I walk into his office. His desk covered in books, disorganized and bookmarked in seemingly random ways. Papers waiting to be reviewed and read. Plants, half dead that have been forgotten to be watered. Sunlight peaks through the window behind him as he sits in his chair. I met him at a reading which we both were asked to attend and share our writing at. Both of our pieces filled with both sadness and a redefining of ourselves. He came to me afterwards, sharing his appreciation for what I had shared with the small crowd at the bookstore cafe.
“I think you’re writing is impressive. There is so much emotion and rawness that is balanced with insight and reflectiveness. It makes your writing extremely engaging, despite it being in essay form”. He says to me, as he takes a sip of his coffee. I have a few suggestions for edits, however, nothing major. The bones of the work is there. You are a very talented writer. Did you ever take any classes? Major in writing or literature?”
“No. I have just written ever since I was a child. I took a couple of creative writing classes in high school and maybe one or two literature classes in university, but found that I struggled with the amount of reading assigned in them. I actually got some of my lower grades in literature. I will say however, that writing has saved my life in many ways. It always seemed to come naturally to me. Especially when I was struggling with something and needed to pull it apart to process”.
“A true writer” He looks up at me with his blue eyes and disheveled hair. “Would you like to see the edits I am suggesting? Again, simply suggestions and by no means do they need to be taken up on in order for the writing to be improved”.
“Of course. Im appreciative that you took the time between instructing classes and your own writing to review it. I look forward to hearing your thoughts”.
I wander over to his coffee maker and pour myself a mug of coffee before meeting him at his desk. I pull a chair over to the same side as him. Our arms gently graze and I notice a readjustment on his end as he pulls his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and places them on his face.
He reviews my work with me and points to the edits which he suggested in order to make the piece read more coherently. He isn’t filled with ego, as if he has all the answers. I know from his own reading at the cafe that day, that his life’s journey has shattered whatever ego society tells men they are obliged to having. At one moment, I look at him and see the roughness in his skin. I notice the grey speckled hair which is now overtaking the once dark brown colouring. This is a man who has been through life and who has seen the darkness it can have woven within its years. After reviewing the essay, we begin to talk more about our other pieces of writing between sips of coffee. He shares about his memoir and his experiences with the darker parts of his earlier years, some of which he does not remember in entirety. I share stories of my poetry and about two deaths which led me to picking up writing again.
My hurt, sees his hurt. Two writers with complex pasts who have found safety in putting words onto paper. His eyes catch mine and I hold them with my gaze.
“I have to admit, that I would very much like to kiss you right now. I feel very drawn to you in this moment” he says, in a raspy whisper.
I smile at him. He tucks my hair behind my ear. I nod my head yes as he takes his palm and puts it behind my neck as he pulls me in and kisses me on the lips. Softly at first and within seconds becoming more ravenous. He drops his coffee mug onto the floor as his second hand reaches behind my back and pulls me into him. I gasp and look down at the floor. “The cleaners will get it out” he says reassuringly. His hands bring me to standing as they begin to explore my thighs under my skirt. I am wet and already wanting him more. There is nothing more desirably delectable than a hurting artist who desires you back.
I begin to undo his belt as he leans up against the desk. He pushes aside the stacks of books and unmarked papers. I see his bulge as I pull down his trousers, having them fall to his ankles. I make my way from his lips to his cock, licking and teasing at first, before taking him fully into my mouth. He takes off his glasses and moans as his head tilts back. A sigh of relief and relaxation. A sign of my job being done well. I take him deeper into my throat, gagging as I suck and swallow. He pulls me back up from my knees, pulls my skirt up and shoves my panties to the side as he plays with my clit. My hand continues to play with his shaft as he makes me quiver. Making me want more. He shoves a finger into my cunt, followed by another as his thumb continues to circle my clit. Circling my insides as I moan into his ear, my hands exploring his hair as I pull him closer to me. I smell his cologne mixed with the scent of old books and sadness. In moments of pleasure, we both lose ourselves and forget our histories.
“You are delectable”, he says to me as he groans into my ear and spins me around, bending me over the desk. He pulls my skirt up towards my waist and pulls my dripping panties to the floor, revealing my soft pussy. I feel his hardness against me and gasp as he enters me deeply and passionately. I feel my hips hit the cherry wood, invoking pain along with the pleasure. I like it. I want more. I ask for him to take more of me. His one hand pulls me deeper into his cock as his other pulls my hair, creating an arch in my back. He fucks me hard and deep, creating more of a mess to add to the ensemble of his writers office. The desk creaks as we continue to fuck against it. We both cum hard as we receive and bask in the pleasure of purely lustrous sex and desire with each other.
I take home my edits. We take home a part of each others stories, pain and pleasure.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/yicljj/dishevelled_f_m_writer_professor