Thursdays 9/15

I should not look so longingly at her neck. Were she to turn and fix me with her lapis eyes, she would likely be astonished with the intensity of my gaze focused, not as expected, on her breasts (smallish, round, lovely) but on that slender column. Skin pale, contrasting sharply with the red of her hair, smooth and taut. I could, I fancied, see the beat of her pulse beneath her jawbone. I could, I fancied, taste the light saltiness of her skin, feel its warmth beneath my lips, hear her sigh as my tongue blazed a trail upward towards her ear, smell her soft perfume that had lingered in my nostrils when she passed by me earlier, thrill to the tension as she leans away, offering me more ground to cover.

No. Staring like this is living dangerously.

I do it anyway.

Of course, she snares me with a sidelong glance, notes my attention not on the lecturer, but on her, and turns to look at me. For a long moment I am falling as I look at her looking at me looking at her... There is a positively sexual thrill that runs through me as the corners of her mouth tug upwards in what may be a smirk, but which I interpret as an indulgent (and dare I think flattered?) smile. I wonder what she sees: a man, not handsome but not ugly, slightly older and embracing baldness, eyes, with small wrinkles at the corners, that have been described as arresting. Or an old man, staring lustfully at a younger woman? Which would not be entirely wrong; lust is certainly a component of my interest, but not the only one. When I surface, I realize that the entire tableaux must have lasted no longer than three or four seconds, or else everyone in class would certainly have been caught in our web. There is a palpable sense of loss as she turns away.

About midway through the seminar we take a break. As my fellow students file out, I watch the way she moves. I confess to paying no small amount of attention to her backside as it moves in her jeans, but not only that. As she exits the room she turns her head slightly; if you had not been watching you might have missed the movement. Again, she catches me looking and, I think, challenges me with her glance to follow. Which I do, standing quickly and exiting the room just in time to see her vanish into an empty classroom down the hall.

I make sure no one is watching and, true to form, all are engaged in idle chatter or in going to the restroom. Furtively, I move to the darkened classroom down the hall, enter, and spot her standing off to one side. She is half-lit in the overspill from the hallway, the shadows on half of her face deepened by her hair hanging over it. She looks at me intently, and I do not flinch from her gaze. I step closer, coming within arm's reach of her, close enough to smell the perfume, to hear her soft breathing, to see her swallow uncomfortably.

"You've been staring at me." It is not a question. There is no point in questions.

"Yes."

"Can you cut it out?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Very."

"You must know how lovely you are. You must be used to men, even older men, looking at you..."

"Not usually so openly."

"Life is too short for pretense." Then, sensing an opening, I ask, "How does my gaze make you feel? Besides uncomfortable."

She thinks for a second, then smiles cryptically. "Desired. I wanted to squirm in my seat. You have a very intense way of looking at a person." For a long moment we look at each other. I, at least, can feel the tension in the air. For an instant, I register the wedding band I bear and, in that instant, it feels like a chain. But only for an instant. It lightens when she speaks again. "What are you thinking when you look at me like that?"

I step in closer, until we are only inches apart. At this point I am close enough to hear the heaviness of her breathing. She stands two--perhaps three--inches taller than me, boosted somewhat by her heels, so I have to tilt my head slightly to maintain her gaze. Her lip quivers. She swallows again.

Finally, I touch her. Nothing overtly sexual, but I cup her cheek, and move her hair out of her face so I can see it all. Her eyes close and, as I stroke her jaw, she leans her head back slightly, exactly what I hoped for. I lean in a bit and kiss her just above the top of her breastbone, in the open patch left by the collar of her blouse, hearing her sigh as I do. Then I run my tongue up the hollow of her throat and, involuntarily it seems, she grabs my head, trying to pull my lips towards hers. I resist and continue exploring the side of her neck with my lips, luxuriating in the taste of her skin, its suppleness, its heat. The tension in her muscles is precisely as I had imagined it. I track up to her pulse, feeling her increased heartbeat with my lips, and I smile against her.

Only when I have fulfilled my vision, only when I have experienced her neck with all of my senses, do I yield to her. I pull away. She turns her head, leans in a little, and presses her lips against mine. Her lips part and her tongue darts out, impishly, seeking my own. My hands find her hips and her arms my shoulders as we draw closer. I note the swell of her breasts (not quite so small as I had though) as they press against me and I fancy I feel the heat from between her thighs. My cock is fully erect and pressing against her, a fact she apparently enjoys as she is grinding against me. Out tongues continue their duel, their pas-de-deux, for a timeless minute or two until, at some unseen signal, we part. As we break the kiss, our lips slide against each others', prolonging the farewell, the ecstasy of kissing, the horror of parting. We are both breathing heavily now.

