Women in Lust (9 page)

And even though things came to a near-screeching halt when, first, Jimmy called me
Meredith
while his tongue was buried thick between my pussy lips, and
then
when my coworker Brenda started describing this great guy she was seeing, who ate her pussy for hours and made her feel more beautiful than she had ever imagined feeling. Jimmy changed something in me, opened me up to my body in ways I hadn’t imagined before he set me up on a throne of my own pillows, gently pushed my legs apart and told me, before bending down at the waist so I could watch his broad back and light curly hair descend onto me, “My god, Stephanie—you are
so
pretty.”

I get worked up about it even now—just look at my hands shaking. He wanted to make all the girls feel beautiful, I guess. After Brenda, I didn’t return Jimmy’s calls anymore, didn’t open the door for him when he came over. He left two messages on my answering machine, though: the first one was so dirty that I erased it before he was halfway through describing what he wanted to make a date with me to do, and the second was so simple: “Please let me see you, Stephanie. I miss how you
taste.” It was so honest; I don’t mind telling you, I got all wet just hearing those words. Maybe it was a mistake to pick my pride—or my self-respect, I’m not sure which it was—over the magic of his mouth. But what’s done is done, of course. And Max and I have a fine time together. Nobody wants to be the Queen of Sheba all the time in bed anyway, does she?

M
eredith straightened her skirt, settled herself beneath her desk with her crisp new notebook and set of her favorite black pens before her, feeling, in many ways, like she was back in high school, with all her nervousness about her outfit, teachers and what her classmates would think of her. Whereas some of her peers could barely remember what they’d done last week, memory wasn’t a problem for Meredith; in fact, a surfeit of memory might have been her main problem. She couldn’t stop herself from replaying the same old daunting images, and when she should have been paying attention to the equations being written on the board, all she could think about was the fact that Professor Arthur reminded her, in style if not in looks, of her very first real boyfriend, Geoff, in college the first time around, the one she’d given her virginity to, the one she’d thought would be forever. He’d also been adorably nerdy, jittery and hopped up on coffee and optimism. She shook her head to clear it of the memory of him sliding off her panties under their picnic blanket
and getting her off while their friends sailed Frisbees and kicked soccer balls around them.

Meredith fiddled with the simple turquoise and silver ring she’d bought to cover the deep grooves on her fourth finger, the one she’d worn her wedding ring on since that first time around in college, after Geoff, when she’d decided it was time to get serious—right after she’d found out she was pregnant. It was a groove she feared would be forever etched into her skin, the way those pesky memories seemed to play on permanent repeat in her mind. She looked around the room at the kids young enough to be her sons and daughters, some of them younger than her actual son and daughter, with only a handful in their later twenties and thirties. She was forty-two, solidly middle-aged, and determined to get her bachelor’s degree and reclaim some of the youth she’d lost when she stepped away from academia to go on the road with her sexy new band member boyfriend-turned-husband. Following Clay had seemed like the right thing to do; she didn’t want to be one of those women who sat around all day and complained about every pregnancy ache and pain. Instead, she’d watched show after show, then after party upon after party, where Clay had proceeded to flirt with every girl who walked by, as if she were nothing more than another groupie. Eventually, but only after giving birth twice, Meredith realized that’s exactly what she was. They’d tried to make it work, with Clay setting up an in-home studio, but the kids had been little when they’d finally called it quits.

She’d worked a series of office jobs, but after this latest round of layoffs, she knew something had to change. She’d never given herself permission to chase her dream, but with the severence, and both her kids out of the house, she knew she had to do something for herself or she’d go mad. Meredith soon realized that there were other dreams she’d neglected over the years, too;
other needs she’d figured were for younger, hotter women. Who had time to get her hair done, to dress up, when she was working sixty-hour weeks? Men had asked her out and she’d even taken one or two up on their offers of overnight visits, quick rolls in the hay that did little more than stoke her passion and make her wistful for what might have been.

