by Sky Corgan
My aunt said that she had gone over to check on my mother and found her bedridden. That's when she knew it was time to call the hospital.
“Why didn't you tell me it was getting so bad?” I asked, clasping her hand tightly between mine. She looked absolutely horrible, her red hair a mess and her glasses resting crooked against her nose. People always said that I was a mini-replica of my mother, and I was completely fine with that because I thought she was gorgeous. Very little of my looks came from my father. Only my nose and my brown eyes. Everything else was all hers.
“I didn't want to worry you, sweetie,” she told me, falling into a coughing fit directly afterward. “I know you were stressed out enough about starting college and having to move in with your dad. The last thing you needed was to worry about me.”
“You're my mother. It's my job to worry about you,” I replied, scowling.
“She's as stubborn as a goat,” Aunt Wendy said from the guest chair at the foot of my mother's hospital bed.
“I know. I told her she should go to the doctor, and she didn't listen. She was so worried about saving money and look where that landed her.”
“Oh, stop it, you two. I feel bad enough as it is.” Mom frowned, pulling her hand away from me.
“Well,” I sighed, “I hope you get better soon.”
“The doctor says I shouldn't be in here too much longer. A few days, at the most.”
“I'll try to come visit you every day after school,” I told her.
“Don't do that. It's such a long drive.”
“I don't mind. I want to make sure you're okay and behaving yourself.”
Mom smirked. “Trust me, they don't let me misbehave too much in here.”
“I won't let her misbehave either,” Aunt Wendy said sternly.
“Enough talk about the hospital.” Mom made a dismissive gesture. “Tell me about school. Have you met any cute boys?” Her eyes lit up at the prospect.
“Nope. Not really.” It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. There were quite a few attractive boys at my school, but none I had actually spoken with.
“That's a shame. Well, it's still early. You've only been going for what, three days?”
“Mhm.” I nodded.
“It might help if you didn't dress so conservative.” She gave my outfit a nagging appraisal. Apparently, my dress slacks and button up blouse weren't much to her liking.
“You know I hate looking like a skank,” I commented dryly.
“You don't have to dress like a skank to get boys, though I think they prefer that. Just show a bit more skin. For God's sake, you button up your blouse to the very top. It won't kill you to show some cleavage.”
“Mom!”
“Well, it won't.” She settled down into her hospital bed, trying to look innocent.
I couldn't help but grin.
Since I had taken the day off anyway, I decided to spend it at the hospital, entertaining my mother as best I could, though there was little to talk about. Most of the time was spent listening to her complain about the cost of healthcare, how her job was too cheap to offer her insurance, how she wouldn't be able to afford to pay her bills because of taking off so many days from work due to her illness, and how hospital food hadn't gotten any better in nearly twenty years.
Naturally, the not being able to pay her bills speech transitioned into why it was so important for me to stay in college. Not having a higher education had gotten my mother to where she was today, working at a pizza place and living from paycheck to paycheck. Thankfully, I had managed to get a grant to go to college, otherwise my fate might have been the same, though I doubted it. If my grant would have fallen through, my father most likely would have picked up the bill. He worked as a truck driver, hoarding back most of his money while he lived on the road. I rarely saw him, but he was quick to provide for my needs without any questioning or hesitation.
Finally, visiting hours were over, and I was forced to go home. While I was glad that I had taken the day off of school, I dreaded the backlog of homework that awaited me the following day. There was no way I was going to be able to get everything done plus that stupid art project.
I decided it was in my best interest to ask for an extension. Surely, Damien would understand that my mother came first. Then again, I didn't know how sensitive college professors were to their students' personal problems.
Figuring it would be better to talk to him about it alone, I decided to wait until after school. When I returned to his classroom at the end of the day though, I was disappointed to find it empty. The door was unlocked, so I stepped inside, scowling at the front of the room. I was screwed now. There was no choice but to finish my art project, or explain the following day why I hadn't.
Common sense told me I was better off hurrying to the hospital, so I could spend more time with my mother, but curiosity made me stay. I sighed as I took a seat at my desk, allowing myself a few minutes to de-stress before I had to head out into afternoon traffic. My eyes stared forward blankly, imagining Damien sitting in his chair, looking back at me. Just the thought of him sent a warm tingling straight to my sweet spot. The naughty part of me wanted to slip a hand between my legs and rub the spot into a wet stain, but I knew better than to do it so openly, where students were walking back and forth across the hall and could peer in through the window at me.
I still couldn't understand why thinking of Damien got me so worked up. Despite his mention of not being married, he was nothing but professional during class. His eyes never lingered on a female student for too long, and there was no lusty intent in his gaze. If anything, he was strictly business, taking his role as a teacher very seriously.
The top of his desk was perfectly organized. There was a desk calendar, a basket for paperwork, and a cup for pens and pencils. The only thing out of place was his favorite pen, which lay haphazardly in the middle of the desk. I knew it was his favorite because it was the only one he ever used.
A catlike grin played across my face as I stared at the pen. It was thick and expensive looking, not some cheapie you get at the Dollar Store. I bet it smells like him, and it has his fingerprints all over it, I thought as I willed myself to stand and walk over to his desk.
