The sun was catching the reddish highlights in her brown hair, cut in loose waves that hung just below her shoulders. Her T-shirt, snug against her nicely muscled shoulders and arms, was damp with sweat and clung to her breasts and back. She looked sexy as hell.
After a minute or two, she set down her axe and turned to stack the wood, and finally noticed me standing there. As a cockeyed grin spread across her face, she opened her arms and I ran headlong into them. And when I did, I bolted wide awake.
*
It took me a moment to realize where I was, and another to accept that I was alone. My heart sank. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, awash in the lingering trace of her arms around me, her warm skin against mine.
Chase. We hadn’t said a word, but I knew that was her name. And somehow, from only those few moments with her, I had indelibly etched her in my mind. Expressive blue eyes. Full lips. High cheekbones. Skin bronzed by the sun. Firm, round breasts and a small, tight ass. I couldn’t wait to see her again. And she didn’t disappoint.
Every night thereafter, she came to me as soon as I nodded off. In every dream, we were doing ordinary, simple things together. Reading to each other or cooking dinner or sharing a quiet moment by the fire.
It was wonderful, of course. We had the kind of relationship that I had always wished for but had never been able to attain in real life: one that had the trust and easy familiarity that only came with years together, but still retained the thrill of new passion.
Oh yes, we were hot for each other. Sizzling hot. I saw it often, but only in maddening glimpses. In the smoldering look in her eyes, in the playfully sexy way we interacted, in the whispered promises of what she was going to do to me later, always later. For some reason unknown to me, I always woke up the moment I went to touch her or kiss her the way I positively ached to do.
And then she began haunting my waking moments as well. I’d swear I had seen a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. Felt her breath against my face. Caught a whisper of jasmine that I knew must be her. I’d be having coffee on the porch and glance over to find the rocking chair next to me moving, just a little.
It was maddening. Maddening. I was able to think of nothing else. Only how much I wanted her. And therein lay the frustration that led me here.
I had to make her three-dimensional. And one day, she showed me how.
I awoke that morning to find that a tree had fallen, blocking my driveway. A basswood, perfect for carving, and just the right circumference.
It took me two weeks of carving fourteen hours a day to find the outline of her body within the fragrant wood. Life-sized, of course—just a bit taller than I am—and perfectly to scale. My tools and my hands sought out the curves and crevices: the swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, the expanse of firm thigh, and as each detail was realized she came a little more to life.
Last night, I finished her lips, sanding them with fine grit sandpaper until they were smooth and warm beneath my fingers. Ordinarily, I saved the final polish work until the whole piece was done, and there were parts of her that were still only roughly defined. But I’d become obsessed with those lips. I had stared at them too much, too long, imagining her mouth on mine.
When I finished, just shy of midnight, I ran my hands lightly over her face, the eyes still indistinct, the expressive brows undefined. More lover’s caress than artist’s assessment. I traced the lips, one side curved upward in the trace of a smile, with my thumb, and swore that just for a millisecond I felt something move, something give. I chalked it up to exhaustion and slumped onto the couch to study her.
Did I close my eyes? I don’t think so. I don’t remember nodding off. I know I stared at her a very long time, wondering not for the first time why she called me Smitty, always with affection in her voice, like it was a pet name or something. I don’t know why I didn’t ever object, tell her I wasn’t Smitty, I was Anne. But I didn’t. It’s like it didn’t even occur to me. When I dreamed of us together, Smitty seemed to suit me just fine.
I became aware all at once that there was suddenly detail to the statue, where I had carved only rough edges. The feet suddenly had toes. The hands, fingers. And there were nipples on those firm, round breasts. Erect nipples. How the hell are the nipples darker than the surrounding wood? I had time to ponder before she was moving, stepping off the low pedestal, her eyes flashing mischief.
I tried to sit up, but I was frozen in place. My breath caught in my throat. I was speechless.
