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If you’ve never played Group-Sex-Group-Sex before, here’s how it works: one of us starts a story, and everyone else continues it in the comments. Anyone can join in – so if you’ve never thrown in your penny’s worth before, now’s the time. Devoted long-term readers may recognise this beginning of a story that was never completed, so I’m throwing it to the wolves to finish...
He smiled at me, crinkly and fresh as a crumpled white wool jumper. It was a bit frustrating that his English wasn't exactly up to par, as my usual arch wit and dry repartee were tumbleweeds blown along the desert of his comprehension. Then again, my Spanish consisted of "cheese", "forest", and "dead", so I wasn't in a position to criticise. Nor was I in the position I wished.
Contrary to popular belief, most teachers try extremely hard not to sleep with their students. Teaching English as a foreign language, all to adults, the paedophilia thing isn’t the problem – it’s the sheer awkwardness of it. It's hard to put people in pairs to talk about what they would do if they won a million dollars when you keep having flashbacks of one of them naked above you, muscles standing with strain, thrusting in time to your wild gasps... I didn't know if I were having flashbacks or flashforwards, but I was damn straight having flashes and flushes left right and centre. I did what any teacher would do, in the circumstances. I abruptly graduated him to the next level, where his miraculous eyes would no longer derail my train of thought. (Have you ever tried to explain the future perfect while Spanish eyes promise nails down your spine? Exactly.)
But then - there are always the special students, the ones who get to go to the teachers' pub. Mingle with the natives, as it were. I didn't elect him to our select conclave, but there he was, Friday after Friday, buying bottles of red wine, smiling crinkle-eyed, smooth-cheeked, and as glowing as my eyes as they skittered abruptly over him. And there was I, without my linguistic wit to fall back on, relying only on the never-quite-secure charms of my putative physical beauty. Friday night - eight p.m. (by teacher-time, that's five hours of solid drinking, mind) and everyone's scarpered but me, and him. It's coat time. Walk home time. And all I can think about is that my curves are a bit too soft, and a book I saw in Borders called "He's Just Not That Into You". And maybe if he were interested, he might not be wrapping his scarf around his neck, but might choose to linger...
We both tried to follow each other out the pub, which proved awkward. Outside was dark, exquisitely cold, filled with twinkling little lights and blooming with misty street lamps. I turned to him, where he still stood facing me and smiling. I felt the rushing plunge of my stomach into first fire and then ice, and did what anyone, in my shoes, would have done.
"Cold, isn't it?" I said. "Lovely evening, though. So nice to see everyone. Well, you take care then. Great to see you. I'd better be off. Merry Christmas - oh, and I probably won't see you before, so Happy New Year, as well! Anyway, I'd best get going."
I rattled through my entire repertoire of social parting comments, a one-woman textbook of Functions for Leaving. That he probably caught at best five words of my machine-gun patter hardly mattered. I was filling the silence.
"Well, I'll be off then, hope you have a lovely holiday. Safe trip home!" I continued, "I'm walking this way, where are you headed?"
He looked at me blankly. I took a deep breath and said slowly and clearly, "My house is that way," gesturing southwards. "Where is your house?"
"That way," he said, pointing south.
"Well, no need to say goodbye quite yet then, we can walk together for a bit, it’ll be nice to have the company," I jabbered brightly. Our steps fell into synch along the damp and glistening pavement. I fell silent, a state I detest. My nerves, which usually take refuge in a stream of pacy auto-witter, were left to tear my stomach into little pieces and contemplate endlessly the act of taking his arm.
"So," he said. I'd taught him to introduce subjects of conversation with that word, a few months back. "Where are you going for Christmas?" Present continuous for arrangements - correct social question - I felt a burst of pride alongside the ache that was melting my thighs.
Over to you... Where does their walk take them?
15 comments:
Even under circumstances less precarious—circumstances devoid of unnervingly gentle eyes and the tentative carnal tremors of English-as-foreign-language teachers—it would have been difficult to explain where I was, as he'd so correctly stated it, going for Christmas. The perpetual, farcical complexities and uncertainties of my family life would have been difficult to explain at any time, in any tongue, to someone with the richest comprehension of my language of choice and probably even someone with a good general grounding in family psychology.
