Student and Teacher Ch. 02

As he stumbled up the stairs, Damon saw that the second floor had four separate bedrooms leading off of a large landing; he also noticed a full bathroom. The bedrooms were not all used as such; he could see that one of them had an extensive library of books, while another seemed to be full of Iris's clothes (don't they call that a boudoir?). The thought of burying his face in her skirts, blouses, dresses, and underwear flitted through his mind, but he was more interested in where his inamorata was heading at this moment. She had actually disappeared from sight.

But it took him only a moment to notice that she had entered what appeared to be the largest of the bedrooms. It was clearly her bedroom, and he smiled at the fact that it contained a king-size four-poster bed of antique vintage. It both amused and saddened him to picture her spending night after night alone in that immense bed, all by herself.

She had her back to the door, and she was slowly and carefully removing her clothing.

The blouse had already come off, and Iris was now paying close attention to removing the button at the side of her wool skirt, which when undone exposed a zipper that she calmly unzipped. Now loose, the skirt fell to the floor, and she daintily stepped out of it. She was now dressed only in bra and panties.

She turned her head around as she noticed Damon in the doorway, then returned to her task. With her back still turned, she reached behind herself, unclasped her bra, and shimmied out of it, placing it on a nearby easy chair. Then, with only a moment's hesitation, she peeled off her panties.

Only then did she turn around and face her lover.

Once again there was a curious mix of emotions on her face: agitation, apprehension, but also quite a bit of pride. And she had a lot to be proud of.

It was to be expected that Damon's gaze would focus initially on her breasts—full and round but incredibly firm and high, as if they belonged to a well-endowed teenager. The flat stomach led to that achingly exquisite mound at her groin, covered with a thick tuft of fine black hair that had clearly never experienced the touch of a razor. He nodded approvingly at the sight, grateful that the mania for shaving that spot appeared to be dissipating among young women. He had already relished the luscious curves of her bottom when she had turned his back to him. But Damon was not one to gauge a woman as a mere collection of body parts; the total picture—mental and emotional as well as physical—is what enraptured him, and the image of mature but somehow untouched womanhood that met his eyes was beyond description.

It was no surprise that his member was firming up again even after its recent spasm. Iris gave its burgeoning contours a brief glance, then smiled quietly to herself. Did I do that?

Damon walked stiffly into the room and opened his arms. Iris met him halfway and allowed herself to be enfolded in his grasp.

For minutes they did nothing but cling to each other, glorying in the heavenly sensation of skin on skin. Those heavy breasts really were as firm as he had imagined, and they pressed against his chest in the most delightful way. Because of their difference in height, their genitals didn't quite line up; while Damon's erection pressed against her belly, Iris's pubic hairs tickled his upper thighs. And he took occasion to stroke and knead her lovely bottom, finding it as superb as she had found his during her oral stimulation of his member.

Then she raised her face up in a mute request. He knew exactly what she wanted, and he fused his lips with hers, gently but emphatically, in a kiss that seemed to last an eternity.

He then led her to the bed, urging her to lie down on her back. She tossed the bedsheet and blanket away and arranged herself, looking up at him without the least embarrassment or trepidation. Remarkably, her breasts flattened only a little when she was in this supine position, and as Damon joined her he felt compelled to pay homage to those gorgeous globes with his hands, mouth, and tongue. He couldn't begin to explain to himself why these mounds of flesh, nerves, and fat carried such a symbolic weight for him—as they did for nearly all men—but he dimly recognized that it was far more than some faint remembrance of the nourishment we all derive from our mothers. There was something about a woman's breasts that, in some utterly inexplicable way, exuded a sense of comfort and refuge from the burdens of the world; and as Damon placed his face on the area between her breasts and pressed the two mounds against either side of his face, he exhaled with deep gratitude that nature had fashioned such a simple but profound haven for weary mankind.

His hands, however, were not idle, and at times he let one hand snake down to her groin and, parting her labia, rub the swelling nub he found there. She moaned softly in response—then moaned more loudly when he simultaneously stroked her clitoris and nuzzled one of her nipples. Her juices were flowing again, and Damon recognized that the time had come for the ultimate act of physical and spiritual union.

