Chapter 4

My Creative Writing class met every Friday, late in the afternoon, the last period. On the whole, it was a fairly good class, filled with the sort of students one would expect in this type of class. One or two students showed something of promise, and one, even, suggested he might conceivably possess some smattering of talent. The rest wrote the most tortured prose, filled with brooding, obvious symbolism, written in the most figurative, almost baroque style since florid Victorianism.

The most prevalent form was some shapeless form, for which there was no conceivable descriptive term. Usually it was a short mood piece, of very tense emotion, searing its grasp of universal truth, making its pronouncements in a writing style which thundered its conclusions. Generally it was composed in the form of a poem-unrhymed blank verse, naturally-and contained no upper case letters, especially, and universally, the pronoun "i." Sorry, mr. cummings. And always, always it began in the middle of the last sentence of the piece so that the end of the end was in the beginning, and the beginning of the beginning was in the end.

And, speaking of poetry-anything was considered a poem as long as it was written in the form of a poem, that is, bizarre, fragmented images, strung together without the benefit of sentences, and, where capital letters were used only at the beginning of each line. Again, it qualified as a poem if it was deeply felt, written late at night, when the writer was either stoned or intensely depressed, or if it had to do with Truth or Reality or Art. It didn't matter that the work made no sense, as long as it was meaningful and relevant to the budding poet. And the best poems, according to the writers of them, were always written in a stream-of-consciousness style. This was accomplished by the author clearing his mind of all thoughts, and sitting at his typewriter, or with pen in hand, and just begin to write, setting down strings of words as they popped into the author's thoughts. Usually, it would go something like this: think not of man in his incandescent bestiality in which purpose and causality are not in reason, but filled with the flower sadness of soaring majesty; shadows glowing in their own irrelevance, burning with negroed profanity so that infinity is the pedantic answer cursing the question that lasts in the purposelessness of a scream weird defiance....And so on, ad infinitum. That was where it was at, man. That was Art. That was poetry...in the opinion of most high school creative writers.

Robert Mills was a student in my creative writing class, and while not as pretentious a writer as the type above, he was no Hemingway, either. He did write good clean prose, and I guess I should have been grateful for that. Most students, I'm convinced, write poems like the example shown, without punctuation or capitalization simply because it allows them not to write literate sentences, a weakness they all seem to possess. Robert, on the other hand, could write sentences. Uninspired, perhaps, and plodding, but sentences, nonetheless.

"Miss Harper," Robert Mills said, standing in front of my desk, "you didn't return my assignment."

The assignment for this week's class was to write a descriptive passage, showing a relationship of some sort between two objects. The assignment was simple and clear, structured, but free enough so as not to stifle any blooming creativity. Robert's paper, actually, was quite good this week, one of his better accomplishments, and was about an old man and a silver cane he'd received on his twenty-first birthday. The relationship was weighed between the old man and his cane. It was romantic in tone and execution, but quite good in places, containing some of the best writing Robert had given me all term long.

I knew where his paper was, of course. It was at home, on my desk. I'd left it there purposely, as part of my plan. Sandi Wilson had excited my interest about Robert, and the prick she said he possessed, and I was more than curious. I also felt I had something of a score to settle with him, at least on Sandi's behalf.

"Your paper," I echoed. "Didn't I return it to you?"

"No, you didn't."

Robert was tall and well-built, with the body and reputation of a natural athlete. His shoulders were wide and broad, his chest high and hard-looking, and his belly was no wider around than mine, but considerably flatter. Unconsciously my eyes were drawn to his crotch, in search perhaps of some evidence to verify Sandi's claim, but my curiosity was not to be satisfied so easily. He was wearing a pair of gray flannel slacks, very well-cut, but hardly tight-fitting enough across his loins to do anything but titillate my already erotic thoughts. I allowed my gaze to travel back upward, across the white, short-sleeved shirt he wore, until I was looking into his questioning face. He had blond hair, worn long but neat, eyes a shade somewhere blue and green, and was quite good-looking in a rather craggy, very masculine way. Also, for what it was worth, I could tell he was holding his stomach in.

"Are you certain?" I asked, and I pretended to look for the paper in my notes. I shuffled pages and tests back and forth in my search, muttering absentmindedly to myself. "It doesn't seem to be here." I looked up at him. "Are you sure you handed one in?"

He opened his mouth to protest.

"Oh, yes, of course, you did hand one in. I remember now. Yours was about the old man with the cane. Yes, yes, I remember now." I riffled my papers again. "Are you sure I didn't return it to you? I remember it very clearly. There was something I wanted to talk to you about on it." Good touch, I thought. Generate some curiosity.

"No, you didn't, Miss Harper," he explained. "I was sitting there, waiting for you to call my name, but you didn't."

"Odd. Perhaps I handed it to someone else by mistake." I rapped on my desk with my ruler, to get the classes' attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, did anyone receive the wrong paper back? Would you all please check? I'm looking for Robert's paper."

When it wasn't found, I turned back to Robert, a look of concerned concentration lining my face. I tapped my finger against my jaw, furrowing my forehead. Then my eyes popped open wide, and I stuck my finger into the air in front of me triumphantly.

