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It is Thursday morning, he asks if I'm able to meet in person and of course I hesitate, it is a pandemic after all and being remote has been a saving grace. I reluctantly agree because I've been eager to meet him in person, eager to discover his height amongst other things I cannot denote from our video chats. He tells me if we're able to meet we could go over some of my writing and research. So, I make an appointment with him for 1pm Friday, the next day, and he emails me his office hours and the address. When I knock on the door I am vibrating with anticipation -- I have hardly been around anyone in the last two years, much less close proximity with a relative stranger. He opens the door, smiling, wearing some soviet era fur cap and a muted green jumpsuit of sorts held closed at the waist by a brown leather utility belt. Does he know of my affinity for turn-of-the-century revolutionaries? Likely not, but I'm enthralled by his appearance all the same.
Why must I always bow to my sapiosexual tendencies? Becoming weak at the witnessing of knowledge displayed in another. Perhaps I could be one of those energy vampires you hear about? All the same, I enter his office feeling particularly tense, every fiber of my being sitting on edge. I take a seat and the hair on my arm immediately notices the ever so slight change in wind direction as he passes to seat himself around the desk -- for a moment his scent fills my nostrils but quickly dissipates. His smell is like the earth or some deep musk that reeks of guilt. My guilt. Guilt at my perpetually Freudian, "hot for teacher," daddy issues, full ham -- antics. Get a grip girl! Grow up. He asks me a question, but I don't hear because my thoughts are at full volume, screaming, "JUST FUCK ME!"
I know this is fantastical because I cannot fathom a liaison that would permit this transmutation from potential to kinetic energy but eryaman eve gelen escort somewhere in this chaos of sexual tension, something happens. We begin talking about life, and experience -- much in the vein of our usually academic chatter -- we have a few laughs together, we have more than a few awkward moments and that's when it occurs. He leans over the desk, toward me. At first, I'm wondering what we're looking at or if there's something on my face or something -- and that's when it happens -- a large palm moves past me and I feel long deft fingers slowly clutching the back of my scalp -- fingertips firmly moving across my hairline; he clenches down, and I turn my head back instinctively as he nuzzles into my neck. I feel his hairy face scratch against my cheek, ever so slightly, until just as suddenly, he pulls back. It is a whirlwind -- he slams my head to the desk; but must bypass it to get to me. He speaks for the first time in a long while, "Don't move."
-- I wouldn't dare.
He quickly maneuvers around the great block of oak dividing us, and the entirety of the room in half, and lunges to grab me once more. I am seated with the left side of my face against his desk, now warm from my breath. This time, he puts both hands on either side of my waist and lifts me from the chair, kicking it to the side as he steps into its place behind me. He pushes me forward. Grabbing at my long skirt he yanks it up over my waist; I am exposed. My thin panties cling to my juices, affording a negligent amount of coverage as I am bared. I gasp, audibly. Every hair follicle across my backside stands on end as they greet the cool air. I feel him back away, a moment of retreat, and I am hyper aware of his absence; I'm not certain if it is for a better view, or perhaps a moment of clarity before truly committing himself to such a problematic scenario. bala escort I consider both and glance at him through upside down cracks between my limbs -- I catch a glimpse and watch as he reapproaches.
And then suddenly, *CRACK*
My world stops. Everything stops. My head is a siren, blaring. My nerves sear. My left ass cheek cries out in a jolt of horror. -- and I am of course, delighted.
"Why've you been doing this?" he asks, "You know what I'm talking about," he mutters between firm smacks, "Why do you have to be like this? Why do you behave like this? Look at what you make me do -- how I'm behaving -- I never; I'm... I'm not a bad man." He slaps me again, harder, in exactly the same spot with an open palm; electricity runs through me -- I cry out and he does it again. My eyes begin to water; small streams run from my face -- time has seemed to slow -- I long for him. His hand is back on my scalp, and I am at full attention as he presses himself against me and pulls me backwards, into him. His other hand fumbles with my waistline for a moment before deciding to divert from this path -- pushing his hand around and underneath the knitted coil of material; he cups his full hand around my vulva -- I am sopping.
He, of course, notices and I feel him twinge against me -- his hand shooting up and pushing my shirt up and over my head -- somehow in one movement. He cups my slight breasts and begins grabbing and pulling at my nipples as he caresses me from behind. He feels hungry. He feels like a guy who hasn't been laid, or perhaps properly laid, in a while. I tell him to choke me. I feel him hesitate, though slowly but surely his right-hand creeps upward from my tit to embrace my throat. He flinches again. Moving his face back into the crevice of my neck -- almost as if he will kiss me, I melt. I want for him to turn me around, to envelope me, to fuck etimesgut escort me right there -- but instead, I am met with a groan, with a sigh. With a lament.
He pushes me back down to the table and for a moment the air is still, almost deserted, and I'm about to turn around when I feel something bump against my inner thighs, and then slide over my still panty clad vulva. I twitch. His silky, engorged cock glides between my legs and I feel him maneuver the drenched, delicate fabric to the side as he slides the tip of his puffy member slowly over my glistening pussy, eventually grazing my clit -- I hold my breath -- creaming in anticipation once again. He pulls away. I feel positively desperate, wondering what's wrong with me or where he's gone. And then...
*CRACK*. And once more, *CRACK* - every cell in my body is howling bloody murder -- *CRACK* and again -- and again. It is no longer his hand hitting me, I realize he must have removed his belt during the moment of reprieve. The thick leather bites at my skin. Tears pour and snot flows from my nose -- I wail, I sigh, I moan, I beg. I beg to be drunken in. I beg to be the wine. To be his wine. I lie there, for what feels like an eternity; I lie there, receiving blow after blow. I am absolutely ravaged, cataclysmic, and yet -- somehow entirely thrilled. After what feel like a lifetime, he thrust my skirt back down and turns me to face him, I am surprised that he is fully clothed -- he lifts my arms overhead and reapplies my shirt; he holds my face in his hands and thumbs away my tears, and then turns away.
I stand there, not knowing what to say -- not knowing what that was or what it could become... "You need to go," he says quietly, "I have an appointment with a faculty member on the hour." He places his hand against the small of my back and begins ushering me to the door. I turn back briefly, not knowing what to expect; he opens the door. I want to say so many things, but nothing comes out -- I want to say, that was incredible; I want to ask, can we do this again sometime? but I am silent. "I'm sorry," he finally mutters as he closes the door slowly -- I stop him - "Don't be."