Altina , the Older Professor Ch. 01

I walked into the tiered classroom with a combination of anticipation and apprehension. Professor Walton was purported to be one of the best teachers at our small liberal arts college and it had taken me until third semester of junior year to snag a seat in his most popular course,

“Politics and Environmental Policy”.

It wasn’t like all reviews I’d heard had been positive – he was known as an extremely tough grader and the course carried a heavy reading load. But as far as it being one of the best courses offered in my Poly Sci major by one of the most dynamic professors on campus…that was not in dispute. And it hopefully explains my first day jitters as I entered the newly renovated classroom and took it all in.

I meandered over to a seat in the second row center; the rows of seats all arcing around the central focus of the dais. I had arrived early so I could have my choice. I settled in, got my laptop out and plugged it in. I looked around the room as it started to fill up. I may have been imagining things, but it felt like there was a hush in the air, unlike the usual nervous pre-class banter of the first day of a new semester.

The room of fifty was completely filled, nary a seat to spare, when the door opened and a tall figure strode into the room with an air of confidence and assurance. It was Professor Walton and he was moving fast enough to make the paisley wool scarf around his neck fly backwards. I could tell all eyes were on him – it was like his reputation had preceded his entry into the classroom by a few minutes. He knew all eyes were upon him as well.

He hung up his coat and scarf with a flourish, threw his jaunty hat on a wall hook, got himself settled and walked up to the lectern to greet the class. He was wearing a white shirt and gray casual sport coat, black slacks and sharp shoes. His hair was wavy and long and almost completely white. He looked incredibly distinguished and erudite. His tortoise shell glasses framed icy blue eyes that now looked out over the assembled class as he placed both of his big hands on either side of the lectern. I noticed immediately that he was not wearing any rings.

You could have heard a pin drop as he smiled warmly and swiveled his head from one side of the room to the other, taking in his new group of students. He paused, and then bellowed with a deep piercing voice.

“Good afternoon, class, and welcome to Politics and Environmental Policy.”

One sentence. That’s all it took. He could have been reading from the phone book as far as I was concerned. I was hooked. He commanded the room and took total control of the dais. Almost every eye was upon him, except those who were afraid to look him in the eye. That was one of the things I remember noticing so strongly that first day and every day thereafter: his intense eye contact with each and every student in the class.

Then he did something else very few of my teachers had ever done. He spent the entire first class getting to know us. Each of us were given thirty seconds to tell him our name and a little bit about ourselves. He might follow up with a quick question or two, but it gave the entire class a chance to say a few words.

My time came and I stood up, nervous, but excited. I felt the laser focus of his gaze and the eyes of all my peers upon me as I rose

“My name is Artina Beck. I’m a junior majoring in Poly Sci. I grew up in Philly, but was born in Iceland and moved to the US with my parents – my father was Icelandic and my mother Norwegian – when I was two. I…well, I think I’m going to wish this course was meeting five days a week instead of two.”

This comment met with a few laughs and a crinkled smile from Professor Walton. I sat down, relieved, but excited. By the time the last person had had their say the class had a completely different dynamic than it had when it had started. I could tell already there would be great chemistry. One of the bolder male students raised his hand.

“How about thirty seconds from you, Professor?”

He smiled and responded. “I’m Henrik Walton – age 62 – and I’ve been teaching here for 27 years. I have a PhD in Political Science from Columbia and an undergrad from, well, here. I teach here at a small liberal arts college because I truly love interacting with students eager to learn – such as yourselves.”

The class responded with an ovation as the bell rang and everyone began to pack up and head for the door.

From there the class took off and it became the best class I had ever attended. Professor Walton was a dynamic instructor with a keen intellect. The lectern had a microphone, but his deep voice was powerful enough that he never used it. He’d occasionally stand behind the lectern, but mostly he wandered the dais that spanned the width of the classroom, using his body language as much as his voice to make a point.

