Scintillectually Yours

Ang, the Sweltering Celt has asked that this week’s fantasy involve her as part of a contest to honor the anniversary of her blog site. I am more than happy to oblige…

I was doing my best to deliver a captivating lesson to my overcrowded lecture hall. While I flipped through slides and attempted to navigate my cursory notes, my gaze kept slipping to the woman sitting in the far left side of the first row. I glanced surreptitiously at the class roster. Ang. Over the last several weeks she had moved from the back of the hall slowly down through the rows until, today, she watched me intently. Her big, beautiful eyes peering at me over a pair of wire rim glasses. While I might have been more distracted by the ample cleavage revealed by her low-cut tee, or by the hint of creamy thighs when she crossed and recrossed her legs, it was the rope that was throwing off my game.

The rope. Instead of taking copious notes as I fumbled through what should have been a thoroughly practiced presentation, she was toying with a piece of black silken cord, about 16″ in length or so. It wove in and out of her hands. She pulled it taught and then let it go slack. I cleared my throat a few times and tried to concentrate. I could hear murmers in the classroom and knew I was losing my audience even as I became the audience to this highly charged bit of play in the corner. I had to assume it was intentional. It looked intentional. I shook it off and clicked on the next slide.

My eyes drew back to her just before the bell rang. The rope had disappeared, her head was bent over her notebook. I breathed. I finished my lecture. I thanked my students and turned to gather my belongings. I had just put my laptop in my bag and turned around to leave, bumping smack into her. She had been standing silently behind me. I muttered my apologies and she gave me the most mischievous grin I have ever seen. Reaching around me, she dropped a folded piece of paper and the black silk cord onto the desk and walked away without ever saying a word. I picked up the note. “You seem a little tongue-tied. Want to try the real thing? Tonight. 9:30.” and an address one town over.

Oh, I did. I definitely did. After showering, dressing, stopping to masturbate twice with the tantalizing thoughts of what may lie ahead, I got in the car and drove to the address given. My knock on the door was answered by a truly handsome man, which threw me for a curve. He just smiled and said, “I believe Ang is expecting you.” He gestured toward the living room, alight with candles. She sat on a comfortable sofa, surrounded by many feet of that same black silken cord, along with all manner of floggers, paddles, clamps, and other accoutrements that promised a long night of amazing wonders. She looked up at me and smiled. I swallowed as she hooked her finger toward me and patted her lap, reaching for a black leather flogger as I moved closer.

And so the teacher becomes the student. The student, the teacher.

Kudos to Ang, the Sweltering Celt, for her website’s new home, and for giving us this week’s MFM theme: Breathing.

This was a control issue.

I wanted to pull out all of my usual maneuvers. She wasn’t having any of it. After months of talking every day across the thousands of miles that separate us and more than a week of being in each other’s presence during her month in the States, I was now straddling her lap, my cleavage at eye level. She knows me too well for having known me such a short time. She anticipates my moves and shakes me off. Her eyes gleam, half-lidded from the bottle of wine we’ve shared, a smile plays at her lips. Those lips. I want them on mine. Now.

I always get what I want when I want it. I’m like Veruca Salt that way (not the band, the other one). But she isn’t giving in and I’m frustrated. She knows it and says it. “This frustrates you doesn’t it? You hate it when you aren’t the one in control. When you aren’t getting your way.” I pout and flash my eyes. It’s not working. I refuse to move. I want what I want and I want it now. I think I see her giving in. Leaning up toward my mouth, hers slightly open. I lean down, my lips parted. She pulls away, laughing softly. I should be aggravated but I am intensely intrigued. Does she know how much this game is getting to me? Does she feel my heart race? Is my lust for her that palpable? She knows. I’m sure she knows.

An eternity passes before she gives up the prize. Our lips playing upon each other, my sigh into her open mouth, the talking, the teasing, and then…that one sweet moment when the kiss becomes a tangible thing. An event. A happening. When the chemistry takes over and you become insatiably hungry for one another and no one else will do. I fall into her deep, soft, long, lingering, passionate kisses.

And she takes my breath away.