Twenty-one out of twenty, and I grin, sipping my cognac.
I write down eighteen. Lisette needs guidance, not hubris. Her wilfulness works against her intelligence.
Is this how I should spend Saturday evening? Through the tall windows, dusk deepens into night, and I hear raucous strangers enjoying themselves below. I have no one. Sitting at my desk, I reach for the anglepoise lamp to illuminate it. The settee looks inviting, but I will not procrastinate. The quiet lamentations of classical music float through the air, and my glass is empty.
Sighing hard, I have one more to mark.
It is Raphaël’s, the Joker, the Fool, the Lothario, the Sex Pest. Like my ex-fiancé, he is a heartbreaker.
A chill creeps over my soul, and the bitterness of old memories pours salt into the open wound. Looking out, surveying the lounge, everything has names: Billy, the bookcase; Kivik, the settee; Jansjö, the lampstand; and Ekås, its shade. We chose them to make this place homely; they failed. The half-bottle yields another slug of spicy fire. Perhaps this time, I will find the answer at the bottom of my glass.
Raphaël is a handsome man-child with naturally sunkissed skin. His dreamy eyes disarm. He is intelligent with a carefree precociousness. Tall, slim, and confident, when God gave out charisma, his hand slipped. Raphaël has enough for ten men, and it only works on younger women.
Why do I have to remind myself? I am still young. Turning twenty-eight, miserable, and rejected was a profound crisis. My best friend fucked my fiancé, and it diminished my self-worth. I am wiser by experience and misfortune. I sigh; it is an exhausting pretence to maintain. It has aged my soul. My features and figure are those of a youthful woman in full bloom. It is not egotistical to consider myself pleasing to the eyes. I inherited my mother’s good looks and figure, the long legs, tall body, fulsome breasts and curves.
If only I had her confidence, too.
My ex and Raphaël are the same stereotype, a walking-talking-erection. Raphaël is nineteen, and I imagine it is almost constant. My mind wanders; I superimpose new desires with old recollections. We would be inexhaustible, fulfilling my needs with his eagerness. A man-child of repeat performances and sweaty slam-slam fucking. Not a slow, laboured tickle with the lights off.
God! It has been months.
Raphaël is as obvious as the lamp light that I adjust again. Taking a sip and rolling it in my mouth, the fire does not temper my passions. The right thing is to remain guarded, and Mother Nature is not to be trusted. I judge any man by how he treats women and animals. They call it pastoral care at the University, and his rejected lovers’ tears have often dampened my shoulder. There are rumours about what he did to Simone Noiret, too.
Reading his assignment, I can see his conceit: he writes as an authority on the human spirit. A deft touch and innate arrogance kill my resistance one word at a time. I circle the vortex, spinning faster and faster. Raphaël describes desire with the wisdom of a seasoned lover and hints at the energy of his youthful passion. He pulls me in deep, and I have no will to fight it. I stare at the last full stop, aroused, and my fulsome breasts heave with a wistful sigh.
The bastard. Nineteen out of twenty, I keep back one; that is all the revenge I can muster.
The piano music muses at my fate. I drain my glass and glance through the opaque bottom.
God, I am thinking about fucking a student.
-=-
In the quadrangle, the blossom blooms, signalling the end of an austere winter.
“Attention, please,” I bang the table, “Attention!”
No one wants me to assert myself on a Monday afternoon, but their chatter stops.
“I have your marks from your last assignment.”
The Nouvelle Sorbonne is grandiose and modern, with buildings of ancient sandstone and lead roofs to the modern beacons of learning in white render. Tens of thousands of students sprawl out on a giant campus across Paris.
My name is Anaïs, and I am a lecturer in English Literature.
Today, I teach in the old building, dignified with its wood panelling and ornate cornices. Original romanticist art adorns its walls in vast slabs of colour. I stand in a roll-neck auburn knitted dress, looking out over rows of vaulted seats. It caresses my hips, ass, and breasts, and a delicate belt defines my cinched waist. I am tall with an hourglass figure and am proud of it. I can almost smell the sexual desire and frustration. I want their balls to boil or their panties to wetten.
As their sexual raconteur, I am a fraud. Yet, I want to embody the subject matter we will discuss later. Of course, I want to be desired, inside and outside of work. The knee-length black boots hint at the devil-may-care. I want to be their sordid night-time fantasy if they are inclined.
I pick up my marking book. “Lisette. Your best yet. Keep it up. Eighteen.”
From the warmth of her smile, I know she will top the class one day, and rightly so. I read the rest as I marked them; it keeps them on their toes.
From a side glance, Raphaël’s eyes undress me, and my strength ebbs away. I cling to my frosty demeanour as my cunt heats and read out a seven for a poor effort. I struggle to maintain authority when our eyes meet again through a patch of the mediocre to an excellent sixteen. There is one score left, and gazing at Raphaël, I fear exposure. It is obvious who delivered my strongest orgasm of the weekend.
I must not overcompensate; thirty women sit before me, eager to gossip.
“Raphaël. Congratulations, top of the class again. Nineteen.”
