The Ivory Tower
by Izzy French
Charlie nudged the heavy oak door shut with her hips, and walked slowly towards her desk, her stockings making a satisfying swishing noise. She couldn’t believe she was here at last, finally ensconced in her very own ivory tower. That they’d let her set up office at the top of the folly in the corner of the university quad. There were all kinds of ghostly legends attached to it, that’s what had deterred anyone else from claiming it as their own, but Charlie wasn’t the superstitious kind. The beamed circular room with leaded windows did appeal to the romantic in her, of course, but the best thing about it was that, finally, she was alone. Just her and her laptop. And wireless Internet access, of course. All mod cons, obviously.
Now she could get on with the task in hand. There would be few interruptions. She’d had a phone installed, but she doubted it would ring often. No, most of her communication would be via email. And that suited her just fine. She wasn’t sorry to leave the huge open-plan university admin office behind. Most of her colleagues were girly and giggly, surprised when the phone rang, or emails pinged into inboxes, expecting them to carry out some mundane task. Charlie wasn’t naturally arrogant, but she knew she was good at her job, that she buckled down and got on with it. Which was why her request for her own office, though it had raised a few eyebrows, had been respected. Finally she could escape the constant teasing, which she took well, she thought, despite its personal nature.
“Lock up your chocolate biscuits, Charlie’s on the prowl,” was one she heard often. She’d like to have said the old ones were the best, but they weren’t. And if she’d been the sensitive type she might have thought the teasing bordered on bullying. But years of listening to it had toughened her up. And, anyway, if she wanted to she could lose weight, start a diet. Tomorrow. Be skinny like them. But, deep down, she loved her curves – they were hers and hers alone. Where would she be without them?
She twirled around in her new chair, taking in her new surroundings, fantasizing about being someone other than Charlie, university administrator, in charge of timetabling courses as disparate as comparative religion and particle physics. Today, if she wished, she could be Rapunzel. She let her head fall back and shook out her hair. OK, like most heroines Rapunzel was blonde, probably a size 8, and wore flowing velvet robes. Whereas she was brunette and a good size 18, but at least her hair was long and curly. And her outfit was somewhat more modern, dating from the 1940’s. Her plum suit was sharp and fitted, leaving little to the imagination. Charlie loved the vintage look, though it wasn’t always easy to find in larger sizes. Women had been altogether more scaled down back then. But the one she wore today clung to her curves like a glove. And she was a firm believer that if you felt good you looked good too. Not that there was anyone around to confirm or deny this; but, just for her own satisfaction, Charlie flipped open her mirror and re-applied a slick of deep red matte lipstick, gave her plump round cheeks a smile, and wiped a tiny smudge of eyeliner from the corner of her eye. She’d do. From the outside Charlie looked quite the part – smart and slick, though, just for her own satisfaction, her suit was covering, well, very little. Down below, at least. She couldn’t go bra-less; that would be altogether too indecent. But she was a big fan of stockings and suspenders. And today she’d chosen to go without knickers. Just the thought made her want to rub her thighs together, send shivers of pleasure through her cunt, use her hand to treat herself to just one tiny little orgasm. She began to rub her thigh, tuck her finger under the hem of her skirt; but then she pulled herself together, placed her hands on her keyboard. There was work to get on with.
. She got up from her chair and turned the key in the lock. No giggling girlies or doddering dons would be pestering her up here today. She tapped away for an hour or so, cutting, pasting, and emailing attachments to stuffy old professors who were almost entirely unaware of how to open them. But that was their problem. There were only a few who regarded communication as a two-way thing. And some of them chose to moan and complain, flying into the old office, arms flapping, corduroy jacket flying behind them, demanding that she didn’t schedule them for a lecture in post-modernism on a Friday afternoon, as it clashed with an important PhD tutorial. Charlie would smile and nod, knowing full well that the tutorial was in fact a date with a bottle of single malt, and move the lecture one hour later, once the infuriated professor had made his point and left the room. There was the odd one or two with whom she’d built up good virtual working relationships. Flirty, even. Professor Markham, and Dr Neilson, amongst others. Though she’d often wondered what they’d think of her if they ever met. Whether they’d be surprised or disappointed that she didn’t resemble her peers, or live up to their fantasy of the ideal secretary. And she wondered too, if she’d be disappointed in them. Whether she’d sigh and let her shoulders drop when she noticed the patched jacket elbows, the bleary eyes looking over half-moon glasses. But then why should they conform to stereotypes any more than she did? That was why flirting by email was so much safer. There was so much less to lose.
