“Hello, Professor.”

I looked up from my papers. I hadn’t even heard the door open. It was Luna, my graduate assistant, slipping into my office like a wisp of incense smoke, greeting me in her distinctive, throaty accent that seemed to be a mixture of Eastern and Northern European languages, all of them native.

“Hello, Luna,” I greeted her, feeling immediately pleased and disconcerted to see her.

She was exceptionally, unsettlingly smart; she always struck me as much older than her mid-20s. Like, hundreds of years older.

She was exceptionally, unsettlingly beautiful, and she was looking particularly Luna-like today, with her blue-black hair spilling down over a form-fitting, mid-calf-length indigo dress. She was a self-described goth chick, but in an elegant Morticia Adams way, rather than a teenage-girl-in-torn-fishnets, just-got-back-from-a-My-Chemical-Romance-concert way. At least in public.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” I said.

“I know. I waited until your office hours were over,” she replied, closing the door behind her and flicking off the light switch so the room was only illuminated by the late-afternoon sunshine filtering through my one small window.

As she stepped across the room toward my desk, I noticed that she had changed a couple of things since we were in the lecture hall together earlier today. She had replaced her wine-colored lipstick with a deep plum, almost black; and her eye shadow was pronounced and smokier. And she hadn’t been wearing the fingerless lace gloves in class.

“So, is this visit an professional one, or a social call?” I asked, still pretending I was the one with any authority here.

In response, she reached down and grabbed me by my necktie, and prompted me to get on my feet. Standing up I was considerably taller than her, even in her heeled boots, but I was noticeably not the one in command of the situation. “A little bit of both, actually,” she responded, turning and leading me by my tie over to the loveseat underneath the window.

She backed me up against it, and deftly reached past me to flip the blinds shut. Then she turned away from me and lifted her hair up, giving me access to the zipper of her dress.

“We, um, shouldn’t be doing this here,” I told her, but I had already started to pull the zipper down, powerless to resist her.

“Mmm,” she responded. “So you’ve said.” Meanwhile, I had reached the small of her back, revealing the large but delicate tattoo that spanned across her shoulder-blades, and the thin straps of a black bra.

She shrugged her shoulders out of the dress and peeled the three-quarter-length sleeves off of her forearms. I noted that her lace gloves ran up to her elbows. Then she bent slightly at the waist to push the garment down over her hips until it slid to the floor and she could step out of it, giving me the most mesmerizing view of her exquisite istanbul travesti backside.

Beneath her demure dress she had been wearing a provocative and imaginative combination of lingerie. Her black leather boots laced up high on her ankles. Beneath those she was wearing dark black stockings with suspenders; but beneath those she was wearing what must have been fishnet pantyhose. Her derriere formed the perfect upside-down heart, with the tiniest waist-to-hip ratio I had ever seen, accentuated by the narrow waistbands of her black thong panties and garter belt, both riding over her hipbones. I gasped in spite of myself.

She turned around, smiling knowingly at me, spread her fingertips across my chest, and gently pushed me until I dropped down onto the seat of the sofa. Then this intoxicating woman straddled me, her knees on either side of my thighs, and draped her slender wrists languidly over my shoulders.

I scooted my hands under my legs. I never touch her without an express invitation.

“I liked your lecture today,” she began. I nodded and thanked her. It was part of our dynamic, the way she pretended that I needed or deserved her doe-eyed approval, that I was “allowing” her to seduce me. We both knew I was completely powerless in her presence.

She had been my student for six years now. I had been her submissive for two months. I teach a freshman-level Humanities course, five hundred undergraduates in a lecture hall twice a week. She’s one of five graduate assistants that then lead groups of twenty-five students in small discussion groups twice a week. She’s the only graduate assistant who ever coaxed me into letting her lock me in a chastity device.

My eyes were fixed on the way her bra pushed her perfect breasts together, at the silver chain and the tiny key that was trapped between them. Then I let my gaze move down, past her amazing, flat little tummy, to where her legs girded mine. Her left thigh bore a rather menacing tattoo; her right was unblemished and milky white in the fading light. And I was between them, lost in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

“So, tell me something,” she said, rocking gently on my thighs, her pubic mound inches from where my cock was getting desperate in its cage. “How long has it been now?”

“Ummm… eight weeks,” I replied. Eight weeks since the start of the semester, since the evening when I began to believe that the most exotic and alluring graduate student I had ever met was actually going to sleep with me. And when, instead, she coaxed and teased me into agreeing to a sexual game that was far more intense than mere intercourse.

“Huh. Do you remember what it felt like to get hard?’

I snorted slightly.

“Do you remember what it felt like to have your hard cock moving in and out of a woman?”

“Yes,” I acknowledged, surprising myself at how my voice squeaked.

“Do travesti istanbul you miss it?”

I nodded.

“And yet, here we are,” she teased. “You’ve given all that up for me.”

