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Years ago, I registered for a weekend workshop called “Tantric Yoga for Women” at an Ashram in the Catskills. It’s the kind of silly thing a single academic sometimes does with her spare time. Only it wasn’t so silly, after all. There were about a dozen of us from across the bell-curve of feminine adulthood. Two or three, including myself, were in our twenties. Most had a touch of grey, a few gathering wrinkles, and the slightly saggy boobs typical of women in their thirties or forties. There were also a couple “mature” outliers who were clearly in their fifties and even sixties. Our instructor, Chanda, was an unpleasantly thin young woman with one of those incredibly limber and carefully sculpted yoga bodies. She had a rather plain face, mousey hair, and an annoyingly serene attitude. By the end of the weekend I was in love with her. We all were. The point of the workshop was to awaken dormant pleasure centers in order to concentrate and intensify “the orgasm.” And that we did. For two days we gave each other long, teasing massages and explored erogenous zones that, frankly, even the most sexually experienced of us never knew existed. Surprising, it wasn’t entirely about physical sensation. Chandra was emphatic that kindness and compassion, communicated by the empathy in our words and voices, our willingness to please, and especially the softness and selflessness of our touch, could also vastly amplify the power and pleasure of orgasm. There was just one rule. We couldn’t let ourselves cum until the end. There was actually a little candlelit graduation ceremony held in a dark and cavernous yoga studio. Instead of certificates or diplomas, we masturbated ourselves to climax. It was the most intense, explosive and soul-satisfying orgasm I’d ever experienced. You never forget something like that, and from that moment on, I did my best to live my life, or at least my love life, according to the principals of Tantric Yoga. Which brings me to Brandy. Brandy Jones was a Sugarbaby, although I didn’t know it yet. In the beginning, she was just the hot girl in the second row of the Neoclassical Brit Lit class I teach at a NYCU. There’ve been a lot of hot girls in my lectures. But none like Brandy. With the sex-appeal of Mila Kunis, the charisma of Emma Stone, and the looks of a young Megan Fox, Brandy was in a class of own. Look, I don’t know if it’s Tantric or not, but it’s always the sweetest honeypie that gets the bees. It may not be fair, but it is the way things work. So, of course, I became hopelessly infatuated. That’s what oversexed, under-appreciated college teachers do. Call it what you will. Obsessed. Addicted. Enchanted. Fixated. I simply couldn’t get Brandy out of my thoughts. Not during class. Not after class. Not when I got home, slipped off my clothes, and indulged in a little unrestrained Tantric fantasizing. Not even when I was honeydipping on a weekend getaway with my best-friend-with-benefits Sandra. Clearly, I’m not talking about a platonic infatuation. Pure, rock-my-world lust is more like it. I’ve always been a wet girl when I’m playing with that special someone. But I wasn’t fucking Brandy. I was just looking. One peek of her little booty and I’d get so quaggy that I started keeping spare panties in my desk drawer. Could it be some kind of super sex-pheromone? Doubtful, really. Brandy was seldom closer than twenty feet. And is there such a thing as a lezzie sex-pheromone anyway? Tantric magic? I wouldn’t rule it out. Sandy said I was crushing on Brandy because at thirty-two, my sex drive was peaking and subconsciously I was terrified that everything was going to be down hill. Not the most cheerful analysis, but I suppose there could be some truth to it. As for myself, I was wondering about the old chestnut that “opposites attract.” I’m freckled, busty and curvaceous. So curvy that I haven’t been in public without a bra since I hit puberty. With a flawless complexion, full sensuous lips, emerald-green eyes and a petite size four figure, Brandy was the diametric opposite. Normally I’m drawn to generously-endowed women like Sandy who are close to my own age, have expressive eyes, sympathetic smiles, clever minds, and are eager to please. All that went out the window when Brandy walked in the door. I could spot Brandy’s little ass and coltish legs half-way across campus. Once she had taken her seat, my eyes roamed higher. Her tits were tiny, but had a delicate upthrust shape that