by May, Soraya
Swiping my card, I fiddle with the infuriating automatic door, which won't open. The cheerfully bronzed and muscular guy behind the counter looks up from his book.
"Yeah, maybe you're standing too close? Try it again."
Still nothing. Don't these people realize I have an, uh, appointment?
"Maybe wait for a minute?" The expression on my face convinces him that waiting isn't what I want to do, and he relents. "Okay, okay..." The magic button underneath the desk, which everyone knows is there, gets pressed and the door opens, grudgingly.
Down the hallway, past the main weights area, and a quick look inside through the glass. Not many people. Good, less chance of them hearing any noise.
The paint on the door of the faculty weight room is peeling, to the point the sign now says '-AC-TY W-IG R-OM' Why a college where the median age of the professors is over 60 still has a private workout area for them, I do not know.
Still, it's here, and I say a private thank-you to all the old guys who never, ever come here, then take a deep breath, and knock softly.
28
I lean against the wall of the faculty weight room, and watch as the door handle turns slowly, and Emily slips inside.
“Come in, Ms. Masterson. Did anyone see you?” She shakes her head. “Lock the door.”
Click. “Now come and stand in the center of the room.”
“Anything you say, Professor.” She smiles that pretty smile, with just a hint of naughtiness, and I know how much she wants this, how much she wants to submit to me.
I know that she’s mine now; she’ll do anything I want, and the more I have of her, the more aroused she’ll become. Emily wants me to take her, to make her come again, and again, and again, and she wants to give herself up to me completely.
"Turn around", I say. The room is empty except for us, and all the doors are locked; I have her all to myself. Emily turns on the balls of her feet, and waits for me.
"Put your arms above your head." Emily raises her arms, and bends at the waist, just enough to accentuate the muscles across her shoulders and back, and over her hips.
I pause to enjoy the sight of her like that, slim arms and shoulders, trim little waist, and firm butt. I think about what Emily will look like when she's naked and exposed for me, desperate for me to pleasure her, and how she's going to beg for my tongue and my fingers. I wonder if obeying me is turning her on already; if her pussy is already wet from doing exactly as I say.
"Now, strip for me. Take your pants off. Do it slowly."
She slips off her sneakers, and kicks them to one side. Taking her time, Emily hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her tight gym shorts, and bends forward easily, light on her bare feet. Her pants slide down off her hips, down over the curve of her ass, past her thighs.
Emily's thigh muscles stand out as she bends at the waist, and I see the glisten of wetness between them. Now she slides her pants down past her calves, over her ankles, down to her feet. She steps out of them, and stands straight, facing away from me. Her hands are loose by her sides; she glances back at me over her shoulder, and smiles that pretty, dirty smile again.
There's a bench in front of her, with a bar racked; her smile makes me think momentarily about how she'd look flat on her back, wrists lashed to the bar, thighs parted, begging for my tongue.
Her right hand goes to her mouth, and she puts one finger between her lips, then another. Her lips are wet as she sucks her fingers a little, teasingly. She looks at me again, mouth slightly open, fingers wet.
"Touch yourself, Emily."
She shifts her weight to stand with her legs apart, and bends forward again. Her wet fingers slip smoothly into her pussy. In the quiet of the gym, I can hear her breathing. Once, twice, in and out, over her clit and then back inside her.
"Again, Ms. Masterson. I want to watch you fuck yourself with your fingers."
Her left hand rests on the bar, and she bends forward more, strong thighs in front of me, open for me. Her fingers are in her pussy again, and I'm getting wet as I watch Emily pleasure herself. She's breathing harder now, fingers grazing her clit as she plunges them into her wet pussy. I see her buttocks tense, and I know she wants to come, wants me to see her orgasm in front of me, but I'm going to make her wait, make her beg me before she does.
"That's enough for now. Lie on the bench with your arms above your head."
