My French Professor Made Me Stay After Class

On Monday afternoons I had French at university, and I usually sat at the back of the classroom, doodling in my notebook and thinking about anything but the lesson. I was already twenty-six, had gone back to school late, and most of the group were guys and girls my age or a little older. Nobody paid much attention on Mondays, especially not at five in the afternoon.

Professor Renata came in with her classic “Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs,” and a weak chorus rose from the class. I turned up the volume on my headphones and went back to my notebook. I was drawing something shapeless when I looked up, and I forgot about the pencil on the desk.

Renata looked different that afternoon. Different from how I had seen her all semester. She was wearing closed-toe heels about six centimeters high, opaque black stockings, a black skirt considerably shorter than what she usually wore, and a long-sleeved white blouse with two black straps crossed over her shoulders. She had always worn loose pants and baggy shirts. Seeing her like that stirred something inside me.

I wasn’t the only one. I looked around, and several pairs of eyes were sneaking beneath that skirt, trying to guess how far it went. I started imagining it too.

I had always thought she was beautiful. She had straight hair with honey-colored highlights that fell below her breasts—generous breasts, the perfect size to fill two hands. Once she had come in wearing a sleeveless blouse, and I had managed to slip over beside her desk while she corrected an assignment for me. From above, I could see the light disappearing into the cup of her cream-colored bra, and I remember leaving that class with wet panties. But seeing her in a skirt that Monday was something else.

My eyes were fixed on her legs. Renata was a woman with wide hips and a defined waist, thirty-eight years old and wearing it well, with an hourglass body she couldn’t completely hide even in loose pants. In that short skirt and black stockings, she was on another level.

God, the way she crossed one leg in front of the other while explaining irregular verbs to us. The way she leaned over to write on the board and the fabric climbed another centimeter up her thighs. I shifted in my seat. I was wet. And I wasn’t the only one. Three seats away, a classmate had forgotten to hide the erection pushing against his jeans. A couple of girls were whispering on the other side of the room. I didn’t understand a word of the entire lesson, though I never took my eyes off her.

Break came, and almost everyone went out to the courtyard or the bathroom. I usually stayed in the classroom with a friend who had been absent that day, so I didn’t move. The classmate with the erection didn’t either. Renata sat at her desk, crossed her legs, and opened her laptop. I tried to copy her posture in my notebook: hands on the keyboard, glasses slipping slightly down her nose, a lock of hair tucked behind her ear. Just as I was about to look up, I caught her watching me.

And she didn’t look away. With all the calm in the world, she slid her hand along her own thigh, from her knee to her hip, and lifted her skirt a little on the way. I caught a glimpse, almost holding my breath, of the lace band of a garter biting into her skin.

I lowered my eyes to my notebook so she wouldn’t notice how red I’d gone. My heart was pounding in my throat. I started fantasizing against my will: my hand sliding up that stocking, finding the edge of the garter, the hot skin between the straps. Pushing her against the desk and fucking her with my fingers until her knees buckled.

Disappointment washed over me when Renata got up and walked—not toward me, but toward the classmate with the erection. She stopped beside his desk, said something to him about an assignment I hadn’t heard, and the poor guy didn’t know where to look. She seemed amused. I turned up the volume on my headphones again.

Then she stood behind him, legs slightly apart and arms crossed, her skirt an inch higher. I had a full view of the back of her body. A firm, round ass pointed in my direction. I paused the music. She was a meter away from me. I wanted to get up and slip my hand under that skirt, touch her heat, her wetness, everything.

She leaned over the boy’s desk, almost rubbing her tits against his shoulder, and her skirt rode all the way up. I saw the black stockings end right at the curve of her ass, the garter’s lace strap crossing her thigh, and a white string disappearing between her cheeks. A white thong, gleaming against the black stockings. Her lips barely covered by the fabric, shaved, a slightly darker shade than her skin. The boy and I were both holding our breath.

Renata pinched one cheek of her ass with her free hand, adjusted her skirt when she heard voices in the hallway, and went back to her desk as if nothing had happened. The boy got up two minutes later, grabbed his things, and left the classroom red to the tips of his ears. Some people laughed, others looked at her guiltily; she kept reading in French as though nothing had happened.

I couldn’t stop replaying in my head the image of that hand lifting her skirt. I’d had very little experience with women—a threesome with a couple and a kiss with a friend at a party—but this time the signal was crystal clear. I wasn’t imagining anything.

The rest of class went by quickly. Renata said goodbye, and everyone began packing up. I hung back, putting my notebook away more slowly than a notebook could possibly be put away, until the classroom was empty. She was finishing coiling the charger cable when she looked up, saw me at the back, and smiled.

—Camila, right? I swallowed.

—Yes, Professor.

—Could you help me pick up the trash at the back, please? She pointed to the corner beside the window. I nodded and walked slowly. I passed beside her desk and caught her perfume: vanilla, with something sweet underneath.

I gathered the papers and came back. Renata was half-sitting on the edge of the desk, her purse hanging from her shoulder, looking at me as if she knew exactly what I’d been watching all afternoon.

To throw away the trash, I had to pass in front of her. I took a deep breath and moved forward.

