Authors: A Good Student
Elliot Mabeuse (3 page)
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.
At last the conversation drew to a close. I handed out the homework assignments. Some of the kids came down to talk to me and I got rid of them as quickly as possible. Emma stayed in her seat, writing furiously as if transcribing notes. I hustled the last of the kids out, telling them I had to give Emma a make-up quiz and physically walking them out the door of the lecture hall so I could watch them go and be sure we were alone. Then I closed the door and turned off the lights. The dark seemed our natural element.
"Emma?"
She finished her writing, put away her pen, gathered up her books and stood.
She walked up the steps to where I stood, right where we were the other night, her face expressionless. I could see the pulse beating in her throat. Her eyes flicked up at me, then down. She was waiting. I let her wait. This was about control.
"Here," she said at last. "Do you want these?" She dug in her bag and took out a pair of tiny black panties and put them in my hand. "Well, I couldn't very well go to work without them, could I?"
I held them to my face. They were so small. I'm always amazed at how women get themselves into things so small. They smelled like powder and perfume and only faintly of her body.
"Turn around," I said.
She looked confused but turned around, and I straightened out the crumpled panties. Then I pulled her hands back and slipped them through the leg holes and twisted them ‘til they tightened on her wrists like a tourniquet. I turned her back to face me, still holding her wrists trapped in her panties.
The sight of a bound woman is terrifically, almost unbearably erotic to me, even if she's bound only in play. It's been that way ever since I can remember, even before I knew what sex was. Emma was standing in front of me now with her wrists bound behind her, her breasts straining against the tight pink tank top. I pushed her back against the wall and leaned over her, my shadow covering her like a blanket. Her eyes were unusually white in the darkness.
"Anyone ever do anything like this to you before?" I tightened my grip on her bonds.
"Yes. Once. A long time ago. We were only playing. We were kids. We didn't know what we were doing."
With her arms behind her, she was like a sculpture, all curves and defenseless softness, offering herself to me. I was already breathing fast and my cock was hard. I pressed it against her hip so she could feel very well what she was doing to me, then caressed her face with my hand, feeling the feminine warmth of her skin. I traced my way down her throat, her chest, over the swell of her breast, feeling the exact point where the edge of her bra confined the fullness of her flesh. I felt the firmness of her nipple under my palm.
"Did you like it?" I asked.
"Yes. I loved it. It still scares me how much I loved it."
I don’t know what else she could have said that would have aroused me so much or driven me so absolutely mad with desire for her. It was the mention of fear that did it, that told me she was the genuine article, because where we were going was scary, a place where you can lose yourself, where you can find out that you're not who you thought, a place where the night takes over and swallows you up and all you have is your lover to bring you back.
And as if that admission of fear were her last defense, she opened her mouth to my kiss and met me with a desperate, sucking hunger, giving herself and showing me how she wanted to be plundered and used. I held onto those twisted panties and felt her arms strain against them as she tried her strength against mine because she had to know I was serious. She had to know I wouldn't let her go and she had no choice but to surrender. I kissed her violently, making her take my tongue, teasing the inside of her mouth. My hand slid down and closed on her chest and I felt that maddening firm softness of a woman's gravid tit, heavy and filled with sensual comfort. I found her nipple through her bra and pinched it, and that seemed to set her off even more.
Oh yes, I was right about her. I was right.
I was right.
She loved my roughness, my passion and hunger, the pleasure that bordered on pain. I held her wrists and played with her tits and kissed her, then pulled the neck of her shirt down ‘til her breasts spilled over the top. I bit and licked them as my hand found its way down to her crotch and I began to lift her skirt.
"Oh no! No!" she moaned, but I knew she had to say that, just as I had to refuse to hear it.
"Listen," I whispered into her ear. "This is Thursday and there's no one here. The cleaning crew isn't even in this part of the building on Thursdays. Understand?"
"No," she said. "No…" But her hips were already moving in an urgent and suggestive invitation even though her skirt was still stretched several inches below her naked pussy.
I pressed my lips against her throat and continued to inch her skirt upwards, wanting her to feel every millimeter of thigh as it was exposed, until finally there was no need to go any higher. I touched her between her legs and she turned her face to me, begging for a kiss, desperate to hide her emotions as my fingers slid along her exposed wetness.
"Please," she gasped. "Don't make me! Don't!" A little plea for dignity, but dignity would be the first thing to go, was already gone.
Emma's arms were tied behind her in her own panties, her top was pulled down and her tits were crowded together, almost popping out of her bra, nipples peeking over the edge like rising suns, her chest shining in the dark with my saliva. Despite her protests, her hips humped and revolved against my fingers with lascivious urgency as she tried to bring them into contact with her clit.