She took her time, swaying her hips seductively as she approached. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips, now pink and poised to kiss me.
My heartbeat shot into overdrive, but still I wasn’t able to move.
She placed one hand on either side of my body to support her weight, careful not to actually touch me, then lowered her body until our faces were a foot apart. Until we were breathing the same air.
“Nice work, lover,” she whispered, just before she claimed my mouth with hers.
At first, we met with the merest glance of a touch. A teasing and tender brush of lips, to savor and prolong the first splendid meeting of our bodies. Then another. And again. Each pass of exquisite softness a bit more insistent. Longer. Firmer. Until the promise of a kiss became a real one.
I lost myself in the warmth and welcomed the invasion of her tongue as it sought mine. We kissed deep and slow and wet, coming together with the unfettered passion of reunited lovers much too long apart. Bruising lips in a crush of feeling. Then she pulled back to nip playfully at my lower lip, leaving her mark. Oh, I loved it when she did that. I did the same to her.
She kissed me hard again, and the sweet taste of her mouth felt like a homecoming. An ache of desire poured through me, filling me, until my heart threatened to burst my chest. I longed to put my arms around her, feel her skin beneath my hands, but my body was paralyzed, unable to move.
Our lips parted, and I heard her sharp intake of breath, just fractionally ahead of mine. But by the time I opened my eyes, she was gone. Back on the pedestal. Made of wood again.
I glanced at the clock as my hand came up to touch my mouth. I seem to be moving just fine now, my brain registered hazily. My lips felt tender and swollen. And only a few minutes had elapsed.
I went to the mirror. There it was. A small bruise, where she had marked me.
And then, when I examined the statue up close, I saw it there, too. A faint dark place in the wood at the edge of her mouth. Where I had marked her.
There would be no more rest for me, I knew, until the statue was finished.
It took another twenty-three hours of carving and sanding. I was a woman obsessed, living on caffeine and shrugging off cramped muscles and other aching body parts. Her legs, her arms, her back, her hair, were all done as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But I lingered over her breasts, unable to resist stopping frequently to let my hands caress the smooth contours as they took shape. I did the same when I carved her ass, and the apex of her thighs, imagining…or was it remembering?…how it felt to touch the real thing.
Satisfied at last, I let my fingers trace over her, the finish smooth as real skin, every curve and muscle perfect. I swear I felt the wood pulse beneath my fingertips. Standing on tiptoe, I planted a brief kiss on Chase’s lips and headed to bed.
It seemed no time at all before she slipped in behind me, spooning her warm body against my back. Her breath was warm against my cheek as she settled herself so that our bodies were touching along their entire length, her chin on my shoulder.
“Took you long enough,” she murmured in affectionate reprimand as her hand trailed slowly up my thigh to my hip, then my stomach. I was delighted to discover that the exhaustion of my labors evaporated as soon as she touched me.
Her hard nipples brushed over my back and her hips pushed insistently into mine, but still she was not close enough. I reached behind us to cup her ass roughly and pull her even tighter, and was rewarded with a groan. As I f
elt the muscles bunch and tense beneath my hand, I had a sudden inexplicable memory of fondling her ass as she lay atop me, pumping into me, and the sudden, vivid recall roused a heavy flutter of arousal in the pit of my stomach.
How could I have forgotten that?
She made another sound, deep in her throat, as her hand found my breast, gently cupping its weight before splayed fingers teased the nipple into a stiff and sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Harder,” I urged, and she responded instantly with a firm pinch and twist that made the lack of direct stimulation between my legs unbearable. My hips began to sway, slow gyrations, and hers followed suit, pushing into me, insistent, and I got that image again of her fucking me. I tilted my head to offer her my neck. I wanted her to taste me, touch me, stroke me, everywhere. My body cried out for hers.
“Whatever you want, love.” She closed her mouth on the delicate skin beneath my jaw and sucked hard, marking me again, a swift jolt of pain and pleasure that left me with a sated sense of belonging.
