Bigger Bites of Taboo Apples Ch. 02

“I can’t see myself waltzing around school completely naked underneath my dress,” I snorted. “Especially underneath one of these free flowing skirts you’re suggesting I wear. I’d be terrified that the slightest breeze would expose this trimmed pussy you have in mind for the entire world to gawk at.”

“Why not? I do it all the time. In fact, the next time the mood strikes me, I’ll spread my legs and show you that I’m not wearing any panties.”

“You do that, young lady, and no one in class will learn a damn thing from that moment on.” The thought of Chantel exposing her pussy to me, while I was standing in front of the class, did make for a tempting image. “How about if we save this naughty peepshow of yours as your way of telling me that I’ve already over explained a scene.”

“Good point, Diane. Macbeth is hard enough for most of the boneheads in class to fathom, a tongue-tied explanation would be impossible.” Chantel lightly ran her fingernails up my body and across my lips. I could smell my pussy on her fingertips. “So, what variation of hot girl/woman sex would like to practice this time?”

I pulled her into my arms. “Only one,” I whispered, “the fine art of lesbian lovemaking.”

“Not hot and sweaty, turn-each-other-every way-but-loose girl/woman sex?” Chantel asked with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.

My lips caressed hers. “Not this time, Chantel.”

She pulled her face back a couple of inches from mine. “Okay, but there’s one aspect of hot and sweaty lesbian sex that’s gonna take place, regardless of how soft and tender we go about this.”

“And what would that be?” I inquired.

“When I orgasm, when you make me cum, I’m going to gush. When that irreversible moment hits, there’s nothing I can do to keep from blowing my wet cookies everywhere. I’ve never been able to, and I never want to even try.”

“Well then, I’ll just have to do my best to capture every spurt of your affection in my mouth,” I assured her. “Liquid love is not something to be carelessly wasted.”

“Neither is real love, Diane.” And with that, Chantel closed the distance between our mouths and kissed me deeply. She didn’t have sex with my hungry mouth; we made love with our passionately joined mouths.

Chantel and I also made passionate love with and to the other parts of our entwined bodies, the intimate details of which I don’t care to share with you. The lewd and lascivious, salaciously wet details of hot and sweaty sex are one thing to graphically describe; the tender intimacies of lovemaking are not. All I will relay to you about those special moments between us is that I did manage to capture the copious spurts of hot liquid affection that invariably erupt from the depths of Chantel’s cunt in my mouth… at least, most of them.

Cannon Fire, but definitely not in the distance…

For the first time since childhood I awoke to an unpleasantly empty bed, but the sound of Chantel singing in the bathroom made up for it. I rolled out of bed and, after peeing, I joined her in the shower.

It was another slap/tickle/fuck-finger lesbian shower we shared, but with a slightly different outcome. After I had gotten Chantel off, I wouldn’t let her return the favor. “You’re the one said that denial can keep you in control of the situation,” I reminded her.

“Only works with some,” she countered. “And that’s contingent on how much the denier wants to deny to herself.” Chantel stepped in close and pinned me against the shower wall with her slippery body. “And also how well she…” Her fingers were inside me before I could fend them off “…she stands up to pressure.”

Chantel’s knowledgeable fingers working in and out of me felt so good I wanted her to do anything but stop. I forced myself to grab her wrist and barely managed to pull her fingers out of my already juicing cunt. “I… I’ll let you know how well I’m holding up,” I weakly protested. “Say, around lunch time?”

Shortly before noon, I called home to see if Edwin had gotten home yet. After four rings I got the recorder and punched in the code to hear any messages. There were three. The first was a telemarketer wanting to put aluminum siding on my brick house and the second, someone wanting to pump out the septic tank of a house that was on city utilities, which included sewer.

The third call was far more relevant to me personally; Edwin calling to say that he was staying over one more day and would be home no later than Wednesday evening. I immediately went in search of Chantel.

I found her in the Student Union, talking with Darnell and another one of the football players, our starting tight end, Clay… otherwise known as Cannon. I assumed the nickname came from the way he hit opposing players, which was always hard enough to drive them back several yards. I would soon enough find out just how wrong assuming anything about a select cadre of our black athletes could be.

