Unspoken Pleasure (erotica)

“That’s for me to know professor,” she said laughing as she stretched sinuously in her seat, her full, round breasts testing her t-shirt tops tensile strength as she arched her back. “I am going to College in the fall you know Professor,” she finally added. “Bryn Mawr.”

“Your mom’s school.”

“Uh huh, English major – I want to be a writer,” she said shyly, “like you… well you already know that of course… When do you want me to start professor?”

“Whenever you’re settled honey. No rush, I’m sure you have lots of friends to see, things to do.”

“I’ll start tomorrow sir. I want you to treat me just like you would anyone else.”

Right, I thought, as if that was possible. “All right Samantha. Why don’t you come over first thing, say eight, and we’ll get organized. I’ll probably need you til one-thirty or two most days Sam, and then you’ll be free for all your boyfriends every afternoon. OK?”

“Yes sir,” she said beaming, “You won’t regret letting me work with you sir, I promise.”

As she skipped away, calling to her sister up the road, I watched her rear wriggling firmly under her skimpy, white silk shorts and knew I’d never regret my decision.

~~~~~

The Von Scourie house was a large one, and while the front door stood facing inland and the driveway, the very last house on the road, the real orientation of the house was towards the beach and all the important rooms faced the ocean. A ten foot wide balcony ran across the second floor of the house and gave a perfect view of the Atlantic and the next island in the archipelago, three miles off, from the comfortable wicker sofas that were scattered along its fifty foot length.

Below the balcony, was a deck with chairs and table and barbeque, and farther down a rectangular pool surrounded by a grassy lawn, and then three stairs leading to a path that twisted through the sea grass and led to the forty foot wide beach that fronted the ocean.

But the houses name, at least what the locals called it, ‘Von Scourie’s Tower’, was derived from its most unusual feature, the structure that jutted twenty-five feet upwards from the roof of the house, a tower that dominated the surrounding area.

My great-uncle James, Jimmy to everyone on the island when he was living, had added the tower some sixty years ago, to the derision, I might add, of the whole populace. But now it was quite famous, and now most of the island paintings and seascapes displayed in the tourist shops of Eastport included the Von Scourie tower somewhere on the horizon.

My writing room, my sanctuary, was at the top of the tower, a room that was all windows and bookcases, a fifteen by fifteen foot space some fifty feet in the air, which from my desk gave me a view in all four directions with just the turn of my head.

“WOW,” was Samantha’s first word when her head poked through the hatch and into my workplace after climbing the steep stairwell of the tower the next morning just after eight. “We always wanted to come up here and see the view and play,” she explained, and went on to tell me the various things her sister and she imagined.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I laughed, “I would have let you in anytime.”

“Oh look, you can see our house. And all the way over to the north side.” She turned and took in the view in all four directions, the ocean, the dunes, the seagrass, the soaring pines that were mirrored by the tall, pine bookcase in each corner that stood flanking the windows, the pond sitting tranquilly in the Park, the seagulls soaring by, the… “God, wait til I tell Izzy, she’ll be so jealous,” she laughed as she skipped around the room, touching the desks and the computers, the books and the large telescope sitting facing the sky, almost as if she was just making sure it wasn’t a dream.

She finally slowly began to inspect one bookcase and after a quick study exclaimed, “These are all books you’ve written aren’t they? Gosh, in French and German and, what language is this sir?”

“Bulgarian,” I finally announced after looking at the book. “I’m one of those vain authors Sam, I work surrounded by all these first editions of my novels.”

“You should be proud sir,” she whispered, just a little bit of adoration creeping into her voice, “I’ve loved all your books, they’re so good.”

“And these?” she asked as she danced to the opposite corner and pulled down a couple of books. “You like science fiction professor?” she asked quizzically as she leafed through one.

I’m Professor Emeritus at the University of Georgia in Athens these days, the University my home since they offered me the chance to be writer-in-residence for one year, all expenses paid, thirty-six years ago when I was a struggling young writer. Athens, Georgia is a great town to live in and the people at the University treated me grandly that year, making me feel so welcome that I never left, even when I became successful and fairly famous.NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

They appointed me a Professorship in their Department of English and basically left me alone to write, my only duty one that I loved, which was to lead a seminar in creative writing for the Schools most talented young minds.

