CHAPTER FIVE: Holden
I was getting ready for the first class of the summer term when my cellphone rang. I glanced at the clock above the door. I had twenty minutes before students would start filing in, so I picked the phone up off the desk and glanced at the screen. I smiled. It was my best pal, Wynn Driver, Facetiming from California.
“Hey, dude, what’s up?” I asked with a big grin. I sat down at the desk and propped the phone on a stack of books so I could drink my coffee while we chatted. “How’s the weather in Cal-ee-for-nee? How’s the surfing?”
“The surfing is bitchin’ out here, dude,” he said, giving me a toothy grin and a wiggly thumbs-up. Wynn was a happy guy with a contagious smile. In all the years I had known him I’d only seen him angry or unhappy a handful of times, usually over the stresses of his job or the stresses of a woman who wanted things he could not or was not willing to give. Wynn said he was allergic to commitment. Just the thought of settling down with one woman gave him hives. He and I were a lot alike, thought my aversion to commitment did not go to the same depths as his.
Wynn Driver had left Midwestern to teach at UCLA at the start of the last semester. He was a bestselling author now and there were many more opportunities and contacts to be made in Los Angeles than in Springfield. Never the less, we had been buddies since college and were inseparable until he moved away. I missed the hell out of him and told him so.
“Hey, I miss you, too, old buddy,” he said, poking out his bottom lip like a pouty child. “You really need to move out here and teach. You would not believe the caliber and amount of pussy here in Lala Land.”
“I like the midwestern pussy,” I said with a grin. I pried the lid off my coffee and blew into the cup. “Besides, I think it’s the law that every girl in Los Angeles has to have fake tits. I like my tits real.”
“Hey, don’t knock fake knockers,” he said, chuckling. “The really good ones all taste the same.”
I giggled into the coffee cup. Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I said, “That’s probably true. So, what’s up with you? I’m about to teach a class so I only have a few minutes.”
“Oh yeah? What are you teaching this semester?”
“I have my usual psyche summer courses on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”
He frowned at the screen. “So? It’s Monday morning. What is it, ten or eleven there? What are you doing in class?”
“If you must know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m also teaching the Sexual Psychology of Modern Fetishes class this semester.”
“Holy shit, man, really?” He leaned in toward the screen and scrunched up his nose. “Why are you teaching that shit? Isn’t that old man Markle’s specialty?”
“Seems Professor Markle is taking the summer off to travel to the Holy Land and they asked me to fill in,” I said. “At least that’s the story the dean gave me when he asked me to fill in. Did you know Markle was a Jewish name?”
“Jewish my ass,” he growled. “The only holy land Markle is interested in is the Bunny Ranch in Vegas.”
“That may be,” I said with a sigh and a smile. “But it seems this class is part of the standard summer curriculum and God forbid we skip it one semester. The fetishists would undoubtedly protest in the streets. Anyway, it’s easy money and the fetish classes usually attract an interesting crowd. So, what the hell.”
“Ah, I get it now,” he said, closing one eye to stare at me through the screen. “You’re doing it to meet chicks. You sly son of a bitch.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said, not bothering to lie because Wynn knew me better than anyone. I glanced up at the clock. “Speaking of, I’ll have students coming in shortly, so, what’s up?”
“What’s up is I got an invitation to come back to Midwestern and do a seminar for a group of clinical psychologists in a couple of weeks and I was wondering if you had anything to do with that?”
I feigned ignorance for a moment, then gave him a smile. He knew I had everything to do with that because I was the president of the local psychology association, which included academics, therapists, psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, nurses, administrators, and other industry practitioners. I’d been pushing the meeting committee to add a lecture by Wynn for weeks and they finally agreed.
“I might have had something to do with it,” I said. “I assume the fee was to your liking?”
“Hey, dude, if you guys want to pay me ten-grand to come and talk about the psychology of pussy, who am I to argue?”
“Who better to talk about the psychology of pussy than the guy who literally wrote the book?”
He puffed out his chest proudly. “Well, there is that.”
Wynn’s book, What’s Your Vagina Thinking, which he published just a short year ago, had become a runaway bestseller and the reason he got the big job offer to teach in California. And offers to appear on every TV show from Good Morning America to Ellen to 60 Minutes. Howard Stern loved him, as did every other radio host who found saying the word vagina over public airwaves hysterical.
I would never understand why the very idea that a vagina might actually have thoughts (the intellectual version of the Vagina Monologs, I supposed) was cutting edge stuff because we men had been thinking with our dicks since the dawn of man. It was about time the pussy got a brain.
Wynn had managed to write a book many found groundbreaking, though quite honestly, I was not sure why. Maybe it was because I didn’t have a vagina. Or cared what one might think. Regardless, Wynn was riding the book to fame and fortune. He was considered the world’s foremost expert on vaginal thinking. Seriously. Stop laughing. It’s a real thing. I know because it had bought Wynn a Porsche Carrera and a house in Malibu. And a high-paying gig at UCLA. Just a year before he was driving a twenty-year-old Honda and sleeping on my couch while begging the dean for class time. My, how quickly things change, thanks to concept of a smart vagina.
