CHAPTER ONE
You give up a lot when you try to be a writer. Money, the things other people have, even
family—you can pretty much kiss all that goodbye. But there are compensations. Your
life's maybe not as wide as most people's, but it's deeper, and sometimes
it’s more interesting. You're always trying to explain and describe things to
yourself, and so you see things other people miss and feel things most people are too busy
to bother with.
I used to think about that every morning when the El would go by. When this story takes
place, I was living in a semi-converted loft in an interesting part of the city, right
smack up against the L tracks. So close that I could stand at my kitchen window and stare
eye to eye with the people riding to work in the morning and coming home at night and I
could see their eyes didn’t go very deep. I was writing mostly porn at the time, and I
knew these were the people who were reading it, but you couldn’t tell from their eyes.
I was also teaching a survey course in poetry at Crane Community College to help pay the
bills, and that’s where I met Emma. It was a summer session, a small class of maybe twenty
students in a funny kind of miniature lecture hall, a semester's worth of work
crammed into six weeks, and I was just there as temporary help—an adjunct
instructor—because none of the real faculty wanted to waste their summer teaching kids who
were just trying to blow their way through a survey course.
Emma was a returning student in her mid-twenties. She'd dropped out of her regular
four-year college for whatever reason before graduating, had done whatever she'd
dropped out for for a few years, changed her mind and now worked in an office during the
day and took courses at night to finish her degree.
I liked returning students. They knew why they were in college and they took it
seriously. They'd also been out in the real world long enough that they came into the
classroom with some real questions, but they were still naïve enough to think
they'd get some real answers.
Still, I never expected to connect with Emma. She seemed a bit too vain, too good-looking
and fashionable to have any intellectual ambitions, and her glowing, cultured tan
didn't inspire a lot of confidence in her academic dedication. She was tall, very
nicely built, with a lush and sumptuous womanly body—long brown hair and brown eyes—and
she always dressed well. She took care of herself. She looked like a girl whose main
interest was men, who knew her own worth and thought pretty highly of herself. I had her
pegged for an upper middle-management husband in a few years, two kids and a McMansion,
and incipient alcoholism starting about age 40 when she learned about her husband’s
affair.
That is to say, she seemed like a perfectly normal suburban girl to me. In light of what
happened between us, that's important to keep in mind. She wasn't weird, or a
loser or a geek, or neurotic in any meaningful way, and in fact the work she turned in was
very good. She could spell and she could write and she knew how to use semicolons, which
is a rarity these days bordering upon the freakish. She was a very smart girl and could
have coasted through the class but, as is true of so many students these days, she really
wasn’t interested in being smart and apparently had never found much use for it. What she
was, was something else I still don’t know how to define. Sensual? Sexual? Submissive?
Obsessed?
Some of my former students tell me I'm intimidating at the beginning of the
semester, and I do like to start out pretty tight and relax as I go along, so maybe
that's what got her. Or maybe it was when we started talking about poetry of the Beat
Generation and the sexual license and drug-use of the Beats. Maybe my own acceptance of
these kinds of behaviors came through. But soon Emma was coming down the steps of the
lecture hall after class to hang around the lectern with a few other students to continue
the discussion or just schmooze as I put my notes away. Sometimes I'd end up walking
her out of the building.
Emma liked poetry. She really did, and that surprised her and surprised me too. You know,
the way they teach poetry now, they have the kids start writing in third grade and
everyone's a poet, and that's nice. Their hearts are in the right place, but
what they learn is that any bunch of words you put down in vertical form is a poem and so
people end up thinking poetry is crap, which most of that kind of poetry is. We don't
study crap in my class.—because not all poetry is equal and there is such a thing as bad
poetry and most poetry falls under that heading. More importantly, there really is such a
thing as good poetry, profoundly good poetry—exquisite, thunderous, magical, fantastically
beautiful poetry, and that's the kind of poetry we covered in my class, and
that's the kind of poetry Emma liked. And, of course, so did I.
When Emma heard there were people around who were still writing that kind of poetry and
not only did I know where they hung out but I hung out with them, she was rather stunned.
But this was towards the end of the great Chicago Poetry Reawakening, and the scene was
still going rather strong in the bars and clubs I went to.
We talked about other things I wrote, and one night after class I mentioned I wrote
stories as well. When she asked me what kind of stories, I didn't even stop wiping
down the white board. I automatically gave her my stock reply:
""Romance.""
