In class Friday, I wondered if anyone would be able to tell that things had changed. The only difference was that Langely wasn't openly attacking me. He was almost ignoring me, in fact.
I considered whether or not this should offend me. I weighed the possibility that he was being deliberately insolent. Then I realize that he was not meeting my eyes, even when he spoke to me in the course of instruction, and that it was not indifference. He seldom met the other pupils' eyes, unless he was in the process of ripping them to shreds, but this avoidance was different. It signified defference. He was told he needed permission to look me in the face. I realized that, in the midst of this crowd, he was acting out his submission, without their awareness. How very, very hot.
When class was over, I lingered till the others had gone. He came to me, almost shyly. What would the other students think if they saw him like this?
"Come with me, Thomas." I led him out to the hall, and stopped outside the men's room. "Go in there, go in a stall, and take off your underwear. Bring them out to me."
He ducked his head, slanting a glance toward me that did not quite reach my face, then went in. In a couple of minutes he returned, the white cotton jockeys wadded tightly in both hands, to hide them from anyone who might be close by. Head down, he offered them.
I took them, and quickly stuffed them in my book bag. I looked down, and saw the faint bulge of an incipient erection. I spoke in a conversational voice. Anyone not listening closely would have thought that I was discussing class work. "Be in your office at lunch time."
"Miss Emmie?" His voice was humble. "I didn't bring my lunch."
"I'll bring you something. Don't you trust me to take care of you? You can look at me."
He looked up at me, eyes soft. "I trust you."
"Good boy. Because I will take care of you." The hall was almost empty, we were both going to be late to our next class. I leaned toward him, and rubbed my body against his side, whispering, "I'll take care of you, Langely. Think about that." His face was reddening as I walked away.
After my literature class, I went to a small fast food restaurant across from the liberal arts building. It was individually owned, not a corporate chain, and the menu was more eclectic than most. The owner was Greek, and the speciality was gyro sandwiches, the hot, spiced meat carved off a spitted roast as you watched.
I got one of the sandwiches, and a chicken club sandwich, in case Langely was off red meat. I added french fries and onion rings, a soda, a glass of tea (in case he didn't want carbonation), and... dessert. I was trying to be what Kurt considered a good 'top', anticipating as many needs as possible.
When I got to Langely's office, he was waiting, sitting very straight on the love seat with his hands folded in his lap. I put the food down on his desk, and said, "Move your hands, Thomas."
He obeyed, blushing again. He was visibly aroused, his cock pressing against the material of his pants. He said shyly, "I had to hold my briefcase in front of me when Mr. Campbell stopped to ask about the poetry workshop."
I leaned over him and brushed my lips against his hair. "I bet you got even harder, worrying about him noticing. Didn't you?"
"Yes, Miss Emmie."
I went and sat in his chair behind the desk, dragging the other straight backed chair close. "Come sit down." As he did, I folded the paper bags flat to protect the blotter, and spread the food out on them. All except the dessert. That I kept in a separate bag, tightly closed. Langely eyed it curiously, but didn't touch it, or ask after it.
I indicated the food. "Any preference?"
He shook his head. "No, Miss Emmie. It all looks good."
"All right." I took one of the large paper napkins, unfolded it, and tucked it in his collar, smoothing it protectively over his chest. Then I picked up the club sandwich, broke off a piece, and held it up to his mouth.
He looked at the bit of food for a moment, looked back at me, then tilted his head and delicately accepted the bite. We ate lunch that way.
I would eat a while, then feed him. Between bites of the gyro, I'd dab the grease from his lips with another napkin, hold the glass of tea so he could sip. Once or twice I checked his crotch. If anything, he was harder than ever. There was no way he was going to be able to teach his afternoon class like that, but I intended to remedy the problem.
We finished, and I put away the trash. Then I just sat for awhile, running my hands over his thighs, up his belly. I moved my hands under his jacket, and found his nipples, pinching them through the material of his shirt. He moaned quietly, but didn't speak. "Would you like dessert, Thomas? You've been a good boy, you deserve a treat."
"Yes, please, Miss Emily."
I opened the white sack and took out the baklava, showing it to him. The little triangle of pastry consisted of hundreds of fragile flakes, layered with chopped walnuts and oozing with pale gold honey. It smelled of sugar and orange water. I peeled it out of the paper frill it rested in, and fed it to him, a bit at a time with my right hand. With my left, I reached down and cupped his fly, massaging slowly. His eyes were glazing by the time he finished the last bite.
