He wondered how she would look without her blouse on. What secrets, what treasures did she conceal beneath her clothing? It was hard to tell, given how baggy her shirts always were, but Josh suspected that her breasts were full and bountiful, despite her otherwise petite figure. And what he would give to see her red hair loose, unencumbered, falling over her shoulders like liquid fire. She always had it pinned, primly in place like an old schoolmarm.
"Josh. Josh, did you hear me?" she said, and he shook his head, clearing it. "I really think you can do better. Don't you?"
He shrugged. He was sitting in her office, facing her from across her desk. It was a small, oak-paneled room that overlooked the back parking lot. At the moment, there were few cars out there. It was nearly four o'clock, and the day was already darkening. The sun hadn't appeared all week, and the February temperatures were fierce. That morning, when he got up, he checked the indoor/outdoor thermometer his roommate had hanging on the wall. Twelve below zero. It was hard to believe spring would ever arrive. He wondered, as he often did in winter, why he had chosen to attend a university so far north when he could have gone to Stanford or USC. Back home, clear across the continent, it would be sunny and seventy right now. Still, the Northeast had its advantages. One of them was sitting across from him, looking him in the eye.
"You're very gifted, Josh," she said, and she placed his paper facedown on the desk. "You should be turning in the best essays in the class." She tilted her head, chewed on her lower lip. It drove him crazy when she did that. He wondered how old she was. Early thirties, most likely. More than ten years older than him. But so what? She was the sexiest professor he'd ever seen.
She was also a nun. Sister Monica, everyone called her. She was one of a handful of nuns still teaching at the university. Decades ago, it had been an all-Catholic, all-girls college. Now it was just a co-ed college, like any other. But the echoes of its past could still be felt—the chapel at the center of campus; the sister house, across the street from the main academic building, where the nuns lived; the 80% female-to-male ratio among the student body; and the few remaining nuns who still taught classes. They didn't seem like nuns, though. At least, not to Josh. Take Sister Monica. She wore regular clothes all the time, not a nun's habit and wimple. She never preached in the classroom, either. She just taught Shakespeare, as any other English professor would do. And yet . . . she was a nun. She had betrothed herself to her God. Josh wondered if she was a virgin. She might have slept around some prior to taking her vows. . . . But he doubted it. Sister Monica seemed too pure for that. She reminded him of the snow falling outside . . . unblemished, unsullied. Just waiting to be taken. . . .
"I know you can do better," she went on, and he regretted having won the Stevens Award for best written document on campus last year. At the time, he thought it was great. He won a fifty dollar prize to shop at the college bookstore—for a literary lover like him, and a broke one at that, that was like gold. But now his English profs all expected him to turn in perfect essays. Usually he could, with little trouble. But Shakespeare? He preferred contemporary literature. He'd never been a fan of the Bard.
He shrugged again. "I'll try," he said. She took a deep breath. "Please do."
He was about to get up, head out the door, walk down the empty hallway, and make the frigid journey across the grounds to his dorm room. But then he decided to take a chance.
"Sister Monica, can I ask you something? I mean, it has nothing to do with class."
She looked at him, her face full of questions. "Of course, Josh."
"When did you first decide you wanted to become a nun?"
Her eyebrows arched. "Hmm. And why would you ask me that? Are you perhaps considering seminary? Do you feel you have a calling, too?"
He laughed. He didn't mean to, but he just couldn't help it. "No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just . . ." This was it, either take the plunge or back off . . . "It's just you're so pretty, Sister Monica. It's hard to believe you haven't . . . I mean, did you ever . . .?"
She coughed. He expected she'd tell him it was none of his business and to promptly get lost, but she actually went along with him. "Wow. I didn't expect a question like that." He noticed her cheeks were flushed, but that just made her sexier. He looked at her chest, again wondering what secrets were concealed there. "I went on dates in high school, like any other girl," she said. "And I've been kissed a few times. But, Josh, I felt my calling when I was very young. So . . . does that answer your question?"
It sure did. So she was a virgin. She had never even necked with a guy, by the sound of it—at least not by his definition. Likely, no one had ever seen her topless, let alone fully naked. What a waste. She was way too beautiful to be hidden like that. He actually felt offended.