That wasn't entirely true because, as I said, what I was really writing at the time
was pornography, BDSM mostly, savage and passionate and very graphic, pouring all my own
sexual frustrations into it. I wasn't proud of this, and normally I avoided the
question altogether, but that night's lecture had been about Kerouac and Ginsberg and
Burroughs, drugs and sex and homosexuality, and Emma seemed to have a breathy, spellbound
look about her that I wanted to be a part of, so I told her. A community college poetry
instructor doesn’t get many chances to impress his students.
Then she asked me if I published under my own name and I did the unthinkable. I gave her
my pen name—my porn name—and I told her my stories were on the web. I even told her where
to find them
It was an idiotic thing to do and I'm not sure why I did it.
Wait. That's an ingenuous thing to say and a lie. I know damned well why I did it. I
was a middle-aged, adjunct instructor at a crummy community college and would never have
the money and prestige someone like Emma would respect and I wanted to impress her. I
wanted her to know who I was inside. I wrote porn and I pretended to look down on it, but
when I wrote, I poured my heart and soul onto the page and I knew it showed. It was
powerful stuff.
In any case, I was there for the summer only, so what did I care? If she read my stuff
and got shocked, then the hell with it. At least I'd have the pleasure of
scandalizing her. Odds are she wouldn't even remember my pen name or wouldn't
bother looking up my stories anyhow.
There happened to be an hourly exam during the next class session, so I really
didn't get to talk with her before then. I just passed out the blue books and they
got to work. She kept her head down and began writing, and I leaned against the lectern
and kept a casual eye on the kids, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off those long legs now, or
the heavy thrust of her breasts against her cotton tee, the way she twisted her hair in
her fingers as she concentrated. One time she looked up and caught me staring at her, and
she seemed to hold my eyes a bit longer than necessary before returning to her test. There
might have been a slight smile on her lips or I might have imagined it.
The students turned in their bluebooks one by one and filed out, and Emma kept her eyes
down discreetly as she slid hers onto the pile, but when I got back to the office I was
using, I turned to hers first, and on the second page, outlined in a square of pencil, it
said, ""I read your cheerleader story! It was incredible!! Is it for real?
–Curious! E.""
The ""curious"" was underlined three times.
I sat there in the office with my heart in my mouth. I knew the story she meant, of
course, and now I ran through it in my mind, assessing the damage, wondering just how much
I’d revealed. I was both ashamed and wildly thrilled—thrilled she'd seen my dark
imagination at work, ashamed at the hack job I’d done on that particular story. It was a
toss-off piece—no real plot, written for a BDSM site: a teasing college cheerleader is
abducted and tied up in the deserted gym by the domineering football coach who slowly
strips off her clothes and does all sorts of thoroughly rude and nasty things to her, all
of which she of course secretly loves. It wasn't my greatest piece of work, but the
parallel to our current student-teacher situation gave me chills.
I graded the other tests quickly, hardly concentrating as I turned over various responses
in my head. By the time I got to Emma's test, I went to her little message, and where
she'd written, ""Is it for real?"" I folded it over. I uncapped
my red pen and felt my jaw clench as I wrote, ""As I've been telling you
all term—write what you know…""
I was sorry as soon as I wrote it. I felt sick and demented—predatory. I was glowing.
She'd written a good test but no better than a B. I gave her a gift, an A minus.
She'd know it was a gift too—payment in advance, a joke. With my hand almost
trembling, wrote. ""This grade is negotiable.""
I debated a long time whether or not to put a smiley face winking next to it. I finally
decided not to. Why pretend I was kidding?
I left the tests outside my office where the students could pick them up.
The next class, she came in wearing a short sleeve blouse that was a bit snug and opened
perhaps just one button too low, revealing the slopes of her breasts. She was wearing a
skirt too. That wasn't unusual—a lot of the kids came to class straight from work, as
did Emma. Maybe I’d just never noticed before?
She didn't sit in her usual place either, high up near the aisle. The lecture hall
was a miniature auditorium that had seats and tables bolted to the concrete floor which
rose in steep tiers like an operating theater, and Emma slid into a seat in the center of
the fourth tier up so her knees were on a level with my eyes. Her placement was so blatant
it was almost comical, and I might have laughed had we been alone or further along in our
relationship, but at this point there was no relationship between us, and so when I looked
up from my lecture and saw her knees casually apart and the hem of her skirt sliding up as
she idly scratched her thigh, I actually started to stutter. Of course, I could see right
up her skirt to the white crotch band of her panties, stuffed tight with the flesh of her
sex.
