It was Monday, the first day of my sophomore year at university. While walking to Bradford Hall to attend my first class of the day, I was thinking about how right my decision had been to move with my parents to Florida and attend university there instead of staying in our native England. Of course, I missed my friends and life in our town, but the past year had been wonderful and I looked ahead to an even better year.
Kasey, my roomie from last year in the dorms, and I had moved to a two-bedroom apartment. What an enormous difference. Of course, we didn’t have a dining hall, but it was a good experience to make meals for each other, simple as they might be.
She’d helped me flourish so much in this new environment. It wasn't as if I or my friends and family were totally unsophisticated, but here everything was different. Different weather, different opportunities, different rules. Mum and Dad seemed quite happy with how I was settling in, how I was adapting to our new life. So was I. My eyes had been opened to all kinds of new ideas—including how to dress. I felt a part of things much better now than when I had first arrived. Gone were the chunky knit jumpers and baggy jeans, having been replaced with shorter skirts or leggings and fitted blouses.
It was August and Florida was hot. The common classroom attire for female students was either shorts or a midi to mini skirt, usually with a tee-shirt type top. As long as the shorts or skirt covered your butt, they were socially acceptable—there was no formal dress code. I was wearing a mid-thigh length skirt that day with a white, tailored blouse. Matching white bra and knickers completed my ensemble. I’d always remembered my mother’s admonition, “Emme, you never get a second chance to make a good first impression.” So today I’d dressed a bit smarter than I would at other times.
Finding my way to the lecture hall that was posted for Studies in Twentieth-Century American Literature and Culture, I walked in determined to sit in the back, as usual. I’m not shy, exactly, but am somewhat of an introvert. People often mistake one for the other—they aren’t the same.
So as I prepared to take a seat, I glanced down the shallow steps to the well of the room. She was standing there looking directly at me. Our eyes locked. I could barely break the connection. It felt thrilling. A quick shiver ran through me. It seemed like she’d gestured to me. Seemingly on autopilot, I continued down to the front row. Karen motioned me to a seat directly in front of her. I thought a brief smile crossed her face as I crossed my legs. Had I imagined the smile? Was her look good or bad?
“Karen Andersen” and the course’s title were written on the old-style, black-slate chalkboard, along with the class web site, a phone number, office location, and “4pm–5pm Tues & Thurs.” I’d expected Dr. Douglas Black. It was his course. He’d written the textbook I’d had to purchase, used of course. No point in spending twice the money for a book I’d most likely never use again. He was the main reason I’d chosen this particular course from a list of possibilities. His reputation was well known and well regarded.
As I contemplated all this and glanced at the blackboard several times, I caught her appraising glances directed at me, my thighs in particular. Once again that tingling flashed through me. It seemed like there was hunger in her eyes, hunger for me. I purposefully did not meet her gaze.
“Good morning everyone.” Her voice somewhat startled me. I sat up straighter and uncrossed my legs, leaving my knees slightly parted. “As you might have noticed, I’m Karen Andersen, Dr. Black’s TA for this semester.”
She went on to explain about being his Ph.D. student and how she would be filling in for him when he couldn’t attend the class. She covered other basic administrative items and then launched into the day’s lecture. I knew what this really meant—she’d be the de facto teacher and he’d make guest appearances occasionally.
During her talk she moved around the well, making eye contact with as many students as she could and writing important points on the board. Several times our eyes again locked, briefly. Every time I felt that special tingle. Some part of me was beginning to feel a hunger—I pushed it away.
I knew this was crazy. For one thing, I was nineteen and she had to be at least twenty-six, most likely with a boyfriend or girlfriend or even both. For another, I wasn’t a lesbian. Sure, I’d had the usual girls fooling around together experiences: touchy-feely stuff, tryout kissing, once even mutual masturbation, but nothing that approached romance or even passion.
I’d lost my virginity at sixteen with my then boyfriend in England. All my following sexual experiences had been with guys. Never had I considered another girl as a serious sexual partner, until maybe now. But that was foolish. My tingle was just a systemic, biological response. Surely it had happened previously. It just didn’t come to mind at that moment. Mentally, the thought was banished.
