by Violet Blue
I hear papers shuffling and the creak of his office chair, followed by footsteps and the uneven spray of water sputtering out of the old faucet where we cleanse our brushes and palettes. He is in the classroom now, maybe twenty feet behind me.
I am standing at a long table where I have laid out an assortment of paints and other tools, as well as my work-in-progress. I bend over the metal slab and roll onto the balls of my feet so that my ass is slightly raised and my back arched. I hope I’m not being too obvious in my short skirt, gray stockings with rose detailing and black tank top. Technically, we aren’t supposed to wear tank tops to school, but since it’s after hours and I’m growing bored with subtlety, I’ve removed my sweatshirt so that Mr. Thompson can get a better look at my sizable chest and petite figure. I’m no model by any stretch of the imagination, but puberty has been surprisingly kind to me, so although I may stand almost a foot shorter than him, I am well proportioned. More than anything, I hope he notices this, too.
I’ve hiked the skirt up a bit so that when I bend over, one can just barely see a hint of my purple knickers. I’ve always loved that word; it’s naughtier than underwear and less trite than panties. The fact that I’m not British is of little concern to me.
The faucet squeaks and then there is silence. I assume he’s still at the counter but don’t dare turn to look. I pray to every god and goddess that has ever existed that he is noticing me: the hint of purple fabric, how the lace trim on my stockings clings to the flesh of my upper thighs. Of course, there’s always the possibility that he’s eyeing me with disdain, thinking my efforts silly or too transparent. I would die if he asked me to cover up. Then again, I would die if he asked me to take it off. Please, just fucking kill me already.
Mr. Thompson’s footsteps break the silence, growing louder as he meanders over to the table. My heart threatens to choke me, but I remain composed. He is standing beside me, surveying my work. I happen to be shading the woman’s left breast, relying on neon yellows and navy blues to give it a more three-dimensional appearance.
“This is coming along beautifully, Mireille. I really like how you’ve decided to go with unconventional colors. They stand out nicely against the black background.” He gestures to the work I’ve already completed around her face, those lean, beautiful hands moving in ways that both thrill and transfix. I can’t help but relish the way my name expertly rolls off of his tongue; he obviously speaks French.
“Thanks.” I am nervous and can’t seem to raise my voice above a loud whisper but the emptiness of the room negates the need to project myself.
“Do you think you’ll have it ready by next Friday?” His gray-blue eyes follow the brush as it strokes the underside of the painted woman’s breast.
Mr. Thompson does not look at me, which I find to be both a blessing and a tragedy. I watch him longer than I should, marveling at the sharpness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw, all painfully untouchable.
“I think so. The outline is finished. All I have left to do is the shading.”
He glances at me and my groin tightens. I bite the interior of my cheek to distract myself and avert my eyes back down toward the painting; the woman’s stare mocks me.
“Well, let me know if I can help in any way.” Mr. Thompson turns and retraces his steps to the office.
My thoughts race as I think of all the things I’d like him to help me with. For starters, he might help me out of my skirt and stockings. After which he could help himself to my virgin cunt—damn, I love that word. My mother absolutely cannot abide hearing it but I use it every chance I get.
Cunt. My tight, virgin cunt. My hungry cunt.
I really must stop before I lose my composure, as I’ve already begun squeezing my thighs together and rocking back and forth reflexively. The fact that I have to urinate only draws more attention to that sadly neglected area. It’s not that I do not masturbate, because I do—often—but I’ve never had another person besides my family doctor touch me there. It’s one thing to do it yourself, to have complete control over which areas get stimulated and in what way, but I can only imagine how exciting and scary it would be to have someone else’s hands, fingers, and—oh fuck—mouth down there, manipulating me in ways I can’t even conceptualize.
The shriek of a telephone in Mr. Thompson’s office jolts me out of my reverie and I realize that I’ve just accidentally over-shaded the painted woman’s right breast.
“Shit,” I hiss, dipping my brush into a bit of yellow in the hopes of compensating for the damage.
