Students of Submission

by Leigh Turner

  STUDENTS OF SUBMISSION

  An erotic novel

  Leigh Turner

  Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2012

  ISBN 9781908766304

  Copyright © Leigh Turner 2012

  The right of Leigh Turner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  Chapter One – A Walk in the Park

  Sally smiled as she locked the door of the flat. She descended the single flight of stairs with something of a spring in her step. Outside, a beautiful day beckoned. The British weather, typically schizophrenic, had at last settled into something approaching summer, bright and vibrant with scents, as the residue of the week’s showers evaporated under the sun.

  Her mood was as bright as the day. Yesterday had seen the last exam finished and it was as though a weight had been removed. She knew she had done enough to pass respectably, and had relaxed with the other students as the party mood flowed on into the afternoon and evening.

  Before the gathering in the union bar, she had been washing her hands in the washroom when Olga, the Greek student, appeared at the next basin, asking, ‘How was it for you?’

  ‘The earth moved, Olga, the earth moved.’

  Olga had smiled but Sally doubted that she had picked up the connotation. Language could give rise to such peculiarities at times, as though people were on parallel train lines but not quite communicating.

  Or communicating on two different levels, as when one bright spark in the class had asked about the design of gear sticks in cars, during the ergonomics lecture given by Galena, the postgraduate student.

  ‘Yes, the design of gear knobs is a good example of ergonomics,’ she had replied. ‘I have seen knobs of many different shapes and sizes. They can be long or short, thick or thin, depending … Philip, why are you laughing?’

  Of course the room had filled with murmuring suppressed laughter as she had continued in great detail about the shape of knobs, and Philip had eventually been sent out as Galena’s ire flared. Clearly a knob was a knob and no more in Ukrainian, her native language.

  Sally found herself chuckling as she walked across the park, reflecting on how many knobs Galena might really have experienced. More than one anyway, she mused. She had seen Galena out and about, dressed a little more racily, when the serious academic mask slipped away. With Galena, it seemed to depend very much on who was in the company as to how sociable she became.

  Sally could understand that, although she saw herself as being more open-minded when it came to male company. She tended to at least give them enough rope to hang themselves, rather than immediately giving half of them the cold shoulder, as Galena tended to do.

  Anyhow, she was enjoying her own company today, determinedly so. She had left the partying remnants at a reasonably sensible hour, and risen at 10 or so, luxuriating in a hot bath. Leisurely toast and coffee; bliss. She had decided to meander to one of the many bistro-type establishments which had sprung up in the main street running alongside the park that her flat overlooked.

  On a whim, she had decided to wear a skirt and stockings. While she wasn’t meeting anyone, she nevertheless enjoyed the feeling of smartness yet slight vulnerability that the garments gave her. Selecting a white suspender belt, she had fastened it and cast around the drawer. A pair in smoky grey had come to hand. Slightly sexier than the other option, American Tan. She didn’t know why those were there. Perhaps nothing else had been available in the local shop, one time. She tended not to wear tights very often, favouring mostly trousers or jeans in the winter months.

  The only other option, the seamed fishnets that Carlo had bought for her … Well. A little early in the day for that, Carlo. She laughed. I don’t want every man in the café bar trying terribly hard not to stare at me while I enjoy a quiet lunch.

  She had selected a new pair of white briefs from the drawer. Something about the feel of the cotton, unworn, untouched, caused her to smile. She contemplated that if she were better off, with money no object, she might wear a brand new pair every day. The thought of such indulgence conflicted with the frugality which had been drummed into her during an upbringing with an unremarkable Yorkshire family, where nothing was thrown away without being utilised fully.

  Perhaps it was a generation thing, she reflected. Today was a long way from the time when damaged saucepans were patched and used again; the “make do and mend” war mentality which had been handed down from her grandmother to her mother.

  She had donned white bra, a predominantly white patterned blouse, and some smart, slightly raised shoes. It amused her to pose in front of the mirror on the open wardrobe door, thoroughly spick and span except for the total absence of a skirt. Were Carlo there, he would have been pawing her like a frantic puppy by then. His passion aroused her to a degree, but often it would burn out almost as quickly as it had flared, and he seemed to attach more importance to entertaining his coterie of male friends in his restaurant than he did to keeping her happy. Of course he said it was his restaurant, but she knew his father kept a vigilant eye on things in the background.

  No, it would take more than money and status to keep her interested. There was always Gareth, her other boyfriend, to fall back on. A philosophy student, he was less of a wham bam thank you merchant than Carlo, but he could get rather intense at times. She put up with this side of his character, compensated for in her eyes by his lithe yet strong body and occasional humorous nature. She wasn’t sure if it was enough, though. Maybe men in their early twenties were just too self-obsessed to be expert in the bedroom. Maybe she should try a woman …

  Amusement played on her lips as she entered the Avenidas café bar. She ordered a spritzer and a meal of Italian meatballs and sat down to wait at a spare table, adjusting the dark blue skirt she had chosen to complement her blouse.