So he mounted her.

Parting her legs and placing his body between them, he rode up her frame and, propping himself up on his elbows, looked her right in the face. Her own expression had turned curiously blank, but he was troubled by a hint of alarm he saw there. But he sensed her hesitantly encouraging him to proceed, raising her legs and bending her knees in anticipation of his penetration of her.

He did not need a hand to guide his member into her.

But as he slipped in, she let out a choked cry that startled him. Surely . . .? He seemed to encounter an obstacle, but then felt it give way as he entered her nearly the whole way. She gasped at the sensation, and he could only assume that it had been quite a while since she had undergone this act. That's all it was, wasn't it?

Now lodged firmly inside her, sensing ecstatically her warm wetness coating his organ, he began pumping—gently at first, then more vigorously. She had closed her eyes and her mouth, and there was a bit of a frown on her face. Damon tried to ignore that while he kissed her all over her face, neck, and shoulders. He could feel her arms clinging frantically to his neck as she endured his thrusts, and she uttered a hoarse grunt when he slid a hand down to her bottom and seized one of her cheeks. That hand then slipped between their bodies and in the direction of her sex, and he stroked her labia as he detected his cock pounding her. She seemed taken aback at his action: her eyes popped open and then, after some peculiar sounds from deep in her throat, she burst forth with a succession of shrill cries that coincided with a tremor that appeared to seize her entire body.

Damon was delighted. Here's a woman who comes early and often! He found the act of making a woman come even more thrilling than coming himself, because he sensed that women were even more responsive to such stimulus than men were. It wasn't merely that they responded to stroking of their pussies, bottoms, and breasts; they also derived pleasure from kisses or caresses to their neck, throat, back, and elsewhere. He recalled making one girl come by kissing and licking her fragrant armpit.

As he gazed down at Iris's orgasm, he slowed his own pumping to let her enjoy to the full the unexpected sensation she was experiencing. He was not at all ready to come, but he knew that too violent action on his part at this delicate moment would spoil the ecstasy Iris was feeling. After she relaxed a bit, he resumed his work and, moments later, had bestowed upon her the ultimate tribute to her beauty of mind, body, and spirit.

As before, his emission was prolonged and copious, and she uttered repeated cries as she sensed more and more of his juices filling her crevice. After what seemed like minutes, he collapsed on top of her, momentarily heedless of the heavy weight he was putting on her. But she didn't seem to mind, and continued to wrap her arms around him to keep him in place.

But after a time she did feel that his weight was a bit uncomfortable, and she urged him to pull out of her and get off.

As he rolled over, he seized her body and draped it over his own. He was not one to eschew physical contact even after his climax was over. She cradled her head in the crook of his neck, and he could feel her heart beating rapidly next to his own.

Even now, he knew this was only the beginning, and he just hoped that in due course of time she would be ready for further intimacy.

As he played with a lock of her thick-stranded hair, he chuckled softly to himself. "You know, dear, I had a bit of difficulty getting in. I almost thought you were a virgin—but of course that's ridiculous." He gave out a genial laugh.

"No, I'm not a virgin," was all she said. There was an inexpressible subtext behind that simple sentence. Shouldn't she have laughed at the very idea that a cultivated, sophisticated thirty-two-year-old woman in the prime of her beauty and intellectual achievement could even for a moment be considered a virgin? She must have had a dozen or more lovers in the past, however celibate she may have been in recent years. But the way she said those words made it sound as if she was regretful that she wasn't a virgin.

Damon had had a few virgins in his own past (not recently, however); and he wasn't so full of himself that he believed Iris was somehow hoping she could have preserved herself intact for him. There were mysteries here that he was determined to fathom, even if it took the most delicate coaxing to worm them out of her.

But right now there were more pressing things on his mind—and on hers.

Suddenly propping herself up on his chest, she cried: "Oh, Damon, what have we done? This is wrong—wrong! We should never have—"

"Why is it wrong?" he said ingenuously.

