by West, K. D.
Four Erotic Tales
by
K. D. West
Stillpoint/Eros
Copyright © 2013, Stillpoint Digital Press (stillpointdigital.com)
Published by Stillpoint/Eros
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places or events is purely coincidental.
Warning: This works contains sexually explicit descriptions.
• • •
Also by K. D. West:
Four Erotic Tales:
Thing of Beauty
Bridget: Virgin Knot
The Big Easy
Veronica
And coming soon, a full-length erotic novel,
A Joy Forever
Four Erotic Tales...
seduction... desire... serendipity... pleasure
A few hours later, I heard my roommates (and at least one of their girlfriends) leave for work — they’d both graduated the year before, and had the kinds of corporate jobs that measured their time at work by the minute. I lay there, taking in the morning sunlight glowing in Veronica’s hair, the warm roundness of her, the sticky heat of her bottom against my stomach. The sun hadn’t quite topped the sill of my window, but I already felt sunblind. The image of her that morning has stayed with me all of these years.
I stayed there like that for perhaps a half an hour, and I don’t think I’d ever been a whole lot happier, or a whole lot more whole. Finally, as the daylight finally began to creep across the futon, I whispered into her ear, “Arise, fair sun.”
Veronica began to stretch and grumble. With a start she sat up and looked around. “What time is it?”
“Almost 8:00.”
“Shit. I should head up to the job site soon,” she pouted.
I gazed at her, her right cheek blotchy where it had rested on my arm as she slept, her breasts marked with the wrinkles of my sheets. Her fine hair, which had been up in the oh-so-elegant chignon the night before was tangled in a well-fucked rat’s-nest.
She was gorgeous — a debauched vision.
“I’ve dreamed of waking up like this with you ever since that party at your place.” I ran my thumb over her cheek. “Please. I’d like to make love with you one more time.”
Her eyes got large and still. Then she gave a shy smile, leaned down, and kissed me. “Fuck ‘em,” she murmured into my lips. “They can start without me.”
— “Veronica”
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
1 — Dana: Thing of Beauty
2 – Bridget: Vigin Knot
3 — Rachel: The Big Easy
4 — Veronica: Arise, Fair Sun
Preview: A Joy Forever
Author’s Note
I’ve always intended my short erotic pieces to be part of a full-length novel, A Joy Forever: a kind of narrative dialogue between the author of those pieces, Ken, and Allison, the young women whom he has initiated into her own sexuality, even as she healed his. Allison’s story provides the central thread of the book, but Ken’s tales of his sexual experiences stood on their own, and so the folks at Stillpoint encouraged me to gather them together for your pleasure while I finish the full-length work.
Lastly, I wanted to thank all of you who’ve read these stories from A Joy Forever and who have given me such great feedback. By way of saying thanks, and in order to give you some idea of what the complete work will look like, I’ve included a preview after the last story. Let me know what you think!
— K. D. West
1 — Dana
Thing of Beauty
Dear Allison,
I promised you that I’d write the story of my first time with Dana, my teacher and first lover. Never let it be said that I didn’t keep my promises. But I have to tell you: writing this, it’s had me as nervous as the virgin I was back then. Palms sweaty, shivering. The only thing that’s kept me going is remembering your face when you asked me to write this for you — how could anyone ever deny that face anything? But because of that face, I couldn’t write it to you; when I tried to think about you as I wrote, it became much less about what happened then, what I experienced then, and much more about what I have experienced with you.
It’s funny: I’ve written my whole life, but I’ve never in my life written a sex scene. This was the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to write. It was too easy to make everything sound ridiculous, or to turn myself into way more of a smooth operator than I ever was.
In any case, as I wrote this, I had to visualize writing for a kind of faceless, genderless reader, because otherwise it came out all wrong. I’m sorry.
You asked me what it was like with Dana, that first time. I wanted to show you, as close to reality as I could, what I actually felt like, what I was thinking. Well, if I were being honest I’d say that I wasn’t thinking at all, but you get the idea.
It was fun to dive back into that eighteen-year-old hormonal soup — even as it was more than a bit humiliating to remember. It actually made me feel a bit badly for poor Lucas, even if I did want to tear his balls off with my bare hands after you talked to me last winter.
This also had me trying to put myself in your shoes, which was hard for me. I feel as if I have spent so much of our relationship trying to protect you, trying not to overwhelm you. Thinking about Dana, I found myself realizing that she really hadn’t tried to sugarcoat anything for me; she always seemed to recognize that there were some things that I needed to learn on my own. As I told you, she was a very, very good teacher, whether it came to writing or to love. If I haven’t given you that chance, Allison, please, please forgive me. It’s not because I don’t believe in you, but because I care for you too much.
I hope that you enjoy this.
Love,
Ken
P.S. Don’t laugh at me too much. Just remember: I too was a teenaged boy once.
Ms. Nederland’s Senior Composition class was twenty-five boys and five girls. It wasn’t because the girls didn’t like her — she was a terrific teacher. They just got sick of watching the guys salivate whenever this petite, self-described former cheerleader leaned against her blackboard or hitched her skirt up to sit on her desk.
