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A Good Student © 2008 by Elliott Mabeuse
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When passionate Professor Conner Devlin meets oversexed student Emma Fiore, the sparks ignite: he’ll train her to be his classroom sex slave, carrying out his every desire, while she gets to experience the forbidden pleasure of submissive love before her marriage to a dull and unfeeling man. But Emma’s sizzling and insatiable desires soon overwhelm Conner and he finds himself hopelessly in love with his young submissive. Emma accepts him as her sexual Master, but will she have him as her real-life lover?
Through the means of BDSM and the demands of extreme sex, Conner tries to break down the barriers between them and make Emma acknowledge her feelings, until one night things become too real and the games are forgotten. Conner takes Emma prisoner for real and their passions erupt in a cataclysm of raw emotion that rocks them both and fuses them in a transcendent love.
Told with intense honesty from the dominant’s point of view, A Good Student gives a rare and searing look inside a man’s heart as he’s caught in the throes of a compelling and overwhelming love and passion, all his thoughts and feelings exposed. Listening to Conner’s confessions is like having your own personal Master tell you everything he feels, with a poet’s skill and a therapist’s insight. You’ll never look at the dynamics of D/s and a man’s sexuality the same way again.
Warnings: This title contains graphic language, really hot sex and bdsm including bondage and spanking.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Good Student
By Elliott Mabeuse
Chapter One
You give up a lot when you try to be a writer. Money, the things other people have, even family—you can pretty much kiss all that goodbye. But there are compensations. Your life's maybe not as wide as most people's, but it's deeper, and sometimes it’s more interesting. You're always trying to explain and describe things to yourself, and so you see things other people miss and feel things most people are too busy to bother with.
I used to think about that every morning when the El would go by. When this story takes place, I was living in a semi-converted loft in an interesting part of the city, right smack up against the L tracks. So close that I could stand at my kitchen window and stare eye to eye with the people riding to work in the morning and coming home at night and I could see their eyes didn’t go very deep. I was writing mostly porn at the time, and I knew these were the people who were reading it, but you couldn’t tell from their eyes.
I was also teaching a survey course in poetry at Crane Community College to help pay the bills, and that’s where I met Emma. It was a summer session, a small class of maybe twenty students in a funny kind of miniature lecture hall, a semester's worth of work crammed into six weeks, and I was just there as temporary help—an adjunct instructor—because none of the real faculty wanted to waste their summer teaching kids who were just trying to blow their way through a survey course.
Emma was a returning student in her mid-twenties. She'd dropped out of her regular four-year college for whatever reason before graduating, had done whatever she'd dropped out for for a few years, changed her mind and now worked in an office during the day and took courses at night to finish her degree.
I liked returning students. They knew why they were in college and they took it seriously. They'd also been out in the real world long enough that they came into the classroom with some real questions, but they were still naïve enough to think they'd get some real answers.
Still, I never expected to connect with Emma. She seemed a bit too vain, too good-looking and fashionable to have any intellectual ambitions, and her glowing, cultured tan didn't inspire a lot of confidence in her academic dedication. She was tall, very nicely built, with a lush and sumptuous womanly body—long brown hair and brown eyes—and she always dressed well. She took care of herself. She looked like a girl whose main interest was men, who knew her own worth and thought pretty highly of herself. I had her pegged for an upper middle-management husband in a few years, two kids and a McMansion, and incipient alcoholism starting about age 40 when she learned about her husband’s affair.
That is to say, she seemed like a perfectly normal suburban girl to me. In light of what happened between us, that's important to keep in mind. She wasn't weird, or a loser or a geek, or neurotic in any meaningful way, and in fact the work she turned in was very good. She could spell and she could write and she knew how to use semicolons, which is a rarity these days bordering upon the freakish. She was a very smart girl and could have coasted through the class but, as is true of so many students these days, she really wasn’t interested in being smart and apparently had never found much use for it. What she was, was something else I still don’t know how to define. Sensual? Sexual? Submissive? Obsessed?
Some of my former students tell me I'm intimidating at the beginning of the semester, and I do like to start out pretty tight and relax as I go along, so maybe that's what got her. Or maybe it was when we started talking about poetry of the Beat Generation and the sexual license and drug-use of the Beats. Maybe my own acceptance of these kinds of behaviors came through. But soon Emma was coming down the steps of the lecture hall after class to hang around the lectern with a few other students to continue the discussion or just schmooze as I put my notes away. Sometimes I'd end up walking her out of the building.