—There’s more here, she said as I passed. She turned around and leaned over the desk, giving me another full view of her ass, this time with the skirt barely covering it. She rummaged through the drawer with all the calm in the world. I wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. I moved up behind her and pressed myself against her.

—Can I help you, Professor? I brushed her ass with my hip.

She slowly straightened without moving away. We were almost at the same height; I was tall, and with her heels we were even. Her back was against my chest. I could feel her breathing change.

—I dropped a sheet of paper, she whispered, letting a piece of paper fall to the floor. Will you pick it up?

I smiled. I squatted right in front of her, and without hesitation, she opened her legs.

Her white thong already had a dark wet spot right in the center. I grabbed her thighs with both hands, buried my nose in the fabric, and breathed deeply. She smelled like vanilla and wet pussy, a combination that stayed burned into my memory. I pressed my mouth against the fabric and bit gently. Renata let out a short moan.

I ran my tongue over the soaked fabric, digging my fingers into her thighs. Her lips showed beneath the thong. I moved the fabric aside and dove in. I licked her from bottom to top, from one lip to the other, sucked her swollen clit, and stuck out my tongue to attack her entrance. Her juices ran down the insides of her thighs. I buried my tongue, pulled it out, and drove in one finger, two, three. They sank in without resistance, soaked. She gripped the edge of the desk, panting.

—Oh, Cami, yes, like that, don’t stop. She pressed my head against her pussy with her other hand, and I could barely breathe, but there was no way I was moving from there. I sucked, swallowed, and pushed my fingers back in. I thrust my tongue as deep as it would go and searched for her G-spot with my fingers. She pulled my hair. I slid my free hand beneath her blouse, found one breast over her bra, and squeezed it.

—Yes, like that, she panted. Keep going, don’t stop.

I wanted more. I wanted her naked on top of the desk. I stood up without removing my fingers from her pussy, kissed her on the mouth, and let her taste herself. She returned the kiss hungrily, biting my lip. I unbuttoned her blouse with my free hand, pulled down her straps, tore off her bra, and slipped it into my sweater pocket. I devoured her nipples, one and then the other, barely biting, sucking hard.

She tugged at my sweater, pulled it over my head, tore off my shirt, and unfastened my bra with two fingers. She squeezed my tits with both hands, then bent down to suck them. I bit her neck while continuing to move my fingers inside her.

I unbuttoned my pants. There was no need to ask her for anything. She slipped her hand into my panties, found me soaking wet, and drove three fingers inside me at once. I let out a muffled cry against her shoulder.

—You’re so wet, Cami, she whispered, her palm rubbing my clit in time with the fingers thrusting in and out. Were you like this the whole class?

—The whole fucking class, I growled.

We groped each other like that for a long while, standing against the desk, my fingers inside her, hers inside me, her breasts bare and her skirt bunched around her waist, the white thong already lying somewhere on the floor, my pants dropped to my ankles and my tits pressed against hers. Every time I thrust my fingers all the way in, a sound escaped from her throat that made me squeeze my legs together.

I grabbed her by the hair and, without much ceremony, pulled her down from the desk and sat her on the floor. I gripped the back of her neck and pressed my pussy to her mouth. She needed no instructions.

—Suck, bitch, I told her, grinding my hips against her face.

Her tongue went up, down, in, out, making circles. I was about to come. I buried my fingers in her hair. She slipped two fingers into my pussy while sucking my clit and found a rhythm that made my knees buckle. I felt the heat rising from my belly, a tremor in my legs, and when the wave tore through me, I came all over her. She kept sucking everything that came out, swallowing and licking, until I pushed her away with my legs trembling.

I lifted her from the floor by her hair, kissed her with tongue, tasted myself in her mouth, and she gave me another tug between the legs. This time she took control, pushing me against the desk, sucking and biting my neck.

—You’re going to leave a mark, I protested.

—Let it show, she murmured against my skin. Let them know you’re mine.

She stepped away, straightened her skirt, and looked for her blouse. I put my shirt on, trembling from the orgasm, the nerves, and the desire for her to start again. I picked up my sweater from the floor and found her white thong underneath it. I hid it in the sleeve.

—Did you see my underwear? she asked as she finished buttoning up.

I held up the cream-colored bra with a smile.

—Can I keep it?

Renata raised an eyebrow.

—Only if you ask me in French.

I leaned close to her ear.

—Est-ce que je peux le garder?

She laughed. —Bien sûr. But I want my thong back.

—I didn’t see that one, I lied, with the strap barely sticking out of my clenched sweater sleeve.

She bent down to search beneath the desk, giving me the view again. I looked at the door—no one was coming—and pinched one of her ass cheeks.

—Hey! she exclaimed, laughing. It’s not here. She straightened up and took my hand. Come on. We’ll finish this at my place.

I smiled at her. I kissed her one last time before grabbing my backpack. We left the classroom together, her fixing her hair, me with her thong in my sleeve and her bra in my pocket. In her car, she started the engine and glanced at me with a smile that no longer had anything professorial about it.

On Monday afternoons I had French. And from that day on, I never got distracted again. Well—not by the lesson.