tagAnalRed Hot

Red Hot

bySueNH©

Copyright © 1996

I also take great pleasure from my work life, where I get to meet and socialize with many fascinating people. My business calls on me to consult with organizations that want to improve the decor of their offices. Normally, this means businesses and office complexes that want to make their sterile cubicles and hallways more human and hospitable. When the principal of an elementary school in my area called to ask about my services, I was genuinely surprised. I wouldn't have thought that schools would be able to afford the art work and fine appointments that are usually the basis of my advice. But he explained that a group of local artists had volunteered to donate their paintings and sculptures. The principal (John) felt there needed to be a consultant to help select from the available works and fit them into the existing environment of the school building.

At this point in the conversation, I was figuring out how to tactfully let him know that this wasn't the job for me. I envisioned paint-by-number seascapes, popsicle-stick sculpture, and Elvis-on-black-velvet... and I didn't want to be the arbiter of this kind of pseudo-art. But before I could give voice to my refusal, John started to list a few of the artists that had offered to donate their pieces. Somehow, this small community in rural New England had attracted a loosely-knit colony of accomplished masters of the visual arts. I was intrigued by the possibility of working with these people, and the concept of incorporating great and challenging art works into the backdrop for young students' education was alluring. When the principal asked me what I would charge for consulting, I tapped into the more generous side of my personality, and offered to serve the school on a gratis basis. After all, these artists were willing to trade in the five- and six-digit prices that their works could normally fetch on the open market, for the gratification of helping the school. Who was I to ask for more?

As a way to warm-up to the project, I asked John if I could come for a visit to the school, to see the building and meet some of the teachers. It is a tenet of my business that the people who occupy a building are really my clients, and I always seek to determine what they want.

When the day arrived for my visit to the school, I awoke an hour before my alarm was set to go off. I lay there in bed for a while trying to fall back asleep, but I could tell that it wasn't going to be possible. Normally, I'm a sound sleeper. When I have insomnia, I know from experience that it is because something is troubling me. I knew what it was. The prospect of going to an elementary school put me out of my comfort zone. My active sexual life, and my inclination to fantasize graphically about the people I meet, was completely at odds with the situation I would be in. Without any equivocation, I draw the line sexually when it comes to underage kids. I was lying in bed worrying about how to control my impulses in this inappropriate context. With time on my hands, I decided to take the edge off my natural high- pitched lustful appetite. With no partner to help me out, I took matters into my own hands. From the bedside stand, I took out a printout of a story that a had been written for me by a fan of my stories. With the dawn's soft light illuminating the words, I read this man's well-written fantasy of how we got together, and how we engaged in the most energetic and kinky sexual games. The second half of the story focused on how he pulled his long, hard cock out of my grasping cunt and slowly snaked it into my asshole.

This writer knew in advance that I am not inclined toward real anal sex. My experiments in this area have been totally unsuccessful, involving discomfort and pain. Pain is not something that I think of as sexual and exhilarating. But he also knew that I like a bit of teasing around the edges of my asshole, and that I was fascinated by the fact that being fucked in the ass works wonders for at least a few women. So his story got me worked up very quickly. I propped myself up on an elbow, and held the pages in my left hand, as my right hand wormed into the tight space between the mattress and my hips. As usual, I was sleeping in the nude, so my fingers were able to find the accessible objective between my thighs. My level of arousal was evident by the slippery moisture that lubricated the inner folds of my labia. As his story built gradually to its climax, my fingers insinuated themselves more and more insistently into those puffy flaps of skin, chasing and trapping the hard nub of clitoral flesh. Instinctively, my hips began to rise and fall against the resistance of my hand and the mattress. As the fictitious man in the story reached his orgasm, stimulated by my mythically compliant asshole, clutching and pulsing around his throbbing cock, my own very real orgasm soared from a gentle pianissimo into a full-blown crescendo. My face burrowed into the papers while my fingers strummed over my clitoris, struggling to keep contact as my hips humped and pumped uncontrollably.

