tagLesbian SexShe Moves Me

She Moves Me


Author notes

You can skip to the story. This is all vanity stuff.

This twisted tale is a Harlequin Romance on steroids, or perhaps, on aphrodisiacs.

The next submission of this novella completes the story, but this portion stands on its own. If time is friendly, part two will find Literotica within two weeks. It's finished and needs the edits of grammar friends.

Thanks to the efforts of beta buddies, a queer young woman's small fingers found yellow crinkled paper and then a computer.

SexyLatina19 helped her think things through, and the two fell in love. She feels Noira is officially the Venus of beta readers, and pretty coolio to boot. I have it on good authority, the strange author is ready to run nekky on the freeway for both of them this evening. She hopes they chase her.

A couple of people helped her with grammar. She did much of the grammar herself because she's trying to learn. She hates to mention the folks who helped her due to all of the remaining errors. They're her fault (she's hard headed).

Queer young woman found exciting words to scribble on yellow crinkled paper thanks to all of you. Uhm, something tells me she is extremely grateful. I simply know these things.

Plot builds before sex, but the sex is ribald, tawdry, and hot. This young woman works hard and does not hold orgasmic lesbian frenzy from the inevitable, so she insists you enjoy.

The queer young woman told me so.


She Moves Me ♀♀ A Tale of Lust

"Again, Sochie? There isn't anything I can do if you keep cutting Dr. Blanchard's chemistry class. You need to stop."

"Dr. Blubber's a bitch ," said the strong-willed Latina with amber eyes. The college sophomore went on talking about something as I fanned my face with a nearby memo while trying to fight the urge to keep from looking at the young woman's body. The cooling air conditioner in my cramped dean's office provided little relief for the warm flush on my cheeks.

I loved her.

Clad in sandals accenting lime-green toenails at the end of a small bobbing foot, Sochie personified gorgeous. My eyes moved up from her foot to a bronze leg resting across the knee of the other. At the cleft of crossed legs, her womanhood hid in a fashionably wrinkled blue jean skirt. Taut and tempting, her midriff showed distinctive lines of well-defined abs. A skin-tight tank top stretched over full breasts, serving as eye candy for women of my ilk; odd women confused about the need for same sex love. Designer clothing and mature features combined into a heady youth who exuded class. Sochie's beauty stimulated my pussy—a pussy ripe with need.

Nonetheless, in simple terms, student to staff relationships meant trouble. Loving Sochie meant certain fucking trouble for a woman like me, but damn, the girl oozed sex and temptation.

". . . are you even listening to me?"

"Hmm?" I asked.

"What's up with you, Dr. Tyson?" she said, pausing a few seconds. "You're supposed to counsel, not stare at my tits."

"What? Stop it, Sochie—not staring," I said, crimson filling my cheeks.

"Ha! Well if you say so," she replied in a cheeky response. A smug grin briefly flashed across her face. The grin attracted me, because Sochie knew how to work a grin for maximum effect.

After a few long seconds, I tried to lay out her problem. For some reason, my mouth and brain didn't cooperate, "Dr. Blubber—Blanchard . . ." I winced and glanced up at Sochie. 'Bitch' suited Blanchard perfectly, perhaps 'fat bitch' defined her a tad better. However, my position didn't include the right to call the faculty names. I hated playing bad cop with anyone, none more so than Sochie.

After an awkward little pause, I said, "Dr. Blanchard's not going to let you get away with it. She plays a mean game of hardball. If you continue to cut her class, well, chances are I'll be seeing you at Taco Bell. They're always hiring." I let my words sink in. From the look on her carefree face, the words didn't sink. I tried again.

"We've been discussing this academic mind-set of yours since you transferred last fall. This humble community college is your last shot—grow up."

Uncomfortably quiet, Sochie stared at my breasts while chewing on apple scented bubblegum. Pursing her lips, she moved her eyes from my breasts to face and looked at me, sending a clear message of desire. I looked at her and felt some guilt. My guilt didn't stop me from looking.

Admiring her pleasant face and breasts, I sighed, realizing another night with my vibrator waited for me. Jet-black hair bounced like a Slinky when she moved, and her tresses curled perfectly on the front of firm breasts. Accenting an inherent sexiness born of fortunate breeding, a small sapphire twinkled lightly in the crevice of her nose. Her mouth fascinated me, with bright red lips curling in an awkward smile. Sochie played a major factor in the current success this dean's fantasies . . . and a major factor in providing a focus for this dean's masturbation.

