

"I don't doubt it," he said, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "Well, I should be going. But, perhaps I'll see more of you in the future."

Something in his tone gave me a glimmer of hope, so I decided to push my luck, and play with him a bit. "You never know," I said coyly. "Maybe I'll show up in your class." I flashed him a sly smirk, and narrowing my eyes I reached for a strand of hair from my ponytail, pulled it forward and twirled it around my finger.

He nodded at me, and biting back a smile, bowed again then backed away from me. "I don't start teaching till next semester. After your graduation. So unfortunately I won't have the pleasure."

"Oh, that's a real shame. We'll have to find some other way to...have the pleasure," I said, and upgraded from the naughty co-ed smile to these-lips-could-suck-the-chlorophyll-off-a-cucumber smile. I was really pushing it now, baiting him.

"Enjoy your swim." He laughed.

"I will Professor," I said. "I need to cool off a bit. It's hot in here." Umping the ante, I dropped the strand of hair and let my hand fall nonchalantly to my cleavage, my middle finger tracing the valley between my breasts. "And sticky."

Professor Grayson laughed ruefully, and ran both elegant hands over his face, before dropping them to his sides. I felt a surge of triumph. My flirting was working, he was visibly unnerved. And holy crap, was he ever adorable.

"Six weeks?" he asked.

"Six weeks," I confirmed. Then just to toy with him, I added, "Maybe I'll see you after graduation?"