Art History 7 AM

If perfect grammar is your thing, this story may not be. It was my first attempt at a kind of "stream of consciousness" flow, so I took some liberties with the punctuation. I fantasize more in words than images, so this is what happens when it comes out on the page. If you like it please let me know…vote!

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Art History at 7 AM. Who am I kidding. One should never take a class where the professor is likely to turn out the lights and flip through a slide show at this hour. Besides, I'm not even a nice person at seven in the morning. The little cheerleader type to my left giggles one more time, I swear I'm going to hit her.

I can do this, I think to myself with a slight grin. I'm sitting back far enough he won't notice if I doze off. Old geezer probably can't see past his notes anyway. I paste on my best "good student" smile as the door opens- God. Check schedule, check room number. Art history. You're the prof? I'm so going to kill Jennie. She said you were older than the hills, some of the paintings we were going to talk about hadn't been around as long. I bet she thinks she's funny. Yeah, right. Hilarious. You get a kick out of the way my eyes go wide for a moment. Well, well professor. Maybe there is something to be said for the early riser.

My tongue flicks along my bottom lip before I manage to look down at my notebook. I'm sure you notice. I can feel your eyes on me, traveling from the careless knot of hair on top of my head, down to red painted toenails peeking out of my sandals. The cheerleader is giggling again. Holy Hell- she's putting on lip gloss. I've got five bucks that says its cherry flavored.

I'm guessing you're about six feet tall, it's hard to tell when I'm sitting down. Dark hair, too long for a professor. It curls around your collar and practically begs a girl to run her fingers through it. Damn, isn't there some kind of rule that says Art History profs are old, dusty, and clothed exclusively in English tweed suits? Not this time. The black turtle neck and slacks make me think of Paris-- bridges at twilight. You turn to write on the board. Soft black material stretched nicely over a firm ass. I bite my tongue to keep from purring in approval. You say: "Call me Jack." Sure why not. Professor Something-or- other just doesn't suit does it? Obviously over thirty-- nice age, nice smile. The freshman cheerleaders to my left are drawing hearts around your name right now. They can't help it you all but demand swooning and tittering.

I don't swoon or titter. Go ahead turn that smile on me, it feels good. I enjoy the long hard tug of pleasure between my legs, and smile back. You may be a few years older than me, but I'm past the giggle-and-sigh stage. I sit up in my chair, my sweater clinging in all the right places without trying to hard. Slowly I cross one long, jean-clad leg over the other, pen poised over pad, ready to take notes. At first I don't think you're paying attention, but you drop your chalk when you notice me sucking on the end of my pen, working it slowly in and out of pursed lips. I bite my lip, choke back the laugh. I didn't notice I was doing it until it made you stumble. God, have I already decided to sleep with you? That was quick.

What's this? Oh yeah, the role, right. Name and phone number? I don't think so. I may be easy but I'm not *that* damned easy. Sure I'll sign my name professor, but if you want my phone number you'll have to work for it just like anybody else. I don't care how bloody sexy you are.

Class is over. Time flies...

"He's so gorgeous. I bet he's just yummy- ya know- I mean I bet he's really good at *it*."

This from the cheerleader. Okay, I know I'm a bitch but I just can't resist. I'm not a nice person in the morning. "Little girl, I can just about guaran-fucking-tee you'll never know."

"Excuse me?"

"I doubt he has much of a taste for cherry lip gloss honey."

She glares at me for only a moment, deciding her time is better spent in flirting with the newly christened "Professor Jack." I shake my head, sliding books into my back pack. You're watching me. I turn bend down to lift my bag up over my shoulder, a wicked smile curving my lips. Little one, if you can't say sex I doubt you'll get any from him. The giggling stops abruptly. I lift my head, look in their general direction. Well, Well. The cheerleaders stand behind you for a moment angry, completely forgotten. I have to force myself not to wave at them as they disappear out into the hallway. What? I said I was a bitch…no apologies. You leaning against the desk obviously positioned between me and the door. That's just fine. We'll begin the game. I'm shocked to realize I can't wait to play. Shake hands. There's the bell. Round One. No one said anything about fair play.

"You didn't put your phone number on the role. Afraid I'll call you?"