"Do you like me, Dr. Amber Tyson?" she asked, purposely slurring the letters in my name.

"Uhm, of course. I like all my students."

Blowing a bubble and letting it pop, she moved forward, placing her elbows on my desk and blessing me with a nice view of her half-exposed cleavage belonging to tits supported by nothing but a tank top.

"No, Dr. Tyson. Do you like-like me?"

She blew another bubble and let it pop.

I smelled the apple scent of her breath and felt sweat form on my brow.

"What . . . what do you mean?" I struggled to get the simple question out, licking my dry lips when I finished.

She sat on the edge of my desk; her short skirt riding up her thigh, exposing the bottom of cotton panties. With perfectly manicured nails, she tickled her brown skin by running tempting small circles up her thigh.

"Do you like? Because I like you," she whispered.

I managed, "Hon you . . . you need to stop this. Y-you're my student. We've been through this before."


Dead silence filled the room for the next thirty seconds. I tried to breathe, but every breath I took smelled of her apple scented gum.

"Answer the question," she insisted.


"Pussy got your tongue?" she asked, bringing her fingers to my lips and tickling.

I tried to nod my head.

"I'm not gonna lie to you Dr. Tyson. You know I think you're hot," she purred and continued to tease my lips with her nails. "I'm available . . ."

She leaned forward on my desk, moving to about a foot in front of my face and questioning, "Are you?"

I exhaled while moving my head in some type of circle meaning yes and then no.

Understanding, she went back to her chair feigning false pain. "Simply too bad, counselor; parents are out of town for the next month. I'm a lonely little girl," she said with a pout, stretching each of the last few words into multiple syllables.

"Sochie." I swallowed nothing from a parched mouth. "Go," my mouth somehow said.

With a smirk on her lips, she said, "Are you sure?"

Difficultly gaining control, I squeaked out a, "Yes."

"Well," she said while spreading her legs in the chair, "if you change your mind, you have my address in your computer. I'll be home around eight; not like I haven't offered before."

She quickly rose and started for the door. As she walked away, her ass hypnotized me—round, plump, and lovely.

I tried to relax.

Reaching for the door, she tossed her hair over her shoulder in a loud message to get my attention. Lifting her skirt and slapping her panty-clad bottom, she turned her head and winked at me.

"Maybe?" she questioned and then turned her head away from me while rubbing her cheek for a few seconds. She knew how to arouse me like no other—knew of the need in my body. Intent on teasing, she moved her hand to the top of her panties, pulling and then stopping. She pulled down again, exposing her fleshy ass for a brief second.

Opening the door, she left.

My mind continued dwelling on the possible . . . and the probable.


Fifteen minutes later, I sat in my office recovering and feeling like a loser for lacking the courage to enjoy Sochie. Looking out the window at freshly mowed fields of grass, I thought about my semi-celebrity husband. Jeff defined masculinity, the jock sort of male who loved nothing more than flexing a bicep in front of the mirror. Coaching a nationally ranked tennis team at a prestigious college in the museum district of Bayou City gave him a feeling of self-importance. My own position at a second-rate community college for rejects didn't offer such prestige, but I enjoyed working with challenging students.

Unknown to the male celebrity, he had married a woman who loved women. At the very least, I felt bisexual; but deep inside, a queer spirit slept. I didn't have the courage to face the world as lesbian and hid in a closet. Sex with Sochie meant exposure. Sex without her meant fucking my husband. Neither seemed an option. A closet owned the coward dean.

I couldn't stand sex with Jeff. His affairs didn't bother me; in fact, I preferred him fucking other women because it saved me the trouble of fucking him. We stayed coupled out of my need for stability and a look of normalcy to the public, all of which contributed to my constant bouts of depression.

Furthering the issue of sex with a student, I loved working with lost youth. Excelling with little acknowledgment or appreciation except for the occasional parent, the position fit my temperament. I loved to please and do pleasant things. Rarely, a student found success due to my efforts. Sochie presented a challenge; she cared less about success than getting her nails manicured, at least the type of success defined by most of the world. She flirted with me each time we met, and I tried to focus on her education.

I often wondered what attracted such an outgoing girl to a shy older woman. Sochie, a reputed lesbian slut, might be off to her next conquest and leave me in her wake. The more I thought about it, the more I knew thinking didn't help. Acting might, but acting with a student would get me fired. I knew I wanted to sleep with her. But my mind, my self-imposed prison, prevented me from sleeping with her.

