And is about to say more.
‘I think it’s lacking. It seems to me that you shy away from the idea at the last moment – as though you cannot quite bear to include such a crude thing in your story. In fact, several times I had that impression. That you wrote, “I taste him on my tongue” when what you really wanted to say was something far more visceral, and explicit.’
‘No, honestly, I –’
‘Something like: “He floods my mouth.”’
‘That…OK, that…seems like…’
‘Or perhaps: “He glosses my lips with his come.”’
‘I suppose I…I mean –’
‘Or what about: “His cock swells, thick ribbons surging from the tip to stripe my face and my throat, each one hot enough to sear and so slick it sets my senses on fire. Everywhere it touches seems suddenly more sensitive, more alive, and especially when it gets to the tip of my tongue. The taste of him is bitter and sweet at the same time; the idea of him filling my mouth enough to set my own sex on edge.” Though of course I would defer to you on how it feels to have a man come all over your face and tongue. What do you think, Miss Hayridge?’
I think I need to escape, now. Before he goes any further. Before I go any further, because oh, I so desperately want to. There are words on the tip of my tongue, filthy, impossible words, just reams and reams of unadulterated smut that I never fully dared express before. Not even to myself, while alone, with no one else around to ever see it. As though to even think it is a source of shame – so God knows what it would be if I expressed it out loud here and now. If I said to Professor Halstrom, of all people, that what I really want to say is:
I want you to do it.
I want you to come all over my face.
I want you to make a mess of me, to ruin me, to fill my mouth with fat, fierce ribbons of jism. I want to use the word ‘jism’ and see your face change, the way mine undoubtedly did when you said ‘quim’. And I want to do it all here, now, in this book-filled room with a door that barely closes, so that when you push me down to my knees and fuck into my mouth with your heavy cock I can thrill at the thought of anyone walking in at any moment. I can imagine us being caught doing the most illicit thing you can possibly dream up, and have you finish in my mouth all the same.
‘Miss Hayridge?’
I stand up too fast. So fast in fact that I knock over a stack of books to my right – though I don’t stoop to set them right. I don’t even gather up the pens that spill from my bag when I launch it on to my shoulder, or make calm and deliberate apologies of the sort I know he expects. Instead I simply blurt out that I need the bathroom, like a total fool, and head for the door before he can protest.
By the time he speaks again I’m out in the hall, breathing air that somehow seems eight hundred times fresher and cooler. It shouldn’t be – the ancient radiator on the wall is kicking out heat high enough to singe hair and the space is even smaller than I remember. But it remains the case, all the same.
Until I hear him.
‘Miss Hayridge, are you quite all right?’
He says it through the door, but through the door is too much. I jolt as if he shouted ‘fuck’ right in my face. Suddenly my heart is in my mouth again and my breaths are coming too short and too fast, and then I’m barrelling down the stairs in a way that seems inadvisable on the staircase to hell. Three steps from the bottom I almost trip over my own feet. My teeth snap together around my tongue and I taste blood.
But even that doesn’t change how I feel.
My body is more primed than it usually is after three hours spent writing the sex stuff that he just read out. I’m seething with it, bursting with it; every inch of me is crammed with a pulsing heat that I can’t seem to stop. I stand in the cool, blue and thankfully empty bathroom for twenty minutes, yet still feel the same at the end of it. Even after I splash my face with water, my hands are still trembling. My cheeks are still flushed – and I know this because I see them in the cracked mirror above the sink.
I’m stained bright pink from jaw to hairline. Lower than that, in fact. I unbutton my shirt to my bra and it’s all over my chest and throat too. Even my lips look a shade darker and a touch plumper, as though I’d spent the last two hours kissing and kissing someone.
And my eyes…
God, what must he have thought about my eyes?
They are fair near gleaming, and quite obviously not with the thrill of debate. They seem wild, even to me. They seem like the eyes of someone who needs to fuck, right here and now. Who wants to be bent over the sink and have her skirt hiked up, knickers tugged down just far enough to get access to her wet and ready cunt. Because I am wet, and I am ready – so much so that he would probably comment on it, if he knew.
Look at you, so greedy for it, he might say, and then oh, yes, then he could just…
Do what he described.
Slide in smooth and slow.
Fuck me until I groan and buck against him.
Not that it would take very long. I am on the edge right now, just standing here thinking about it. Imagining the push of his cock, the expression on his face – heavy with lust, lips parted – and all the other things he would say, oh, fuck, the things he would say. If he can talk like that in so calm a context, what would he be like in a sexual one? Would he give me a running commentary on what he’s doing? Tell me that I am so slick and tight, confess that he wants to come over my tits, groan in my ear that he loves feeling me climax around him? I think yes, but probably only because I’m delirious.
Somehow in the middle of these thoughts I’ve put a hand inside my shirt, right here in the middle of a public bathroom. And I don’t stop there. After a second I push under the cotton just to get at one stiff little nipple, the sight of it so rude I know I should stop. My reflection isn’t just wild any more – I look like a dirty slut, fondling herself frantically, feverishly. So eager to come that nothing can stand in the way of it, not even the idea of someone catching me like this.
If anything, that idea just spurs me on. I think of a bunch of people I barely know bursting in, and I just have to pull up my skirt. I have to. My clit is one big sweet ache, and when I rub over it with two eager fingers it gets better. It gets worse. It makes me throw my head back and gasp – loud enough that anyone just outside the door could hear me. They are going to come in and catch me, frigging myself with all the abandon of Lady Chatterley fucking her burly gamekeeper.
More than that, in fact, because I use the real words.
I say it as it is: my cunt, my clit, my slick little slit. I work them all until my thighs tremble and my head goes back and I know, I know I’m going to come. I’m going to do it all over my hand right here, while imaginary people stand and watch. Those cool, bright, amazing people that surround me every day, bored to tears by everything I am, suddenly open-mouthed and horrified and just dying to ask what drove me to it.
And when they do, I think, as my orgasm crests…
When they do I will tell them truly:
Because my Professor talks dirty to me.
I think of a dozen ways to tell him why I didn’t return to his office. None of them seems adequate. The