Swan's Way Ch. 04byclayboy©
On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I have an hour between classes, and I use the time in the gymnasium, doing floor exercises, working up a sweat.
I tossed my tights and singlet in my bag, grabbed a towel, and went into the shower room. Damp and dark; 20x20, tiled from floor to ceiling, with shower heads spaced every five feet or so. I was just rinsing off, when someone entered the room.
She selected the space beside me, which I thought somewhat unusual. Generally, if the place isn't filled to capacity after some team event, people give each other a bit more space. I wiped the water from my eyes, and looked at her.
"Ms. Larsen," I said, surprised. "Hello." Ms. Larsen, I should say, is a grad student, and teaches my English Lit class. She is bigger than I am- who isn't- with plump breasts and a bit of a belly. I'd guess she was in her mid twenties. A pretty face and red hair, which I could see was her natural color.
"I was watching you," she said. "You've had formal training."
"Years and years," I replied, reaching for my towel. I was uneasy about the way she was studying me.
"Magnificent," she said, puzzling me as to just what she thought was so great. She quickly cleared that up. She took a step closer to me, reached out, touched my lower lip with her thumb. Traced it slowly down my chin, my throat, my chest, my-
I recoiled and snatched for my towel. "I-I have a class. Gotta run!" And I did, treating her to a flash of butt as I skittered across the wet tile floor, and back to my locker. Dressed in a trice, and got the hell out of Dodge.
That afternoon, listening to her drone on about 19th Century poetry, my nasty little mind drifted back to that shower room. I felt a tingle of the sort that Marcel can induce with a certain look. Only, Marcel was nowhere in sight.
Ms. Larsen seemed to be looking directly at me, as she said, " 'The mur-mur-ing pines and the hem-locks. This is the for-est prim-e-val.' Iambic pentameter."
After class I lingered until the other students left. I approached the front of the room as she gathered her materials. "Uh, Ms. Larsen? About what happened in the shower-"
She smiled, raised her palms in front of her. "Oops, sorry! Hey, no harm, no foul, O.K.?"
"Yeah, sure, O.K." I unlocked my bike and pedalled the mile and a half back to the apartment. Put a casserole on the stove to heat, and started conjugating French verbs at the kitchen table. Je suis, vous etes, nous sommes. What a screwy language.
Marcel came home, kissed the top of my head, went into the bedroom to change. "How was class today?" he called.
"Huh? oh; 'kay, I guess."
He reappeared in linen slacks and a silk pullover. Poured himself a glass of wine, stirred the casserole. Sat, watched me study. He reached out, took my hand. "You're awfully quite this evening."
I tried to ignore him; read, my lips moving as I worked my way through the next verb. I sighed, closed the book. "Marcel? Did you ever, uh, fool around with another guy?"
He sipped his wine and studied me across the top of his glass. "Tut, tut, Swan; aren't you the curious little bird. What makes you ask such a question?"
"Today. . . Back in seventh grade I was at a party, and we played Spin the Bottle. I had to kiss a couple of the girls. And, it was like: nothing. But, then, today. . ."
I told him about Ms. Larsen in the shower, how she'd touched me, how I felt odd, later, in her class.
"And what sort of 'odd' did you feel, ma petite oiseau?"
"It was weird; just thinking about the way she'd trailed her thumb, made me feel the way I do when YOU touch me. Tingley. Flushed. Like, I sort of wished I hadn't run out of the shower room. You think I'm, you know, a-"
"A lesbian? I doubt that, dear child. You like straight sex too much! But, depending upon how strong an attraction you have for this woman, it's quite possible that your are having bi-sexual urges. I believe that we all are, to some extent. I've always thought that the loudest homophobes were repressing latent tendencies."
He got up and checked the casserole, put plates and silverware on the table. I put my books away and washed my hands.
After dinner I hurriedly did the dishes, wrapped my arms around my lover, whispered, "I'm so confused! Take me to bed, Marcel; I need you to screw my brains out."
And we did; and then we talked and talked and talked.
The following week, as I entered the classroom, Ms. Larsen touched my elbow, said quickly, "Stay after class for a moment, please."
I did as I was told. I can be SUCH an obedient child!
She sat at the desk beside mine. "Look; I appologize for last week. I don't know what came over me. It's just that, since the beginning of the year, I've noticed you, the way you carry yourself with such grace. And, when I saw you, exercising in the gymn, I had to see you. . . in the alltogether. Please! It was so stupid of me; I'll lose my job, get bounced out of grad school, if anyone finds out!"