Emma liked poetry. She really did, and that surprised her and surprised me too. You know, the way they teach poetry now, they have the kids start writing in third grade and everyone's a poet, and that's nice. Their hearts are in the right place, but what they learn is that any bunch of words you put down in vertical form is a poem and so people end up thinking poetry is crap, which most of that kind of poetry is. We don't study crap in my class.—because not all poetry is equal and there is such a thing as bad poetry and most poetry falls under that heading. More importantly, there really is such a thing as good poetry, profoundly good poetry—exquisite, thunderous, magical, fantastically beautiful poetry, and that's the kind of poetry we covered in my class, and that's the kind of poetry Emma liked. And, of course, so did I.
When Emma heard there were people around who were still writing that kind of poetry and not only did I know where they hung out but I hung out with them, she was rather stunned. But this was towards the end of the great Chicago Poetry Reawakening, and the scene was still going rather strong in the bars and clubs I went to.
We talked about other things I wrote, and one night after class I mentioned I wrote stories as well. When she asked me what kind of stories, I didn't even stop wiping down the white board. I automatically gave her my stock reply: "Romance."
That wasn't entirely true because, as I said, what I was really writing at the time was pornography, BDSM mostly, savage and passionate and very graphic, pouring all my own sexual frustrations into it. I wasn't proud of this, and normally I avoided the question altogether, but that night's lecture had been about Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs, drugs and sex and homosexuality, and Emma seemed to have a breathy, spellbound look about her that I wanted to be a part of, so I told her. A community college poetry instructor doesn’t get many chances to impress his students.
Then she asked me if I published under my own name and I did the unthinkable. I gave her my pen name—my porn name—and I told her my stories were on the web. I even told her where to find them
It was an idiotic thing to do and I'm not sure why I did it.
Wait. That's an ingenuous thing to say and a lie. I know damned well why I did it. I was a middle-aged, adjunct instructor at a crummy community college and would never have the money and prestige someone like Emma would respect and I wanted to impress her. I wanted her to know who I was inside. I wrote porn and I pretended to look down on it, but when I wrote, I poured my heart and soul onto the page and I knew it showed. It was powerful stuff.
In any case, I was there for the summer only, so what did I care? If she read my stuff and got shocked, then the hell with it. At least I'd have the pleasure of scandalizing her. Odds are she wouldn't even remember my pen name or wouldn't bother looking up my stories anyhow.
There happened to be an hourly exam during the next class session, so I really didn't get to talk with her before then. I just passed out the blue books and they got to work. She kept her head down and began writing, and I leaned against the lectern and kept a casual eye on the kids, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off those long legs now, or the heavy thrust of her breasts against her cotton tee, the way she twisted her hair in her fingers as she concentrated. One time she looked up and caught me staring at her, and she seemed to hold my eyes a bit longer than necessary before returning to her test. There might have been a slight smile on her lips or I might have imagined it.
The students turned in their bluebooks one by one and filed out, and Emma kept her eyes down discreetly as she slid hers onto the pile, but when I got back to the office I was using, I turned to hers first, and on the second page, outlined in a square of pencil, it said, "I read your cheerleader story! It was incredible!! Is it for real? –Curious! E."
The "curious" was underlined three times.
I sat there in the office with my heart in my mouth. I knew the story she meant, of course, and now I ran through it in my mind, assessing the damage, wondering just how much I’d revealed. I was both ashamed and wildly thrilled—thrilled she'd seen my dark imagination at work, ashamed at the hack job I’d done on that particular story. It was a toss-off piece—no real plot, written for a BDSM site: a teasing college cheerleader is abducted and tied up in the deserted gym by the domineering football coach who slowly strips off her clothes and does all sorts of thoroughly rude and nasty things to her, all of which she of course secretly loves. It wasn't my greatest piece of work, but the parallel to our current student-teacher situation gave me chills.
I graded the other tests quickly, hardly concentrating as I turned over various responses in my head. By the time I got to Emma's test, I went to her little message, and where she'd written, "Is it for real?" I folded it over. I uncapped my red pen and felt my jaw clench as I wrote, "As I've been telling you all term—write what you know…"
I was sorry as soon as I wrote it. I felt sick and demented—predatory. I was glowing.
She'd written a good test but no better than a B. I gave her a gift, an A minus. She'd know it was a gift too—payment in advance, a joke. With my hand almost trembling, wrote. "This grade is negotiable."
I debated a long time whether or not to put a smiley face winking next to it. I finally decided not to. Why pretend I was kidding?