I got a cheery “Hi, Mrs. Chapel” from both Darnell and Chantel, but from Clay it was, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Chapel.” The young man was almost as good looking as Darnell, but several inches tall and more muscular—solid as the proverbial rock, and I couldn’t help wondering if that meant all over. A naturally gifted athlete, Clay was also an A student with very little effort on his part. A sophomore, Clay was also captain of the debating team, but for someone who was only twenty years old, he seemed to take everything in life entirely too seriously.

I had hoped to find Chantel alone, she wasn’t, so I had to give her the good news in a roundabout way. “You mentioned something about wanting me to explain the opening scene in the fourth act of Macbeth. You have cheerleading practice after school, but my husband will out of town another day, so I’ll be free this evening if you want to drop by.”

“That would fine, Mrs. Chapel.” To anyone else, Chantel had masked the twinkle in her eyes rather well, but I had caught it.

Regrettably, so had Darnell. “I have a hard question about that same act, Mrs. Chapel.”

“I imagine you do, Darnell,” I replied, “especially since you didn’t volunteer one answer in class this morning.” I didn’t groan, but I sorely wanted to. “Shall we say eightish… for the both of you?” Chantel, I knew, would be there no later than 6:30, giving us time for a mutual finger fuck/pussy lick before Darnell arrived with his “hard” question.

“Do you tutor any students, Mrs. Chapel?” Clay asked politely. “Or just a select few?”

If Darnell so much as smirked, Chantel would have to beat me at kicking him square in the testicles. “I’m willing to help any student in need, Clay.” After all, this was my job; taboo interracial/intergenerational sex was merely a growing obsession. “Would you care to join this study session?”

“If the three of you wouldn’t mind?”

Chantel nodded and so did Darnell; though with a bit more enthusiasm than I thought was warranted. “All right, I’ll order pizza, you three bring whatever you wish to drink… along with your copies of Macbeth. I only have one at home and that’s an authenticated 2nd edition, which is kept under glass.”

“Well, so much for any blackcock sex, tonight,” I grumbled under my breath on the way out of the Union. With Clay joining the “study session”, another three way with D’bone would be out of the question. Chantel and I would just have to console ourselves with some hot and sweaty lesbian sex after the guys left.

There I went, assuming again. And, I likely would have chuckled had I known how prophetic my random choice of act and scene had been, though what actually transpired at the “study” session was a far cry from the gloom and doom the three witches had fortuned for poor Macbeth.

Chantel called on her cell phone from a block away and I had the garage door open—with the interior lights off—when she swung into the driveway and killed her headlights. Only one vehicle occupying the large three-car garage (mine) provided her with a large margin for error, but I still breathed a pent up sigh of relief when her red Honda Civic safely ghosted in alongside my “so far” undented, unscratched white Lexus convertible.

I closed the garage door and hit the lights. And I was in the kitchen, my blouse draped over the back of a chair and my brassier backwards around my middle, aggravatingly attempting to get the stubborn hooks out of the too small eyelets, when Chantel came in from the garage, her knapsack over her shoulder and a liter of Pepsi in each hand. She dumped her bag on the table and quipped,” That is not going to help Darnell, or Clay, understand one word of that scene.” She put the bottles in the refrigerator, then stepped over to me and bent her head to my exposed breasts. “Though, I myself find your mode of undress to be most appealing.”

She took one of my nipples between her lips and teased it with her tongue, then did the same for the other one. Then, she turned around and plunked herself down in the chair, leaving me standing there, naked above the waist, my nipples now hard and aching. “Like, what’s to understand about that scene,” she snorted. “The three witches prognosticate what’s doomed to happen over a bubbling caldron. Yada, yada, yada.” She looked over her shoulder at me and winked. “I’d cover those beauties, if I were you, Mrs. Chapel, the guys will be here in about twenty minutes. Their practiced got over early today.”

Disappointed beyond belief, I snatched my blouse off the back of her chair. “Then it’s up to you to call for pizza, you teasing witch. I’m going to go freshen up.”

Chantel was closing the door behind Darnell and Clay when I came into the living room dressed more appropriately in a bulky Norwegian-knit sweater, tweed skirt and flats. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Chapel,” Clay comment, looking around with obvious appreciation in his dark eyes.

I noticed that two book bags had been left at the front door and was about to comment on this when Darnell walked right up to me and said, “You weren’t really expecting this to be a for real study session, were you, Diane?”

He had just used my given name, with undeniable familiarity, with someone else in the room besides Chantel, and I bristled. “I most certainly did, young man!”