Two hours later, I was on-site at the school, getting a tour of the facility. My masturbatory therapy had worked wonderfully, for I was now in the appropriate frame of mind for the task and the setting. And I was fascinated by the challenge that it presented. It was a very new building, basically well designed but too clean and cold for my tastes. Many of the walls stretched up 10 or 15 feet, and were decorated on the lower portion with the product of the youngster's art classes. But above the six-foot line, it was nothing but silver-gray cinder block-lots of space to showcase the masterworks that I chose from the studios of the artists. Occasionally, John and I would stop in to a classroom. To my untrained and unaccustomed eyes, each of these rooms appeared to be a chaotic storm of pandemonium, but John proudly gave me an overview of the educational philosophy of the school, and I started to see how much learning and productive activity was taking place in the midst of the seeming chaos. And the smiles on the kids' faces were contagious, infecting me with the enthusiasm and idealism that pervade the whole place.

My world is inhabited almost entirely by adults, both in my work and play. So this was such a different environment for me. As John and I whisked from room to room, I was fascinated by the behaviors and attitudes of the kids. I was introduced to the teachers in each class, but they didn't make much of an impression on me..., until we entered Polly Trinka's third grade classroom. In the center of a swarming mass of 8 year olds was a stunningly beautiful and serene woman. Polly Trinka was thin and tall, and her natural charisma was almost instantly apparent to me. Above and beyond all the things that registered on my consciousness in those first moments, it was her hair that really knocked me out. It was the most radiant shade of orange-red that I had ever seen on a person, almost as if the swirling strands were composed of burning embers in a campfire, lit from within by the fiery heat.

John must have noticed my interest in Polly's classroom; when we left her room and entered the relative quiet of the hallway, he remarked that she was clearly the most beloved and effective teacher in the school. All the parents want to get their children into her class, the kids get the highest scores on standardized tests, and the other teachers and administrators respected her so much that she was asked to be principal a few years ago. It was only the fact that she refused the promotion-preferring to keep her hands-on connection with the kids-that made John's administrative appointment possible.

John went on for a few minutes elaborating Polly's attributes. When I finally got the chance to respond, I said "It's obvious that she has something special going on, and the one thing you didn't mention about her must be the thing that everyone notices first."

"Oh, you mean her hair, don't you?" John said. "It really is amazing isn't it....?" And his voice trailed off in embarrassment. I could tell by John's gushing description of Polly that he was an admirer, and in a way that was more than just professional. And I had already noticed that John was not married (to be honest, I check out the left hand of most men that I meet within a few minutes!). Similarly, I had also seen that Polly did wear a wedding band. I had to wonder what it was like for her husband, living with someone so seemingly perfect and esteemed? There were obvious aspects of her personality that her friends saw as being "nice." But for someone who had to live with her, she might be perceived as prudish, condescending and orthodox. Her beauty and charisma might serve her well in her professional life, yet interfere with her intimate and sexual life. I found it impossible to picture her engaged in wild and kinky sex. Probably her limit was the missionary position once- per-month, in her king-sized bed with the lights out. What a waste!

Anyway, as we compared our impressions about the remarkable Polly Trinka, our discussion was interrupted by the school bell, signifying the end of the school day. The hall that John and I were standing in was instantly filled with the random, Brownian motion of the laughing, screaming youngsters. Within five minutes, the corridor was again silent, and we proceeded to the conference room for our meeting with the teachers. Twelve of them attended, and I was glad to see that Polly was there. We went around the room introducing ourselves, and one man was of particular interest to me, for two reasons. First of all, he was the art teacher for the school, so this related to my consulting job. Secondly, his name was Michael Trinka, and he sat right next to Polly. Math isn't my strength, but I can put one and one together-the two of them were married. And what an interesting contrast they made. Whereas Polly came across as refined and ethereal, Michael was very earthy, with burly Eastern-European features. Not that he was fat: he was big and muscular and swarthy, and just as Polly's hair was her signature characteristic, Michael's hair was dramatic. His head, cheeks, and chin were covered with dense, brushy black hair, and even the backs of his hands sprouted with long dark curls.

