Story Time with Miss Z

"You wouldn't want to touch me there right now, my sweet. It's my woman's time," she explained.

I drew her face to mine and kissed her; it seemed like the right thing to do. Miss Z held my eyes after breaking the kiss. She seemed to understand my intention. She rested her head on my chest and snuggled there, murmuring, "Thank you for understanding."

I liked being in bed with Miss Z, holding her. She seemed like she needed to be held. Neither of us said a word for some time before I asked her why she liked hearing about my fantasies.

"Why, Ben, you should know the answer to that question already; your girlfriend is an English teacher. I just adore stories, and what's better than an erotic story my lover tells me about myself?"

Before I could respond, Miss Z said, "Oh, goodness, is that the time?"

The clock on her nightstand read 3:55pm. "What's up?" I asked.

"Oh, Ben, I hate to cut short our first date, but I have a standing phone call with Allison and my sister on Sundays at four, and this one, in particular, is rather important."

"I'll--yeah, I'll go," I said, climbing out of bed and grabbing my clothes.

"I'm so sorry. The time just got away from me."

"No-no. I had a great time, too."

"And don't forget," she said, "we have our second date tomorrow evening."

I hesitated with my shorts around my knees. "Should I bring dinner for us?"

Her face broke into wonder. "Yes! Ben, surprise me with something you like."

"Okay, but are there foods you won't eat?"

She shook her head proudly. "I love food almost as much as I love stories, so bring your favorite and share it with me."

"Okay."

As I drove home, I realized the only thing I didn't like was how it all began when I pantsed her. I wished our relationship started in joy, not betrayal.

***

Trayvon, my best friend, has a mother who loves to barbecue and makes money on the side by selling her ribs. Our family--everyone I know who's tried them, actually--goes nuts for them. You don't need to buy them fresh off her smoker, either. They reheat perfectly. The bones slip out clean; the meat is tender. And whatever the heck Mrs. Williams puts on them--damn. You don't even need the sauce. Everyone in my family eats those ribs naked.

She makes two kinds: regular and spicy. I went to Trayvon's late Monday afternoon, hung out for a while, and picked up a rack of "spicy." On the way out to Miss Z's, I stopped at a grocery store and bought some cornbread and coleslaw for sides.

I also brought an old, worn-out book from home because my girlfriend told me she loved stories.

Miss Z wasn't at the door this time, so I rang her bell. She answered with a big smile in tight shorts and a sports bra. Opening the door, she gently chided me, explaining that if her door is open, then her boyfriend doesn't need to ring the bell; he can come right in.

Once inside, she kissed me. Then, seeing the paper sack in my hands, she asked if we eat or work first.

"Work," I said. "This needs to warm up in your oven for about forty-five minutes."

"Perfect."

Passing inside, I saw the new carpet and congratulated her, telling her it looked great.

In the kitchen, I fought off her attempts to help me, telling her the meal was a secret, which she liked. I sent her into the dining room while I warmed up the oven, put the foil-wrapped ribs inside, and set the table.

About fifteen minutes into our work, Miss Z turned to me and asked, "What is that smell, Ben? What are we having? It smells so good! You have to tell me."

I shook my head.

She moaned good-naturedly, and we continued. Every time we passed the oven, she peeked inside to tease me.

It took a bit longer to set up than to clear out her family room because of all the smaller items she'd removed before I showed up on Sunday. Even so, the timing worked; not long before we finished, the buzzer on her oven went off. She told me to take care of the food while she brought in the final few items for her end tables.

"Ribs!" she remarked, seeing the plates on her little table as she passed through. "Oh, Ben, I love ribs!" Then, she gasped and asked me if they were from Trayvon's mother.

I rose and turned, surprised. "How did you know she made ribs?"

"He wrote about them once, told me how his mother hopes to open her own place someday."

"Oh."

"Ben, dear?"

"Yeah?"

"He doesn't know, does he? About us?"

"No. I told you I was never going to tell anyone."

"Thank you," she said. Eyeing the plates again, she cried, "Oh, I can't wait!" before continuing into the dining room with her arms full of coffee table odds and ends

Miss Z was exuberant about the food, telling me after we'd finished that Ms. Williams' ribs might have been the best she's ever had. I insisted on cleaning up; Miss Z protested but allowed it. When everything was in the dishwasher and the counters and table were wiped down and clean, I told her I had one more surprise, and I pulled the book out of the grocery sack.