"Yes, I remember!" I said. Then my face turned apologetic. "Oh, Robert, I'm sorry. I remember now where it is. I left it home. On my desk. I remember that it was one of the first I read, and I remember I was struck by it. But I decided not to mark it until I went back to it a second time, after I'd read all the other papers. And I-simply forgot it." I shrugged.

"Oh," he said, clearly disappointed. "Well, do you remember my mark?"

I thought for a moment. "Humm, no, I don't. Let me check." I turned to my marking book, looked up his name under the assignment, ran my finger across the line, and said: "Ah, no. I didn't enter the mark either."

His jaw pulled over in thought. "And you don't remember the mark?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"Well, do you remember what it was you wanted to talk to me about?"

I sighed in exasperation. "No, Robert, I'm sorry. I just have no idea at this moment."

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, trying not to seem bothered by it. "Oh, that's okay, Miss Harper. I guess I could wait until next week." He smiled bravely at me, then turned to leave.

"Robert," I said, and I purposely touched his arm to prevent his leaving my desk. Physical contact is somehow always interpreted as sexual behavior by adolescents, for some reason, especially if that contact is made by someone older than the adolescent. Of course, their consciousness inevitably explains it rationally away as something non-sexual ultimately, but not before the idea has passed through their thoughts. And that was the very idea I wanted to pass directly through Robert Mills' mind. I wanted to make sure he thought of me in vivid sexual terms, if at least only for this one time. I smiled lopsidedly at him. "Robert, you were counting on receiving that mark this week, weren't you?"

He shrugged philosophically, as much to my question as to the thrill of sexual thought which was presently coursing through his blood. "Oh, that's okay, Miss Harper. I don't mind, really, I don't."

"I really feel bad about this."

"Foget it, Miss Harper. No big thing."

"No, no, I'm not going to forget it. In fact, I can still get that paper to you today, if you'd like?"

"Sure," he said. "How?"

"Are you doing anything this afternoon?"

He thought for a moment. "No."

"Would it be possible for you to stop over at my apartment some time after class? I could give you the paper then. It's just on my desk."

He looked at me steadily for a long moment, weighing my words against all possible levels of fantasy and reality, attempting to re-evaluate his explanation for my having touched his arm. The thread of a very dirty thought began to weave its way through his brain, and I could sense him almost wanting to believe it. Then he pushed it back, partially, covering it over with a sense of sober reality that was twenty years too mature for him. Still, a glimmer of the thought remained, like a gnawing worm, chewing away at probability.

He shrugged again. "I guess I could-if it's not too much trouble?"

"No, of course not, Robert. Would I have asked you if it were? Don't be silly. Here, let me give you my address." I took a piece of scrap paper from the pile on my desk, and I wrote my full name and address out, in my most sensual, flowing handwriting. I was careful to use my first name, knowing that it would seem somehow intimate in his mind that I should have made him privy to something so secret and obviously important. I handed the paper to him. "Are you coming by car?"

He nodded numbly. "Yes."

"Oh, good. Then you shouldn't have any trouble at all. I live right here in the neighborhood. There's even a place to park your car in the basement of my apartment building. Just in case, though, I'd better give you my number." I took the paper back, wrote out the number, and handed it back to him. He accepted it tentatively, as if it might somehow explode in his hands. "I'll see you about five or so, all right?" I asked.

He nodded blankly. "Sure. Five is fine."

I smiled back at him, dazzling him sensually. "See you then, Robert. Now why don't you return to your seat, and we'll continue the lesson."

"Yes, Miss Harper," he said, and, as if preoccupied, he returned to his seat, sat down heavily, and continued to stare at me throughout the entire length of the lesson, his face a mask of indecision and deep contemplative thought.

As soon as the class was over, I collected my things, raced to the office, waited impatiently on line until all the rest of the girls ahead of me clocked out, then hurried to my car and drove speedily home. I found a spot in the basement just to the left of the elevator, something which almost never happens, and I took that to be a good sign. The elevator zipped me up to the sixth floor, and I was into my apartment, and into the shower, before five minutes more had gone by.

I showered quickly, enjoying the icy prick of the water against my naked flesh. It gushed forcibly between my breasts, and dribbled sensually between my thighs. I left the shower feeling refreshed and revived. I stood on the damp tiled floor of the bathroom, and rubbed the soft terry towel across my damp flesh, ostensibly to dry it, yet oddly awakening in it the beginning heat of a smoldering fire.

I rubbed the towel between my thighs, enjoying thoroughly the soft rippling pressure of my hand against my flesh. The edge of the towel under the wedge of my fingertips, slipped between the lips of my pussy, and an unanticipated shudder fluttered down my thighs. I cupped the towel against the mound of my cunt, holding it firmly in my hand until the fluttery sensation dissipated.

Across from me, on the back of the bathroom door, was a full-length mirror, and I found myself fascinated by my reflection. My irregularly shaped blonde hair was drenched, and it hung straight down over my shoulders like twin streaks of lightning. My breasts were firm and fully rounded, heavy but not sagging yet. I could see the creamy whiteness near the tips, where the suntan ended. My nipples were erect and red brown, and bubbles of water beaded against my taut flesh. The overhead light caught the bubbles, making them dance, as if my breasts were decorated with sparkling diamonds.