Charlie tweaked a complicated spreadsheet for a while, then decided she deserved a little light refreshment. She flipped on her kettle, and began to prepare hot chocolate. She enjoyed her drink without the raised eyebrows, and the ‘what does she expect if she drinks that’ glances crossing the room. Taking her first, and most satisfying, sip she jumped at a sharp rap on the door, and a rattle as the intruder attempted, as Charlie saw it, to force entry.
“Hello, anyone in there? Ms Prentiss? Charlie?”
Charlie remained silent. If she ignored him he might go away. She didn’t recognize the voice. He could be anyone, though from the sound of it he was university staff. His tone was well modulated, deep, and certain. Philosophy department, maybe.
“I know you’re in there, Ms Prentiss. They told me where you’d be when I called the main office. And you sent me an email a couple of minutes ago. And, to demonstrate my detection skills even further, I can smell your hot chocolate.”
Charlie tiptoed over to the door and pressed her ear against it. Shit. It must be Professor Markham. English Literature. She’d just emailed him with a list of additional students for next term. He’d be mad. No way she could let him in.
“If you don’t open up I’m going to fetch the porter. I need to speak with you.”
He began rapping on the door again. Carefully she turned the key in the lock and swiftly pulled the door open. A tall man came stumbling in, just managing to hold on to his balance. And his dignity.
“Miss Prentiss, I presume?”
“Charlie.” She shook the proffered hand. His shake was firm and warm. She glanced up at him. No half-moon glasses. No black lock of hair over a brooding brow. His long dark blond hair was tied back. University regulations, no doubt. She couldn’t quite see whether his dark wool jacket was patched at the elbows, but his crisp white shirt, open at the neck, was refreshingly bow-tie free. His deep blue eyes held hers. He was in his mid-thirties maybe, tiny creases just beginning to appear round his eyes. Young to be a Professor. He must be good, she thought. And he was sexy too. She liked that in an academic.
“Evan, please. I heard you’d moved here. On your own. I’ve something …” His voice trailed away. Not very articulate for a professor, Charlie smiled. Their email flirtations had reached quite a fever pitch just lately. She wondered if meeting her in the flesh was the disappointment that Charlie had hoped to avoid.
“Is it about the extra students?”
“Extra students? No, it’s not.”
The professor appeared to be rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Charlie. Then he took a step forward, and another one. The circular room felt tiny now, as though the walls had closed in since the number of occupants had doubled. Charlie was certain she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. She glanced around. To reach her desk she would need to step past him. But then she would be in a place of relative safety. And power.
“Excu
se me, Professor.” Charlie was proud of her nimble footwork. Not bad for a girl of her generous proportions. She had almost reached her desk when she felt his arm hold hers. Not just a light touch – but a firm grasp. It felt proprietorial, a little invasive. But kind of good too. Not that she was going to let him know that. Not yet.
“I think you’ll find touching university employees without their express permission is breaking the rules, Professor. One phone call and I could have you suspended within minutes.”
Charlie was proud of herself. She’d managed to sound suitably self-righteous. Not easy when she wanted to encourage the man’s touch rather than repel it. But she needed to feel more certain of his motives. And she wanted him to work for it a little too. Professor Markham loosened his grip on Charlie’s arm, and trailed his fingers up to her hair, twisting a lock round his forefinger.
“You’re not going to, are you though, Charlie. We both know that.”
“You’re rather sure of yourself, Professor. And, unless I’ve missed something, I don’t believe you’ve declared your reasons for being here. I thought the matter of the extra students had been settled.”