She wasn't taking notes, though she pretended to be. I could tell. She doodled on
her pad, or leaned back and stretched and pushed her shoulders back, straining the buttons
on her blouse. She crossed her legs and pulled her skirt up, and her knees and the bottom
of her thighs seemed to itch a lot. Whenever I looked up, her head would be down, but she
did everything except fellate her pen and thrust her hands between her legs. It was a
wonderful performance and I saw I'd seriously misjudged her. She might or might not
be submissive, but she definitely wasn't shy.
When the class ended, I said, ""Emma? Could I see you for a few
minutes?""
She had to wait while I explained some other students' grades to them, and then she
gathered up her books and slid out of her chair and came down to the podium. Maybe my
description of her behavior and clothes makes her sound cheap, but I assure you, she
didn't look cheap. She was a beautiful girl—perfectly made up, with just the faintest
hint of perfume.
""Yes, Mr. Devlin?""
I collected my notes. ""So you read that story?""
Her eyes lit up, a smoldering glow. ""Yes. I read more too. You have a lot.
That beach one and the one about the girl in the basement, and the clothes, and the one
with the girl who gets kidnapped…""
I nodded, then looked her in the eye. ""You know, I only told you about those
stories because I trust you.""
As I said, people tell me I'm an intimidating guy. I don't notice it. I'm
big and strong, and I know I have a lot of anger inside, and maybe that shows when
I'm being serious. But I'm not mean, and I don’t intend to scare people.
Something inside me felt Emma starting to respond. I couldn’t say what it was—whether her
breathing changed or something in her eyes or the attitude of her body, but she seemed
just a little bit scared.
""Of course,"" she said. ""I wouldn’t tell anyone else, Mr.
D. I mean, I don’t think anyone else would understand.""
""No. They wouldn't."" I snapped my briefcase closed and
gestured for her to follow me. ""But you understood, didn’t you, Emma? What did
you think of them?""
We walked up the stairs of the lecture hall. She was just behind me. ""Well,
they're very good stories. I mean, you know… They're very good. I just wondered…
I mean, they're not real, are they? Those things the men do in there, the things they
do to the women…""
We were at the head of the stairs now, at the exit. I snapped off the lights, leaving
just the spotlights shining down on the empty lectern. Maybe that had something to do with
it—the darkness, the dramatic lighting. I turned to her.
""They're real enough, Emma. They're all based on things I've
done. Things I do. I've changed the settings. I've changed the characters—their
names, their ages. But they're real. Why do you ask?""
We stood by the open door to the corridor. It was late, almost ten o'clock and there
was no one around. Even the parking lot was deserted. Emma stood with her back to the
cinderblock wall, not knowing where to put her eyes.
""Darkness stirs my soul,"" I quoted. ""Desires whose name
I cannot speak. His body is within me, his spirit is upon me, and I am his anger and his
joy. I am his sickness and its cure. He shames me with my pleasure; my surrender conquers
him. All dissolves between us and he sees me as I am.""
There was a long moment of silence in which nothing stirred between us but our breath. I
put my hand on the door frame, blocking her way. I don’t know why I did. I did it without
thinking. I was waiting for an answer from her.
""Who wrote that?"" she asked nervously.
I ignored her question. ""Is that how it is?""
She didn't answer. In the darkness, I saw her chest rising and falling.
""Did you have a question for your teacher, Emma?""
Again, no answer. That was answer enough.
I put down the briefcase and pushed the door closed. The hydraulic door-closers hissed
softly and then the lock caught and clicked firmly shut. I knew no one would be coming in
here until after midnight. We were alone in this empty lecture hall together, alone in
this vast, enclosed and vacant space, a magical space suddenly filled with sexual threat.
Things began to work between us that we had no conscious control over.
A certain amount of light still spilled from the glass panel of the door into the
darkened auditorium, but that just made the real world feel that much farther away. I put
my hand on the wall next to her head and leaned over her. I had no doubt about her now,
and I knew my eyes were glowing as I stared at her. I knew who she was, like a fox knows a
rabbit. I could feel her. That was the thing. I could feel what she felt.
""You've been like this all your life, haven't you?"" I
asked. ""The things that were in those stories, they’ve been exciting you since
before you even knew what sex was.""
