by Corinna Parr
RECESS
by
Corinna Parr
AMAZON EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Corinna Parr on Amazon.com
Recess
Copyright © 2012 by Corinna Parr
Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed with the exception of quotes used in reviews. If you enjoyed this book, please click the links after the story to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. All characters depicted herein are 18 years of age or older.
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Adult Reading Material.
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RECESS
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“Please. Not here,” she said.
Bold words, I thought. Mrs. Pickman spoke just above a whisper and her voice trembled with what I’ve learned to recognize as shame. Hot shame, shame that prickles over your cheeks and gets down between your legs, as if everyone can smell your secret on the air. I couldn’t, yet. But the way she stood against me, making a shadowed place between her back and my stomach; the way she let her weight shift from one heel to the other; that desperate quiver in her voice, they all spoke to me. Mrs. Pickman’s dark eyes wandered without focus over the construction paper art on the wall, and I wondered, as I felt up the smooth inside of her thigh, whether she would recognize Randee’s. Could she tease his voice from the riot of children’s laughter that came to us, muffled, from the playground outside? Might she fear that he was coming down the hall to find her? Would it matter to her?
Mrs. Pickman had a firm leg for a woman her age. Soft enough to get your nails into, but there was still muscle there. That long, sweet thigh muscle, one of my favorites, tensed and relaxed in my palm. I turned my wrist a little and curled up my fingers until I could trace the hem of her panties. Tight stitching, fabric that caught on my fingertips— cotton, probably in some drab shade or other, generously cut. And heat, blood-warm and pooling between my knuckles. She drew a sharp breath.
“Someone will see us,” Mrs. Pickman murmured, as if lecturing a child. I heard her heel scrape as her legs came further apart. I ran the pad of my middle finger lazily along the seam of her panties, pressing just deeply enough to feel the contour of her body beneath the cloth. And when I came to that soft place, that place where the cloth puddles down like it’s floating on thick honey, I pushed in a little more. Mrs. Pickman whimpered. My skin tingled with her wetness, seeping through the wash-worn cotton.
She was very still now, like a rabbit crouched in high grass. She neither protested nor moved away as I bunched the cloth of her panties into a roll against one thigh; breathless, she let me probe along her petal-soft folds. Her eyes closed tightly; from her reflection in the window glass, it seemed as if Mrs. Pickman were trying to hold back tears, or perhaps to shut out the light that bore down on her in fierce primary colors from every part of the room. I spread her open, and found her clitoris, and she gasped— a wet, reedy sound through parted lips.
“Oh please don’t,” she begged, and I heard, please. I don’t want to do this, I want to do this, please make me. Please.
“Is there a Mr. Pickman, Mrs. Pickman?” I asked her, as I worked a finger into her sex. She didn’t answer me. She just knotted her little fists in the fabric of her skirt and leaned back against me, and when her buttocks brushed over my erection she whimpered again. I put another digit into her and started to pump them in and out. Mrs. Pickman coated my fingers, she sucked hungrily on them. Her hips twitched against me and then settled into a slow, luscious roll; she was a dancer finding the old steps again, steps she once knew by heart. Once this woman had flashed across the floor. I could feel it in the way she rode down on my digits, heard it in the hoarse moans she gave me, ghosts of earlier fuckings.
I might have bent Mrs. Pickman over the desk and taken her right there, in the full daylight of afternoon, with her skirt around her hips. That’s where she must have been in her head, bumping at my crotch with a bodily need, and the caress of her buttocks shot through me every time we fetched against each other. It mounted in me and the wave of it became too much— too much light, too much color, too much raw space for two people in that barren classroom. Mrs. Pickman’s musk mingled with the giggles of children in the air. I took out my fingers and oiled her enflamed clitoris, rolled it, teased it until her whole body arched back against me. She thrust her sex into my hand, and her voice choked in her throat, and she shook, and shook; she couldn’t know it but each tremor she gave was mine. It caressed me. I took her orgasm along my chest and belly and cock.
Since then we’ve always spoken normally. Mrs. Pickman blushes a little but smiles. Randee is a very good student.
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Please enjoy these excerpts from other works I’ve completed!
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from WETWARE DREAMS
In her dream, Dorothy was bound to a gurney.
Leather straps crossed her shoulders and her ribs. They pinned Dorothy’s arms to her sides and pressed her back against the stainless steel beneath her. Squeezed between those bands, her breasts seemed even larger than they were. They strained the buttons of the threadbare grey shirt she wore.
A draft prickled over Dorothy’s legs, and she realized that she wasn’t wearing anything else. Below her thighs, where the shirt’s hem gave out, it was all plump, smooth flesh to the tips of her toes. As the chill crept higher, Dorothy tried to close her legs and was brought up short with a rattling sound. She raised her head.
Dorothy’s ankles had been shackled to the sides of the gurney.