Mr. Thompson answers the phone at a normal volume but then begins to speak in hushed whispers. I hear footsteps and then the sound of a heavy door creaking and latching. I turn and see that he has closed the door to his office. At the same time, I notice a quarter-sized hole beneath the knob. The door must have featured a lock at one point but, for whatever reason, it was removed. I debate the ethics of grasping this opportunity to spy on him and my curiosity is far more powerful than any sense of morality. Before long, I’m removing my gray flats and slinking toward the door.
I crouch, hovering just above the floor with my eye to the peephole. I can barely make out his side of the conversation and am both affronted and intrigued by what I hear.
“Of course I’ve thought about you since August. How could I not? That was some of the best damn head I’ve ever gotten.”
He is talking to a woman. I know this because the tinny, unintelligible voice coming out the other end of the phone sounds high pitched, feminine. His own voice is low and guttural, deeper than I’m used to hearing in class. I’m both insanely jealous and eager to hear more.
Mr. Thompson is reclining in his desk chair with his legs spread wide and his other hand stuffed inside the pocket of his paint-stained jeans. There is some squeaky dialogue from the other end of the line. I wish I could hear what she’s saying, as he’s obviously enjoying the conversation. The thought of myself ever being the catalyst for that broad, lascivious smile on his face makes my cunt throb.
“I’m glad I was able to do that for you.”
He pauses, listening, then continues, “If I could, I’d drive up there this weekend and finish you off properly.”
More muffled dialogue, then, “Nah, I have this art show thing to get ready for so I’ll be pretty busy till next weekend. Believe me, I’d much rather spend the next three days with my head between your legs.”
A sly smile spreads across his face. “Oh, really? Well, you’re welcome to try. Hold on a sec.”
Mr. Thompson rises up and begins to walk toward the door. I scramble to the opposite side of the heavy demonstration table by the sinks, my stocking-clad feet aiding in my haste. He opens the door and peers out into the classroom. My things are still scattered across the long table but I am sufficiently hidden from sight. He closes the door and retreats back into his office, most likely assuming that I’ve stepped out to use the bathroom or acquire food. I quietly make my way back to the door and its glorious peephole.
I hear the clinking of his belt being unfastened before my eye can focus. With one hand, he unbuttons his jeans and draws the zipper down over an enormous bulge in the front of his pants. I am mesmerized, having never seen a man’s penis in person before besides my father’s, which glimpses only occurred on a handful of occasions and were always accidental—and it was never erect.
Mr. Thompson reaches into the front of his pants and pulls it out. I gasp and then chide myself, afraid he might have heard me, but he is preoccupied, making encouraging, breathy noises into the phone’s receiver. He strokes his cock, which is long, thick and smooth, almost picture perfect. No stranger to the Internet, I have a general idea of what an ideal erection is supposed to look like: tan at the base, thick, and growing pinker toward the head. The head itself is bulbous but not overly so; big enough to intimidate a novice like me, yet, my eyes are glued to it. From what I’ve read and from what my friends have told me, I can deduce that he’s uncircumcised, but that the foreskin is w
rapped quite tightly around his shaft, peeling back behind the rose-colored head with ease.
I want to wrap my fingers around it. I want to feel it inside me.
Mr. Thompson continues to run his hand up and down, gently stretching the foreskin, whispering, “Mmm,” and “Go on,” as he squeezes and milks his formidable cock. I wonder if it’s warm and what it tastes like and, before long, I find my hand cupping my cunt through my skirt, clutching and massaging in rhythm with his slow, deliberate strokes.
“I’d like that.” He growls, breathing heavily. “I want to taste your pussy. I want to shove my tongue in slow and deep, right as you’re about to come.”
I can barely contain my own rapid breathing as I slide my hand under my skirt, finding my knickers damp and my clit so hard that I can feel it through the thin fabric. My god, this man is so beautiful and obviously an attentive lover, the way he talks about going down on this woman. I want him to go down on me. I want him to plant his mouth on my cunt and let his tongue roam over my most sensitive bits.
