I was breathless with excitement when I first went to college.

I’m a small-town girl, and I was going to one of the best universities in the country. It was a chance to meet new people and shrug off my former dull life. I broke up with my high school boyfriend, sure that I would meet some exotic guy from some remote corner of the world who would dazzle me with his intellectual brilliance and bedroom eyes. Well, I did have an affair with someone worldly, someone exciting, someone exotic, but it was with my art history professor — a 55-year-old woman.

Isabelle, as I have come to call her, was the instructor of an upper-level course on the depiction of the female form in painting. I didn’t have the prerequisites, but because I had AP credits I was able to apply for a waiver to enroll with the instructor’s permission.  I got an email summoning me for a meeting with the professor. I had no idea who she was or what she looked like, so when I met with her I was stunned to see an older but beautiful women. She had a wonderful figure and strawberry blonde hair. Her face was largely unlined. Isabelle was authentically sexy.

She spoke with a soft French accent and asked me about my academic interests. I planned on being an art history major and already knew the basics. I could tell she was impressed. I gave her a paper I had written on Georgia O’Keefe, and she said she would read it and let me know her verdict on my request to take her course. By the time I got home, she’d sent me an email saying I was in.

On the very first day of the class, our small group of all female students met. It was a seminar, not a lecture, so we had to be on our game — no sleeping in the back of the room. Isabelle introduced herself, and we went around the room, each saying a few words about ourselves. When my turn to speak finally arrived, I found myself blushing as Isabelle stared intently at me.

Then she began. Isabelle had a laptop and a projector, and the first image she displayed was Gustave Courbet’s L’Origine du monde, meaning The Origin of the World. If you’ve never seen it, it’s basically a close-up of a woman’s vulva.

Well, if Isabelle wanted our attention, she got it. Even a conservative, small-town girl like me has seen porn, but I’d never stared so long and intently at a giant picture of female genitals. She then spent the rest of the class showing female nudes: Goya’s The Nude Maja; Matisse’s Blue Nude; Modigliani’s Reclining Nude; Lucien Freud’s Benefits Supervisor Sleeping and John Singer Sargent’s Nude Egyptian Girl. She didn’t do much talking, instead prodding us into discussion. Were they pornographic or anti-feminist? Most of us didn’t think so, and more than once, the word “tasteful” was invoked. Then she put up a photo taken from an adult magazine. The model was a beautiful young women, and she was nude with her legs spread, her labia parted.

Isabelle asked us if that picture was pornographic, and some of the self-described “womyn” said it was. Isabelle asked why, and the offended women said the pic was exploitative. Isabelle mused out loud, asking if the models who posed for the great artists of the past were being exploited. Some of my classmates sputtered in indignation.

I thought her lesson was great. I had no agenda one way or another. Isabelle asked us if we would pose nude under any circumstances. Most of the class said no, but I blushed as I imagined stripping down for an artist’s appraising eye. The idea turned me on. Isabelle then told us she had posed nude years ago for painters and photographers when she lived in Paris and said she  had no regrets.

Isabelle’s class soon became my favorite. It was more than an analysis of nudes. We talked about how the female form has been idolized in different ways throughout history. I opened up a lot more as class went on, and I paid a shy visit to Isabelle during her office hours a few weeks into the semester. I didn’t really have a question. I just had a serious crush on her.

Isabelle was welcoming and kind, asking me a lot about myself. Then she seriously shocked me by saying. “You may not know this, but I’m an artist myself. Would you consider posing naked for me?”

I must have turned bright red because she laughed. “Don’t be so nervous, Gabriella. You don’t have to do it. I just find your face intriguing. I don’t know exactly what your body is like, but you have that sylph-like look that I like to capture in oils.”

Isabelle looked at me, a warm smile on her face, and in those few seconds my life changed. Somehow, I stammered yes. I wanted to be naked in front of her. Not only that, I wanted to see her naked, too. I hoped I’d get the chance.

I agreed to come to her house in the early evening the following Saturday. She told me I didn’t need to bring anything, just my body. I was visibly shaking when I rang her bell. She answered the door wearing only a kimono, sashed so that her torso was visible from her neck to nearly her navel. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a fiery red. When she laid eyes on me, she laughed gaily.

“You look like a scared rabbit,” she said merrily. “Come in, and let me give you some wine.”

Her living room was exquisitely decorated. When she bent over to grab a bottle of red from her wine rack, I tried not to stare at her tits because they were perfectly visible. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. She caught me looking down her gaping kimono and flashed me a mischievous smile.

“Sorry for my appearance, but when I work I like to be comfortable.”

I looked away, and my eyes fell on a picture of a young woman in a cap and gown. “Is that your daughter?” I asked, knowing she had children.

