by Alison Tyler
“Why would I put that on?” I asked him. “We’re supposed to be studying.”
He gave me an evil smile. “Yeah? Just like you did last night?” And embarrassment flooded through me. “Mark” was handsome, with his long gingery hair and easygoing smile. He located my CD player while I snipped the tags and put on the outfit, and in moments, Pink Floyd came rumbling out of the speakers.
“Don’t you want to try and study?” I asked.
“You can’t teach me half a semester in a night,” he said softly.
“We’ve got two sessions,” I tried valiantly. “We could get you a decent score.”
He shook his head. “I’ve got no head for those slides,” he said. “And you look good enough to eat in that thing.”
Who was I to argue with a lion? He had me up on my desk in a flash, my slim legs spread as he lapped and licked me along the seam of the black satin panties.
Four corners to my bed
Four angels round my head
I saw stars when he made me come, and then he lifted me off the desk, spun me around, and pulled down my sopping panties. He fucked me hard as I stared at the bulletin board over my desk, at the images of angels with their luminous halos, then at the study schedule John had carefully laid out for us. It would definitely take a miracle for these four boys to pass.
But it took much less than a miracle for him to make me come.
Wednesday brought Luke.
And Luke brought pot.
“I thought the pictures would look prettier if we were blasted,” he said.
“Prettier, maybe,” I agreed, “but I don’t think you’re going to learn anything.”
“Oh?” he asked. “I don’t think that’s true at all. From what I’ve heard, you’re an excellent tutor.”
Once more, I felt myself flush, and that made Luke smile, as if he’d just won an A in a difficult class. I watched as he expertly rolled a joint and lit the tip, inhaling once before handing it over to me. When I shook my head, he gripped the nape of my neck and pulled me close, kissing me and exhaling at the same time, so that my lungs filled with the fragrant smoke.
He was right. The pictures in the books were prettier when we were stoned. We looked at all of the lambs. We looked at the ancient frescoes, the colors faded but beautiful all the same. And then we looked at each other and started to laugh.
“I’m usually high in class,” he said, “that’s why I never take notes.”
“You don’t take notes because you don’t care about anything but punk rock and football.”
He studied me for a moment, then grinned. “Sounds like the title to one of our songs,” he said, “you’re very observant.”
I shrugged.
“But have you noticed me watching you?”
“Yes . . .”
“And wondering what you look like under your clothes.”
My heart started to race. I’d promised myself that two was my limit. Matthew and Mark. That I had no room in my bed for three. But I’d lied. “Luke” was persistent. Sweetly stroking me through my jeans before slowly undoing the button fly. The scent of pot surrounded us. And that led quickly to the scent of sex.
Who did I think I was, forgoing studying in place of pleasure? Did I think I could keep up a schedule like this? Truthfully, I didn’t think. I tried to plan educational lessons, but for six days, I wound up in bed with my pupils. One after another. I knew I’d feel responsible if these four boys failed the class. But as soon as one had left, I found myself daydreaming about the next.
Sunday should have been a day of rest. Instead, I prepared for John. I found myself wishing that he had been first. Because there was no way I was going to sleep with him. I’d worked my way through the other boys – twice each. They had to have told John what we were up to. And he had the brains of the bunch. He wouldn’t give me a second glance now that he knew I’d been with his frat brothers.
Would he?
John seemed prepared to study. He liked my flashcards. He liked my color-coded notes. And he liked the way I kept glancing over the top of my glasses at him. At least, that’s what he said.
“And who are these four?” he asked finally.
I must have turned the non-erotic hue of a beet. “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” I told him, wondering if he could possibly guess that those were the names I’d given him and his buddies. Monikers I couldn’t shake, even when we were fucking.
“And what are these notes about?”
“Each one is represented in a different way,” I explained, trying to keep my voice steady. “The man, the lion, the ox, and the eagle.”
“Which one am I?” he persisted, and I realized that yes, he was the smartest of the bunch. He’d found me out.
“You can guess, can’t you?”
His blue eyes lit up.
“I could guess, but I’d rather have you tell me.”
“No,” I shook my head. “Match them up. Matthew. Mark. Luke and John. Guard the bed that I lie on. Four corners to my bed. Four angels round my head . . .”
There was a knock on the door then, and I felt a change take place in the boy at my side. He slid the notes away. He slowly turned off the desk light. And then he went to the door and opened it, letting in the trio, waiting there for me.
I sucked in my breath. There was no way.
No way . . .
But, of course, there was. The angels, coming in, lifting me up. Setting me down on the floor instead of the tiny twin bed. Taking off my clothes. Wrapping me up in their bodies and their warmth. The man. The lion. The ox. The eagle.
John, taking his time, letting the others prep me before positioning himself on top. Arms tight, pumping hard.
One to watch and one to pray
And two to bear my soul away.
Had I taught them anything?
No. They were the ones who taught me. Giving me the most extreme pleasure in that single evening. Drawing out our actions. Painting pictures with their lips on mine, their fingertips on my skin.