Mr. Thompson proceeds to pump his cock, lingering on the now glistening, pink head every few strokes, his pelvis thrusting upward into his palm. His eyes are closed and his mouth slightly open, as he pants and moans for the woman on the other end of the line. For a brief moment, I hate her, whoever she is. Then, in a split second, I am so overwhelmingly grateful to her and whatever she’s saying to make him put on such a gorgeous, inadvertent display.
“Yeah, I know how you like it,” he says. “You want me to bend you over and fuck you from behind and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Right in your tight, wet pussy.”
The mental imagery of him doing the same to me is so delicious that I have to consciously restrain myself from barging in, grabbing his cock and begging him to fuck my poor, deprived cunt. I can’t take the indirect pressure any longer, so I slip my fingers beneath the elastic of my knickers and caress my clit, which is moist and beyond sensitive. Even now, I am close to coming, so I take precautions and cover my mouth with my other hand. I watch his strokes become faster, tighter, less controlled, up and down over that gorgeous monstrosity that I would give anything to have fill me up and split me in two.
“Come for me,” he whispers.
I can just make out the sound of the woman’s shrill cries as she is undoubtedly overtaken by thoughts of Mr. Thompson and his perfect cock. My arm begins to grow tired and my legs ache from crouching but I do not cease fingering myself. Each stroke of his hand whets my appetite further. I slip a finger into my dripping cunt, imagining that it’s him, and proceed to fuck myself. True, my finger barely matches his girth but it is all I have. I attempt two fingers now, which would normally be too much for my virgin pussy to take, but I am so unbelievably wet that they slip inside with ease.
My eye darts from his now magenta-tinted cock to his beautiful face, open mouthed and just as flushed. I imagine myself perched on his lap, my warmth enveloping him, impaled and enflamed, as I thrust two fingers in and out of my sopping twat.
Mr. Thompson pauses for a second to lick his palm and I see that the skin on his cock is taut and bulging with purple veins. It is bigger and harder than it was even a moment ago, and I can’t help but whimper at the sight of it. I don’t care how much it might hurt, I want it inside me, stretching me, tearing my hymen and transforming me into a woman—the kind who can make a man come with just her words and imagination. He resumes his pumping and I return my fingers to my aching clit, which is almost too sensitive at this point. I press on, so close to an orgasm that I can already feel it building inside, threatening to topple me from my low perch.
“Oh god, I’m coming. I’m coming!” he moans, probably a little louder than he should.
His hand motions slow as he makes one final pelvic thrust and I witness spurt after spurt of thick, white semen shoot out of him and onto his hand and T-shirt. He rubs himself slower and slower, until finally, breathless and spent, he lets his cock fall limp onto his semen-stained shirt, his hand hanging limp in his lap.
I’m quickly overtaken by my own orgasm, pulsating and spreading out from my cunt all the way up my spine and into the base of my brain via delightful vibrations that echo out into my fingers and toes. I clumsily fall back onto the linoleum, staring at the tiled ceiling until I hear the creak of his desk chair.
Shit.
I clamber up off the floor and glide back over to the table where the painted woman eyes me knowingly.
“Don’t judge me,” I whisper.
Thinking that it will look strange that I haven’t made any progress since we last spoke, I quickly snatch the painting and carry it over to the drying rack, placing it toward the bottom where it won’t be easily noticed. I grab my palate and brushes and carry them over to the sink and begin rinsing the paint out of the bristles while, at the same time, washing the juices from my fingers.
After a few minutes, Mr. Thompson opens the door and emerges wearing a different T-shirt. He is startled to see me but stifles his reaction, no doubt in an effort to appear nonchalant.
“Oh, Mireille, you’re still here.” He glances in my direction but avoids making eye contact, running his now clean fingers through his hair: a nervous habit.
“I went to grab a drink and then came back to finish up the torso. I should really get going, though. I’m sure the extracurricular bus will be leaving soon.” I wash the last of the paint off my palette and then set it onto the counter to dry.