So I did what any experienced teacher does when faced with a question she can't answer: I changed the subject.
Present tense. Past and future, no matter perfect or imperfect, had no place. “Is it much warmer at this time of year in Spain than here?”
“I am not going home for Christmas.” His words were deliberate, well formed, and spoken with a delay of careful composition.
I wasn’t sure if he just didn’t get what I was asking. His head swiveled so his eyes were directly locked in mine, and he winked. The desire settling low in my waist began to precipitate gently like a spring mist. Again, I was speechless, but for that brief moment, it didn’t matter.
The silence was a strange, titillating comfort.
'My house is this way,' I said, gesturing to my left.
'I come your house,' he said. He linked his arm through mine.
'For Christmas?' I wasn't sure where this was going, and I was getting so tongue-tied I was no longer sure which of us was speaking in our native tongue, and which in a second language. Tongue-tied, native tongue, why were tongues on my mind?
I licked my lips.
'I take you,' he said. He licked his lips, too. An unconscious imitation of my action, to establish intimacy? Or did he want to tie his tongue with mine. We could make a pretty pink bow...
I was staring at him. He waited.
'Here?' What did me mean, 'take' me?
'Home. I take you home.'
'Oh. Right. Thank you.'
'Streets are very dark. You will be safe with me.'
'I'm sorry I'm so dense,' I said. 'Some command of the English language, huh? It's difficult, really, isn't it, trying to communicate when I speak so little Spanish and you're, well, a student of -'
He laughed and pulled me close, mercifully silencing my babbling with a kiss. His lips barely brushed mine but the effect was electrifying. I leaned into him, hungry for more, but he released me. We linked arms again and he walked me to my door. No more talking, but no more silence, either. He whistled a cheery tune that sailed the night air like a kite, lifting my spirits with it.
As we walked together down a street that suddenly looked unfamiliar -- transformed by the possibilities that shivered between us -- I began to worry about the condition I'd left my house in. Were there dirty panties lying around on the bathroom floor? Was my kitchen filled with the wine bottles I'd emptied over the week in my solitary daydreaming? God . . . what if I'd left my favorite vibrator lying in the middle of my bed?
But my worries were soon displaced by an apparition that rose before us. I would have envied the gorgeous, dark-eyed beauty in the black trenchcoat if she hadn't been so far out of my league. With her soft shawl of sable hair and succulent mouth, she was so beautiful that she froze both of us in our steps.
With my limited Spanish, I couldn't translate the words that exploded from her lips, but I had a feeling they weren't "Merry Christmas."
[we interrupt this scene to bring a public service announcement: Antonio Banderas's dick is back. If you missed it - along with the other pics - scroll back up and drink it in...]
His hand tightened on my arm.I looked at him sideways, automatically assuming this was to do with him, not me. His brows were arched in surprise, his eyes wide, and his perfect lips parted. A noise of shock and rejection that needed no translation issued from that mouth I was so hungry to kiss once more.
The woman looked at me, amusement and something darker and hotter in her gaze. She held out her hand and I automatically put my key in her palm. God knows why, I just did it...
Her long, elegant fingers curled around the key. He reached forward, but she stepped back, eluding him with sinuous grace.
"Gracias," she said, her voice now low and silky. Before he could try again to grasp her wrist, she slid her hand inside the sleek trenchcoat. For a moment we were teased by a glimpse of skintight satin slacks, and the sight of my key sliding beneath the waistband.
She wriggled her hips. I imagined the key descending into her warm crotch.
"If you want to get inside," she said, her English accented but clearer than any I'd been able to teach, "You know what you must do." Her hair swung toward my door as she gestured with her head, but the little smile twitching at her lips spoke of other destinations as well.
"I am so sorry," said Mateo, as though my key had been—well—snatched, rather than having been willingly vouchsafed.