"But don't you wonder . . . what it would be like?" he said. "I mean . . . don't you ever feel the need for a guy, for . . .?"
"Josh, I don't think that's an appropriate question." Her cheeks were on fire now. "I think you should go."
He felt a surge of courage. She was reacting to this. He was getting to her. Perfect. "Do you . . . do you ever wonder what it would be like with me, Sister Monica? Because I do. All the time. I wonder what it would be like with you."
She looked away, brushed her hand across her forehead. "Josh. Please go."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I just think you're beautiful, Sister Monica. So much prettier than the girls on campus. It just seems . . . I mean, don't you ever have needs? Don't you ever just want to feel someone kissing you, touching you?"
He stood up, walked around the desk. She was still sitting in her chair. Her eyes were wide, and she was suddenly blinking too fast and too often.
"Don't worry, Sister Monica. I would never hurt you. I just can't believe you don't ever get turned on. I just want to kiss you, okay? Just one kiss."
"Josh . . . this is so inappropriate it's not even funny," she said. But it struck him, it did—that she seemed turned on. Right from the first day of class, he thought she looked at him a certain way. He wasn't stuck on himself, but he knew he was handsome. Girls liked him. They always had. He was tall and athletic without being muscle-bound, and his thick black hair had a natural curl to it.
He knelt down beside her, placed his hand on her shoulder. "It's okay," he said, and realized how lucky he was that the door to her office was shut. It wasn't locked, but who would just barge in on them? The place was deserted anyway. When he'd come for the meeting to discuss his last essay, he hadn't noticed a single other professor around.
"Josh, please . . ." She pushed her chair back, ready to stand up and issue him out the door. But before she could move, he kissed her. He gave her no time to react, no time to think. In a flash his lips were on hers. She jerked her head back. "Josh! I don't want to have to get you into trouble. Stop, before it's too late."
"Too late for what, Sister Monica? For you to resist? Admit it. You want me to kiss you. You want me to stick my tongue in your mouth and explore. You want to know what it feels like to have me suck on your breasts and chew your nipples. You want to show that sexy body of yours to me, after keeping it under wraps from guys all your life. Admit it, Sister Monica. You're feeling hot right now. You want me to leave because you're worried that if I don't go, you won't be able to control yourself."
The color of her eyes seemed to turn from brown to black. She scowled—he had no idea she could look so fierce. She had never looked more attractive.
"Get out of here, Josh. This is your last chance." She stood up. He did, too. And then he kissed her again. He put his arms around her, and held her to him, not allowing her to escape. She tried to pull away, but he was too strong for her. He waited for the moment when her mouth would yield. She was weak with desire, he knew it, could smell it, feel it Once she gave in, she was his.
He kissed her bottom lip, then gently licked it with the tip of his tongue. She tasted so good. He kissed her again, slowly, softly, waiting, waiting . . . and then, finally, her lips parted, just barely, but they parted. A soft moan escaped her.
"Please," she said. "Please, Josh."
He continued with his silken onslaught, kissing softly, tantalizing her with his gentleness. Her mouth opened wider, and she began to kiss him back. He stroked her hair, trying to find the pins that trapped it. He loosened one, unfastened it, then unfastened the other one. Lustrous red hair fell away, halfway down her back. He stepped away for a moment. Without question, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He told her that. She blushed again. And before she could say a word, he was kissing her again, making love to her mouth. She still showed a hint of resistance, but it was melting away like spring snow. He stuck his tongue out, tickling the tip of hers. Then he thrust his tongue deeply into her mouth, gently swirling it about, exploring the cavities and hidden recesses, as if searching for jewels. Suddenly she pulled away and pushed him.
"That's enough," she said. She looked disheveled, her red hair all a mess. She was a goddess. "I can't. . . We can't go any further, Josh. You know that."
"No I don't," he said. "We both want it, Sister Monica. I damn well want you, I can tell you that. And I know you want me."
She shook her head. "No. I can't. I don't. I won't! Don't you understand?"
"No. If it's the fact that you're my teacher, who cares? Teachers mess around with their students all the time." He snickered. "And a teacher who looks like you . . . And if it's the fact that you're a nun . . . well, I think God understands, Sister Monica. I mean, you're still young. What are you, thirty, maybe?"
