NEW STORY TITLE: A House Full Of Women (Erotica)
45-year-old Jack gets it on with a college virgin.
Read and enjoy…
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Jack Martin couldn’t believe the letter he received from his alma mater.
It seems that, twenty-three years ago, when Jack graduated from the small liberal arts college in Southern California he had attended, he had actually failed to fulfill one of the requirements for graduation. He had taken an English class and had dropped out about midway through the semester. The result was that he had taken an Incomplete in that course, and as a result he was not only short of credits for graduation but, because he was an English major, also short of credits in his chosen field. It hardly mattered that Jack was now a successful insurance agent; his degree was technically invalid, and in order to have a legitimate degree he would either have to take that class again or take an equivalent class.
Jack just laughed when he first read the letter, thinking it must be some sort of joke. But it was clearly written on official stationery from the college’s bursar, so it must be authentic. Making a few quick phone calls, Jack learned that the class he had taken decades ago was no longer being offered, so he decided to sign up for another class offered by the English department–a class on Hemingway designed mostly for juniors and seniors. He chose this largely because it was held in the late afternoon, so that he could take off from his office late in the day without losing too much business. It began in January (the commencement of second semester) and would finish in May.
What the other students would say when a forty-five-year-old businessman wandered into the classroom, he could only guess. But he found out pretty soon.
The class was, to his surprise, taught by a woman. Somehow he thought Hemingway was radioactive to women, given the aggressively masculine tendencies of most of his work. Not only that, the teacher–sorry, professor–seemed a few years younger than Jack.
This was going to be a bit of a trial.
The professor, Colleen Jameson, couldn’t help putting Jack on the spot from almost the moment the class started. As he shuffled in, sitting discreetly in the back, she eyed him with a smirk and said, “Well, class, we have an unusual student among us, one”–she looked down at a sheet of paper on a clipboard–“Jack Martin, Class of 1997. Jack is here to do a little remedial work. He may be a little out of practice in a college setting, but no doubt his life experience will enlighten us all.”
There were a fair number of chuckles at the middle-aged, gray-at-the-temples man who was trying desperately not to be noticed by this gaggle of students, any one of whom could have been his children.
And Jack ran into immediate difficulties once the class got underway. The manner of instruction was not at all what he was used to, and the discussion relentlessly focused on issues of race, class, and gender rather than the flow of the narrative or the distinctive language Hemingway had evolved.
One classmate took immediate pity on Jack. This was Vanessa Claiborne.
The definition of the word “demure” could have been devised with her in mind. A slender, almost waif-like twenty-year-old with flowing blond hair and only modest curves at bust and hips, she had a constantly wide-eyed expression that suggested both surprise and a hint of fear. Although she contributed a lot to the class discussion, she tended to drop her eyes whenever she spoke to a specific person. Her voice was high and soft, and she never raised it.
But her heart ached to see this older man floundering in a setting he was clearly unfamiliar with after all these years. She could tell he was getting more and more frustrated. So, one day after class, she managed to overcome her innate shyness and sidle up to Jack, saying: “Sir, may I help you?”
The expression was ambiguous, so Jack said, “Help me how?”
“Well,” Vanessa said, blushing a little, “it just seems to me that you need a little guidance about how things are done now. I–I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn, sir.”
Jack gazed on this lovely, delicate creature. “Good Lord, no! And none of this ‘sir’ business. I’m just a student like everyone else. You can call me Jack.”
“Okay . . . Jack,” she said with a smile that sent a dagger into Jack’s heart.
But their initial attempt at a “study date” didn’t go so well. They tried sitting down in a coffee shop, but it rapidly filled up with noisy students. They then fled to the college library, but this place–once a hushed cloister dedicated to the worship of the printed word–had now been transformed into a high-tech zone where laptops buzzed and beeped, and where specifically designated “group study areas” were just as noisy as that coffee shop was.
In desperation, Jack said, “Um, Vanessa, I don’t suppose you’d care to do our studying at”–his voice suddenly descended to a whisper–“my house?”
“Your house?” Vanessa said with a gulp.