Charlie knew she could pull away, sit at her desk and tap away at her keyboard. Break the connection between them. Insist that she had work to do. Emails to compose. Calls to make. But she didn’t. Because every tiny tug he made as he wound her hair round his finger caused her to shudder imperceptibly. She was becoming extremely aroused. Then he let go and stepped back. She held her breath. She didn’t really think this wouldn’t continue and progress, but she would be mighty disappointed now if he began to complain about his timetable, in time-honoured professorial fashion.
“God, you’re gorgeous. I’ve got to see more of you.”
She released her breath. Relief and desire flooded over her. She really wanted him. He was beautiful. More like Rapunzel than she would ever be. She’d rescue him, any day.
“Plenty of me to see, Professor. Where shall we begin?”
She slid her jacket from her shoulders and threw it across her chair. Her blouse was silk and form-fitting. The tiny mother of pearl buttons strained over her breasts. She met his gaze.
“Shall I, or would you prefer to …?” She allowed her voice to trail away as she plucked at the top button. He pushed her hand away.
“I think it would only be gentlemanly if I took over from here. Don’t you?”
His hands were surprisingly deft. Her blouse fell open in moments. She allowed him to shrug it off her arms. Let him think he had some control. She watched him take her in. He licked his lips. An involuntary action. Then he kissed her. Gently at first. Then more insistent. His tongue pushed her lips apart, roved round her mouth, engaging with her tongue. She pushed her thighs together, enjoying the tingling sensation between her legs that accompanied the kiss. This was beginning to feel very good indeed. Blissful. She was relishing every moment. She felt his hands slide the satin straps of her bra off her shoulders. A man of many talents she thought. Kissing and undressing her in one fell swoop. He released her breasts, and undid the clasp. Charlie fought the instinct to wrap her arms around her, to hide herself. Yes she was big; her breasts fell on release, not for her the tiny, perky tits of some of her more flat-chested colleagues. But she was quite certain the Professor wasn’t going to be disappointed by their fullness. And she was soon proved right, as he buried his face in her cleavage; sucking, licking, tugging on her nipples with his teeth; circling them with his tongue. And her nipples responded in the way they knew how: hardening, demonstrating her desire. She was really enjoying herself. Looking up, he took the weight of her breasts in his hands and smiled at her. Their look was complicit. Neither of them needed to speak. Their mutual pleasure was mounting. He let go of her breasts and ran his hands down her side. Her skin shone white, pearlescent in the deliberately dim light. Her waist, though it could never be called small, was at least curvy, blending perfectly into the fullness of her hips and stomach. The professor’s breath was beginning to come quickly now, as tucked his fingers into the waistband of her skirt. Snug to say the least, it was a relief when his hands made it to the centre of her back, released the button and tugged down the zip. Her skirt was too tight to merely fall to the floor. He had to ease it over her hips, a task she was happy to help him with by twisting and wriggling as it moved down slowly, but surely. He gasped as her black satin suspender belt was revealed, holding up sheer black stockings. An obviously unexpected bonus, she thought. And if he was surprised she wasn’t wearing knickers, he didn’t show it. He gazed at her dark, well-trimmed mound, licking his lips, looking as though he wanted to devour her there and then. But he didn’t. Not yet. Her skirt had left a red mark round her waist, a mark he traced round with his fingers, then planted tiny kisses on, his hands following the curve of her hips, and beginning to part her thighs. Time to stop him right there, thought Charlie.
“I think I’m at a bit of a disadvantage, Professor, don’t you? Me being almost naked, you still fully clothed?”
He nodded his agreement. She unbuttoned his shirt, discarding it in the increasing pile of clothes on her chair. His chest was slim and tanned, hairless. She ran her hands over him, slowly moving down to his chinos, loosening his belt. His erection pressed through the cream cotton, and his breath came quick and fast as she let her fingertip trail down the length of his cock. She felt him flex in response to her touch. He was hard and ready. His chinos and boxers fell from him easily and she stepped back to admire his cock, erect and proud against his slim hips. Charlie grinned; they were going to fit together well. She was hungry for him now, wanted to devour him. She bent to kiss the tip of his penis, tasting the salty sweetness, circling him with her tongue, slowly, firmly. She heard him sigh. She held his balls in the palm of her hand and felt them tense. He was close to coming. Then he pulled himself out of her mouth.