Thirty-seven. Wow. She looked great for thirty-seven. Then again, she looked great, period. She put twenty-seven-year-olds to shame. "Well, see? You're thirty-seven, not seventy-seven. You're not some dried-up old prune. You're a gorgeous, sexy lady. God would understand. Besides, don't you think He knows how sexy you are? Why would he waste all that beauty on you just so you can hide it and keep your true self under lock and key?"
She again scowled at him. "My true self? My true self is not some slutty whore who accepts the advances of her student!"
"Sssh." He went to her again. "It's okay. We can keep this a secret. Just between you and me." He kissed her. Immediately she kissed him back. There was such fire in her, such untapped lust.
"No." She pulled away again. "This isn't right."
"Why won't you just listen to what your body wants?" he said, and, in one fluid motion, removed his shirt. He was in good shape, and knew it. Sister Monica's breath quickened at the sight of his bare torso.
"You're just a boy," she said. "It's wrong.'
"Just a boy? I'm twenty years old. Besides, you know I'm not a boy, don't you, Sister Monica? You know I'm strong and have stamina, and you know . . . I'm not a boy where it counts." He brushed his hand against the tent forming in the crotch of his jeans.
"Oh, Josh. Please go." She almost seemed ready to cry. Behind her, through the open window, a bald man in a black winter coat opened his car door and got in. Before he closed the door, Josh saw him blowing on his hands.
Sister Monica followed his eyes, looked out the window herself. This stirred her to action. She reached for the blinds, but before she could shut them, Josh was on her, holding her hand in place.
"No, don't," he said. "It's more exciting keeping them open. Besides, no one will see us. It's getting dark, and we'll keep the lights off. And isn't it romantic, anyway? You. Me. In here. The snow and the dusk outside. It just seems right, doesn't it?"
"Put your shirt back on."
He pulled her to him, kissed her. Her lips parted and he thrust his tongue in her mouth. This time she reciprocated. He could tell she was new at this, her tongue was clumsy, overly aggressive. He slowed his movements, made them gentle, showed her how it's done. And she was a fast learner. Within seconds their tongues were slowly making love to each other, the contact soft, like velvet.
"Mmm," she said, as they continued to kiss. She put her arms around his neck. He stroked her hair, and then felt her hands caressing his bare back. She pulled him into her, closer, until the bulge in his jeans was firmly pressing against her. "Ohh," she whimpered.
He broke the kiss. "See? Isn't that nice?" He didn't wait for a response. Instead he leaned in and kissed her neck, her ears, her hair. He loved her hair. Embers burned in its luxurious length. "Take off your blouse," he whispered in her ear.
She looked down. She had been lost in the moment, lost in the passion. But now her conscience seemed to be making a last stand.
"Josh. Josh, I think we've gone far enough. I want you to put your shirt back on and then leave, is that understood?"
Her eyes betrayed her. There was a hunger in them, a lifetime of repression aching to be released. He took a step back, then, with the speed of a panther, took two steps forward. Their faces were inches apart. He grabbed her arms, raised them above her head. She tried to free herself, but he wouldn't let her go. He kissed her. This time she resisted, but only for a moment. When he probed her mouth with his tongue, she was ready, eager.
With tongues enjoined, he quickly dropped his hands to the bottom of her blouse and yanked it up. She hadn't lowered her arms, and it was easy for him to lift the shirt up and off of her. He threw it aside. It landed on the desk, atop his essay.
He got a good look at her. She was even more beautiful than he imagined. Her breasts, milky white, generously stretched the simple cotton bra. She was embarrassed, and she covered her chest with her arms.
"Don't do that, sexy Monica," he said, and gently pulled her arms down to her sides. "You're the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on. Don't hide."
She swallowed, nervously. He reached up and touched her heart. It was beating wildly. With anticipation? Fear? Shame? Lust? Maybe all of those. Maybe more.
He leaned in, kissed her left breast, licking the fabric of her bra. He sucked on her hardened nipple.
"Oh yes," she said, and threw her head back.
He couldn't take it. Those perfect round breasts needed to be freed. He reached behind her, unfastened her bra, and it fell away, sliding off of her. Now he really went to work. He massaged her breasts with his hands, kissed them over and over, teased the nipples with the tip of his tongue, chewed them with his teeth, gently.
