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Mar 22

Mischa Eliot

Sharing is Caring – Jenna Thalia Guest Post

sharingiscaringMeet Jenna Thalia! Today she decided to share with us an excerpt from Tease: The Professor – Volume 1. You can find her work on Amazon and follow her on Twitter as well. If you follow her Author Page on Amazon, you’ll get updates when new stories come out!

And oh boy did she share with us today! Enjoy this juicy excerpt. What will the Professor do? Find out more by picking up your digital copy at Amazon today (free to read for Kindle Unlimited Members)!


Sometimes I wondered why I even did it.  I was closer to sixty than fifty, I had sold my engineering firm two years previous, and with little to occupy my time had agreed to teach at a friend’s insistence.  They had been looking for an adjunct professor in the engineering department at Forest College, a small liberal arts college near my house.  My oldest friend and colleague assured me that teaching would make me feel young again.  That being able to impart all of my years of wisdom and experience would rejuvenate me, pull me out of the funk that turning fifty-five, getting divorced, and selling the company I had built from the ground up, had seemingly placed me in.

Rejuvenate me, or make me feel young certainly wasn’t what teaching made me feel – in any way.  Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t dislike teaching, but it was exhausting trying to encourage eighteen and nineteen year olds to take an interest in anything let alone physics and spatial dynamics. 

Ducking into the bathroom, I dropped my briefcase next to the sinks, and splashed the coldish water against my eyes and face.  The fluorescent lights weren’t doing much for my self-esteem, as I took in the washed out reflection of my typically olive colored skin.  Granted, it was fall in the Midwest, so there wasn’t a whole lot of sun to be had.  The first snow had fallen weeks ago, and now despite it only being October, the temperatures had already dipped into hat and glove weather.  The exhausted look in my eyes was not any better.  The color, which my wife used to tell me reminded her of the Adriatic Sea, leaned more towards storm cloud these days, and the hair that was once a robust dark brown, was now more salt and pepper. Even my pubic hair was beginning to gray!  I had not been prepared for that one.  I always had assumed my dick would always stand proudly surrounded by a dark thatch of curls, but those curls were slowly – currently only a handful of hairs – becoming gray as well. 

My last class for the day was finished, and since it was Thursday evening, I was finished until Monday.  With the semester nearing mid-term, I had no papers to grade, no homework to check over, and no discussions to oversee on Blackboard.  I was a free man for the entirety of the weekend.  There was a bottle of Tsipouro that was calling my name, and I dashed as quickly as I could across the parking lot to my Lexus. 

The car had been an indulgence when I sold my company, a congratulatory milestone to me on my newfound retirement.  My son called the color “mid life crisis red,” but I loved it. A two door, 2015 Lexus RC, in a red I liked to call lipstick on a wineglass.  I wouldn’t deny that I hoped to score some pussy with my new toy.  It had been ages since I’d been laid.  Other than my own hand, my cock hadn’t been squeezed, or sucked, or enjoyed the tight warmth of the inside of a woman in years. 

With a fire going, a chilled tumbler of Tsipouro next to me, Maria Callas playing over my stereo, and freed from the constraints of my suit and tie in favor of sweatpants and a t-shirt, I finally was able to unwind.

My home was fairly modest, considering that I had sold my company for millions of dollars.  I lived in the heart of Frank Lloyd Wright territory, so my prairie style bungalow contained the open floor plan, natural woods, and clean lines that the architecture of that time was famous for.   I had fallen in love with the house the moment I had toured it.  I’m a sucker for hardwood floors, and this house had wood original to the 1921 house. Combine that with the built in cabinetry, cherry colored wood throughout, along with the many stained glassed windows, and I committed to a verbal offer before I had even finished the tour.

Despite sharing those millions with the ex-wife and setting up portfolios for my two sons, I still had enough set aside for myself ensuring a very comfortable retirement.  I didn’t need to teach in order to make a living; I did it mainly because I wanted to have something to do every day, a reason to wake up every morning.  Sure, I could travel, or be like every other retired intellectual and try to write a book of some kind, but teaching had appealed to me, so I had decided to give it a try.    What had started as an engineering class or two had suddenly morphed into a handful of math classes, and a stumble into a couple of graduate level courses.  It was the beginning of my weekend, however, and the last thing I wanted to do was think any further about my students or their collective pursuits of education.

I heard my cell phone ping from within the contents of my briefcase, which I had left in the entranceway along with my jacket and shoes.  I tried my best to ignore the alert, but a second ping sounded, and worried it was one of my sons, I extracted myself from the comfort of my leather club chair and shuffled to retrieve the blasted piece of technology.

I’ve been thinking about you.

I’m soaking wet from all of the dirty thoughts running through my mind.

It was a local phone number; the area code was the same as mine.  It wasn’t, however, a number that I was familiar with.

I’m sorry I think you have the wrong number.

I replied, envious of whoever actually got to be on the receiving end of that text.  What I wouldn’t give to have someone wet for me.  It had definitely been too long since I’d had a fuck, and every night that I jerked off in the shower promising myself that I would find someone to bury myself in, even if I had to pay for it, made me more desperate for some kind of female companionship.

I don’t think I do, Professor.  I’m thinking about you. 

Who is this?

I’m curious.

You didn’t answer my question.

I stared in disbelief at the conversation on my phone, making my way back to my seat in front of the fire, throwing back the final remnants of my drink, watching the ellipses on my screen, waiting for a response.

Do you touch yourself, Professor?

When you get home at night, after a long day of repeating the same banal facts and figures, do you step out of your clothes, cup yourself in your large hand, feel the weight of your testicles, enjoy the abrasive scratch of your winter-dried hands against the warm soft skin of your most intimate parts?

Do you watch yourself in your bathroom mirror, admiring how masculine you look, despite being a man of distinction?           