Once my waist had been slim and flat, so small that it made my breasts appear larger than they actually were, but there time had begun to take its toll. Not that I was fat, God forbid, for I wasn't. But there was a healthy roundness to the bowl of my belly, and the flesh was much less firm than it had been. My hips, however, flared out nicely, fully, sensually rounded.

With my hand firmly pressed to my belly, the towel was draped down between my widely parted thighs, in flowing white folds. like a pale corona, I could just see a few yellow hairs radiating out near the edge of the mound, curled out from under the rippled towel.

On an impulse, I dropped the towel and slid my hand around to my side. Involuntarily my breath sucked in at the sight of my reflection. The mound of my cunt was broad and wide, sparsely covered with an irregular patch of thinning pubic hair. At the base of the mound, I could see the lips as they came together, and the erect bud of my clitoris as it winked out from between them. The sight of my naked body both pleased and excited me.

I brought my hand back to my cunt. The hair was damp, and my flesh felt moist and clammy to the touch. I put my index and middle fingers together and positioned them above the inward curve of the mound, in the middle of my cunt. I began to slowly rotate the fingers, sending slow, ponderous throbs of excitement into the sleepy thickness of my body.

The sight of watching myself masturbate turned me on almost as much as the actual act of masturbation. I watched in the mirror as my hand moved against my cunt, barely slipping the tips of each finger into the wet split between the lips. I touched the bud of my clitoris just firmly enough to send a burning warmth to make my knees tremble.

I began to rotate my hips, pushing my hairy mound up against my fingers. I saw my hips pumping in and out in the mirror. My stomach muscles undulated, and my breasts jiggled just enough to disturb the beads of moisture gathered upon them, causing them to lose their surface co-hesiveness so that they spilled over. Trickles of ice cold water dripped down across my naked, burning flesh.

Under my fingers, a wetness was collecting between the lips of my cunt. My deeply pressing fingers were moving steadily against me, and pleasure was dancing with spiked shoes up and down the length of my flesh. Getting into the mood, I hunched, my middle against my hand, and felt a deep burning fire shake my clitoris with paroxsyms of raw shuddering intensity.

Without thinking, I slipped the two masturbating fingers down between the fold of my cuntal lips, parting them ever so slightly, and inserting the tips firmly between the drippy crack. My flesh was wet, and the fingers slid effortlessly through the sticky pit until I felt the hot, sucking heat near the center of my body, drawing upon my hand. I pushed my body forward, hunching forward, watching myself in the mirror, and impaled myself upon the two pleasure-stiffened fingers. With eyes open wide in amazement, I watched the fingers disappear into my wetness.

I moaned aloud, the pleasure was so intense. My cunt was very tight, very wet. I could feel the tensed, firm walls of the oozing passageway clutching at the probing hardness of my fingers. The passageway was still very tight, unprepared as yet for the penetration, neither fully aroused nor elastic enough to be relaxed. I pushed the fingers up hard, and almost slumped weakly from the intensely wet friction the fingers made as they scraped sensually against the sugary walls of the clinging canal. I pushed upward until my knuckles were softly cushioned against the pink-lipped mound, until the two fingers were extended fully within the hot sucking wetness of my cunt.

No! I cautioned myself, and reluctantly, I pulled the fingers out. My cunt was throbbing with sensation, like an exposed nerve ending, like an overwound spring, tensed and trembling, threatening to explode unless released. Tentatively I reapplied my fingers to my clitoris, touching the bud lightly. It was like the burning end of a cigarette, and icy shivers tickled up and down my spines. I rotated the love button lightly, trying to bring myself down gently from the incredible heights those same expert fingers had driven me to. There was no sense in finishing it like this, I rationally explained to myself. The cunt-wet fingers moved slowly, lightly, gently almost, mellowing out the sharp edges of my vivid mood. Not when Robert Mills was due to arrive within the hour. And Robert Mills, I reminded myself, was supposed to have a nine-inch rod!

Reluctantly, but firmly, I pulled the fingers away from my sloppy, dripping cunt. The temptation was great, and I knew if I came now, I still wouldn't have any difficulty in coming, again later, if and when the opportunity presented itself, but that wasn't the point. The point was that the second orgasm-the one I'd intended to experience with Robert Mills-could not have been as intense as the one I would have if I didn't come now. And more than anything, even more than the selfish considerations of the moment, I wanted the orgasm with Bobby Mills to be the best, and most intense orgasm I could possibly make it. With a sigh, I dropped my wet hand back against my side.

There was more to do, I reminded myself, and time was slipping away from me. I continued drying myself, retrieving the towel from the bathroom floor. My flesh was damp all over again, only it wasn't from the shower, or the humidity of the room. It was the results of my thwarted climax, and, as I cleaned myself thoroughly, I realized I'd stopped myself none too soon. I'd been closer to coming than even I'd imagined.

