Humbling the Professor

Claire le Conte stretched out in her seat on the Paris to London Eurostar, pleased that she had no one sitting next to her. If she had, it would almost inevitably have been the usual middle-aged man, perving at her long, stocking-clad legs or trying to glimpse her hard, smallish breasts by looking down her blouse. And all the time trying to engage her in an amusing, flirtatious conversation. Imagining what, exactly? That she would invite him to pleasure her in the toilet? Lean over and suck him off? It was pathetic, and tiresome to have to deal with such advances. She was only twenty-five, and yet she had been forced to put up with such things for years.

It was true, she admitted to herself, that she was not altogether innocent. Of course, she could not help being, as many men had told her, beautiful. Her black-brown hair, striking almond-brown eyes, inviting lips, fine bone structure, and slim, elegant figure were a genetic inheritance. They resulted from her father, his family French since before the Revolution, the grand-son of a Resistance hero, and her Algerian mother who claimed, though on goodness knew what evidence, to be descended from Phoenician traders. An indirect legacy of colonialism, in fact, but one which had bequeathed her, as she was often told, a beguiling exoticism.

But her tight, short skirts, skimpy tops, and the lingerie they concealed and sometimes revealed, were her choice. Her choice, though; for her pleasure, or for one of her carefully selected lovers. It was a gross impertinence that so many men, and especially so many fat, old, married men, took it as an invitation.

And it was not as if she was some brainless bimbo. She had been top of the class in her undergraduate degree in Philosophy at the Sorbonne, taken a Master's in political philosophy at Yale, and was now back in Paris as a PhD student at Sciences-Po. If men wanted to bed her, they would do better to engage her in a conversation about Rousseau or Rorty than to peer longingly at her cleavage or try to grope her. Better still, she reflected, if they also had the kind of long, thick, heavy cock she needed to satisfy her.

The thought of the last time she had felt such a cock inside her, courtesy of a Spanish architect she had met on her summer holiday a few weeks ago, produced a pleasingly warm, wet feeling in the skimpy black knickers Claire was wearing. But she did not indulge the memory, as she had work to do, and opened the book she had brought for the journey, a collection of interviews with the British political philosopher Dominic Fisher.

Fisher, though little known to the public in anti-intellectual Britain, was one of the world's foremost political philosophers. His early work, on Thomas Hobbes, was now regarded as definitive, but it was his later books, which married British and Continental traditions of theorizing power, which had established his global reputation, his Cambridge Professorship and his Visiting Professorships everywhere from Berlin, to Uppsala, to Tokyo, to New York. Now sixty, his landmark book, 'Power and Truth', was widely considered amongst philosophers to be a modern masterpiece, and he was hotly tipped to receive the next Rolf Schock Prize, the nearest thing to a Nobel Prize in philosophy.

Claire had read that book, and all his other works, long ago, but the volume of interviews she now had in her slim, elegant fingers had only recently been published. It was of particular interest to her as the reason she was travelling to England was to conduct her own interview with Professor Fisher as part of the PhD thesis she was writing on the topic of 'Power, Authority, and Female Sexuality'.

The train drew in to London and Claire disembarked, her long, nylon-clad legs scissoring her up the platform. She walked the short distance across the St. Pancras concourse from the Eurostar terminal, pausing only to smoke a cigarette on the street outside, and found the train to Cambridge. On that train, she was not so lucky, and had to endure a business man leering down her blouse, catching, no doubt, a glimpse of her lacy black bra, as he regaled her with his innuendo-laden anecdotes.

As they drew into Cambridge station, she leaned over to him. Although, as well as speaking French, Arabic, and German, she spoke perfect, if American-inflected, Engligh, she whispered in an exaggerated French accent: "So glad you like my little -- 'ow do you say? - titties? But 'ave you got the twenty-five centimetre, sorry I mean the ten-inch, cock? Or else I am not so interested, you know?"

"You Eyetie bitch," the man swore, red-faced, as she left the carriage.