He shows those pearly whites and makes my insides flutter.
“Thank you, Madame.”
The conceited little prick and I endure the ripple of laughter. I am unmarried, not old, and seize on my irritation as a source of strength. I write her name with pride on the chalkboard, finishing with a flourish that snaps the chalk.
“Sylvia Plath!”
I will not be cowed by Raphaël leering at my breasts. Pacing across the front of the class, my wavy chestnut hair sways with my gait. I am their leader, shepherding this unruly pack of animals with my hands and arms.
Catching his eyes, Raphaël undresses me again. With Lisette, I recognise the female gaze of desire. She always shatters my taboos like panes of glass. Of all the young women here, she is the most striking. I lose myself in her exotic countenance of high cheekbones and smouldering eyes. As her personal tutor, I have lingered on her bee-stung lips too often.
I am a totem of strength, or I lose their respect. The hour passes as sixty minutes of sexual tension aided by Ms Plath’s works. My parting shot is a new assignment: write a short story in Plath’s confessional style, two thousand words. I am dangerous, and the subtext is clear. I dare them to write about sex. The Bell Jar, Colossus and Ariel are mandatory texts.
Dismissing the class, Raphaël hones in on his quarry – Lisette. She has done well to last a month.
My intuition tells me she is hiding a secret.
I pray for her sake that she keeps it that way.
-=-
Postponed from Saturday evening, it is a curious rendezvous for a Monday night. We met as a strange brew of unintended consequences three weeks ago. As a chance encounter at one of the University bookshops, he took the direct approach and asked me to dinner. Pascal is older, not by much, very handsome, and divorced. I adore confident men, and those as suave as him are impossible to resist.
Tonight is our third rendezvous, and there should be a few more before ‘it’ will happen. Choosing a tight-fitting dress, I poured my figure into it. I will make this easy, which goes against all my instincts.
From the first glass of wine, I am the timid shrew. After another, I am the mouse the cat must devour. By the third, I am the lioness that must mate with the lion, and Pascal understands what I need.
I need him to smooth out every wrinkle in my cunt.
My apartment is closest, and I break another rule, but my body overrules my head.
-=-
On the pretence of coffee, it remains in its cups, cold.
I am malleable clay in his hands, and Pascal is rigid in mine. He undresses me and admires my lingerie; he knows I wanted this all along. I remove it one garment at a time as a carefree striptease for my amused lover. He is shirtless, and his trousers are gone. He obeys a simple instruction and stands naked before me.
Pascal is a pleasing sight. A muscular man with broad shoulders, a darker version of Michelangelo’s David, older and, I hope… more experienced. Reclining naked on the bed, I beckon him with a single finger. From kissing to hot breath between my thighs, he honours my sex, unhurried and skilled. The pleasure folds in on itself, over and over, elevating me to the peaks of a soggy desire. I writhe as he keeps me on the plateau, and I am so wanton that I beg for it. Seizing the sheets, fighting imaginary bonds, I arch my body and snatch my last gasp. It is an exhibition of my most intimate nature, shuddering as it crashes through me, exclaiming my relief as the pressure vents from me.
Oh my God, at last!
My crooked arms rest above my head, thighs open, revealing my smooth sex. I want him to ogle my cunt. Pascal smiles; he has every right to be pleased with himself, and I purr with satisfaction. He has awoken my needs from a deep slumber; now, I need much more. I will enflame his lusts, and with my mouth, I will harden him until there is no alternative. He will fuck me and bend my mind.
With those piercing blue eyes and swarthy, urbane smile, the half-light shows his glistening erection. Wet with my saliva, my tongue swirls around the corpulent head, and those heavy balls are tight and fat. Yes, I am well-versed and know my way around a rigid shaft. My eyes lock on his, revealing how much I enjoy this. I want to debauch myself, licking and slurping with a spiral caress, taking it deep. It makes my jaw ache, but he will not wane now.
I pray he is a demon between the sheets.
-=-
His loins are warm between my thighs, and he is hot in my hand. I plead with a petition of kisses until Pascal breaches my drenched folds. The invasion of his thick girth provides a sensation better than all my recollections. We will make new memories, and I will delete the old ones.
Unused to his size, I gasp as he invades me, touching everything. Almost full, he touches everything and moves with effortless, circular thrusts. My heel presses into the back of his thigh, a plea to set the pace, yet he refuses to yield. My excitement swells that he will dominate me. I am there, wide open and helpless. Pascal is a muscular man who exceeds my strength, and my fingernails roam over his flexing body. Restless hips rise to encourage him and provide the perfect angle.
He drives at the same pace, and the caress of his hard meat is a cruel twist of fate. I will not starve, and neither will I feast. I crave the licentious, not a sonnet about love. Plough me, make deep furrows in the field, and unleash my inner whore. I will take his seed splashed over my face or finish him between my fulsome breasts. We move as one as my train of thought derails.
Yes, I will feel that numb ache tomorrow, leaking his essence. “Fuck me, fuck me harder.”