I left the tests outside my office where the students could pick them up.
The next class, she came in wearing a short sleeve blouse that was a bit snug and opened perhaps just one button too low, revealing the slopes of her breasts. She was wearing a skirt too. That wasn't unusual—a lot of the kids came to class straight from work, as did Emma. Maybe I’d just never noticed before?
She didn't sit in her usual place either, high up near the aisle. The lecture hall was a miniature auditorium that had seats and tables bolted to the concrete floor which rose in steep tiers like an operating theater, and Emma slid into a seat in the center of the fourth tier up so her knees were on a level with my eyes. Her placement was so blatant it was almost comical, and I might have laughed had we been alone or further along in our relationship, but at this point there was no relationship between us, and so when I looked up from my lecture and saw her knees casually apart and the hem of her skirt sliding up as she idly scratched her thigh, I actually started to stutter. Of course, I could see right up her skirt to the white crotch band of her panties, stuffed tight with the flesh of her sex.
She wasn't taking notes, though she pretended to be. I could tell. She doodled on her pad, or leaned back and stretched and pushed her shoulders back, straining the buttons on her blouse. She crossed her legs and pulled her skirt up, and her knees and the bottom of her thighs seemed to itch a lot. Whenever I looked up, her head would be down, but she did everything except fellate her pen and thrust her hands between her legs. It was a wonderful performance and I saw I'd seriously misjudged her. She might or might not be submissive, but she definitely wasn't shy.
When the class ended, I said, "Emma? Could I see you for a few minutes?"
She had to wait while I explained some other students' grades to them, and then she gathered up her books and slid out of her chair and came down to the podium. Maybe my description of her behavior and clothes makes her sound cheap, but I assure you, she didn't look cheap. She was a beautiful girl—perfectly made up, with just the faintest hint of perfume.
"Yes, Mr. Devlin?"
I collected my notes. "So you read that story?"
Her eyes lit up, a smoldering glow. "Yes. I read more too. You have a lot. That beach one and the one about the girl in the basement, and the clothes, and the one with the girl who gets kidnapped…"
I nodded, then looked her in the eye. "You know, I only told you about those stories because I trust you."
As I said, people tell me I'm an intimidating guy. I don't notice it. I'm big and strong, and I know I have a lot of anger inside, and maybe that shows when I'm being serious. But I'm not mean, and I don’t intend to scare people. Something inside me felt Emma starting to respond. I couldn’t say what it was—whether her breathing changed or something in her eyes or the attitude of her body, but she seemed just a little bit scared.
"Of course," she said. "I wouldn’t tell anyone else, Mr. D. I mean, I don’t think anyone else would understand."
"No. They wouldn't." I snapped my briefcase closed and gestured for her to follow me. "But you understood, didn’t you, Emma? What did you think of them?"
We walked up the stairs of the lecture hall. She was just behind me. "Well, they're very good stories. I mean, you know… They're very good. I just wondered… I mean, they're not real, are they? Those things the men do in there, the things they do to the women…"
We were at the head of the stairs now, at the exit. I snapped off the lights, leaving just the spotlights shining down on the empty lectern. Maybe that had something to do with it—the darkness, the dramatic lighting. I turned to her.
"They're real enough, Emma. They're all based on things I've done. Things I do. I've changed the settings. I've changed the characters—their names, their ages. But they're real. Why do you ask?"
We stood by the open door to the corridor. It was late, almost ten o'clock and there was no one around. Even the parking lot was deserted. Emma stood with her back to the cinderblock wall, not knowing where to put her eyes.
"Darkness stirs my soul," I quoted. "Desires whose name I cannot speak. His body is within me, his spirit is upon me, and I am his anger and his joy. I am his sickness and its cure. He shames me with my pleasure; my surrender conquers him. All dissolves between us and he sees me as I am."
There was a long moment of silence in which nothing stirred between us but our breath. I put my hand on the door frame, blocking her way. I don’t know why I did. I did it without thinking. I was waiting for an answer from her.
"Who wrote that?" she asked nervously.
I ignored her question. "Is that how it is?"
She didn't answer. In the darkness, I saw her chest rising and falling.
"Did you have a question for your teacher, Emma?"
Again, no answer. That was answer enough.
I put down the briefcase and pushed the door closed. The hydraulic door-closers hissed softly and then the lock caught and clicked firmly shut. I knew no one would be coming in here until after midnight. We were alone in this empty lecture hall together, alone in this vast, enclosed and vacant space, a magical space suddenly filled with sexual threat. Things began to work between us that we had no conscious control over.
