Cougar

by Lily Harlem

  Then his soft lips pursed down my stomach, in between my legs, his wet tongue leaving a trail of electricity behind on my sizzling skin. And when he plugged his marvellous mouth-organ right into my juiced-up slit, I was jolted right heavenward.

  ‘Oh, yes, Doctor! Yes!’ I cried. This was the most exciting gynaecological exam any woman had a right to receive.

  He lapped at my pussy, stroking me with moist budded satin. I shuddered with each thrilling drag of his tongue on my slit, jerked with joy when he pinpointed my clit again. He tongued my trigger to throbbing proportions, making me itch to get off. I dug my claws into his scalp and hung on for explosion.

  But Doctor knew just what to prescribe his patient. He lifted his head just before lift-off. Then he climbed right onto the table with me and pulled his overheated thermometer out of his pants and plunged it into my pussy. My temperature skyrocketed still more.

  Medical ethics were left behind, as the sacred–sexual doctor–cougar relationship rushed towards ecstasy. Detmer swarmed his tongue into my mouth and pounded his cock into my pussy, hands clutching my breasts. I latched onto his taut pumping buttocks, dancing my tongue around his to the wicked tune of our raucous rumba. The padded exam table didn’t budge an inch despite our banging bodies; it was obviously built to handle the frenzied weight of many such ultimate physicals.

  ‘Oh, Doctor!’

  ‘Oh, Clara!’

  We spasmed as one, melding together in the white-hot furnace of blistering orgasm. His pistoning cock spurted into my sucking pussy, giving me burst after burst of good medicine. I hadn’t felt so fine for hours.

  Afterwards, it took Dr Detmer some time to fill out a morphine prescription for me. He used that time to develop the incriminating photos someone had been snapping on the sly on the other side of the two-way mirror in the fabulous examination room. They were his insurance, the bad doctor explained, in case I reported him for playing fast and loose with the pill pad and his patients. They were also used to boost his fee from his married clientele by about a thousand percent.

  In return for the wad of drug and blackmail money I handed him, Detmer handed me back a few explicit photos as a keepsake of my treatment.

  * * *

  Assistant DA Jenkins congratulated me in his office later that night. He was a tall, thin, distinguished-looking young man with penetrating blue eyes, porcelain skin and fine black hair. He was known for getting results, and I’d gotten him some, the paid-for prescription and pics, my sworn statement, fanned out on his desktop.

  ‘Think there’s enough here to nail the dirty doc?’ I asked, leaning over the man’s desk and showing him plenty more personal cleavage. ‘I could go back, you know – for more.’

  Jenkins’ manicured finger landed on one of my black and white breasts in the photos, then rose to press into the in-living-colour version. ‘No, I think I’ve got enough, Gertrude. Even if you haven’t.’ He added more fingers onto my beating boob, stroked.

  ‘I can never get enough, lawman,’ I murmured, pasting his mouthpiece with mine. As Lady Justice turned a blind eye.

  A typically satisfying day for a ‘dame’ in the gumshoe racket – two solved cases and five studly men. Sometimes not all the time, but a lot of the time. It’s a business that keeps a woman young, taking on all the dirty jobs and Joes she can.

  Insegnante

  Giselle Renarde

  There was never money for piano lessons, growing up. All her friends got to take them – or violin lessons, or clarinet or voice or whatever they damn well pleased – but Sharifa was out in the cold. She used to pretend she wasn’t poor, act like she was too cool for piano lessons. Better to be the bad girl than the poor girl. Looking back, her friends must have known she wasn’t well off. Really, it was obvious.

  But that was long ago. Sharifa was a grown woman now. She’d put herself through school on scholarships and part-time jobs, graduated with glowing recommendations from her professors, and quickly secured a position in business with plenty of room to grow. She had the condo, the car, the closet full of designer shoes, and all at the age of twenty-six. She was a grand success by anyone’s standards.

  Only one thing could make her life complete: piano lessons.

  Sharifa bought herself a clunky apartment-style piano and signed up with Mrs Zamani, but progress was slow. She’d learned to read music a little in her school choir, but that was fifteen years ago. Plus, work kept her damn busy. Every time Sharifa stepped into Mrs Zamani’s studio after a week without practising, she felt utterly humiliated.

