A Higher Education

by Harper Bliss

  “Good night, Gail.” I watch as Joanne deposits her glasses on the night stand beside her and lets her head drop to the pillow. “Feel free to read. I don’t mind.”

  “That’s all right.” I flip off the light on my side and sink lower beneath the covers, careful to stay on my side of the bed. This creates a rigidness in my muscles hardly beneficial for sleep, but perhaps I should just give my mind up to the possibilities running frantically through my brain. My mind only, though. Nothing else.

  Lying there, in the dark next to her, I can’t help but wonder what she is thinking. I’m flabbergasted to find that, within minutes, I hear a slight purr come from my left. And this from the same person who was aggressively pursuing me mere hours ago. For an instant, it does make me feel like a dull economics professor—albeit one in a tank top.

  My own behavior stays nicely within the boundaries of expectations. Sleep seems so far away, I reach for my Kindle. I can’t just lie awake for hours going crazier as the night progresses. I need to take my mind off my speech, at least. So I start reading the novel I was engrossed in on the plane over here. But when, rather unexpectedly, the two main characters start engaging in some mild, but very stimulating BDSM, the images in my mind become too graphic for me to enjoy them in my current situation.

  “What are you reading?” Joanne’s voice comes out of nowhere. I’ve probably been too absorbed in the book to notice that the heavy breathing next to me has stopped.

  “Oh, just something light.”

  “Judging from how you were sighing, it didn’t sound very light.” Joanne turns on to her back. It’s odd to have her stare at me without glasses, a little moon dust gathered in the corner of her eyes.

  I clap my Kindle shut in its magnetic case and am grateful for the sudden darkness around us. “There was a rather unexpected scene.” My voice has gone a bit hoarse.

  “Oh, that kind of book.” I hear the chuckle in Joanne’s tone. “Do you need some privacy?”

  “No,” I squeak. I can’t help myself. I wonder what I would do if she were to put a hand on my thigh now, or brush a finger against my arm. Joanne remains the perfect gentlewoman she earlier claimed she would be, though, and I’m not sure if I feel happy or sad about that.

  “Be sure to give me the title of that book tomorrow. I’m rather fond of ‘unexpected scenes’ myself.”

  “Sure.” My voice is beginning to sound normal again. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s more the rather unexpected scene we find ourselves in, I guess.”

  “It is a bit odd.” I’m anxious to keep the conversation going. In my gut, I can sense the desire building instead of subsiding. I’m going with my instinct. Trying to hang on to this feeling. Should I, in the end, make the first move? I turn on my side a bit more, facing her. “But it’s not as if neither one of us doesn’t want to be here.”

  Joanne smiles a slow, sly smile. “It’s clear that you’re aroused at the moment, Gail. I don’t want to take advantage of that. I also want you to be well rested for tomorrow.” She lifts herself up a bit and props her head onto her upturned palm, resting on her elbow. “We have another night. Let’s see how you feel then.” She runs the tip of her tongue over her upper lip quickly. “But just so we’re clear: this is by no means a rejection.”

  “Only a very sadistic form of foreplay,” I offer, feeling the sting of rejection coursing through me a little nonetheless.

  “Perhaps also a very effective one.” She shuffles a bit closer in my direction. “I’m sure you’ll see what I mean tomorrow.” With that, she slants her head toward me and presses a quick kiss on my forehead. It only confirms how much I want her now, how much I want her lips on me in other places as well. But, as though I’m still compelled to do so after all these years, I listen to her, and let the back of my head crash into the pillow.

  “Good night, Gail.” Joanne doesn’t move to the edge of the bed. It’s big enough to not encumber my movements, but she has made her intentions clear. How will I ever fall asleep after that?

  But, it turns out that, after listening to how Joanne falls asleep again—with an ease that astounds me—and how her breathing slows, I manage to get a few hours of sleep myself. The day has worn me out sufficiently to calm down my whirling brain.

  * * *

  When I wake up the next morning, frantically checking the alarm clock, Joanne is already up. I hear water streaming in the bathroom, and the curtains have been opened to a slit. To my relief, it’s only eight a.m. and I have plenty of time to prepare myself for my maiden conference speech.