Still, I checked to make sure my ever-present copy of her data sheet rested in my handbag. Good, the crinkled paper rested in between the picture of my mother and Wal-Mart credit card, safely hidden in case I ever found the courage to follow through on her tempting proposals.

As I left for the evening, my secretary, Tammy, looked up from her computer and asked, "Going home?"

"Yeah, tired."

"Wanna get a drink? You look sad."

I thought for a few seconds while staring at her. Tammy displayed a neurotic sexuality, but she didn't act like a lesbian. However, the young woman always filled me with the melodious tenor of her person. The girl loved the thrill of the bargain and dressed impeccably on a meager salary. My cute bargain rack dress and loafers paled in comparison. With understated elegance, her cute dimples kissed lightly freckled cheeks as she smiled. Tammy possessed a fine figure with small, but lovable breasts and a tight bum. Her sweetly tempting alabaster legs twitched restlessly as she waited for an answer. The decision to go with her required little thought.

"Sounds good. Meet you at Maeve's?" I asked.

"Let me close up."

The way she looked at me made me wonder if she might be interested, but most likely, her bubbly effervescence meant she wanted to comfort me as a friend.

"First round's on me," I said with a wink.

"Deal," she responded, a touch of a smile curling both ends of her cute lips.

The smile didn't help my antsy demeanor.


Maeve's, a cool little dive in the seedier part of town, represented my weekly moment of recluse from the normal world. The bar served as my hangout because acting queer didn't commit me to sex. Sure, a few of my students saw me there at times; nonetheless, most didn't make anything of it besides a surprised glance. Most were underage.

Ms. Pinky Rabbit waited quietly when I arrived home after a few drinks. The toy never complained about breakfast, never came prematurely or burped and farted like my husband. Pinky happily buzzed without a care as long as I fed her Petroleum Jelly with a few Duracell's thrown in for dessert—she preferred copper top.

Often, local gay talent entertained on the stage. Maeve knew how to draw a crowd of horny queers and occasionally hired a high profile stripper to put on a lap dance performance with a volunteer. Sometimes, a couple or two might get carried away and girly bang on the dance floor or in the recesses of the club. Maeve let them proceed, in fact, she participated a time or two. Unbeknown to all but a few of us, Maeve contributed to the local vice squad, keeping a dogged group at bay. The girl knew how to draw a crowd.

In my early thirties, Starbuck's sugary lattes robbed some of my figure, but I still managed to maintain the term 'looker' to most. As I toyed with my tow-colored hair and bit a lower lip, I cut through the small parquet dance floor to a secluded corner to enjoy the strange ambiance.

Maeve soon came by, "You look glum, the usual?" she asked.

"Yeah, and bring a Vodka Tonic for Tammy."

"Her again? You two are becoming an item."

I breathed deeply; the scent of cigarettes, stale liquor and expensive perfume filled my nostrils. Finding the smell strangely satisfying, I quietly wondered how Maeve always knew my secrets—

"Maeve, don't go there," I responded. "You know I'm married."

"Your body and eyes don't lie, babycakes," she shot back. "But your secret's safe, for now, at least."

—and always knew how to politely push my insecurities.

I paused and thought about why I never took advantage of opportunities.

"Never mind, just bring me the drinks," I said loudly above the music, tapping my fingers on the table.

"Yeah, thought so," she smirked while making the call-me sign with her index finger and thumb. Denying myself yet another obvious offer for sex, I looked away.

"You'll come around. They always do," she added while leaving to calm a drunken patron. I drank the confusion of her 'always do'. It tasted bitter.

"Hot girl this evening!" she shouted over the music while laughing.

I sat dejected—everything to gain and nothing to lose, maybe?

Owning a bartender's practical understanding and the looks of a Madonna, Maeve pegged me as a queer wannabe after the first time I walked into the place. Covered in tattoos and piercings, the thirtyish woman imbued a complex beauty and peculiar genius. She often spoke to me on slow nights about her gritty experiences as a teen. I knew she overcame her difficulty by the sheer will of her good heart. Maeve often babied me with kind words of affection, attempting to ease my homosexual angst and get me to come out.

"Let my wife and I show you the sexual ropes. Come spend the weekend at our home," she often suggested.