I stand up, take Emily's waist, and guide her to the bench. She's still breathing hard, but she obeys me wordlessly. As I push her down on the bench, my fingers find her pussy, and flick her clit, and she shivers with pleasure. I look at her, and she smiles again.
I tie up her wrists with a strap, winding it over and around them, then looping it over the bar and knotting it tightly. Her arms are pulled up tight above her head, and the muscles on her shoulders and back stand out as she pulls against it. Her breasts are high and proud against her top, and I think about putting my mouth on her nipples, but I can't wait any longer, and I want to taste her right now.
What do you want now, Emily?" She breathes in, deeply. Her nipples are hard underneath her tight top.
"Take me. Lick me. Fuck me, Will."
I kneel in front of her at the end of the bench, and push her thighs apart. She spreads for me willingly, and I start with my fingers at her knees, then slide them slowly, very slowly, up her thighs, pressing my fingers hard against her muscles. My fingers are slippery with her arousal already, and she shivers as I move higher and higher. I pause just at her lips for a moment, anticipating tasting her, devouring her, having my mouth on Emily's pussy.
"Oh fuck, please, Will, don't make me wait. I want your tongue.". Emily writhes and pulls against the straps holding her wrists above her head.
"You're a horny little minx, aren't you, Ms. Masterson? Tell me you want your pussy licked."
"Oh, God, I want my pussy licked right now. Please, Will, I want you to fuck me with your tongue so badly, please."
I love how she looks, flat on her back on the bench with her thighs apart, exposed for me; I dip my head, and gently press my tongue against her.
Emily gasps the moment my tongue touches her clit; her bare feet drive into the mat, and she pushes herself up towards me, onto my mouth. Her desire makes me harder and harder; I can feel how much she wants me, hips bucking, desperate for my tongue. I lick her more firmly now, my hands going under Emily's buttocks, long strokes of my tongue over her clit and down into her wet pussy. She moans and wriggles, but she can't escape my mouth.
"Are you a horny minx, Em?"
"Oh fuck, yes, Will, I'm a horny little minx and I want you to fucking eat me, eat my pussy, now, pleease.."
I dive back into her pussy, tongue pressed flat, rhythmic pulses over and over pressing against her. Every time, I squeeze her ass hard, and I'm rewarded with a sharp cry of pleasure. Faster, until she's moving with me, pushing forward to force my tongue inside her pussy, then in an instant I pause again.
I lift her thighs up, opening her legs further. More straps, first around one thigh, then the other, then over the bar and tight, pulling her legs higher, spreading her wide open.
Now Emily’s completely helpless; her arms are tied to the bar, and her legs are pulled apart. She's completely exposed for me, her wetness slipping out of her pussy and down over her ass. I think about how many times I've fantasized about this scene, how many times I've looked at her gym clothes and imagined her trim figure underneath them, naked and mine to pleasure.
I slip the vibrator from my bag and trace its point in a figure-eight over her buttocks and up her thighs. When I switch it on, the hum fills the quiet air of the gym; she waits for me obediently, legs spread wide, wanting my tongue again.
Slowly the point moves over her clit, and sinks into her pussy. I have to slide it into her in stages, inch by inch, until it's almost disappeared.
Finally, it's all the way inside her pussy, and I turn my attention to her clit again. She's quiet except for her rapid breathing, and litt
le shivers as the vibrator pulses inside her, but I know she won't be quiet for long. I dip my head again, and start to lick her clit.
This time, I won't stop until she comes. Gently at first, then increasing in strength, faster and faster until I'm devouring her, tongue hard over her clit, one hand on the base of the vibrator working it in and out of her pussy. Emily starts to moan, getting louder as I increase in intensity.
"Oh, god, don't stop Will, don't stop, I fucking love your tongue. Yes, just like that, please, yes.."