She struggled then, but all she could do was shift and raise her hips. The helplessness of that undulation clutched her heart and quickened her pulse. Dorothy had no idea where she was, or who had done this to her. She didn’t know what they wanted with her. All she knew was that she couldn’t get free.
Dorothy fell back against the gurney, breathing heavily. Strands of hair had fallen over her face, into her mouth, but she couldn’t brush them away. The only light in the room was a dull, remote fluorescence that did little more than touch the edges of objects around her. Unable to see well, Dorothy listened instead: to her own breath, and the whisper of conditioned air, and below these, to a hum that she could not identify.
She heard someone approaching.
Before Dorothy could turn her head, a face appeared above her. A face, or perhaps a mask. The eyes were bulbous, glassy, without whites or pupils; the nose hooked like the beak of an ibis. Dangling from the back of the head were greasy black things that might have been feathers, or tarred ropes. There was no mouth.
The thing reached for her. Dorothy tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Its fingers narrowed at the tips to fine points. With a delicate motion of these points, the figure slipped the topmost of Dorothy’s buttons from its hole. Then the next, and the next, its fingertips clicking on the plastic of the buttons. Each button unfastened revealed more of her breasts and the deep cleft between them. Carefully, the stranger folded back her shirt between the straps until her bosom rose bare, kissed by the cool air and the fluorescent light.
Dorothy shivered. Her shackles clattered against the gurney. With her torso pinned down, Dorothy could only watch as the thing moved its hands over her.
Those fine fingertips brushed both of her breasts, tracing furrows into their curves. It stung a little, then tingled deep under the surface. The skin around Dorothy’s nipples puckered and the nipples themselves stiffened into prominent buds. She thought that the figure might rake them with its nails, b
ut instead it turned its hands and cupped the sides of her breasts in its palms, pressing them together. Dorothy felt the sweat that had gathered between her breasts despite the chill. Trapped and motionless, she watched the masked stranger make mounds of her soft flesh. Her nipples were pushed close to each other and when they touched, the shock of it crackled down into her belly.
Again Dorothy tried to speak, to ask the figure what it was or beg it to stop, but all she heard was her own ragged breathing. Shadows gathered at the corners of her vision as the stranger’s touch took hold of her consciousness. Her chest rose and fell; her nipples ached to be fondled.
Instead, the other put a hand between her legs. Dorothy’s thighs shook. She jerked her shackles in an effort to raise her knees and close them against that touch, but the bands around her ankles kept her legs spread wide. She was both terrified and aroused, and powerless to prevent what was being done to her.
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from ALCMENE AGAIN
She was surprised by the force of Arthur’s kiss, the way he crushed her full lips and then tugged them into the shapes that pleased him. Sofia gave a little whimper that was stifled when his tongue speared her mouth. It was wet and muscular and he swept the cusp of her throat, threatening her air. Arthur’s arms closed like bands of metal around her waist and he pressed her hips against his. Borne back by his mouth and forward by his clutch, her body arched under him. She wondered if they might topple to the floor, entangled.
Struggling to match the eagerness of his tongue, Sofia realized that Arthur was rock hard beneath his dress green slacks. His erection dimpled the inside of her thigh. She was seized by the notion of wrapping her legs around him, easing that cock towards her sex. But they were in a public airport! The image of herself clinging to him with her skirt around her waist, her buttocks and flimsy purple thong exposed, replaced that rush of heat with embarrassment.
Arthur broke his kiss and Sofia gasped.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he said.
“I can tell,” she murmured.
Arthur drove them away from the airport. They talked about little things, still somewhat bewildered by the novelty of one another’s presence. Arthur said nothing about his tour of duty and Sofia thought it best not to ask. She was a little worried, but he seemed happy, relaxed, comfortable. He smiled and gestured often as he talked.
His eyes never quite left the road, but Sofia saw him stealing glances at her tawny and sunlit thighs in the seat beside him. Half-consciously, she pressed her legs together and tugged on the hem of her skirt. Those glances became longer and more frequent until his conversation trailed away.
After a silence, Arthur said, “I see you’ve brought me a present.”
Sofia started to ask him what he meant, but her breath caught. Arthur had taken one hand from the wheel and curled it over her left thigh. His nails dug into the toned flesh between them. Moving his wrist, he pushed up her dress until the violet gloss of her panties peeked between her thighs.
Sofia’s breathing quickened and she shifted in her seat. “Arthur…” she admonished softly.
“Let me see it,” he said. “Spread your legs.”
“Arthur…”
His fingers were very strong. They worked down to her sex and stroked the lips through her panties, teasing up a curl of heat behind them. Arthur seemed to know just where her clitoris was, and when he rubbed it through the silk, she shuddered despite herself.
He was relentless. Her breath thickened into a gasp. She could feel herself swelling, aching for more of his touch. Her body didn’t care that they were moving down a busy street.