  Last week, Mrs Zamani had instructed her to rehearse the melody line of ‘Greensleeves’. They would play it as a duet at the year-end recital, which was coming up in less than a month. Sharifa sat at the gleaming black piano bench and waited, but her instructor – or ‘Insegnante’, as Mrs Zamani said – didn’t join her.

  ‘Vas-y,’ her teacher instructed. The woman spoke at least five languages on top of her native Farsi, and used them interchangeably. It wasn’t easy to keep up. ‘Presto, Sharifa, baazi! Play the piece.’

  Sharifa took a deep breath and turned to find Mrs Zamani towering over her. There was something terrifying about a woman who was still so beautiful at Mrs Zamani’s age. Her bleached orange hair was coiffed into a style that might have been avant-garde in the 1980s, but Sharifa thought it resembled Beethoven’s hairdo in the portrait on the wall. Her skin was perhaps a shade darker than olive, much lighter than Sharifa’s, and she wore make-up that was striking yet suitable.

  And gold.

  Gold on her fingers, a shimmering diamond ring, and gold bangles around her wrists which she removed and set on a tray before sitting down at the piano. Boy, could she play. Sometimes Sharifa sat beside her, taking in the dense spice of her perfume, watching those long fingers race up and down the keyboard like there was no effort involved. Her fingers danced across the keys. It was mesmerising.

  But Sharifa had a sinking feeling she wasn’t in Mrs Zamani’s good books today. Insegnante grabbed a pointer – the kind an orchestra conductor would use, wood painted white with a cork bulb at the end for grip – and tapped the sheet music insistently.

  ‘Baazi. Play!’

  Feeling very small inside, Sharifa set her fingers softly upon the smooth white keys. She stared at the notes on the page and slowly plunked them out on the keyboard. She wasn’t keeping time in any way, just playing the next note as soon as she found it. Mrs Zamani released the catch on the metronome, but that tick-tock sound only made Sharifa sweat. She was playing really badly. She’d be in trouble for sure.

  Thwaaap!

  Sharifa shrieked, feeling a sting across her fingers and wondering what had happened. Where had that whipping noise come from? Why was she in pain?

  ‘Ragazza impertinente!’ Mrs Zamani bellowed. ‘You did not practise.’

  All at once, the sting made sense. Sharifa turned to see her piano teacher brandishing that slim baton like a weapon and she gasped. ‘Miss, you hit me!’

  ‘Madame,’ Mrs Zamani corrected. ‘Not Miss. That was your punishment, zibaa. You must practise, or why bother coming to my lessons?’

  ‘Don’t worry, lady. I won’t be coming back.’ Sharifa packed up her sheet music in a huff, dropping papers, picking them up and dropping them again. She was so angry she could hardly find the door handle. ‘I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but doling out corporal punishment on your students? You must be crazy!’

  Sharifa stormed from the studio and drove home way too fast. She tossed her sheet music on the piano bench, turned on the TV and grabbed a tub of Haagen-Dazs from the freezer. She tried not to think about Mrs Zamani or the humiliation of being rapped on the fingers. She tried not to think of ‘Greensleeves’ or the scent of her teacher’s perfume, or the heat that passed between them every time Mrs Zamani sat down next to her.

  Savouring a spoonful of rich chocolate ice-cream, Sharifa glanced at her piano. Her fingers stung with the memory of being struck. She thought abo
ut the expression on Mrs Zamani’s face, harsh, but wounded, like a mother’s disappointment. Sharifa had no idea her teacher took her progress so personally.

  She placed the ice-cream back in the freezer, went to the piano and practised.

  The following week, she tapped gently at the studio door and entered upon her teacher’s instruction. She expected Mrs Zamani to say, ‘Ah! So you’ve returned,’ or maybe, ‘You quit, Sharifa. You are no student of mine.’ But no. With that slim white baton, Insegnante pointed to the piano bench and uttered, ‘Setz dich.’

  Sharifa could only guess she was being asked to sit, and so she did, quietly spreading her sheet music on the stand. ‘I practised,’ she said, imploring some sign of affection, no matter how slight. ‘I practised a lot this week.’