A certain amount of light still spilled from the glass panel of the door into the darkened auditorium, but that just made the real world feel that much farther away. I put my hand on the wall next to her head and leaned over her. I had no doubt about her now, and I knew my eyes were glowing as I stared at her. I knew who she was, like a fox knows a rabbit. I could feel her. That was the thing. I could feel what she felt.
"You've been like this all your life, haven't you?" I asked. "The things that were in those stories, they’ve been exciting you since before you even knew what sex was."
The rabbit looked at the fox and saw there was no point in lying. "How did you know?" she asked.
“Because I’m the same way.”
I took the books from her hands and tossed them on a table.
"Come here. Away from the door."
I led her a few feet into the auditorium, away from the square of light. She was still standing with her back to the wall and I leaned over her again, keeping her trapped. Her eyes were shining with something between fear and excitement, her lips parted and glistening.
It's a strange and thrilling feeling to know what a woman's feeling, to be in two places at once—to be the fear and the cause of the fear, to be the strength and the weakness. It was happening to me with Emma. It was happening very clearly.
"Lift up the front of your skirt."
"What?! Mr. Devlin—!" She looked shocked.
"Just do as I say. Lift it up and hold it at your waist."
There was a moment when our wills collided and we just stared at each other, but I knew in my heart she wanted this. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I knew it because I was both of us. I felt my will overcome hers like my hand closing over her fist, like an embrace, and I felt her give in. Her hands went to her skirt and she began to gather up the fabric.
"All your life you've been waiting for someone to find out," I said to her. "You've been dying for someone to know. You've needed someone you could tell and you've prayed for it. You've ached for it. Haven't you, Emma?"
Her skirt was gathered above her panties now, and I lowered my right hand and touched her bare thigh, midway between knee and hip, smooth and warm as the summer sun. She stared at me in the dark. Her nostrils flared.
"No," she said. "No."
"You've dreamt about a man who would show you what's inside, who knows what you can feel, because you know there's so much more, just waiting. So much more you're just waiting to give, to have taken from you, don't you? That's it, isn't it, Emma? To have it taken…"
My fingertips slid up her thigh, slowly working around to reach the soft and sensitive insides where the skin seemed to tremble, stroking first one leg, then the other, caressing her as if she were a frightened animal. My body was very close to hers now, almost touching her. Her breasts rose and fell in the dim light.
Suddenly she put her hands on my shoulders and her skirt dropped over my wrist like a curtain. I kept my hand where it was between her legs.
"No," I said quietly. "There are rules here, Emma, and the first one is—you don’t touch me. Not without permission. I touch you, but you don't touch me. Understand? Now pick up your skirt."
She took her hands off my shoulders and lifted her skirt again, revealing her snug panties and the smooth plane of her belly, tanned as dark as her legs. I brought my hand up and boldly stroked her between the legs through the smooth synthetic fabric and she shuddered. I felt her legs quiver. She was warm and soft and humid and I could feel her anatomy perfectly through the thin material—her swollen labia, the awakened bump of her clit.
"It's good to be touched, isn't it?" I asked her. "It feels good to have someone else touch you, someone who cares what he's doing? She likes me. She likes being touched. I can tell because she's getting wet. She's getting wet and she's opening like a little flower."
I pushed my finger against her and felt the fabric give over her opening. Emma mewled, a piteous little sound that excited me. She was warm down there and a hot, sticky oil began to moisten the thin material. Emma leaned against the wall and pressed the back of her head against the bricks, breathing fast and shallow, holding her skirt up as I'd ordered, exposing herself to my touch. She had no choice and we both knew it. She had beautiful hands and elegant nails, and they squeezed the skirt so hard her knuckles turned white. It was very quiet. I could almost hear her clothes move as she breathed.
"What are you going to do?" she asked nervously. "What are you going to do to me?"
It was fairly obvious what I was going to do, standing there with my fingers on her pussy, but I knew she wanted to hear the words. That was no problem. Words were my specialty.
"I'm going to play with you, Emma. I'm going to play with your pussy and make you come, right here in this empty auditorium, just by touching you with my hand, just because you need it so incredibly fucking much and you feel so incredibly fucking good. Do you understand?"
She swallowed as if her throat were very, very dry and nodded, eyes closed.
