Well let me see. I desire to write a new story, although this time a little different than the times before. It all started at my creative writing class. The instructor, Ms. Henson, asked me to stay after class wanting to talk with me. That kind of puzzled me a little, especially since her critiques of my writing were fierce. I paid for the class and it was a Learning Annex class, so my attitude was just learn from the open discussions, record her dialogue style lectures, and try not to let my ego be bruised from her notes, even though they were piercing at times.

After class drew to a close I just sat in my chair waiting until everyone who wanted to chat with her were gone. I didn’t know how much time went by until the last person went through the door. Looking up at the clock, since I never wore a watch, “shit” flew passed my lips, which drew her sea green eyes hard upon me. “Pardon my French Ms. Henson. It’s later than I thought, so what about we do this by phone tomorrow?” I stammered. She didn’t say anything.

Walking slowly toward me, her eyes fixed even harder upon mine and her angelic face now had an odd grimace on it. Stopping about two chairs in front of me, turning one around on the opposite side of the isle, sitting down while crossing her long, slender, yet thick, tanned legs she turned toward me. Since she was the instructor and I was the student the power structure dictated that I be docile and wait patiently.

First, Ms. Henson slid her right hand down onto her hip, which faced me. Next, slowly tracing the outline of her muscular thigh barely, hidden by a skirt, until reaching her knee, she began slowly, seductively scratching.

Sitting back in my chair I sought to grasp the total image of her not wanting to focus on any one thing in particular, yet oddly the surety of her fingers scratching captivated me. Her imagery was very illusive, softly seductive, yet expressively certain to hold my male attention. I realized she was playing with me, but I decided to follow her lead while saying, “And, what do you want from me?” with a sly grin.

Her strappy lawn type cami wasn’t very revealing. A few weeks back she indicated her full time position was a Professor, though she never mentioned what field. Pondering ethics, thinking she was prim and proper maintaining a look of professionalism, I was haunted by her sense of looseness.

After all this class was a class of entrepreneurship, an avenue for the everyday person to receive help with writing without the interference of academia criteria – no grades, no credits, and no competition.

“I’ve noticed, Tim, all your writing assignments are erotic in nature. May I ask why?” Her soft, demure, Irish accent slid into my ears.

Sitting more erect, tilting my head back and to the right, leaning forward, I replied, “Yes!” I heard a slight, curious giggle, and then realized how oddly my posture of thought appeared.

Silence followed, seeming to last a decade and finally I heard, “Oh, and why?” pass by her supple faintly clad lips of ushered in roses.

Allowing a moment or two for her focus to steady on me I began to explain. “The market, the audience availability, audience diversification, and maybe I am just plain horny when I am home