"Yes, I suppose you would. But then, it would be my word against yours, and I'm just a lowly Freshman, while you have your degree, are about to get your Masters. Who would they believe?"
"Is there any reason to carry it that far?"
I enjoyed toying with her. "No," I said after a long moment. "I suppose not. . . Still. . ." I gathered my books and stood. "No, never mind; everything is Jake." I smiled and headed for the door. "See you Thursday!"
Wicked, wicked me.
I told Marcel everything, and we shared a giggle.
Thursday I said, after class, "Let's try this; start over. Forget about what happened. Try to build a friendship. I think you're a terrific teacher, Ms. Larsen; you'll be a tenured PhD in nothing flat!"
"Oh, call me Greta," she gushed.
"Greta it is. Hey, I have an idea! I'm a fair to middling cook. How 'bout stopping by my place for dinner, tomorrow night?"
"Oh, how sweet of you! I'd love that." She took my hand in both of hers.
Great," I said. "I can't wait until you meet Marcel!" And smiled and smiled and smiled, all the way home on my little bikey bike. Sniff the seat, bitch!
Friday, after class, I shop the waterfront, assemble the ingredients for a boulliabaise. Shellfish, a big fat flailing lobster; prawns, seabass, squid. An eel. the usual assorted herbs and veggies. Fresh fresh fresh. The apartment fills with mingled aromas. Never been there (yet!), but I bet it smells like St. Tropez.
Marcel's apartment occupies the top floor of a fourth floor walk-up. Three rooms; big kitchen-cum-sitting room, big bath, bigger playpen. I set the table with majollica, mismatched antique sliverware, a trio of crystal flutes. He has splurged on a bottle of Tattinger for My Night. I light the candles.
Dusk. I am wearing a silk cheomsang-one of those high necked Chinese dresses that are slit from there to here; nothing underneath. Heels. I put something light and classical on the music machine. Marcel appears. Maroon silk smoking jacket, shawl collar. A fucking ascot! "Too much, he asks?"
"Hey, she's a GRAD student, Gomez! She'll probably jump YOU, instead of me!"
He clutches me, tight against his chest. He smells of Casablanca. Or so he says. "Are you sure about this?" he murmurs. "You can back out, you know."
The doorbell rings; one of those ancient things you twist, producing a sharp 'BRRRRRP!'
I kiss him quickly, deeply. "Oh,God; I'm so confused so hot so wet! Forward; into the valley!"
She is wearing a green, sleeveless dress that draws attention to her red hair. Lipstick. Freckles dust her cheeks. I introduce her to Marcel. She is cool, reserved. Confused. Is this guy my father? He's no help as he says, "You've made quite an impression on my Little Swan. Under your tutelage she has begun to write."
She warms, slightly. Turns to me. "Really? I didn't know! Can you show me anything?"
Can I ever! I attempt a blush. "Oh, no! Maybe sometime in the future, when I have more confidence." I ladle dinner into bowls. Marcel opens the champagne.
This is delicious," she says. "You are quite the chef, Swan."
"Hey; it's just fish stew with a fancy name.No big deal."
Marcel dips a clamshell into the broth, noisily slurps it. "I always considered bouillbaise a Tom Jones sort of meal."
"Henry Fielding." She too dips a shell and slurps. Buttery broth glistens on her lips. "I see what you mean. I'm currently reading She Stoops to Conquer, as part of my thesis, and-"
Marcel slurps again. "She Stoops to Conquer: or; The Mistakes of a Night. Oliver Goldsmith."
"My, you're well read!"
He refills our glasses. "I'm an impresario, I have to be. I'm currently exploring the idea of Moll Flanders as a musical. Not sure if that's going to work, though."
"Daniel Defoe. Moll Flanders is considered one of the earliest novels, you know."
"And SO naughty!"
What the fuck are these two up to? "More champagne?" I ask.
Marcel clears the table. I switch the music machine to slow and dreamy. "Dance with me," I say. He takes me in his arms and we swirl across the floor.
We often dance, and know each other well. As dance partners, I mean. I break, turn to Greta. "He's good, isn't he?" I push him towards her. "Take him for a spin." Reluctantly, she settles into his arms. I dim the lights. Watch them for a minute, then tap him on the shoulder. Step between them. "Do you want to lead, or shall I?"
She hesitates, says, "well, I don't know; I've always thought I was a top, but-"
"Then lead you shall!" I say, and put my left hand on her shoulder. Play the female role. I nestle into her. Her full breasts are soft against my chest. Her hand circles my waist, slides to the swell of my bottom. I take her lower lip between mine. Suck. She breaks the kiss, look at Marcel, who sits and watches.