Karen made it clear on that first day that we could make an appointment to see her with any questions that were not addressed in class or on the website. After Wednesday’s class I had a question. She’d requested contact via a text that described the issue, explaining that she’d respond appropriately. Following her request, I sent a text. Her response was prompt: see u thurs @4:15. I acknowledged with a simple: thanks.
My question hinged on the differences between American and British English. It was relevant to me since back home I'd been taught the UK version, obviously. I needed to get a handle on the changes to spelling and grammar, though the punctuation so far appeared to follow the same rules. I know it seemed a bit lame since I’d been here a year, but there was some truth to it. Was I being transparent? Would Karen, how lovely that name felt on my lips, would Karen sense the alternate, deeper question? Was I making a fool of myself? The only sensible thing was to play it straight. Did I really think that? Straight? I meant, straightforward, of course. I was straight. Wasn't I? Oh dear. I so hoped I wouldn't just blush and stammer my way through our 4:15.
Thursday afternoon seemed to suddenly appear. Arriving at Bradford at 4:00 pm, I headed for the basement, room B-118. It was in the middle of a dimly lit, concrete-walled corridor. At 4:15 exactly the door opened and a fellow student walked out, glanced at me, and mumbled something about good luck as he hurried down the hallway. Wondering what that was all about, I poked my head in the doorway.
“Ah, Emme. Come in. Close the door and let’s talk.”
She was smiling at me. I took that as a good sign and sat on the chair next to her ancient desk. The room had a single fluorescent tube on the ceiling and, of course, no windows. It was dreary. I must have given a skeptical look because she said, “Don’t be shocked. This is a typical office for all the TA’s. We’re at the bottom of the pecking order. So, let’s talk about your question.”
I explained my deep interest in the vagaries of our shared language. As I was doing so, she kept eye contact except for occasional glances at my tee-shirt. It was just an orange university shirt, nothing special. When I finished, she said, “I have to tell you, I love your accent. I spent last summer traveling through England, Scotland, and Wales with a friend. We just loved it.”
“Uh, wow, that’s great.”
“Yeah, it was. Listen Emme, first your question, while also quite interesting to me, is outside the scope of this class.”
“I guess I sorta suspected that but I was hoping—“
“I don’t usually do this, not because it’s unethical or improper, but because I don’t want all the students thinking they can also ask for it. So, can you keep a secret?”
Having no idea what was coming, but already liking her, I replied, “Sure!”
“Okay, so we’re running out of time. These appointments are only for fifteen minutes. Most students have a question that I can easily answer in that time. Yours will take longer and I’d enjoy talking to you about its many sides. You could come to my apartment tomorrow night if you’re not already planning something, and we could talk about our shared language and writing differences plus maybe just about the UK.”
“I’d love that!” I blurted out.
“Cool. Between five and six work for you?”
“Yeah. That’ll be great. Should I bring anything? Sorry, but I can’t legally buy liquor yet or I’d bring a bottle of wine. This is really nice of you.”
“No worries. I’ve got all that covered. Just bring yourself... and dress casual, no need to dress to impress as some would say.” There was a knock at the door. “See, my next appointment. Here’s my info. See you tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.”
We both stood up and she walked me to the door. That’s when I really noticed her figure. Tight jeans and a scooped-neck, cap-sleeve knit top. A bit of ample cleavage peeked over the top of the tight sweater. Casual dress indeed.
As I lay in bed that night, thinking about going to Karen’s apartment tomorrow, my fingers wandered down between my legs.
It was just for tranquility, to make me feel better, to give me confidence when visiting Karen. Cupping myself with my right hand, I said her name out loud. “Karen. Karen Andersen.” It gave me a thrill, and I pressed harder, feeling that lovely tingle. Replaying our very brief meeting, certain words stood out, like unethical, improper, and keeping secrets; I really liked the sound of those, especially keeping secrets.