  I lie back and take a few minutes to relax myself into the day, silently looking forward to the moment Joanne will enter the room, all put-together and refined. She takes her time in the bathroom, and I have to suppress the urge to reach for my Kindle and pass the time by immersing myself into ‘that scene’ again. But now is really not a good time.

  I extend my arm to feel her spot in the bed. The sheets are still a little bit lukewarm, and make me revel in the very intimate sensation of sharing a bed with someone, even if thrust together due to vague circumstances in a hotel, which I’ve all but forgotten about.

  My heart skips a beat when the bathroom door opens and Joanne steps out, as predicted, with her hair styled elegantly, her make-up carefully applied, and a crisp white blouse tucked neatly into a pair of jeans. Distinguished women wearing jeans is another thing I can’t get enough of.

  “Morning,” she says, a bright, red-lipped smile painted on her face. “Managed to get some sleep?”

  “A little.” I can’t shake the thrill of waking up to this sight of Professor Ferguson. Deep inside of me, the throbbing ignites.

  “I’m having breakfast with some of the regulars. Care to join?” She fastens a small golden ring to her earlobe while she speaks.

  “No. I’ll just stay here and fret in solitude.” The sad face I pull should be exaggerated enough to convey irony.

  “Okay. I’ll see you at ten. I’ll be there to cheer you on.” She tips her head in the other direction, clicking the other earring in place. “You’ll be great. I know it. And don’t argue, please. This is an argument you can’t possibly win.” She sends me a rather flirty smile, displaying her upper teeth. The red of her lips curves deliciously over them, and I’m aware of how the throbbing intensifies.

  “Thanks.” I watch her grab her bag, check herself in the mirror, adjust a stray strand of hair, and head for the door and out of my sight. Once I hear the door fall into the lock, I crash back into the pillows. I can feel my heart beat between my legs. Should I? To take the edge off? Housekeeping will be changing the sheets soon. No one ever needs to know. And damn, I could do with a little bit of tension release.

  A thrill of excitement chases up my spine as I slip off my panties. I kick the duvet off me and spread my legs, welcoming the rush of fresh air on my pulsing clit. I hike up my tank top as well, needing that sensation of exposure to air on my nipples. Just lying on the bed I shared with Professor Ferguson like that, legs spread, nipples instantly hard, pussy lips throbbing, immediately puts me in the right mood. I don’t need to turn to my go-to fantasy of being watched, all I need is to think of Joanne’s hand finding my thigh underneath the sheets. Of her finger dipping in between my legs.

  I let my own finger do the work. The first touch is light. A tentative circle drawn around my clit. I spread my pussy lips with the fingers of my other hand, and get down to business. The motion of my finger intensifies, and I know this is not going to be a long, drawn-out session of solo sex. There’s urgency in my movements as I imagine it’s Professor Ferguson’s finger on me there, caressing me the way I like it, but most of all, watching me from behind those spectacles, an amused smile on her face.

  The door falling into the lock with a bang startles me. Shit. I only have time to retract my hands from between my legs before Joanne stands in front of me. I feel frozen, suspended in time. I watch her watch me and it mortifies and enti
ces me at the same time. I’m on full display for a split second, an instant during which I can’t move, before scrambling for the duvet and covering myself.

  And then, instead of speaking, or apologizing for barging in like that, Joanne tilts her head and looks at me in the exact same way I was imagining she would just before she walked in.

  I’m too flabbergasted to speak, and perhaps also too aroused. I’m not sure yet which sensation is winning.

  “Looks like I’ll be missing breakfast,” Joanne says in a low voice. She inches closer, dropping her bag to the floor, sitting down next to me on the bed. Underneath the covers, my clit is growing even more bloodshot, despite—or perhaps because of—me pressing my legs shut. She starts by pulling the duvet back. I’m not wearing any panties and my tank top is still lodged above my breasts. “Why don’t I take care of that for you?” She pushes my legs down while shooting me a glance that sets my skin on fire—as though the words she just spoke weren’t enough.