Chantel quickly stepped between us. “At least until the pizza guy gets here and is gone, Darnell,” she sternly reasoned. “Sheesh! Don’t any of you guys ever think anything, except for football plays, through in your thick fucking heads?”

Clay walked over and retrieved his book bag. “I tried to tell you, D’bone, but, as usual, you gotta go in balls to the wall.” He picked up Darnell’s bag and pitched it to him underhand. Darnell grunted when he caught it. “You want to make it in big time college ball, let alone the pros, you gotta play more like me; plant yourself good and solid, let the opposition commit themself, then pile-drive them into the ground.”

I was a bit stupefied and looked to Chantel. She held her ground, but her eyes wavered nervously. “You been sortta set up here, Diane.”

“By who?” I angrily retorted. “By Darnell, or by you? Or did the two of you conspire in this… this set up?”

“I think that would be ‘By whom’, Mrs. Chapel,” Clay answered in a calm voice. He set his bag on the coffee table. “And it would be mostly by Darnell, though it didn’t take much for Chantel to be all for it.” He sat down on the couch, opened his bag and took out a copy of Macbeth. “I myself… Well, let’s just say that I’m in on this for what both of them have assured me will be the ride of my life.”

I was no longer stupefied, I was now flabbergasted. How could Clay—a twenty year old—possibly remain so calm and obviously in control of himself in the face of a stressful situation, such as we… or rather, I now found myself embarrassingly embroiled in?

Just then, the doorbell rang. “Saved by the bell!” Chantel yelped and raced for the door.

“Not yet, you’re not!” I snapped at her back and turned my wrath on her co-conspirator. “Darnell, if you let her pay for the pizzas, you might as well pick up your bag and march your ungentlemanly black ass right on out of here.”

“Author! Author!” Clay rose to his feet and applauded. “Well spoken, Mrs. Chapel; you cut him off right at the knees and you did it with both class and style. I say, Bravo!” He sat back down and resumed reading. “D’bone, go pay the man.”

I was beginning to see some very definite possibilities developing between Clay and I, and they didn’t have a damn thing to do with scholastic achievement. I was willing to wait and see what might develop, at least until I found out what was really going on here. Then, we’d all see… all four of us.

We actually did discuss Macbeth while the four of us gobbled down piping hot wedges of pizza. Darnell and Clay each had a cold beer; Chantel and I had frosted mugs of Pepsi. “If I had been Macbeth, and had a mother like he did,” Clay commented, “I would have hot-footed it out of that cave and run like hell.”

“But he didn’t,” I pointed out. “And where would be the tragedy if he had? If he had sensibly cut and run, the play would have ended right then and there.”

“Good point, Mrs. Chapel.” A look I had seen all too often in class came to Clay’s eyes; irreverent mischievousness might a good way to describe it. “And just think of the drama the world would have missed out on. There would be no “To be, or not to be”, no skull held aloft in Macbeth’s hand, no ‘Alas, poor Iago! I knew him’.”

“That’s entirely from Hamlet, young man,” I snootily corrected. “And the skull was Yorick’s,” At least Clay hadn’t misquoted by saying, “I knew him well.” That always infuriates me. “Iago was Othello’s nemesis.”

“Just making sure you were paying attention, Mrs. Chapel,” Clay replied with an indecipherable wink. “To the discussion at hand, naturally.”

I can quote any work of Shakespeare’s you care to pull off the shelf from memory, so—in all honesty—I hadn’t been paying complete attention. My eyes had kept straying in Clay’s direction, taking in the way his tight polo shirt seemed like a second skin on his upper torso, leaning back as if stretching in the hopes of possibly catching a glimpse at his lap to see whether or not there was a telltale bulge in his slacks. I hadn’t detected any noticeable bulge, but the evening was still young.

“Any other thoughts about Macbeth?” Clay asked.

“I’m with you,” Darnell responded. “I’d ‘ve cut and run.”

“And I side with Mrs. Chapel,” Chantel asserted.

“An even-Steven split.” Clay nodded with satisfaction. “Since no one likes losing, I hereby declare this debate to be a successful draw. Viewpoints were exchanged; no one lost, yet no one won.” He looked over at me. “However, you are the teacher, and this is your home, so, by all rights, you should have the final say-so on that, Mrs. Chapel.”

