Switching it Up

Chapter Three-2

“You’re dripping wet!” he tells me. “Does that feel good, Meg?”

“Oh God, yes!” I utter in an outward breath, struggling to stop myself for asking for more, from letting on how hot I am for his s*x.

“You’re so horny. Such a hot, hungry girl. Let me make you feel good,” he coos, kissing me before I can respond with any objection. “Good girl, Meg.” He undresses his lower half as his kisses bear down on me, pinning me beneath him. My hands smooth over his torso, feeling his toned body, pulling it closer to me. He feels so good. He takes my hand and guides it to hold his d**k, helping me to stroke him. He is so big and hard! He leans back to retrieve a condom and roll it on, then leans in to kiss me whilst guiding himself to my entrance.

Expertly, he enters me deeply, forcefully. My involuntary escaping breath gratifies him. He’s inspired and thrusts deep and hard inside me again as I struggle to manage the fine line between pleasure and pain. He is so forceful, it’s both agony and ecstasy at the same time. A barrage of his powerful strokes beat against me, my whole body yielding to absorb the force and intensity. He pins my hips down to get more resistance against his thrusts and finally explodes with an accompanying loud moan. He falls against me and I see his spirit has entered a parallel universe. His final ebbing throbs have him quivering; I hold him to me and kiss his forehead, allowing him to rest on top of me.

As I sit here alone on the couch with these thoughts, my p***y feels like it is glowing and numbed, reminiscent of how strong alcohol affects my mouth and brain, that spreading warmth. I have never imagined being f****d like that in my life. So animalistic and hot. This guy really has had an impact for someone who merely offered me a cup of coffee. I can’t understand why he’s had such an effect. The fantasy lingers in my brain as I will my mind to relax and dwell just a few moments longer in this imaginary s****l paradise. My body is begging to feel some touch—fantasies alone won’t get me to my utopia. I think I’ve earned a little pampering tonight, and a warm shower will be a great place to worship my body before bed.

The plumbing in this apartment is suboptimal—I start the hot tap as soon as I enter the bathroom and hope the hot water comes through as I strip. I loosen the waist sash and shrug the kimono from my shoulders. My unclasped bra falls to the floor and I caress my skin, running my hands from the breadth of my hips over the contour of my waist before surfing the curves up to cup my full breasts, one in each hand. I encircle each n****e with my fingers, tracing a path around the areola before pinching the n*****s and tugging them upward. I slide my hands back down over my torso to unfasten my suspender belt. Amassing a nylon and lace ripple before my hands, I negotiate the contours of my thighs, knees, and calves as I finally push the stocking off each foot. I stow the clothes in the wash basket and again run my hands over my hips and butt. I think about how good it would feel to have Chris worship my skin in such a way, to caress and explore the texture and geography of my body. To feel him grasp the flesh of my butt and pull me to his bare chest while I kiss his neck, his lips, his earlobes. His hands and arms looked so strong, they would feel incredible as they pulled me close and held me tight.

The steam from the shower has started to accumulate in the room, so I open and adjust the cold tap and step under the torrent of warm water and watch it cascade over my breasts. I load the loofah with bodywash—not my normal, everyday bodywash, but my special occasion one. I’m particular about scents—I don’t enjoy overbearing personal aromas in a social setting, even if the scent is pleasant. This bodywash is therefore only for intimate moments. Tonight I allow the intoxicating headiness of the floral and musk notes to overwhelm my senses—it wipes out all of my other thoughts and my consciousness is numbed to a peaceful lower plateau. My hands glide the cleansing, sudsy loofah over my skin, skirting over my more intimate regions.

I soap my bare hands and imagine Chris washing me now. My fingers glide down over my labia, cleansing my inner thighs and outer labia region before using my index finger to expose my c******s and cleanse the inner labia. She is so greasy with love goo that my fingers skim over my v****a lips without feeling any skin—just a slick of moisture. Even though I have only just touched her, she is engorged in readiness for Chris. I wish he were here with me now. It’s been so long since I felt the passionate heat from a lover entering me, making love to me. My c******s is standing up like a beacon, so sensitive and hungry for touch. My middle finger flicks over her and I breathlessly moan at the incredible sensation of those nerves firing pulses of ecstasy up though my v****a. A more purposeful circular motion around the hood of the c******s has the sweetest buzz creeping up my spine. I rinse the suds off to rid myself of the lubrication—feeling slight dragging traction between the skin of my finger and the skin of my c******s is much better, the water is all the lubrication I want.

I graduate my touch from being barely there to rubbing hard, each sensation being equally capable of giving me orgasm. I settle on rubbing hard and imagine Chris watching me from outside the shower alcove. I’m performing for him, letting him watch my perverted self-gratification. He instructs me to c*m and mentally the barriers fall away to allow this volcano of lust to erupt. My back arches as the immense orgasm quakes through my body, my impassioned moaning catching me off guard in its intensity. The pulsating contractions of my uterus and vaginal muscles leave me quivering as the orgasm subsides, clenching in decreasing strength and frequency like aftershocks from a tremor. That was magnificent. As I stand beneath the water for a further minute or two, allowing it to rinse my relieved body, my mind is perfectly still.