My fingers opened around either side of my pleasure center, sliding in parallel, lightly squeezing my inner realm. I was definitely thinking unethical and improper thoughts as I recalled how Karen had looked at my tee-shirt and the way I filled it. Obviously, I was reading more into everything than was really there, but I let myself run with it, pretending her “...don't want all the students...” meant she just wanted me. In casual clothes. Maybe tight jeans plus my slight cleavage showing.
Lost in a fantasy, my hand moving faster up and down, gripping my clit between fingers, teasing and torturing myself, thinking of Karen's hand inside my knickers as her unintelligible voice played in my brain. Oh, fuck. My finger slipped inside my tunnel, in and out and in again. Yes, this was good, getting faster, firmer, now two fingers. Fuck. Mentally, I hear her voice, feel her fingers pump in and out of me, thrusting hard, bringing me to my special place. It's there, it's now. Oh!
Riding the sensations until they calm into a panting afterglow, I smile shyly at Karen. She really is a very good teacher.
Eventually, I fell into a happy, relaxed sleep dreaming of tomorrow.
oooO0I0Oooo
Unknown to Emme and Karen, their desires ran on parallel tracks. Both had been infatuated with each other since the first day of class. Their first eye contact had been one of those moments when time seemed to stand still for both of them.
Emme really had intended to sit in the back row. She always sat in the back—her introverted nature demanded it.
This was Karen’s second year as a TA. She’d never made a gesture, or any other indication, to a student regarding where to sit—let alone inviting one to the front row, to a seat directly in front of her.
Emme had sexually experimented with other girls in secondary school, but it was always just an experiment, never anything close to serious arousal or passion. Now each of Karen’s glances gave her a tingle. Her dampness was undeniable. Every time she uncrossed and recrossed her legs Karen’s eyes were drawn. Previously unknown passions were rising in Emme. The need to explore, to experience these feelings was almost overpowering.
Unlike Emme, Karen totally understood what she was feeling. Having had several intense, lustful relationships with other women, she’d long ago embraced her bi-sexuality. So as Emme walked to the front row that first day, and the days after, Karen embraced the feelings she experienced. Each time she took in Emme’s perfect figure--enchanting blue eyes, chestnut brown hair hanging past her shoulders, tantalizing breasts, creamy-smooth, perfectly formed legs--desire began to rise in her. To act or to suppress was her dilemma. She’d chosen to walk the thin edge of an ethical wedge.
So late Friday afternoon both were not only contemplating how to dress, but what the big picture of the evening would be, or maybe more accurately, how it could be steered to play out as they wanted.
Emme took Karen at her word about casual, but did that mean casual sexy or casual casual? Narrowed down from tight jeans to tight, super-short, old denim shorts or a mini denim, stone-washed skirt, she finally went with the skirt over a black thong and, wanting to show off her belly button piercing, a navy, cropped tube-top, braless of course. Once dressed, she laughed to herself as it occurred to her that she usually didn’t spend this much time getting ready for a hot date, and this was just an evening meeting with her class TA. Just a meeting... a meeting she hoped was much more than that.
At the same time, Karen was having comparable thoughts. She settled on an abstract patterned blue flounce mini with a black thong and a somewhat baggy, maroon, button-down silk blouse leaving the top three buttons undone and foregoing a bra. She knew her perky boobs would not disappoint and hoped she’d not gone too far.
Emme arrived promptly at 5:00 pm. Her doorbell ring was answered directly.
“Oh Emme, you look wonderful! C’mon in.”
“Thanks! You look delightful.” Not missing her bralessness, she continued, “I love that blouse on you. Oh, and for you,” she said handing her the package. “I know you said not to bring anything, but I couldn’t resist the chocolates.”
“Thanks so much. Maybe we’ll enjoy them together. Come sit down and have some wine and cheese.”
It was a short walk to the living area where Karen sat on a love seat and patted the space next to her, indicating where Emme should sit. They were only inches apart. The coffee table in front of them had the hors d'oeuvres.
“I hope you like Chardonnay. This is an oakey one from California. Plus, I love Stilton and thought you might also. I always keep some on hand. I have a cheddar if you’d prefer...”