never failed to make my mouth water. And Brandy’s nipples spoke a language all their own. Sometimes they lurked inconspicuously. Then, when I least expected it, they rose up and winked furiously in my direction. “Tweak us. Lick us. Suck us. Fuck us,” they’d plead. I’d try not to stare when her nips got hard and pressed into the soft fabric of her Henley T-shirts. But Brandy’s erect nipples were the longest and most prominent I’d ever seen. I couldn’t look away. I really couldn’t. Brandy didn’t help me out, either. When her nips stiffened, she’d twist her thick mane of auburn hair into a loose braid and let it cascade down the front of her T-shirt, partly but never completely obscuring those beckoning little suckle knuckles. “Peek-a-boo, we see you,” they’d whisper seductively. “But can you see us?” All this, mind you, while I’m expounding on Milton’s contempt for political hypocrisy or explaining the social satire of Pope’s mock-epic poems. You have no idea how hard it is to teach about dead white males while fantasizing how a late-teen beauty’s hot tits would feel clamped between your lips. Either set of lips. When Brandy wore yoga pants, Kuşadası escort well, those were the days I either changed panties after class, or resigned myself to an afternoon in soggy knickers. Long after class, I’d still be visualizing all the things my tongue would do in the pretty little V-shaped gap between her pussy and her thighs. A couple of students told me how much they enjoyed my passionate lectures this year. They have no idea that the reason my voice quivers with emotion these days is that I’m thinking of all the depraved things I want to do to Brandy’s sweet little honeypie. Would I actually indulge in those perverse fantasies? Hell, yes! NYCU doesn’t have a formal prohibition against faculty-student relationships. But it’s understood that if a student goes public with a credible accusation of favoritism, coercion or harassment, it’s going to be a career-ending event. A full professor might weather the storm, but I’m an untenured instructor who can be replaced, as they say, in a New-York Minute. Which did nothing to quell my hunger to savor Brandy’s flavor. “So, Mari,” I asked myself a hundred times, “how do you even know if this girl is a lezzie?” I mean, she doesn’t have a rainbow flag tattooed on her forehead, wear a messy bob cut, carry a penny board in her back pack, or even hunker down under a hoodie. Call me a dreamer, but I picked up on a couple bi-curious signals, like the black VEER shadow crewneck she wore on cold mornings, her snap-back Mets cap, and the Tegan and Sarah sticker on her laptop. Nothing conclusive, but enough to feed my fantasies. Winner, winner, chicken dinner! Even Brandy’s innocent gestures stoked my crazy lovepanky. Like when she twirled a pencil between her fingertips. For the longest time, I couldn’t understand why this caused an almost painful yearning between my legs. Then one night when I was touching myself down there, I realized that all this time I’ve been thinking about Brandy’s fingertips massaging my labia with that same easy twirling motion. Sometimes she’d put a pink pencil eraser between her orthodontically perfect white teeth and bite down. I hardly need to describe how my own nipples felt. Brandy would also arch her back in a slow feline stretch. That would press her love buds against the tight cotton t-shirt until the material was so distended, their outline was visible from two blocks away. Then she’d lean back and splay her legs, leaving the contours of her pretty little butterfly-shaped pussy lips fully exposed. That never failed to send pangs of raw lust coursing through my erogenous zones, including some of the ones I only learned about in the Tantric Yoga workshop. If my panties hadn’t already flooded, they did now. I know exactly what you’re thinking: “Mari M. Marlow, PhD! You, of all people, a humanist and female academic, should know better. You’re objectifying an innocent young woman. You’re a lesbian slut and a traitor to Feminism.” To which I reply: “Just hold your horses. Objectification is what horny people do. We can’t help it.” Besides, I haven’t finished my story. My last three lectures of each semester are a sort of Cliff’s Notes summary of everything you really need to know for the final exam. For students who spent the first fourteen weeks texting and sexting or, bless their little hearts, fantasizing about fucking their instructor’s brains out, this is their eleventh hour reprieve. Pay