Sometime during this, her hands have moved to my hips and I scarcely notice her movements until her fingers brush my erection, clearly noticeable through my pants. Even in the dimness, I see her eyes widen somewhat, a smile crawl across her lips. She says nothing, but with her right hand undoes my belt buckle. Once again, she kisses me hard, her lips moving across mine, her tongue aggressively exploring my mouth as she works the fly button and zipper, pulling my cock out of my boxers. I moan into her mouth as, delicately, with her fingertips, she strokes my length. The smile returns as she breaks the kiss and sinks to her knees.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" My words come out as gasps and I desperately hope that no one is in earshot.

By way of an answer she grasps me firmly, looking at my erection for a moment, as though sizing me up. I am not huge, nor am I particularly small, but the look on her face makes me feel like a god. Large or not, I am certainly as hard as I have ever been. Then she anoints the tip of my cock with her tongue, and it is all I can do not to cry out at the warmth and the moisture of it. Her flexible tongue cups me, trailing around the head and then, raising me with her hand, the tongue trails down the underside, to the base, and back up again.

She plants the lightest of kisses and then, holding the base with one hand, engulfs me. Her lips slide about halfway down my length, clamping down on me. I can feel her tongue cradling me from below, her teeth lightly scraping the top, until she stops her descent and I connect with the back of her mouth. Then she tries to go a little further, gaining fractionally, and I hear her suppress a gag. She moans, the vibrations from her throat echoing in me.

Once she has taken me as far as she can, she slides back, dragging her lips and tongue over the ground she has just covered. Stopping short of taking me out, she keeps only the head in and again swirls her tongue around the tip. Almost before I can register this, she slides down again, not pausing once she reaches her limit, but pulling back and now she is truly fucking me with her mouth. Most of me is concentrated at the points where lips, tongue and teeth meet my cock, the rest on keeping any noise from escaping. The only thing I hear is the sound of her breathing through her nose and the swallowing sound every time she goes down. And her moans.

It only takes a few minutes of this to have me on the brink. I am contending not only with the sensations, which are excellent, but with my own mind. The newness of this moment, its unexpected occurrence, overwhelm me. Her physical attractiveness, her youth. Thinking about them, picturing what my cock must look like sliding in and out of her mouth, are almost as compelling as the act itself. Her moans, allowing me to flatter myself that she is perhaps enjoying this almost as much as I am, make me, if possible, harder.

As I feel my orgasm near, I put my hands on her head, not holding it, but stroking her beautiful hair. Receiving the message, she slows down and, to make up the pace, I thrust a bit into her mouth. I trust the hand to prevent me shoving too deep. The hand, which has been quiet thus far, begins to pump as I fuck her mouth and then my climax is upon me.

I feel it through my legs, through my entire body; I push in as far as she will allow me, registering her suppressed gag, if at all, with a slight sense of domination. Despite what must be a bit of discomfort, I hear a small cry of joy from her throat as she simply stops moving. The wave that had begun at my feet breaks and I explode into her mouth. The orgasm seems to last for minutes, though I know this is impossible, as I fill her mouth with my semen. She swallows it, the first woman ever to do this for me, and I feel like I might come again just at the realization of it. Finally, when it is over, she pulls back, licks the head a final time, and lets me drop from her lips.

I am, in every imaginable way, spent. She looks up at me, smiling, as she tucks my cock away, zipping up the pants, buttoning them, and fastening my belt. Standing, she brushes her knees off. Without a word, she kisses me one final time, this one gentle, her lips barely parting, her tongue only greeting my own, brushing as we part. I can taste a little bit of myself on them and, spent or not, I stir a bit. Then she exits the room, pausing at the door and, in profile, blowing me a kiss.

Thinking it prudent not to be seen exiting a darkened classroom with her, I wait a few minutes until it seems likely that everyone has returned. Checking my watch, I see that the break is not technically over, so I walk calmly down the hall. People are still chattering as we prepare to return to the business at hand. She is sitting with a compact, fixing some microscopic flaw in her lipstick and, for a moment, I wonder if she has marked me, something I'll need to check before I return home.

She does not acknowledge me directly, but she does smile enigmatically as I enter. Then, reminding me of the pleasures obtained mere moments before, she puckers her lips to spread the gloss evenly.

I surprise myself for the next hour with my savoir faire. I am active and engaged, even arguing directly with her over a point of interpretation. The only sign of our other involvement is a slight lingering when we make eye contact, long enough for me to be certain that it's intentional, but not so long as to draw attention. Neither of us yields, and a stalemate is declared.

When class ends, we both ride the same elevator down, in a crowd of our classmates. She is standing next to me, and her hand lightly brushes mine, lingering long enough so that I know, again, that it's not an accident. We walk off in the same direction, in the warm autumn night. I feel obscenely lucky and she seems to be sending signals, but I have no guarantee of any repeat.

As she reaches her car, I look to see whether anyone is in sight. Seeing that the coast is clear, I grab her hand and gently turn her to face me. Then, once again taking her face in my hands, I plant a long and lingering kiss on her. She sinks into it, sighing as I hold her lips to mine. I decide to truly press my luck.

"Next week, wear a skirt."

Summoning more cool than I could possibly I possess, I turn away without waiting for an answer or looking back and begin the journey home.