  With a tiny shift of my chin, I nod my approval. Horniness is definitely winning.

  “Spread your legs,” she commands. “Lie back. Relax.”

  I assume the position I was in before she walked in. What is she doing here anyway? Did she sense I was touching myself while thinking of her? Was she able to predict it by using an analytical economic formula?

  “Show me how you like it, Gail.” Her words are turning my bones to liquid. “Show me, and I’ll take over.” What sets me off the most, even more than how she speaks to me, is the smirk on her face. A knowing, confident, slightly arrogant grin. Inside, it’s ripping me to pieces already. My blood is hot for her. My clit so ready to be touched. My muscles ready to contract.

  I bring my hands between my legs and, slowly, she looks away from my face, to my exposed pussy and how I’m touching it for her. It only takes a few seconds before I feel her hand on mine. Gently, she pushes it away, and replaces it with hers.

  I gasp for air at the connection of her finger on my clit, and even more so when she fixes her gaze on me again.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” she says, but I had no intention of doing so. Her eyes on me are all I need, while her finger works my clit. But then her finger stops, and she leaves me hanging for a second, her smile growing wider, her eyes glinting behind the glass of her spectacles. Then her finger travels lower, through the wetness that has pooled there.

  “You’re so wet.” I watch her red lips form the most redundant words in the history of my sex life. Her smile tightens a bit. This must be arousing her as well. Then, she slips a finger inside of me, and I die a little bit. How many times have I dreamed of a moment like this? The same finger that used to point out mistakes in papers, or indicate something on the blackboard, or wave through the air while she was trying to make a point. That finger is inside me now, undoing me.

  “Can you come for me like this, Gail?” It’s more a command than a question, but I nod anyway. I could come just by her staring at me the way she does.

  “Good.” With that, she adds another finger, and starts stroking me with deeper, more insistent thrusts. Her fingers connect with something inside of me. Long lost memories. Nostalgia for a time when all I needed for a burst of extreme happiness was to see her on campus, just floating by. Just her being Professor Ferguson.

  Joanne ups the pace, before adding another finger. I still can’t believe Professor Ferguson is fucking me. Dreams like that are not supposed to come true. But she delves deeper, curling her fingers inside of me, while spreading me wide.

  “Oh jesus,” I groan. “Joanne, I—” And I want her fingers inside of me forever, and her eyes on me for the rest of time, but I’m coming, the walls of my pussy clamping hard around her fingers as she strokes me more, and more. I want to keep looking into her eyes while the climax takes me, but I can’t help but blink a few times, blacking out the sight of Joanne’s relentless stare on me for split seconds. It’s in these moments of blackness that I feel it most. The rush. The release. The silly sense of victory, of having won something, of being given a gift I never even knew existed.

  Joanne doesn’t immediately retract her fingers. She leaves them inside of me for a few moments longer while sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” she says finally, while ever so slowly slipping her fingers out of me. She casts them a quick glance and seems to nod appreciatively at how they’re coated in my juices, before wiping them off on the sheets.

  “Jesus christ,” I groan, not having come back fully to my senses yet.

  “Seems like I forgot more than my phone.” She smiles and points at her side of the bed, where, when I follow her finger, I see the device lying on the night stand.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You’re not going to apologize for that, are you?” She tips her head again. “Well, it’s a little late for that now, anyway.” She slants her upper body in my direction. “I’ll let you get ready in peace, but…” Her lips are so close to my face now. “It looks like we’ll have an interesting night together.” Briefly, she touches her lips to mine, only to push herself up swiftly after, and leave me wanting much much more, despite the crushing climax she just delivered.

  Joanne makes a quick stop in the bathroom and is out of the room again before I’ve had the opportunity to gather my wits. I lay there panting languidly for a while longer, until, while twisting my head to the side, I catch sight of the alarm clock. Damn. Almost time to deliver my speech and I have a lot of putting together to do. Although Joanne’s intervention has uncoiled some of the tension lodging in my stomach, it has also introduced many more feelings to deal with. Tonight. The two of us in this bed. Professor Ferguson fully undressed. The anticipation is almost too much to take, and I’ve yet to deliver a talk—with those same eyes boring into me while I speak.

