Story Summary: You asked, you begged, you pleaded, and now you know: those things that Professor Dietrich said to Bella that turned her into wet sauerbraten in that Professor's domineering hands. Or did that happen ... or something else? Hm.
Authoress warning: This is so way AU! This could never, never-never-never, really happen within the context of my story "Monsters"/"Christmas Surprises"/"The Bells are Ringing," etc, it's just a little [sing-song] hm-hm-hm what-if scenario playing itself out at the behest of my demanding readers and that pesky Muse of mine.
Drat! Those darn demanding readers and pesky Musen!
So this is just a lark, a trifle, a wild flight of fancy. That's all. La-di-dah. Nothing to see here, except one of those phfantasies 'phfina experiences like, oh, seventeen or eighteen times a day, is all.
"Miss Swan," I said smiling as the girl bolted toward the door at the bell, seeking her escape in the herd of students making their mass exodus.
The girl in question froze, exactly like a deer caught in a truck's headlights. She vibrated in place fearfully.
Her fear somehow touched me. Deliciously.
I waited for all the students to file out. The last one, a blond, gave us a look and closed the door behind her, getting the hint.
Miss Swan looked longingly out toward the door, toward her escape. She looked ...
I swallowed and took a convulsive gulp of air. Today's class, just another ordinary, dull, dreary, boring freshman American Lit class had taken a turn for the very unexpected with this girl who didn't even register with me before suddenly came up and ...
I felt a heat, all over my body and a tingling that I hadn't felt for years. Years.
I quickly, but casually went to my desk, sitting there and looked over at the doe-eyed Miss Swan. She was still looking out the door. No, she was looking at the ground, facing the door, away from me.
I furtively, quietly, quickly hooked my thumbs under my panties and pulled them off, casting them beneath my desk. They came off damp.
This was so bewildering, but she's a student, and I'm a teacher. A professor. A tenured professor teaching literature at Dartmouth College. I have a career. I cannot jeopardize it with an illicit affair with a student. With one of my students! The shame of such an affair, if it were discovered?
Which it wouldn't be, because it couldn't happen. It can't. Besides which, I'm a married woman — a happily married woman — with a daughter almost this girl's age. I have no interest in girls. I'm married, for God's sake.
This didn't help at all with the warmth heating my body to a fever pitch, or the particular sense of ... almost discomfort centering ... down there.
I shuffled some papers on my desk to cover my clandestine maneuver and my own discomfort and bore down, hard.
I got up from my desk and circled Miss Swan once, slowly, looking over this shy girl, shuddering in place, eyes cast downward.
Taking the panties off didn't help at all. I mean it did what it was supposed to do, and that is, it was keep the panties from getting soaked, but it was so distracting in other ways, because I felt the roughness of the fabric of my skirt rubbing against me now in a rather more direct way, and the air, creeping up between my legs coolly caressed my thighs and vulva and such a way that I almost lost my cool.
I felt a trickle. I think I had lost my cool.
I am so glad I wore heels today. I was taller than this girl already but the heels, as the clack-clack-clacked across the hardwood floor gave me a further edge over her in height, and I felt such a surge of power that this advantage gave me.
Because as shy as she looked, she had outshone me in class today, and she wouldn't admit that to herself, I could see that in her demeanor, but she knew it. Everybody knew it.
And I was never, ever, shown up. Not by anybody, not by any of my colleagues, and especially not by a student taking my class. I'm the professor; I'm the expert here, not her.
"So," I purred, reassured with the dominance of the student-teacher role reasserted here, "that was quite an impressive display of knowledge you showed today, Miss Swan."
I could afford to give that compliment. Betters complimented the less gifted. Noblesse oblige.
Miss Swan gulped and turned whiter.
I smiled. She was completely in my power.
"It is appropriate to say 'thank you' when given a compliment," I dictated.
"Th-thank you, Professor Dietrich," Miss Swan barely managed to gasp out.
My smile widened. She was completely pliant to my will. A good little student. She, standing there, collapsed into herself, looked just so tasty!
I wonder how I could tease her out of her shyness.
I shut my eyes for a second and gave myself a proper scolding: back on task, Agatha!
"I'm wondering," I continued, "how you came to such insights? How you're so motivated to accept tutoring right at the beginning of college? You must be very motivated."
Miss Swan offered no elaboration.
"Hm," I hummed thoughtfully.
This girl looked completely submissive at first, but she seemed to have that stubborn streak Midwesterners have: they don't rebel, they just don't let you know what's going on inside. But she didn't talk like a Midwesterner, either.
"I'm also wondering what further insights you have to share ..." I added, probing.