The rabbit looked at the fox and saw there was no point in lying. ""How did you
know?"" she asked.
“Because I’m the same way.”
I took the books from her hands and tossed them on a table.
""Come here. Away from the door.""
I led her a few feet into the auditorium, away from the square of light. She was still
standing with her back to the wall and I leaned over her again, keeping her trapped. Her
eyes were shining with something between fear and excitement, her lips parted and
glistening.
It's a strange and thrilling feeling to know what a woman's feeling, to be in
two places at once—to be the fear and the cause of the fear, to be the strength and the
weakness. It was happening to me with Emma. It was happening very clearly.
""Lift up the front of your skirt.""
""What?! Mr. Devlin—!"" She looked shocked.
""Just do as I say. Lift it up and hold it at your waist.""
There was a moment when our wills collided and we just stared at each other, but I knew
in my heart she wanted this. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I knew it because I was
both of us. I felt my will overcome hers like my hand closing over her fist, like an
embrace, and I felt her give in. Her hands went to her skirt and she began to gather up
the fabric.
""All your life you've been waiting for someone to find out,"" I
said to her. ""You've been dying for someone to know. You've needed
someone you could tell and you've prayed for it. You've ached for it.
Haven't you, Emma?""
Her skirt was gathered above her panties now, and I lowered my right hand and touched her
bare thigh, midway between knee and hip, smooth and warm as the summer sun. She stared at
me in the dark. Her nostrils flared.
""No,"" she said. ""No.""
""You've dreamt about a man who would show you what's inside, who
knows what you can feel, because you know there's so much more, just waiting. So much
more you're just waiting to give, to have taken from you, don't you? That's
it, isn't it, Emma? To have it taken…""
My fingertips slid up her thigh, slowly working around to reach the soft and sensitive
insides where the skin seemed to tremble, stroking first one leg, then the other,
caressing her as if she were a frightened animal. My body was very close to hers now,
almost touching her. Her breasts rose and fell in the dim light.
Suddenly she put her hands on my shoulders and her skirt dropped over my wrist like a
curtain. I kept my hand where it was between her legs.
""No,"" I said quietly. ""There are rules here, Emma, and
the first one is—you don’t touch me. Not without permission. I touch you, but you
don't touch me. Understand? Now pick up your skirt.""
She took her hands off my shoulders and lifted her skirt again, revealing her snug
panties and the smooth plane of her belly, tanned as dark as her legs. I brought my hand
up and boldly stroked her between the legs through the smooth synthetic fabric and she
shuddered. I felt her legs quiver. She was warm and soft and humid and I could feel her
anatomy perfectly through the thin material—her swollen labia, the awakened bump of her
clit.
""It's good to be touched, isn't it?"" I asked her.
""It feels good to have someone else touch you, someone who cares what he's
doing? She likes me. She likes being touched. I can tell because she's getting wet.
She's getting wet and she's opening like a little flower.""
I pushed my finger against her and felt the fabric give over her opening. Emma mewled, a
piteous little sound that excited me. She was warm down there and a hot, sticky oil began
to moisten the thin material. Emma leaned against the wall and pressed the back of her
head against the bricks, breathing fast and shallow, holding her skirt up as I'd
ordered, exposing herself to my touch. She had no choice and we both knew it. She had
beautiful hands and elegant nails, and they squeezed the skirt so hard her knuckles turned
white. It was very quiet. I could almost hear her clothes move as she breathed.
""What are you going to do?"" she asked nervously. ""What
are you going to do to me?""
It was fairly obvious what I was going to do, standing there with my fingers on her
pussy, but I knew she wanted to hear the words. That was no problem. Words were my
specialty.
""I'm going to play with you, Emma. I'm going to play with your pussy
and make you come, right here in this empty auditorium, just by touching you with my hand,
just because you need it so incredibly fucking much and you feel so incredibly fucking
good. Do you understand?""
She swallowed as if her throat were very, very dry and nodded, eyes closed.
""Good, good."" I slid my fingers up and down her slit, forcing the
fabric against her. I found the bud of her clit and bore down on it, then eased up and let
my fingertip flicker against it like a little flame, back and forth, closing my own eyes
and letting the actuality of what I was doing wash over me for a moment, giving myself
time to fully and entirely realize I was body-to-soul with this beautiful girl to whom I
was a stranger, her skirt up, legs apart, making her give herself to me.