"You got me a book?" she asked, smiling broadly.

I shook my head. "No, you can borrow the book, if you like it; I was just going to read one of my favorite short stories to you."

She gasped. Her mouth fell open. It was as if getting read to was a better gift than being given an actual book. In a hushed, excited voice, she asked, "You're going to read to me?"

I nodded.

She sprang to her feet. "What kind of story is it?"

"You'll have to wait."

"No-no! I mean, what's the best setting for us to hear it?"

"Oh," I replied, thinking. "In your bed, drapes closed and only one lamp on."

She covered her mouth. "Is it scary?"

I shrugged. "You'll see."

She seized my hand and whisked me upstairs to her bedroom.

I had a book of old, short horror stories by Stephen King that once belonged to my dad. Thankfully, Miss Z had read several of King's novels, but never any of King's short stories. I planned to read her my favorite--"The Ledge." It was a revenge story involving a very tall building with a narrow ledge, secret lovers, and an abusive, controlling gangster of a husband.

It took more than thirty minutes to get through, and my lips and tongue were tired, but Miss Z loved it. She gripped my arm as the protagonist made his way along the ledge. Every so often, Miss Z whispered, "Oh, no!" or "Ben, don't tell me he's going to--!"

She thanked me effusively when we finished, remarking how difficult it is reading aloud for so long. I didn't doubt her sincerity in telling me she loved the story.

Then, we turned toward each other in bed. "Do I have to leave soon?" I asked.

"No, and I certainly hope you mustn't."

I shook my head. "Can I spend the night with you? Just to sleep together--I mean, really sleep. Wake up beside each other, I'm saying. We don't have to--."

"I know what you meant, my sweet, but no, I don't think it best that you stay overnight. You see, my neighbors are fairly inquisitive types, always trying to be my matchmakers. They would see your car here all night--maybe they've already seen you yesterday and today--and they would draw conclusions and gossip, especially with how young you are."

"If I were your age, would you let me spend the night?"

Her lips pinched tightly. She lowered her eyes to me and asked, "Ben, are you trying to start an argument with me?"

"No, I just want to know."

Content with that answer, she considered the original question. "No, I wouldn't. I would need to insist on more dates--several months' worth--before I felt comfortable enough with my neighbors to leave your car here overnight."

"Would you spend the night with me in a hotel room?"

"I would."

"Can we sometime? I'd pay for it."

"I know you'd want to, but we'd share the cost."

"So you would? We could stay in a hotel together?"

She nodded. "Assuming, that is, we continue to enjoy one another's company."

I smiled, looking up at the ceiling. "Would you let me kiss you in public where we wouldn't be seen by anyone we know?"

"No, but I'd hold your hand."

"To pass me off as your son?"

"Or a relative," she said, "Yes. Can you forgive me?"

"What about after several months' worth of dating? Can I be your boyfriend in public then?"

Miss Z turned my face towards hers. "Ben, imagine it. Imagine what you're saying. Picture you bringing me to meet your parents--as your girlfriend. What would they say? Am I older than them? They've met me at conferences--both yours and your older sister's. And don't you have a younger sister, too? Will I have her as my student in two or three years? Think about it, dear."

"I don't care. I don't care what they say. I don't care what people think."

"But I do. I have to because--." She didn't finish.

I finished for her. "Because you don't think we have any future."

"Ben, aren't I being realistic? If you look into your heart--truly and with clear eyes--do you see any hope of us being married one day?"

"Yes. I would marry you."

She didn't respond to that. She said, "And when I'm old and gray, you're in your thirties, and you'll be looking for a younger woman who can keep up with you."

"No, I'll be looking for you, and I'll come home, carry you upstairs to our bed, and make love to you."

"You don't even know me!"

"I've spent an hour with you every day for almost two years. Maybe you don't know me quite as well, but I know you."

"I know young men well enough to know you're thinking and talking with your penis right now. I've given you pleasure, and you're smitten, but when real life comes knocking, you'll flee from me like--."

"Like what?"

"Like young men do."

"So, all you want this to be is a fling? Have fun, and that's it?"

"Is that so bad? Aren't we turning life into a little short story of our own? One we can remember fondly?"

"Have you done this before--with a former student, I mean?"

"Ben!" She sat up in bed, angry. "I knew you were trying to start a fight with me."

"I'm not! I swear! You talked about making a story, and all I wanted to know was if I was just one of many or if I'm special," I countered, and my eyes were drawn to her cleavage in that sports bra.