Miss Swan, eyes still downcast, shrugged once.
I felt a sudden pang. A hurt. I wish she would look at me. Her eyes were these two pools of deep mystery that I wanted to look into to decipher, and by her not looking at me ...
By her not looking, I felt rejected by her. Not that I had offered anything. Not that I could. Not that I ever would.
I cleared my throat expectantly. Miss Swan's gaze remained firmly fixed on the ground.
I sighed. Well, let's try the gentle approach perhaps?
"Miss Swan," I said with a softer tone, "I just wanted to say that you were the first student to offer some insights into the reading material that hasn't been covered in the course notes or, frankly," I added, because I see myself as a frank person, "anywhere else I've read, and I see an excellent opportunity for collaboration here. I'm sure you have some new perspectives that your ..." Hm, would she find the word 'youth' offensive? I settled for another word... "fresh insights would provide, and with my experience as a guide, well ... the ALA symposium is coming up next Summer, and that's a long way off but the deadline for submissions are coming up in January, and if you had another insight like you had in class to day, my ..., that is to say our paper submitted to the quarterly journal would really generate more than a bit of interest from the community ... it may even cause a stir!"
Miss Swan finally came, just a bit, out of her shell: "'ALA'?" she asked curiously.
Ah, ha! She's curious! That's this little girl's button. That's what pushes her along. All I have to do is to feed her curiosity, and she would work, day and night, to satisfy it, just as she probably did today.
Everybody else, reading today's chapter — if they even bothered to do the assignment, which I say from today's participation, most didn't bother, only getting interested when there was a mention of cannibalism which they would have seen anyway if they read the chapter — just simply read the text and probably said 'Ew, gross!' and left it at that.
This Miss Swan, I could see, probably asked herself: 'Why the liver?' And that question bothered her, and didn't leave her alone until she did find out, after consulting weblink after disappointing weblink, she probably refused to read cliff's notes, seeing that, perhaps as somehow beneath her pure quest for knowledge, so she went to the library — I could just see it — and researched Eastern Philosophy until she finally made the connection.
And all this not for a term paper due the next day, but just to answer a question she had from her reading assignment?
Oh! What a protégée I could make out of this one!
Oh! the adventures we could embark on, her, asking the questions that nobody else bothered to ask and then finding the answers, and me, guiding her findings into mature, cohesive, cogent, defensible and air-tight theses.
For I had read her writing, and, yes, it did show confidence in the grasp of the knowledge that she had, and those amazing sparks of insights, too, that made her papers a pleasure, not a chore to read, but it also showed a lack of maturity. Well, it was mature enough for her age, but if her writing showed anything, it showed such potential in how it could be transformed from a paper written by a child to a paper written by a woman: a mature, confident, self-possessed and wise woman.
And if there was anywhere where I could help this girl, it was in this area: I could help mature her.
Well, that is, mature her writing.
And perhaps ... Agatha! Down girl!
I simply smiled and answered her question: "Yes, Miss Swan, the ALA is the American Literature Association and it holds symposia across the country annually. It's quite an honor to present there. This past years was on the West Coast in San Francisco, but this coming year's will be in Boston, ... can you imagine it, Miss Swan? Boston, Massachusetts, the so-called 'center of the Universe' and I, that is we, will present something that will take more than a few if not all of the participants by surprise. I'm sure of it. Imagine the debates, the oh-so-vicious debates, that will come from our efforts. Imagine the knowledge that will be revealed for everyone to benefit from. Just imagine it!"
I felt a new, heady, glow from accolades that would rain down on me and further Dartmouth's esteem in the eyes of Academe.
And, well, our English chair ... well, Patricia did a good job as the acting chair, but wasn't it time somebody stepped up who showed a grasp of the domain ... ?
Somebody like me?
And the new chair would need her own staff, ... including student volunteers.
I looked at Miss Swan, a bit hungrily.
"Well," I asked confidently, "what do you say?"
"I..." Miss Swan stuttered. "Um, I ... don't ... kn-..."
What? She was going to refuse? She was going to refuse me? This was intolerable.
"Of course, Miss Swan," I interrupted quickly, "I'd be there to help you along. We could work together on coming up with a topic, or perhaps you already have one in mind given your strength in the area of Asiatic studies ...?"
"Actually, I ..." Miss Swan began excitedly again but then paused.
"Yes ...?" I prompted, looking interested, because I was.
Being awarded the Chair? And then after, Associate Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Humanities, perhaps? I was interested in anything this golden Swan had to say.
"Well, I mean, I kn-know some Native American ... you know ... legends ... and stuff."