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from THE NYMPHOMANIAC’S PILLOW BOOK
I can list every lover I’ve had. Their names are my poetry, my prayers. I can taste them on my tongue again when I whisper them in sequence. Jay, who tasted like Christmas and every birthday I’ve ever had, like rum and sugar. Thomas, who tasted like 3AM on a spring night when the streetlights had all gone out and the shadows kept their secrets. Joanna, sharp as honed metal and sour as the sea, but so very sweet when she came in a rush against my lips. Eddie, Safiyah, Christian and Miguel. Steve. Timothy. Jackson. Marie. Shelby. All of them and so many more, not all of them with names, but every one of them remembered by my senses.
Jay was my first.
He was as shy and quiet in school as I was. Because of that we were often paired together in our classes whenever group work was required. We’d talked, though only awkwardly. I knew he was an only child and that we almost shared a birthday. He knew my parents were strict and that I shared his taste in poetry.
I also knew that he had the nicest hands I’d ever seen. At eighteen, he had a man’s large hands and a piano player’s long, elegant fingers. He had calluses but I never asked why, just admired them quietly whenever I had opportunity to do so. His hands looked capable to me. They looked strong but also careful as Jay seemed to be both shy and sweet..
After my experience in my shower, I wanted very badly to see if a real person’s hands could feel as good on my body as the dream ones had. As the water ones had. And when I thought of hands, it was Jay who came to mind.
It wasn’t difficult to get him alone. At lunch, we would sometimes withdraw to the library; neither of us liked the cafeteria with its noise and the constant threat of some popular student targeting the less popular.
That day, the library seemed deserted at lunchtime. The librarian had disappeared into her office and we were left to our own devices. I asked him if he wanted to see something, something I’d found, something incredible. He agreed that he did. So I had him follow me into the deepest corner of the library, where the high shelves rose up all around us and the only witnesses would be the books we both enjoyed so much.
“What is it?” he asked me, smiling. He was as curious as I was excited and it made me bold.
I took his hand, as much to keep him from running away as to guide him to my sweet spot. My parents insisted I swear skirts every day, long and frumpy looking things. I don’t think they realized how convenient I would find this. With my other hand I pulled up my skirt just enough that I could slide Jay’s hand beneath the bunched fabric.
I’d already taken the precaution of removing my panties in a stall in the bathroom; they were tucked safely away in my backpack.
So there was no obstruction, no barrier to his fingers brushing against my sex. I had been anticipating this moment and could feel the steaminess already there between my legs, as if I’d become a human version of a tropical rain forest. That humidity only increased when I felt the tips of his fingers, guided by mine as they stroked through the fuzz of down that dappled my nether lips. The angle was bad, my aim poor, but I thrilled to feel that touch all the same.
“Here,” I whispered, looking up at him.
I’d never seen someone looking as shocked as he did in that moment. I could feel the way his arm locked, the muscles in it twisting like steel cables, and see the way his eyes had gone round, the way his mouth had opened in a circle of surprise. He stared at me, too stunned to pull away.
And then I felt his fingers twitch against me, compressing the softness of the flesh between my thighs and beneath his hand, and I knew it would be all right.
I let him go but he kept his hand against my sex. By backing into the corner, I was able to get my foot up against the edge of the shelf, the way I’d lifted it in the shower. I had the shelves to hang onto for balance and Jay’s support, besides. He was frozen there, leaning towards me with my skirt ruffled up and draped over his forearm and my pussy coating his fingers in thick, slippery oil.
It felt like my chest was going to burst and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I gasped for air and then spent it immediately in another whisper.
“Rub me there, Jay. Right at the top. It feels so good when I’m touched there. Please.”
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from THE ZODIAC CLUB
“Isn’t she pretty?” Sage asked. “A little tall, maybe, but lo
ok at that figure. She’s a handful anywhere you grab, gentlemen. Give us a twirl, Jane.”
I narrowed my eyes at Sage. This wasn’t our game and she knew it. But it wasn’t wise to cross the leader of your house, not if you wanted to stay in the Zodiac Club. If Sagittarius cut me loose, I might still be sponsored by one of the other leaders, but that almost never happened. Why would they, when there were always pretty young things begging to be part of the city’s wet dream? Pretty young things who came without the baggage of a house leader’s ire. No, without Sage I would go back to a life of dirty dishes and American Idol on the television. Morning radio. One bland day after the next.
I spread my arms a little, palms down, and spun on one toe. The gown fluttered around my calves. When I turned away, I heard a murmur of appreciation; I realized that the Oettinger children were admiring the bare curve of my back, the taut flare of skin just above my bottom. It was humiliating, and I flushed with anger.
“Lovely,” Sage confirmed. I wasn’t sure that she’d even looked. Then she said, “Come and sit down,” and when I moved towards an empty chair, she nudged the underside of the table with her knee. It brought me up short.
“No, Jane. Right up here.”
I stood still for a moment, fighting to keep the color from my cheeks. My jaw clenched. Then I turned and carefully slid my rear up onto the table. It was crowded with the lunch dishes, so I had to perch on the very edge. I fused my knees together and let my feet dangle.