Isabelle laughed again. “No, that’s my granddaughter. She just graduated high school. She’s in her first semester of college now. She wouldn’t come where I teach. She had to go all the way across the country.”

Granddaughter? I had figured Isabelle to be in her 40s. But that didn’t add up. She noticed my quizzical look and asked, “How old did you think I was?”

“Forty-five?” I asked, not wanting to offend her.

“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” she said, putting a hand on my leg. “I’m 55.”

“You look amazing,” I said, genuinely shocked and impressed. Her body seemed taut, and her youthful face was free of wrinkles.

“Isabelle dove headfirst into my sopping pussy, lapping at it hungrily.”

“I bathe in the blood of virgins,” she said in a deadpan voice. Then she laughed heartily at her own joke.

“Let’s enjoy our wine and then start our work, shall we?”

When our glasses were drained, Isabelle took me into her studio. I followed close behind, watching her toned ass twitch provocatively beneath her thin robe. I was intoxicated. I realized right then and there that she and I would fuck each other silly before the day was over.

Isabelle had me strip down, and I did so without any shame. I have a somewhat boyish figure — small breasts and a tiny ass, but I’ve always liked my legs. She clucked her tongue in appreciation, and then gave me some props. She had me wear a silk top hat, a black bow tie and men’s dress shoes — but nothing else. I held a walking stick with the golden head of a lion on top as I sat in a velvet chair with gold armrests. She said she was going to sketch me first.

And she did. She sketched me for about an hour, letting me take a break every 15 minutes. As I sat there, letting her intimately study me, I was getting extremely turned on. I was worried my overflowing pussy I might soak her  fancy chair.

Eventually, she put her sketchpad aside and said, “You can get dressed now.” I was disappointed. Then she added, “Or you can take everything off and put your legs over those armrests.”

I chose to do the latter. I tossed the hat, tie, shoes and walking stick aside before spreading my legs. She then said, “Touch yourself. I want you to masturbate for me like you do when you’re alone.”

Her words lit a fire in me. I stroked my breasts, my nipples instantly spiking. My pussy lips were exposed to her gaze, but I wanted her to see how turned on I’d become. With the fingers of one hand, I parted my nether lips so she could see my glistening pink flesh. That’s when Isabelle parted her robe and began touching herself as well. She inserted two fingers in her cunt and began sliding them in and out at a leisurely pace. She was breathing heavily, as was I. We weren’t going to last long.

I rubbed my clit furiously as I imagined Isabelle lapping at my slit, and in little more than minutes, we came together. Isabelle’s eyes glittered with barely sated lust. I knew our interlude wasn’t over.

My professor stood, offered me her hand and led me into her bedroom. She dropped her robe, letting it slip to the floor in a sensual whisper of satin, and we fell onto the bed together. Isabelle practically dove headfirst into my sopping pussy, lapping at it hungrily. I ran my fingers through her fair hair and curled my legs around her as I soared to new heights of pleasure. I didn’t think I could come again so quickly on the heels of my first climax, but her tongue was magic and in no time I was coating her face with cunt juice.

I pulled her up into a warm embrace so we could kiss passionately. Then I eased her down onto her back and sucked on her nipples, which made her gasp prettily. Finally, after kissing a line down her belly, which was unbelievably flat and smooth, I focused on her cunt. Her lips had parted, like the blooming petals of a flower, as they awaited the attention of my tongue. I hesitated only slightly, and then took my first taste of pussy.

In my excitement, I ate her somewhat clumsily, I thought. But Isabelle gave me directions. With her gentle instruction, coupled with my knowledge of what I knew to work for me, I made her come in short order.

We lay together in post-orgasmic glory for a good while, before she hopped up and went to her dresser. She opened a drawer and pulled out a strap-on dildo.

“Who should wear it?” she asked.

“You fuck me,” I said confidently. “You’ve got more experience with that thing.”

She smiled broadly and strapped on the harness. I positioned myself on all fours, feeling my arousal fully flicker to life once more. I couldn’t wait for her to pound me with that thing.

Isabelle got into position and slowly inserted the toy. It was tremendous, bigger than any cock I’ve ever had — but before long I was engulfed in rapturous pleasure. After a few gentle strokes, Isabelle was fucking me hard, slapping my ass after every other thrust. My ass cheeks burned, and my cunt was overflowing. As she pounded my pussy with all her might, I fingered my clit until a fierce climax utterly devastated me.

I’m happy to say that was only the first of many interludes between the two of us. I pose for Isabelle every weekend, and we always have super-hot sex afterward.

She’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. Trust me — I’ve learned a lot from her.

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