“Well, if you miss it, I can give you a ride home.” He smiles warily at my feet, raising his eyes to mine for only a brief second before darting them away.
“That would be great.”
I walk back over to my station to collect the paints I’d been using, depositing them into their appropriate receptacles in the “Acrylic” closet. Mr. Thompson disappears into his office and I begin to gather my things. As cold as it will be outside, I refrain from wearing my sweatshirt, thinking that perhaps he will notice that I’d been sweating and put two and two together.
Then again, do I want him to know that I was watching him or that I heard his conversation?
As awkward as I feel about violating his privacy, I still can’t help myself. I love him. I don’t really know what any of that means at eighteen, but it feels right to think it. When he laughs, my pulse dances; when he smiles, my whole body melts; when he touches himself, I wish our palms could trade places. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and if all I ever get from him is the stolen recollection of his enraptured face as he masturbates himself to completion, then I will take it.
Mr. Thompson emerges from his office wearing a light jacket and a brown messenger bag slung across his chest. “It’s almost five. I might as well just drive you,” he says.
I nod, heading toward the door of the classroom as he turns off the fluorescent lights.
“You’ll probably want your shoes.”
I raise my eyebrow, confused.
He points. “By your workstation.”
Glancing back at the table, I see my flats lying by the stool where I’d tossed them just before creeping over to spy on him. “Oh, right. Thanks.” I slip them on.
“Shall we?” He gestures for me to lead the way down the side stairwell and out into the teacher’s parking lot.
I’ve seen Mr. Thompson’s car from a distance but never before had the privilege of riding in it. He unlocks my side first and holds the door open for me. I smile shyly and duck inside as he closes the door behind me. I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what the interior of his car smells like, but it’s not unpleasant. Something like pine with a hint of stale coffee; he loves his coffee.
He opens the driver’s side door and plants himself in the front seat, a mere ten inches from me. I am paralyzed. If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. I notice that my panties are still wet with my juices and worry about leaving a damp spot on his seat cushion.
Mr. Thompson tosses his bag into the backseat, revs the engine and turns on
the heat. “It’ll be warmer soon. This car has a decent heating system, unlike my last one.”
I nod.
“So, where do you live?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “Fifty-six Butler Terrace. About ten minutes from here. Just take a right onto Fergus and then keep going till you hit Roosevelt Ave., on the left. Then take a right at the stop sign.”
“Ah, I know where that is. My brother used to live off of Roosevelt. Buckle up, please.”
I reach for the seat belt, my shaky hands making it difficult to achieve a decent grip. He smiles affectionately and reaches across my seat, deftly yanking the belt over my chest and snapping it into place. My cheeks betray me.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Not a problem.” Glancing over his shoulder, he backs out of the parking space and commences the short ride to my house. We sit in silence for a few moments until he decides to switch on the radio. The car fills with the intellectual babble of NPR as I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.
“Sorry I, uh, disappeared for a bit. I had to take a phone call.” His voice is even but I recognize the slight change in pitch on the last two words: phone call.
“That’s okay,” I say, stealing a quick glance in his direction.
“I just feel—since I offered to help you earlier—it may have been rude of me to then make myself unavailable.”
Our eyes meet for a brief second and I immediately realize what his game is. He is trying to determine whether or not I heard anything while he was pleasuring himself in the back room.
In that moment, it occurs to me that our dynamic has changed. Right now, in this vehicle, I am the one with the power. If I say nothing, he will either assume that I didn’t hear anything or that I am ignorant. If I confront him, then he’ll be burdened with the task of convincing me that it was something else or be forced to come clean and beg for my discretion.
If today were any other day, I might have opted to keep my mouth shut, to deny any knowledge of what happened behind that office door. But something transpired between us and that heavy slab of wood. Watching this man overcome with desire—losing himself in the sensuality of that mystery woman’s voice and the imagery she fed him—awoke something inside me. Contained within her voice was an awe-inspiring amount of feminine sexual power, so much so that he was positively enslaved to it.