I was also intrigued by the way the two if them interacted during the meeting. Generally, the tone of the discussion was positive and constructive. Many of the participants had good ideas about where the artwork should and shouldn't be placed, and which of the artists were most appropriate. But there were plenty of friendly disagreements amongst the teachers and, most memorably, between Michael and Polly. Michael was a proponent of elegant, peaceful, objective pieces, whereas Polly was in favor of large, powerful and anarchic works. Each spoke persuasively and fervently for their positions, yet they provided respectful space for each other to speak, and they listened intently as the other spoke. When Polly's position eventually garnered the support of all the other teachers, Michael was magnanimous in defeat, granting that Polly's ideas (having to do with challenging the sensibilities of the students) were probably best for the school.

After two hours, the meeting finally broke up. Several teachers came up to me to emphasize their enthusiasm for the project. Finally, I broke away and walked over to where John, Michael and Polly were sitting, engaged in a continuation of their previous debate. When I sat down with them, I complimented Polly and Michael on how skillfully they handled their differing opinions. Michael laughed and said that their life together was full of juxtapositions. Their backgrounds, their politics, their personalities, and of course their appearances were almost entirely in opposition, yet they loved each other so much that they had struggled to find a way to build on their differences.

This was fascinating stuff. I wanted to know more about how this worked for them, but before I got to ask another question, Polly said she had missed lunch so that she could talk to some parents about their kids, so she was starving. She invited me to come to their home for dinner. I asked if John could come as well; I didn't want to be a third wheel, and I was attracted to him anyway. Perhaps my mischievous elf was whispering in my ear, for I hadn't forgotten about John's unstated infatuation with Polly, and I wanted to see how that would play out. While I was within the environment of the elementary school, I had no trouble restraining my libidinous thoughts. But now the image of being away from the school with four interesting people got my juices flowing, both figuratively and literally. My expectations were tempered by my expectation that Polly was too much of a goody-two-shoes to be interested in anything wild and kinky. But perhaps John and I could slip away early and act on our impulses.

I haven't described John yet. He matched my stereotypical image of a principal-intellectual, politically cautious and astute, clean-cut and genteel. And very handsome, too, with sandy brown hair and a long thin nose holding up his horn- rimmed glasses. Compared to Polly and Michael, John was kind of "white bread," but I found him easy to talk to, and I think that we had been unconsciously flirting with each other all day. My read was that he would be available for a fling if I wanted, and that he would be an attentive and enthusiastic (if somewhat conventional) lover. I had successfully held my erotic predilections at bay since my morning masturbation, but now that we were making plans to leave the school building, I was happy to let the free and erotic spirits back into my consciousness.

Anyway, we all trundled off to our cars, and I followed the Trinkas' car for about 10 minutes, until we arrived at their home. It turns out that Michael had built it himself after he got out of college. It was obviously handmade, with unusual angles and materials incorporated into every room and surface. Here was an art teacher that could do more that just teach. He was a true creator, bubbling over with inventive energy. Everything about the house flowed seemlessly, leaving the overall impression of a comfortable and alive home. There was something sensuous and personal about it.

Polly was in charge of the meal for the night (they took turns), so she assigned the three of us to chop vegetables and start some pasta, while she disappeared up a ladder into the loft to change out of her "teaching outfit," as she called it. As I was slicing the zucchini, Michael felt compelled to let me know that my technique was somewhat unsafe. He offered to show me a better way to grip the knife, and when I agreed, he sidled up beside me and held my fingers to place my thumb and index finger on either side of the blade. I could smell his musky, masculine scent. I could feel the strength in his hands and arms. His sexual magnetism was just as strong as the more ethereal charisma that emanated from Polly's personality... another one of their many contrasts. That erotically charged feeling of anticipation that I am so fond of was beginning to pervade my body.

