Sister Monica Ch. 03

Josh didn't see, or hear from, Sister Monica the rest of the week, but he actually welcomed the break. He needed time to think, to corral his feelings and desires, his budding love for her. He had hoped it was just something that had mushroomed out of control during the moment, during their night of soft, beautiful lovemaking, and that it would wane and drift away as the days pushed ahead. But it hadn't. If anything, his feelings for her intensified, his longing for her doubling, tripling, in her absence.

"This is crazy," he said to himself on a subzero Saturday night, alone in his dorm room, studying. "How the hell can I be falling in love with my freakin' English professor?" What was worse—how the hell could he fall in love with a nun? She was off-limits, never to be his, never to be anything more than a sexy FWB when the urge hit. That's all he had wanted her to be—more than he'd dared to hope, really. But now, sitting there in the lamplight of the quiet dorm room, it didn't seem nearly enough. He wanted to be with her. Not just in her office having earth-shattering sex. Not just in her classroom, listening to her lecture about Shakespeare. He wanted more than that.

He wanted to hold her hand as they strolled, side by side, along the sidewalk, on their way to see a movie or a concert. He wanted to spend the night with her at a five-star hotel overlooking the sea, and make her feel like the most special woman in the world. He wanted to snuggle up with her at the break of day and talk openly about his fears, his dreams, his plans, for the future. He wanted to be with her. . . . And what did she want? How often had she thought of him this weekend? What would she act like on Monday, during class? If he approached her afterwards, once the other students had left, what would she say?

He closed his book. It was no use. How could he study? All he could do was think of Sister Monica, her lips on his, the fall of her lustrous red hair all around him, the hot, slick wetness of her vaginal walls as she milked his penis, her tongue licking and sucking his balls, her breasts rising and falling, rising and falling, as she panted with arousal.

"Josh, how the hell did you let yourself get sucked in so deep?" he asked the walls. "She probably doesn't even give a shit about you." That was the irony. In the beginning, he was the one who just wanted to have some fun. Now here he was, wanting so much more. For all he knew, his sexy English prof was perfectly content with things as they were—a few afternoon sex-fests, some great orgasms, nothing more. For her, this was all new. He had introduced her to the world of sex. Why should he expect her to want anything more?

"Or maybe she's done with me altogether," he said. Even the sex would stop. She'd stop seeing him, period. He guessed that was the most likely scenario. Given that she was a nun, he figured she was probably spending the weekend on her knees, asking her Lord for forgiveness.

Yeah, he figured. He guessed. That was the hardest part—the not knowing. He had an urge to go across the street, to the sister house, and find her there. But of course he didn't. That would humiliate her—and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Screwing her senseless in her office was one thing. Embarrassing her in front of her colleagues was quite another. No. He would just need to wait until Monday.

In the meantime, he needed to let off some steam. He didn't want to see anyone else but Sister Monica, but he could not just brood the weekend away. Maybe Sharon was available tonight. She was tall, blonde, and had the IQ of a drowned water rat. She was also the easiest girl on campus. If she wasn't already on her back, in some guy's dorm, she would probably jump at the chance for some Saturday-night sex.

"Well, why the hell not?" he said.

He whipped out his cell, called her.

"Hey, Josh," she answered after just one ring. "What's up?"

"Wanna have some fun tonight, sexy?" he asked. No reason to beat around the bush. "My bunkmate'll be out all night, probably. Why don't you come on over, Sharon?"

"Mmm, sounds good," she said. He'd "played" with her a half-dozen times since the fall. They were definitely not a couple. Just playmates. Perfect for a cold, lonely, insomnia-laden night like this one.

"Hope you won't be wearing anything under your coat," he said, and disconnected the call. Sharon always took the bait. She'd be knocking at his door within minutes. . .

♣

"Hey, you look great," he said, as he let Sharon into his room. And she did. She had long, straight blonde hair—a natural blonde, too—blue eyes, a slim, toned body, and a year-round, salon-produced tan. Her breasts were small, but she had a butt even Nicole Kidman would die for.

She smiled, showing off pearly white teeth that Josh figured must have been chemically enhanced at the dentist's on more than one occasion.

He shut and locked the door behind her.

"So," she said, "you're feeling lonely tonight, is that it?"