"Come off it, Damon! You're a student and I'm a teacher! Do you know what kind of trouble I could get into if this ever got out? I'd be fired immediately. You know the kind of climate we're living in right now: if a professor so much as touches a student, there's all manner of hell to pay. And in fact there should be: teachers and other people in authority got away with far too much in the past, especially men preying upon young and vulnerable women. This isn't like that, but we could still face all sorts of repercussions if people found out."

"I won't tell anyone," he said simply. (No doubt Damon meant those words quite sincerely when he spoke them, but in the end he didn't follow through on them.)

He had never seen her so agitated, and he wanted to do everything he could to soothe her. With his large and supple hands he began massaging her shoulders and back, straying down to her bottom; he sensed tightness in all those areas, and his ministrations did seem to have the effect of quieting her down. She flopped back onto his chest, not so much relieved as merely resigned. What's done is done; there's no way I can pretend that this gorgeous young man didn't probe my body in the most intimate way.

But Damon wanted to be clear on one point he thought hugely important.

"Listen, ma'am, if you think I want you just for sex, you're way off base! I think you're just about the ideal woman for me."

"Damon, you don't even know me," Iris said flatly. "You took one class with me last semester—that's it."

"A guy can learn a lot about a girl—I mean, a woman—that way. When I realized that you were the one for me, I began paying attention to everything you did, everything you said. I can tell that you're sweet and kind and gracious and soft-spoken and gentle and—oh, so many other good things!" His heart seemed about to burst from the thought of her. "I could also tell that you've been hurt in the past. There's something about yourself that you don't want people to know."

"That's absurd!" she expostulated, but there was a quaver in her voice.

"Is it?" he probed.

"Anyway," she went on in a rush, "I'm so much older than you. How old are you, in fact? Nineteen? Twenty?"

"I'll be twenty-one in about seven months," Damon said with stiff dignity.

"Well, I'm thirty-two. That's about half a generation, I'll have you know!"

"Does that really make a difference?"

"Of course it makes a difference! It makes a huge difference."

"Okay, so you may have some life experiences that I haven't had—but I think I've had some that you haven't had."

"What do you mean by that?" she said nervously.

"I think you know."

She wasn't so naïve as to misunderstand his meaning. She picked up on that very point.

"You're telling me, Damon, that you haven't met a girl of your own age you really like?"

"Not really. They're certainly nothing like you."

"I don't imagine they are. You can't expect them to be. But I really think it'd be better if you found a girl closer to you in age. It would make things a lot simpler."

"Too late, ma'am!" Damon said with enthusiastic pride. "I got you now!"

"Oh, you're impossible!" she said, admitting defeat for the moment.

All this time, Damon had been stroking Iris all over—on her shoulders, back, and especially her bottom, which he seemed to find endlessly fascinating. His actions had their predictable effect.

Iris couldn't believe it. Feeling his growing member poke her in the belly, she said with a kind of distressed awe, "You're not really wanting more, are you?" You've come twice already, guy! How many more times do you intend to pummel my poor body?

"I guess I am," he said sheepishly.

"Well, I'm a little sore down there," she complained.

"Been a while since your last session?" he teased.

"Yes!"

"How long?"

"I'm not telling you."

He let the matter drop, even though it was an issue of some importance to him.

"We could do something else," he said ambiguously.

"What?" She uttered that word with a kind of dread.

"I could go in back here," he said, using his finger to indicate a specific spot on her backside.

It took Iris some moments to figure out what Damon was referring to. When she did so, she let out a gasp of horror and outrage.

"What? No! That's terrible! Not on your life!"

"You don't like it?" he said, crestfallen.

Iris just spluttered, not knowing how to respond. "It's not—I mean, I just don't— Oh, how can I explain?"

Damon suddenly understood. "You haven't done it?"

"No, of course I haven't! Why should I have?"

"Lots of girls like it."

"Do they really?" she said acidly. "You're telling me that you've done it with other girls?"

"Yes."

"And they liked it." It was a statement, not a question.

"Some of them did." And some them didn't, he thought to himself. "It's kind of become the thing to do lately."