Then Polly reentered the kitchen. What a transformation! Her so-called "teaching outfit" was beautifully tailored, and modest to the point of being frumpy. Now her attire was chic and sexy. She was wearing dark green spandex Capri pants, and her silk blouse was sheer and silvery-white. From the way that the glistening fabric was pushed from side to side as she walked, I could tell right away that her breasts were unconstrained by a brassiere. And if she was wearing panties, they didn't telegraph any impression through the skin-tight fabric of her pants. She was barefoot, and her hair, which had earlier been done up in a loose bun atop her head, was now free to waft down onto her shoulders, emphasizing even more the shimmering radiance of her carrot- colored tresses. She had mutated from a Pollyann-ish schoolmarm to a provocative vixen in only a few minutes.

I was stunned by the change. When I turned to see how John reacted to the sight of this siren, I could see that his stirring of the pasta was preempted by the stirring of his passions.

Polly spoke directly to John, saying "If I didn't know better, I'd be worrying that your eyeballs are going to pop right out of their sockets. I realize that you are used to seeing me in a particular way: as the dedicated schoolteacher; as the maternal care-giver; and as the meticulously proper and trusted guardian of the impressionable youth of our town. But I hope that you can see that I'm not that serious and predictable all of the time. The same goes for Michael. Sometimes, we just have to let our hair down." She emphasized this thought by flipping her glowing mane around her shoulders. "Perhaps you, too, have had thoughts and feelings that you wouldn't want to talk about at a PTO meeting. Hopefully, you've had the opportunity to act out some of those taboos."

As we finished the preparation of dinner, and then sat down to eat the delightful feast, we had an amazing discussion. Each of us had the chance to talk freely about the tricky separations that needed to be maintained-between our professional lives and our natural appetites for private experiences and pleasures. And Polly, Michael, and I had plenty of experiences and pleasures to share with the others. The two of them had plenty of bawdy tales to tell, especially from times that predated their relocation to this town. Since then, they had been much more discreet in their behavior.

When I told them that I got a particular kick from writing erotic stories for alt.sex.stories on the Internet, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. It turns out that they were avid followers of the Newsgroup, and that they were fans of my work. The fact that I was, in person, much as I described myself online, was a wonderful surprise. This had been the subject of much disagreement between the two of them. Polly found my online personae to be entirely believable, but Michael had surmised that SueNH was probably a flabby, lonely guy who got off on the impersonation of a libertine woman. Weren't they glad that Polly was right about that!?

John had been so silent during this whole discussion of our past lives. But the mention of the Internet and the sex- related newsgroups finally brought him to the point of opening up. He too was a reader of alt.sex.stories, as well as many of the picture and discussion groups. In particular, he was always on the lookout for stories and pictures of redheads.

When he said that, and then realized the implications of what he had said, he turned scarlet with embarrassment. The passage of time was suspended for a few moments of silence. Then Polly broke into a broad and comforting smile. She tried to put him at ease, telling him that she was flattered, that she was probably typical of most women in the sense that she enjoyed being looked at and appreciated.

More talk ensued on this subject, and gradually, John admitted that his fascination with redheads had begun when he had met Polly. He knew that her marriage made her "untouchable," so he played out his fantasies in private. Michael asked John if he thought about Polly when he masturbated.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "I hope that I'm not offending you, but it's true. And I'm glad to finally get a chance to talk about this."

"I'm not bothered in the least. If I didn't have Polly to enjoy in the flesh, I'd be just like you-enjoying her vicariously. Maybe Sue can write one of her stories, telling all of us what it would be like if you and Polly really got to act out these dreams of yours."

"Well," I explained, "I'm not entirely sure that I have any ideas about how this would play out. I need more suggestions from you guys." This was somewhat disingenuous of me, since I certainly could have written the story based on the basic premises that had already been established. But I love hearing about people's hidden, kinky fantasies, and I hoped to encourage more and more revealing confessions, perhaps for my story, and perhaps just because I get off on hearing this kind of stuff from real people.

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bySueNH© 3 comments/ 30031 views/ 2 favorites

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