No Longer Forbidden. Portia Da Costa

The strange awareness of each other that transcends words.

      But now there are rules, no ethics, no barriers. None at all.

      “Look, is there somewhere we can go?” My eyes devour him. He’s still perfect, glorious, despite the scar and the obvious limp. His mouth is still temptation incarnate, with that plush lower lip and the quirk of a smile. “To talk,” I add, but who am I kidding?

      “Of course, let’s go to my rooms.”

      We cross the hall and I almost laugh at the sensation of the crowds parting like the Red Sea. People are looking at us, but they seem like dummies behind glass or cartoon figures. I’m only aware of Nick, just a little behind me, and to the side. I hear the tap of his stick, and the faint swish of his dark, old-fashioned gown billowing around him. I almost faint when I feel the light touch of his free hand on my back, guiding me through the throng.

      The entrance foyer seems to stretch to infinity, but somehow we cross it. Nick’s uneven gait seems far more fluid now, less broken, as if the sudden flare of lust between us has partially cured him. Within moments, we’re hurrying along the corridor to the teachers’ quarters, then turning a corner.

      The minute we do, he grabs my hand and stops me. We’re out of view now, and his stick clatters to the tiled floor as he somehow both pulls me to him and backs me up against the wood-paneled wall, pressing both his body, and then his lips against me, ravenous.

      Oh, how honey-sweet is the reality after all that dreaming. His mouth is both as soft as velvet and yet hard and demanding. Just as I imagined it would be. He presses for entrance with his tongue, and I melt, opening to him. My bag thumps to the floor alongside his stick as I reach up to bury my fingers in his thick, dark hair.

      It’s every bit as exquisitely silky as I imagined it would be, and as I ruffle it, eagerly exploring, the scent of his woodsy shampoo fills my head.

      He might have been injured, but his body is still strong, and he imposes it upon me. One arm is around me, and slides down to the small of my back, pushing and pressing, bringing our lower bodies tight together. I gasp under the onslaught of his tongue.

      His cock is as hard as iron, and my heart sings with exultation. I know this is what he felt before but could never reveal to the nineteen-year-old me. The power of it is undiminished after ten long years.

      His other hand strokes my face, then tracks on downwards, coasting over my throat and then my shoulder, before sweeping inwards to cup my breast, the action both natural and boldly male and possessive. Almost immediately, he begins to strum my painfully erect nipple through the thin stuff of my silky top and my light, lacy bra.

      “Oh! Oh, God, yes!” I cry out spontaneously as he frees my mouth, and we both gulp in oxygen. Darts of pure sensation are streaking from my teat to my pussy, making it flutter and throb as if powered by an inner battery.

      I’m so ready that it seems as if ten years of waiting has been ten years of voluptuous foreplay.

      My clit leaps as he rolls my nipple between his finger and thumb.

      “Annie, Annie,” he groans, his mouth open against my face. I love that he knows my nickname and uses it in intimacy. In class I was always Annette or Miss Fraser when I got a calculation wrong. I jerk my hips against him in answer, rubbing my crotch against his, wishing I was naked right here in this quiet august corridor with its black-and-white tiles and paneled walls of oak.