Chapter 1

When I met Shannon Brien I was twenty-three, had just gotten my M.S., and was teaching in a community college while I worked on my Ph.D. Shannon was in a College Algebra class I taught in my first Spring semester, and I noticed her as soon as I entered the room. I had broken up with my graduate- school girlfriend some time earlier, so I was very vulnerable to Shannon's very obvious charms; so vulnerable, in fact, that my cock actually stiffened slightly when I saw her in the front row.

She was wearing what she usually wore: a tight, light-colored shirt with a scoop neck, a skirt just a little shorter than the current fashion, stockings, and dark pumps. Her waist was narrow, her hips broad; her breasts were large-- too large to be really firm--and swayed gently when she moved. Her face was a standard- issue girl's face, except that her nose was a little shorter, and her mouth a little larger, than most. Her hair was a yellow blonde color, a little thin, and it could have been cut better.She wore no makeup except around her eyes. Of course, I saw only her chest and face above the desk, but it was enough; everything about her set off every sexual alarm I had.

Her presence in class made it hard to concentrate. I was aware of the necessity for a public speaker to look around at his audience, but she made it difficult: if I looked near where she sat, I looked only at her, and if I didn't look, I ignored a whole section of the class. I spent far too much energy trying not to see her. After a while I succeeded, at least partially, unless she asked a question; then I had my work cut out trying to keep my eyes on her face. I wondered how obvious my attraction was to the rest of the class; certainly the boys must have felt at least some of what I felt. I was always relieved when I could turn my attention elsewhere. For her part, she never showed any sign of discomfort, or of being attracted to me; she always seemed completely cool.

All this was during the day, of course. At night, we made unilateral love as I lay masturbating in my bed. She was my slave; I came in her every orifice; she writhed under my lash; and I felt her warm tongue touch me at every point. When I graded her tests, I prayed that she would do poorly, so that she would offer me sex in exchange for a passing grade.

In fact she did do poorly. She was--not to be unkind--dumb, and basically uninterested in school.

She was really there to be trained for a job but, like most teenagers, could not discipline herself to do what was necessary. As I had only recently realized myself that I was going to have to do something every day for the next forty or fifty years, I understood how she felt. (I don't really know why I perservered.

It was probably a sort of psychic inertia, my parents' expectations providing an initial shove that carried me through, in a 'right line, ' so to speak, from which no force had yet pushed me.) Anyway, it was Shannon's lack of discipline that led to the events I am about to relate.

I had just given back the second test of three when Shannon appeared at my office door. I was working when she knocked, and was surprised to see her; she had never been by before. I was a little flustered: as all my fantasies about her came rushing to my head, the blood rushed to my groin and, I am afraid, my face. I stammered a "Come in."

"Mr. Reynolds--sir--" she began, a little uncertainly, "I wanted to talk to you about my grade." Was she looking at my crotch? I couldn't tell.

"Yes. You're not doing too well, are you?"

"No. And I'm worried about it. I need this class. I really studied for this test." She held the second test in her hand, which she had failed, like the first. She looked upset, maybe about to cry. "I don't know what else to do. Could you suggest anything?"

I refrained from actually licking my lips as several suggestions came to mind, though I could not resist a long glance at her chest.

I did not make any of these suggestions, however; I said, mildly, "Umm--do you have a tutor?"

"No. Well, a girlfriend of mine who took this course last year has been helping me with the homework. She got a B, so she really knows what she's doing."

Sure, I thought. I said, "You're doing all the homework?" I knew she wasn't; anyone who could do the homework could get at least a C in the course.

She hesitated slightly, then said, "Well--I always try it, but I usually can't do it. If I knew where to start..."

I had only been teaching for a little less than two years (one year in grad school), but I had already heard this at least a thousand times. What it meant was "I give each problem a look. If I can't find an example just like it in the book or my notes, or if it takes more than one minute to do, I consider it impossible and go on to the next one." I sighed inwardly and thought to myself that she was lucky to have those tits; she was certainly not going to get by on her brains. I said, "What's your major?"

"Psychology," she replied. "I'm doing fine in my psych courses."

I didn't doubt it for a second; anyone could do well in those courses. I said, "Oh. Then you don't really need this course; you just need any two math courses. But maybe your GPA can't afford the hit of failing this course?"

She looked tearful again and said, "No." She hesitated, then said, "I'm failing history and English too. I don't know what to do." She sniffled a little and looked at me.

"Well, I can't do anything about the history or English courses, but you could come to me for help in math. Try the homework, and if you can't get it, bring it to me, and I'll go over it with you. You could also get a tutor, if you can afford one." It wasn't much help, which we both knew, but it was all I could offer.

"Well, okay." She looked around for a moment, then asked, "What are your office hours?"

"They're on the door," I answered. The door was open; I pointed to a sheet of paper taped to it. "Do you need a pen and paper?"

"No, I've got it," she said. She got them out of her backpack and made a show of copying down my office hours. When she was done she turned to me and smiled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me--I need a lot of help!" she said enthusiastically. She sounded as if she meant it, but I knew she would never really show up; her kind never do.

"Okay," I replied. I looked wistfully at her ass as she left, thinking that I had probably just blown my chance at her, if I had ever had one. I sighed again, this time aloud. Oh, well, I consoled myself, if I had tried something she probably would have brought me up on sexual-harrassment charges anyway.