Let It Ride Ch. 08

(8)

To My Nonexistent Sister

My departure was never a stunt,

So I’m glad you set out on a hunt

To restore your lost brother

To you and your mother

Where you found me inside of her cunt.

This went to Dr. Divine along with the two legitimate poems I had been assigned to write. At the bottom of the poem, I wrote, “Sorry to go for the obvious rhyme at the end, but I couldn’t think of a way to work the poem around to say bunt or shunt or punt.”

Now, on Halloween Day, or All-Saints Eve, or whatever the name of the day might officially be, for the first time ever a teacher gave me back one of my filthy little poems with red ink at the bottom. No grade at the top but at least some kind of reaction.

“See me,” said Doc Divine. The words that almost always mean “You’re in so much trouble, buster, and you know it.” Though they can mean, “Congratulations on the Oscar nomination.”

She had to ask two chatty girls from the class to leave so we could talk. So now they would know I was in trouble. Or being considered to become Poet Laureate of the United States.

She looked at me across her desk. I laid the poem on it and then sat back down across from her. I didn’t even say, “As requested, I am seeing you.”

The staring contest went on for a while. Probably not for as long as it felt like.

“Are naughty words a problem now?” I asked.

“It isn’t the words,” said Dr. Divine. “You did another limerick with money, honey, and cunny right at the beginning of the semester. And the one about your exhibitionist neighbor, that wasn’t even subtle. You’ve always been pretty confessional in your bawdry.”

I shrugged. “I live with my mind in the gutter, so it comes out in my verse.”

“Thank you for not calling it poetry,” she said.

“But it is poetry,” I answered. “I don’t think it’s any filthier than ‘Whenas in Silks My Julia Goes.'”

“Please, Zor, you are Astronomical Units away from Robert Herrick.”

“I really appreciate an English professor who knows what AUs are.”

“This one sounds as if you think of yourself as being lost inside your mother’s cunt.”

“I don’t have a sister. The whole thing is an erotic fantasy.”

“Fantasizing about your mother’s cunt is quite freudian, but I don’t think you’re doing anything metaphorical here.”

“We are on the horns of a dilemma, Doc Divine. You want me to tell you that I have some personal experince of my mother’s vagina, but you aren’t my therapist or my priest or my doctor or my lawyer, so you don’t have any legal excuse not to violate my confidence. You can blab to anybody, without penalty.”

“You’re right,” she said, shuffling some papers together. “I’m out of line here.”

“But you can’t be compelled to testify as to something you don’t actually believe to be true,” I said.

“Oh, good,” she said. “You’re about to be clever.”

“For instance,” I said, “I think you’ve been taking my erotica too personally. I think you’ve been wearing lower necklines since my limerick about Gert.”

“Nonsense.”

“My real questions about that are, did you already own those low necklines or did you buy them after you decided I was asking you to emulate Gert?”

“Or Bette,” she said.

“Your assertion, not mine.”

“I think I might have examined my wardrobe and picked out some things I had never before dared to wear to class.”

“And did you decide that some of them looked better without underwear?”

“I will confess I liked the way some of those fabrics draped over unconfined breasts.”

“So … a confession.”

“It was not a come-on, not to a student.”

“I’m not a minor, so there’s no chance of a crime here,” I said.

“But there is a morals clause in the Sacred Heart contract,” she said.

“I have noticed and appreciated — nay, admired — your new sense of style and the subtle eroticism that has come out not only in your apparel but also in your demeanor and your choice of language in class.”

“Which may all be imaginary on your part,” said Dr. Divine.

“How did you choose the name ‘Doc Divine’?” I asked. “Your last name is Fodor and you haven’t written a dissertation yet.”

“I’m still deciding whether I want the degree and the career that goes with it.”

“Doc Divine,” I said, “Was your fantasy to be a doctor, or to be divine? And if the latter, what goddess did you aspire to be? Medusa?”