The sad truth was that she couldn’t remember being as raw, as wet, as wanton as when she’d been with Clay. Until now. Her professor was far from a Clay-like bad boy, but still, he did something to her that made her want to either be the best student he’d ever seen, or the worst, if it meant detention and the chance to get properly punished. She bit her lip as a highly irrelevant, not to mention irreverent, giggle threatened to burst from her lips as she pictured herself in a schoolgirl skirt, white cotton panties, white kneesocks and pigtails with red ribbons. It was not an outfit she’d ever come close to wearing, and that’s why it appealed to her. She’d never had a chance to play at being a bad girl, to try on that persona or any other besides young mom, really, followed by older and now middle-aged mom.

She was the oldest student in the class, and as such, was supposed to be some kind of role model. She could tell by the way the others gave her a wide berth, smiling politely at her but otherwise treating her as if age itself were contagious, or like she was going to tattle on them for misbehaving when the last thing she cared about was their grades or potential offenses. The others could spend all of class texting and flirting and passing notes, but Meredith, even if she didn’t understand every concept, wanted points for paying attention, for disrupting her previously boring but safe life to perk up her mind. She hadn’t known her pussy was going to follow along as easily.

Professor Arthur was writing on the board with his back turned to the class, so she could properly peruse him. He, too,
was young enough to be her son, if she’d had kids even earlier than she had. From the back, he looked like an average white guy, sandy blond hair, blue and white button-down, jeans, brown loafers. He hadn’t said much more than hello and that he was about to teach them Economics 101. Meredith had her own kind of economic knowledge, gleaned from not only balancing the family budget and grocery shopping and watching her meager bank account and 401(k) grow at a snail’s pace, but also from seeing her preteen daughter grasp on to fashion trends the moment she read about them in one of her magazines. Meredith barely remembered what it had been like to be that young, though sitting in this seat brought memories rushing back, like passing notes with her best friend Jenny as they discussed whether Billy Tilson liked either of them and if Mrs. Singer’s glamorous hair was natural or dyed and if they’d be allowed to go to the Jewish youth group sleepover.

Later, they’d talked about how they hated their moms and wanted to run away and who’d buy them drinks. Now, she’d been through the cycle of being the mom her teens pretended to hate, then the one who missed them fiercely. She could feel everyone staring at her and didn’t know where to look, so she examined her French manicure, the same style she’d been getting every week for the last ten years. Maybe it was time for a change, she mused, as she looked at the girls with blue and magenta and multicolored nails.

There was only so much changing she could do, though, and right now she just wanted to make sure she passed all her classes. Getting A’s would be nice, but the degree was what she was after. She had worked too hard for too long, plus all those years where her mind had felt like it was going bad, like fruit left out for too long, softening into mush as she struggled to keep one foot in that world, picking up a weighty classic now
and then, its tiny print and heady ideas making her struggle in the best kind of way. Finally, the bell rang and she stood up in a daze.

She found herself wandering up to the front of the classroom, her feet moving before her mind could fully process what she was doing. “Hi, Professor,” she started.

“Call me Ralph,” he said.

“Ralph,” she began again. “I just wanted to say that I like your teaching style. I still don’t totally understand everything we’re doing in here; I don’t have much of a business sense, but I am excited to be learning. In the back of my mind I have an idea for running my own bakery and…” She trailed off, not really sure what she wanted other than to bask in his nearness.

He turned and beamed his full attention, not to mention two rows of extremely even white teeth, right at her. “If you ever have any questions, Meredith, you are more than welcome to visit me in my office during office hours. It’s totally confidential,” he said, and she wondered if she was imagining that his voice got low and intimate somehow on that last word. Were they still talking about homework?

“I think that might be helpful,” she said, meaning, in fact,
I’d love to dress up for you and bend over your desk.
“Well, I’ll see you soon,” she said.

“I hope so,” he said quietly, unless she’d imagined that too.