My hope wanes when he does not. He is nervous, and buries his face into the crook of my neck. Lumbering on, I want the ambush of an expletive amongst the banal. He will not bed me like the clergyman’s wife.
“Let me,” I plead, and he rises, his brow speckled with the dew of perspiration.
I am a serpent poised upright, and I rock back and forth. It plays to my exhibitionistic tendencies, tempting Pascal to bite into the apple of my carnal knowledge. My hair and breasts sway, and I clutch them as coquettish eyes maintain my gaze. The curl on my lips and sense of amusement should challenge his authority. I writhe to beguile, enjoying my fill of hard meat, yet his shovel hands rest on my thighs.
I peer down, “You like this?”
“Yes,” he groans.
I brace, plunge, and bludgeon myself; I smear and ride my stallion. The endless friction starts to tie my lithe body in knots. It is not enough, and I lean back. My legs are wide open, revealing my skewered cunt. I will not halt my challenge with my contemptuous eyes. Seize me, tear me from my perch and fuck me into oblivion. Fixated on the view, I move back and forth to torment him. I am stuffed full of thick cock. When his eyes meet mine, my rueful smile encourages him.
“Would you like to fuck me in the ass?”
I revel in how it sounds - pure corruption.
He groans heavily, and that is all I get. Fuck! Squeeze me, damn it, mould me, guide me, grip me tight and plunder my hole. Seize my breasts, pluck their hard nipples, and make me sing your tune.
I need more, and if he does not provide it, I will take it.
My eyes close, and my imagination jumps tracks; I am fucking Raphaël. On top, in reverse, baying for more, my ripe ass taut, and my glossy cunt cleaved with rampant cock, eager to own my holes. Facing him, I smear my hips, filled to the brim with teenage fresh meat. Clasping his thigh and chest, I have him to the hilt and with flailing hair, my snakish hips accelerate. My cunt drools, creaming an emulsion on his shaft and balls.
Raphaël captures my breasts, kneading them roughly as I grind against his pubic bone. My severe expression, juxtaposed with graphic words, conspire to overwhelm my novice stud. Relishing his calamitous features, he has to relent, and I will milk his young balls. He leans up, and I embrace him, his face pressed into my clammy breasts. Demanding his seed, I stifle his groans, riding him to oblivion until he pulses deep and hard. Filled with so much cum, it removes all friction. It always excites me; I seize and snatch to take my climax, making a man of my new lover. Slowing, stirring my hips, goading him to recover fast. Raphaël will have my ass next, another hole for him to fill to the brim.
“Anaïs.”
Jolted to reality, I am uncontrollable. Yes, Pascal, take my breasts and squeeze them. Try to constrain them with your broad hands. I need unbridled filth and the pornographic, and my rising clamour fuses with these noisy moans. He is thicker now and hard as steel, supplying the insane contact I crave. The full latitude of this rocking motion will drain his balls. I am a slut desperate for cum. The storm intensifies, and I embrace those leaden clouds, smothering his body and wrapping my arms around his neck. Like a Praying Mantis, he is helpless to resist. I will kill him for my orgasm and thrash to take my prize.
“Anaïs. I… I… ”
I have no time for his panicked tone. “Do it! Do it inside me.”
I am relentless. Pascal stabs into me with deep, timbrous groans, and his potent spasms outpace them. Tight around his twitching shaft, I have his tribute. This is my pivot to orgasm and my secret kink. Pushing down, taking all his length, it rushes from me, quaking through my entire body. Grinding as I cry out, and every gratifying convulsion ricochets off his meaty shaft.
Finally, I have what I need.
-=-
The sheets are crazed, and I have soaked them; the air is heavy with hot perfume and the fragrance of sex. If Pascal lived a cloistered life, he knows that I did not. I have slayed the beast, and his seed leaks from me; it puddles on his body. This awkward first fuck is done, and we are acquainted with my needs. Hot and glowing, I cannot resist his weakened cock, kissing and licking it. I lap at his essence as the cat that got the cream.
Peering up at Pascal, my intuition pricks the intimacy. There is pillow talk, but he hides his emotions. Needing more, I try to arouse him, eager to give him my ass.
He is not interested.
Bewildered, I gave Pascal a choice to assert himself. Am I too energetic or too demanding? Laying against him, I am no longer safe in his arms but vulnerable. Pondering my failure, I see it on his hand before me; a white line where his wedding band should be.
I am sleeping with the enemy.
“Pascal, it has been a wonderful evening, but I have an early start tomorrow.”
Suddenly, I am cold.
“Huh… sorry?”
He is drowsy, and I feel no guilt for my sudden volte-face.
“I have an early start.”
“Oh yes.” He hesitates, “Of course. I will go.”
Dressed in a long T-shirt, I follow him to the door. I turn a cheek, my mind is funereal.
“Until next time,” he kisses it, “I will call you.”
“Yeah.”
My answer is not in my words, not that he notices. Closing the door, a depressing realisation adds to my almost permanent dismay. Pascal was a gift, exciting while it was unwrapped. Now I see the contents; it is not mine to receive.
He should give it to his wife.