Now she shivers and I can feel her tense; I know she's about to come and I start flicking her clit with my tongue repeatedly, one hand gripping her buttocks hard, the other on the vibrator, pressing it into her G-spot. Emily screams and starts to shake; her orgasm begins in her fingertips and travels down her arms, through her breasts, her stomach and into her pussy. She bucks against me wildly, straining against the ropes and gasping as I hold her hips tightly and prolong her orgasm with gentle strokes of my tongue.
Finally, her orgasm subsides, and she relaxes back onto the bench. I slip the vibrator out of her, and trace it along her inside thigh once more, making her shiver. Kneeling next to her, I kiss her on the forehead.
“Think you learned something, Ms. Masterson?” She smiles weakly.
“I think I did, Professor. I learned that I want you to do that to me every Friday.”
29
My sudden enthusiasm for the gym over the last two weeks has not escaped Ronnie’s attention. I keep telling her I’ve got a new workout program, and I’m really enjoying it. Which is completely true.
I’m in a department store buying some more yoga pants, after my last pair were ripped clean through—yeah, Ronnie, I guess that is pretty weird. Yes, they are supposed to stretch. No, I’ve no idea how it happened—when my phone beeps.
It’s him, identified just as ‘W’ in my address book.
Dinner? I have somewhere private.
I text him back hurriedly.
I want to, but is it safe?
No, but let’s do it anyway. 8pm, French. Corner of Hopkins and Charles.
Juggling my purchases as I navigate the ‘twelve items or less’ aisle, I pause for a minute to rearrange my bag and try to text at the same time.
Wonderful. Class tomorrow morning so can’t stay. I wish I could.
I know. I would put a sad face here but for the fact I loathe emoticons.
For some reason that doesn’t surprise me at all.
Okay, emoticon-loather. See you then :)
* * *
The French place is small, shaded with a little awning outside, and the windows have drawn curtains. It looks closed, but I checked the street names twice, and this is definitely the place. I try the door, and it opens.
Inside, it’s a lot more welcoming—soft light from candles on the tables, and that tinkly almost-recognizable dinner music that seems to only play in small restaurants. Before I can look around, the maître d’ is at my elbow.
“This way, mademoiselle. Follow me, please.” He leads me through the tables to the back, and there he is. Will looks up, gets to his feet, and smiles at me. I still get short of breath when I see him smile.
“Damn.” He pauses. “You..you’re just..every time..Damn.” He looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world for him. I open my mouth, then close it again, and settle for just doing my best to smile and get control of my breathing at the same time.
Will pulls out my chair, and we sit for a moment while the maître d’ fusses over napkins, and the wine list, and the bread basket.
He smiles, “Ah, the bread basket. In many restaurants in England, the bread basket is purely ornamental, you know. You must not under any circumstances actually eat any bread from it, or you’ll upset the staff enormously.”
I grin despite myself. The wine arrives, and he straightens. “Right, a toast. To…to the United States of America, and to the beautiful, thoughtful, tender, sexy girl who’s made my time here better than ever I could have imagined.”
“Why, Professor. You’re making me blush.” I look down at my glass.
“I—I never expected this would happen, Emily. But I’m so very glad it has.” He’s silent for a minute, and for a second he looks a little sad. I want to ask him why, but he goes on. “Anyway. Tell me about your plans for the end of the semester.”
“Well,” I choose my words carefully, “I’ve got an opportunity for a communications job back down in Boston. So I was planning to go and stay with my parents, until I start work and I can find an apartment. Rent is pretty damn expensive there, and it’s not like an English major really makes employers sit up and beg, so I’m lucky to have an job lined up. I could stay here and try and find work locally, but…”
I tail off, and the unspoken question hangs between us. But there’s only one reason to do that, and it’s you. And you’re leaving.
He nods, and for the first time in a while, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I understand. Finishing your course often leaves students with a sense of being in limbo.”
I go on, quickly. “Or, I guess I could travel. I’ve got some money saved up, and I know my parents would help me if I asked. I’ve wanted to see Europe. And. And the UK.” Please say something, Will. Please.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at me a little sadly.