"Good, good." I slid my fingers up and down her slit, forcing the fabric against her. I found the bud of her clit and bore down on it, then eased up and let my fingertip flicker against it like a little flame, back and forth, closing my own eyes and letting the actuality of what I was doing wash over me for a moment, giving myself time to fully and entirely realize I was body-to-soul with this beautiful girl to whom I was a stranger, her skirt up, legs apart, making her give herself to me.
Emma moaned and then took a deep, shuddering gasp.
"Oh please!" she hissed. "There! Right there!"
"Who's giving the orders?" I pretended to be offended. I stopped flicking and started a slow, coaxing massage of her clit, as if beckoning her out, calling her to follow.
"This is between me and her, Emma," I said. "You're just along for the ride, because you happen to be attached. But me and her, we have an understanding. She likes what I'm doing and she knows I'm going to make her come, and she wants to come very much. She wants to come right in my hand as I play with her, and that's what we're going to do, right here, right in this classroom. I'm going to play with this little whore pussy and make her come, Emma—make you come, too. Understand?"
"Oh God!" She moaned and clenched her teeth against the pleasure as I touched her.
It was terribly lewd, just filthy, this beautiful young woman leaning against the wall of the darkened classroom with her legs apart, holding her skirt up for me as I masturbated her. I pushed the crotch band of her panties to the side and my fingers touched naked flesh, soft and wet and vulnerable. Emma was panting now, and I felt her buttocks flexing unconsciously in a reflexive fucking motion as I fingered her clit and teased the inside of her cunt.
"Take your right hand," I said, "and unbutton your blouse."
Her fingers were shaking as she did as I said.
"Another button."
The second button was at nipple level. The inner slopes of her breasts were visible now, full and ripe, encased in a smooth white bra. My fingers were still playing in her pussy, holding the crotch of her panties aside with my ring finger while my middle finger played in her hole and my thumb and first finger slid around her clit. I leaned my head down so I could smell her perfume and began to lick the warm smoothness of her breasts.
Emma was perfect—perfect. She stood there and let me play in her soaking pussy and lick her tits, holding her skirt in her hands, either too afraid to move or too enraptured—too thrilled by the way I toyed with and manipulated her. I'd been right. My feelings about her had been totally right. She was a woman who needed to be used, pleasured, violated, one of those women who can only give when it's taken from her—the kind of woman who drove me absolutely crazy.
"How is it, Emma? How is it?" I slid my fingers into her cunt. "You're going to come, aren't you, darling? You're going to come for me, right in my fucking hand."
"Oh God," she moaned. "No! No!"
But her hips were bucking up at me now as I fingered her and her thighs were flexing, pushing that soft hairless pussy onto my plundering fingers, giving it to me, a perfect whore for what I was doing.
"You love it, don’t you, Emma? You love it!"
She looked at me in panic and I saw she was losing it. The excitement of being fingered and played with like a hot little tramp was more than she could stand, and the hidden slut was coming out, wild, hungry and uninhibited.
It's magic when you have a woman like this—absolute magic. The hotter she gets, the more you want to do to her because you know it's turning her on, the shame, the loss of control. I wanted to give her more, so I reached behind her with my other hand and lifted the back of her skirt, worked my hand under the back of her panties and pressed a finger against her tight and private anus.
"Oh, Mr. D! Don't!" Her eyes were wild, the whites showing like a frightened mare's. She gasped, pressing her head back against the wall, but I felt her buttocks clenching on my finger as she punched her pussy against me in helpless excitement.
"Give it to me, bitch!" I hissed as I leaned my weight against her. "Give it to me! Look at what I'm doing to you. Go on, look!"
I moved back enough to give her room so she could look down and see the way her hips were pushed out and pumping obscenely while my fingers slid in and out of her cunt. "Oh God!" she moaned, shamed by the sheer lasciviousness of her own degradation.
I took my hand from her ass and grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, making her arch her back as my fingers stroked her cunt. I studied her, seeing her lose it, seeing the look of raw animal lust on her face.
"Hold onto me now, Emma! Hold onto me as you come!"
Her thighs trembled, her legs growing weak. She dropped her skirt and held onto my shoulders, one hand crushing the fabric of my shirt into a ball, the nails of her other hand digging into my muscles.
"Yes!" she screamed. "Yes! Yes! YES!"
I was afraid her screams would attract attention, so I kissed her, holding her head back by her hair and devouring her mouth with mine, muffling her cries as she shrieked out her pleasure, her pussy pumping, her internal muscles pulling at me as she humped and jerked and came.—and came and came and came.