“Not a goddess,” she said, “and not the image I was looking for.”

“Aphrodite,” bursa eskort bayan I said.

“Not really,” she said. “And not a warrior goddess like Athena.”

“Nor a celibate naturist like Artemis. Even though your real first name is Diana, and you own a couple of dogs that you run with.”

“Have you been stalking me?” she asked softly.

“Your dogs, and your running, are prominently featured on your Facebook. Beyond that, you don’t even have an OnlyFans account.”

“OnlyFans,” she murmured.

“From what I can see, your OnlyFans would be well-attended and much appreciated.”

She looked at me with a strange new look in her eyes. A measuring look.

She reached down and unbuttoned the top button on her neckline. Since the neckline was already low enough to clearly show the swell and division of her breasts, this button was well into daring territory. She immediately unbuttoned the second button.

“I already knew that you didn’t wear a brassiere,” I said.

Third button. Now I could see where the bottom of her breasts made creases underneath.

Fourth button.

I stood up, leaned across her desk, and pulled the two sides of her top apart. The fabric now framed her breasts, covering nothing.

“Is this what your poem about Gert invited me to do?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And I’m so glad you accepted the invitation, and invited me in return.”

“I’m not sure I did invite you,” she said.

“And yet you did not forbid me, or slap my hands away, or stand up and rebutton your top.”

She closed her eyes for a moment.

“You like how it feels,” I said, “to be bare.”

Her eyes stayed closed.

“If you watch me looking at you,” I said, “it will be even more pleasurable.”

“Did Bette tell you that?” she whispered.

“I didn’t have to be told, and neither did you. I admire your breasts very much, Diana Fodor. May I have your permission to touch them?”

Her eyes stayed closed.

I stood up and walked around her desk, stood behind her chair, then reached down and held her breasts just as I had held Bette’s. And Mother’s.

A sharp little gasp escaped her lips.

“My name is Zor,” I reminded her. “In case you wanted to breathe out my name while I’m here on your nonvirtual OnlyFans page.”

“Zor,” she whispered.

I moved my hands to brush lightly across her nipples, which leapt to attention. “I have wanted to do this from the beginning of the semester,” I said. “Did you want me to do it?”

“I … appreciate that it’s being done.”

I lifted my hands away from her breasts. “If it could give you pleasure coming from just about anybody, then I’m not really needed here.”

She reached up — without opening her eyes — and pulled my hands back into place. “You were doing very well,” she said, “and I was especially glad that it was you.”

“Why?” I asked, as I again stimulated her nipples and circled her areolae. “I am almost completely inexperienced, sexually.”

“With fantasies about your mother’s cunt,” she murmured.

“Not fantasies, but definitely about cunts in general. Such as yours. You are definitely too young to be my mother.” I hadn’t actually lied — my knowledge of my mother’s vagina did not come from my imagination.

“Mine?” she asked.

“I always check to see if there’s a panty line, of course,” I said. “Especially as your clothes have gotten tighter in the past few weeks.”

“What about today?” she asked.

“You asked me to see you,” I said. “So I looked very closely. And I believe you have no underwear on at all today.”

Long silence. My hands were beginning to squeeze a little, to rub, to wander everywhere over her breasts, but never neglecting to brush across her nipples or squeeze them a little. At no point did she resist or complain. Instead, she raised her chest a little, welcoming my touch.

“What I’m thinking,” I said, “is that you have chosen your Halloween costume and wore it under your clothing all day today, with no other professor and no student but myself even guessing what that costume was, and how easily you could reveal it.”

“My hair isn’t long enough to go as Lady Godiva” she asked.

“I think,” I said, “that your costume is Diana Fodor, naked and beautiful and desired, and you aren’t going anywhere in that costume. If I have my way, you’ll be coming.”

She reached up and pressed my hands tightly around her breasts. “When I let go of your hands, Zor, what are they going to do next?”