I scraped a thick glob of honey off the paper frill with my index finger, and painted it over his lips, then leaned down and licked it off. Then I presented my sticky hand and said, "Clean me up, Thomas." With a sigh, he went to work. His tongue swirled over my fingers, my palm, till my hand was no longer sticky, but was damp with his saliva. I moved the box of tissue on his desk close to the edge, where it would be within easy reach. "Open your pants and take out your cock."
He swallowed, then breathed. "Yes, Miss Emily." His hands were shaking as he drew down his zipper and reached into his fly. It took him a moment to wrestle his stiff prick out. He was already weeping clear fluid from the slit in the head. "That was just the last of lunch. This is dessert." I sat on his lap and opened my shirt, then lowered one strap of my bra till I'd bared my right breast. With my left hand I drew his head down, with my right I reached between us. My spit slick hand enclosed him at the same moment his lips found my nipple.
I stroked him firmly as he licked and sucked the stiff bud. Soon I could feel as well as hear his panting and moaning. I laid my cheek against his back, felt the shift of his muscles. He began to push his face against my breast harder, rooting. His flesh was so hot in my hand, and I could feel the throb of his blood. He was getting close. I whispered, "Give me your teeth, Thomas. Just a little."
A long, eager whine, and I felt the hard edge of his teeth in an almost delicate scrape. A bolt of pleasure shot through me. I worked him faster, harder. "More, Thomas, more." He did it again, tugging gently, stretching the flesh. This time it was I that groaned. I shifted so that I straddled his knee, pressing down firmly on the bony knob, and began to hump. "Harder!" He obeyed. There was a flash of pain, but it morphed almost immediately into heat and pleasure, and I rubbed myself against him harder.
Langely released my throbbing nipple to gasp, "Miss Emily..." I knew what he was trying to tell me. I snatched up some tissues just in time to catch his sperm as he orgasmed. He grunted softly, hips lifting, driving his leg up between mine with delicious pressure as his come shot into the wadded paper. "Keep doing that," I ordered. He jerked his knee hard, and I grabbed his thigh, clinging tight, and rode him to my own shuddering release.
I wiped him clean and tucked him back into his pants, drawing the zipper back up. I used a fresh tissue to wipe the sweat from his face, then smoothed his hair back into place. "There. I think you can teach your afternoon class now without any embarrassing distractions."
"Thank you, ma'am." He watched as I readjusted my bra and closed my shirt. "Emily?"
The scene was over. I didn't call him on not using my title. "Yes?"
"There's a faculty mixer tomorrow night. Would you come with me?"
I looked at him, startled. He wanted to go out with me, in public? That was unexpected. "Is that done? I'd have thought you'd be leery of going with a student."
"It isn't unusual for an instructor to bring his best student. Most of us are awful show offs, you know. I've never had a student I thought was worth showing off, till now."
I had to ask. "Are you hoping for another scene afterwards?"
His color had been returning to normal, now he flushed again. "I wouldn't mind, but that's not why I'm asking you. I'm asking you because you are the best student I've had since I've been teaching here. And also because I just like being with you. I told you that once, and you said you didn't believe me. Why don't you believe me now?"
I picked up my purse, trying to formulate an answer that would explain how I saw things. "I haven't had a whole lot of experience with this whole man-woman dating thing, but I've done a lot of observation. I know that it's very possible for people who don't like each other much or have a lot in common to have sex. Sometimes it's easier."
Langely said quietly, "I know I'm far from perfect, Emily. You strung together quite a description when I blackmailed you into taking me as a tutor, and I acknowledge it as accurate. But I can be very different when I care for someone. I just haven't had anyone to care for in a long time, and I'm a little rusty. I'd like the chance to convince you."
I hesitated a moment longer, then said, "I refuse to wear high heels, and I don't own a cocktail dress."
He smiled. "Casual is fine, and as long as you don't wear athletic shoes. Or perhaps you could get away with it. After all, you are an 'artiste'." He gave it the affected pronunciation.
I nodded. "And don't you forget it. What time?"
"I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."
As I went out, I heard him say quietly, "Thank you, Miss Emmie."