I grimaced and sighed, very quietly to myself: 'and stuff.' But I looked her over. She definitely didn't have anything of an American Indian look.
"Oh, really, how do you come by this interest?" I asked, curiously.
This girl was just full of surprises.
"W-well," she began.
Maybe we could have a correspondence relationship, her speaking, so lacking in confidence, was annoying.
Maybe I could use that mouth of hers for something other than speaking. I envisioned her mouth moving in just that way, between my legs, and her big doe eyes looking at me pleading for my pleasure.
God! Her reticence is turning me into such a dominatrix!
It was hard to hear the exact words she was saying, because I kept staring at that mouth moving and kept trying to control myself from just reaching over to her and ... ooh!
I so wanted to show her what forceful confidence meant.
I felt the urge to strike myself, hard, on the face to snap out of it.
I regathered what she had said, something about living alongside a tribe of Indians where she came from.
Okay. That made sense. What didn't is how she said it. Sadly and embarrassedly. It didn't take much for me to surmise her distress. She probably left her true love, or children's crush, back at the tribe as she catapulted herself into college, and a premiere college at that. Dartmouth had more valedictorians in its student body than most of the rest of the colleges in the U.S.A. ... combined.
I wonder if this Miss Swan felt lonely?
Why is it just so difficult to compose myself around this bright, shy, beautiful girl?
"Ah!" I said, working delight into my voice, "that sounds fascinating, and that's also a rarely explored area in American Literature. You could emerge as a leading expert here ... think of that!"
I saw her thinking of that.
And I saw the interest falling flat.
And I saw my error. Her being a leader anywhere? That probably scared her, not excite her. But she was young, and from the Midwest, or wherever she was from, so she didn't see this incredible boost and opportunity I was offering her.
Think, Agatha, think-think-think! How did she finally step up and volunteer today? That required some impetus from her, correct? Was it her love of knowledge? Her curiosity?
I remember now. She had caused a disturbance, shouting something and looked at the sophomore behind her ... wasn't it that blond girl who had exited last?
It wasn't Miss Swan who volunteered herself, it was that other girl who pushed her forward.
Were they enemies?
Bigger girls often picked on smaller girls, embarrassing them, asserting their domination. This was the most common pattern in the animal kingdom. Go talk to the anthropology department and get your fill of that if you don't believe me. But why was a sophomore retaking a freshman lit course that last year she sailed through, but, this year, her efforts?
Half-assed. Distracted. Self-absorbed. That's what I labeled this girl as, so I left her alone: she wasn't putting herself into this class, so I wasn't going to extend any effort toward her.
I hadn't had her last year, so I had no idea why she was retaking the course, and I could care less. She looked like she came from money, and rich children can be such spoiled brats, making a three or four year program, five, six or more years to 'find themselves' in college, taking easy courses that required minimal effort to remain in school while they indulged in one recreational drug or another.
But then I reviewed the interactions of these two, both so pale white, and the sophomore always ...
Well, whenever Miss Swan shifted position at her seat, just a hair, that other girl — what was her name? — instantly had her eyes and her whole attention on her, like a hawk. And when Miss Swan was speaking up in front today, that other girl had laser focus on her, only her, until the other students started muttering, as they are wont to do when they see the slightest laxity in discipline.
Just because I can't discipline you, because I'm concentrating on the dialogue and debate with this surprisingly knowledgable girl, doesn't mean you can't discipline yourselves.
College freshmen, such children!
But when they were mumbling and muttering, the blond's eyes went from person to person, evaluating, judging, and her judgments? for the most part?
Some were dismissive, yes, but on a few occasions, she got this look in her eye that was ...
The blond wasn't an enemy, ... she was filling the role of a protector.
And a protector wants the best for her brood. Here was the leverage. Miss Swan wouldn't do this for me. She wouldn't even do it for herself (how bizarre!), but she would do it for her older sister or cousin or surrogate mother or whatever this sophomore was to her.
I wonder if this sophomore is this mysterious coach ...
"I...I..." Miss Swan stuttered, finally answering, "I don't know, Professor Dietrich. I mean, I have a full course load and... and... I-I... I just ..."
"Miss Swan," I interrupted again, it was just so easy to do, she just asked me to interrupt her with her hesitancy. "Why did you come up to talk about today's lesson?"
This answer wasn't hesitant at all: "You made me come up!" she riposted quietly but fiercely.
And then she glared at me hotly before her eyes returned to the floor boards, and she blushed with either anger or embarrassment or both.
Ooh! Feisty bitch!
I licked my lips and tried not to drool. I liked a little fight in them, it made the conquest oh-so-much more pleasurable.