The seniors in this class reversed habits they’d developed since they were freshman: the jocks sat at the front. And I sat in the back, with the girls. I was no fool. And I could see Ms. N. just fine from the fifth row.
Listening to her lecture on rhetoric and essay structure, it was hard not to be seduced by her structure: heart-shaped, elfin face, cupid-bow lips, porcelain skin with a dusting of freckles, pert, up-turned nose that perfectly echoed her pert, up-turned breasts. The only sign of her age — she was in her early thirties — was a single streak of silver in her straight, shoulder-length black hair. In retrospect I think that may have been the sexiest thing about her.
She could see me just fine, too. When one of the goofs in the front row tried to impress her with some mis-learned bit of knowledge (‘the edifice complex’ was a particular classic), she inevitably favored him with a smile, and then snuck a wink my way before continuing the lesson.
One day, toward the end of the first half of the semester, she handed back an essay; the assignment had been to present a forceful argument against any law we thought was unjust. For some reason, I’d chosen to write on the statutory rape law for our state — at the time, it covered only girls, which struck my nascent sensibilities as sexist. It seemed wrong that if a thirteen-year-old boy were to sleep with a seventeen-year-old girl, he would be guilty of statutory rape. (That was my understanding of the law, in any case.)
She had given my paper a B — well belo
w my usual standard. On the back page, she wrote, “Your passion may have gotten in the way of your argument.”
After class — it was lunchtime — I came up to her and asked about the grade.
She listened politely, but she wasn’t going to change the grade. “I think this really touched a nerve for you, Ken.”
I began to fume. “I can think of half a dozen male teachers here who are sleeping with their students. Mr. Loesser next door! He married a former student! They shouldn’t be doing that — supposedly they’d be arrested if they were caught. But I think everyone looks the other way, because if a woman teacher did the same thing, it would be just fine.”
She smiled at me, a little cat-like. “I’m not sure I follow the logic of that.” She stepped closer. “You don’t think, if I were to sleep with a student, someone would mind?” She stared up at me, and I realized for the first time that her eyes were green, and bottomless.
I began to hyperventilate. Then I began to sputter. Then I backed quickly out the door. I spent the lunch hour bent at the waist, legs crossed, trying to hide an irrepressible hard-on.
For the next week or so, I couldn’t look Ms. Nederland in the face. Eventually, I was able to pretend that I hadn’t humiliated myself, and began to participate in the class again.
Two days before vacation — it was my birthday — she gestured to me to come talk to her as the rest of the class struggled with backpacks and umbrellas. After the last students had straggled out to eat lunch in the drizzle, I slumped my way over to her desk. I had spent most of the period visualizing Ms. N bent over the desk, her denim skirt up over her white ass, fucking her, there in front of the whole damned class…
“Ken,” she said, very intent on the attendance sheet, “I’m sorry I embarrassed you that day.”
“You didn’t embarrass me, Ms. — “
“Dana,” she insisted.
“Dana,” I said. “You didn’t embarrass me. I embarrassed myself, by my own reaction. I… That wasn’t your fault.”
She looked up at me, locking me again in that green gaze. This time I managed to keep my knees from buckling. “It’s your eighteenth birthday, isn’t it, Ken?”
I nodded.
“Any plans for the break?”
I was probably to going to spend Friday night sitting in one of my friends’ cars drinking beer, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “Nothing exciting. Going on a college trip next week.”
“I’d love to hear how that goes.” She took a deep breath and I had to work hard to keep my eyes on her face and not stare down at the sight of her chest stretching the tight black turtleneck that she was wearing. “I’ve got a present I’d like to give you. Do you think you can come by after school?”
I looked out the upper half of the classroom windows — the lower half was painted in, to cut distractions — at the steady rain. “Well, I was supposed to go to track practice, but it looks like a rainout.”
She smiled. A faint flush seemed to wash across her fair cheeks. “I’ll see you then.” Then she went back to her papers, and I walked out — not caring so much about the tent in the front of my jeans this time.
Through French, Pre-calculus and one of Mr. Grant’s legendary lectures on the Civil War, all I could think about was what sort of present Ms. Nederlander — Dana — might have for me. A book, I thought. Must be a book. English teachers always give books.
After Mr. Grant had finished reenacting Sherman’s March to the Sea to a round of applause, I gathered my stuff and wandered back to the English department building. I tried not to let the possibility — the probability, even — that I was looking forward to something more than a book render me a total blubbering mess. I kept trying to dismiss visions of Dana bent over her desk from my head.
I knocked on the classroom door, and was greeted with a quiet “Come in.” After taking a deep breath, I stepped through the door.
She was standing with her back to me — not in the lingerie I had been attempting not to visualize, but in the black turtleneck and button-up skirt that she had been wearing at lunch. She turned around, smiled, and walked toward me, holding out… a book.
I smiled, trying hard, now, not to look disappointed. I took the worn hardcover: a volume of Keats’s love poems. Well, that was interesting. I looked up, about to say thank you.