Chapter Two
For a long moment, Emma clung to me in the darkened auditorium, still shaking in the aftermath of orgasm, her eyes closed, reluctant to let it end. I was reluctant to let it end too, because I knew what was going to happen now and I really wished I could keep her from going through it. I felt her astonishment and her guilt and embarrassment, and stronger than those was her feeling of deep, deep relief, not only the sexual kind, though that was considerable and that's what had her leaning against the wall and panting, but the relief of having her secret revealed, of having her submissive side exposed and witnessed. I could almost feel it, this sense of being unburdened at last and the breathing space it gave her, and I knew it wouldn't last. Anything she took such pains to hide couldn't just be revealed so easily and she was bound to close up again.
She leaned against the wall as she caught her breath, and at last she put her hand to her head as if to check for a fever. I watched her.
When she opened her eyes, she just glanced at me, afraid of what she'd see. Here came the guilt and the shame and I knew if at that moment I'd told her to lie down on one of the tables and I'd just fucked her blind, like my body was urging me to do, she probably would have accepted it, thinking she deserved no better. She looked like she was expecting it. And actually, if I hadn't been so shocked by what had just happened and so moved by the whole experience, I might have done some idiot thing just like that, because I was on fire for her. But had I done it, that would have been the end of things between us. She'd have seen the whole thing as nothing more than a seduction and semi-rape by a sexual predator looking for some easy ass, which, to be honest, is what I'd been when we started out, but it's not what I was any longer.
Something had happened between us that was more than mere sex, more than a little hand job in an empty classroom. Maybe she wasn't aware of it, but I was. In that battle of wills or drama of male push versus female pull we had struck some magic spot where ego had dissolved and, for a few moments, Emma and I were fused into one being and that's very rare and quite incredible, and I was just stunned. I mean, I didn't know her. We had nothing in common, and I certainly hadn't been expecting anything like this. How had it happened?
This one was too good to let get away. I had to have more of her, that was for sure.
"Are you all right?" I asked her.
She nodded uncertainly. Her hand was still clutching my shirt, and now she released me slowly. The fabric was crumpled and damp with her perspiration. I reached up and she flinched as I started to button her blouse, then she took over for me and finished it herself.
"Are you ashamed?"
She shook her head in denial, but I saw tears in her eyes.
To have said anything more at the time would have been wrong, would have seemed patronizing. To have held her against me and let her feel my erection and need would have been even worse, but to hold her protectively, to shield her from her own feelings—to at least try—that much I could do, and I put one arm around her and cradled her head against my chest.
She was stiff and brittle and I felt her heart racing against me.
"This isn't the casual thing you think, Emma," I said. "You don’t know how long I've been thinking about you, wondering if you might be like this. It's a gift."
"Gift?" Her voice was small and uncertain.
"Yes. Gift. What you gave me tonight was a gift, and it means a lot to me. It's not something I take lightly at all. I don’t want this to be a one time thing. I don’t want this to be the last time."
She lifted her head away from my chest and looked at the floor. "No," she said. "It's wrong. There's something wrong with me and I know it. I shouldn’t be like this."
"Like what?"
"Liking what you did to me. Wanting it. I shouldn't want these things and I try not to. I try not to think about them because I know they're wrong."
"No." I grabbed her head and made her look at me. "It's not wrong. It's not wrong at all. You read my stories. They're real, Emma. Maybe not what happened in there, but the feelings are real. Like poetry. Is there something wrong with me too, then? Is there something wrong because we feel so deeply?"
"But no one else—"
"Fuck everyone else. What do they know? You've seen those zhlubs in class, how the words go right by their heads. What do they know? What do most of the people in the world know? You feel, Emma. You feel much more deeply than most of the people in the world do, and it's a gift. You think it's a sickness but it's a gift, and I want to show you how to use it. You don’t know what kind of treasure you have inside, but I do. Look—grab your books and come with me. Come on…"
I picked up my briefcase and Emma took a moment to wipe her eyes and straighten her clothes, then she retrieved her books and I held the door for her. We walked out into the hallway where the lights were mostly off for the cleaning crew. Far down the corridor they were already vacuuming and emptying trash cans, small gray figures against the college's insistently optimistic blue carpet, and now that we were out in public, our recent intimacy seemed to tie us even more closely together.
I walked her over to one of the plate glass windows that looked out onto the woods beyond the parking lot and the glow of the suburbs, the strings of highway lights leading off into the darkness. The moon was up, looking pale and confused.
"You look at that and what do you feel?" I didn't wait for her to answer. "You feel the night inside you, something dark and delicious, full of secrets and beauty, something beyond words or your ability to express it, don't you, Emma? I know you do."