"This is an outrage," he added with incongruous calm, regurgitating a statement I'd once taught the class in the context of a pretend dialogue regarding an inflated restaurant bill. "My—" he hesitated over a word, though not because of any lapse in vocabulary—"my friend has followed us here from the Bird & Baby."
In spite of everything, I almost giggled when I heard the affectionate nickname of the Eagle and Child pub articulated in such deep, earnest tones.
The stranger hissed something in rapid Spanish. This time, I was able to recognize three words—but as these words were, once again, "Bird & Baby," I did not feel especially enlightened.
"It's all right," I said to Mateo. "It's all right."
Sorry. I have writer's block. I think it's the Beckham pic.
So does anyone mind if I lower the tone here? I'm sure, in the right hands, that link could inspire the next part of the story. Plus, you get free bad grammar! Although I don't think I'm actually meant to be reading that definition since I don't have a cock. Hmmm, I wonder if there's an entry in the OED.
“I present to you, Esmerelda,” he said, rolling the r. I thought of his tongue, curled back, lightly flicking the upper palate of his mouth, lightly flicking over me.
“Senorita Davies,” Esmerelda said.
I held out my hand to shake hers, but she turned it over, her long red fingernails tracing the life line along my palm.
“Mateo has talked of you, Senorita.”
The "t" in "talked" sounded more like a soft feathery "d," but there was nothing soft about her stare as she met my eyes, or the way she licked her lips, like a hungry cat.
My body shook with desire or fear or perhaps both...I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that we were at the door of my house, my roommate was out of town for the holidays and for a change I had the place completely to myself. There was, of course, the matter of the key.
[gosh that link was fun, Kristina, i hope someone uses it for inspiration!]
"My friend is a teacher" Mateo explained to Esmerelda. "So you'd better do what she tells you".
(Believe it or not, the next little scene unfolded as if we had rehearsed it, but I swear to God it was spontaneous).
"Now Senorita," I began, "Let's pretend for a moment that you were a student in one of my classes. I teach English, you know, as a second language.
To help my students to understand English better, we sometimes act out little scenes from real life.
For instance I might give a student a key. Then ask for the student to give it back to me. I would say, 'we've arrived at my home. Would you like to come inside?' And the student would say....?"
Esmerelda smiled, and in halting English, managed "Yes Miss, please to come inside."
"First you must give me the key" I say, in my teacher tone of voice.
Esmerelda makes a show of searching her pockets and not finding any key. "So sorry Miss," she acts, "I have lost it on the way."
"You've lost my key? You are a bad girl, Esmerelda. Do you know what happens to bad English girls?"
"Spanking, Miss?" she ventures.
Taking that as permission for the next act of this little drama, I gather up her wrists and present them to Mateo to hold, and direct him to the other side of the white picket fence so that Esmerelda is bent over the fence with her extravagently round ass presented for what I have in mind.
Slowly and deliberately I peel down first her pants and then her knickers until she is soon complaining about the cold. "Don't worry" I assure her, we'll deal with that soon enough.
Then I walk slowly and deliberately around the fence til I'm face to face with Mateo. With our eyes locked together in silent conspiracy I reach down, undo his belt and pull it through the loops just quickly enough that Esmerelda can hear what's happening.
Mateo tightens his grip on her hands as she tries to break free. I double up Mateo's heavy leather belt, cross back over to the other side of the fence and whip my pretty young pretend student just as hard as I can across her moving target.
I manage to catch her lower curves with a solid stroke. She hollers and squirms while I repeat the treatment over and over again, until finally the lubrication in her nether regions is sufficient that my key clatters to the pavement with an audible tinkle.
Hope you "ladies" don't mind me perverting your story. But it was languishing, and you'd set it up so well, and well...I couldn't resist.
Why, fancy meeting you here, Karl! Of course, I don't mind your perverting this story at all. You might say it made my day.
Sadly, I can't take the time to contribute, or I'll find out what happens to bad American girls who fail to finish the long, horrible, final exam papers that are all due this afternoon.
Side note: I think this is the first time I've commented on LustBites. I'm such a lurker at heart.
Mouse! So glad to hear from you.
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