Timidly, my hand reached out to touch the pen, grasping its fat center to bring it up to my nose. It smelled like sweat and ink and musty cologne. Not as strong as I had hoped, but still intoxicating. With a blush across my cheeks, I inhaled his scent, feeling a pleasurable tingling below as it infected my body.
Would it be such a sin if it disappeared? He could always use another pen.
I hadn't stolen anything since I was thirteen years old and got caught with a purse full of fake jewelry in a department store around Christmas. Even to this day, I don't know why I did it. Stealing was cool, something kids did to prove themselves to each other. At least, that's how I remembered it. We rarely used or wore the things we stole. Most of the time they ended up hidden in our rooms so that our parents couldn't find them. It was stupid, but it was the thing to do back then.
When I was caught, my parents put me on restrictions for an entire month. It was a rather horrifying experience. Between the department store security calling the police and the police lecturing me about how stealing could go on my record forever and ruin my life, I never tried for a five-finger discount again.
That was . . . until Damien Reed's pen. Some strange desperate yearning in me to be closer to him forced me to slip the pen into my backpack. How I prayed it wouldn't lose his scent by the time I got it home. I wanted it to smell like him when I . . . My cheeks flushed red at the very though. Cheyenne Greer, you are a very naughty girl. If the rest of the world only knew.
Having completed my dastardly deed, I decided it was time to leave the scene of the crime. Nervousness welled up inside of me as I turned, taking long strides towards the door. That's when I heard a voice, and my body froze.
Instinctively, my eyes darted toward the source of the sound. It was comin
g from the closed door of Damien's office. I suddenly felt like an idiot for not thinking he could be in there. If I had half a brain in my head, it would have been the first place I checked once I saw that the room was empty. Why else would the door still be unlocked?
Now it was a question as to whether I actually wanted to speak to him anymore or not. After all, I had just stolen his pen, and if he came out into the classroom, he might notice it was missing. Considering I was the only person inside the classroom, I would be the most likely culprit. For a few seconds, I wrestled with the idea of putting it back. I needed the extension on my art project far more than I needed an extension of him. Still, I just couldn't force myself to do it. If he figures out it's missing, I'll just play stupid, I decided finally, taking a deep breath and approaching his office door.
I raised my wrist to knock, but the conversation inside quickly stilled my body, my eyes widening in surprise. He was . . . moaning? At least, I thought it sounded like moaning. I held my breath, moving my ear closer to the door to hear what was going on inside.
“You're making me so hard,” he said, though the sound of his deep voice was more conversational than anything else. “Get on your hands and knees. I want to smell that pussy, to stick my tongue in your wet folds.”
My entire body ignited at the sound of the dirty talk. Did he actually have a woman in there? Perhaps another teacher or one of my classmates? Jealousy raged through. God, how I hoped it wasn't one of my classmates. Whoever she was, she was one lucky bitch.
I knew I was best off leaving them alone to their business, but the pervert in me couldn't pull myself away. I wanted to hear his heavy breathing, the sounds of skin slapping together as he took this mystery woman in the heat of passion. Maybe I'd even hear a desk squeak as he laid her out across it and pounded home. Oh, Mister Reed, it looks like you are a lot naughtier than you act. Don't worry, I'll keep your secret. I promise.
My fingers itched to rub my pussy as he continued, “Are you nice and wet for me? I bet you are. I bet your cunt is dripping.” There was a short pause. “My cock is thick and hard for you. Can you feel it slipping in, nudging at your hole? Open your legs wide for me. I want to watch it going in.”
For all of his talk, there was no response. It was definitely Damien Reed's voice, but if there was a woman in there with him, she was as quiet as a church mouse. My curiosity was quickly peaking along with my arousal. If it hadn't looked so incredibly nosy and odd, I might have knelt down on the floor and peaked under the door to see how many sets of feet were in the room. There was no way that two people engaged in such heated play could be so quiet.
“Moan for me,” he commanded, and a soft groan left my lips, though it wasn't anywhere near as loud as the sound of my hands slapping over my mouth in shock. I heard a chair scratch against the floor inside his office, and I thought my heart might explode. Had he heard me? Footsteps coming toward the door were a good confirmation that he had.
As quickly as I could, I moved away from the door, looking nonchalantly at the whiteboard even though it had been wiped clean. The sound of the door unlocking and opening was almost deafening to my ears. The only thing louder was the thudding of my heart in my chest. My whole head felt warm, burning with undeniable embarrassment.
“Can I help you?” he asked, sounding a bit annoyed.
I turned, trying to look surprised, as if I hadn't expected him to come out of his office. Although I was looking at his face, my peripheral vision was zeroed in on his crotch. There was a delicious bulge there, and everything in me wanted to reach out and grab it.
My mind raced with a million different thoughts. He had come out of his office so quickly, and fully dressed. It wasn't until I saw the cell phone in his hand that I realized what had actually been going on. He had been having phone sex with someone. A wave of relief rushed through me, though I didn't quite understand why. Perhaps it made me less jealous to know whoever he was talking to hadn't actually been touching him. On the depressing side though, that probably meant he had a girlfriend. It shouldn't matter. Doesn't matter.