She stared out the window. I could see her reflection in the glass. "I don’t know. I see highways and houses. Malls. Traffic."
"No, Emma. Don’t give me that. And I suppose all that just happened is I shoved my finger inside you, huh? You see more than that."
She looked at me and I met her gaze, then she looked back out the window. Her eyes grew large and luminous. "I've always loved the night," she said. "But then, I've always been weird."
"Yeah. And I've always been weird too. But those feelings are real, and I can show you how to reach them, how to experience them. I can bring the night inside, Emma. All those things you've dreamed of? I can make them real, and you know what? They're even better in reality than they are in your imagination. They're much, much better."
I took her arm and led her down to my office and unlocked the door. She stood in the corridor looking nervously inside, and I knew all I had to do was order her in and she'd follow. I'd lock the door and keep the lights off and tell her to lean over the desk and she would. Then I'd open my pants and take out my aching prick, push her skirt up over her hips and pull her panties to the side and thrust it into her. God, I'd go in so smooth! She'd still be wet and ready and she'd gasp. Her knuckles would grip the edge of the cheap metal desk and she'd start to rock back and forth as I fucked her, moaning softly, and she'd drop her head in female submission as I held her hips and guided her up and back, plundering her pussy with my thick tool before I threw my head back in rapture and shot my heavy load into her...
Yeah. I could have had all that, right then and there, and I was aching for it, but that's not what I wanted. I realized I wanted something more than that. Something had happened between us in the auditorium. We'd made some kind of connection and I wanted more of that, more than just her body. I wanted a lover, not a piece of ass. I wanted someone who was in this as deeply as I was, and for that, I needed for her to want me too. I had to leave her wanting too.
I put my briefcase down on the desk and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind me, and saw the trace of disappointment on her face as the lock clicked shut. She wanted it, even though she knew she shouldn't want it, and that was perfect.
"Come on," I said. "I'll walk you to your car."
"I'm parked right outside."
"That's okay. I just have something to tell you."
The lots were empty for the evening classes during the summer, so we were pretty much alone. Emma drove a nice car, yellow and sporty. The summer air was warm and balmy and the wind rustled through the poplars. It all looked so normal and suburban and collegiate.
"Next class," I said. "Wear a skirt and no panties, understand? If you want to go further with this, if you want me to show you what I know, wear a skirt with no panties and sit where you've been sitting so I can see. That's how I'll know you've agreed. Will you do that?"
She looked at me and I saw her nostrils flare slightly. "You're serious?"
"I'm very serious."
"But you don't know anything about me."
"I know enough. The rest I really don't care about. Who do you live with? Your parents?"
"No," she said. "A girlfriend. We share an apartment."
"Well tell them you'll be late next Thursday. You're going out for drinks after class."
Emma opened her car door and stopped. "I don’t know anything about you either."
"Like what?"
"Are you married? Have a girlfriend?"
"No and no."
"How can I get a hold of you?"
"You can't. I don’t want to be chatting on the phone and trading life stories, but here, I'll give you my address and cell number. Just don’t use them except in emergencies, okay?"
I wrote them down in her notebook as she watched.
"You live in the city?" she asked.
"Yes. In a loft. It's nice. Maybe you'd like to see it sometime?"
Emma closed her notebook and gave me flirty smile. "Yes. Maybe I would."
I watched her red tail lights as she drove away, then I went back into the building and into my office. I kept the lights off, spun my chair away from the door, unbuckled my pants and pulled down my zipper. The fingers of my right hand still smelled like Emma's excitement, and the memory of her soft, slippery flesh was still upon them. More, I clearly saw her face as she struggled to hold onto her composure as I masturbated her, saw the female animal within her struggling to break through the inhibitions and the smooth, American-model California-perfect make-up. I saw the dark female need behind that sunny artificial wholesomeness—the even, white teeth that needed to bite, the painted and glossed lips that needed to suck and open in a scream of ecstasy, the sloppy, throbbing cunt beneath her cute, right-on-time clothes.
That was it—the savage, wild, feral female, lust-crazed, dizzy with orgasm. That's what I wanted, and my hand pumped my cock as I thought of her arched in pleasure, tied hand and foot, surrendering to the sensations I caused in her, pushing out her orgasms at me one after another like something she had to get rid of, and then the burning, tingling, ecstasy was on me and I gave her my cum in hot, impotent bursts, catching the jets in my other palm to keep it from splattering all over my pants. My impatient ecstasy followed her wherever she was now, driving home on those black, moon-ripped highways.