I had written twelve ‘Von Scourie’ novels over the years, novels set in Boston and the islands of the sound, novels which over the years had won both critical and popular acclaim. I wasn’t a Hemingway but there wouldn’t be many Modern American Lit courses in America that wouldn’t have one of my books on the reading list. And they sold, so what the hell?

But… but I had also written other books, books written under a variety of pseudonyms, and the Sci-Fi book Sam was now holding was one of them. “This is your first trade secret Sam,” I whispered conspiringly in her ear.

“What sir?”

“I wrote it, in fact all of them,” I said pointing around the room, my finger pressed against my lip, begging her silence in the future.

“What! All of them?” she gasped as she danced to the next bookcase, pulling out a couple of mysteries. “Gee, I’ve read some of these,” she laughed, and then added as she flitted to the final bookcase, “how many books have you written anyway?”

“Uhhhhh,” I stalled, my eyes intently watching as she pulled a volume from an upper shelf, wondering what her reaction would be.

“EROTICA TOO!” she gasped as she looked up at me after reading a few lines, startled by her discovery.

“Maybe it’d be better if you don’t read those ones,” I replied as I stretched my arm to grab the book from her.

“Oh no sir, I want to read everything you’ve written,” she proclaimed with the eagerness of youth, a sly twinkle in her eye as she pulled the book back out of my reach, her body taut against her thin dress as she arched away from me. “All this is so exciting, I’m so happy to be here Professor,” she beamed as she swung her arms to encompass the whole room.

It only took me a morning to realize my luck, to understand Sam would be the perfect assistant for me, that my fear that she’d somehow hinder my work had been completely groundless. I slowly took her through what I expected of her and of how I worked. “I’m always working on various projects at one time Sam, I explained. “I try to write four-five hours every day, eight til ten, then a quick swim and breakfast, then til one-thirty or two. I’ll often reread and plan during the afternoon or night but I’ll be constantly finding jobs for you.”

“You’re going to have to do a lot of research. For example, you may have to look up the best route from one place to another, street names, distances, what noted buildings on the route, etc., etc. Or how far to Pluto from Mars. Just type whatever you find right into the text in green.”

“You’re going to have to read all my current stuff, and my background notes so you know where I am and where I’m going. You may have to read a couple of the earlier books in each genre so you understand my style, etc. I also want you to read what I write daily and let me know where my mistakes are, when my writing is crap, when I go off track, when…”

“But Professor, I’m not…”

“You’re also in charge of backing up the work, making sure back-up copies are in secure places, handling my web site, my fan letters.”

“Golly Sir!”

Even though she was slightly overwhelmed, I also saw that she was more than competent. Two minutes explaining the computer system were enough to show me that she not only understood how I used them, but that she would be capable of easily improving my system, her computer skills far outdistancing mine. Her concise, to the point questions on everything I explained immediately allowed me to see she understood what was required.

Within a half hour we were both hard at work, a record compared with any of her predecessors over the years. Looking up after about twenty minutes I regretted I wasn’t writing one of my erotic tales that morning. Watching her sitting in front of her flickering screen at the desk facing me, the morning sun backlighting her thick, rich hair, a pen dangling between her lips, her glasses raised high above her forehead, her breasts heaving; I immediately saw her as ‘teenage temptress personified’ as a complete sexual story flashed before my eyes.

At some point she had unbuttoned the top two buttons on the demure summer dress she had worn this morning, having earlier explained her choice of clothes as, “I let Mom choose today. She insisted I look proper on the first day of my first job,” she had confessed, a slight blush on her face.

“You look perfect Sam,” I had complimented her, letting her know she could basically wear any of her summer clothes in future. And now as I looked over at her I could see the top of the valley between her breasts, could see the edge and straps of a lilac colored silk demi-bra, and with each movement she made, from computer to reference book to computer and back, I could see her breasts dancing under the thin material.

I was stroking myself under the table, daydreaming, wondering if I dared lower the zipper on my shorts and let him free, wondering if I could slip under the desk, in search of a dropped pen, to look up between her golden thighs, when she looked up and smiled and said, “I’m enjoying this sir.”