  Mrs Zamani nodded, but her expression remained stone. Her eyes, lined in dark shadow, looked particularly catlike today. Like a jaguar, her ferocity was veiled in sleek feline mystique, but she was no less dangerous for her beauty. She reached forward, sending a gust of spicy perfume Sharifa’s way, and set the metronome ticking.

  Sitting so straight her back ached, Sharifa began to play. She tapped out the melody line to ‘Greensleeves’ without a single mistake and then, before Mrs Zamani could comment, she started again from the beginning. This time, she played the left hand too – Mrs Zamani’s part in their duet. They were just simple arpeggios and she’d mastered them at home, but, with her teacher’s eyes burning into the back of her head, she kept tripping up. She couldn’t find the notes, even though they were right there in front of her. She struck the wrong keys time and again, slowing down, out of sync with the metronome. By the time she reached the end, she felt hot from her ears to her breasts, and so ashamed she wanted to hide under the bench.

  She didn’t turn around. Sharifa simply waited for Mrs Zamani to comment.

  ‘Vaay,’ her teacher said. Sharifa had heard this Farsi expression often enough to know it meant ‘Oh, my’, but whether that was good or bad stood to be reckoned. ‘You have practised indeed, but you’re not ready to play my part, zibaa. Not yet.’

  ‘I played it perfect at home,’ Sharifa replied. She wished she had proof. She should have taped herself or something. ‘Honestly, I practised every day. I wanted to make you proud.’

  Sharifa realised she sounded like a child begging for a parent’s approval, but she didn’t care. That’s how she felt with Mrs Zamani. She needed to hear, ‘You’re a good girl. You tried your best,’ or something along those lines.

  Instead, Mrs Zamani said, ‘Not so good, azizam. You must kneel on the bench. I will improve your performance.’

  Gazing back, Sharifa caught a flash of bloodlust in her teacher’s eyes and noted the woman’s canine grin. Sharifa wasn’t stupid. She knew that if she wanted to retain any form of modesty she’d have to leave now. But she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay and find out just how far this jaguar would take her.

  Climbing up on the bench, Sharifa kneeled precariously, setting her forearms on the piano’s shiny black top. When she glanced back, Mrs Zamani was grinning.

  She raised her baton and tapped it lightly against Sharifa’s bottom. The taps were barely perceptible, but they sure sent a message. Mrs Zamani traced the tip of that pointer down the outside of Sharifa’s thigh until it reached the hem of her skirt. Without a word, Insegnante pushed the fine fabric up and over her rounded ass. She gasped as the cool studio air kissed her warm flesh.

  ‘How you can wear this?’ Mrs Zamani asked, sliding her baton along Sharifa’s black thong.

  Sharifa shuddered as the pointer took its sweet time tracing over the pucker of her asshole. Even under the slick fabric of her thong, she felt everything.

  ‘Thongs are surprisingly comfortable,’ she told Insegnante as the baton moved between her open legs. Could that white wood tell how very wet her pussy was, just beyond the gusset of her underwear? ‘You should try wearing one, see for yourself.’

  Without another moment’s hesitation, Mrs Zamani brought a hot palm down against Sharifa’s ass. She jolted forward with the force of that spanking, nearly knocking over the still-ticking metronome. Even the follow-up slap came as a surprise – Sharifa had been expecting just a little tap with the baton.

  ‘Ragazza impertinente!’ Mrs Zamani growled. She sounded very put out, like she resented having to spank a student.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t even know what language that is!’Sharifa whimpered as another blow fell against her ass. She dug her elbows into the sharp corner of the piano top, trying not to tumble ass over teakettle as Mrs Zamani issued yet another harsh slap. It had been so long, too long, and she’d forgotten how she used to crave this sort of attention. She’d forgotten how a dull sting could grow into a sharp burn in less than a minute. It didn’t take much, just a few good smacks from a well-practised palm, and she was flying.

  ‘Please,’ Sharifa moaned, though she couldn’t admit she was begging for more, not out loud. Oh, it hurt now. The pain was undeniable, and yet so sweet she hoped it would never end. ‘Please, Miss.’

  ‘Madame,’ Mrs Zamani insisted, laying another hot spanking on Sharifa’s blazing ass. The sting was so sharp she had to bite down on her arm to keep from screaming.