We didn’t study at all, but we stayed up all night. Stumbling into class with bleary eyes. Laughing as the exams were passed out. Feeling as faded as one of those old frescoes, but as beautiful.
John laughed when the slides of the four apostles came up. And I knew he’d get at least one question right. One out of many.
But you want to know all of the test results, don’t you?
Well, I won’t lie. They failed. One more dismally than the next. With their study habits, they couldn’t possibly pass. But that was okay.
You see, it was only a mid-term.
We had plenty of time to cram before finals.
Measure A, B, Or Me?
Alison Tyler
“Look at this, Lisa,” James said, pointing to the voter registry spread out on his side of the kitchen table.
“Nice,” I said, not glancing up from the newspaper.
“No, look right here.” He tapped the middle of one of the pages.
I gazed at him over the top of my glasses. I was busy reading “Dear Abby”. James knows better than to interrupt me during “Dear Abby”.
“These two names,” James insisted. With a sigh, I put down the paper and glanced where he was pointing. “So? They have to list husbands and wives separately. Husbands don’t own wives anymore, you know.”
“I understand that you have zero interest in politics,” James said in that calm voice of his, “but look at the parties.”
Knowing James wasn’t going to stop, I set down my coffee, stood up, and headed around to his side of the table. James had volunteered to phone registered voters to discuss a ballot measure close to his heart. And for the first time since he’d begun to talk incessantly about Ballot Measure A, I found myself interested in the cause, or at least mildly so. Here was personal information for nearly a quarter of the people in our tiny town. The list did not only contain their names, numbers, and addresses, but also their chosen political parties. A couple we knew ever-so-vagu
ely were registered with different parties – the wife a Democrat, the husband a Republican.
“How can that happen?” I asked curiously. “That was one of the first things I found out about you. Your religious preference, the size of your cock, and your political leanings. This is like something right out of a ‘Dear Abby’ column.”
“I don’t understand it either,” James admitted, “but look at the Governor and his wife, and there are other famous couples who vote on different party lines, too.”
“You mean like Marlee Matlin and George Carlin?”
James groaned. “It’s Mary Matalin and James Carville.”
“Yeah, but how can they get into the same bed at night? I’d never be able to fuck you if I thought you were Republican. That would be an instant deal-breaker.”
“More so than the size of my cock?” James teased, and while I was considering my answer, he continued, “Hey, let’s have some fun.”
Since James had embarked upon this mission to make sure Measure A passed, he’d been neglecting some of his more important husbandly duties. I’m not the type to care about whether the lawn is mowed or the car is washed. But I’d gone through three packs of C-batteries for my vibrator in two months. Still, I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high. “I thought you had people to call,” I said tentatively.
“I’m talking about calling.”
I sighed again. “Come on, James.” I’d been hoping for a bit of frisky mid-morning fun. Dialing up voters wasn’t my idea of kinky sex play. But I should have looked more clearly into my husband’s deep blue eyes before writing him off.
“Lisa,” he said in that patently annoying tone of voice, “I know you have zero interest in politics—”
“I’m a registered Democrat,” I reminded him. “I wear my Stewart/Colbert ’08 shirt every time I go to the gym. I have a Somewhere in Texas a Village is Missing its Idiot bumper sticker on my Prius and a Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for Kerry button on my denim jacket. What more do you want?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “But you’re not exactly involved. You’d rather watch Friends reruns than stand outside the Palace Market and register voters.”
I shrugged.
“But you could be involved. What if you call the man and I call the woman. You’ll be your charming little self and try to win him over to the cause, and I’ll do the same with her. It’ll be like a contest . . .”
“That’s not really fair. You don’t have to win her over. She’s already a Democrat. Besides, I don’t have any idea what to say.”
James glared at me, his nearly endless supply of patience finally waning. “Haven’t you been listening to me make the last 145 calls?”
I nodded, lying. I tended to tune out as soon as I heard him say the words, “This is James Miller, and I’d like to talk to you about Measure A.”
“You just coo the same info to the man.”
I looked at him for a moment. “What do I win if I get him onto our side?”
“You name it.”
I motioned for him to dial. I could think of several propositions I was extremely interested in winning him over to – and not one on the current ballot. There was the up-against-the-wall position, in which I was fully in favor. And the bent-over-the-arm-of-the-sofa position, which I could fully support.
I could tell that James didn’t think I’d go through with the bet. When he handed the phone to me for my turn, I pressed redial, asked to speak to Leonard Carson, then tried my best to explain the terms of the measure to the husband. Unfortunately, the jerk hung up the phone on me as soon as he realized where I was headed with my political speech.
“Well, that was successful,” James said. “You didn’t even try.”
“You never know,” I countered, “I’ll bet they’re talking about the issue right now.”
“You think?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I sat down on his lap. “She’s saying, ‘It’s a good cause, Lenny.’ ”
“His name is Leonard.”