"Something like that." He approached her, took off her coat. She let it slide to the floor. She wasn't wearing a shirt, or pants. Only a white lace bra and a matching G-string. Damn. She really had stripped off her clothes underneath her coat. He whistled.

"You like?" she said.

"Who wouldn't?" He kissed her, and she responded hungrily. He tried not to think of all the guys she'd been with. At least fifty, probably closer to a hundred. That used to turn him on, thinking how promiscuous she was. Now it made him feel like vomiting. Still, the girl was talented. She knew how to kiss. No one could deny that.

"Hmm, we're getting a little perky, aren't we?" she said, and grabbed his crotch. A good-sized tent had formed there. "Well, no need to keep him all restrained and shackled up, is there?" She unzipped his jeans, yanked them down, then, in one fluid, well-practiced motion, pulled down his briefs.

In a moment, she was on her knees, face-to-face with his nine inches.

"Wow! You look great, Josh," she said, and he suddenly realized. She had never seen him shaved before. He'd shaved the other day, before his last sexual encounter with Sister Monica. "You are sooo kinky. I knew coming here was a good idea." And just like that, she took him in her mouth. One thing he had to say about Sharon. She gave the best blow jobs. She had perfected the art, and in a manner of moments he squirted in her mouth. She winked up at him, and gladly swallowed his load.

"Yum," she said, and then started sucking him again, getting him hard once more.

It didn't take long. But his mind, he realized, was elsewhere. He looked down and saw not Sharon, but Sister Monica. He closed his eyes, shook his head, looked down again, and this time saw the blonde head, bobbing up and down on his shaft. Sharon. Sexy, nineteen years old, horny as a rabbit, and yet—a total turn-off.

He backed away . . . Sharon crawled along on her knees, her mouth gripping onto his penis like a vacuum cleaner. He laughed in spite of himself. The girl wanted it, and bad. But he didn't. Not with her.

He nudged her, gently, gestured for her to stop.

"Hey, I was just gettin' started," she whined, and licked the tip of his dick with a snakelike flick of her tongue.

"And you're awesome, as always," he said. "But . . ."

She tilted her head, looked at him sideways. "You got a girlfriend now, Josh? Is that it? You screwing around behind her back?"

"Well . . ."

"Damn, I thought so!" She stood up, her small, perky breasts bouncing within the constraint of her bra. "You have that look."

"I do?"

"Sure. I knew it right away. But I figured, it won't bother me if it doesn't bother him. You don't want me to leave, do you?" She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. Again, he found himself thinking of all the guys she had swapped spit with, and broke the kiss.

"I'm sorry, Sharon," he said. "I really thought I wanted to have fun tonight. I guess . . ."

She shrugged. "Hey, it's okay, don't worry about it. The night's still young. I'm sure I can find someone else. . ." She put her coat back on. "But, y'know, I hope the chick who locked you in knows how lucky she is. You're hooked on her, man."

"I am?" He swallowed. Was it that obvious?

"You kidding? A girl can see these things, Josh. I knew it right away. Is she someone I know?"

He nodded. "I think so."

"Damn shame," she said. "We could've had a blast tonight. Maybe even a threesome, if she was game. Is she cute? But no hard feelings, okay? And if you change your mind, you know my number."

She kissed him again—with plenty of tongue—and left. The only thing he could think of was how she had said, "You have that look." It kept him awake all night long. . . .

♣

Sister Monica looked so sexy in her flower-print skirt and white blouse. The garments were loose-fitting, as always, but at least she had ditched the drab slacks for one day. And she didn't seem to be showing any unease. During the lecture, she continually made eye contact with Josh, not displaying even a hint of embarrassment. This made him feel better, reassured. Still, who knew? Maybe it was all just a false front.

The period dragged by. He desperately wanted it to end so he could approach her. He repeatedly glanced at the clock, which seemed to be standing still.

Finally, the class came to a close, and the students filed out. Josh stayed behind, trying not to make it too obvious. He pretended to read a few lines from the play they were studying, but the whole time he was peeking over the top of the book, waiting for the right moment.

When the coast was clear, he snapped the book shut, got up, and approached Sister Monica. She was arranging a pile of papers, collecting them to take with her back to her office.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello, Josh," she said and smiled. He looked at her, closely. God, she was beautiful. Even with her hair all pinned up, primly, she still put Sharon to shame.

"Uh . . ." Now that he was with her again, he didn't really know what to say. He had never felt this tongue-tied with her before. He didn't like it.