Chapter Three
I wasn't really nervous about the next class session. It wasn't that I was feeling cocky or especially sure of myself. It was more like I was sure of Emma, sure of who she was and what she was like, and I knew it was going to happen, maybe not then, but then next session, or the session after. I'd seen inside her. I'd been her for just those few seconds, and I was pretty sure she'd felt it. Once you feel it, you don't forget it.
So we'd shared ourselves, and that's an intimacy that went beyond the merely sexual. Furthermore, my acceptance of her bound her to me in a way she couldn't easily walk away from. If I'd just played with her and then fucked her, she could have blown it off as a one-time affair, a kind of mistake, and used my own guilt against me. She could have expected I'd spend the rest of the semester avoiding her, and she would have cozied up to her own feelings of being sick and perverse and accepted my rejection as the price of her perversion.
When I met Emma, I was two years into my big novel and I knew I was lost. I was a mediocre poet, a decent short story writer and a pretty good teacher, but I was a lousy novelist, and the book had dribbled off into a meandering stream of the usual intellectual crap. It wasn't good—and it wasn't good going home and hanging around with a group of other mediocre poets and lousy novelists and living such an emotionally flat life. I know everyone lives an emotionally flat life, but still, it's not good.
Emma came in. She was wearing a salmon pink tank top with the bra straps showing, which was the fashion that summer—though I doubted she'd worn it that way at work—and a black skirt. She was also wearing a big pair of sunglasses, which she'd never worn before. She played the sunglasses well and the top did great things for her. I wasn't the only one who stared or, rather, who pretended not to. She took a seat in the fourth row up and crossed her legs so I couldn’t see if she'd followed my instructions or not, although her position in the infamous fourth row suggested she was going to show me something.
It was the first indication I'd seen that Emma was adept at playing this game too, that maybe she wasn't the innocent victim of her own uncontrollable desires, but that she was entirely capable of inciting them in others. She knew what she was doing, and now that the game was afoot, she was showing me she wasn't exactly defenseless. I knew then and there she had nothing on under her skirt.
It wasn't the longest lecture of my life but it seemed like it, and Emma said little, sitting there inscrutable behind her sunglasses, as if daring me to guess what was on her mind. I had to stay behind the lectern to keep from showing the incipient erection that began the moment I laid eyes on her and continued throughout the class. It was a great relief when, towards the end of the period, some of the kids got involved in a discussion of a Robert Frost poem and I could shut up for a while. I glanced at Emma and she slouched down in her seat and uncrossed her legs.
I was leaning on the lectern and the light was bad. In fact, I couldn't see all the way up her skirt, but then, I didn't have to. There was no reason a girl would sit like that, with her knees open under the table, unless she was showing you something, and she certainly wouldn't choose that moment to take off her sunglasses and look at you, nor would she raise her skirt and rub her knee.
And that's what she did—nothing so corny as sucking on her sunglasses or licking her lips or preening—she just opened her knees and looked at me.
This is me. This is what I have.
She apparently saw in the color of my face or the clench of my jaw that her message had been received. She pushed her skirt down and suddenly sat up in her seat, looking at her notes as if they were the most interesting things in the world and crossing her legs demurely upon her salacious secret.
I felt physically dizzy. All my blood rushed either to my face or my crotch and my cock sprang violently to life like a fist trying to tear through my shorts. I thought I'd wanted her before, that I'd been aroused just when I saw her, but now I felt like a charging bull who'd just caught sight of a matador's red cape. I had to dig my fingers into the side of the lectern to hold on against the rush of pure testosterone.
The conversation continued but I had no idea what they were talking about. Emma studied her notes and put her sunglasses casually up on her head so she looked typically suburban but, to me, even more devastatingly erotic for its plainness. Her arms were across her breasts—the lecture hall often got too cold from the AC—and I don’t know how she knew I was looking, but she spread her knees apart again, her thighs straining the fabric of the skirt, and this time I saw her lurid nakedness, the shaved cleft of her pussy within the shadows of her skirt.
For a moment I had the insane idea of reaching down and masturbating behind the lectern, but that was sheer madness—although the idea of turning this class into a group of naked, masturbating, students had a certain erotic appeal. Besides, the object with Emma was to establish control. Yes, she was beautiful and desirable and aroused the hell out of me, but without control this would be just another unremarkable relationship, and I wanted more than that. I wanted much more than that.