“Extension . . . Project," I mumbled, somehow losing the ability to speak.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I . . . need an extension for my art project. I mean, I came to ask you if I can have one. My mother is in the hospital with pneumonia, which is why I missed your class yesterday. I'm going to the hospital to make sure she's alright. I was wondering if I could have an extension for my art project until Monday. I know this probably looks bad, considering that school just started and all, but I can bring you a note from the hospital if that will make things better.”
“Sure. Sure. That will be fine,” he replied, sounding distracted.
“Thanks.” I gave him a half curtsey and then quickly headed for the door, leaving him to finish up his heated phone call.
At the hospital, I listened to my mother complain about two of her favorite celebrities that were getting divorced. “Marriage just isn't what it used to be,” she commented. “I'm starting to think they should outlaw it. No one stays together anymore.” By the tone of her voice, I could tell she was thinking of her own failed marriage to my father. In the end, it was both of their faults. He had been a truck driver since shortly before I was born. My mother couldn't stand all the nights and weeks he was away from home, and he wasn't willing to give it up, even for his family. The money was good, and it was the best he could hope to get without a degree. After a while, my mother began to accuse him of cheating, saying he was staying out longer than necessary because he had another life with another woman. Things declined rapidly after that, though they kept the loveless marriage together until I started high school. I never really believed that Dad had cheated, but Mom had somehow convinced herself otherwise. She still talked about it sometimes, how he had ruined their happy little family with his whirlwind romance to some imaginary woman. At times, I got sick of hearing it, but I dare not say anything.
I did my best to tune her out, thinking instead about the kinky phone conversation I had heard between Damien Reed and another mystery woman. Boy, did he have a way with words. If he hadn't made her wet, his skillful tongue had certainly worked on me. How lucky I had been to share that intimate moment with him, even if it hadn't been meant for my ears?
When I got home from the hospital, I went straight to my room and dug the pen out from my backpack. “Mister Damien Reed,” I whispered to it before sticking it under my nose and inhaling deeply. His scent was still there, though not as strong as before. “You have been a very bad boy. But, I'm afraid that I'd prefer the spanking for it.” In truth, I had been far more naughty, listening in on his conversation. A spanking for me was truly deserved.
Although my father was gone for work, I locked my bedroom door. You can never be too careful.
With pen in hand, I giddily returned to my bed, shedding garments along the way. As soon as I was undressed, I flopped down onto my back on the bed, refocusing my attention on the pen. Just the knowledge that his hands had been on it set my body alight. I brought it up to my nose, sniffing at it a few more times before I rubbed my lips across the smooth black surface. It was thick and heavy, though not as thick as something else I would have preferred. My mind instantly went to the bulge in Damien's jeans. How big was he exactly, I wondered, feeling absolutely devious as my mind filled in the answer.
I still couldn't believe I had moaned when he told that person on the phone to do it. Did I really have such little control over myself in his presence? It sure seemed like it.
Now I was in the privacy of my home, and I could moan all I wanted, so I did as I rubbed the pen between my cleavage. I was blessed with generous tits. One might even call them a glorious pair. Half of the time, when guys talked to me, their eyes never made it above my neckline. It was annoying but something I had grown used to since I began blossoming in high school. Either way, I rather enjoyed my fun bags. I could do things with them that small chested girls couldn't, though I
never actually had. Only in my dreams and fantasizes, some of which I was currently indulging in.
Damien's pen was nowhere near as thick as a cock, but I pretended, none the less, running it back and forth between the crease in my chest, my ample breasts squeezing and milking it. Despite my very vivid imagination, it wasn't giving me quite the sensation that I had hoped for though. Some other form of play was in order.
Thinking back to Damien's phone conversation, I shed my red lace bra and panties and crawled onto all fours, spreading my legs a bit so the air from the overhead fan could kiss my moist pink folds. It took everything in me not to gyrate my hips as I imagined Damien standing behind me, examining my feminine parts. My flower would blossom right before his eyes, allowing him access to whatever he wanted to do to me.
“Are you hard for me, Mister Reed?” I asked, and then giggled, “Oh, I'm sorry. I meant Damien.”
I imagined that the cool air blowing over my cunt was his breath, which sent quivers of sensation throughout my body. I wanted to grab my breasts and tweak my nipples, but I had to be a good girl, or I wouldn't get the prize.
“Can you see how wet I'm getting for you?”
The memory of his words echoed a response inside my head. “My cock is thick and hard for you. Can you feel it slipping in, nudging at your hole? Open your legs wide for me. I want to watch it going in.”
Obediently, I parted my legs a bit wider. Then I felt his tip nudging at my hole. The round end of the pen was nowhere near as bulbous as a cock head, but my imagination filled in the gaps. I pictured Damien's gorgeous mushroom tip, teasingly petting across my entrance, and I groaned with want, silently begging for him to press it inside.