Post by goldenmyst on Jun 26, 2018 21:07:55 GMT -6
Professeur de Mathématiques
Poised at the chalkboard she writes formulas wearing a mini-skirt. Her derriere is barely concealed and she dips daintily down at the waist. She is a scholar and a seductress with a figure more beautiful than any algebraic equation. My mind is mesmerized by her curves. My eyes are led astray from Pythagorean Theorem. Perhaps she is a feminist saboteur playing on vulnerable male libidos.
A man protests that her dress drives him to distraction. Her non-compliance is expressed by silence as she obdurately prances. Clad as provocative temptress, her catwalk slips teacher taboo into my schoolboy fantasy. While the proselytes of math leave, she says, “Hey John, stay here for a few moments.” Soon the classroom is empty except for her and me. She says, “Pardon me, my expertise is in math but I am a klutz with keeping my shoes tied.” I stand behind her while she dips like a bittern with her tail raised. The lure of her blue jean skirted bottom entices me into Xanadu. Her hips are cocked in a derriere dare.
She stands again and says, “Listen, John, there is no reason you can’t be an A student in algebra.” She grabs a ruler, holds it horizontally and raises it up into verticality. “You just need coaxing to raise your GPA. Do you get my meaning? But let’s start with some basics. I see in you a future math teacher. But a fundamental skill for a teacher is to draw on the chalkboard. So let me show you how it’s done. Bend at your waist just like I do in class.”
I fold at my belt while holding the chalk. “Here you need some hands-on instruction.” She puts one hand on my shoulder and the other directly on my derriere. Her grasp of my buttocks both arouses me and makes me antsy for the same reason of being taboo. I scrawl some numbers on the board.
She says, “You’re getting there. But your numerals look like chicken scratch. Here try parting your legs.” She reaches between my thighs and pushes them apart. I gasp as the edges of her hands dig into my groin. But she adjusts my legs into a comfortable angle. “Don’t copycat me” she says. “Do what feels natural to you.” My inscriptions turn legible before my astonished eyes. Suddenly from behind her hand moves up my fly with each of her fingertips a muscle relaxer electrode penetrating my zipper with warm pulses. She says, “Just adjusting your posture, pay me no mind.”
“I’m open to new modalities of instruction.”
“Your openness to new forms of learning will take you far in life. Cognitive flexibility is the key to learning. Now, arch your derriere up. Your back needn’t be stiff. Now raise your torso to an erect position. Ok, write some more.”
My numbers turn into curvy waves of calligraphy. “We learn best with our bodies. Tactile lessons leave the most lasting impressions.”
She pats me on my bottom. “Good job. Now I’ll give you a glut massage as an apéritif to help you ascend into an A. Just hold that position.” She massages both cheeks of my posterior with the symmetry of a perfectly conceived formula. With a closing swat she says, “Now if you give me one there is no telling what your reward might be. Ambient music creates an atmosphere conducive to learning. And I have a collection of sensory enhancing soundscapes to melt your mind into pure corporeality. Let’s take this conversation to my place.” How could I refuse?
Poised at the chalkboard she writes formulas wearing a mini-skirt. Her derriere is barely concealed and she dips daintily down at the waist. She is a scholar and a seductress with a figure more beautiful than any algebraic equation. My mind is mesmerized by her curves. My eyes are led astray from Pythagorean Theorem. Perhaps she is a feminist saboteur playing on vulnerable male libidos.
A man protests that her dress drives him to distraction. Her non-compliance is expressed by silence as she obdurately prances. Clad as provocative temptress, her catwalk slips teacher taboo into my schoolboy fantasy. While the proselytes of math leave, she says, “Hey John, stay here for a few moments.” Soon the classroom is empty except for her and me. She says, “Pardon me, my expertise is in math but I am a klutz with keeping my shoes tied.” I stand behind her while she dips like a bittern with her tail raised. The lure of her blue jean skirted bottom entices me into Xanadu. Her hips are cocked in a derriere dare.
She stands again and says, “Listen, John, there is no reason you can’t be an A student in algebra.” She grabs a ruler, holds it horizontally and raises it up into verticality. “You just need coaxing to raise your GPA. Do you get my meaning? But let’s start with some basics. I see in you a future math teacher. But a fundamental skill for a teacher is to draw on the chalkboard. So let me show you how it’s done. Bend at your waist just like I do in class.”
I fold at my belt while holding the chalk. “Here you need some hands-on instruction.” She puts one hand on my shoulder and the other directly on my derriere. Her grasp of my buttocks both arouses me and makes me antsy for the same reason of being taboo. I scrawl some numbers on the board.
She says, “You’re getting there. But your numerals look like chicken scratch. Here try parting your legs.” She reaches between my thighs and pushes them apart. I gasp as the edges of her hands dig into my groin. But she adjusts my legs into a comfortable angle. “Don’t copycat me” she says. “Do what feels natural to you.” My inscriptions turn legible before my astonished eyes. Suddenly from behind her hand moves up my fly with each of her fingertips a muscle relaxer electrode penetrating my zipper with warm pulses. She says, “Just adjusting your posture, pay me no mind.”
“I’m open to new modalities of instruction.”
“Your openness to new forms of learning will take you far in life. Cognitive flexibility is the key to learning. Now, arch your derriere up. Your back needn’t be stiff. Now raise your torso to an erect position. Ok, write some more.”
My numbers turn into curvy waves of calligraphy. “We learn best with our bodies. Tactile lessons leave the most lasting impressions.”
She pats me on my bottom. “Good job. Now I’ll give you a glut massage as an apéritif to help you ascend into an A. Just hold that position.” She massages both cheeks of my posterior with the symmetry of a perfectly conceived formula. With a closing swat she says, “Now if you give me one there is no telling what your reward might be. Ambient music creates an atmosphere conducive to learning. And I have a collection of sensory enhancing soundscapes to melt your mind into pure corporeality. Let’s take this conversation to my place.” How could I refuse?