  ‘Hello there.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she replied, looking up to see Nick, one of her lecturers.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh fine, just enjoying the freedom at last.’

  ‘Of course. Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes, but join me if you like. I’ve just ordered.’

  ‘OK, thank you.’

  She watched as he spoke to the barmaid, ordering food for himself. She liked Nick. His lectures were usually quite witty, and he was friendly, without the patronising and aloof manner adopted by some of the other lecturers.

  Some of the younger students were unimpressed by Nick’s friendliness, but Sally, at 23, felt differently. He was human; did it matter that he was in his mid forties? It was immature to have a “them and us” attitude to lecturers, Sally felt. She liked him and that was that. She could even quite fancy him, with his salt and pepper hair and short beard and his stocky, six foot physique. She had seen him in the sports centre sometimes. She had the impression that, like her, he enjoyed a bit of badminton or swimming to keep fit, without being obsessive about it.

  He rejoined her and they chatted easily, about the psychology course and life in general. He was on his way into town for some shopping, he said, but there was no rush about it.

  He enquired about her plans for the summer, until the exam results came out. S
he had applied for a few general management jobs, without a great deal of enthusiasm, and was determined to enjoy a couple of weeks of freedom from the stresses of study and job applications.

  Nick looked thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘Would you be interested …?’ He paused. ‘What I’m thinking is … My wife runs a research establishment. It’s out in the country. Every summer we recruit a few carefully selected students to help with the programme for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting,’ she interjected, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought I was quite the type you would have in mind. What kind of research …?’

  ‘Oh. Just a second. Not that you should undervalue your achievements at all, Sally, but I’m not sure I’ve been clear here. We’re talking about needing subjects, not technicians. I’m sorry …’ He smiled.

  ‘Oh. Silly me. I still want to ask what kind of research though. Even more so.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry. It’s sort of social psychology. Nothing strenuous or threatening. You’ll enjoy yourself. Paid holiday for two weeks, really.’

  ‘Paid?’

  ‘Yes. Look, do you want a coffee?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind, but why don’t you come over to my flat for one? It’s getting a bit hot and sticky in here. It’s only the other side of the park … Oh … I forgot, you’re going shopping, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh no, that can wait. It’s more important to discuss this if you’re interested. It’s quite important that we find our last subject. The programme starts quite soon.’

  ‘Last subject? How many others are there then?’

  He hesitated slightly. ‘Look, shall we discuss the rest over coffee?’

  ‘Sure, come on.’ His intriguing proposition had lifted her already light spirits further. She looked forward to hearing more. In private.

  They walked slowly across the park. Small throngs of children rushed around near the duck pond, their various mothers resisting clamour for ice creams from the small wooden kiosk. Footballers chased around in the sunshine, contesting in their minds some World Cup tournament, clothing on the floor playing the part of goalposts in a majestic stadium.

  Suddenly, an errant shot hurtled toward Sally’s head. Nick quickly moved his arm and deflected it.

  ‘Oi! Be more careful.’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘That would’ve knocked your block off,’ said Nick, resorting to language less scientific than that of his lectures.

  ‘Thanks. Phew!’ She had been looking down at the time and had not seen the projectile. She chuckled at him. ‘My hero.’

  They were almost at the flat. ‘Come on, I’m on the first floor,’ she said, feeling in her small clutch bag for the key, as they entered the garden of number 45. It stood with other houses at the far side of the park, overlooking a perimeter road and the central green expanse.

  They made their way upstairs and Sally started the kettle. Conversation flowed quite easily between them, mostly about the course and her aspirations – not many, it seemed at present.

  Nick stood with his coffee, looking out of the large bay window.

  ‘You have a wonderful view here, it’s idyllic,’ he mused.

  ‘Yes. Pity it’s only rented.’

  ‘Well, maybe one day you’ll be able to afford a place like this.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

  Sally had settled down on the edge of the divan, it being a bedsit room which, although large, boasted only two chairs.

  She stretched out a bit, one leg folded up toward her, the other still touching the floor, like some Hollywood actress of the 1930s obeying the Hays Code, having to keep one foot in contact with the ground to delineate the boundary of any sensuality.

  She was aware she was not being particularly demure. Her skirt might be just short enough to afford him a glimpse of stocking top. Was it? Not knowing the answer began to excite her.

  He turned and looked. His glance dropped for a moment, then politeness regained its sway and his eyes held hers. Her chest heaved a little as she drew a larger breath than normal.

  ‘So.’ She was the first to speak.

  ‘What are the criteria for these subjects of yours?’

  ‘Well. They’re all young and attractive. I hope that doesn’t sound too sexist.’

  ‘Are they all female, then?’ she interrupted.

  ‘No no. Equally distributed.’

  ‘Distributed? You sound like a right psychologist.’ She laughed.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So I’m attractive, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ A grin of some relief. She could tell the suggestion of sexism had put him on the defensive for a moment.