That was subtle. Do you always hit on students the first day of class. Irrelevant isn't it? Arched eyebrows, soft laugh. "Professor Jack," my voice saccharine, sweet as cherry lip gloss, "I already know you'll call." I don't have to issue more of a challenge. It's clear- and it annoys you. I can't help but smile at the quick, wicked thrill.

I'm all but out the door. "I can get your number from the admin. office if I want it, little girl." Your voice, a growl so near my ear it's almost a caress. Busy hallway- that'll work fine. So close when I turn that you very nearly stumble into me. A deep breath from either of us and my breasts tease your chest. Perfect. Not one step back. You get credit for that. Most men wouldn't dare. My smile is genuine, my voice merely a whisper.

"You could- and I could say no when you ask." we both know for what. I don't have to say it. Your eyes rest in the deep V-neck of my sweater, then travel slowly up to mine again, a sweet momentary caress. "You could, that is *if* I ask." Cocky son-of-a-bitch, even if you do have a nice ass. One slow, wicked smile for an answer and I'm turning away melting into the sea of backpacks and baseball caps. I won't say no. You know that- Bastard.

Round II

Coffee in the sunny little cafe down town. Indulging a smaller, less demanding addiction. I look up, you're there, just inside the doorway. My pulse quickens at the sight of you. How utterly female. God you're beautiful. Not looking at me, but aware of my presence. A wink for the cashier, and you have your latte. "Your usual Jack. Have a nice Day."

My text book closed, I straighten my shoulders. You move toward me. I fight the urge to run my fingers through my hair. You're watching. It won't do to give you the satisfaction of primping. You sit in the seat across from me without asking if it's taken.

"Hello there." Turn on that smile and damn you but I can't help smiling back.

"Hey Jack." My eyes meet yours. I keep my smile steady and my voice light despite the flutters in my stomach. You absently stroke a finger down the spine of the textbook on the table. It's me that shudders.

"How are classes going?"

I laugh, taking a long sip of my coffee. "Well professor, all business today?"

You shake your head, a warm chuckle rumbling up out of your chest to shiver along my skin like a caress. "Its called conversation- you know, small talk. Should we switch to the weather?"

"Better Idea. Let's switch to what you're doing at my table." I smile, leaning back in my chair a little. I wink at you over the rim of my coffee cup.

"I don't know" eyebrows arched, you become interested very much in your coffee. How fabulous. You're annoyed that I've already decided. I was wrong about the girl with the cherry lip-gloss. You do have a taste for it- for her. You'd tell her to get down on her knees and open her pretty pink mouth and she'd do it, without question. Parted lips murmuring "Yes professor. Anything you want professor." Don't like the fact that I might end up on my knees giving everything you want because I chose. I wanted...I want. Oh god, I want you.

You write something on a napkin, stand, drop it on the small table top. "Dinner. 7:00." It's an order, Prince to peasant. A thousand retorts spring to my mind, quiver on my tongue. Your eyes narrow. The next battle so casually waged. Those accustomed to winning know that occasionally it pays to lose. I say nothing, glance at the address. Black tie, no less. Isn't that sexy. Your fingers, possessive, I knew they would be, slip under my chin and tilt my head up. "Don't be late."

Dinner

I toy with the idea of being late just to push you. It's not in my nature, and there's so very little pleasure to be taken from simply being contrary.

6:55: The restaurant is warm, the light soft. The bits of conversation I catch all circle around art, the theatre. Advantage out. That's just fine. I don't mind knowing we're playing this round in your court. Little black dress, thin satin straps, white shoulders, long auburn hair. I don't turn every head, just a few. Including a woman with long dark hair and coffee colored eyes. Her smile is sweet. I take it with me to your table. Everyone can use a blessing from the goddess now and then.

Evening clothes make you look more dangerous. That suits me, and I'm not afraid. A part of me is tensed, ready for the first volley. Which of us will take that crucial first shot?

"You're stunning." Just a few words, a smile and the tensed muscles begin to relax. Your fingers brush the nape of my neck while you hold my chair. I feel the flash of heat, accept it. I knew it would be there when you touched me.

"I assumed you were old enough to drink the wine." First shot. Nice aim. Eye brows arched, I pick up the glass, tilt it slightly towards yours. The crystal chimes softly as the glasses click together. A long slow sip. Crisp, clean not bad. I set the glass down, wait until your eyes meet mine.