He was a natty dresser, but inconsistently so. One day he might be wearing an expensive well-tailored suit and stylish tie, looking sinop escort like he’d just met with the Chancellor or a visiting dignitary. Other days he’d be dressed more casually in jeans or khakis. But he always looked good in whatever attire he had chosen for the day.

My struggle became keeping my mind on the subject matter and not on the man presenting it. I couldn’t help being attracted to Professor Walton and sometimes found myself fantasizing about him instead of listening to him. It took an effort to focus and take good notes and not let myself get distracted by the sheer magnitude of his presence, as well as his powerful sexual personae.

The deep timbre of his voice was intoxicating. He could bellow in a deep gravelly bass that demanded the room’s attention. A minute later he could be whispering like he was a passionate lover in your bed, inches from your ear. He combined his vocal maneuvers with synchronous body language to make a point. There was never – ever – any doubt that he was in complete control.

I have to admit he fueled sexual fantasies in me that I had never entertained before. I’d had a number of boyfriends and several one-night stands. My few lovers had all been my age or thereabouts. But this class and this man was awakening something in me – a desire for a “man” and not a “boy” – that I hadn’t truly experienced before.

In many ways he was just another older college professor. But in others I found myself thinking of him in ways I’d never pictured any other professor – or any other older man, for that matter. I began having the most inappropriate thoughts about him. What had come over me? I found I liked to lay in bed after class and think about him – what he’d be like as a lover. I’d never touched myself to thoughts of an older man before, but this class changed all that.

It didn’t take long to realize, however, that I was not alone in my lust for Professor Walton. I would occasionally survey the class as he spoke and see some of the hotter young women eyeing him with a furtive smile or absentmindedly sucking on a pen. I tried to imagine the class from his perspective and realized what an amazing position he was in; what an incredible power he had over the students in his class – male and female.

I knew I wasn’t as hot as some of the girls in the class, but I had a few fine qualities that kept my head up. I’m blonde and often keep my long straight hair in a bun or chignon. At 5-5 and 105 pounds I can come across as a slender pale waif. I tried not to compare my modest B cups to some of the stacked coeds on campus – and in this classroom. But, despite their diminutive stature, a few of my boyfriends had seemed to enjoy their pert shape and the pink nipples that became so swollen and hard when I was aroused. I suppose in many ways I looked like a typical girl from Iceland – a slender blonde with blue eyes.

If I were to point to my best feature, however, it would probably be my bottom. I’d been told more than once that I had what some referred to as a “bubble” butt. My tiny waist did, in fact, flare out rather nicely to shapely hips and cheeks that were both round and tight. It wasn’t always easy to find jeans that fit, so I did tend toward leggings, unless I could find jeans that truly conformed to my curvy contours.

But, I digress. By the third week of the course, we were getting into a good rhythm. Professor Walton was quick to learn everyone’s name and established an environment where he clearly led the class, but encouraged interaction and stimulating discussions. I had never been in a more vibrant and exciting learning environment.

And then on one particular Thursday early in the semester he wore to class what I will heretofore refer to as, “the jeans”. He arrived as usual in a flurry. As he took off his outer layers we could all see he was wearing a pair of faded old blue jeans along with a crisp white shirt and a black wool vest. He looked particularly suave and relaxed in such attire and the tight jeans accentuated the magnificent proportions of his lower body.

He’d rolled up his sleeves to reveal powerful forearms and occasionally squatted a bit or flexed in a way that showed the taut musculature of his legs. It might seem weird to say a man who was just north of sixty had a great ass, but he did. No question.

Then toward the end of class he wandered out from behind the lectern and leaned back against the desk. He crossed his legs at the ankle and put a hand on either side of his body gripping the table edge. I know I couldn’t have been the only student drawn to the sight resulting from this casual and relaxed position. From where I sat in the second row center his crotch was directly in my line of sight.

The bulge in his faded jeans was absolutely remarkable. It was like his shaft and balls were mashed together in a big round mass of denim clad cock flesh. Just the simple act of crossing his ankles compressed his thighs and seemed to force his round sinop escort bayan bulge out in a way that left little to the imagination. It was almost like these old well-worn jeans had conformed to his size and stature and created a convenient pouch in which to cram his penis and testicles in one impressive orb.