"Oh, dear Lord," she said. "I can't believe how good it feels."
He kissed her then, and she kissed him back hungrily.
"You see?" he said a moment later. "Why fight it? And if you think this feels good . . . well, just wait." He kissed her again, then stepped back. He unzipped his jeans, kicked them off. He didn't hesitate with his underwear. He slid them down his legs, then handed them to Sister Monica.
"For you," he said. "You can keep them."
"But . . ."
"Ssh. Sniff them, Sister Monica. Sexy Monica. You know you want to." And she did. She put the briefs to her nose, inhaled. Then she smiled and threw them aside. They landed on top of her blouse, on the desk.
"Good shot," he said.
She looked at his manhood. It was fully erect. She had him so aroused he worried he might come too quickly once they started. He was hung, and he knew it—a solid nine inches, and thick. He was going to be quite an initiation for her.
"Josh . . ."
He knew what she was thinking. "It's okay. I'll be gentle. I promise. I want this to be good for you, too."
"But . . . I don't . . . I don't think I can do this. Kissing was bad enough, and . . ." She suddenly seemed to realize that she was topless. She covered her breasts again.
"C'mon, sexy Monica. I've already seen them. And touched them. Kissed them. Hell, even nibbled on them. And I sucked on your aroused, hard nipples. So don't cover up now. It's a little too late for that, don't you think?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what I was thinking. Please put your pants back on. This can't happen."
He took one giant step and was upon her. He pulled her into him, and kissed her. She didn't resist. He knew she wouldn't.
"Sexy Monica," he said, "it's already happened. Don't you know that?" And he bent down to his knees, unfastened her slacks, and slid them down her legs. Her legs were perfect, just like the rest of her. Again he felt a flash of anger. What kind of God would ask such an exquisite example of creation to keep herself hidden?
When her slacks fell to her ankles, Sister Monica did not hesitate. She raised her left foot, then her right, making it easier for him to remove her pants. He didn't hesitate either. He reached up, pulled down her panties, and she allowed him to throw those aside too.
He stood up. They faced each other, completely naked. She wasn't trying to hide from him behind her arms anymore. They were hanging at her sides. But she looked nervous, ashamed. She met his eyes, then looked away.
"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, sexy Monica," he said. "You should be proud of your body. You must do a lot to keep in such great shape."
She blushed, swallowed, shook her head. "Not really. I watch what I eat. I like to walk a lot. But that's it."
"Well, I guess God decided to bless you naturally," he said. "It's a gift, Sister Monica. Most women would kill for a body like yours. It's a damn shame to keep it covered up the way you do."
"Josh . . "
"No, don't say anything. I know you must be asking yourself if this is right or wrong. I know there must be a small part of you that's still telling you this is impossible. But it's not impossible, sexy Monica. It's right here, staring you in the face. And it's not wrong, either. You want me. You want to be made love to, you want to know what it feels like to have a man inside of you. You can't tell me you don't."
She said nothing, she just looked at him. Her eyes were submissive, starving, voracious. He wondered if she'd burst, literally. Her need was palpable.
He hugged her, kissed her, made love to her mouth again. "Mmm," she said. And when they broke the kiss, "Make love to me, Josh. Please. I do want you. I . . . I can't pretend I don't."
He kissed her again, softly, softly. Then he lied down on the carpeted floor. The last hint of dusk light filtered in through the open window. Standing in the faint glow, Sister Monica's flaming hair seemed to ignite—it was almost as if he could feel the heat.
He motioned for her to lie down beside him, and she did. He climbed on top of her, kissed her. He kissed her eyelids, her mouth, her neck, her breasts.
"I will make this good for you, Sister Monica," he said. "Trust me. I'll be as gentle as you need me to be." She nodded, and a feeling of warmth descended over him. This beautiful lady, this holy lady, was putting all of her trust in him.
He crawled down her body, and kissed her clitoris. It throbbed and pulsated against his lips. He licked the lips of her vagina. She was soaking wet. Her mound was thick with red hair—she had clearly never shaved or even trimmed in her life. But that was okay. It aroused him. Somehow it further spoke of her innocence, of her sexual purity and naiveté.
He kissed and licked her clitoris for minutes, until she was thrashing and squirming and moaning. Then he mounted her.