I can see her watching me. Pretending not to, casting her eyes down to the novel in front of her every time I catch her eye from across the patio of this open-air café. Well, I’ve been watching her, too—long enough to know that she’s been “reading” the same page for the last 45 minutes.
I’m used to stares, and I’ve gotten pretty good at deciphering them. I know the glare of disapproval by those who think my tattoos, piercings, and radically dyed hair (today? black and red faux-hawk) are wholly inappropriate for a young lady such as myself. But I much prefer this kind of staring, not of outright lust (I know that one, too, and believe me, I’ve gotten my share of it, from women and men), but of curiosity and tentative arousal—usually from young, twentysomethings like this luscious little chick who’s looking at me now, totally oblivious to the copy of Jane Eyre she’s supposed to be reading.
I know I look pretty good, too, in this wifebeater tank that shows off the tats on my shoulders (a red star and a raven) and my armbands. When I catch her looking at me again, I hold her eyes for a second and slowly lick the silver bead on the tip of my lipring—a subtle move, indiscernible to most of the other patrons of the café, but one that reads loud and clear to the prey of my seduction, four tables over. She blushes and looks back down at her page, but I can see her trying to keep herself from grinning.
It’s a weakness of mine, these straight girls. I live in a college town, so there’s usually no shortage of nubile innocents who are living away from home for the first time and want to “experiment.” Luckily for them, I don’t mind being the lab.
I put out my cigarette, take a final sip of my espresso, and shut my notebook rather audibly. I make a big show of putting it into my backpack and I get her attention—there it is. That’s the look I was going for. She looks at me with mild panic, thinking I’m going to leave and kicking herself for being so timid. I get up and make like I’m going for the gate, then at the last minute swerve over to her table and sit down in the empty chair across from her.
“Hi, I’m Lara,” I say, offering my hand, as natural as if we’d just been introduced at a party.
“H-hi!” she replies, her brown doe-eyes wide with surprise at my arrival. She’s nervous, but excited—more the latter than the former, I can tell. I hold a beat longer than necessary for a standard handshake, and trace my fingers along her palm as I take my hand out of hers. I see the soft hair on her arms jump up with gooseflesh at the feel of my touch. She’s mine.
“Reading Jane Eyre, I see. How do you like it?”
“It’s . . . okay, I guess.” She looks baffled. It never ceases to amaze me how many people naturally assume I’m illiterate just because I don’t wear LL Bean or some shit like that. I read more than most. She recovers quickly. “I just haven’t gotten very far yet, so I’m not sure what I think of it . . . yet.” She bites her pouty pink lip ever so slightly, locking those big brown eyes of hers with my heavily-lined green ones. Lovers have told me that my eyes turn from their ordinary hazel to a deep emerald when I am in lust, and I am pretty sure that they are sparkling now. I can see the outline of her bra, barely traceable under the baby blue of her tight-fitting T-shirt. They hold her breasts (not too big, not too small—just the way I like ’em, a handful apiece) into a most appealing shape. Underneath the table, I slip my foot out of my clog and gently trace my toe along the bare side of her foot, which is left wonderfully naked by the strappy high-heeled sandals she’s wearing.
“I have the BBC version of Jane Eyre on DVD, at home,” I tell her, moving in for the kill. “Actually, I live right around the corner from here. You’re welcome to come over and borrow it, if you like.” I pay extra to have my own studio so close to the college campus and the coffee shops that are frequented by the more studious of the undergrads, but it has been worth every cent of the ridiculous rent I pay.
It’s always a risk, being as bold as I am right now. I could scare her off, but I really get a sense that she’s willing. “You mean, right now?” she asks, more hopeful than scared.
“Sure!” I reply, giving her a wicked grin. She finishes her coffee in a quick gulp, puts her book into her purse and stands up. We head out the gate as naturally as if we’d come in together, and head for my apartment.
I live on the second story, so when we get there, I gesture at the staircase. “Ladies first,” I tell her, and she giggles at my mock-chivalry. Just the same, she walks up the stairs ahead of me and I get the pleasure of a close-up view of the way her full, round ass fills out the denim miniskirt she’s wearing. I take a quick glance around—none of the neighbors are out or watching, so I lift my hand to her bottom and give it a quick squeeze. I want her to know what she’s getting into before she comes inside; with this gesture, there’s no mistaking my intentions.
With my hand still on her ass, she freezes just before the top of the stairs. I walk right up to her and press my tits into her back and place my hand gently on her hip, my fingers stretching delicately toward her pubis.