"You say you know me, and yet you ask me a question like that?" she argued. "You do not know me."

"Okay, maybe I don't," I said, my eyes riveted to her tits, "but I want to--know you, I mean." I reached for them.

Miss Z smacked my hand away, staring at me icily.

I reached for them again.

She seized my hand in her grip, holding it there, and staring me down. When I relaxed, she let go.

I reached for them again. She slapped my hand and spun away from me.

I reached.

"Ben," she warned, sensing my hand's approach.

Those tits just fractions away from my fingertips, Miss Z's face spun toward mine. The second she saw my big grin, her scowl vanished, and she snorted in laughter. I grabbed her waist and rolled her on top of me, kissing every part of her face while she cackled.

Settling onto her knees and pushing her body up, her face loomed over mine, serious now, and she said, "I have never slept with one of my students or former students."

I nodded.

She did, too, as if to emphasize the point.

Then, equally serious, I said, "Yet."

This caught her off guard. Her mouth opened wide and when she saw my mischievous grin, she hooted with laughter while I pulled her close and planted scores of kisses on her neck. My hands groped her big ass, and the feel of that fucker in my hands made me hard.

She felt it, drawing back from my lips, and she said, "Well, I can't make your prediction come true tonight because of my period--and it's only our second date. That would be too soon."

"But if you could, would you?"

She smiled, "Maybe."

"Would you have last night--slept with me on our first date?"

"Maybe. We'll never know," she playfully replied.

"Can I tell you one of my fantasies about you that didn't involve making love?"

"Yes!"

I drew her close, and I whispered it in her ear. As I described the situation, she listened raptly. Her hand snaked between our bodies and into my shorts. Her fingertips squeezed and tugged on my cock. I told her more. I got to the point in the story where our passions couldn't be restrained. "Oh, Ben, my sweet, that is lovely. Then what happened?"

I told her what I did. Miss Z gasped. I told her how her imaginary self reacted, and how she arranged her body for me. Miss Z froze on top of me, listening. Then, I told her what I did. "You!" she cried, pulling away from my ear. "You did that to me?"

I nodded. "Uncontrollable lust," I explained, squeezing her ass apart and squashing it together.

"What makes you think a proper woman like me would allow such--such a wanton, obscene act to be perpetrated upon her person?"

I shrugged. "I guess in my fantasies I suspected you to be kind of wanton and obscene."

She gasped and, smirking, asked, "And you pleasured yourself to this image of me?"

I nodded, smiling. "And it was the hardest and most I ever--."

"Ben!"

I laughed, pulling her close for a kiss. She let me, responding generously before drawing back and saying, "Goodness, I had no idea I inspired such salacious thoughts!"

"You do."

"And you would do that to me--not just in your fantasies but for real?"

I nodded.

She sighed, smiling. "Well, I'm going to have to disappoint you, my sweet, because that, also, is out of the question right now."

"You said 'right now.'"

She laughed, and then she asked if I might want to hear a fantasy she was just now thinking of.

"Yes," I said. "Tell me."

She rose and took off her sports bra. Still deflecting my hands, she lay on her side next to me, and she told me her fantasy. About mid-way through, she told me to wait. Climbing out of bed, she walked to the bathroom. A very short interval later, she emerged, rubbing something in her cleavage.

Resuming her spot on her side, I listened to her story and watched her fingers spread and knead the greasy substance in her cleavage. Then, as she described how we arrayed our bodies in her fantasy, I scooted toward her on my side. She slid down the mattress on hers.

She cupped her tits and said, "Make love to me this way, Ben," just like in her story. I held the back of her neck and drove at my hips.

The lubrication she had applied made things glide, and the suppleness of her flesh made it warm and welcoming, but it was the overwhelming mass--the lower one supporting and the upper one squeezing--that froze my body in ecstasy.

I gasped, blinking and swearing. My head felt dizzy.

"Tell me how good it feels, Ben."

I shook my head. Unable to utter coherent words, I groaned. Miss Z moved her body, and her tits gyrated on my cock. I gasped again.

"Push more, my sweet, so I can see it come through and kiss it."

Swallowing, I pushed through. We watched the knob emerge. Miss Z's face bent toward it. I pushed more until I felt her lips plant a gentle kiss there. She turned back to me, smiling.

"I love this," I huffed.

"I can see that you do," she said. "Enjoy them, Ben."

