Get Stuffed

Not that I’m an expert on the subject. I’ve only had sex once. I don’t think the minute it took for my high school boyfriend to blow his load while still trying to break my cherry qualifies me as a cock connoisseur, but compared to those I’ve seen on TV and in movies, Mr. Johnson’s would win the trophy.

It was a formidable phallus on screen. In person, it’s downright intimidating. I can’t help but wonder if he’s hard for me, or if it would be the same standing naked in front of any girl. Pre-cum bubbles up from the opening of the tip and dribbles down its length. I’m so tempted to stick out my tongue and lick the glistening stream. I wonder how it tastes, how this amazing cock would feel cradled in my gentle fist, nestled in the warm cushion of my mouth. I want so badly to touch him, but I don’t want to step over any lines. He’s showing me because he thinks if he doesn’t I’ll tell someone about the video. He’s not naked in his classroom, risking his career because he’s willing to give it all up for me. Though my stupid fantasies wish that were the case, it’s just not, and so I have to set up boundaries for myself to keep from going too far.

Suddenly he reaches down and pulls up his boxers, cutting me off from his beautiful member. I startle from the quick movement, breaking out of my trance. I’m not at all prepared for this moment to be over. I need more time to memorize it, take it all in. “Wait,” I say.

He shakes his head. “There, you saw it. Now we’re done.”

I’m taken aback by his abruptness.

“But—” I don’t want to beg or seem desperate, but I am desperate. I want to see more, touch it, feel the silky skin coating the hard shaft, live out all those dirty fantasies that stormed my thoughts while I was watching his movie.

He starts to laugh. I must seem so pathetic. Inwardly I scold myself for being incredibly transparent, only I can’t help it. I want his cock. I want him.

He steps away from me and leans over my desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He hands it to me. It’s an address. “Be there at eight tonight and don’t be late.”

I go back to my dorm, unable to keep Mr. Johnson off my mind. I’m supposed to meet my study group at the library tonight. Fuck them, they’re on their own. I’m not about to pass up the opportunity to spend real time with that lovely cock for an English assignment that will barely make a dent in my grade. Besides, it’s already mostly done. I only go to study groups just to get away from the dorm once in a while, and because it’s time to get out and start making friends. Easier said than done.

There are three hours until I’m supposed to meet Mr. Johnson. I go to my footlocker that houses my tiny wardrobe. When I first started college, I was dead-set against dating so I never bought anything too revealing. The closest thing I have that’s worthy of a night spent trying to seduce an older man is a 1990s-style baby-doll dress. But I’m not trying to look like a child. I want to look sexy for him. Looking at my measly collection, it doesn’t appear that’s going to happen. Oh well. No time to dwell on that. He’s used to seeing me in sweats and leggings most days anyway, so anything I wear will be an improvement.

Next I completely pluck and shave my entire body. This takes up most of my time. That’s when I realize I’ve really let myself go when it comes to upkeep. I mean, I exercise because I want to stay healthy. Sick body, sick mind, they say. I need my mind on top of its game, so a daily workout routine is essential. Unfortunately, pruning isn’t part of that regimen. I don’t think I’ve shaved above my knee since I was sixteen, and I’m starting to wonder if my poor razor is going to crap out on me before I’m done. It doesn’t, but there will definitely be some razor burn going on tomorrow.

Now, back to the perfect outfit, since I have yet to pick it out. I try on my one dress. It’s cute. When I pull my hair up and add a pair of flats with it, it’s even cuter. But cute is not what I’m going for. So I opt for a pair of jeans that fit my curves quite nicely. It’s not going to knock him backwards when he sees me, but at least it won’t give him second thoughts about our hook up—I hope.

As if telepathically sensing my dilemma, my roommate walks in. We’re not all that close, but she’s let me borrow clothes before, and she’s tidy, so we get along just fine. She also has impeccable style. She can throw together some of the most random things and make it work. And she definitely likes to show off the goods.

She lifts a brow when seeing me standing in front of the full-length mirror. “You have on your nice jeans. What’s the occasion?”

I look down at my “nice jeans”, as she calls them. The only thing that makes them nicer than the others is that they’re the only ones I own without holes in the knees.

Obviously, I’m not about to tell her about a possible hook-up with my teacher, so I keep it vague. “I have a date.”

“With a man?” she says, skeptical.

“Yes, with a man.”

“Oh, weird. I thought you were a lesbian.”

I frown, looking at her over my shoulder. “Why would you think that?”

“I’ve never heard you talk about guys before.”

I shrug. “That’s because no one has caught my eye until now.”

“How long’s it been?” she asks.

“Couple years.”

She scrunches up her face. “You’re going on the first date you’ve had in a couple of years and you’re wearing that?”