I was at war with myself, caught between wanting to laugh at the texter’s imagination, and needing to nip this thing in the bud right away.  Man of distinction, I huffed. That’s a nice way to say that I’m old. 

Whoever this is, this needs to stop.  I do not appreciate this kind of invasion into my personal life.  If you cease your texts right now, I will delete them and forget this ever happened.  If not, I will be forced to take them to the dean. 

When I lay in bed at night, like I’m doing right now Professor, I wonder what you look like without those jackets and vests and bow ties. 

Do you wear boxers?

Briefs?

Nothing at all?

This is your final warning.

Am I turning you on Professor? 

Tell me … are you a shower or a grower?

Are you growing and showing right now?

I bet you are.

I needed to turn my phone off, or at the very least, forward the texts to the dean before this got out of hand.  Of course, despite being fairly technologically savvy – I had an iPhone 6 after all – I wasn’t entirely sure that the texts could be forwarded.  I’d probably just have to physically take my phone to the dean in the morning and show them to her.  But did I really want her reading these kinds of messages about me?  Despite there being a disparity in the ratio of male versus female engineers, the head of my department, was in fact a woman.  She was a battle-axe of an old woman, which was probably out of necessity in such a male-dominated field.  However, the ever-present frown on her face that had left her with severe looking jowls and a permanent look of constipation gave off the impression that she ate testicles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I rather liked my testicles attached to my body.  Somehow, having to tell that woman that a student wanted to know if my hands felt rough against my cock when stroking it, was not something I felt comfortable discussing with her. 

I needed a drink.  The lights went on automatically when I walked into my kitchen, pulling seltzer and a lime wedge from my fridge, before twisting open my last bottle of Tsipouro, emptying its contents into my glass.  It was an import from Greece; one my sister typically sent me for Christmas every year.  Usually the case of six that I received was enough to last me through the year and then some, but the year had proved to be more than a little challenging, hence the dwindling supply with two months left to go until the end of the year. 

Are you still there Professor?

Another text sent a vibration through the hand still holding onto the iPhone while I stood at my kitchen sink, overlooking my snow-covered backyard while I contemplated my options.  It was entirely plausible that I could find out who this unknown texter was, and inform the Battle Axe- er, Dr. Wainright, of the offender and offense without having to actually show her what the texts had contained. 

I’m still here.

I typed my response, against my inner conscience telling me it was a very.bad.idea.

Though, if you supposedly know who I am, why do you call me Professor instead of by my given name?

Because Stavros, I would have preferred to have saved the usage of your given name for the first time I was screaming it in apogee.

And Dr. Kalizantis is much too long to type out, especially when one of my hands is buried inside my pussy.

If I hadn’t been intent on savoring the last tumbler of my $100 bottle of liquor, you could be assured that it most certainly would have ended up all over the screen of my phone and littered across my kitchen floor.  The texter obviously knew who I was, so there was no mistaken identity as I had hoped.  Whoever she was, she was certainly bold, and despite shock being my prevalent emotion I’d be lying if I said my cock wasn’t responding to her suggestions. 

Regardless, engaging in fantasy dialogue with a student was morally reprehensible and totally unacceptable.  Unfortunately for me, my male parts had been neglected of female attention for so long, and they pushed and whined against my psyche as I imagine a werewolf would against its human counterpart.  The sexual male inside of me was desperate to surface and play.  I’m a grower little lady. With a bitterness that I hadn’t thought was inside me, the thought surfaced unbidden as the head of my dick began rubbing against the abrasive cotton of the inside of my sweatpants.  Why on earth I was still continuing with this dialogue I couldn’t tell you… let’s blame exhaustion, a burgeoning hard on, and alcohol.

You have me at a loss.  You know how to address me, but I am in the dark as to how I can return the favor.

I probably should have worded this response in a different way, like ‘hey baby, what’s your name?’  But, I tended to text just as he spoke, so if the mystery girl was expecting anything other than my standard colloquialisms, she was in for a disappointment. 

You can call me girl.

Or whore.

Slut.

Whatever strikes your fancy- I’m not picky.

What if I prefer to address you in a proper fashion?  What is your given name?

You can call me Aphrodite.

Or Himeros.

Pothos.

Pan.

Philotes.

Or if the Greeks aren’t your preference:

Ishtar or Nanaya, Bes or Peony, Bastet or Astarte, Rati or Qandisa. 

The text came rapid fire, one after another in quick succession. 

Your knowledge of sexual mythology and the sexual feminine is quite diverse.  Is this your specialty, or perhaps you are simply a fan of Wikipedia?

Such a smart man Professor.

It makes me ache with want.  I’ve forgotten how big            that brain is. 

Is that the only big thing on your body Professor?

Are you a large man in other areas?

I bet you are.

A man like you, who prowls his classroom like a lion on the hunt, whose scent is    ripe with masculinity, a deep throaty purr of a voice intended to seduce…

Forgotten?  Am I not your Professor?

Always, you will always be my Professor.

How old are you?

I was entirely too curious to simply end this little game.  Whoever this texter was, was far too intelligent to be one of my freshman or sophomores.  This in and of itself narrowed down the possibilities significantly.

Old enough to know what I’m doing.

That means nothing to me. You could be a little girl talking with big girl words.

When I spread my legs and direct your mouth to my pussy, moaning like a whore when your tongue plunders me, you’ll know there is no little girl between my thighs or anywhere else on my body. 

What the fuck was I doing?  At that moment, I realized that this girl- or whatever the hell she was, could just as easily walk into the dean’s office in the morning, phone in hand, and take my career down in one fell swoop.  Regardless of how badly my dick wanted to play; a jerk off session – even if inspired from some dirty words – was not worth my career.

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