Yes, I had. This was my sex life now. I rarely went an hour without remembering it. But it was still exquisite torment to hear her verbally remind me.

“I love it that you’ve done that. That you’ve given up having orgasms, having erections, having anything really approaching sex. For me.”

I sighed, and shifted slightly in my seat, trying to accommodate the pressure building on my genitals. I was constantly aware of it, but it wasn’t always as uncomfortable as it got when she was half-naked in front of me. Smiling, somewhat smugly. When she smiled, she had the most amazing dimples.

“I’m glad that you love it,” I told her, honestly. “Does it make you feel… powerful?”

“I *am* powerful,” she replied. “But, yes, I like being reminded of it.”

I closed my eyes, and concentrated on not rocking rhythmically against her without her permission.

“So, I wanted to talk to you about one of our students,” she stated. I suppressed a chuckle. Seriously? She DID want to talk business?

I realized I was still wearing my glasses, so I took them off and set them aside. “Oh?”

“Uh huh,” she replied, and I noticed that she was starting to subtly rock a bit harder on my thighs, inches below where my cock was getting uncomfortable in its cage.

“You know Jeremy Martelle, right?”

“Yes,” I replied. I did. “What about him?”

“Well, I think he’s really promising.”

“Really?” I replied. I knew I wasn’t the only male in her life, but I still get jealous. “How so?”

“Well, he’s really smart,” she continued.

“I know he got an A on his mid-term,” I said. “But you’ve had more interaction with him than I have.”

“I have,” she agreed. “He’s very insightful. Very articulate. Self-aware.”

“Huh,” I responded, noticing that her motion on my lap was beginning to feel a bit like grinding.

“And he’s adorable. And better yet, I don’t think he realizes how adorable he is.”

“You don’t say.”

“And,” she continued, lowering her chin so her eyes were looking at me from beneath lush lashes and eyelids the color of an approaching storm, “He’s a virgin.”

I shook my head in confusion, distracted by the physical discomfort of my arousal and my bewilderment over why she was telling me this. “How do you know that?”

“I heard some girls talking in the women’s room before class,” she replied. “Including, apparently, his girlfriend.”

“I see.” So, I gathered, she had come to my office to gyrate half-naked on my lap and inform me that she was targeting one of my freshmen for acquisition. She was going to deflower Jeremy Martelle. But first she was going to torment me with denial and

jealousy. God, she knew how to play istanbul travestileri me.

“So, why are you telling me this?”

“Well,” she said, coyly drawing the backs of the fingers on her right hand down my cheek, “I wanted a male perspective on something.”

I leaned into her touch, and tried to say “of course,” with just my eyes. Not that she needed my agreement.

“So you were eighteen once,” she went on. “Virile, and always horny, I presume. How would you have reacted to the idea of submitting to chastity?”

I hadn’t expected that. I took a moment to drink in the vision of her impossibly beautiful body, willing myself not to place my hands on her delicate waist. “For you? Probably helpless to resist.”

She smiled at me. “Hmm. Well, that’s what I want to find out. I want to lock up a healthy virgin. To have him give up sex for me. Well, not ‘give up’ sex, to be exact. More like… how do you say?… *forego* sex. For me.”

“Hmmm,” is right, I thought. I stared into her eyes, which were suddenly filled with desire and… devilishness. They were intoxicating. It was part of what made her so addictive to me — the way she had convinced me that she absolutely loved denying me, tormenting me, by making me want her, and only her, while promising me that I would never, ever have her… that way.

But I was a middle-aged adult. I had had my share of women. I knew what I was giving up. And, I had realized some time ago, part of what made our game so exhilarating was that it did, in fact, remind me of what it was like to be consumed with desire and constant arousal, the way I had been when I was eighteen.

“So, you think he’ll say yes? To wearing a cage for me?”

Well, yes, I thought. He’ll say yes to putting on a cage; to being led along in a kinky game. But for how long?

“Well, indefinitely,” she said, making me wonder whether she was reading my mind or whether I had said the words out loud. “Maybe… permanently?”

I gulped, audibly, at the audacity of the suggestion. We had never actually discussed an end date for *our* current arrangement. I had always figured that eventually she would tire of me; wondered whether I could sustain my celibacy for her for an entire year before she graduated and moved on. The thought of me making that sacrifice for her was causing me to ache. But… “permanently?” Even though she wasn’t even talking about me, just hearing the word in her breathy voice almost stopped my heart.

A few minutes ago I had thought that she had brought Jeremy into our conversation to tease me with the image of taking our student into her bed, allowing him the carnal delights that I could only imagine. But instead, she was talking about using him the same way she was using me… but with an added intensity that I would never know.

She got up off of my lap, and stepped back into her demure dress. She turned away from me, wordlessly instructing me to zip her back up, which I reluctantly did.

“So, I’m seeing him for a study session tonight,” she informed me. The turmoil in my chest was becoming greater than the ache in my groin.

“Don’t you wish you were him?”

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