'I don't drink." Laughter is contagious. Yours spills through me, much more potent than the wine. Fingers close around mine and we're holding hands across the table. God, the electricity that flows at human contact. I pity anyone who doesn't take the time to feel it. That shiver of awareness is yours. How delicious. An impulse wasn't it professor? That's alright won't hurt to shake us both up a little.

Dinner. The food is fabulous. I'm only a little annoyed that you ordered for me. We talk. Don't get me started on authors…any. I love words, I'll babble for hours, bore you senseless. My favorite poet? Really? God there's so many. Alright, I'll pick one: Rupert Brooke. Who? English, turn of the century. "These things I have loved:" he died young, so deliciously tragic. There's laughter now, easy and unmeasured from both of us. Have we called a truce professor, or am I being lulled into complacency. Maybe a little of both. Alright, it feels nice. I'll go with the flow. I'm still a little wary, but then so are you. Who knew we'd actually enjoy each other's company. A walk along the river? Sounds perfect.

"You'll be cold in that excuse for a dress." Quick pout- mine. Soft laugh- yours.

"I have a coat Jack. Besides, you like the dress."

Riverwalk

Its cold out. Not so cold we can't enjoy the night. My wool coat is warm, soft against my skin. Leather gloves a soft boundary as we hold hands and stroll along the river. Little shops, still lighted, still full of shoppers wandering in and out. It's the weekend after all. You look down, notice our joined hands. Shocks you doesn't it? You didn't realize you were holding it. They're good for you professor, those little licks of need. You'll need me before this is through. I promise.

Talk around the edges of things. So much in common. Different enough that there's new ground to explore. It's easy to be with you. That shocks me. I didn't expect to feel quite so easy.

We're window shopping, laughing together, people-watching. The light behind us, our image reflects in a darkened shop window. How can we look like we belong together? I tilt my head up to look at you. You're still watching the reflection in the glass. With my heels on my eyes are only an inch away from being even with yours. I like that, just as I'll like stepping out of them later, adding to the distance before pressing my lips to yours.

"Thank you for dinner Jack." more polite conversation, around the edges of things. I'm thinking how much I want you, my fingers are itching to pull open buttons, my mouth watering with desire to taste.

"You are very welcome." You're biting your bottom lip. I want to bite your bottom lip. It's going to happen tonight, we both know it. I can't wait much longer. The words form on my tongue. "Drinks at my place?" I want you there, in my apartment. I know you want me too. I part my lips to speak. It's your words I hear.

"Come here." You aren't gentle. I didn't expect you to be. Your hands flex on my waist, drag me against your body. Your mouth on mine. Finally...Finally....oh God finally I know what it's like to taste you, to feel the heat. Your tongue is possessive, slides deep. My mouth opens welcoming the invasion. Your hands under my coat mould the curves of my body. I shiver with pleasure at the caress. Your teeth scrape over my bottom lip. I moan. You shudder. Our lips part. Both of us are panting. Your hazel eyes are flashing almost green in the yellow light. Did you growl the word "Mine"…did I only hear…feel…taste it in the way you kissed me, the way you held me?

It doesn't matter. My lips are swollen from our kisses, my senses full of you, but there's more. For both of us there's more. I slide my fingers under your coat, stroke fingertips lightly up your chest until my hands slip behind your neck, tangle in the dark silk of your hair. I'm aching to touch. One hand stays there, stroking at the nape of your neck. The other moves to cup your cheek, tenderness to match the fierceness vibrating through you. For every action there is an equal, an opposite. I whisper your name. My lips brush yours, softness equal to your greed, your possession. My tongue caresses. Tiny licks along your bottom lip. You don't realize the exact moment when you open for me but you do. I swallow your moan as I slide my warm, wet tongue deep into the caverns of your mouth, tasting. It isn't fast or hard but the need is great, the desire raw. Pulsing. I recognize the tremor that runs through you. I felt it only moments before.

"Come home with me Jack." Your line. Your question. Your move. I took the step first. I've annoyed you again. I can feel it in the way the muscles in the back of your neck tense under my fingers. I don't mind annoying you. Annoyed or not you want me like I want you. That's all that matters.