close attention during the final week, and you’ll get at least a “C+.” When Brandy missed the first review session, I felt a vague sense of relief. At last, I could stay dry while explaining Dryden. When she didn’t turn up for the second session, relief turned to mild concern. After session three, I was genuinely worried. Not about her grade. Brandy was high-honors material. She’d received an “A” for first semester, her essays were detailed and insightful and whenever she’d answer questions in class, she was thoughtful and well-informed. During the last nine months, she’d only missed a handful of lectures. It just wasn’t like Brandy to skip three classes in a row. After the last lecture of the year, I walked back to the former storage closet that is my office, and found an e-mail from Brandy: “Can I see you this afternoon about something personal?” Something personal? Had Brandy finally picked up on my infatuation? Did she want to talk about “us?” Was she distressed, confused, aroused? Was my transparent lust the reason she’d skipped those last three lectures? “I’m free at 3. Meet me at my office,” I wrote, my body shivering like a badly tuned violin string. A few minutes later Brandy answered. “Thanks so much. I’ll be there.” And she was. When I opened the door, Brandy had on what looked like an original Antonio Berardi sheath dress with red Jimmy Chou ankle boots and a Jacquard wool and silk trigon scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. I confess I felt a pang of jealousy. Not so much because I could never afford an outfit like that, which I can’t, but because you have to be as skinny as a runway model to pull off a Berardi sheath dress. She looked so naturally elegant that it took a moment to realize that something didn’t compute. Brandy was on an academic scholarship. I knew that much. So, how did she afford a three-thousand dollar outfit, no matter how casually sophisticated it made her look? And why was she wearing it on campus in the middle of the afternoon a couple of days before final exams? Then I saw the tears welling up in her big green eyes and an anguished expression spreading across her delicate features. Something Kuşadası escort bayan had clearly gone terribly wrong for Brandy Jones. She started to speak, but her voice caught in a sob and in that instant my long sexual obsession broke like a fever, transforming itself into an almost primal urge to provide comfort. Without thinking, I pulled Brandy into my arms and hugged her. The English Department secretary watched this with an expression of alarm while down the hall, one of my colleagues leaned out of his office to see what the commotion was about. Disconsolate students aren’t exactly unknown near the end of a semester. But a sobbing undergrad dressed like a Park Avenue socialite on the way to a black-tie dance at the Metropolitan Club was a definite cause for curiosity. I broke the embrace long enough to steer Brandy into my office, where she threw her arms around my waist and continued weeping. Under different circumstances, with her scent in my nostrils, her tiny breasts heaving into me, and my palms against her warm skin, I would have become unspeakably aroused. But not now. Brandy’s despondent tears awakened some dormant maternal instinct. Instead of tingling sexual excitement, I found myself empathizing with her despair. As her heart beat against my breast, a barrage of powerful emotions rose up inside me. Prurient desire wasn’t one of them. One thing was certain, this was not about my petty infatuation. Somewhere Brandy’s life had taken a seriously wrong turn, and I would do just about anything to help make it right. “I’m so sorry…” she gasped, breaking our embrace and stepping toward the door. “I’ll come back… another time… when I’m not so hopeless.” “It’s O.K.,” I said, squeezing her hand and pulling her gently back. “Don’t go. We can talk now. Everything’s going to work out.” “I wish I could believe that, Dr. Marlow,” she whimpered. “My life’s such a mess.” It took some time, but when Brandy’s desperate sobs eventually subsided. I helped her into a chair. She kept her head down and hugged herself by pulling her knees to her chest. Of course, the sheath dress rode high up her thighs and I caught a glimpse of pussy lips pressing against black silk panties. But this time I resisted the urge to take a closer look. “Start at the beginning,” I urged, reaching out and stroking her cheek with my fingertips. “And, please, call me Mari.” “Thanks… Mari” she