I look at my reflection again. I look fine, I guess, but nothing about this outfit screams “rip off my clothes.”

“I don’t really have anything else to wear,” I say.

“This won’t do.” She goes to the plastic mobile closet she keeps in the corner of the room. The dorms are terrible when it comes to storage space. Or any kind of space for that matter. Our beds are practically on top of each other. Since we’d never met prior to becoming roommates, we had to learn to not be shy really quick. Privacy is not a luxury we have.

“I have the perfect thing,” she says.

She pulls out what I think is a shirt at first, before realizing it’s just a really short, red, spandex-stretchy dress. “Try this on. The color will look stunning with your dark hair,” she says.

I take off my clothes. I’ve been wearing my socks long enough for them to leave a mark around my ankle that I hope fades before I leave. The dress hugs every curve of my body and she’s right, the color really is striking against my pale skin and brown hair. It’s shorter than anything I’m used to wearing, just long enough to hide my butt cheeks. Every time I sit or stand, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t ride up.

I look good, but I can’t help but feel somewhat self-conscious. I don’t wear things like this. Girls with confidence, girls like Serena and my roommate, wear things like this.

“Oh, and you have to wear these with it,” she says, handing me a pair of black six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos with red soles. It’s a good thing we have the same shoe size as well or I would’ve been wearing scuffed blue flats with it. A bold choice that someone other than me might’ve been able to pull off.

She takes in the entire package, nodding and making faces. “You look amazing, but it’s not finished.”

She does my makeup next. She keeps my eyeshadow neutral, but gives me deep red lips that make them look sensual. I feel like a completely different person. I’m not sure if Mr. Johnson will even recognize me outside of my university sweatshirts and jeans. Most days I don’t even bother to apply mascara, let alone full warpaint.

“I guarantee if you were to walk into a room full of men right now, every head in the room would turn your way,” my roommate says.

I’m only looking to turn one man’s head tonight.

“Well, yeah, because I would be fidgeting so much they’d think I was up to something,” I say.

She laughs. “Shut up. You look hot. If I wasn’t with my boyfriend, I’d totally fuck you.”

I laugh nervously and let out a shaky breath. That’s not the kind of attention I’m used to getting from men. Or women. I get looks sometimes, but th

e most attention I get at school is guys asking for my help with assignments.

“Now,” she says, giving me one last once-over. “Go get laid. You deserve it.”

My cab takes me to the address Mr. Johnson gave me with two minutes to spare. It’s not a neighborhood I’d expect someone to live at on a teacher’s salary. It’s a large, two-story house with a big landscaped yard, mature palm trees, and a koi pond out front. It’s nestled among other big beautiful houses of the same caliber on the wealthy side of town. It’s a place I’d expect a politician or CEO of a small corporation to live.

Then a terrible thought hits me: what if he’s married? If his wife makes all the money, a house like this would make sense. What if she’s out of town and I’m coming in like a one-woman homewrecking crew in a red dress?

In the year I’ve been in his class I’d never once heard him mention a wife or even a girlfriend. He doesn’t have a picture of anyone on his desk like my other professors do, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

I decide to let it go for now. Once I’m inside I’ll know. It’s impossible to hide a woman’s touch.

Walking up to the door, I feel the warning signs of panic pushing down on me: heart racing, blurry vision, shortness of breath. I’m bombarded with questions and worries. What if he doesn’t even live here and he gave me the wrong address to embarrass me and put me in my place? I’ll get back to school and he’ll be like, that’s what you get for blackmailing me, even though it definitely wasn’t blackmail.

I start to regret sending the cab away. I guess if this doesn’t pan out, I’m close enough to campus to walk. Or, if these miserably sexy shoes destroy my feet, I could just call another cab.

A squeaky porch swing sways with the wind, and next door I hear the trill of chimes. These sounds distract me from my rambling thoughts enough for me to focus on the task at hand. Taking a deep breath, I fix my dress, check to make sure everything is under wraps, and smooth down my hair. Then I knock.

The door is painted red and has a brass lion knocker. It’s a really pretty door. I’m terrified it won’t open. Yet, at the same time, I’m terrified it will.

Feels like forever before the door opens, but it’s probably only been ten seconds or so. The tension in my shoulders eases up just the slightest bit.

Mr. Johnson stands at the threshold and isn’t dressed at all like Mr. Johnson. He’s barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a form-fitting baseball shirt that hugs his toned chest and arms wonderfully. I never would’ve imagined him being a sports fan. I guess with his athletic build, it makes sense. He probably plays sports, too. I’ve never been attracted to jocks in any way, but for some reason, the thought of Mr. Johnson all sweaty and pumped up after a game—doesn’t matter which kind; it could be badminton for all I care—really turns me on.