“Do you still want to come in?” I whisper with my mouth right next to her ear. I flick my tongue against her earlobe and tease the little gold hoop earring she’s wearing. She’s speechless but she slowly nods, so I guide her with my hand on the small of her back to the front door of my apartment and I let us in.
“Would you like anything to drink? Water, Tea, Wine, Scotch?”
“No thanks,” she replies, walking slowly away from me to examine the framed prints on my wall. I do amateur photography, and my apartment is my gallery. The one that draws her attention is a self-portrait of mine, a black and white, very tasteful nude in which I only appear from the neck down. I fix myself a scotch on the rocks and watch her looking at my picture, transfixed by the sight of my ample breasts and pierced nipples.
“Do you like my photographs?” I ask her, striding across the room with the scotch in my hand.
“They’re beautiful,” she says. “Who is the model?”
I point at the tattoos on the picture, then on my arm. “Me, of course.”
She giggles. “I didn’t realize, I thought you meant you took these pictures.”
“I did,” I reply, taking a long sip of the scotch. “Want me to take your picture?”
“Like these?” She asks, aghast, indicating my nudes.
I laugh. “Nude? Not necessarily. Unless you wanted to.” I flop down on the futon and pat on the cushion next to me, inviting her to sit down. “Look, I’m going to be blunt. Have you ever been with another woman?”
She sits down gingerly and looks at me very seriously. “No, I haven’t. But I think I would like to.” I set down my scotch and run my fingers through her silky, long brown hair. I pull her face toward me and give her a warm, passionate kiss, letting my tongue slowly and purposefully massage hers. I keep kissing her until her rigid shoulders relax, then I pull back and look her in the eyes.
“You can leave now, if you want.” I tell her, indicating the door. “If you stay, I will fuck you.” I lean back and take the last drink of scotch in my glass.
She looks at the door, she looks at me. I worry that I’ve pushed too hard, she might not want this after all. But I start to see a wicked grin play across her face. She’s ready. She reaches over and grabs one of my breasts, clumsily, like she’s clutching a football, and mashes her face up to mine in a desperate, hungry, asking kiss. I lean my body into hers and she falls back onto the futon, all groping hands and sloppy kisses, letting her heretofore suppressed desire to be with a woman finally surface, full-blown, aching to be fulfilled in the worst way.
I lie down on top of her and kiss her neck, lick it, suck on it a little while she gasps for breath. I reach between her smooth, taut thighs and rub the crotch of her panties with my thumb. They are, as I suspected, soaked. I remove my hand from between her thighs and quickly unbutton and unzip her skirt, and whip it off. I stick my face between her thighs and deeply inhale her smell, rub her clit through the thin white cotton with my nose. I plant a quick kiss there and pull my head back up, grab at the hem of her t-shirt and take that off, too.
I look down at her, beneath me, her eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her chest rising and falling with her deep breaths. I unclasp her bra and cup her breasts in my hands, gently kneading them, and put my mouth to one of her gorgeous pink nipples, flicking it with my tongue, sucking, kissing, nibbling. She moans and I move on to the other nipple, rubbing my thumb over the first one. She begins to undulate under my hips.
I pull back for a second and give her a hungry look. I wait for her to meet my gaze, and when she does, I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and peel them off. I press my palms to the insides of her thighs and push them back so that she is open and waiting, just inches from my face.
I breathe on her before I go in with my tongue. I purse my lips and blow gently on her labia, on her clit, holding her squirming legs firmly in place with a strong grip as she strains to make her pussy meet my face.
“Ah, ah, ah,” I say, bringing my face up to look at hers, which is almost pained with lust. “I want you to hold still,” I tell her. “Keep your body still and focus only on the pleasure you feel where I touch you. If you feel like making noise, go ahead—my apartment is soundproofed and no one will hear a thing. You can moan, shout, scream, cuss, laugh, whatever, as loud as you want, but I will not fuck you if you’re flopping around like a goddamn fish on my futon.”
She freezes underneath me, unused to being talked-to in such a stern voice during sex. She looks at me with the face of a petulant child, bats her eyelashes a little. I grasp her chin and kiss her sweetly. “I just want this to feel as good for you as it does for me, little one,” I tell her. Then I pry her legs back open and reward her with a generous lick all up and down her pussy lips before I zero in on her clit and begin lapping at it like a kitten. She starts to shake and I squeeze her thighs a little more tightly until she stops. She’s quiet for a moment, then she moans.