  ‘Madame,’ Sharifa repeated as she braced herself for another slap. When nothing happened, she gripped the upright piano and said, ‘Please?’

  The small white baton was back between her legs, tracing up and down the crack of her ass, following her thong like a sheer black path. Every time that thin stick of wood brushed over her asshole, she seized, secretly hoping it would press into her, making room for a finger, or something even larger.

  ‘Setz dich,’ Mrs Zamani commanded. ‘Sit down on the bench.’

  At first, Sharifa didn’t move a muscle. She didn’t want to sit. Her ass was on fire, but she still wanted more. Finally, she turned her head and met her teacher’s fierce gaze straight on. Boldly, she asked, ‘Why?’

  Mrs Zamani’s cat eyes grew wide and her painted lips pursed. Smack! She struck Sharifa’s ass unapologetically, leaving a needling sizzle in her wake. ‘Setz dich,’ she repeated, spanking Sharifa once more. ‘Baazi! Play the song, both hands.’

  The sleek black piano bench was cool enough that it soothed Sharifa’s blazing ass when she first sat, but the effect wore off far too quickly. Her mind was so muddled from the spankings that her eyes wouldn’t focus. Black notes blurred on the white page.

  ‘Begin,’ Mrs Zamani instructed. At least she’d spoken English this time.

  ‘I can’t,’ Sharifa stammered. Her bum burned against the piano bench. The heat of her skin seemed to have penetrated the surface and she now felt as though she were sitting on a cook top. ‘My eyes …’

  That evil little baton came out of nowhere to snap against her fingers, and she jerked upright, so straight her spine felt locked in place. Without thinking, she began to play. She wasn’t even looking at the sheet music, but rather gazing over it, out the long window overlooking the vast ravine behind Mrs Zamani’s studio.

  Sharifa had no idea she’d managed to memorise this piece, but she’d played it so many times over the past week that it must have taken up residence in her muscle memory. It was a part of her, and, now that she was concentrating on the blaze of her bum rather than hitting the wrong notes, she played it perfectly.

  Mrs Zamani had never applauded a performance before, but she did this time. Sharifa’s heart gushed with pride, and she turned swiftly to meet the pleased smile on her teacher’s lips.

  ‘And you said you don’t respond to corporal punishment,’ Mrs Zamani scoffed.

  Naturally, Sharifa felt embarrassed to have been proven wrong, but she could hardly deny it. Instead, she lowered her gaze respectfully and said, ‘Thank you for your help.’

  Clutching her baton to her breast, Mrs Zamani bowed quite dramatically. ‘You are too kind, azizam. It was practice that paid off, so simple.’

  ‘Yeah,’ S
harifa half agreed. ‘But I only practised to spite you.’

  A fetching gleam shone in Mrs Zamani’s eyes as she took a step closer. The joy in her smile was replaced by something else, something more sinister. Sharifa’s bottom burned against the piano bench. She wanted desperately to move, but she couldn’t. Her teacher’s predatory gaze locked her in place.

  ‘Do you think I spank all my studenti, Sharifa?’

  She hadn’t really thought about it, but the idea made her flush. ‘I hope not.’

  Mrs Zamani’s neatly pencilled eyebrows rose, and she smirked. ‘Do you think I am a bad Insegnante?’

  ‘No,’ Sharifa replied, shaking her head. ‘Not at all. Why would you ask that?’

  She didn’t answer, except to say, ‘I reward my pupils as I see fit. When the children play their songs well, I stick a gold star on their sheet music.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Sharifa said, nearly breathless with strange anticipation. She found herself turning around on the piano bench, until her back was facing the keyboard and her front was facing her teacher.‘What about the adults? How do you reward them?’

  With a casual shrug, Mrs Zamani said, ‘Kind words, for some.’

  Sharifa swallowed hard. ‘And for others?’

  Mrs Zamani seemed incredibly tall as she lorded over Sharifa, baton in hand. That Cheshire Cat grin was so wildly arousing that Sharifa’s heart pounded in response. She slid against the bench, slipped and reached out to right herself as her back crashed against the piano, bashing the keys. She was sure the cacophony would incur her teacher’s wrath, but Mrs Zamani didn’t react to the noise.