  ‘How attractive, on a graph of normal distribution?’

  ‘You’re a bit of a minx, aren’t you?’ He moved a little closer, putting his cup on the mantelpiece.

  She kicked off her heels.

  They looked at each other. A little too long for politeness.

  She thought she should ask about his wife. Thought it. Didn’t say it.

  His hand touched her leg. Her knee, high, her right foot below it on the bed. He looked at her, long enough for decorum to reassert itself, should it wish.

  Her knee moved slightly higher as her right hand pulled the skirt back further.

  No doubt now as his hand moved firmly to the gap at the top of the stocking.

  Momentarily she wanted or maybe just expected a hungry kiss, but none came. Her eyes shut, she brought her left leg up onto the bed as he grasped her inner thighs, one hand on each.

  As he massaged firmly, she felt enough tension applied so that she could not have closed her legs had she wished to, yet no more than that, not threatening.

  He felt what she intended, that her response was only a token resistance, revealed as such when he brought his right leg onto the bed to press against her inner left thigh.

  His right hand now free, she promptly gasped as the thumb found the mound above her cunt and began, gently, to rub.

  Already wet, her arousal increased as the circular motions persisted. No impatience like her boyfriends, just continuous, relentless pressure.

  By the time he paused her consciousness was fuzzy, drifting in trancelike pleasure. She half opened her eyes, to see him stripping off. Already naked to the waist, he watched to make sure she was still the willing participant.

  Drowsily, she began to unbutton her blouse. Sitting on the bed, he moved quickly through the awkward phase of shoe and sock removal. Standing up, trousers and underpants were equally quickly divested.

  She finished undoing the front of her blouse and waited as she studied his hard cock. Thicker than Carlo’s, was her random thought.

  He moved close and resumed his fingering of her clitoral mound through the damp panties, this time pulling the skirt hem up, well past her waist.

  She began to try to unhook her flimsy little bra, but found the effort required was unappealing, and sank back, moaning and spreading her legs lewdly wide.

  Wrapping his right hand behind her calf, he drew it to his crotch and began to move his haunches up and down, left leg on the bed and right on the floor, as he massaged his cock against her stockinged leg. With his left thumb, he continued to work on her clit through the thin cotton.

  Soon, what was left of her conscious thought processes could find only one action to perform, which was to reach down with her right hand and wrench the wet gusset of her knickers aside.

  Exposure was total. Raising her pelvis was the only communication she was capable of. He responded, thankfully, without words, as he shifted all of his body between her raised thighs and then, with little time lost, she felt the tip of his cock contact her willing cunt lips, and with an easy gentle thrust he was fully within her.

  She smiled, gratified, as he began to slowly pump her. Lying back, helplessly pleasured, she mustered some strength and raised her legs further, before wrapping them as tightly as she could around his fuzzy-haired back.


  Groaning, he grimaced with unknown depths of pleasure, losing himself in some form of ecstasy. Encouraged, she began to exercise her pelvic floor muscles, whereupon she saw his eyes open wide with what looked like shock, as he felt the action of her vagina rippling on his cock.

  The start of a groan altered into a higher pitched, soft wail of pleasure as she continued to grip him tightly with her legs, preventing his withdrawal and possible escape.

  As the wail peaked she felt the hot cock throb inside her and he subsided into gasping immobility.

  ‘Oh my dear …’ He began to formulate some phrase, but she put her finger across his lips.

  ‘Shhh!’

  She wanted no apologies.

  For one so young, she already knew the truth that, in lovemaking, nothing is so powerful as the action, and words can never really qualify or alter the strength of the deed.

  They lay side by side, recovering. It dawned on Sally that, while pleasured, her satisfaction was not complete.

  Raising herself, she turned over Nick and manoeuvred herself so that, kneeling, she looked down at him, face to face. She shuffled forward till her fanny was over his face, her folded legs pinning his arms. Through dazed, half-closed eyes, he dimly realised what was happening, and let out a slight groan. Was it of puzzlement, alarm, or a mixture of the two? She didn’t care as she pressed down upon him.

  Seeking a position where she could rub her clitoris against her lover’s protruding nose, she held the headboard and began to grind against it. Nick opened his mouth to emit a sound in an expression of protest and pleasure, but in so doing only allowed his own spunk to drip into it as it oozed from her cunt. His body bucked as he experienced the slightly salty taste, but Sally, clinging tightly to the headboard for support, moved faster, rolling her hips like the lewdest of pole dancers as she sought only pleasure. Eventually, finding the spot she wanted to stimulate the most, she located it against the very tip of his nose and worked herself forward and backward, frenziedly. Her victim gasped for a mixture of air and his own sticky fluid, and finally gained relief as she yelped her satisfaction and subsided off him, rolling to one side and round, with her feet gaining the floor at the side of the bed, in one fluid motion.