sniffed, still looking forlorn and helpless. “I’ve never messed up like this before. I didn’t even know where to turn. Who to talk to.” “I’m flattered you came to me. Take your time. Tell me what’s happened. Finding silver linings in black clouds is something of a specialty for me,” I said, passing her a box of tissues. Brandy took a deep gulp, dabbed away the mascara that was running down her cheeks, then started at the beginning, just like I’d asked. “I’m from Upstate. My parents own a small grocery. They’re very religious and hardworking. But for some reason they can never make ends meet. There’re four of us kids and growing up we all worked at the store to help out.” “It was a good childhood, really. But I wanted more. I took AP courses, studied nights, weekends, every moment I had. Graduated Summa Cum Laude, Honors Society, the whole package. Dad urged me to go to a state college in Oswego or Plattsburgh where I’d be close to home and could get a full scholarship and work part time to pay for incidentals.” “But you knew where that would lead?” “Oh, yes. I’d worked too hard to spend the rest of my life packing broccoli florets in Nowheresville. So I applied to NYCU. Got an academic scholarship and thought that between a small student loan and a part time job, I could swing the room and board.” “You underestimated how much it costs to live in the Big Apple?” “I was clueless. I landed what I though was an amazing job hostessing four nights a week at a fancy restaurant in Chelsea. But it was only minimum wage with no tips, and didn’t even cover my dorm, let alone meals, books, subway pass, and an occasional concert or movie.” “But the outfit you have on? Antonio Berardi? Jimmy Chou? Jacquard silk scarf. It must cost thousands.” I could see a new outpouring of tears welling up, but Brandy fought it back. “That’s where I screwed up. Big time,” she sniffled and dug out more tissues. “There was a Senior girl on my floor. She’s from a little Upstate cowtown like me, so I doubt she was a debutante either. It seemed like every night she went out wearing a different outfit, and they weren’t from Old Navy or Collette Consignment either. Then I saw her parked near the door making out with this really old guy.” “Oh, no!” I gasped before I could catch myself. “A total ‘Oh, no!’ But when she told me, it seemed so harmless. She’d found this website where college girls hook up with older guys. ‘Everything’s negotiable,’ she told me. ‘No Sexual Activity, that’s called NSA. Heavy petting only. Penetration but no kinky stuff like bondage or S/M. Spell it out in your profile, or come to an agreement on the first date, or even before on the phone. You won’t believe how many generous old guys are out there who just want to hang out with girls our age.’” “What happened?” Brandy had me hanging on every word now. I’d seen tabloid stories about college Sugarbaby. But I’d never talked to anyone who’d done it. “I was feeling desperate. I didn’t want to end up as another student-loan horror story. Anyway, just to see what might happen, I set up an account with some selfies and a profile saying I was looking for a sensitive guy between 21 and 80 bodrum escort bayan willing to help with college expenses. I didn’t mention sex one way or the other.” “I’m sure you had plenty of offers,” I smiled. “Dozens. Most were just guys trolling for escorts. Lot’s of e-mails like, ‘How about $300 an hour for some serious alone time with you?’ Gina, that’s the girl from my dorm, said to ignore them. That eventually I’d find a guy who was serious about helping out financially in return for companionship.” “Did you?” “I thought so. His name was Carl and his family has a big real estate company. He’s almost as old as my Grandfather, which was pretty freaky. But it turned out he keeps himself in shape, has beautiful silver hair, and isn’t all that bad looking.” “Anyway, we spoke for hours before I actually agreed to meet him. He’d fallen in love with my photos. I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. It was all very flattering.” “He was also lonely and searching for someone to share dinners, concerts, sports events, maybe a little clubbing now a then in return for helping with college expenses. I was upfront about sex. Explained I was virgin and didn’t know if I was ready for sex. He said, ‘No problem. We’ll play that one by ear. I won’t pressure you into anything, I promise.’” “And?” “I fell for it. At first it was so glamorous and carefree. I think he was re-living his youth and