“Not yet, not like that, later. I want to get deep inside you.”
Charlie was all for that. They began kissing again. He reached round her, fondling her arse, before lifting her, without too much effort on his part, on to her desk, brushing a pile of paperwork to the floor. She crossed her legs as he knelt in front of her. He bent to pull off her shoes and kiss his way up her legs, gently parting them as he went and finally arriving at the point where her stockings finished and he was faced with an expanse of white flesh. He paid particular attention here, with tongue and fingers, seemingly fascinated by the tops of Charlie’s thighs, as a nineteenth-century gentleman may have been about a lady’s briefly glimpsed ankle. With little effort Charlie reached for his cock, using a feather light touch at first, increasing the pressure as he drew closer to her cunt. His hands were kneading her flesh.
“Fuck, Charlie, you’re perfect, just how I imagined, and there’s so much of you to enjoy.”
“Professor, you academics do go on so; how about a little more action?” Charlie shuffled her arse to the front of the desk, willing him to bury himself deep inside her. Just the thought made her cunt tighten with need. She felt her juices trickle onto the dark wood desk. She wanted his cock to fill her, to feel him push and press into her flesh, to make her shudder with desire and satisfaction. These thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
“Ssh,” Charlie said, unnecessarily, pressing her forefinger to her lips. There was no chance the professor was going to be bouncing up, opening the door and inviting in whoever was waiting there. Not with his tongue exploring the upper regions of her thigh, and threatening to investigate her folds any moment soon.
“Hey, Charlie, it’s me, Dr Neilson. I just had a, errm, timetabling question for you.”
Then there was silence. Professor Markham’s tongue had begun to circle her clit, and boy did it feel sweet. She was willing him to press on, aching to feel his tongue inside her. This was exquisite. She could feel her cunt contract in readiness. And then she was certain he shook his head, telling her to ignore their unwanted guest, a movement that threatened to send her over the
edge. She threw her head back and remained as still as she could, waiting for her imminent orgasm to subside to mere overwhelming desire.
“Ok, Charlie, I’ll drop you an email, and maybe come back another time.” Dr Neilson’s footsteps faded away as he retreated down the staircase. Professor Markham pulled himself away from her cunt, and nuzzled his face into the softness of her stomach. Momentarily she was disappointed. But then her disappointment faded as he thrust his fingers into her, twisted and turned them around, as if exploring her readiness, pulled them from her and licked the juices that ran down his fingers. They held each other’s gaze. He snapped one suspender against her thigh, sending a shudder through her. Then he snapped the other. Charlie felt her skin sting. Then he pushed her thighs wide apart and began to thrust his cock deep into her. And boy was she ready. And she was correct too, about how well they would fit together. His cock filled her, thrust into her, exploring her folds like they were undiscovered territory. She reached down and fingered her clit, knowing it would take little to tip her over into full-blown orgasm. He moved her hand away, and with deft fingers he rubbed her engorged nub, and thrust into her, setting a rhythm that suited them both. As he thrust deeper Charlie felt herself tighten around him, the movements involuntary, and deeply pleasurable, and moments later her orgasm washed over her, and she lost all sense of where she was, just concentrating on willing the Professor to fuck her hard. Which he did, reaching his own climax moments later, groaning as his cum filled her, and he held on to her round hips to intensify the sensation for them both.
“Christ Charlie, that was good,” he moaned, pulling out of her. Kneeling, he rested his head in her lap. She stroked his hair; allowing his fingers to explore her folds again, tweaking the last gasps of her orgasm from her.
“I don’t make a habit of this you know, Charlie. Ravishing beautiful, voluptuous maidens in towers.”
Ultimate Curves Page 17