She went home and for the first time in who knows how long, she stripped down to her birthday suit and simply walked around every room enjoying the feel of the air against her bare skin. She took baths, of course, and even got massages, but those were merely utilitarian reasons for nudity. This afternoon was about her picturing herself prancing around for Professor Arthur, showing him her pendulous, large breasts, her sizeable ass, the curve of her belly, the dusting of red fuzz covering her
pussy. She dyed her hair a very shiny brown, trying to fool the world into thinking her a brunette, but inside her lurked the soul of a redhead, one whose innate passion had been put on hold for far too long. Instead of taking a bath, Meredith stood in her bathroom and began touching herself the way she wanted Professor Arthur—“Ralph,” she said aloud to herself—to touch her. She began with her breasts, tweaking each one, holding up the nipples and tugging and twisting until the sight caused a corresponding tug in her pussy.

Then, staring at herself in the mirror, Meredith lifted her right breast and tucked her head down so she could suck on her own nipple. The flood of emotion and arousal was so intense she had to lean her left hand against the counter. She spread her legs, wondering if Professor Arthur was circumcised, picturing his cock as big and thick and aching just for her. She kept going, making sure to watch her every move, so that when she did go to her hot professor’s office hours, it wouldn’t be as a true schoolgirl, skittish and nervous, relying on her youthful charm and giggly giddiness, but as a mature woman who could tap into that spirit, but also had something more to offer. For all her pleated-skirt fantasies, what Meredith wanted was to be treated like a woman—a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, even if what she wanted was to be manhandled by a younger nerdy man who just so happened to hold her academic future in his hands.

She searched her closet, determined to find something there capable of seduction. She could afford to shop, at least a little, but Meredith wanted something familiar, a reminder that even in all these years when dating had taken a backseat to the mundane truths of Real Life and mothering, she’d remembered the girl who threw her bra onstage and got fingered backstage, who was wet and wild and carefree. She rummaged and
rummaged and finally, in the back of the closet, found a red and purple dress she vaguely remembered buying, if not wearing. There were no tags on it, but the purple silk outlining the red shimmery fabric made her smile. She immediately shucked off her T-shirt and jeans and slipped it over her head, seeing that she’d need a new bra, one to be worn strategically peeking out from beneath this dress’s straps.

She turned sideways, admiring the way the dress clung to her breasts, proud of them, proud of herself for not having even considered having them lifted or added to, the way so many of the women she knew had done. Meredith cupped her hands over her breasts, letting her nipples peek out, hoping Professor Arthur would like her in this dress, like her as more than a student. She decided maybe she didn’t need a bra, after all—or panties. If she was going to go for it, she was going to go for it.

She hadn’t really caught all of what he’d been talking about, but the basic lesson of supply and demand was one Meredith understood. The question was, were there other suppliers of the kind of quick, hot, dirty sex she was offering? Of course, there was only one of her, but would he be able to see exactly what she wanted, what she was demanding as well as supplying? Meredith lifted her dress and examined her pussy, the boldness of the act making her blush. Maybe there was a bit of a schoolgirl in her.

She dusted powder and blush onto her cheeks, borrowed a leftover black glittery eyeliner her daughter had left lying around the bathroom to widen her brown eyes, tossed her hair and added a soft pink hue to her lips, followed by gloss. She didn’t know what the look she was going for said, but she definitely looked a far cry from her classroom persona. There, she was all about learning, absorbing, letting him run the show. By now, she was so needy, she was ready to take what she was looking
for. Not without his consent, of course, that was never her plan, but if he wanted her to make the first move, she would. She could play the older woman, even if she wasn’t sure that’s what this was all about. Maybe she was just horny. Maybe she was just tired of the guys whose entire effort consisted of a grunt, thinking they were doing her some big favor by daring to offer their cocks not for her pleasure, but their own amusement.

She knew it was a cliché, having a crush on your college professor, but she didn’t care. She liked the way his voice lilted, how he made sure to turn around and truly talk to, not just at, the class. She liked how he remembered everyone’s names. She liked how he used examples of real companies, straight from the newspaper, to explain things. She liked the way he looked at her, lingering on her for a few seconds longer than everyone else—even if that part was just in her imagination.