"Has it really?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you're out of luck, buster."

She lapsed into a moody silence, picking at the hairs on his chest. And even though Damon magnanimously said, "There are other things we can do," she didn't bother to ask what those were.

Some moments passed like this, Damon kissing the top of Iris's head, absorbing the fragrance of her hair and her whole body, and continuing to massage her all over, especially that coveted bottom of hers.

"What's it like?" she said at last, in her little-girl voice.

"What's what like?"

"You know . . . the thing you said."

"Oh, that?" Damon chuckled softly. "Well, I can't say that I've had it done to me! So I don't really know what it's like from that end."

"Does it hurt?"

He didn't want to lie to her. "Yeah, I guess it might, the first time—first couple times, in fact."

The idea of doing it even once, let alone more than once, was something Iris was still not prepared to contemplate.

"Of course you need lube," Damon added helpfully.

"Of course," she said, in as close to a sarcastic tone as she could manage.

"It's really not bad that way."

"Is that a fact?"

They lapsed again into silence. Damon was just about to suggest some other things they could do when Iris let out an exasperated sigh and said, "Oh, all right."

"All right what?" he said, puzzled.

"All right, we can do it," she said slowly and precisely, as if speaking to an idiot.

Now it took Damon a few seconds to realize what she was talking about. "You mean it?" he said, excited like a little boy.

"Yes," she said wearily.

"That's great!"

And he almost tossed her aside, leaping out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" she said.

"Lube!" he said over his shoulder.

In a matter of seconds he was back, holding in his hand a blue jar as if having triumphed in a treasure hunt.

"That's what you're going to use for lube?" she said incredulously.

"Yeah, it works pretty good."

"Works pretty well," she corrected automatically. "Okay, give it to me," she went on, extending her hand.

"I'll do it."

"You?" A little shiver went through her. "I don't think so! You're not going to put your fingers back there—"

"Oh, I do it all the time." That wasn't the most diplomatic thing he could have said, for her eyes widened in shock. "Look," he went on hastily, "it's just easier for me to reach, okay?"

"Oh, all right," she said, flopping over onto her stomach.

He unscrewed the jar and applied the stuff to the orifice in question. Iris wriggled at the touch of the cold stuff, but endured the procedure bravely.

"You want me to get on all fours?" she said.

"Um, you could," he said. He did like that position, since it allowed such a wonderful view of the female posterior. "But it might be easier if you remained flat on your stomach. I can manage it that way too."

Without waiting for a response, he put the jar down on the nightstand and got into position. Gently and with care he draped his body over hers, parting her legs to allow access into that secret spot. At the first contact of his member there, Iris let out a little whimper of fear, but Damon cooed, "Just relax, dear—don't tense up. It'll hurt that way." It'll hurt more that way, is what I really mean—but you don't have to know that.

She did her best to remain passive, but when Damon had inserted himself about an inch into her she again expelled a huge gasp at the sheer unusualness of the sensation. Things are supposed to come out of that orifice, not go into it! As Damon proceeded inch by inch, the feeling was so extraordinarily strange that Iris lapsed into a kind of fugue state. It really wasn't like the other way at all, even though she had been vainly hoping it might be. Damon was careful not to go in his whole length—few of his previous bedmates had been able to manage that, and he didn't want to rupture anything down there—but Iris nonetheless felt bizarrely that his cock was somehow proceeding all the way up her body and would come out of her throat. Her jaw dropped, and her thin tongue was sticking out of her mouth.

Damon, now in a little more than halfway, began pumping back and forth with the utmost sensitivity; but even so, Iris was in such discomfort that she was now biting her lower lip, her eyes tightly shut. After what seemed like an infinity the back-and-forth movement of Damon's member became a little more bearable, and she now sensed that he had encircled her chest and seized both of her breasts with his hands, squeezing and kneading them as if they were lumps of dough. Then she felt one of his hands snaking down her body and fastening itself on her sex, which, to her amazement, was dripping with her juices (and probably some of his). And yet, the pleasure from his stroking didn't fully distract her from the pain radiating from her bottom.