At the sink, I rinsed my face with cold water, opened the bathroom door to uncloud the mirror, and carefully reapplied my makeup. Plugging in my hot comb, I stroked it through my drenched hair until it was completely dry and fluffy. I was pulling at one of the longer locks of hair with my fingers, passing it under my nose, when the thickly cunt-wet odor of my previous excitement assailed my nostrils. I inhaled the odor deeply, closing my eyes, savoring the bouquet as if it were a rich, expensive perfume.

I'd actually had the hot water turned on, and the soap in my hands, before I stopped myself. I smiled wickedly at my reflection in the mirror. No, I thought, bringing the wet, smelly fingers back under my nose. I inhaled deeply once again. Let the odor remain, I thought. Maybe Robert will smell it. It should be interesting to see how he reacts to that. And, smiling still, I returned the perfumed soap to the soap dish, and I climatically closed the running hot water. I turned away from the sink, shut the bathroom light, and walked briskly into my bedroom.

Now, what should I wear? Certainly nothing too suggestive, for that would give him too much of an opportunity to read my intent clearly. Something suggestive, but not an open declaration. I opened my closet and stared in. And nothing, of course, underneath. I wanted Robert to be very much aware of my nudity.

I selected a red and purple lounging robe, made of heavy material, floor-length and opaque, which zipped up the back. I slipped it over my head.

The doorbell rang.

Quickly I peered at the clock radio on the night-table next to my bed.

It was four-forty-five. He was a full fifteen minutes early. Good, I thought, smiling. He's impatient for what he hopes might be.

The bell rang again.

"Coming!" I called out, and I reached behind, grasped the zipper in my hand, and pulled it up as far as I could. Then, reaching down over my shoulder with my other hand, I pulled the zipper the rest of the way up.

For one last time I examined myself in the mirror. Satisfied, I turned and hurried to the front door.

The bell rang once more.

"Be right there!" I cried, approaching the door. I leaned against it, holding the doorknob in my hand, putting my lips to the crack between the door and the frame. "Who's there?" I asked.

"Uh, it's me, Miss Harper," I heard a muffled voice reply. "Robert Mills."

I opened the door. "Come right in, Robert Were you ringing long? You caught me in the shower."

"Oh, I'm too early. Maybe I should come back a little later?"

"Don't be silly," I said, closing the door. I made a showy display of locking the door behind him. Gesturing for him to proceed, I said: "Go right into the living room. I'll be with you in a moment. I'll just go and get your paper, and I'll be right in. Make yourself comfortable."

He disappeared through the doorway, and I watched him as he moved. He'd changed his clothing since class, and was now wearing a pair of very tightly fitting, faded jeans, and a sleeveless vest, with nothing underneath. The muscles of his shoulders and arms bulged nakedly, almost proudly, clear indicators that the idea of sex was not. completely alien to his thoughts. As I had, Robert had dressed himself just suggestively enough to give me cause to wonder whether the choice of clothing had been accidental or purposeful. I was excited and pleased by his aggressiveness, for he seemed already a promising adversary. The muscles of his ass moved like tensed swells of water under the tautly stretched material of his jeans.

In the bedroom, I retrieved his paper from my desk, examined it quickly, considered what I might say about it should that opportunity present itself, then carried it over and placed it on my dresser top. Re-evaluating my reflection, and pleased with what I saw, I leaned forward and lifted the bottle of spray perfume from the center of the dresser top. Spraying it all over my body, lifting the hem of my robe, I annointed each of my swinging, pendulous breasts, then sprayed myself carefully between my thighs, from the crack of my ass to the hair of my cuntal mound. The robe dropped back into place, and I returned to the living room, the paper in hand.

Robert was standing in the living room, consciously positioned in front of my ceiling-to-floor bookcase. He had his thumbs hooked in the thick leather hp of his belt, with his fingers hanging tensely down across his lower belly, as though he were pointing to the thickened lump which stretched across his groin. He did not look at me when I walked in, a definite give away of his intention, and instead trained his eyes across the many titles.

"Find anything interesting?" I asked, somewhat suggestively.

He turned and looked at me, smiling lopsidedly. "You sure have a lot of books, Miss Harper. Did you read them all? It must have taken you years."

I laughed lightly. "It has. Reading books like those have been my whole fife almost."

He gave me a strange, almost penetrating stare. "Your whole life?"

"Well, a good part of it, anyhow. In college, graduate school, and ever since then. There has been time, of course, in between for...other things."

"I certainly hope so."

I held the paper up. "Why don't you sit down and we can discuss your paper."

"Fine," he said, and he sauntered into the middle of the living room, walking with a cocky kind of confidence. He was young and he was sharp, and it was obvious he had a very high opinion of himself. Without the restrictions and roles of the classroom, I was seeing Robert in a very different light. It was obvious from the leering grin on his lips that any remaining doubt he might have entertained as to the real reason for his visit was completely gone from his mind. He knew he was here to get laid. All it was was a matter of time.

I settled myself on the sofa, just to see how he would react, but he sat in one of the chairs across from the sofa. He leaned forward on the chair, giving me the impression of a forceful, almost aggressive youthfulness. He faced me directly, locking his eyes upon mine, never allowing his stare to flicker for an instant. I had the decided impression that he was trying to seduce me with his gaze, trying to hypnotize me with something like raw animal energy.