"I thought about us a lot this weekend, Josh," she said.

"You did?"

"Of course. How couldn't I have?" She smiled again, shyly.

"Yeah, last week was unbelievable," he said. "I wanted you so bad this weekend, sexy Monica." There. He had to take control again. The way he had before. Get her worked up.

She held her smile. "We really need to talk, Josh," she said. And he knew they did. Of course they did. Still, he didn't like the sound of that. "Can you meet me at, say, four-thirty, in my office?"

"Sure."

He wanted to move in and kiss her, take her in his arms. He longed for the taste of her lips, the feel of her nakedness. But now wasn't the time.

"Don't look so worried," she said.

He offered her a faint smile—or thought he did. Maybe it was just a frown. Don't worry. Yeah, right. It was going to be a long afternoon, waiting to see her. . . .

♣

"Ya know, man, you haven't seemed like yourself lately," Josh's roommate, a twenty-year-old chubby kid named Steve Dightmann, said. He was a decent enough guy—didn't get in the way, didn't ask after Josh's personal life—at least until right now. The two of them were amiable with each other, without being best friends.

"What do you mean?" Josh asked. It was a little after four. Almost time to see Sister Monica. At last. . . .

"You've been, I don't know, kind of in a daze lately," his roommate went on, as the wind, fierce off the lake, whined against the window. Snow, getting heavier by the minute, fell from a sky the color of lead. "You don't seem like you're here anymore, even when you're here." He sat on his bed and grabbed a handful of chips out of the bag he had on his nightstand. "You meet a girl or something?"

Josh ignored him. None of his damn business. Steve took more chips, stuffed them in his mouth. Somehow, he had gotten lucky over the weekend with a Biology major (he'd blabbered on about it all night on Sunday)—a cute girl with a thick set of glasses. Maybe that's how he did it—have her take off the glasses so she couldn't see who she was with. "Hey, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Steve went on. "But I can tell. You have that look."

"Geez. Why don't I just wear a freakin' sign," Josh said. "I mean, what the hell? Is my life just fair game for everyone?"

"I'm just saying . . ." Munch, munch. More stuffing chips into his mouth. Josh rolled his eyes. "I gotta go," he said. It was still too early to see Sister Monica, but anything was better than a heart-to-heart with his suddenly emotionally sensitive roommate.

♣

He entered Carroll Hall at quarter after four. He was used to the building as an English major—all of the English profs had offices here—but lately there was only one office, in particular, that he cared about. . . .

Sister Monica's office was the fifth one on the left. From the sounds of it, several of the professors were around. He heard voices floating out through open doors, laughter, the faint rustling of papers being shuffled, arranged, and rearranged. The last couple of times he had visited with Sister Monica, the building had been deserted. No such luck this time.

He approached her door. It was closed. What was she doing in there? Sniffing the briefs he had given her during their first encounter? Reaching beneath her blouse and pinching her nipples, getting herself ready? Or thinking of the best way to break the news to him that she wanted to end their trysts, cut things off entirely? Was she—

The door opened, and Josh moved away, startled. A student in the Shakespeare class, a fat girl whose name escaped him, walked out into the hall.

"Hi," she said. "You gonna see Sister Monica, too?"

Josh nodded, smiled. "Uh-huh."

"We can study together, if you want," the girl said. "I mean, when you're done? I can't get into what we're reading now and could really use the help. 'The Two Gentlemen of Verona.' Yuck. Give me 'Merchant of Venice' or 'Midsummer Night's Dream' any day over that. I'll be in the library till it closes, if you want to study with me." She eyed Josh, clearly infatuated.

"Uhhh, I don't know if I'll be able to make it," he said. "I'll see, though." Sure. Uh-huh. Absolutely.

"Well, I hope to see you later," she said, and walked down the narrow hall, putting her hood up before exiting.

Josh eyed the door. He was fifteen minutes early, would it be okay to barge in? Well, why not? What was he supposed to do—just stand there, outside her door for fifteen minutes like an idiot?

He knocked, then walked into her office without waiting for a reply, closed and locked the door.

Her mouth dropped open, slightly, at the sight of him. "You're early, Josh," she said. "I didn't know you were out there already."

He shrugged, sat down in the chair opposite her. "Sorry, but I couldn't wait," he said.