“I live only a few blocks away. I’ve been there for many years.”
With her patented glance at the floor, she said, “Your wife probably wouldn’t want me there, even for studying.”
Jack glanced down at the naïve young girl–a petite five foot two to his five foot nine. “I don’t have a wife, Vanessa–not anymore.”
She finally raised her eyes to him, but they were filled with alarm. She was unable to speak.
“If you’d rather not,” Jack added hastily, “we could just forget about the whole thing. I’m sure I can manage somehow without your help.”
“No, no,” Vanessa said, shaking her head. “I’m just being silly.”
“I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation.”
“It’s fine, really it is. Which way do we go?”
So they tramped to Jack’s house, which was literally a five-minute walk from campus. It was a pretty large place: two stories and a basement, four bedrooms and two and a half baths, and built in the 1940s–which, for this part of the country, made it count as ancient.
“Wow,” Vanessa breathed as she wandered into the house, dumping her backpack on the sofa in the living room, “what a huge house! You live here all by yourself?”
Vanessa immediately realized she’d made a faux pas. You didn’t use to live her all by yourself–you had a wife once.
“Well, I have a lot of stuff,” Jack said, even though the place was anything but a hoarder’s paradise. It was in fact austerely but tastefully furnished, and Vanessa had to resist lapsing into the sexist assumption that it was Jack’s ex who had been in charge of the décor.
They had a good study session, and several more followed. After a few weeks Jack began to get the hang of how literature is taught these days. He didn’t like it all that much, but he figured he could get by with at least a gentleman’s C.
But it was Vanessa, far more than Hemingway or the grim and cynical Professor Jameson, who became the focus of his interest. This girl–he couldn’t help thinking of her as a girl, even though in the strictest sense she was a full-grown woman who could vote, drive a car, and do almost all the things (except drink alcohol) that adults do–was such a fetching creature that he couldn’t believe she wasn’t already spoken for. But then he sensed that her very demureness might have been a barrier to her being snatched up by the oversexed and boisterous males on campus, who generally wanted females more willing to flaunt their “assets” and let every Tom, Dick, and Harry know that they were “available.”
After one study session, which extended well beyond six o’clock, Jack placed a hand gently on Vanessa’s arm and said, “You’ve been such a help to me–may I take you out to dinner?”
She blushed again–and again gave Jack that look of apprehension, even fear, that he had come to know so well. Now it was his heart that ached for causing this poor girl unnecessary alarm.
“I’m sorry, Vanessa,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not right–”
“I’ll be happy to,” she said in an almost inaudible voice. “I don’t get taken out very often.”
Once more Jack cursed the damnfoolishness of the college boy.
“I can’t imagine any woman who deserves to be taken out more than you do,” he said fervently. “I know lots of good restaurants that I’d love to introduce you to.”
Now she was blushing crimson. It was almost painful to watch. She couldn’t meet Jack’s gaze.
Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Licking her lips, she at last managed to say, “That would be wonderful. But–but I’d really like to change. What I’m wearing wouldn’t be suitable.”
Jack gave her clothes a quick glance. It was a simple outfit of blouse and pleated skirt–typical schoolgirl attire.
“You’re fine as you are,” he said.
“No, no!” she cried. “I really want to wear something else. Can you take me back to my rooming house before we go to the restaurant?”
“Sure thing, if it means that much to you.”
It was a very short drive to her house. Jack said he’d stay in the car while Vanessa changed, to give her maximum privacy. To his surprise, she emerged only a few minutes later–but what a transformation!
She was now wearing a form-fitting black dress that went down to her knees. It had a surprisingly low-cut neck, although she wasn’t exactly well endowed in the chest. But this was one girl–no, woman!–who didn’t need a robust bosom or bottom to be beautiful. She had also managed to put on just enough makeup to brighten her face without in any sense looking like a tawdry “painted lady.”
“You’re lovely, Vanessa,” Jack said in genuine admiration.
He could have predicted that she would blush and look down at her hands, unable to reply.
>>>>>
**Author’s Note:**
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