The problem? I made Gordian's knot look like an untied shoelace.

The club boasted a varied clientele from the wealthy socialite to the Goth youth. Radiating a certain disquieted excitement, the subtle mood found its way under my skin to my nipples and down to my panties.

Waiting for my drink, I swayed to the soulful jazz on the sound system as thumping bass and alto flute vibrated my chair. My gaze drifted to the small parquet dance floor. Gray smoky haze obscured the air surrounding the crowded floor. A strange mixture of women danced, some curious straight girls, a few transsexuals, but most lesbian. Maeve's attracted the queer . . . and the lonely.

A young couple who looked in their twenties danced, kissed, and then hugged. The couple delighted in the warmth of their passionate embrace. The hug cooked desire in my mind for similar pleasure. As I considered my current situation and the two women, desire for a woman's touch warmed my face and nipples. My legs unconsciously clenched as my hand consciously went to my middle. I touched myself in my privates for a few seconds.

One of the girls looked familiar. I focused through the parade of queer on her dark face. She looked Latina, possessing a lovely bum covered in a short blue-jean skirt. Gasping, I recognized Sochie with her latest groupie and removed my hand from between my legs. Living up to the name most of the regulars called me, 'new chicken meat', I tried to hide my face.

Maeve surprised me by arriving quickly with three drinks. A shot of Cuervo Gold followed by a Tecate and lime calmed my shaky nerves. The Tequila went to my head, producing a euphoria of relaxation in my confused mind. Everything seemed funny, and I touched myself again, until my phone rang.

Distracted, I fumbled in my purse for the expensive gadget with buttons and gizmos worthy of a science fiction epic. It slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. Before it said, "Beam me up Scottie," I recovered the phone and saw Tammy's number. Answering, I heard a troubled voice.


"Yeah, Tammy?"

"Something came up; need to stay at home," she said in a whisper.


I waited, because I knew her next words.

"Mark again," she mumbled.


"That pig? I thought you got rid of him?" I asked and felt flushed—perhaps jealous of her attraction to a very mean male.

"He said he was sorry."

"Tammy, he beat the shit out of you."

"He didn't mean it."

"You're an idiot," I said, holding back several choice words. Being vocal differed from my nature, but the Cuervo gave me courage.

"He didn't mean it, Amber," she pleaded. She wanted me to understand.

"Call me if you have trouble; if that MF hits you—oh, just be careful, goddamn you. I don't wanna see you hurt again." Angry, I hung up the phone. I couldn't understand how sweet Tammy could go with a guy who hurt her. Abusive men and women were cowards; thinking of Tammy with Mark made me cringe. I loved powerful women, controlling women, but I loathed females and males who abused.


Stunned by the familiar voice, I turned around and saw Sochie standing with her head cocked to the side and eyes bright with desire. She looked delicious.

"How did you get in here?" I glanced away from her and fiddled with my fingernails.

"I'm twenty-one. I'm legal. Dance?"

"No, go back to your friend."

"She's nothing. Can I sit?"

I shrugged. She sat down within inches of me.

"I haven't seen you here before," she said and touched my arm.

Her touch caused me to pull back; she moved in closer. I managed, "Only . . . only come on Fridays for a couple of drinks. Then home to Jeff."

"So Jeff's the lucky guy's name? You never mention him."

"I don't know if I'd call him lucky, but Jeff's my husband's name."

"He's lucky," she said with a sympathetic tilt of the head.

I couldn't help but smile at the young woman's insight. Becoming thirsty, I downed half of Tammy's Vodka Tonic, which served to unloosen some knots.

"Look, maybe I'm too much," She looked like she wanted to say more. She did. "I have a tough time with control around you. Friends?" If she only knew how much I wanted to give into her control.

I nodded and said, "Dean, student," while pointing first to me and then to her.

"Friends," she insisted.

Relenting, I sighed, "Friends."

Uncomfortable silence found the two of us, and I couldn't help but discretely ogle Sochie. She did her own ogling too; blatant and suggestive, her staring reddened me.

"Million bucks for your thoughts," she whispered so closely to my cheek I tasted strong wine and felt warm words fan across my face.

Taking a deep breath, I asked, "When did you figure you were . . . ya know?" I kicked myself for asking such a daft question. What the hell was I getting into? I knew better.

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byEsperanza_Hidalgo© 15 comments/ 71965 views/ 34 favorites

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