Claire was still laughing at his ignorance and inadequacy as she got in the taxi to University College, where Dominic Fisher was a Fellow. Arriving, she entered the main gateway, and went into the Porter's Lodge. She knew Cambridge, from conferences she had attended, so knew some of its quaint ways; that the Colleges were independent of, but weirdly intertwined with, the University, that, unlike Oxford, the quadrangles were called courts, that the courts had staircases. She knew about its formal dinners, its High Tables, its endless traditions, its fading grandeur sustaining its sense of being the centre of the academic universe. It didn't intimidate her.

The Porter gave her a key for the guest room which Professor Fisher had booked for her, and she walked through to what was called New Court -- its newness being relative, since it dated to the Eighteenth Century -- where the room was located. There, she left her suitcase and quickly checked and re-applied her make-up before heading out.

Returning to Great Court, she found Dominic Fisher's staircase, his name stencilled in white on a black sign at the entrance, ascended to the first-floor, where his door was ajar.

Claire paused for a moment, feeling, unusually for her, a pang of nervousness, then knocked.

"Enter," a strong voice boomed out.

Claire opened the door and found herself in a large room, a combination of a sitting room and a study. The walls were covered in shelves full of books, and the books had overflowed, all over the floor, along with endless files of papers. But it was not disorderly. Everything was neatly stacked, and the box files labelled with what seemed to be some kind of cataloguing system. On either side of the room there were doorways which, she guessed, led to a bedroom and a kitchen, the rooms forming what she believed were called a 'set'.

A huge bay window looked out over the River Cam and the greens which she knew were called the Backs. In the bay was a large desk, with a computer and more papers, also neatly arranged. Dominic Fisher, who had been sitting behind it, got up as she entered and motioned her to take a chair in front of a low coffee table, settling himself into the chair opposite.

Claire was pleased to notice a large ashtray on the table. A smoker then. Evidently so, because he pulled out a packet and asked if she minded.

"We're not really meant to, as technically it's a work place," he explained, after she had said that she did not mind and, indeed, would join him. "But it's one of those rules that is more honoured in the breach than the observance."

"Like practising archery on a Sunday?" she asked.

"Exactly," he said, delighted. "You won't tell on me, will you?"

"You mean that you smoke in here, or that you don't practise archery on Sundays?"

"Perhaps it would be best if you keep quiet about all of my sins," he chuckled.

Claire had never met Dominic Fisher before, but she had seen him deliver lectures at conferences, so she already knew what he looked like. He was tall, and had probably been good-looking in his youth, but was now, at sixty, was somewhat overweight, and had lost most of his grey hair. But, of course, it was not his body that interested her. This was to be a meeting of minds, or at least that was her expectation.

What she didn't know was that, when he had received her email requesting an interview, Dominic Fisher had first searched the internet, finding various images of her. One in particular, a short video clip of her receiving a prize for her Masters dissertation, held his attention. In it, Claire, wearing a short black dress, walked on to the platform to collect her award. It showed her elegant figure to perfection, as well as the gracefulness of her movements and, at one point, where Dominic repeatedly paused the video, just the hint of her cleavage as she bobbed to thank the prize-giver.

It was only then that he had replied to her email, agreeing to her request and making the arrangements for her to visit. Since then, he had watched the video several times, masturbating to it. And, knowing the topic of her thesis, as he masturbated, he anticipated talking to this gorgeous young woman about 'female sexuality'. He would keep it all very intellectual, of course. Like any academic nowadays he knew that "inappropriate" remarks could lead to scandal, legal action, and even dismissal, no matter how eminent you were. But there would surely be scope for a perfectly proper, but pleasantly arousing, conversation.

He had even planned that, by getting her to sit at a low table, he would ensure he got a good look at her legs, or even up her skirt if she was wearing one. Now that she was here, and wearing not just a skirt but a revealingly short one, he began to feel distinctly aroused. Especially as their initial conversation has shown her to be, not flirtatious exactly, but certainly a little playful. So, as Claire lit her cigarette and began to ask her questions, he settled back to, as he put it to himself, enjoy the view.

***

They were about half an hour into the interview before Claire began to suspect, and within a few more minutes she was certain. Fisher, who at first had seemed to be an avuncular, almost unworldly, figure was definitely perving on her. She could see his eyes peering at the dark nylon of her stocking tops, and staring fixedly at the swell of her breasts. He hardly bothered to conceal it. Perhaps he thought it was one of his "sins" and that she would keep quiet about it. Or perhaps he just did not realize how blatant it was.

