“Yes.” I winced.
“Well then,” she assured me, “I can’t let you go until they’re healed. And since I’m not planning to leave them alone, that might take awhile.”
Despite my full stomach, the twinges in my nipples raced down to my clit, beginning to make me hungry again.
Ted pulled me by the hand to the doorway of her bedroom.
Glancing around the walls, I saw an old sepia-toned photo in a frame, showing two women in hats, jauntily posed with a bicycle in the cobblestoned street of a town that looked European, in the innocent sunlight of some pre-war era. I made a note to myself to ask her about it when the time was right.
Her hands began to move over me again, and my hunger for her touch felt inexhaustible. Even the surprises she had just sprung on me while my stomach was full couldn’t dam the inner spring of my need. I wanted to know her in every sense.
She lifted me off my feet, testing my weight. “Uh,” I gasped. “I’m not that light.” Of course Ted took this as a challenge. She lifted me higher, then threw me onto her bed, where I bounced on her welcoming burgundy quilt.
The sudden change of position seemed to sharpen my senses. As I fell from Ted’s arms, my eyes focussed on a white cloth on her dresser that was embroidered in a pattern I recognized from the blouses of some Hungarian dancers I had seen once. The image of their swirling skirts mixed in my mind with my sketchy knowledge of post-war (or post-atomic) history. The Soviets invaded Hungary in 1956, I remembered, and Ted’s parents were probably in the resulting swarm of refugees. Ted must have been their seed of hope, planted in the new country. My quick thinking made me feel smug.
She had climbed atop me. Her lips pressed mine so insistently that mine spread open ever so slightly. Her hot tongue rushed in and begun exploring my mouth. I fervently hoped she enjoyed my taste as my other mouth watered, wanting her to feed me again.
I expected Ted’s aggressive fingers, but instead, she slid down my body with a gentleness and subtlety that made me shiver. Running her nails over my belly, she looked up, teasing me with her eyes. “Spread your legs,” she ordered softly. I did.
Her lips and tongue on my clit and my inner lips sent ripples all through me. I groaned, almost lifting my ass off the bed. Her long fingers grasped my hips, holding me in place to receive her true aim. The earlier electricity of her teeth on my nipples seemed to have flowed down to my centre, quickening my little button of flesh until it was ready to burst. I didn’t understand why she was giving me so much pleasure without demanding my service in return. Her tongue and nibbling teeth wouldn’t let me think clearly, though, and I realized that this was probably her point.
When two of Ted’s fingers pushed into my very wet cunt and began probing a touchy spot near my womb in time to the pulling of her lips on my clit, I couldn’t resist any longer. This time I came as though melting into a pool of hot wax, clutching her head with my knees. She seemed to forgive my lack of self-control.
She slid up and slid her arms around me as smoothly as a shark moving through water. I just wanted to lie still in her arms, feeling her warmth, but I couldn’t rest. “Ted,” I sighed into one of her ears, “do you want—.”
“I want to know you’re mine,” she interrupted, stroking my back. “For now, I want you to let me. We have lots of time and I will want other things from you later, Josephine. You’ll see.” She exhaled in a silent laugh.
I was willing to believe in her promise. I nestled my head under her chin, feeling her heart beating close to mine. This duet seemed to be all the answer she needed.
Gunmetal
Roxy Katt
The scene is a university lecture theatre – or rather, just outside one. Students are filing into it. Lecture for the day. Post-revolutionary France and sexual dissidence, or something like that. Lecturer is Professor Frenesi Foxx: forty-two, no nonsense professor, brilliant, uncloseted lesbian, weird and wonderful in her taste in clothes, and specialist not only in gender theory but French history.
One of the undergraduate students in the throng is one Patricia, holding back from the crowd a little, waiting for her friend Felicia to appear.
She does, out of breath, chattering madly but half whisperingly into Patricia’s ear as the two press through the thronged doorway and take seats right at the front of the hall.
“So,” says Patricia, “you just saw her?”