“Making me yours,” I murmured, and I heard the smile in her voice as she answered.
“Yes, love. Only fair, after all.”
The rolling syncopation of our hips and her attention to my breasts was driving me wild, arousing me beyond belief, and I knew from her husky, labored breathing that Chase was as turned on as I was.
Her hand left my breast to tug at me, to roll me over toward her, and when I did, she moved on top of me, parting my thighs to lie between them. Her hungry mouth closed around my nipple and sucked hard.
I gasped from the shock of desire that surged through me, pulsing blood into the juncture of my thighs, and I fisted my hands into her hair and urged her on. She nipped and sucked one nipple, then the other, until the pressure for release built to a blinding need.
“Please, Chase,” I begged. “Please.” I wasn’t sure what I was asking for; I only knew I needed more.
She moved up my body to kiss me, and this kiss held none of the tentative sweet flirtation of that first one. It was all heat and memory, and promises of things to come. As our centers came together, she pushed her tongue into my mouth, and I pictured her pushing other things into me again.
“Please,” I repeated, my voice breaking, when we parted to breathe.
“Soon,” she promised. She began a languid and sensual descent, lavishing wet kisses along my neck, then between my breasts, where she paused to look up at me with pupils large and dark with desire. “But first, I want to make sure you are ready.”
Every muscle in my body tensed in sweet anticipation as her hands pushed my legs apart and her mouth breathed over my swollen clit. I would have believed myself incapable of thought just then, but I suddenly knew, just knew, how Chase could make me feel with that talented mouth and lips and tongue of hers. I’ve felt it before.
I didn’t try to reason it out just then; my mind went blank as her mouth found my center. I was incredibly wet already, but she made me wetter still, drove me so close to climax so quickly that trying to delay was anguish. But I wanted to delay—because I wanted her inside of me with a fierceness so raw it shocked me.
“How I wish…” It was hard to talk, hard to reason, hard to breathe, even, but she knew.
Before I was able to complete the sentence, she moved back up my body to lie atop me, and somehow, some way, it happened. I knew I hadn’t carved that, when I felt the hard cock against me. But I shouldn’t have been that surprised. I already knew it was most definitely the night for magic to happen and dreams to come true.
“How?” she asked in a strained whisper, as her hips began to move, rocking against me, opening me up for her. She pushed into me, slowly, fractionally, the difficulty in holding back evident in the tight set of her jaw.
And just as she knew, so did I. I knew she wasn’t asking how it was possible. She was asking how I wanted it, because she wanted to know if I remembered the way we liked it best.
I smiled at her and she saw it in my eyes, that flicker of recognition, and her lopsided grin became a full-fledged smile as she lifted off me and we repositioned ourselves, never losing touch of each other.
She reclined on pillows placed against the headboard of the bed, half sitting and half lying, legs outstretched, erection beckoning. Slowly I climbed astride her, facing her, and as her hands came around my waist, I threaded my hands through her hair, pulling her head back.
I wanted her to be looking at me as I lowered myself onto her, because the hazy expression in her eyes when I did that always made it ten times sweeter.
I was open and ready, and I could have easily impaled myself on her, but I knew that would send me over in an instant, and I was determined to make it last. So I teased her, taking her in slowly, then rising up again, making her meet me with her hips, letting her penetrate me only enough each time to leave us both gasping for completion.
With a groan, she leaned forward as we rocked and took my right breast in her mouth, biting the nipple hard enough to convey the urgency of her need. An unspoken plea.
I pulled her head back again and looked into her eyes, and I nodded, and as one, she thrust upward and I pushed down and she filled me.
I heard a whimper. Hers, or mine, or both, perhaps. And then our hips began to move again.
I so loved the way our bodies found that perfect rhythm when she fucked me.