It disgusted her. But it also profoundly excited her. She had a sudden, intoxicating feeling of power over this man, a world-renowned intellectual, in thrall to her, to her sexual allure.

"As you know, one of the themes of my thesis is the relationship between female sexuality and power," Claire began her next question. "Could I ask you some questions about that, Professor Fisher?"

"By all means," he replied, pleased that the conversation was taking the turn he had hoped for.

"You've famously written about Power and Truth," Claire said. "But I'd like to ask you the truth about my power."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow you."

"Oh, but surely it's very simple? You want me, don't you? No, let me rephrase that. You want to see up my skirt and down my blouse. You want to see my bra and my knickers and my suspenders. And I guess that maybe you want to see my pussy and my tits. And maybe to touch them. Perhaps even to fuck me."

Fisher gawped at her, astonished by her boldness.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" Claire continued. "I mean, it gives me power over you, doesn't it? There's literally nothing you wouldn't do to get inside my knickers. I could probably get you to grovel on the floor and beg me just to see, say, my bra strap. I'm right, aren't I?"

Fisher felt a thrill, like a jolt of electricity, run through him. He was amazed that Claire had so readily identified his inner desires. He made no reply, but nodded his head in assent.

"Go on then. Do it. Kneel before me. Grovel. Beg. And if you please me, I may permit you to see the strap of my bra."

Too shocked by the sudden turn of events to think, and enthralled by the calm authority of the young woman's tone, Dominic hardly hesitated before dropping to his knees in front of her and starting to beg.

Claire looked on, an expression of amused contempt on her face.

Eventually, she undid a couple of buttons of her white blouse, and worked one of her shoulders out of it, exposing the thin black strap of her bra, which stood out lividly against the milky-brown skin of her shoulder

"I like ordering men about," Claire said, conversationally, as he gazed at her bra strap. "I always have. Especially men much older than me. Successful, powerful men. I'm very good at it, too."

"I think..." Dominic began.

"Shush, Professor Fisher," she said, raising a finger to her terracotta-painted lips. "I'll let you know when I want to know what you think. Just keep looking at that bra strap and my bare shoulder."

She waited for a few minutes before giving her next instruction.

"Kiss and lick my shoes," she ordered, her tone indifferent rather than bossy. "Worship them."

The philosopher unhesitatingly obeyed, now completely entranced, and started caressing the black leather of Claire's low-heeled black court shoes with his lips and tongue.

"Would you like me to show you my stocking tops?" Claire asked, after a while.

Of course he would. And, of course, she made him beg to be allowed to until, eventually, she hitched her skirt high enough to reveal the tops of her black stockings, and the beginning of the black straps of her suspenders against the smooth skin of her thighs.

"Panties, now?" she asked.

His answer was again yes. But her answer was different.

"No, I don't think so. I think I've allowed you more than enough. And I think I've made my point," Claire said firmly.

Dominic experienced a surge of intense frustration. Although what had happened already far exceeded even the masturbatory fantasies he had conjured up, it somehow seemed intolerable to be refused more by this cool, controlling young woman. All he could think of was her panties, and his burning desire to see them now that she had gone so far, only now to deny him.

He begged and pleaded with her, all dignity gone, abasing himself before a woman less than half his age as she looked on, unsmiling but slightly quizzical, as if wondering just how far he would humiliate himself.

"I suppose there might be a way I could agree. If you accept to be under my full authority. Well?"

"Yes, yes, Claire. Put me under your authority.

"Not 'Claire'," she corrected him. "Miss Le Conte. Very well. Take your cock out, Professor Fisher."

Still on his knees, Fisher unzipped his trousers and pulled his erect penis out.

Claire stared it. Not speaking. Not even laughing, although she was genuinely amused by how small it was.

She lit her second cigarette.

"Pathetic," she said eventually. "How on earth does your wife put up with that?"

Dominic Fisher's wife, as Claire knew, was also a philosopher at Cambridge, although she was a Fellow of a different college, and she specialised in applied ethics. As such, Simone Stephenson -- she had kept her maiden name when, five years ago, at the age of 35, she had married Fisher -- was much in demand for government committees and media discussions. Claire had sometimes seen the glamorous, confident woman on internet videos, giving her opinion on the ethical issues of the day. It was hard to imagine her being made love to by this inadequate man.