“I’m thinking about calling my sessions ‘The Psychology of Pussy,” he said, talking with his hands. “Or even better, ‘What Does Your Pussy Think?’” He gave me a salacious grin. “What do you think?”
“First of all, I think you’ve fallen off your surfboard one too many times and smacked your head,” I said, cutting him a look. “And second of all, I’m not sure the marketing guys will go for putting ‘The Psychology of Pussy’ on the brochure, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Hey, I’m not married to the name,” he said with a grin. “So, I’ll be flying in that Friday evening late and flying out on Sunday morning. I assume I’ll be staying with you since there was no mention of a hotel in the deal?”
“You assume correctly,” I said. “Just take a cab to my place. You still have your key, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Cool, then use it when you get here,” I said. “I will restock the large condoms, buy a new vat of KY Jelly, and change the rubber sheets in anticipation of your visit.”
“You are too good to me, my friend,” he said. “Any prospects you thinking about lining up for my visit? Maybe you will have a nice three-way fetishist in this class we can share.”
Before I could answer, the door at the back of the classroom opened and a beautiful girl I’d never seen before strolled in. She was tall and curvy, with long red hair pulled back into a ponytail at the crown of her head and a face to die for. She sported big tits with no bra, tucked into a tight, black t-shirt that was knotted just below her boobs. Her nipples pushed against the material like thimbles. Her hips were round and her ass was firm in a pair of hot pink running shorts that barely covered her crotch. She was wearing running shoes and white ankle socks. Her legs were perfect, tanned and toned, and I couldn’t help but imagine how they would feel wrapped around my waist. Or wrapped around my head.
She gave me a smile and took a seat down front, just ten feet from my desk. I felt a lump in my throat and a twinge in my cock when our eyes met. I returned the smile, then picked up the phone and took Wynn off speaker.
Turning my back to the girl, I lowered my voice to say, “I gotta go, Wynn. The girl of my dreams just walked in the door.”
“You mean the girl of our dreams, buddy boy,” Wynn growled in my ear. “See you soon.”
* * *
I hung up the phone and turned back to find her smiling at me. Jesus, she was beautiful. Bright eyes, bright smile, fair skin, perfect smile. There was something about her that made me want to drop to my knees and serve her every command, like being in the presence of royalty or something. I felt a twinge deep inside my chest that sent little shockwaves to my cock.
“Well, hi there,” I said as I set the phone on the desk.
“Well, hi there yourself,” she said, still smiling. Her eyes narrowed a little as the corners of her lips curled up.
“I’m Professor Moss,” I said, licking my lips because I found them suddenly dry. I tried to swallow again, but ended up nervously clearing my throat. I didn’t know why this girl was having this effect on me, but I forced the smile to hold and gave her a little nod. “I mean, Holden Moss. Professor Holden Moss. My friends call me Holden.”
“I’m Judith Allen,” she said, her top teeth on her bottom lip. “Grad student. My friends call me Jude.”
“As in, Hey Jude?” I giggled, then groaned on the inside. It was a stupid thing to say, something she had undoubtedly heard a million times before from schmucks like me. Guys she made nervous with just a glance. Guys who couldn’t help but imagine her naked. Guys who would crawl up a mountain of glass just to sniff her…
Jesus, you fucking idiot, what are you doing? I could hear Wynn’s voice in my head as clear as day. What’s up with you, Holden, you dumb fuck. You are acting like a nervous teenager. Be careful you don’t cum in your pants…
She didn’t skip a beat or look at me like I was a total moron. She just gave me a dreamy look and sang a line from the song. “Yes, exactly as in Hey Jude, don’t make me bad...”
“Wait a second…” Something clicked in my brain as I struggled to retrieve my manhood from the toilet I’d just flushed it down. I narrowed my eyes and pointed a finger at her. “Judith Allen… You’re her… You’re the Judith Allen that wrote the paper on nympho—I mean hypersexuality—in Professor Markle’s class?”
The smile quickly dropped from her face. She cut her eyes sideways at me and frowned defensively. “Yes, how did you know about that? Oh… let me guess, old Professor Markle not only can’t keep his withered old pecker in his pants, but he can’t keep his mouth shut in the faculty lounge.”
“What? No… I mean… That’s not how I heard about you… I mean, how I heard about your paper…” I stumbled over the words because I could almost feel the heat coming from her eyes, burning into mine like two beautiful blue lasers. The truth was, I knew about her paper on nymphomania because old Professor Markle with the withered cock had left a copy in the desk where I was now sitting. When I had found it the week before I thought the author, a senior named Judith Allen, had probably already graduated and moved on to spread her good cheer—and her legs— beyond Midwestern. That wasn’t the case. Here she sat, just ten feet away, and holy shit was I glad to meet her. A true nymphomaniac. It was a little like finding Big Foot, if Big Foot had been a gorgeous red head with a killer body and a psychological condition that drove her to fuck guys like me. Or at least I hoped guys like me.