Not that I'm speaking from experience. Nor am I a lesbian, nor a cougar at that, despoiling girls my daughter's age. I'm just saying, metaphysically, that ...
Well, never mind.
"No," I disagreed resolutely, "that girl behind you pushed your forward, didn't she?"
Miss Swan turned so white it looked like she went into shock.
Bullseye! I thought triumphantly.
I paused a second, letting that sink in.
"Who is she?" I asked quietly.
"What?" Miss Swan whispered back, scared.
"You two look somewhat alike, are you two related?"
"Oh, for ..." Miss Swan sighed heavily, as if she dealt with this all the time.
Then she snapped out a "Why does everybody in the world have to ..."
But then she stopped and lowered her gaze, muttering to herself angrily.
I have no idea what this is all about, but I could check records later.
"She your coach?" I probed.
Miss Swan's gaze remained firmly fixed on the ground.
I wasn't getting anything more about this mysterious blond, this femme fatale from Miss Swan today, so I would have to spell out my own conclusions.
"Wouldn't she be proud of you if you were to present to a symposium of the premiere literary society of the nation?"
"Rosalie would be proud of me no matter what I did!" Miss Swan exclaimed.
Ah, I thought, so the femme fatale, or, given her (lack of) participation, the femme ennuie had a name, did she?
I looked at Miss Swan, Miss Button-pressed Swan and smiled slightly.
"Wouldn't she?" the girl begged.
And then, all of a sudden, so sudden it was shocking, two tears trickled down her cheeks.
My heart went out to the poor girl. I reached to my desk and grabbed a tissue, handing it to her. I keep forgetting that these are just children entering college. The only experience they have had of handling their emotions are high school, and what a terrible experience that is for most. She hasn't had the trial and stability of marriage and raising a daughter to anchor her more to reality. Her whole world is what she thinks other people think of her, not even realizing that most people don't care, and the ones that do care, do actually care.
"Of course, she would, of course she would be proud of you, no matter what, Miss Swan, but just think of the opportunity, and think how much more proud your family would be if you took this opportunity. It's there for you, and just ..." I paused as the girl finished wiping her eyes and blew her nose. "... just really think how you could ..."
Miss Swan held up her hand: "I ... I ..." she was panting.
My brow creased in concern. "Are you okay, Miss Swan? Do you need to sit down?"
"I really gotta get to my next class!" she burst out desperately and literally ran toward the door.
I shook my head. Perhaps I came across too strongly.
"Well, do take care, ..." I said with concern.
I went to my desk as she burst out the door.
But then I thought ...
Assistant Dean of Arts and Humanities: Agatha H. Dietrich, Ph.D.
"... And I'll expect your answer by the end of our next class, Miss Swan!" my shout followed her out the door.
I turned to my paperwork, trying not to think of her lithe, elfin, form dashing for the door.
My fucking pussy was on fire, thinking of her, thinking of me, circling her, commando, thinking of her, my assistant, researching the materials I gave her, then getting her own books and then eagerly pointing to some divine little nugget of knowledge she had mined from some obscure source materials that she had dug out from the Library stacks.
Of course, we couldn't do anything like that. Me, a professor? Following one of her students back to the stacks? There'd be talk, and rumors, that I'd have to deny, but even rumors are just so damaging to one's career opportunities.
But that wouldn't stop her going solo back to the stack, getting the books, and seeing with her obviously very virgin eyes what activities were going on back there, and then, coming out from there, all confused and flustered.
Oh, God! Miss Swan looking all confused and flustered. My hand went between my legs.
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
I was on my cell, right away, dialing.
The phone rang: brrp-brrp!
"Hello?" Richard's annoyed voice snapped.
"Richard, it's Agatha. Hey, when I get home, can we ..." I began, in my small, submissive, little wifey voice I so despised. I'm not this little mousy housewife that this misogynistic society has forced me into; I'm an empowered woman and a leader in her field, for God's sake!
"Look, hon," he interrupted angrily, "I'm just going into a meeting, okay? Can we talk about this later? Like after supper or something? Okay, bye!"
The line went dead.
I wanted to cry. Just like that little Miss Swan ... what was her name? I looked at my roster ... ah: Isabella. Isabella Marie Swan.
Such a beautiful name for such a sweet little girl. She wouldn't snap at me! She wouldn't force me into a little submissive housewifey role! In fact, it looked like she needed someone to ... well, to nurture her, to mother her, to be a caretaker of her life and a mentor for her career.
And it looks like she was so lost here, she needed somebody to ...
