Foreword: This is the first story that I have written by request, and it is partly a collaboration with her. I normally give permission for operators of erotic story web sites to redistribute my stories. However, because this is a collaboration, we ask that you get permission from both of us before posting our story. Authorship for this story belongs to both Hungry Guy (firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com) and Eve (who has requested to be anonymous). Thanks.
I had been lurking in the alt.torture newsgroup for years. I had always had a fascination with BDSM, but most of my edge play had been in my own imagination. While my husband would sometimes play along with my tamer fantasies, I knew that he'd freak if he knew my deeper, darker fantasies.
As I was sitting on the sofa one evening sorting through the day's mail while watching television with my husband, I flipped through the semi-annual flyer from the local community college.
"Honey," I asked, "what would you think if I took this writers' workshop?"
"Oh? I didn't know you had an interest in writing, Eve."
"There's this guy in the newsgroups who's been posting amateur BDSM stories. I won't tell the class that's why I'm taking the course, but I'd like to learn to write my own stories that I can post too."
"Then go ahead, Eve. Have fun!"
I drove to the campus after work the following Thursday for the first session of my writing class. It was almost 7:30 as I entered Warren Hall and took the elevator to the third floor. It was a short walk down to room 305.
I entered the classroom and was relieved that it was a small class. There were only six other students present. I took a seat at the small conference table at which they all sat and nodded a friendly smile to the others.
The clock on the wall clicked 7:30 and the instructor walked in half a second later.
Holding a half-eaten Dunkin' Donut, he swallowed and said, "Good evening, class," in a thick British accent.
He took another bite of his doughnut, swallowed, and then continued, "Let's get started, shall we? This is the writer's workshop for anyone who might be in the wrong room."
He took another bite as one student jumped up out of his seat and rushed off apologetically, "Sorry, wrong class."
The instructor swallowed that bite and continued speaking, "Let's start by introducing ourselves, and revealing why each of us is here. I shall go first. I'm Henry, your instructor."
He pointed to the student to his left a young man in his mid-twenties, and then took the last bite of his doughnut.
"I'm Carl. I want to learn to write Science Fiction. I've submitted a number of stories to Analog and Asimov's and others, but have never made a sale."
The instructor nodded to the next student.
"I'm Lucy. I love to read Harlequin Romances, and I'd love to try writing one someday."
The remaining students each introduced themselves. Their objectives were all pretty much the same.
In a flash it was my turn and all eyes were on my. I hoped that I made a good impression. My thirty-something figure was a little plump, but my 40D bra size still gave my that hourglass figure that gals try to achieve. I brushed my long brunette hair back over a shoulder and introduced myself, "I'm Eve." I paused, not wanting to reveal my true motives for taking this writing class. "I'm married to a wonderful man who is very supportive, but I want more out of life than work and family. That's why I want to write."
The class had all introduced themselves, but during the introductions, Henry, the instructor, had opened up a Twinkie and was in the middle of a swallow.
One of the student's spoke up to the instructor, "Hey Hungry, you really got to stop choking those things down, man!"
The instructor laughed, "I know. But I just don't have the willpower to resist their chocolate charms my good chap. Say, didn't I see you in my Literature class yesterday morning?"
"Yes, sir. You have a good memory to remember me from that huge lecture hall."
"Yes these night classes are much more pleasant. I enjoy getting to really know my students one-on-one. Now, let's get to work, shall we? Who brought a manuscript to class with them today?"
The rest of the class was spent reading one student's manuscript and then critiquing it, and then the same with another. Henry told the class that we are required to write one short story per week to be critiqued by the class each Thursday, and to bring enough copies to hand out to the class.
I was excited at how well my first class went. And there was something hauntingly familiar about that professor, even though I had never met him before.
The prof had left the room by the time I collected my purse and folder and I walked out of the room in a huddle of other students. We rode the elevator down and out the building. I noticed the prof entering the cafeteria and I headed for my car to go home.
I spent the weekend writing a short story to bring to class.
The following week, I met up with Lucy walking through the parking lot, and we walked toward Warren Hall together.
"What do you think of Hungry Guy?" she asked me.
What the hell? "What are you talking about, Lucy?"
"Hey, what'd I say, Eve? I was just asking what you though of the prof? I had him for freshman English last year. He a real character!"
"You call him Hungry Guy?"
"Yeah, everyone calls him that. He's always eating something."
We arrived in class a few minutes early and took our seats. The prof showed up right at the dot of 7:30.
"Good evening, class," he started. "Do you all have manuscripts for the class to critique."
I set my story on the table in front of me, as did all the others.
"Who wants to subject their masterpiece to the ravages of their classmates first?"
Lynn spoke up, "I can go first if no one else minds."
Everyone, including me, heaved a sigh of relief. Lynn handed out copies of her story to the rest of us and we spent the first hour of class finding typos, poor grammar, weak characterization, and otherwise tearing it to shreds.
I could tell that Lynn was shaken at these events. Hungry must have also, for he told Lynn, "Please don't feel so bad, Lynn. Even pros must expose their first drafts to this sort of scrutiny.
Like the first class, the prof left the room upon dismissing the class. On my way back to my car, I walked down the sidewalk past the cafeteria and saw the prof eating a muffin and a cup of coffee. What a hungry guy I thought he must be! A sense of dÈj‡ vu hit me at that moment, but it vanished a split second later.
By the third class, I had written a number of stories that had been critiqued in class. I was getting better. I had even written my first erotic story; but it was just for myself. I could never show it to anyone, especially my husband. It was about how the prof kidnapped me and took em home with him and raped me. Maybe I could submit it to Literotica.com. The first thing we did today was that the prof demonstrated an exercise in brainstorming. He wrote a word on the blackboard, an each one of the class called out the first word that his word reminded us of. Then we each called out a word that one of those other words reminded us of. It was funny -- I kept thinking of words like "lick" and "suck" and "wet" and even "hungry."
When we had filled the chalkboard with words, we then called out story ideas from the assortment of loosely related words and were told to write a story based on these ideas for next class. The prof smiled oddly at me for a second before we went on to critiques this week's story assignments.
I don't know why, but I had my purse and folder ready to get up as soon as the prof dismissed the class. I left the room ahead of the other students and was walking a short distance behind Hungry -- that's what we all called him now. It was eerie, though. Looking around, the campus was deserted. The other students from the writing class had already dispersed, and it seemed that the prof and I were the only two people walking around outside at that moment.
At that moment he stopped and glanced behind him. "Oh, it's only you, Eve," he said in his British accent.
"Yeah. It's only me. I'm just headed to the cafÈ for a cup of coffee before I head home." I don't know why I said that.
"Me too. Care to join me?"
I walked with the prof into the empty cafeteria. I got myself a cup of coffee from the coffee machine and took a seat at one of the tables. Hungry joined me a moment later with his muffin and coffee. We were the only two people in the huge dining room.
I took a sip of my coffee. Man! The coffee's bitter here. Hungry pointed to a counter where they was extra sugar, so I got up and returned with a few packets of sugar to add to my coffee.
From there, we talked mostly chit chat. How he was originally from New Jersey and he can't stand the heat of the desert here and longs to go back east when the job market improves. I told him how I fly out east to visit relatives once a year or so.
But, wow, I was suddenly feeling dizzy -- like I had just smoked a joint or something.
I must have looked ill. "Are you all right, Eve?" he asked.
"I'll be fine, I think I should be getting home, now, though."
"Let me help you to your car?"
"Sure. Thank you, Hungry."
.... There is more of this story ...