“Open the cover, “ Dana said, her arms folded in front of her, as if she were suddenly cold. “Read the inscription — read both of them.”
Dutifully, I opened the book to the title page. There were indeed two inscriptions. The top one, written in a strong block print, and dated about fifteen years earlier, read:
To Dana,
Who is as fine a student and teacher as a man could wish for,
Love, John.
Below, in the small, fluid script I knew from so many papers, was an inscription dated that day:
To Ken,
Who is a finer student than I ever was, and whom I hope to continue to learn from and to teach.
Love, Dana
I looked up.
She was staring at my chest, her arms still folded, looking suddenly very small. “John was my Senior English teacher. He taught me a huge amount about writing, about reading poetry.” Her glance ran over the book in my hand and she gave a small, shy smile. It was disconcerting to have this brash, flirtatious woman acting so timid, so much like a teenager. “On my eighteenth birthday, he gave me that book, and…” She looked up at me, face pale and eyes dark. “He became my lover. He was wonderful. He taught me… so much.”
She reached up to my cheeks and paused, her eyes an open question.
I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers. Our tongues met, and the heat from her mouth flooded through me, soothing the flip-flops that had been trampolining in the pit of my stomach. I reached my hand toward her breast. She stopped my hand, broke our kiss, and rested her head on my chest. I was breathing like a bull ready to charge.
“In spite of what you might think, I haven’t ever done anything like this, Ken,” she sighed. “I’ve never gotten… intimate with a student.” She looked up at me. “It’s not true, you know. If anyone found out about this, I would be fired.”
Then she sashayed over to the desk, peaking at me over her shoulder. “Lock the door, will you?”
When I turned back from the door, she was smiling that cat-like grin again. Smoothly, she pulled her turtleneck over her head, revealing a purple French-lace bra. I couldn’t breathe. Then, with a strong tug, she popped the buttons that ran the length of her denim maxi-skirt, leaving her in nothing but the bra, matching panties, and her stiletto-heeled boots. She gave the skirt an elegant flip and it fluttered on to a student desk in the front row. Kicking her boots off, she crooked her finger, gesturing me to her, and reeled me in to another embrace, this time pressing her breasts into my searching hands.
She broke away from me again, and this time her face was feral. She yanked my jacket off, pulled up my t-shirt, and began to suck on my nipples, setting my whole body on fire. I let loose a deep groan, and she gave a delighted laugh, running her hands across my chest and stomach.
Pushing me back against her desk, she made a great show of kneeling before me, her eyes locked on mine. Then she ripped open the fly of my jeans and pulled them down to my knees. She examined my rock-hard cock, circling the base with her small fingers.
To that point, my only sexual experience was a front-seat blowjob that had lasted all of ten seconds. Kelli, the black girl I had been dating for a few months, had been so disgusted by my performance that she hadn’t deigned to see me again. In fact, every time I saw her at track practice, she was looking my way and giggling into her girlfriends’ ears. Humiliating.
Dana’s mouth was smaller than Kelli’s. Her tongue was a blade of fire that made my balls jump as she circled my cockhead. I whimpered as I felt the edges of her teeth runnin
g down the full length of my penis, swallowing me whole. I grasped onto her head, trying to hold her still so that I wouldn’t come immediately. She sucked gently as she pulled her mouth off of me, bringing another deep moan from my gut.
“It’s alright, Ken, don’t hold back. I’m not going anywhere,” she said, and then sucked me back into her tiny, hot mouth.
I managed to stay in the bliss of that glorious blowjob for perhaps eight or ten strokes, and then let loose a howl toward the ceiling and a cannon-shot into her throat. She sucked down all of my cum, and then stood, pressed her body against mine, and kissed me, hard, squeezing me tight as I vibrated. The new taste of jism excited me and my hands flew over her small, tight body. I fumbled to remove her bra, until she stepped back and showed me where the front buckle was.
I pulled away the lace from those beautiful breasts. Her nipples were hard, pink diamonds and I bent down and began nibble on them. After I’d feasted on her tits for a minute, she stepped back from me. She was flushed with excitement, her hair — usually so straight and neat — now sprayed across her face.
Quickly, she shucked her bra, then her panties and socks. Like the hair on her head, her black pubic patch had a streak of silver. Pushing on my shoulders, she lifted herself up onto her desk. She spread her legs and revealed the pink gash of her cunt. “Every eaten a pussy, Ken?” she asked, grinning broadly.
I shook my head.
“Well,” Dana laughed, “this is a classroom. And there’s no better way to learn than by doing!”
Tentatively, I returned her favor and knelt before her. Her legs circled my shoulders and pulled me toward her. I gave an uncertain lick at the slick pink lips in front of me. My friends had spent a lot of time talking about the unpleasant taste of pussy. I wondered now what the hell they were talking about. The flavor was just fine, thank you very much, and the reaction I was eliciting? Emboldened, I ran the blade of my tongue up the length of her lips, and elicited a sigh of pleasure. This definitely encouraged me to continue, lapping at her spreading labia.