“Yes, she’s coming. And you’ve just gotta see . . .” Felicia here, obviously excited, like the impressionable young woman she is, by the impending arrival of some August personage. Patricia, for her part, is the same age, but less easily impressed. She is indeed that type: slow to make up her mind on anything, but quite definite once she does.
“See what?” asks the intelligent but ever so slightly morose Patricia.
“She’s packed!”
“She is?” Patricia smiles. “Thatta girl.” Smiling so brightens one’s day. She leans back into her chair with the little armrest desk in front of it, opens a notebook. “This I gotta see. Foxx doesn’t pack very often.”
Well, you know who they are talking about now, but what is this “packed”, you may well ask? Some freshman girls’ argot no doubt, perhaps one that only the two of them share. All very cryptic, unless, of course, they really take a more than ordinary interest in professors packing their luggage or something, but that would be too stupid. Could it mean she’s “packing heat” i.e. carrying a pistol? No, the good professor does not carry a pistol, though she is definitely sexy enough to make the odd student here and there well, more than the odd one feel as if he or she has been “shot” so to speak, through heart, balls, or beaver by her oh, so aloof and raven-haired beauty.
The professor was actually a model in her early twenties, but got bored. They said, as people do, that she would never have the brains for a prof, and if they are still watching, they have egg on their faces. Oh she has the brains all right: all the degrees on the wall and a curriculum vitae as long as a French swordsman’s nose. All good stuff, too; not the finger-twiddling which so often usurps the name of postmodernism.
“So, you did see her packed, right? It’s not just something you heard. If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s a false rumour of packing!” says Patricia.
“Oh, she’s packed, all right, I saw her myself. I just about dropped dead. My legs went weak. I had to sit down and fan myself with my miserable psychology paper.”
“Cool. This should be good. Don’t expect me to change my mind though; I still say she’s a lipstick lesbian.”
“You don’t respect any lesbian unless she’s a truck driver.” “Lighten up. I’m a lesbian and I drive a Suzuki.” “Well, I’m a lesbian and I drive a mountain bike.” “That’s why you, my dear, are the lesser lesbian.” “Oh, fuck off!” says Felicia merrily, swatting her much larger friend with a notebook.
All the students are now in the room. A gleeful counterswat would be inevitable at this point except that at this moment the door at the front opens up. It is Frenesi Foxx. She takes the three steps up the lecture platform, puts her papers on the desk, moves the podium away because she never uses it, and proceeds to lecture: sure, confident, assuming full attention from her students and getting it – not an easy task with a room of fidgety undergrads, as any prof can tell you. This is what you need to know about sexual dissidence in post-revolutionary France she says in effect, and proceeds to tell them.
The room is filled with whirring pens and pencils.
This professor is actually pretty nice to look at, whether you are a straight male or a lesbian. She has lots of jet-black hair in a punkish style very obviously dyed, but that’s the point, not so? She’s got a very white face and deep red lipstick. Well, if that makes a lipstick lesbian, she is one. Slightly on the tall side, slender, quite “well endowed” as the euphemism goes. She’s wearing a tight long-sleeved sweater with one of those big, floppy, cowl collars. The sweater is black and goes over the pants, stopping just a little lower than the waist
, hugging the top of the hip, held in close with a stretchy black belt.
Hmmm. Nice black leather boots. Tight. A high heel to them as well. They look quite fine as she slowly paces back and forth along the front of the lecture platform with the slow and unpredictable energy of a caged tiger.
Tiger, yes. Caged, no.
Pat and Felicia can’t talk any more, so they exchange notes on half a piece of loose-leaf they pass surreptitiously back and forth.
– what did i tell yu? is she packed?
- o she’s packed alright
But, you are asking, what the hell with this “packed” stuff? You can see for yourself: her pants. Sleek, gunmetal stretch leather pants with hidden seams, a thick, but very stretchy leather that forms about her like rubber and into which, yes folks, she is really “packed”.