We both tried to prolong it, that exquisite torture of teetering on the edge. Her hands tightened on my hips in an effort to slow that final push to climax and my body tried to listen, but it there was no stopping it now.
“Can’t…” she panted, desperation in her eyes, a millisecond before that final, frenzied pistoning of her hips drove us both to a shattering orgasm.
The blood roared in my veins, and I cried out as I felt the warm and sticky evidence of our coming together coat my inner thighs. The heavy, sweet scent hung in the air.
I collapsed against her as the trembling subsided, relishing the feel of her inside of me. We stayed like that, clutching tight to each other, for several long minutes, until we regained enough of ourselves to try for favorite position number two.
I knew the dawn was not far away as we lay spent and sweaty some hours later, her body once more spooning mine from behind. I fought sleep, unwilling to relinquish any second with her. Somehow, I guess, I knew this would be our only night together. But despite my best intentions, my body was not cooperating. My eyes closed, my heartbeat slowed, and I relaxed into her embrace. “I love you, Chase,” I murmured, drifting off.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back, her breath soft against my neck. “You done good, Anne.”
I was not so far gone that I failed to notice she had called me by my real name for the first time. But it was hard—no, impossible, to ignore the pull of sleep. “How? Who?” I managed, as the sandman tugged me harder.
“You were Smitty when we lived here,” she whispered. “I know you’re Anne now, but old habits are hard to break.”
I couldn’t move or speak. I succumbed to slumber then, no choice about it, and for the first time in months, it was a sleep devoid of dreams.
The next morning, when I awoke, the bed was empty, the statue gone.
But I swear that even now, when the light is just right, I can see the faintest remnant of her marks on me.
The Problem with Academics
Lynne Jamneck
I’m not the kind of woman who takes risks. Stupid risks, I mean. I will buy a lottery ticket every so often simply because I feel like it, and not necessarily because I harbor any faith that I’ll actually win. Once in a while I’ll risk the grocery store on a Sunday morning wearing nothing but sloppy jeans and no gel in my hair, and not worry about the fact that one of my students or, God forbid, a coworker might see me. Professors, after all, have to keep up appearances. Apart from these extravagant forays into the dark side of risk taking, I can safely say that I’m not much of a gambler.
Two months ago, I turned thirty-three. It’s not
a bad thing. I’m very young to be a professor, or so everyone keeps telling me. Having spent the better part of my adult life studying some or other form of academia hasn’t left much idle time for pursuing my other major interest—women.
When it comes to choosing lovers I tend to opt for someone who is entirely unlike me, who enjoys Mozart and Debussy and finds immense disdain in the evidence of my AC/DC CD collection. People seem to have this notion that if you know a lot about a murky subject such as history, your cultural tastes should be similarly refined. Not so.
Being a fan of Bon Scott and the lads, though, limits your options for romantic entanglement when you work at a prissy university like Barker. Everyone knows I’m gay. The men tend to think they can entertain me by asking relationship advice, while most women amuse me on the grounds that they are not sure what to talk about when they’re in my company. Somehow Ellen Degeneres or Jodie Foster always seems to come up.
Students who take history as a subject are not in my class
because they need an extra subject. Especially not a course like Reconstruction and Representation: Politics, Identity, and Film in Post-1945 Europe.
*
She was twenty-two, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t find her attractive. She was also one of my students, and that was bite-your-toes crocodile country. As in, stay out of.
I have never found any one of my students so completely
interesting that I would want to get to know them outside of the classroom. They’re too young and inexperienced in so many ways. Increasingly these days, I feel I don’t have any time to waste on extracurricular education.
Grace Pullman, however, was not the type of woman who appeared to have any interest in nonsensical flings. Then again, I’ve been wrong about women before. Still, she seemed out of touch with the rest of her classmates who, when they were not paying attention to my lectures, were talking about what the best place was to get drunk over the weekend. Sure, I remember what it’s like to be eighteen; I just don’t particularly want to go back there myself.
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