just being with me really was enough. Well, almost enough. Before going anywhere, he’d take me to Saks or Bloomingdales or Creatures of Comfort, and pick out a couple of designer outfits. Dresses, shoes, accessories. He was really into it. Then we’d go into a dressing room and I’d try them on while he watched. I knew he was getting off on seeing me undress, but the things he bought me were so beautiful, and expensive.” “Did he give you money?” “No. Maybe he avoided that to make things seem more… legitimate. Like we really were dating. But it didn’t take long to figure out that I could sell stuff on E-Bay. Even if I only got half of what he paid, it was a fortune to me.” “What about your hostessing job?” “Carl asked me to quit so I’d have more time for him.” “Did he honor his promise about not pressuring you?” “Yeah, he actually did. He’d pick me up in this black Range Rover and after each ‘date,’ we’d park for a while on the edge of campus. He wanted to make out. I was uptight at first, but went along. Once we began deep kissing, he’d get really worked up, and it was a little frightening. I mean, he was so old. When he tried to feel me up, I gently pushed his hands away.” “How’d he take that?” “Not bad. He was never angry. Gradually I got more comfortable being with him. One night he said I was making him so horny it was physically painful and would I mind if he just jerked himself off? I didn’t have to help or anything.” “I mean, like, he’d already given me so much. How could I say no? It was actually a first for me, so I watched pretty intently. He liked that. While he was doing it, I complimented him on his size, he really was bigger than any of the guys I’d seen, and I encouraged him by saying how hot it was to watch. In a strange way, it really was hot.” “What happened?” “It became a regular routine. We’d go out and afterward we’d park and make out and once he was hard, he’d take it out and jerk off while I watched and urged him on. He especially like it when I talked dirty. Sometimes he’d asked to see my tits, which he saw all the time anyway, or to look between my legs, even though I always wore panties.” “At first it was a little creepy. Pretty soon, though, I actually enjoyed the feeling power that came with knowing how much I aroused him. Eventually he wanted me to help, of course. So that started the hand job era. Pretty soon I relented and let him touch me at the same time. Once or twice, I almost orgasmed, but I couldn’t completely let go with Carl.” “All in all, it sounds pretty innocent,” I said. “By New-York-City standards, anyway.” “That’s what I thought. Like I said, he seemed to be reliving his youth. With the end of Fall Term coming up, I dropped some hints about how hard it was for me to afford the dorm. I thought maybe he’d give me some money instead of the extravagant shopping trips. A couple days later, when he picked me up, there were two Latin guys with him.” “I don’t get it?” “Neither did I, until Carl explained he had the solution to my rent problem and the guys would help move my stuff. If I didn’t love it, they’d move everything back. An hour later I’m standing in this amazing studio apartment with a view down Broadway to Times Square. That night we went to a Billy Joel concert at the Garden and returned to the apartment instead of parking. “We started making out like usual and soon I was pumping his cock and he was fingering me with one hand and then I felt his other hand on the back of my head gently guiding my mouth onto him. It didn’t really seem like such a big deal. I mean I did it for my high-school boyfriend and all he ever gave me was mono. I laughed at that. “When did you start having sex?” “A week ago. But it was just once. Then he dumped me.” “Oh, Brandy. I’m so sorry!” I could only imagine how rejected, distraught and adrift she felt. “What happened?” “I can’t say he actually pressured me, but he talked a lot about ‘consummating’ our relationship. By now we’d get naked in bed and if I didn’t blow him, he’d get off by humping between my pussy lips without actually penetrating me. “A week ago, he took me to Saks and picked out this incredible Fleur de Mal lace bridal kimono. Afterward, we had dinner at the Rainbow Room and stopped to get two bottles of Dom Perignon on the way to the apartment. I knew what he was expecting and made a big deal of taking a long bath and putting on the bridal kimono before getting into bed.” “I thought he’d be tender and appreciative, but for the first time Carl got rough.