I, for one, stopped hearing what he was saying and could only stare at this manly display of virility. Professor Walton, however, seemed oblivious to the fact that his manhood was not only on display, but completely and utterly desirable. I should have been concentrating on the subject at hand, but all my mind had room for were erotic thoughts of touching him, unzipping him, unveiling him. My post class dorm masturbation session that day was even more powerful than usual. What had become of me?

As much as I fantasized about Professor Walton, I also knew any thoughts of being with him were pure and utter fantasy. He did not have a reputation for hitting on coeds, but even if he had, he could have had his pick of the litter. I resigned myself to enjoying my fantasies of him that semester and living with the knowledge that that was going to be as good as it would get.

But the next week things took a twist. Professor Walton made an announcement in class after pinning up a sheet of paper on the bulletin board near the door as he entered. He said was looking for an assistant to help him with the editing of his new book. It was a paid position, meant working in his office two afternoons a week, and required someone with a strong work ethic, excellent editing skills and a mind suited to details. It also required someone whose schedule – Wednesday and Friday afternoons – would sync with his. There was additional information on our class website and a short application form on-line. He explained that he would be making a decision within a week.

At first I was excited by a potential opportunity; especially as I realized my Wednesday and Friday afternoons were free. But my enthusiasm was tempered when I saw the number of hot classmates – guys and girls – clustered after class around the small sheet hanging by the door. Still, I knew I’d throw my hat into the ring and hope he really was looking for a studious and dedicated assistant.

I truly believed I could excel in such a position. I had edited my school newspaper, had always been focused on grammar and punctuation, and had an eye for detail. I high-lighted all these skills in my short application essay and included a small photo just so he’d remember who I was. I knew it was a tall order, but I sent along my application with what I figured was every hot-blooded young woman in his classes – not to mention any male students that might be applying.

You can imagine my surprise and delight when I received a text a few days later from Professor Walton. ‘Ms. Beck. I wonder if you could meet me in my office on campus a half an hour after class on Tuesday?’

Could I assume this was about his assistant position? Or had I done something wrong to get such a request? Was my work to date lacking in some way? I responded “yes”, but was too nervous to let my expectations get ahead of myself.

He gave absolutely no indication of anything amiss in class that Tuesday, so I hung around campus for a bit after class before heading over to his office in Dexter Hall. I knocked on his office door with a mix of trepidation and excitement. His demeanor in class had exhibited no hints as to why he had beckoned me.

I will admit to having spent a little more time than usual that day applying make-up and dressing in my tightest pair of jeans. I didn’t want to look overdone, but I certainly wanted to be presentable. He called for me to enter and I opened the door to a most pleasant smile. He waved for me to sit in a chair across from his desk.

“Ms. Beck. Thank you for coming. And thank you for filling out an application. I had a few questions for you, if you don’t mind?”

I sat down nervously in his presence and had to pinch myself. Was this really happening? We reviewed my experience and he asked about my availability and ability to spend the time needed to assist him on a rapidly approaching deadline.

“Ms. Beck I always do a hard edit – red-lining a hard copy – of my book when I’m closing in toward final submission. I find I see things differently reading and editing it on paper as opposed to a screen. So the job I need help with is for someone to decipher my red marks and accurately make the corrections to the main document. It’s over three hundred pages and needs to be done with the utmost care. I also need assistance in checking and re-checking all the footnotes. So,” he said with raised eyebrows. “Do you think you would be up to the task?”

“Ummm, why yes, of course, Professor. I’d be honored. And the time frame you were looking for works well with my schedule.”

“Excellent. Now, you should know I will be paying you out of my own pocket as this escort sinop project is very important to me. And, should you accept the offer, I would prefer that you work at the small office attached to my home – a few blocks from campus. Would that be acceptable?”