I relax my grip and stroke her thigh with my left hand while I start to finger her with my right. I continue to flick her clit with my tongue, rhythmically and in time with the thrusts from my fingers. She moans again, this time louder. Words, dammnit, I think. I like my lovers vocal but I hate to try to force them. I just keep fucking her, with my mouth and my hand, waiting for the deluge of words or even just sounds to come out of my shy little conquest’s mouth.
I quicken the pace of my tongue lashings on my little one’s clit and allow three of my fingers to thrust inside of her somewhat erratically. She starts to squirm again but then catches herself, instead mutters, “Oh, fuck,” and I increase the pace of my fingerfucking and suck down hard on her clit so I can hear her explode.
“Oh, god! Oh, Jesus! Lara, Lara, Lara! Fuck me, yes, yes, oh god that feels so fucking good, unh! Ah! Ahhhhhhh!” She screams, as I feel my hand get wet with a flood of her juicy cum.
I withdraw my hand and raise my head up to look at her. She grabs my head and tries to direct it back to her pussy. “More,” she cries, “More, give me more. Eat my pussy some more, please? Fuck me with your hand again, I want to come, I can come again, I know it . . .”
I pull my head out of her flimsy grip and gently push her supplicant body back down on the futon. “Hang on, I’ve got something even better for you,” I say, and reach under the futon (which is both my couch and my bed) for my black lacquered box of tricks. I pull out my harness and my big, black strap-on, and watch her eyes get wide when she realizes this is what I’m about to fuck her with.
“Let’s see, what else have I got here?” I rummage through the box of vibrators, lube, dildos, and other assorted toys until I find them. “Bingo!” I say, and pull out a set of fur-lined handcuffs. “Have you ever been restrained during sex?” I ask her, again, hoping I haven’t overstepped my boundaries and scared her off.
“No, but I think I might like it,” she replies.
I convert my futon into its bed function and use the handcuffs to restrain her arms and legs in a spread-eagle position on my bed. Standing over her and taking in every inch of her luscious body, I take off my tank top and shorts and stand nude in front of her. I go to put on my harness and strap-on when I catch a glimpse of my camera on top of my dresser. With the dildo protruding from me like a great, black erection, I stride across the room and pick it up.
“Is it okay to take your picture?” I ask, aiming the camera at her and seeing through its lens just how lovely she looks, pale and shy against the black fabric of the mattress.
She blushes and looks away. “Okay,” she says, bashfully. “Just promise they won’t end up on the internet or something.”
I nod solemnly and take a few snaps—some close-ups of her boobs and crotch, some of her sweet face, some of the whole, spread-eagle shebang. Unable to stand it any longer, I flop onto the bed on top of her and plant soft, wet kisses on each of her nipples and trail down her stomach to her tenderest spots, and lick up some of the cum that still clings to her swollen, dark pussy lips.
“Fuck me, Lara! Fuck me!” she cries, and I am happy to oblige. I put the dildo up to her pussy lips and tease them open with the head, then thrust it in smoothly while she groans with pleasure and gratitude.
I bang her hard with my strap on, rub her clit with my thumb, all slick from her cum, and coax her into a series of orgasms that she announces with a loud moan and a series of four-letter words and prayers to the god of aroused females. Just when she starts to look like she’s had enough, I push the button on the battery pack attached to my harness and the strap-on starts to vibrate. I do this for my own pleasure, but I can tell it’s having an effect on her, as well. Pretty soon, the vibration and the feel of her sweet, tender body undulating under me is enough to send me over the edge, and I cum while I continue to fuck her with the dildo. She opens her mouth and lets out this howl—I can only describe it as a howl—as she comes to her highest climax of the afternoon. I slow my thrusts and gently pull out of her, while she gasps and shakes beneath me.
“Was that good, princess?” I ask her, and she nods slowly, eyes closed, a look of perfect contentment on her face. I think about all the things I want her to do to me, how bad I want to shove her face into my own dripping-wet pussy and make her eat me while she looks up at the bliss on my face with those big Bambi eyes of hers.
I decide not to, though—not right now, at least. Usually when I pick up one of these undergrads, I’m happy to fuck them once, turn them on to all sorts of kinky sex, then never call them again. Even so, when they see me around town they’ve usually got a warm smile and a big “thanks” for me—sometimes I can even tell that their friends and roommates thank me, too. But I don’t think I’m so ready to let this little piece in front of me get away so easily. I want to prolong this, have my meal served to me in courses, as it were—I’ve got plans for her.
“Get your things,” I tell her softly, taking the fur-lined restraints off of her wrists and ankles, “it’s time for you to go.”