Emma moaned and then took a deep, shuddering gasp.
""Oh please!"" she hissed. ""There! Right
there!""
""Who's giving the orders?"" I pretended to be offended. I
stopped flicking and started a slow, coaxing massage of her clit, as if beckoning her out,
calling her to follow.
""This is between me and her, Emma,"" I said. ""You're
just along for the ride, because you happen to be attached. But me and her, we have an
understanding. She likes what I'm doing and she knows I'm going to make her
come, and she wants to come very much. She wants to come right in my hand as I play with
her, and that's what we're going to do, right here, right in this classroom.
I'm going to play with this little whore pussy and make her come, Emma—make you come,
too. Understand?""
""Oh God!"" She moaned and clenched her teeth against the pleasure as
I touched her.
It was terribly lewd, just filthy, this beautiful young woman leaning against the wall of
the darkened classroom with her legs apart, holding her skirt up for me as I masturbated
her. I pushed the crotch band of her panties to the side and my fingers touched naked
flesh, soft and wet and vulnerable. Emma was panting now, and I felt her buttocks flexing
unconsciously in a reflexive fucking motion as I fingered her clit and teased the inside
of her cunt.
""Take your right hand,"" I said, ""and unbutton your
blouse.""
Her fingers were shaking as she did as I said, ""Another button.""
The second button was at nipple level. The inner slopes of her breasts were visible now,
full and ripe, encased in a smooth white bra. My fingers were still playing in her pussy,
holding the crotch of her panties aside with my ring finger while my middle finger played
in her hole and my thumb and first finger slid around her clit. I leaned my head down so I
could smell her perfume and began to lick the warm smoothness of her breasts.
Emma was perfect—perfect. She stood there and let me play in her soaking pussy and lick
her tits, holding her skirt in her hands, either too afraid to move or too enraptured—too
thrilled by the way I toyed with and manipulated her. I'd been right. My feelings
about her had been totally right. She was a woman who needed to be used, pleasured,
violated, one of those women who can only give when it's taken from her—the kind of
woman who drove me absolutely crazy.
""How is it, Emma? How is it?"" I slid my fingers into her cunt.
""You're going to come, aren't you, darling? You're going to come
for me, right in my fucking hand.""
""Oh God,"" she moaned. ""No! No!""
But her hips were bucking up at me now as I fingered her and her thighs were flexing,
pushing that soft hairless pussy onto my plundering fingers, giving it to me, a perfect
whore for what I was doing.
""You love it, don’t you, Emma? You love it!""
She looked at me in panic and I saw she was losing it. The excitement of being fingered
and played with like a hot little tramp was more than she could stand, and the hidden slut
was coming out, wild, hungry and uninhibited.
It's magic when you have a woman like this—absolute magic. The hotter she gets, the
more you want to do to her because you know it's turning her on, the shame, the loss
of control. I wanted to give her more, so I reached behind her with my other hand and
lifted the back of her skirt, worked my hand under the back of her panties and pressed a
finger against her tight and private anus.
""Oh, Mr. D! Don't!"" Her eyes were wild, the whites showing
like a frightened mare's. She gasped, pressing her head back against the wall, but I
felt her buttocks clenching on my finger as she punched her pussy against me in helpless
excitement.
""Give it to me, bitch!"" I hissed as I leaned my weight against her.
""Give it to me! Look at what I'm doing to you. Go on, look!""
I moved back enough to give her room so she could look down and see the way her hips were
pushed out and pumping obscenely while my fingers slid in and out of her cunt.
""Oh God!"" she moaned, shamed by the sheer lasciviousness of her own
degradation.
I took my hand from her ass and grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, making her
arch her back as my fingers stroked her cunt. I studied her, seeing her lose it, seeing
the look of raw animal lust on her face.
""Hold onto me now, Emma! Hold onto me as you come!""
Her thighs trembled, her legs growing weak. She dropped her skirt and held onto my
shoulders, one hand crushing the fabric of my shirt into a ball, the nails of her other
hand digging into my muscles.
""Yes!"" she screamed. ""Yes! Yes! YES!""
I was afraid her screams would attract attention, so I kissed her, holding her head back
by her hair and devouring her mouth with mine, muffling her cries as she shrieked out her
pleasure, her pussy pumping, her internal muscles pulling at me as she humped and jerked
and came.—and came and came and came.
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