"First, I'd like to thank you, Miss Harper," he said, using words in the same way as he used his eyes. He was trying to take command of the situation by controlling the flow and direction of the conversation. "I know this must be an inconvenience for you, having me come here and all, especially after class hours...."

"Not at all, Robert," I said. "If I didn't want you here, I would not have invited you."

I sat back on the sofa and pretended to listen politely to his response. I opened my legs slightly, and saw his eyes catch the movement. Slowly I raised my left leg, and crossed it over the right, revealing a brief pink flash of thigh flesh.

That stopped him. He was in the middle of telling me how much he'd wanted to be a writer, and how he'd thought of nothing else ever since he was very young, when he stopped cold, in the middle of a word. He mumbled something, and picked up the fallen thread of his narrative, but his response was enough to convince me he was now very much aware that I was naked under the robe.

"Robert, why don't you sit over here, next to me?" I suggested, smiling at him. I patted the sofa cushion beside me with my flat open palm.

He returned my smile and stood up. The swollen lump of his prick was rigid inside his pants, yet he made no attempt to conceal its presence. He stood erect and walked boldly across the room, coming toward me with that confident smile almost pasted across his roughly handsome face. Judging from the thickness and pulsing length of his hard-on, Sandi's estimate conceivably could have proven to be something of an understatement.

Robert sat very close to me, and purposely, I'm sure, he allowed his knee to graze the side of my thigh. This was verified a moment later, when, instead of pulling his leg back, as might be expected had it simply been an accidental contact, Robert pressed his knee forward, grinding it into the softness of my thigh. Then he began to move his knee up and down against me.

I looked at his face, trying to judge what was going on behind his eyes. His blue green eyes twinkled with awareness. He licked the pink tip of his tongue around the edge of his teeth, a very sensual movement. My cunt throbbed. He smiled at me, almost nodding.

"What did you think of my paper?" he asked. His eyes were riveted to mine, and so intense was his concentrated gaze, they could have easily burned a hole in my flesh had light been filtered through them. "What did you think of it?"

I looked down at the paper. "On the whole, Robert, I believe it was quite good. Different somehow from your usual work...."

I stopped talking.

Boldly he put his hand down to his crotch. He began to rub his cock and balls through the material of his jeans. He continued to stare at my face, watching my eyes as they followed his hand's movement. When my eyes did not pull back from the sight in shock, and I didn't leap to my feet in shouting protests, Robert's grin broadened, until it seemed almost to crack his face in half. He squeezed his cock hard, lifting it through the material of the jeans, as if he were offering its considerable length to me.

I did nothing but watch. This was his game, and he had to make all the moves. He could have me, if he wanted me badly enough, but he had to take me.

And he did.

Without a single word of acknowledgement from me, he reached across the space separating us, and he slid his arm around my shoulder, pulling me against him.

What balls! I thought, in silent admiration. He was that confident in himself! Here he was, making love to me, his teacher, a woman almost twice his age, and he didn't hesitate for a single second.

He drew my face to his. His mouth was open, and he forced his tongue between my lips. My mouth molded itself against him, and I accepted his tongue. It snaked into my mouth, bringing with it a hot squirming fire that lashed against my own tongue, licking feverishly at my teeth, playing sensually across the roof of my mouth.

He kissed me well, employing that same self-assured confidence as he pressed against my lips, rotating slowly, grinding down with just the proper amount of pressure and abandonment. It was evident that it was a technique that had been well perfected.

His hand moved to my breast. He had large hands, and his fingers tightened around my flesh with an ease and certainty that was almost disconcerting. He squeezed the tit appreciatively, moaning softly in my mouth when he realized I hadn't worn a bra either. His gaze had only centered upon my crotch, and apparently he had only discerned that I hadn't worn any panties.

He pressed the flesh down against my body, moving his hand in small rotating applications of pressure. He pinched inwardly with his fingers and palm, catching the nipple against the material of my robe, causing it to grow hard and stiff. He ran his index finger across the tip of my breast, brushing the erect nipple back and forth through the fabric.

His tongue moved rhythmically in my mouth, hotly, wetly. I remained impassive, allowing him to kiss and touch me. He sensed this, and decided to make his own moves. He took his hand away from my breast and took it in his hand. Together, hand in hand, he brought my fist down to his crotch, wrapping my fingers around his erect cock. Then he lifted his hand and returned to my breast.

His cock was hard. And long. Much longer and much harder than any cock I remember having felt in my life, and I whispered a silent prayer of thanks to Sandi Wilson and her lesbian hang-up.

Of course, I was still going to get Robert for her, and for me, and perhaps for all women, but in the meanwhile, I was going to enjoy the throbbing hardness I held under my gripping fingers.

I began to pull at him through his pants. I ran the palm of my hand down the length of his cock, from his belly to the tip of the erection. His cock was very thick and I could feel the heat of his excitement generating up through the rough material of his jeans. I squeezed down into his flesh, wrapping my fingers under the material so that I had lifted it away from his belly, and it was cradled in my palm. I squeezed it again. It was as hard as a rock.