My skirt had somehow ridden up my ass, and my bare cheeks were now firmly planted on the cold, hardwood chair. It felt fucking good! My hand was between my legs, and one, then two fingers went in. Stroking, and stroking, and stroking, as I thought of that sweet little Isabella, us working together, her pointing out a line in a text, me looking at it over her shoulder and ... and ...
And my breasts brushing up against her.
Three fingers in now.
"Oh, Miss Swan!" I whispered needingly.
... And her gasping, feeling my diamond-hard nipples on her back. And turning to me in surprise, and gasping and me, bending down to her and grasping that full head of hair of hers and grasping her head in my arms and pressing my lips to hers and kissing her, kissing her so hard and ... and ...
And her, kissing me back. Tentatively at first, because that's how she is, but then, as I kiss her and kiss her so demandingly, she, kissing me back, and wrapping her arms around me and kissing me, really kissing me and my full suckling breasts resting upon her petite ones and ...
"Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!" I cried out.
And oh, fuck! indeed! For I had come, I had come like I had never come before, in that little Miss Swan's yielding and trusting embrace, and now I had a little pool of ... evidence of my carnal desire on the seat between and on my bare legs.
I quickly got up, reached under my desk and used my panties to wipe between my legs, then my puss and then the seat itself.
My panties were soaked. No, they were drenched.
I looked around desperately, and then buried my panties at the bottom of the waste paper basket by my desk. I readjusted my skirt and raced out of the classroom, nearly knocking over a student entering my class.
I made some excuse and hoped to God that he didn't notice how flushed I was.
I ran to a bathroom went into a stall and, God, I'm so embarrassed, I used toilet water and paper to wash away everything that I could wash away.
But I couldn't wash away my shame.
Nor my desire.
I can't believe it. I want that girl. I can't have that girl. She's a student. I'm a teacher. I do what I so want, we will be discovered and exposed and then exposure for me? Ridicule, real shame, administrative action ... legal action.
This isn't what might happen. It will happen. That blond? She'll have to just come in and check up on that girl sometime and it will be right in the midst of our trysting, won't it? Luck has nothing to do with it. I'm a woman. I know this. There's no way Richard can hide what he's doing and what he's not doing. And it'd be pure foolishness on my part to think I could ever hide anything from anybody: everybody on the faculty knows what everybody else is or isn't up to, and the few times there's been affairs...
Ugly. Just so very ugly. And so stupid on the part of the faculty engaged in these activities. What were they thinking? Were they thinking of their careers? their families? their reputations?
No, of course they weren't thinking, because they were all men, all stupid men, to the very last one.
But I'm a woman, and a wife, and a mother, and a tenured professor, that means I've got a head on my shoulders and that also means I can think beyond my (nonexistent) dick. Men can't, but I'm a woman. I'm smart.
Sure, that little Miss Swan was cute, and smart and everything so alluring that so draws in everybody who starts an affair.
But is she worth risking everything for?
No! I scoff. Of course not!
I told her to consider my offer, but I just can't risk this.
She's obviously going to say no, if left to her own devices, but that — what's her name? — Rosalie may actually talk her into doing this project. Of course she would. This is a golden opportunity that very few ever have a shot at.
So she may be talked into this, and she may say yes.
So that means I'll have to say no to her. I'll just have to say workload or scheduling conflict or something!
I returned to class, just as the bell rang and took up the lesson. Calm. Cool. ...
And every step I took caused a whisper of air between my legs that reminded me of that little Miss Swan, and that irritated me no end. But I was past her now. I was beyond her. She wasn't worth the risk.
An image of her — her — came before my face. Us, working together, us ... lying together.
I just had to say no to this. I am woman. I am strong.
I am thoughtful and pragmatic, too. This just couldn't work. I have a career.
I looked at the image of Miss Swan and I looked at my dull, dreary career with pompous asses as colleagues, all of them backstabbing bastards going after the same slot I coveted and I thought of the smart, sweet, just-so-alive and innocent little Miss Swan and I ...
I just had to say no.
But could I?
Story End Notes:
 So you see how this could never happen, right? Right? ... *sigh*
 Everybody's calling Bella and Rosalie sisters these days: it's fashionable, don't you know. Women in the café and Bella herself (in my one-shot Fireworks), and a certain other author. Bella finds this oh-so-tiresome and annoying, much to the amusement or bemusement of those listening to her complaints. Rosalie thinks it's the cutest thing, confirming by consensus Bella is as beautiful as Rosalie is.
 The stacks, and the activities thereby (therein? therewith? there ... whatevs!), are described, just a bit, in my story "Monsters," ch 3.