She folded her arms under her breasts and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Well? Am I the gossip of the faculty lounge now?”
“Um… what? No. I mean…well…to be honest… Hey Jude…” I tripped over the words like a blind man in a room full of cats. I tugged the lopsided tie loose from my collar and opened the top button. I felt like I was overheating. Tiny beads of sweat popped out on my upper lip. “I found a copy of your paper here in Professor Markle’s desk last week when I was snooping around… I mean… settling in… and…”
Both of her perfectly-manicured eyebrows went up. She pooched her lips and sucked in her cheeks. Her folded arms lifted her breasts. Her nipples looked like they were struggling to push through the thin tee-shirt. “And what, Professor Holden Moss?”
“And, it was probably the best fucking term paper I’ve ever read,” I said, crossing my arms to match her posture. I smiled at the memory of reading her words the first time. At first, I thought it was a joke, a mock paper handed in by some make believe student just to rattle old Markle’s cage. But the more I read it, the more I knew it was the real thing. Whoever wrote the paper truly was a nymphomaniac; a hypersexual. And she was damned proud of the fact and made no bones about it. The part where the football player called her a fuck machine was priceless. I somehow knew the paper was real, but I never expected to meet the author. I had tucked the paper away for safe keeping. It was now in my bedside table at home. I’d read it a dozen times, usually with my cock in my hand.
She blinked away the anger and the pretty smile returned, a little warmer now. “Oh… well… you really liked it?”
“If you had turned that paper into me I’d have given you an A-plus. Maybe an A-plus-plus.” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I only wish that I could have heard you read it out loud. I’m sure it was quite a show.”
She frowned again. “How did you know I read it out loud?”
It was my turn to smile at her discomfort. “Old man Markle is famous for making his students write long term papers and read them out loud while he dozes at his desk. I assume he did not doze while you were speaking. And I would guess that he probably asked you to stay after class to ‘discuss your paper’.”
“How do you think I knew about his withered old cock?” she asked. She gave me a smile that sent the blood rushing from my cheeks to my groin. “I hope the pages weren’t stuck together. I can send you a clean copy if need be.”
I felt myself relax as I released the breath I’d been holding. “No, actually, it was quite pristine. My guess is Markle wasn’t able to do much with it, poor old guy.”
“And what did you think about the paper, seriously?” she asked, eyebrows arching.
“What did I think?”
“Yes, my position on nymphomania versus satyrism? The sexism? The double standard? Why can men fuck anyone they want but when a woman does it she’s considered a slut or a mental defect. It’s terribly unfair and utterly infuriating, don’t you think?”
“Oh, um, I actually thought you did a very good job of addressing the subject.” I cleared my throat and laced my fingers together on the desk, then tried my best to put on a serious face. “Nymphomania, or hypersexuality as it’s now commonly called, is a serious—”
“Professor, I was just fucking with you,” she said slyly, sliding her ass toward the front of the seat and spreading her legs. She pulled the crotch of the loose running shorts to the side to show me her bare cunt. She slowly rubbed two fingers up and down her glistening pussy lips as she stared at me and smiled. She got out of the chair and leaned over my desk, bringing the two fingers wet with her pussy juices to my mouth. I let her slide the fingers between my lips. I closed my lips around her fingers and sucked them dry.
“The bigger question is, what do you think about that?” she asked, pulling her fingers from my mouth and sliding back into her seat. She crossed her legs and gave me an amused look. She obviously loved making men sweat.
The lump slid down my throat, lubricated by the taste of her tangy juices. I licked my lips and thanked the gods above for Markle’s decision to travel this semester.
“I think we should discuss this in private,” I said as my cock grew harder in my pants. It throbbed against my leg, growing so hard it was almost painful. A tiny wet spot formed on my khaki pants.
“When and where?” she asked, the innocent smile returning.
I tugged at my collar and shifted in the seat. “Tonight, perhaps? Over dinner and drinks at my place?”
“I think that’s a fantastic idea,” she said as other students started coming in from the back of the room. She scribbled her phone number on a scrap of paper and got up long enough to put it on the desk. “Just text me the details. Say around eight? It’ll be fun.”
“I think eight o’clock will do nicely,” I said, picking up the paper and sliding it into my pocket for safe keeping. “I’ll text you my address. Maybe you can text me something fun back in return.”
“Maybe I can,” she said. She slid her hand between her legs again, then brought up a single finger and licked her own juices from it.
“Wow,” I said without meaning to.
She licked her lips and smiled. “Thank goodness I was able to get into your class, Professor Moss. I think this is going to be a fun semester.”
“Yes, I think so, too,” I said, studying her with my eyes, wondering if I was simply the luckiest man on campus or the target of a horny girl’s fantasy.
Either way, I knew Jude Allen and I were going to be great friends. And we were going to have great fun.