Visual & Other Pleasures | erotic fiction

Image source: Unknown

By Anonymous.

Ah, student-teacher passion: a tale as old as time. This steamy story is made all the more saucy by its familiar setting… Melbourne Uni is SHAKING. Thank you to the anonymous author who sent us this submission. Afternoon delight alright!

When I left the house this morning the sun was out. It was 22 degrees. I walked, no, I frolicked through Carlton North towards uni. Now I’m running through Professor’s Walk in the rain. Melbourne.

I’m already ten minutes late, by the time I get inside an Arts West lift it’ll be fifteen. 

I hug the back wall as I enter the tute room. I can feel 24 pairs of eyes on me. Their glare as corporeal as my wet clothes, wet hair, clinging to my body. 

Laptop out, notebook out, reading open. ‘Visual and Other Pleasures, Laura Mulvey.’ 

Huh.

It’s 10:24am before I dare lift my gaze to greet the tutor. 

A dripping disruption but he didn’t miss a beat. 

He’s standing by the whiteboard. 

He’s writing.

“Women’s desire”, “love affair/despair”, “the pleasure of looking”. 

For the first time, I think I understand what a tutor is saying. I understand what I see. 

I understand pleasure.

He’s about 5’ 11”. His hair is dark with a tinge of grey he’s too young for. He has glasses. No stubble. 

He looks at everyone in the room but me. When his eyes flit near my corner of the room, they do not linger. 

His disregard for me is enticing. 

I can look and cannot be seen. I am Mulvey’s voyeur and he is behind the cinema screen. 

And what do I see?

I see a man supported by his academia. Tall and proud in his classroom. In command of his classroom. 

I see his intoxicating knowledge, I see his respect of opinion, I see his curiosity. 

I see the way he puts his hands together and against his lips when he is thinking. 

I see him consider a question with care. 

It’s 10:55am. 

Laptop away, notebook away, reading away. I take my time. 

Last to arrive and last to leave. My breath can’t help but catch as I pass him. 

“Zoë?” he asks, half smile twitching, eyebrow raised. He holds the attendance sheet in one hand. Pen in another. 

There’s silence as I take the pen, sign my name, and hand the sheet back. Eyes finally connecting, I inhale him. 

He holds my stare for too long. 

My eyes can’t help but flit to his lips. 

He smiles, and turns away, collecting his things. 

“Next time, don’t be late.” 

He leaves me standing in the room. My chest heaving. 

* * *

It’s not until I’m in Professor’s Walk Café that I realise my hair is still wet. My mascara smudged. I’m sitting at the window watching the stream of students go by. 

There’s thousands of us here, but I’m still all alone. 

A man sits beside me and the air becomes thick. I feel electricity. 

He puts his copy of Mulvey’s work on the table. In the spot between us, where he knows my eyes will catch it. 

“I didn’t get to hear your thoughts,” he says. 

My head cocks to the side as if to say, are you kidding? And he tells me that he is, with his smile. 

“Come with me,” he says. “Let’s get you dried off.”

* * *

He leads me through a closed door into a small room.

His office.

It’s small and dark. There are two mahogany desks. One barred window. One full bookshelf. 

He walks to the desk furthest away and from behind it retrieves a gym bag. He pulls out a towel, and a spare black t-shirt.  

I follow him. I take the towel. I take the shirt. 

I’ve still not said a word.  

His now empty hands press against his desk. It’s like he can’t stay upright without support. 

Our breathing is heavy, our eye contact unbroken. 

I put his things down on the desk and in one swift tug, remove my wet shirt.   

I hear his breath intake sharply. I try to pick up his spare t-shirt, but his hand stops mine.  

He moves my hand to his shoulder and begins to trace a finger down my side. Past my breast, in the dip of my waist. As he nears the top of my jeans his hand swerves, his full palm now on my lower back, pulling my body into his. He grunts gently through the movement.

My hand moves from shoulder to neck. My index finger presses against his jawline.  My thumb traces his lips.  For a moment we pause, eyes locking. 

Now my lips are kissing his, his lips are kissing mine. 

Our bodies are scrambling to connect in any place they can. 

His hand clutches my bum. He pulls our hips together. His hand traces my front, he squeezes my breast and I can’t help but gasp into his mouth. My head rolls back and he kisses my neck. Down and up and under my ear. He turns my face back to his and we’re kissing again. It’s hot and it’s cold and it’s breathy and it’s wet. 

I’m hungry for him.

I pull off his shirt and undo his belt buckle. I plunge inside the warmth of his jeans. He’s hard against my hand. I run my hands over his chest. I kiss him. I kiss his nipples. I push him into his desk chair and undo my own jeans slowly. He pushes me onto his desk and peels them off my shaking legs. 

He pulls me towards him and I feel the wetness of my underwear press against his chest. His head is in my cleavage as he undoes my bra. His lips go to my nipples. He plays with them with his tongue.

He kisses my left breast, my right. He kisses a line down my stomach. I arch my back as he reaches my underwear. His hands glide up my legs and he pulls them down.  He pushes my hips into his mouth. His tongue diving into me, tracing my clit, flicking left to right.  When I almost can’t take anymore he kisses up my chest and to my mouth, standing. 

My legs wrap around him and our hips align. I can feel him throbbing against me. 

His hand comes between my legs and his fingers write a poem on my clit until I come. As I shake he holds me, supports me, as I come back down to earth. 

He kisses me softly. 

Then harder. 

Harder. 

Harder. 

My legs are still around him as he pulls his jeans down. He looks at me deeply, waiting for my nod. 

He enters me slowly and once again I can’t help but gasp. He lays me down on the desk and pulls my hips closer still. His back hunches and I can feel his breath on my breasts. He bites me as he thrusts deeper, faster. His hand slaps onto the desk beside me. He’s close. 

He pulls me up from the small of my back and leaves my body for a moment. He stands me up and turns me over before entering me from behind. One hand is on my hip, the other searches for my clit. I’m leaning over his desk, and our breaths have found a shared rhythm. 

Still tender, still wet, it doesn’t take much for me to match him. The first words I’ve said to him escape on my breath.

“I’m close.”

His hand and his pelvis quicken their pace. I feel heat rising through my centre. My head becomes light. It’s hot, so hot. I let out a cry as I come once more and the sound is enough to finish him. 

His chest connects fully with my back and for a moment we collapse like that. 

Sweaty, sticky, satisfied. 

We peel off and out of each other and I dress quickly. Once we’re both done up he grabs my face and pushes me against the wall for one final, hard kiss. 

I say, “next time, I won’t be late.” 

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