Do these pants make me look fat? A question the distinguished professor would never ask because she knows they don’t. They make her look packed. They make her look tight, shoehorned, explosionary, but oh, so tastefully.
– is she some packed, or what}
– she is
– packed and stacked
– yeah. stacked and almost pointy
– a fifties bra? a cantilever?
– a heavy underwire certainly
Dirty-minded little things. Still, you can hardly blame them. How else is the lowly student to react to the inaccessible being? The scrap of paper is getting quite crowded with scribbles.
“The condition of post-revolutionary France is something which, at the time, had to be seen to be believed . . .” Yadda yadda yadda.
– how do yu think she gets in?
– with great difficulty
– i mean seriously
– with serious great difficulty
The professor steps down from the platform and paces about in the space between it and the front row of desks. She is lost in her own ideas. Back and forth, back and forth, in front of Pat and Felicia. They bury their heads in their notebooks, taking real notes now, but still hazarding the odd scribble to each other when the professor’s back is turned.
– she decided to show off today
– she shows off every day
– but not à la packe
– do yu think she can sit down?
The professor passes by, talking about drag in Parisian bordellos. Swit! Ever so swiftly yet nonchalant, one would hardly notice she had done it, she nips the paper from Felicia’s desk and begins to read it, not missing a beat, at the same time speaking out loud about the carnivalesque in 1820s Toulon, for all the world as if she were reading her lecture from the scrap itself.
Pat buries her head in her hands, as well she might.
Felicia stares ahead in white-faced terror. As well she might.
Flit flit flit go the professor’s gorgeous green eyes (did we mention the big green eyes? The heavy mascara? Enormous eyelashes?) down one side of the scrap and then the other. She lectures flawlessly, her voice betraying no reaction to the scrap.
But she has also turned a deep crimson. The proverbial beet.
She folds the scrap and tucks it up the tight sleeve of her sweater. A tight sleeve is a useful thing to have when a woman has no pockets, and even if she had pockets in her gunmetal pants, they would just be for show anyway.
The lecture is over now: a big noise and the usual folderol as everyone picks up their books and lumbers out of the room. A deep red fingernail on the end of a crooked finger summons the two miscreants to the foot of the platform. Teacher’s face is no longer red. She is very controlled (not unusual for her).
“Patricia, Felicia, I have another lecture to attend to immediately so I cannot talk to you right now. However, I will see the both of you in my office in exactly one hour. Understood?”
How can they say no?
The next hour is sheer hell. More for Felicia than Pat. Pat is scared too, but also angry. She gets surly, morose, we have said, when threatened by authorities.
“What business did that bitch have reading our note?”
“We shouldn’t have been—”
“Ah, bullshit.” These are two glum girls, sitting in the student lounge, downing coffee as if they needed anything more to make them edgy.
The hour passes. The girls are ushered into the great woman’s office. It is a very big office with two plush chairs set far back from the front of her big desk. Off to the side there is even a coffee table and some more comfortable chairs. This prof must have some pull.
She barely looks at them; motions them to sit down, stands behind her desk bending over it, writing something during a half-finished lunch: a little bowl of salad, a fat salami, untouched, and an apple, in the non-writing hand, out of which she has already taken a bite. She has very big, white teeth, did we mention that?
“So,” she says finally, putting down the apple and the pen. She comes around to the front of her desk and leans her leathered bottom against it, arms folded beneath her breasts, legs crossed. She smiles pleasantly. “Oh yes, of course.” She pulls the note out of her sleeve, looks at it. “So what exactly, does ’packed’ mean?”
Dead silence. They both look down. May as well answer the question. Pat is the bolder one so she raises her head.
“It means your pants are really tight,” she says, looking the professor in the eye.
“Aaaah. Of course. That was the only part of the note I didn’t understand. Yes, I guess they are rather tight, aren’t they? ’Packed and stacked’ as the note says. But then, I guess I was only showing off. I squeezed my fanny into the tightest pants I could find and hauled my boobs up to my neck with the uh, cantilever job you mentioned, in order to show off!”
