Charles had managed to keep the fantasies under control when Jean was still seventeen. Well, more or less. It wasn't proper, was it, for an educator to think about one of his minor pupils in such a way.
So, too, he'd (mostly) controlled himself after she had turned eighteen, but was still enrolled at his school. It simply wasn't right to have erotic fantasies about one's students, regardless of age.
A few months ago, though, she'd graduated—and this morning, she'd been wearing a hell of a skirt. Charles couldn't help but think about it: Jean in his office, that very same outfit. She'd climb into his lap...maybe, first, she'd pull off her shoes, panties too. Oh, yes. They'd kiss for a while, then maybe he'd get her out of her clothes—wait. Better if she kept on everything but the panties. Yes. That was by far the better option. She'd lie down on his desk, spread her legs, and he'd bury his face between her thighs...
Oh, yes.
He'd entirely forgotten about their meeting by the time a knock came on his office door. Then he remembered, quite abruptly: Jean. Their lesson. It was Monday, after all, and they'd been working with her telepathy on Mondays for the entirety of her school career.
"Come in," Charles said, and did his best to think of other, more innocent things.
If she'd picked up on any of what he'd been thinking before, she was remarkably composed.
Their lesson went as it always did: they exchanged some small talk about the weather, what she'd been learning from Raven as of late. Then they began with the meat of things, yet another lesson meant to teach Jean how to shield her mind from that of others, and how to keep herself from projecting if she didn't intend to.
Halfway through, Jean broke in. "Professor...I think you need this lesson more than I do."
It came back to him then, the fantasy, though different, colored the way memories were when they came in secondhand. It wasn't an effect you could really get outside of telepathy, and it would have been fascinating if it hadn't also been—
Jean, lying back on his desk, his face between her thighs...
"Jean," Charles said sharply, shame curling in his chest all the way down to his stomach. He was tempted, for a moment, to apologize, even to grovel. What must she think of him? She must be uncomfortable, even disgusted, that he wanted her in such a way. But they'd discussed this before—not his fantasies, but how it wasn't proper to throw someone's private thoughts in their face, no matter your personal opinion of them. "That is private, thank you."
Jean stood up. So she meant to leave.
She bent down. Pulled off one shoe. Pulled off the other. Charles' breath caught.
She reached underneath her skirt.
Perhaps this was a particularly vivid dream. Charles checked, and whatever this was, it wasn't that: Jean was really here, in his office, stepping out of her panties, coming around his desk. She was really on his lap, reaching for him...
"Jean," he said, another admonition. How many times had he told her that just because someone was thinking something didn't mean they really wanted it? That had been the first lesson he'd ever taught her—that people's actions could completely contradict their thoughts, and it didn't mean they were lying, not really. It simply meant they were people.
But you do want this. You think about it all the time. Jean's telepathic voice was clear and plain, and underneath it was every other time she'd found Charles thinking about her, so often. You even—
And there was a memory of Charles' arousal, from the other day, last week, months ago. Did it matter, really? He wondered if she'd only picked up on it in retrospect, or if she'd ridden along with him at the time, all the way up to his climax.
Whatever shame might have come then—God, he'd masturbated while thinking about one of his students—and not only that but she'd caught him out, even if it had been later—and it hardly mattered that she was only a former student, regardless of what he told himself—was belayed by Jean pressing her mouth against his.
The kiss was a little awkward. If she had any experience, it wasn't much.
Oh. She'd heard that. Don't be embarrassed, Jean. We were all beginners, once. I'll show you—
And he did, for quite some time, until her embarrassment had faded and her arousal had begun to burn, a pyre inside her mind and his.
He was reaching to pull her blouse out of her skirt when she said, huskily, "That's not what you wanted."
She got off his lap, moved a stack of papers over, then sat on his desk facing him. Her face was flushed, her eyes were dark, and oh, she was even more lovely like this.