Encouraged, Robert slid his free hand around my back, found the zipper, and pulled it all the way down, to the top of my ass cheeks. He slipped the hand into my robe, over my shoulder, and continued his massage against my now naked tit. His hands were fleeting and cool against my hot flesh.

Without wanting to, I found myself moaning. Regardless of what I may have thought about his personality, and what he represented, Robert Mills was good. Damn good. The sound of my moans came out wetly, escaping from our sealed, open mouths and hot, wiggling tongue.

I could almost feel his confidence growing as he pressed his fingers into my naked flesh. He pulled his lips away from my mouth, and he slid his face down, kissing my breasts. He employed the same slow sensual grinding movement against my breast as he had against my mouth. He moved slowly, wetly, lashing his hot tongue across my nipples. I could feel his teeth biting into the erect flesh of my nipple, grinding pleasurably down as he grated the stiffened bud of flesh between his teeth. He sucked the puckered nipple up between his pursed lips. My breast ached excitedly from the wet, pulling suction of his oral expertise.

Then, suddenly, abruptly, he moved his hand away from my breast, and slid it across my stomach, then down, between my thighs. He guided his hand slowly, allowing me to savor the intent of the movement. I parted my thighs to permit him entrance, and he slid the hand up, under the hem of my robe, and he touched the wetness of my naked pussy.

His fingers curled around the broad, hairy mound of my cunt. His hand rubbed against me, pressing upward. I could hear the scratchy sounds of my hair against his palm, flattening under his tightening grip. The noise excited me, and I found myself moaning again.

Robert began to slide his middle finger up and down the slit of my cunt. The stiff first joint of the finger separated the thick outer lips. Sensually, he played in the moist slickness between, spreading the wetness of my excited discharge up and down the length of my oozing cuntal crack.

Smiling, as if he'd won something, Robert lifted his face from my tit. "Take my cock out, Miss Harper," he commanded.

Obediently, I fumbled with his zipper and pulled it down. His cock popped out, stark naked, like a thick burning pole. At first I thought he'd worn no underwear, until I felt the sweaty material under my fingers, bunched below the pole of his cock. In an instant I realized he had pulled the elastic top of his shorts down over his cock and balls, so that they hung out nakedly. The arrangement had been made either before he came here or while I had been in the bedroom, getting his paper. The sonofabitch was that sure of himself!

I moved my hand up and down his cock, stroking the smooth, slick shaft with my widely stretched fingers.

Robert returned his mouth to my nipples, sucking them up hard between his teeth, and began to circle his probing middle finger around the outside of my cunthole. His finger was barely inserted in the hole, and he moved the tip of the finger around slowly, letting it squish through the wetness, pulling the entrance hole tightly and tautly with his rotating hardness. I found the sensation almost excruciatingly intense.

Robert's cock was thick and long, and I squeezed its round, uncircumcised head under my fingertips, until he trembled from the pressure. I slid my cupped hands down, under his balls, and I rolled them across my fingers, squeezing into their elusive soft hardness.

Inserting the tip of his finger into my cunt, down to the first joint, perhaps half an inch into me, he continued to pull the finger around, in the same straining circle, stretching the lips of my cunthole until I felt the trembling excitement of pleasure from the caress. My wetness began to dribble from my body, coating the inside of my thighs, oozing down over his finger.

Abruptly, Robert said: "Suck my cock!"

I stared back at him.

"Suck my cock, Miss Harper!" he repeated, and, as if for emphasis, he thrust the finger tickling at my cunt, viciously up into my box. His finger was thick and long, and a swell of pleasure pushed outward from the jabbing movement. Involuntarily, the hole of my cunt clutched closed around his finger, catching the knuckles of his pressing fist in the soft outer thickness of my cuntal lips.

"Come on, teacher," he said with contempt. "You want to do it, don't you? That's why you invited me here, isn't it? Now suck it, baby...suck it!"

Actually, it hadn't been necessary for Robert to repeat his request, for I had every intention of sucking his cock, if not for his reasons, then certainly mine. At the moment, my mouth was literally watering in anticipation of swallowing his swollen throbbing shaft.

With his fingers moving inside of my cunt, and his lips sealed again to the slobbery nipples of my tender breast, I bent forward and took his cock into my mouth. I guided him with my hand, pulling down the monstrous shaft, until the tip of the erection grazed my lips, burning me with the heat of his passion.

I closed my lips over his cock, and it was incredibly hot in the wetness of my mouth. I closed my teeth around the sides of his shaft, pressing the flat part of my tongue against the underside of the organ. Saliva dribbled down the thumping pole of his hard-on as I began the up and down pumping of my pursed lips, bobbing above his belly until I had swallowed his full length. The head of the shaft was straining against the back of my throat, but I continued my downward plunge, until I could feel the cool scrape of his open zipper against my flushed cheeks. Wire-like threads of blond pubic hair, standing stiffly out from between the open flap of his shorts, tickled under my nose each time I slid down the length of his cock to bury my face against his sweaty crotch.