There is an extremely long and painful pause. Painful to the students, that is.
“Girls – and I call you girls because your conduct hardly befits mature women – I cannot express my disappointment.”
There is another pause, quite similar, actually, to the previous one.
“Do you think I spend years teaching history and theory only to have girls leer at me the way boys do?”
“We weren’t leering, Professor Foxx,” Pat speaks up. “That was a private note.”
The professor is clearly unimpressed with this excuse. There begins a detailed private lecture, just for Pat and Felicia, during which the professor paces back and forth before them just as she did in the lecture hall. This lecture, however, has a considerable amount of what we might call moral indignation to it. The professor is clearly chewing them out.
The two sit there, staring down at the carpet they are being raked over.
The professor waxes quite eloquent, actually, even for her. There is a flash in her green eye, an extra little tilt of the lower spine (boosting the bottom in its confident thrust), a little more leather squeak in the thighs that pass and repass each other as she steps back and forth.
She stops to ask Felicia, now, what her feelings are on the matter.
Felicia gives the required response: submission, apology, etc. etc. She can’t help it, really, the performance is far too impressive and she is just too embarrassed to begin with anyway.
The professor stands now before Pat, hands on hips, and addresses her thus: “Now, you, Patricia. What are your thoughts on what I have just said?”
Pat the Morose stares down at the carpet, clearly gathering herself for a response. She takes a deep breath, and then sighs, as if to say, oh what the hell, what’s the use, or something to that effect. “My thoughts are, Professor Foxx, that I would very much like to take that salami on your desk and shove it up your ass.”
The professor blinks. Once, twice, while her face turns scarlet. She still stands there, hands on leathered gunmetal hips, and stares at Pat. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting this. But clearly, she isn’t floored by it either.
“Very well,” she says, turning, bending over her desk and picking up the big salami. She drops it in Pat’s lap. “There you go. I’ve often found that when a person is challenged on
an aggressive statement such as you have just made, she is unable to act on her desire even when given a golden opportunity.”
Pat stares at the salami, wide-eyed. That got you, didn’t it, dear? Morosity, if that’s a word, is something a professor encounters often. She knows how to deal with it all right – insolence too.
“You are unable to comply, aren’t you?” says the professor, brows lifted in mock surprise. “Rest assured, Patricia, statements such as yours are nothing more than a confession of impotence.”
Advantage, Frenesi Foxx.
Pat mutters a confused apology.
The professor’s face is white again, calm, self possessed. She tells Pat she can go now, but must write a one-thousand-word essay of suitable content (read, apology) on this manner and turn it in by nine a.m. tomorrow, or she is out of the course on her ass. She turns away from Pat, and talks to Felicia; this time, in a friendly and forgiving manner.
Ignored by the professor, Pat stands up as if to go, tail between her legs, and yadda yadda yadda. She puts the salami back on the desk.
Meanwhile, Felicia has been sniffling a little. Professor Foxx wants to reassure her she is back in her good graces. “There, there,” she says, “I remember when I was nineteen . . .” She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, head tilted back a moment, eyes closed, as if to recapture a moment. The two students wait for her to finish, but she seems to be in no hurry.
“When I was nineteen . . .” Eyes still closed. Holy moly, are we going to have nostalgia time here?
A strange glint appears in Pat’s eye. The professor continues: “I would have killed for a powerful, confident, older woman as a lover. In fact . . . Huh?”
Said “huh?” being occasioned by the professor’s discovery that the cowl collar of her sweater has been hauled down to her waist somehow, pinning her elbows behind her, which are even now being more tightly secured together by her own belt!
Let us just say as this swift desweatering and elbow tying is completed that Frenesi Foxx is speechless with surprise, and that that open-mouthed look is actually quite becoming to her. Professor tugs at the belt that firmly binds her elbows behind her, hands flailing at her sides. These actions only draw attention to the tight, strapless, underwired D-cups now exposed – as if they could have been ignored in any case.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica Page 35