Clay was not an overbearing young man. He was actually a quiet, thoughtful student most of the time, yet he had a commanding presence about him. I had seen him literally dominate interscholastic debates… all by himself. Clay was the sort of person, when he chose to speak, other’s just naturally listened to what he had to say. “I concur completely, Clay,” I replied. Why not, he had been right on all counts.

“Not only do you posses both class and style, Mrs. Chapel,” Clay said in all seriousness, “you are a diplomatically gracious hostess.” He reclined back on the couch with his tree trunk legs stretched out in front of him. “Now, if there is a less formal direction this study session is going to take…” he said in his deceptively casual voice, yet the inference in his tone left no question to what he added on, “Well, that will have to be entirely up to you, as well, Mrs. Chapel.”

This good-looking young man’s deep-set eyes were, to say the least, unnerving. It felt like Clay’s unwavering stare was penetrating right through my corneas. I had to forcibly pull my eyes from his in order to look down at his crotch. There was now a very noticeable bulge in his slacks. “Chantel, would mind giving me a hand cleaning up this mess?” I said, continuing to brazenly stare at the gradually increasing bulge in Clay’s lap. “Darnell, why don’t you take Clay into the den,” I suggested. “Between the two you, surely one of you can find us a… a suitable movie to unwind with.”

In the kitchen, Chantel obliquely commented, “He just makes your panties all wet with that ‘I’m what you want, and we both know it’ look of his, doesn’t he?”

“If you’re referring to Clay, the answer is an unequivocal, yesssss!” Then I confessed. “That is, if I was wearing any.”

Chantel’s hand dove under my skirt and right up my parted legs to my pussy. She smiled. “Good thing you’re not.” She withdrew her hand. Her fingers were slick with my secretions. She ran her tongue over the forefinger and middle finger, and then held the remaining pussy slick fingers under my nose. “Sharesies!”

The smell of myself was sufficient temptation for me to sluttishly suck her ring and pinkie fingers clean. I tongue-kissed her immediately afterward and told her to go make sure the front door was securely locked while I did the same for the connecting door to the garage.

We joined up again in the living room—each of us giving the other the “All’s secure” thumbs up. But, instead of joining the guys in the den, I took her hand and we snuck upstairs to my bedroom where I dug in my lingerie drawer for something sexy. The sexiest thing I could come up with was a white peignoir. It wasn’t as sexy as my black negligee, but with no panties underneath the diaphanous material… It would have to do. We were in a bit of a pinch here, and besides, Chantel was simply irresistible in white.

I handed Chantel the peignoir. “Along with this sexy wardrobe you’ve been mentally picking out for me,” I said, pulling my sweater over my head, “I do think some sexier lingerie should be included.” This would be the fifth evening in a row I would be wearing my black negligee and crotchless panties, and both were now splattered here and there with telltale, chalky-white splotches of D’bone’s cum.

Chantel had already tossed her cheerleading sweater in the chair. “Some sexy undies…” She unzipped her skirt and skin it and her all-concealing light blue cheerleading panties off and tossed them at the chair “…and some really slutty stuff, too.”

“That, I will leave entirely in your hands, my dear.” I wouldn’t know what was sexy compared to what constituted slutty, or even where to look for such items. But Chantel would. With the satin ribbon of my negligee tied in a bow at my throat, I picked up the crotchless panties. “Think I should even bother with these?”

“Oh, yes,” Chantel answered, slipping her arms into the peignoir. “I love the way the gossamer black lace frames your pussy, and Clay will like the way they leave you completely vulnerable from behind.”

I gave Chantel an appreciative eyeballing. White was definitely Chantel’s color. She looked so God awful irresistible, I wanted to throw her on the bed and carry out a scientific experiment; finding out if the friction between our two negligees would generate any electric blue sparks in the dimly lit bedroom as we went at each other.

But, we had guests (who were, no doubt, growing impatient) to entertain first.

Chantel and I tiptoed back downstairs and stood in the doorway of the semi-dark den—the only light was coming from the TV, but it was sufficient to see that Darnell and Clay were sitting at opposite ends of the long couch, both of them stark naked. Interracial porn action (naturally) was being lewdly splashed across the big screen—a young blonde on her hands and knees, simultaneously servicing two black guys.

“Is this the only type of movies this particular PPV channel airs?” I asked as we entered the room. I stood at the side of the couch were Clay was reclining, Chantel continued on to where Darnell was sprawled out.