A second finger joined the first in my cunt, and together they became a hunching, driving piston as he slipped them in and out in a frantic sexual tempo. As if stunned by the effect, barraged by the thundering rush of sensation, the walls of my cuntal passageway opened and closed frantically around the rigid bluntness of his drilling fingers.

"Suck it, teacher!" he grunted, exacting in his mind some sort of revenge upon my body, and I wondered whether it was me personally he was venting himself upon, or just women in general. I sensed, there in that moment of awareness, how very close in intent Robert and I were. It was a shame, almost, that he was so naive. He had no idea at all that he had been suckered into this by my willingness to be used. The lesson he would learn would shatter his inflated ego. "Suck it, teacher! Suck it out! Suck out my come!"

I pulled my mouth away from his cock. This was not how the afternoon was going to end. It was time now for me to make my move.

"Fuck me," I said. My mouth felt strange without the throbbing hardness of his cock spearing it open. Saliva dribbled down my chin, across my neck, and onto my breasts. My eyes were closed tightly in appreciation of the sensations of raw sexual pleasure I was experiencing from his rapidly thrusting fingers.

The moment I'd said those words, his hand ceased moving, and I could tell he was appraising me coolly. "What did you say?" he asked. Without having to open my eyes, I knew Robert was smiling triumphantly.

I repeated the words. "Fuck me."

He laughed cruelly. "Say it louder, teach...and better!"

"Fuck me, Robert.. . please. Please fuck me."

"Louder!" He was confident now, and sadistically enjoyed the realization that he was making me squirm. It was a decidedly masculine game he was playing with me, and he had the leading role.

He was the supreme male ego: the man with the golden cock.

"FUCK ME...you prick."

Giggling nervously, he slid his fingers from the sucking mouth of my cunt. Trembling with passion, anticipating the fuck of his young life, he began pulling at my limp robe, tugging it over my head. The hand that had been in my cunt was wet, and he smeared my discharge all over my burning flesh. I raised my arms, and the robe came off.

I was naked.

Robert pushed me back on the sofa. Passively, I lay back, with one leg dangling off the edge of the cushions, and the other up against the back of the sofa, over the rear cushions. The entire length of my cunt, from the sweaty, spread cheeks of my ass, to the vee-like growth of hair barely covering my mound, was exposed to his leering view.

Hungrily, Robert slipped down on his knees, leaned forward, and began to eat my cunt. His tongue was hot and wet, and he slid it into my box as if it were a wet, squishy cock. I could actually feel him sliding up inside of me, spearing me open, filling the hole of my cunt with his tongue.

"Fuck me!" I moaned, this time on my own, my passion suddenly in charge. "You sonofabitch cock-fuck me!"

He pulled his face up from my drippy crotch, and he looked at me. The lower half of his face was smeared with the greasy lubrication of my oozing snatch, and his eyes were clouded with passion. His tongue hung between his parted lips, reminding me of a dog in heat. From the hungry look which creased his face, it was evident that he wanted to continue.

"Fuck me!" I said again, leashing out with every bit of my adult-woman-teacher authority, overwhelming him for an instant with the raw power I had, until this exact moment, held in check. I said: "I'm going to come, and I want to be fucked. My lover can eat me anytime. But from you, with that cock- I want to be fucked!"

His reaction was curious: as it somehow is with all people who wish to dominate, there exist paradoxically a basic need to be dominated. It's as though their strength is nothing but a reversed mirror image of a fundamental weakness. The will of iron, the roaring bellow of outrage, are, in truth, a lonely cry for help, and a desperate pleading for someone whose will actually is tempered with iron. And, for a moment, it seemed as if Robert Mills was really glad that I had taken the responsibility from his shoulders. His cock was big and long and hard, and that had to be enough for the world.

He climbed up onto the sofa, kneeling between my wide, yawning thighs, and he fell forward on top of me. His cock was burning hot, a livid poker of rigid flesh, and I felt him pushing it uselessly against the inside of my thigh. I pushed my arm down between our grinding bodies, and grasped the mighty shaft between my fingers. He continued his desperate hunching, pushing the rod back and forth against the palm of my hand, even as I drew him toward the fiery mouth of my cunt. I nudged him between the fluttering lips of my pussy, and he grunted, sliding down and in.

"Oh my god!" he cried, straining his knees against the sofa cushions, forcing the splitting wedge of his prick into me all the way. "Oh my...god!"

With all the energy and enthusiasm of his youth, he sawed his cock in and out of me, hammering the shaft against the roof of my cunt as though he were trying to punch a hole through my flesh. The roughness of his jeans against my naked thighs was incredibly erotic, and I found myself climbing around his thrusting, pumping ass. His swinging balls battered themselves against the straining lips of my cunt, sliding wetly at times between the sweaty crack of my ass cheeks. His cock was like a fireman's stoker, prodding the furnace of my cunt until the fire burning there roared in an inferno of awesome sexual passion.

I tightened the length of my vaginal passageway around his plunging rod, pressing my wet, sticky flesh moistly against the rigid flesh of his cock. I gripped it the way a pair of hands grip the end of a baseball bat, squeezing it with all my strength, until I could feel every inch, every throbbing blood vessel, every twitch and shudder up and down the length of the full nine inches. Something began to surge up the underside of the shaft, and I could feel his cockhead swelling like an inflated balloon against the walls of my passageway.