Maybe he wants me to ask. “How about you?”
He pauses before he answers. “Well, my appointment at Lowell is until the end of the semester. After that, I may have a job back in England at my old college, but that’s not confirmed yet. I left, uh, under…something of a cloud, but I’m hoping things will be better by the end of the semester.”
My heart sinks. It sounds like he’s not even thinking about staying. About us. Swallowing my disappointment, I look for something else to talk about. “Tell me about the courses you taught back in England. I’d really like to know about them.”
“Really, Emily? I don’t want to go on about teaching all through dinner. I’m not that egotistical.” He looks doubtful, and I take his hand.
“Honestly, Will, I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know. Watching you teach was, well, the first thing that made me fall for you.”
He smiles ruefully. “Yes, I guess it was. Professional ethics be damned. Okay, you asked for it. The Roman art and literature material we’re covering in your class is worthwhile, but there’s a huge body of material we don’t have time to cover, and…”
* * *
Over dinner, we talk about his courses, and about the books he wants to write. I tell him about being terrified of horses as a little girl, about wanting to learn about them so I wouldn’t be so frightened, and about the five recognized draft horse breeds in North America.
We have a brief argument about which is worse—beets or Brussels sprouts—and we discover that fruit cake is a completely different thing in the US to what it is in England. He laughs at my stupid jokes, and by the end of the evening I get the feeling he’s not even doing it to be polite. He holds my hand while we’re eating dessert—which makes it hard to eat, but I don’t care—and he watches me even when he thinks I’m not looking.
I only want to savor this moment, this evening, to look at him the way he looks at me, and for him to know that this is all I’ve ever wanted.
Standing up at the end of the evening, we wave goodbye to the maître d, and step outside into the chill. It’s started to rain, a fine mist that collects on the awning and starts to drip on the pavement.
Will wraps his coat around me and insists that I take it back to my room. “I’m not having you getting cold on the way back. I’m only sorry I can’t walk you back myself.”
I protest. “Someone might notice, and it’s going to be pretty obvious I’m wearing my boy—uh, my date’s coat.” That was close, Em.
“Well, so what? You’re an extraordinarily pretty girl, Emily. You go on a lot of dates.” No, I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t want to now I’ve met you.
&nb
sp; Risky though it is, there is something nice about the idea of having his coat hanging in my wardrobe. “You win, Professor. Just don’t freeze on the way back to your apartment, okay? I need you in class teaching tomorrow morning for the sake of my degree.”
He smiles and clicks his heels. “Anything you want, Ms. Masterson.”
We hug, and I don’t want to let him go. He brushes my forehead with the lightest of kisses, and pauses again. “Besides, you’ll have plenty of chances to give it back to me. I’ve been thinking, and perhaps…Perhaps I will stay at Lowell for a little longer.”
I barely notice the rain on the way home.
30
I check my watch for the twentieth time this morning. Only half an hour to go before I get to be at his place.
I'm so happy. This is perfect. Will's been busy grading papers for the last two days, and not being able to be with him is like a physical ache in my chest, like something is missing when he's not around.
Since the night we talked at dinner, my head's been full of schemes, ways we can be together, what will happen when I graduate. Can I stay here instead of going back to Boston? How long can he be here in the US instead of going home to England? Can we make it look like we got together after I graduated and was no longer his student?
Sometimes I get nervous, and afraid, and I wonder if he's going to get tired of me. What do I really have to offer him at my age, that he couldn't get, and much more, in someone older?
In someone else I'd think this was just a physical thing, but not with Will. The way he looks at me makes it impossible for me to believe that—hungry, needing, constantly. When we embrace, even if it's not sexual, he holds me so tight I can't breathe sometimes. And the words he says to me. "You're the best thing I've ever experienced." "You're the reason for me being happy here."