"Don't mind him, Greta," I whisper. "He's just an old poofter." The poor woman is SO confused! This is not what she expected, not at all. We dance a pas de deux, each wanting to seduce the other. Marcel has prepared me well. "Come," I say, taking her hand. "Let me me show you the bedroom."
"Lock the door," she says. "I don't trust men."
I kiss her, again. "I do," I say, and leave the door ajar. Enough of a view, from the kitchen, if the light is right, and a chair is placed just so. . .
We stand beside the bed. She pushes my dark hair back, behind my ears. Holds my head, kisses me. My lips yield, her tongue enters my mouth, runs beneath my upper lip, across my teeth. I suck her, our tongues duel. I parry, thrust, force her back. I breach her defenses, ram my tongue into her mouth. The duel continues. I am wet. I break free, I turn, I say, "Unzip me."
She catches her breath as my dress pools about my feet. High heels and nothing else. I turn and face her.
"Just like the shower room," she says, as her eyes cruise my body.
"No, not really." She looks at me, puzzled. "You're still fully clothed." She pulls the dress up, over her head, tosses it on the bed. Lacy bra and scanty panties. They join the dress. We stand and look at each other. She lightly touches my cunt. My very, very favorite word. It makes me feel so slutty.
"So smooth and soft," she says. "I've often considered doing that, but never had the nerve."
"I'm really furry, down there, and it bothered me, when I danced. You have a lovely muff.Leave it the way it is. More fun to explore, that way. Hidden treasures."
"Can we. . .get on the bed?"
"Go slow, Greta. This is the first time I've ever done this."
"You seem so experienced."
"No, Greta. Just wicked."
We lie on our sides, facing each other, gazing into each others eyes. Hers travel down. "God, you're beautiful," she says. "What a body. I'm such a fatty."
"I'm too skinny," I parry. "And you're not fat, you're full." I touch a breast, squeeze, brush the nipple with my thumb. There are freckles on her chest. "I wish I had tits."
She returns the favor; my nipples harden. She takes one in her mouth, and lets her hand rove slowly down my belly, opens me, dips inside. Brings her hand back up. Sucks the finger. I return the favor. She tastes different than I do. I inhale her scent. Stronger than mine, musky. Quite pleasant. Marcel has changed the music machine back to classical. A fugue.
She rolls me on my back, parts my legs. Rises to her knees, looms over me, moves down between my legs. "May I?" she asks. Begs.
"Please, yes, God, yes! I'm so hot."
Her tongue is well ahead of her, education wise. Already has its doctorate in Advanced Stimulation. My clitoris succumbs to her ministrations all too soon. I buck, flail my legs, reach down, and pull her face into me as we ride the tide.
She crawls back up, kisses me, lets me taste my self. "My turn?" I ask.
"Only if you want to. Don't feel that you have to reciprocate."
"You and your big words," I say, slithering down between her ample thighs. I search through her soft red bush, checking what is where. Same equipment I have-surprise-surprise! Just different in size, shape, smell. Her lips are engorged; full, long. I part them with my fingers, run my tongue up, open the hood, start her engine.
"Finger me," she moans. I slide my middle finger inside, beneath my busy tongue. "More," she groans. I add a second finger. "More more more!"
I now have four fingers in her, up to my second knuckles. My thumb brushes against her other opening, and I feel it spasm. As I consider whether or not to slip it in there she makes the decision for me. "Fist me!" she whispers.
I twist my hand sideways and introduce my thumb into her cunt. She's sloppy wet with her juices and my slobber. I push against her, she grunts. Suddenly, I slide in. Not the first time for my Greta! Her vaginal muscles grip my wrist, hold me prisoner.
"Pump me hard!" she cries. "Use your other hand, do my clit. Bust me up! Rough! I like it rough!" She pulls her knees up, spreads her legs. I torment her clit with my right hand, twist the left from side to side, deep in her cunt. She grabs her breasts, squeezes them, pulls the nipples with her fingers until they pop free, does it again and again and again.
Wow! This is such a turn on; I wish I had a third hand. I bet this bitch likes to be tied up, likes to be beaten.
Greta thrashes, crashes, deflates like a balloon the morning after. She lies, boneless on the bed, all soft soft soft. I nestle beside her. "Wow!" I say.
She turns her head toward me, smiles. "Yeah. Wow."