“Sure, but she probably has a pet name for him. ‘It’s money for the schools.’ ”
James interrupted me again, “And he’s saying, ‘We sent our kids to private schools over the hill. What the fuck do we care about those rats in the public system . . .’ ”
“Why is he swearing?” I asked.
“Because he’s an asshole.”
“Just because he has a different viewpoint from you?”
“You’re the one who said you’d never fuck a Republican,” James pointed out. I ignored him.
“He’s saying, ‘Convince me.’ And she’s going on her knees on their expensive Spanish-tiled floor . . .”
“She’s not going to give him a blow job over Measure A,” James insisted.
“How do you know?”
“Would you?”
“Maybe she’s more political than I am. You know I have zero interest . . .”
“So she’s giving him one hell of a blow job. How’s that convincing him to vote the way she wants?”
“Maybe you’re right. She needs her mouth free to win him over.” I hesitated, trying my best to envision the scenario. “Okay, they’re in the kitchen, and she bends over the table, like this, and lifts her nightgown.”
I demonstrated for James, sliding my short satin nightie to my waist. James eyed me for a moment, then got behind me. He ran his large hands over my panty-clad ass before pulling my knickers along my thighs. I shivered at his touch. It had been so long since he’d last stroked me like that. When he slipped his drawstring pjs down and pressed his body against me, I could feel how hard his cock was.
Cautiously, James slid a hand under my body and touched my pussy. “You’re wet,” he said. “Does talking about politics turn you on?”
“You know it,” I told him, stifling a giggle. Even after he slid inside of me, he wouldn’t stop taunting me, “So in your little fantasy, the wife says, ‘Vote for Measure A, and I’ll let you fuck me’?”
“That sounds silly when you say it.”
“It’s beyond silly,” James insisted. He continued to drive inside of me, working a little faster now. “They’re not having a conversation like this at all. If anything, they’re having some huge four-star fight because she’s voting one way and he’s insisting on voting the other. In fact, I’ll bet he’s saying, ‘If you vote for Measure A, I’m going to have to give you a spanking.’ ”
That caught me off-guard, and for a moment I actually considered switching over to the dark side. But I still didn’t want to give in. “Well, what if she says, ‘You can do that thing you want to do’?”
“What thing?”
“You know what thing,” I said coyly. “The thing you always want to, and the thing I hardly ever say yes to.”
James was silent, but I knew he understood what I meant. “You’ll let me do that if I vote for Measure A?”
“She’s thinking about it.”
“She?” he asked softly. “Or you?”
“I’m already voting for Measure A.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said. “She’s thinking about it, and I’m thinking about it—”
That was all James needed to hear. There was a tub of margarine still out on the table, and he leaned over and scooped out a fingerful. In seconds, he had lubed me up between my rear cheeks, his firm hands spreading me wide open. I shut my eyes and gripped even tighter onto the edge of the table, breathless.
James went slow at first, sliding his cock forward inch by inch, pressing hard, but not forcing. “Relax,” he said.
“How can I relax when you won’t vote for Measure A?”
“It’s that important to you?”
James slipped in a little more, and I groaned. The sensation of being filled was almost overwhelming. Still, I managed somehow to reply. “Yes,” I muttered. “Yes, it is.”
Now, he was fucking me even harder, gripping onto my slim hips and really driving his cock inside of me. My pussy was pressed f
irmly to the edge of the table, and through the filmy barrier of my nightgown, my clit received the most perfect pressure. I gasped as the rhythm of his thrusts increased in tempo, finding pleasure each time he slammed forward. I could come like this if he kept up the speed.
“You know,” he said, “Measure A needs two Yeses to counter every one No.”
“Yes,” I panted. “Yes, yes . . .”
“That’s three yeses,” James said. “You can’t vote three times,” but his voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Oh, God,” I whimpered, unsure of what we were talking about or who I was. Was I Catherine trying to convince her bastard of a husband to vote yes on the school measure and help the children? Or was I Lisa, whose husband was already an activist, such an activist that he’d forgotten to take care of me for the past two months.
I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter as James slid one hand under my body and began to tap his fingertips against my clit. He knew exactly how to work me, thrusting forward with his cock, then giving me a little tap before slowly withdrawing. When he pinched my clit hard, I found myself teetering on the brink, hardly able to breathe until the climax finally flared through me. James let those powerful shudders transfer from my body to his, and then he groaned and began to work me even more seriously, before coming ferociously into my ass and sealing his body to mine.
It took me a moment to recover. The morning sunlight played over our sparkly blue Formica breakfast table. The tub of yellow margarine seemed to be mocking me.
James pulled out and tucked himself back into his pajamas. “I’ve still got twenty more calls to make,” he said.
So he knew what was on his morning agenda, but I couldn’t figure out what to do next. “Dear Abby” held no interest. Nor did finishing the rest of the paper. I wondered what Catherine and Leonard were doing right now. Was she bent over their kitchen table as I’d described?
Quickly, I slid my panties back up, then climbed onto my husband’s lap once more. I pointed to the next Republican on the list. “If I can get her to vote for A, you let me do that to you—” I told James.