“I didn’t have a definite gursu eskort plan, but one of my options, perhaps my favorite one, was to unbutton your dress as far down as it will go.”

“The buttons go all the way to the hemline of the skirt,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “I memorized that fact during class.”

“Did you count the buttons?” she asked.

“I’m not interested in the buttons, except as the snowplow is interested in the snow — to shove it aside and lay bare what’s underneath it.”

She let go of my hands.

I pulled her rolling chair back from the desk, moved down in front of her, knelt and unbuttoned every last button until the cloth lay open on both sides of her naked body.

She did not shave her pudendum, though the pubic hair was kept short. Long enough to be silky instead of bristly. Blonder than I expected, since so few blondes were actually blond. I lowered my head and breathed steadily on her pudendum.

She parted her legs.

I reached under her knees and raised her thighs onto the chair’s armrests. They might have been designed for that purpose. Her vulva opened, her labia parted, the entrance to her corridor was gaping open. I filled it with my tongue. She gasped.

I pressed my mouth completely over her vagina as my tongue found her clitoris, not quite where Mom’s had been, and not shaded by such a prominent hood, but my eyes were open and afternoon light poured into the room from her west-facing window. I could see what I was doing.

“I have long known,” she whispered, “that my classroom windows are completely reflective in the afternoon. No one can see in.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“But at night, if my light is on, everything is visible to everyone in the top rows of the bleachers on the baseball field.”

“I assumed as much,” I said.

“This seemed to me to make my classroom an impossible location for an affair.”

“The more you make me talk,” I said, “the less my tongue can do.”

She said nothing, just rolled her hips slightly to open her vagina to me even more. My fingers, having abandoned her breasts, now made their way to their most useful location. My right hand this time exploring for her G-spot, my left hand holding firmly to her right buttock, moving it slightly to make her vagina press forward onto my tongue while my right-hand fingers stroked and pressed, oh so gently, on her G-spot. Then more firmly.

Diana Fodor was weeping now. “Don’t stop,” she murmured. “You’re not hurting me. It’s just — this is all so strong. I’ve never … how did you learn to do this?”

“My mother taught me,” I said. “Told me what to do, what to look for. And I think that today I have found it.”

“Yes,” she said. “‘Yes I said yes I will yes.'”

I didn’t have a high opinion of Ulysses, but that final line, it was very useful in many contexts. My tongue, lips, and teeth being busy, I said nothing, but I did everything.

She cried out “Zor! Zor!” Then she caught herself, and softly, hoarsely, whispered, “Zor, don’t stop, never stop.” Her body trembled, then shook like a California earthquake, which keeps increasing long after you thought it couldn’t shake any more. “Please,” she said. “Please open your heart and your fucking pants and dive into me.”

Instead of some assholical remark about how I had forgotten to wear my fucking pants today, doggone it, my answer was to exercise my tongue with even greater energy and pressure, so she cried out in ecstasy. Her convulsive movements were only the beginning, as she flooded my mouth, my face with her fluids, which tasted very little like my mother’s, and yet exactly, exactly as triumphant and delicious and affectionate.

She pushed my head back from between her thighs. “No more,” she whispered. “Too much, just enough, never stop, stop now.” I’m not sure she understood that she was speaking in paradoxes, but I got the idea and slowly relaxed my tongue’s pressure, slipped my fingers away from her G-spot, let my upper lip and the teeth behind it slide away from her clitoris. Yet I maintained all my contact points with her body as long as I could.

Her spasma relaxed. She was no longer clamping my tongue and my right hand between her vaginal walls. I lifted my head from between her thighs, my hair and cheeks dripping with sweat, my mouth full of her fluids which I swallowed rather than letting them spill out of my open mouth.

With my face away, instead of closing her legs, she bent over them, blowing on her own open Bursa elden ödeme escort vagina, panting with exhaustion.