My mind was whirling. Was he really offering me the position? It surely seemed so. “Yes, of course. I’d be happy to work wherever you please,” I responded, knowing my enthusiasm was thinly veiled.

“Well, as long as you’re free those hours and don’t mind working with me in the same room, then I’d like to offer you the assistant position, Ms. Beck. Assuming you’re as available as you say you are, I’d like you to start tomorrow.”

My smile gave away my response long before I answered him. I told him I could start immediately and would work my hardest to help him with his deadline. I thanked him for the opportunity and stood to leave. I saw his eyes briefly wash over my lower body and will admit to a tingle rushing through my entirety. This was all almost too good to be true. He had selected me!

He wrote down his address and cell phone number on a card and handed it to me. Our fingertips barely touched as he handed me his card, but a shiver pierced me to my core. We said our goodbyes and I floated out of his office, pretty sure my feet were not touching the ground.

My schedule was to be 4 to 6 on Wednesdays and Fridays and I arrived the next day at exactly 4pm. Dr. Walton lived in an old Shingle style house on a lovely tree-lined residential neighborhood not far from campus. The two story structure was well maintained and looked like the comfortable home of a distinguished professor. A small one story addition extended out from the side of the house and had its own walkway and entry. I knocked tentatively at exactly four o’clock and heard someone coming to the door.

“Ms. Beck! Welcome. Come right in. And no need to knock from now on, young lady.” He waved me in and offered to take my coat. I let him slip it off me and he hung it on a coat rack near the door. I stood nervously, awaiting some instructions as I felt his eyes subtly scan my figure.

The addition was one big space and was stately and well-appointed. A large desk stood in the middle of the room and the entire wall behind him was floor to ceiling bookshelves. There was a small windowed extension at the end of the room that housed a small desk and laptop computer. It was shielded somewhat from the main space with plants and a low shelf.

“This is your workstation, Ms. Beck…or may I call you, Altina?”

“Yes, of course,” I smiled.

“This gives you a little privacy as I’ll usually be here when you’re working. That way you can easily ask any questions you may have about the red scrawls I call ‘edits’,” he laughed. He spent the next 15 minutes sitting next to me as he showed me his manuscript on the computer and reviewed the thick stack of pages full of red marks. It was hard to focus with him sitting so close to me, but I did my best to concentrate on the work at hand and not on his proximity. Still, the subtlety of his masculine musky scent was hard to ignore.

He finished his explanation and I got to work. It was not particularly challenging, but did require focus so as not to make any mistakes as I edited his writing. It also took some time getting used to his red scrawl, but that understanding came with time. As I worked he did the same – sometimes tapping away at his keyboard, other times making and receiving phone calls. I did my best to focus on the task at hand and learned to ignore his presence as much as that was possible.

Back in class he gave no indication to anyone about who had been chosen as his assistant. I know he sent out an email to all the other applicants explaining that an assistant had been chosen and I have to say I swelled with pride having been selected for this unique post.

And so began my position as Professor Walton’s assistant. He was not one for small talk, but we did begin to get to know one another better as the weeks went by. Sometimes we worked in complete silence; whereas other times we might interact for a time when I arrived or as I departed. I came to see another side of him – a warm caring older gentleman with a wonderful sense of humor. He was a big deal on campus, but didn’t take himself too seriously in the privacy of his study.

If I had been attracted to him before, my proximity to him now only increased my desire for him. I didn’t do it consciously, but I found myself primping a bit more than usual when I knew I was going to his office. I’d never been one for heavy make-up, but I took a bit more time applying make-up so it didn’t look like I was wearing any. I began to choose my clothes more carefully on Wednesdays and Fridays. I began to wear more revealing leggings to show off my ass and legs and would occasionally wear a tight top without a bra, almost daring him to keep his gaze north of my noticeable nipples.

While he always maintained his cool and certainly had the upper hand, I could tell that my tactics were slowly working and eating away at his resolve. I would try to twist this way or that with my head turned away, giving him ample time to survey my body unnoticed. Knowing he was looking at me turned me on in a huge way.