“What?” She asks, sitting up and crossing her arms in front of her heaving breasts. “But—would you like to get dinner? Can I spend the night?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I have work to do, but I do want to see you again. Meet me tomorrow, at the same time, at the café, and I’ll bring you back here again and teach you a few more things.”
She looks hurt, and confused, but I don’t say another word, I just walk to the kitchen (still naked, mind you, and wearing the strap-on) and pour myself another scotch. She dresses, grabs her bag, and throws me a look of hurt and anger. “You don’t even know my name,” she says, sounding almost bitter.
“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips. “Don’t tell me. The ball’s in your court, sweetheart. If you want to see me again, meet me tomorrow. I want you to have some time to think over what you’ve done and make sure it’s something you want to keep doing. And whether it’s anything you want to keep doing with me.”
She nods slowly and lets herself out my front door. I have a sip of my scotch and look at the disarray in my one-room apartment. She was a lot of fun, but tomorrow’s the first day of Fall semester and I’ve got to prep for the first day of class.
I always try to wear my most respectable-looking clothing at the beginning of a new semester, which is always a hilarious contrast with my facial piercings and funky hair. Still, in my white collared shirt and black pants, I think I make an imposing figure of authority to my class of impressionable youngsters. (Youngsters! They’re only a few years younger than I am). I get to my classroom early, turn on the lights, and arrange the chairs into a big circle like I always do. I sit down at one of the desks and rifle through my syllabus and assignments, looking over them for any mistakes and thinking of what kind of icebreaker game I’m going to have them do so I can remember all of their names.
The students start to file in, sleepy and with coffee cups in hand, at about 10 minutes to 8. One of the girls reminds me of my little one, the girl from yesterday, and I smile briefly, thinking how funny it would be if she showed up for my class. I suppose there’s always the chance, when you’re a grad student instructor like me, that if you mess around with undergrads, one of them is going to end up in your class one of these days. I never mess around with my students while they’re current students, but I have been known to take one or two of them home with me—after the semester ended and after grades had been submitted. I’m normally quite careful, but it occurs to me that this time, I could have fucked up. I let myself fantasize, for a second, about what I would do if she did turn out to be my student.
A minute later, I don’t need to fantasize anymore. She walks through the door, into my classroom. At first she looks horrified, but then looks around quickly to see if anyone else notices her reaction. She collects herself, sits down in the farthest chair away from me, which happens to be facing me directly, and stares.
I look around the room, and none of the drowsy students are paying any attention whatsoever. I catch her eye, then let her watch my gaze as my eyes linger on her cleavage, peeking out from under the white v-neck blouse that she’s wearing, then continue my downward glance at the tops of her thighs, which I can see below the hem of super-short, navy blue miniskirt.
She darts her eyes back and forth across the classroom and, like me, realizes there is no one paying any attention to us whatsoever. She scoots to the edge of her seat and spreads her legs wide so I can see the fabric of the black thong that she’s wearing. I let my hungry gaze linger there for only a moment when the door opens, and I turn to see the next student walking in. My little one resumes a more ladylike sitting position almost instantly. I look at my watch and see that it’s just after 8.
“Okay, class, we’re going to get started. My name is Lara Andersen, please call me Lara. I’m going to go around the room and have you all introduce yourselves and try to learn your names. Let’s see, why don’t I start with . . . you.” I point at my once-shy girl, who has just treated me to the sight of her panties right in the middle of a classroom. I get out my class roster and briefly glance over the names, wondering if I can guess which one is hers.
“Bunny,” she says, and a few of the students snicker. “Bunny Hopper.”
“Is that your real name?” this frat-boy looking, polo-shirt wearing motherfucker asks my sweet one snidely.
I look down at my roster—there’s a Beatrice Hopper, but no Bunny.
“Yep,” she says, looking me squarely in the eyes, challenging me to contradict her. “Bunny Hopper. My parents had a sick sense of humor.”
I look at the polo-shirt wearing kid with eyes of ice. “You need to be more respectful during class,” I say to him. I look at the student next to Bunny. “Go.”
He says his name, and the rest say their names, in turn, but I’m only half-listening. I’m trying to figure this Beatrice out. So she wants to be called Bunny, huh? I think to myself. I wonder if she’ll still show up at the café around 5 today, the same time we met up yesterday. Hell, I wonder if I will—am I really willing to break the student/teacher taboo for this sweet little brunette? Either way, I can tell, this is going to be an interesting semester.