I made no effort to wipe my face, except to keep sweat from my hair out of my eyes.

When she finally sat upright again, she took me by the shoulders and braced herself on me in order to lower her legs from the arms of the chair. She was still sitting on her wide-open dress. “Will you help me button this back up again?” she murmured.

I knelt and began buttoning at the hem, progressing upward. She started, with trembling fingers, to button at the top.

“Let me do it all,” I said softly.

Her hands fell down to cover her own breasts. To hold them tightly.

“You can relax,” I said. “Your paps are not going to break free from you, milady. They know how bravely they are positioned on the prow of your body, two figures promising joy in the future and remembering pleasure in the past.”

“Shakespeare never wrote any such thing,” she said.

“Because he never met you,” I said.

“Zor,” she said, “how can you possibly have loved me like that, like no other man?”

“I loved your cunt,” I said. “I loved all the parts and places in your cunt, and your nipples as well, and the sound of your voice, every sound of your voice. All that, I loved, and your own body taught me how to worship you.”

“But you’re not in love with me,” she said.

“I hardly know you,” I said. “What I do know, I enjoy, I admire. I love every aspect of your body. I think your Halloween costume has been a complete success, don’t you? And there,” I said, closing the top button between the tops of her breasts, “now your beautiful, unforgettable costume is hidden away again until the next time you want to bring it out to be displayed and admired and explored.”

“Will you still be here at Halloween next year?” she asked.

“Diana Fodor,” I said, “there is no reason why such a thing might never happen, but no guarantee that it could. Next year, you may have sweet memories of tonight, but they will be far overshadowed by the love you have for the man you give your body to then. Love takes mere physical ecstasy to a spiritual level.”

“You’re a guru now?”

Her bantering tone was all wrong. I closed her mouth by kissing her, by drawing her to her feet and embracing her. She reached down and felt my penis, which was ready to explode by now, and she said, “Zor, can I —”

“Please no,” I said. “This was about you. It should not be about me.”

“Shall I leave you so unsatisfied?” she asked, reversing Juliet’s line.

“What satisfaction could I have tonight, when I have already given you the best I have?”

“You held something back,” she said.

“You don’t want to bear my child,” I said.

She whispered, “Why wouldn’t I?”

I kissed her again. “That is so kind and loving of you,” I said. “But when I have children, they will be sure of both their parents, from the start, and their parents will be sure of each other. That is not who we are, or where we are.”

I let go of her and stepped back. I was a little clumsy, with my penis so insistent inside my pants.

“You love another girl,” she said.

“Two other girls,” I murmured, not really proud of it.

“But still you came to me.”

“You said, ‘See me.'” I chuckled a little. “I’m trying to be a good student.”

“You were already getting an A, you know,” she said.

“And now I have received the juices of a goddess, and swallowed them, and they will make me immortal.”

“I wish,” she said.

“Diana Fodor, I will never forget your kindness to me tonight.”

“My kindness to you?”

“Trusting me with the vision of your loveliness, the glory of your divinity.”

“I have only been a goddess for these thirty minutes of my life,” she said. “But you — how long have you been a god?”

“I’m still just an intern,” I said, “but thanks for the encouragement.”

I gave her another kiss, a sweet one, a loving one, and then I left the room, hoping that the mere friction of my pants against my penis wouldn’t set off a massive discharge, because right now my penis was exactly at the top of my waistband, so if anything shot out it would spurt up into the air and a few feet in front of me. Quite a little geyser, to the entertainment of any possible witnesses, and the annoyance of whoever had to clean it up. I could hear the janitor grumbling, “Fuckin’ kids never heard of a condom?”

My penis did not discharge anything more problematic than a drool of precum from my waistband down onto my fly, and soon the tip was no longer exposed to air. Once again, lots of semen was backed up in my vesicles, only to be reabsorbed into my body. But my penis wasn’t angry. It had the satisfaction of a job well done, without even having had to do its job.