I drew my cock back and waited with the tip just barely touching her lower cleavage. It was like, after tasting something delicious, clearing my palette so that the next taste would be like the first. I waited until I felt the absence like a despairing hunger, and then I drove my cock slowly through her cleavage.

I held there at the top of my thrust, feeling Miss Z's little kisses. I didn't realize it until Miss Z had pulled my hand away from my own mouth, but I had covered it after pushing through. "Don't hold back, my sweet, tell me."

I shook my head again.

"Don't be afraid to curse," she cooed. "I like hearing those words from you when we share our bodies."

"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, it's good. It's so fucking good. I didn't--. How could--?" I didn't finish either thought. Instead, I rolled back my hips and drove through again.

"Ben," she said gently.

I opened my eyes and looked at her.

"I haven't once heard you say my name--my first name. Please, my sweet, tell me my name. I want to hear you say it when my body pleases yours."

"Ashley," I huffed, and no kidding, it felt good to say her name.

"Yes! Oh, Ben, I wish I could kiss you now," she murmured. Then, she said, "Your penis, let me at least kiss it."

I pushed through, groaning, "Ashley," and she showered the tip with pecks, smooches, and licks.

Everything felt amazing. It didn't seem quite possible. For a wild moment, I wondered if fantasies, when spoken aloud, could be made to come true. Her body was like a vacation resort in a place where everything seemed exciting and new. That there wasn't enough vacation time to see all the beautiful sights and do all the wonderful activities was a nagging regret that was only overcome by the simple fact that where I was and what I was doing more than satisfied me.

I fucked her tits, and I swore without inhibition. When I felt the onset of the peak, I grunted her name. Through this, she encouraged me, thanked me, and smiled up at me soothingly. The force of my climax bent me at the hips, curled my back, and tugged grunts from my throat. Miss Z's face sank to my belly, and her lips latched onto me there. She moaned and sucked while my semen filled the gorge between her tits.

Utterly spent, I released her and rolled onto my back with a sigh.

"Oh, my sweet, what a thrill!" she exclaimed, sliding up the mattress and putting her arm over me. "You have no idea how--how stimulating it can be to see my body give yours such satisfaction. There's nothing quite like it."

I blew through pursed lips, recovering my air.

Miss Z went on. "And you--you're so strong and adorable when your body takes over at the end. Your muscles are like ropes of steel, but your face is a mask of--of tragic suffering. It's enough to make a woman swoon."

Feeling exhausted but curious, I rolled toward her, resting on my elbow. Miss Z saw me surveying her tits and looked upon them herself. "Oh," she cried, laughing. "I'm a glorious mess! Look at what you did to me!"

I smiled, tired-eyed and bone-weary. I'd seen what I wanted to see. My head sank into the pillow, and I muttered, "That was really fun."

Giggling, Miss Z said she liked my word choice, and then she told me to rest while she cleaned the mess. I felt her slide out of bed.

I never heard her slide back in.

Instead, I felt her behind me when I woke. She held me close in the darkness. The clock on the nightstand read 11:12pm. I rolled over to her; she stirred in her sleep.

"Wow," I whispered, seeing her serene profile in the bluish glow of night. I kissed her lips as softly as I could. She hummed.

"I have to go home," I whispered.

"Ben?"

"It's me. I have to go."

"Hmm. Goodbye, my sweet."

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"Hmm."

With another kiss, I rose and stopped. I had to see her again. I had to know when. I went back to her. "Can I come over tomorrow? After work? Door open, come in kind of thing? Can I?"

"Mm? Yes, do that," she muttered.

***

It was June first, warm and bright blue. A spectacular summer lay before me, one full of happy times and sex with Miss Z. Just had to get through the workday.

Some youth football team was selling popcorn from our "Gourmet Popcorn" pamphlet to raise money for equipment. I spent the day at the warehouse divvying up and organizing the completed and paid orders for about thirty-two different kids. I organized the selections, wrapped them, made sure they were properly tagged, and loaded them in our van. An easy day. Dad let me go at 2:45.

And, as it was the first of the month, a paycheck landed in my bank account. I went to a bookstore and picked up a copy of one of King's short story anthologies. I also went to a flower shop and bought Miss Z a plant--an "Impatient." It was bright orange, and the woman there told me that if take care of it, the plant would flower beautifully all summer long. Back home, I wrapped the book in bright paper and put a bow on the flower pot.