"I'm coming!" Robert moaned. "Jesus...God!"

His orgasm spilled over with the same intensity as his lovemaking had. His body stiffened, and he drilled his cock into my belly, grinding it forward, as if he were screwing it up into me, until the head of the shaft seemed to rupture. Robert came copiously, spilling his hot seed into the thirsting throat of my cunt. The orgasm was powerful, passionate, vibrant, scalding! It spewed into me, like water from a fountain, like lava erupting from the mouth of a volcano. As his come flooded my sucking box, his body began to tremble uncontrollably, as if he were suffering from some form of strange sexual palsy.

The very intensity of his orgasm was enough to precipitate mine. The hardness of his body, the vitality of his youth, the thickness of his cock, the burning fires which flooded my aching cunt, all touched me in some secret corner of memory, triggering off a response that had been branded there since the last passing moment of my own youth. For an instant I recalled those hateful, un-dulled peaks of an exquisitely acute consummation, and then my orgasm rung down upon me, crashing against my flesh, shattering like a fragile glass globe, piercing my inner cunt with the fine, delicate shards of release.

"Fuck me, you prick!" I cried, grinding my belly into his cock. I hammered my curled fists upon his back, pummeling his rigid muscles until my hands ached and I was sobbing. "Fuck me, you...fuck me...fuck-"

Wave after wave of shuddering passion pumped through my pleasure-wracked body. My cunt was like a pair of stuttering lips around his hot throbbing cock, twitching and quivering in rolling spasms of complete abandonment. Robert continued to pound away at my unbeaten cunt, until his hardness seemed to lose form, and it was impossible to distinguish him from the wet, spreading heat of my own orgasm.

As suddenly as it had flashed upon us, the orgasms peaked simultaneously, then began their slow, winding route downward. The waves of ecstasy began to diminish, and the blinding network of primary colors dimmed into cooler shades of pastel haze. With an effort, I pushed Robert off me, and he fell heavily to the floor.

My cunt was ravished, a single exposed nerve against which his endlessly thrusting cock had rapidly converted pleasure into pain. Robert lay there, on the floor, flat on his back, and his insensitive, unbowed cock continued to poke proudly in the air, coated with my sticky discharge, sliding sperm clotting against the sides of the shaft, as stiff and as long and as hard, as when it first went in.

He moaned and moved his hand floppily. "Miss Harper," he said, breathlessly, "that was...that was...God!...in my life...I never-never.. . . "

I said nothing, biding my time, waiting, the sprung steel teeth of the trap armed and ready. His personality, I thought. His personality would betray him.

And it did.

When he'd gotten his breath back, and he'd carefully pushed the actual meaning of what had happened into his unconscious mind, Robert pushed himself up on his elbow and stared at me, his face a mask of sweat.

"How was I?" he asked, his male ego, like his erect cock, waving like a victory pennant.

"You were good," I told him, saying the truth because that was all I needed.

"I would like to see you again...Lisa."

"The answer to that request is no, Mr. Mills," I said, so cold and filled with contempt that my lips actually sneered. "And hereinafter, I'll expect you to call me by my proper name. I am not Lisa to you, Robert, and I will never be Lisa to you. My name is Miss Harper. Is that understood?"

His face went to pieces. "Are you...kidding?" he asked incredulously.

The look I gave him was withering. "Act your age, Robert."

He was hurt, deeply wounded. "But-why?" he asked. "It was good, wasn't it...Miss Harper?"

Calling me that, after the way he'd used my body must have been exquisitely humiliating, and I felt vindicated.

"Yes, Robert, it was good. It was very good."

He gestured helplessly. "But...I don't understand."

"I know you don't, Robert," I said, sitting up, rolling my legs around so that they hung over the edge of the sofa. His cooling sperm dribbled from the dilating hole of my cunt, staining the cushion under me. "And that's precisely what's wrong with you, Robert. No matter how hard you try, now or twenty years from now, you'll never understand."

With that, I stood rigidly up, walked over to the middle of the living room floor, and picked up Robert's Creative Writing assignment, where it had fallen. I showed him what it was, and then I carefully tore it in two, and dropped the two halves back to the floor.

"What are you doing? That's my paper!"

I appraised him with a long cold stare. "One more word from you, Robert, and I'll fail you for the year."

He began to protest, then stopped. The look on his face hardened into one of pure hatred. "You...bastard!" he sputtered.

I-returned his humiliation with a smile. "I've done this to you, darling Robert, just to show you a little something about the nature of power, and how it actually works. I trust the lesson was not lost on you. You're a little boy, Robert; you're not ready yet to play adult games." I dismissed him with a flip of my hand. "Go home and grow up."

He was crushed, totally.

I pointed at his cock, which was shriveled into a puddle of damp spermy flesh. "Put that thing away, will you," I said, "and then get the hell out of here."

I left him sitting there on the floor, looking up at me, holding his cock in his hand. I pulled my robe over my head and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind met

When I came out, Robert was gone.