She heard that, too, and flushed all the darker. Then she lay back, and she spread her legs out. Not quite far enough for what he had in mind, but that was all right; Charles put his hands on her knees and spread her legs further, until he could comfortable fit between them. He rucked her skirt up, and he could see everything, including how wet she was for him.
Her thighs were very tense under his hands.
Have you done this before, darling?
He asked the question not so she would have to force out an answer, but because asking always made the answer rise in the recipient's mind, making it that much easier to locate. The answer here was no: She'd hardly done anything with anyone else. The furthest she'd gone was to touch herself a bit at night. She'd made herself come, at least, a single, vaguely unsatisfying tremor each of the handful of times she'd managed it.
Charles kissed the inside of her thigh. This will be better than that, I promise you.
He kissed his way up, running his hands up and down her thighs, getting her used to his touch, his presence. There was no getting rid of the fear, not entirely, but he waited until arousal and impatience were beginning to double-team it before he nuzzled her thick patch of pubic hair, kissing her there before he spread her lips and kissed her there, too.
She gasped, and Charles continued, gauging her reactions when he licked her folds, her clit, brushed his tongue over her entrance. She seemed to like it all, but he eventually found that she especially liked it when he sucked on her clit—lightly, and only for a minute at a time before it became uncomfortable, but he soon found a rhythm that kept her close to the edge all the time.
The first time she came, it surprised her, and disappointed: That's it? For all the excitement of doing this with another person, the conclusion apparently hadn't been much better than what she could do herself.
There's so much more where that came from, Charles promised. He made good on his word, and within a few minutes she was coming again, a longer, more sustained orgasm this time.
By her fourth climax, she was clutching the sides of his desk so hard it was making Charles' hands ache.
"Oh, oh, oh," she was saying now, and she was afraid again—that someone would walk by and hear her, this time, or that she'd project what was going on to the entire house, the way she'd used to when she was dreaming—
There's no one else in this wing, and as for the rest—I'm shielding us, darling. Be as loud as you'd like.
She came several more times after that, Charles along for the ride each time, until she was beginning to be too sensitive to go on.
He drew back. She sat up, her skirt still up around her waist. She looked just as fucked-out as she ought to, considering. A little moonstruck, too: she hadn't expected it to be like that.
What had she expected? What had she wanted, when she came here? Charles no longer felt any compunction about peeking into this part of her mind, which, along with everything to do with sex, he'd previously kept off-limits.
Oh. She knew she was inexperienced, and had wanted to try gaining some with someone who knew what he was doing—and who could help her corral her gift, if needed. It had been: Charles was going to have a headache later, pulsing in the same rhythm she'd beaten inside his head during the act. But that was all right. It had been worth it.
"Um, Professor?" she said, looking around.
Charles looked, too. Every book from every shelf now littered the floor; the plant on the windowsill had burned, leaving a blackened stalk behind.
After a moment, the books all lifted from the floor again, placing themselves back on their shelves in an orderly fashion.
"I think I'm going to need some more practice," Jean said.
"It does seem that way," Charles agreed.
"I could come back tomorrow?"
Oh, that was tempting. But no. He'd never get anything else done if she were coming by here every day. Besides, the anticipation would be better, if they spread it out a bit...
"How about Thursday? Same time?"
"Okay," she said.
She put her shoes back on. She was halfway to the door—walking a bit stiffly, Charles couldn't help but notice—when she realized she'd forgotten her panties.
She was torn between two embarrassing options, since she hadn't any pockets—taking her shoes back off to put the panties back on, or carrying them through the house.
Give them to me, Charles said. I'll hold onto them for you.
After she'd left, he looked at the crumpled panties. There was dampness at the crotch; when he lifted them to his face, he could smell her arousal, the way she'd been before he'd ever touched her.
He gave the matter some consideration, then stuffed the panties into the middle drawer of his desk, the one that locked.
He managed to finish up a little paperwork, at least, before setting it aside so he could come up with a lesson plan for Thursday.