Recollecting my focus and presence, I shut the water off and step out. Time for teeth, moisturizer, and the promise of a restful sleep.

***

Day two at Greenville is done and I’m happy the intensity has dialed back a little since yesterday. My students were a little livelier today, though I imagine they will take a few weeks to settle entirely and relax into the academic journey. I got some personal greetings this morning and some approaches for discussion after lecture, so I feel encouraged that they see me as open. We are all integrating into the college way of life well, it would seem. I made an unofficial f*******: group for each of my classes and am encouraging them to use it as a resource for study and asking questions so all can share the benefit. Using student response by email for self-nomination to join the group for this has proven a hit – as a student, I always hated passing around the piece of paper and sharing my contact details so openly in class. So far almost half of my students have joined the online groups. I’m impressed by that. The department heads were a little reluctant initially, but saw the merit in the end.

The first WAR class was informal, a social gathering really. I had four students turn up, a good size to start. I put the group through some introductions and activities before starting the first training session. They are a lovely bunch of girls—all were enthusiastic in their first attempts. I’m going to draw up a circuit schedule and develop a routine so they can become more familiar with some of the self-defense moves.

Tonight’s orientation evening is due to start in an hour. I have finally decided to go with the sexy blue dress; it’s so pretty that it makes me want to wear it and the shoes are desperate to be shown off. I’m figuring that the starched collars I’m dining with won’t be exceptional company, and an early night is highly likely. I’m glad about that. I really don’t need a new family of critical and vocal people in my life. I just escaped with my life from the last lot, god bless them. It’s easy enough to leave it at work and toe the party line in that environment, but to invite their judgmentalism home with me isn’t a welcome prospect.

My outfit is comfortable and I’m happy with my presentation, but the cleavage seems slightly immodest. It has another button I can do up, but that makes it appear a little too prudish. Leaving it open feels like I’m bordering on looking for the wrong kind of attention. I had hoped to wear a scarf with it to conceal any perceived flaw, but I don’t have one that seems to work with the ensemble. I’m otherwise set to go, waiting for my taxi to arrive. It’s a safer bet to catch a cab and not have to think about whether I’ve had too much to drink to drive home. Tonight it’s important to relax and enjoy the evening. I should just leave these buttons alone, they’re probably fine and I’m just being hyper-critical, as usual. Fusspot Meg.

After a five minute taxi ride, the driver pulls up to the bar and it’s time to shine. I always get a little nervy at the entrance to these kinds of things, just some butterflies that persist until I get to the table. As I stride in, many of the academics have already arrived and are seated. A group of forty or fifty of us, I’m guessing. The maitre d’ greets me and asks my name before leading me to my assigned seat. I’m in the middle of a bunch of people I don’t know, near to the end of our table, but I see that Chris is sitting opposite. He glances up and meets my eye as I approach and I nod a greeting to him and my other dinner companions. The maitre d’ glides my seat in under me and requests my drink order as the people on either side of me rush to introduce themselves. It’s a little overwhelming.

I request scotch and cola and take a deep breath. Chris is smiling at the parody emerging before him, the pair beside me grappling over my attention like seagulls fighting for a French fry. I paste on my most diplomatic smile and offer a handshake to each, introducing myself. Chris and the people opposite are equally plugged in to my arrival, so I offer each of them a handshake, greeting, and introduction. The obligatory where are you from, where did you study, what are you teaching, etc. questions are dutifully dealt with. My drink arriving wasn’t even an opportunity to draw breath. I feel a bit like a stuck record, reciting my resume and all of the fast facts on my life to date. My companions are all married, all middle aged, all have kids, and are avid church-goers. At one point the Lord was even thanked for bringing me to Greenville. I appreciate their good-hearted acceptance but hope that the meal doesn’t take long to prepare. I wonder how much we all have in common and hope it doesn’t end up being a comparison of baby stories amongst my peers. I love kids, but sometimes being a singleton in a setting such as this makes it easy to get worked out of the circle by the family and married stories.

Almost as if on the cue of my waning engagement with my peers, the first course arrives. It’s soup and a bread roll, and is delicious. I’m grateful for the interlude from conversation, and after I’ve finished, I excuse myself to the bar for a second drink. The bar is secluded from the restaurant slightly – obscured from the view of diners. Just a small bar, big enough for four or five to sit. A screen above the bar is on the football channel and there is a commentary program on, discussing the weekend sports results. I pull up a stool and tune in as I wait for my drink to arrive. Chris saunters over, empty glass in hand. He catches my eye and smiles.