She offered a half-smile. "I understand."

He looked around at the walls, the shelves stocked with Dickens and Shakespeare and Bronte, and so many others. That she was an English professor was sexy. He loved literature, being and English major himself. He thought of making love to her under a hot sun on a secluded corner of some Mediterranean beach, discussing the major themes in David Copperfield as they both rode the wave toward orgasm. But then, that was pointless. Why fantasize about it? Sister Monica was right here. Her door was locked. It was just the two of them.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" he asked her. In the parking lot, behind her, a fat, middle-aged man waddled to his car, got in, turned on the headlights, and drove off. It was still snowing heavily, and the forecast was for half a foot before midnight. The lights in the parking lot flickered on, as the dusk grew thicker.

She looked down at her desk. "Josh, I—"

But suddenly, irrationally, he didn't want to hear it. He'd waited all day to listen to what she had to say, but now, when the moment finally arrived . . . What if she wanted to end it? What if she told him they were through? She probably was going to say something just like that! But before he let her, he at least needed to kiss her one more time, touch her one more time. . .

He stood up, suddenly, halting her, mid-sentence, walked around her desk, took her hands, and urged her to stand up. Now, face-to-face, before she could speak another syllable, he kissed her.

A second later, he said, "We'll talk, sexy Monica. We'll talk all night if that's what it takes. But right now, let's not talk, all right?" He leaned in, kissed her again, and she responded lustily. Then, suddenly, she pulled away.

Her chest heaved beneath her white blouse, and he thought of the breasts underneath, so full and firm and beautiful—only the slightest, almost indistinguishable hint of a sag despite her thirty-seven years.

"Josh," she said. "We really need to talk. Please."

It almost sounded like a plea—as if he were in control. This made him feel like a Greek god. She was irresistibly drawn to him. They would only talk if he allowed it. But if he pressed onward, there was no way she could restrain herself. She wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.

"I know," he said. "But first, I want you, sexy Monica. We'll talk afterwards."

"Josh . . ."

He cut her off with a kiss, sealing her mouth with his. She tried to push him away, but he held her close, and a moment later, her resistance ended. She thrust out her tongue, and they tongue-wrestled. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, and she ran her fingers through his curly black hair. She moaned, as they continued to kiss.

He reached around, cupped the cheeks of her butt through the fabric of her skirt. He squeezed and rubbed, and felt her tongue become more aggressive in his mouth. He grabbed hold of her skirt, lifted it, slowly, and then reached underneath. Now, he caressed the bare flesh of her butt.

"Mmm," she said into his mouth, continuing to French-kiss him with abandon.

Her butt felt so nice, so soft. He couldn't resist. He spanked her. Not a hard one, just a gentle love-tap. "Mmm," she repeated, and he hit her again, and again, and again, his force slowly increasing.

"Oh," she said, finally breaking the kiss. Her legs wobbled.

"You like that, don't you, kinky girl?" he said, spanking her again, harder still.

"Oh God," she said.

"You are so hot and naughty, sexy Monica," he said. Spank-spank.

"Mmmmmmm," she said, throwing her head back. She seemed on the verge of orgasm.

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. "Oh shit," she said, and he suddenly felt his arousal jack up a notch, if that were possible. That was the first curse word he'd ever heard her utter. She pulled away from him, straightening her clothes, trying to get herself under some semblance of control. But her face was flushed, and she was breathing too fast.

"Sister Monica?" a voice from the other side of the door said.

"Y-yes?" she said. I'm here."

"It's Don," said the voice. And Josh realized it must be Dr. Jenkins. Don Jenkins. He taught contemporary literature and creative writing. Josh liked him. But right about now, he wished the son of a bitch would get out of there.

"Hi, Don," she said, motioning for Josh to hide behind her desk. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. The door was locked, and Sister Monica was obviously aroused. Having someone see Josh under those conditions would be inviting disaster.

"May I come in?" Dr. Jenkins asked.

"Of course."

Josh heard the doorknob stick, not opening.

"Just give me a second," Sister Monica said, then, taking a deep breath, she went to the door, opened it. Josh heard footsteps approach the desk.

"I'm sorry to interrupt anything," Dr. Jenkins said, and Josh could picture him giving the room a quick once-over. "Nonsense," Sister Monica said. "I didn't even realize the door was locked. Please sit down. How's your day been, Don?"