  I take a cold shower to wake up my body fully, and to wash off the last remnants of lust lingering in my flesh. To no avail, of course. But, I’m a professional, and I can re-focus my attention when I need to. I dress in the pale grey suit I brought, munch on an apple from the fruit basket, not able to face a buffet breakfast because of the nervous tightness in my stomach, and glance at myself in the mirror. There’s a hint of ‘just-fucked’ about me, but I suspect I’ll be the only one who can see that. Apart from Joanne.

  Satisfied with my appearance, I grab my notes and head for the conference room where, according to Joanne when she comes up to me just after, I deliver a perfect talk on Applied Microeconomics, giving the attendees plenty of food for thought. My own appraisal of myself is not as glowing, but I can easily forget about the few times I stumbled over my words, and the instant, just after glancing at Joanne for an instant too long, my throat went so dry I had to pause to take a sip of water. Because this whole conference has taken on an entirely different meaning for me now. As enthusiastic as I was to come here, my focus has shifted. All I can think of as I sit through the panel discussion in the afternoon, and a few more talks before dinner, is my approaching night with Joanne.

  Because there’s no ‘if’ about it anymore. It’s happening, and the thought of it leaves my head spinning when I look in the mirror after a bathroom break. Dinner is a pre-arranged affair with the conference goers occupying all the tables in the hotel restaurant. Someone goes over the schedule for tomorrow, but my ears only perk up when he announces the keynote speaker: Professor Joanne Ferguson. And yet, I can only think of how she looked at me, and how she spoke to me. Will there be fighting for top? I recall her question from last night in the bar, when I was starting to feel at odds with her. A distant memory now.

  Then, dinner is over and I hear how Joanne doesn’t accept several offers to go up to the bar for a drink.

  “I’m exhausted,” she says to a man I recognize as Professor Sands, another rockstar of economics. “And I need to go over my speech for tomorrow.” When she turns around and spots me, she shoots me a wink that connects with my clit instantly. There will be no fighting for top to
night. I’m all hers already.

  When she walks past the table where I’m sitting with a couple of other relative newcomers, she lets her gaze linger on me for a split second.

  “Damn,” the man I’ve been seated next to throughout dinner says with a southern drawl. “That Ferguson. Oh yeah.”

  I don’t honor him with a response. Instead, I make my excuses and get up. “See you tomorrow,” I mumble, my mind already—entirely—elsewhere.

  “Hi Gail,” Joanne says as soon as I enter the room. Her shoulder is slanted against the wall nearest to the door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “What?” I hadn’t expected that. “Where?”

  “We’ve been cooped up all day. It’s not healthy.” Joanne doesn’t wait for me to agree. She just walks to the door and holds it open for me.

  “But this is Atlanta. It must be ninety degrees out there still.”

  “Did you think it was going to be any colder in here?” With that, a smile slips along her lips again, and I’m ready to do whatever she asks of me.

  I follow her out of our room. Secretly, I feel flattered to be walking through this hotel’s corridors with Professor Ferguson. Just like I used to feel when, back in college, she’d stop to quickly greet me, or even better, ask me a question out of the blue. It would always send a rush of blood straight to my clit, that tortured little bud she so briefly touched this morning, that is making its presence known again through thick, urgent pulses between my legs.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, more to mask my excitement than anything else.

  “I don’t really know yet. Just outside for now.” Joanne looks straight ahead, strutting along with great purpose. “There are bound to be some trees on this hotel’s grounds, right?” She slows her pace and locks her eyes on mine, bringing her lips a little closer to my ear. “Or something else I can shove you up against.”

  Instantly, the memory of her fingers inside of me is back. How she spread me wide and is, now, promising to do again. The thought of having her do it to me outside, with the possibility of someone seeing us, and a breeze of fresh air chasing along my skin, pumps a fresh load of blood straight to my pussy lips.