"She, well, she doesn't," Fisher replied, visibly embarrassed. "Doesn't put up with it, I mean."

"Tell me," Claire murmured encouragingly. "Treat me as your therapist. Tell me everything."

With that prompt, Dominic spilled out all the shameful details of his marriage, feeling strangely thrilled to do so whilst his penis was under the gaze of this calmly authoritative young woman. He explained that he had been besotted with Simone ever since he met her, but she had made it clear that, whilst she admired him intellectually, she was not sexually attracted to him and just wanted to be friends. He persisted, and one evening, from a mixture of pity and alcohol, she had allowed him to kiss her and, slowly, they began to undress each other. Then, she had seen his cock and, gently but uncompromisingly, told him she could never consider allowing him to have sex with her, explaining as kindly as she could that, like many women, she needed a man with a big, or at least reasonable-sized, penis.

But that didn't stop him loving her, and pestering her to marry him. She kept refusing but, eventually, because she did genuinely like and admire him in every other way, she agreed, but on the strict condition that she would never have sex with him. It would be an alliance, a 'mariage blanc', but would retain the right to continue to have sexual relationships with other men. And not necessarily just one-night stands or solely sexual relationships, but to have long-term boyfriends and lovers, with an emotional and romantic connection, if that was what developed. Dominic immediately accepted her terms.

Now, he had lived with the reality for five years. It was a life tormented by jealousy, for Simone made no attempt to conceal her sex life from him. Why should she? She had been open from the beginning about the basis of the marriage, and she certainly wasn't going to creep around having secret affairs. She also openly told him that she was sexually aroused by his jealousy. Since it was only in this sense that he was able to give her any sexual pleasure at all, he came to relished the jealousy she caused him, even though he loathed it as well.

Simone spared him no details, describing the sexual prowess of the invariably well-endowed men she chose to sleep with. Even worse were the times she told him of her emotional feelings for boyfriends, sometimes extending to love. When she did that, the jealousy was intense, almost unbearable. And worse even that that was when Simone had him meet those boyfriends, not to make him watch their lovemaking, which would have been bad enough had it ever happened, but to witness their hand-holding and tender gazes. But he accepted it all, for the same reason that he had agreed to her terms for their marriage. Because he loved her.

Simone's only concession to his sexual needs was that, once a week, she masturbated him. It was a relief for him, but hardly an erotic experience, as Simone approached it like a slightly disagreeable household chore. To perform it, she would don a pair of surgical gloves and, with him on his bed on all fours and a towel positioned beneath him, she would reach between his legs and, with a few sharp jerks of her fingers, make him spurt. Otherwise, his sex life consisted of masturbating himself, although Simone made it clear that she found this distasteful, so he tried to keep it secret from her. It was for this reason, he explained, that he had been so lecherous towards Claire. He lived in a state of constant sexual frustration.

Claire, who had listened to this long exposition with some interest, interrupted furiously.

"Oh, I see. So what it comes down to is the usual patriarchal excuse. That men have uncontrollable urges which women must satisfy and, if they aren't satisfied, then they just take. So, because you feel 'frustrated', you just assume you have the right to leer at me, to ogle me, to grope me with your eyes and, no doubt, if you had the nerve, your hands. That's the truth of it, isn't it?"

Dominic did not contradict her because he knew, deep down, that what she said was precisely true. He had known it when he had masturbated to the video of Claire before meeting her, and had known it when he anticipated her visit, and when she had sat before him and he had let his eyes feast on her body. What he hadn't known was that it would be obvious to her. But he was intellectually honest enough to accept that this amounted to assuming the right, as she had said, to grope her with his eyes.

"And I will tell you something else," Claire continued mercilessly. "The reality is that you are an inadequate man, sexually inadequate I mean. You knew that you were incapable of satisfying your wife sexually, but you wanted her anyway. You know you would be incapable of satisfying me sexually, but, still, you want your prying eyes to look me all over. No doubt you are the same with other women, but with your wife, and now with me, you have met women who will not tolerate this assumption of male power and the prioritization of male sexual desire."