Cab Ride

I hang back as you step to the curb, signal for a cab. I'm aware of even your most simple movements. The bunch and flow of muscles. My fingertips are tingling as if I'm already touching you. Images flash through my mind, erotic in the extreme. Everything is tinted a shadowy gold, like watching an old movie through a glass of dark, amber colored liquor. Tangled limbs, straining bodies, desperate moans. Your hand on my arm, guiding me toward the waiting car. A spark of electricity runs along my spine, nerve endings firing. I shudder.

"You're cold. Forgive me. Take my coat."

My shudder has nothing to do with the chill in the air. I suspect you know that. I don't voice a protest. You drape your coat over my stocking clad legs like a blanket as you slide into the taxi behind me. My address, and the driver pulls away from the curb with barely a glance at his passengers.

Your arm slides around my shoulders. I can smell you, the distinctly masculine aroma of soap and salt. My mouth waters. I wonder at how you will taste when I run my tongue along the column of your throat. I'm tempted to simply tilt my head back and find out, but your breath, warm against my ear stops me. You flex your fingers on my thigh an inch above my knee. I'm trembling. The muscles between my legs clench hard and release, my bottom lip caught between my teeth to quell the moan rising in my throat.

"Still cold girl?" Your words are silky in my ear. So soft. So warm. So close. I'm no where near cold but I nod my head, whisper softly.

"Yes, a little."

Your lips curve against my ear. Your body shifts allowing me to settle fully against your side. There is so much to feel. Your lips, a soft kiss, a whisper against my ear. Fingers slipping higher on my thigh, under my skirt, the stocking top giving way to flesh. Their progression is slow I notice the sensation more than the movement. You've pushed my legs apart. I glance nervously at the driver. One look at him tells me our world is still ours alone. The slight quivering of muscles sliding into a shudder.

"Don't worry baby. I'll keep you warm." Fingers - *oh God* - Your long hard fingers stroking slowly, firmly up and down the swatch of silk between my legs. An in drawn breath, my hips arch, the movement both denial and plea for more. "Don't scream girl. He'll hear you. He'll know." A challenge. I never could resist one. A scream would embarrass us both, I know that. The last thing I want is for you to stop touching me. At this moment I'd rather die than be left without your touch.

I turn my head, look into your eyes, press my mound up into the heat of your hand. Your eyes as stormy, as dark as mine must be. I like that you can feel my arousal wetting the thin silk. Maybe you expected me to stop you to struggle, to blush at least? Maybe it annoys you- yet again- that I accept -no- welcome the invasion of your fingers when you abruptly push the silk aside and sink them into me.

My muscles spasm around your fingers, my body quivering, but I make no sound. The sublime pleasure of being a woman. Concentration, discipline allows us the opportunity to be aroused completely, to orgasm even, without the knowledge of a single soul. Except of course for the exquisite man whose fingers are moving inside me, caressing slick walls, searching hidden pleasure spots. You will know, will feel it when I cum for you in the shadowy back seat of the cab, before we ever reach my apartment. Our eyes lock. Elemental communication, beyond the clutter of words, of sound. My muscles flexing tightening, coiling around you, telling you all you need to know. My breathing is a little uneven. You can see it in the rise and fall of my breasts though you can't hear it. I'm close. So torturously close and you know it. Watching me intently searching my face, raking my body with hot eyes. You're fucking me already, fully clothed in view of strangers. You love it. I love it. I long to tell you how good it is. You only smile, push harder with your fingers.

The orgasm is sweet and slow, running deep, erupting out of me in a silent wave of pleasure. I allow my head to fall back to your shoulder, my lips parted in a slow soundless scream, the impact of which must be felt for miles. Although my hips aren't bucking as I'd like to allow them, my muscles are spasming, shaking, clutching so that you can feel my release. Feel how much I need you. So you can see how much more there is to give.

A discreet cough from the taxi driver. I jerk my head up, wondering if we're caught. I look around, realize he is only trying to signal us that we have reached the address I specified.

I slide out of the cab before you do, my legs only a little wobbly from the recent orgasm. I look over my shoulder as you hand the drive some bills. "Come into my parlor darling."

Inside

Light and shadow. Everywhere and always a contrast. Right now it is the soft glow of streetlight playing across your face, across mine, as we stand on the sidewalk, less than a breath apart. Your fingertips tracing over my bottom lip. The taste of my arousal on your skin makes me hungry for more- for you. Our eyes lock. Hunger. Yes, no contrast there- yours- mine- those fires flare with equal intensity.