Student And Teacher Ch 03

When morning came, it was Iris who was momentarily confused as to where she was—or, rather, why there was another occupant in her bed.

She let out a little cry when she saw the long, muscular form of a young man next to her, lightly snoring, his face buried in the pillow. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent further noise and risk his waking up. Then she slid out of bed, groaning as various parts of her body protested the unusual exercise they had just received. Stumbling to the bathroom, she started the shower and got into it. The nearly scalding water washed away a lot of the fluids that had filled her orifices, and she emerged cleansed and a little more confident of herself.

She cursed herself for not taking a set of clothes with her to the bathroom, and so she was compelled to return to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, and let it fall while she hastily slipped into a bra and panties. Predictably, Damon had woken up and peered fascinatedly at her. As she slipped a mid-length blue dress over her head, she looked at him severely and said:

"You'd better get up. I have a ten o'clock class."

"Yeah," he said sleepily. "So do I."

"I'll make you some breakfast."

"You don't have to—"

"Of course I do," she snapped, heading out the door. "I can't let you get out of here on an empty stomach. Anyway,

I

need something. Come down soon."

And with that, she left the room and tripped down the stairs.

Damon hadn't, of course, brought a change of clothing along—how could he possibly have predicted that he'd spend the night here?—and so he was disinclined to shower. He merely put his clothes back on and padded downstairs toward the kitchen.

He saw Iris energetically making bacon and eggs. The coffeemaker was at work also. It was far more than he had expected, and he was touched. But he knew that's the way she was: kind, caring, considerate, even at someone who had so boldly invaded her house and her body.

"Make some toast," she ordered briskly, gesturing in the direction of the bread box and the toaster.

Their breakfast had to be quick, since it was already past 9:30. They said almost nothing over the meal, since this was clearly not the time for any heavy discussion. But Damon did venture one question.

"Can I see you again?"

He awaited her answer with trepidation. It wouldn't have surprised him in the least if Iris had demanded that he never darken her door again and pretend that last night had never happened. And she seemed on the verge of saying just that; but then she let out a little sigh and said, "Yes, of course."

Elated, he shot back: "Tonight?"

"No!" Her response was both forceful and agitated. "No. Not tonight. I—I need a little time to . . . recover."

He smiled inwardly at that.

I bet you do.

"How about tomorrow?" That was Friday—the end of the school week!

"All right," she said, resigned.

"Great!" he enthused, getting up from the table and giving Iris a quick hug and a kiss on the top of her head. "You're the best, Iris!"

"You'd better leave first," she said nervously. "We can't be seen going to campus together."

"I understand," he said. And he trotted out the front door without a backward glance.

Iris made it a little more slowly out of the house, and in minutes she was shuffling through the door that led to the offices of the history professors. Carrie Branscom's desk was positioned in a landing in front of the corridors that led to those offices, and she looked up and gave Iris a shaky greeting. "Hello, professor."

Carrie didn't dare ask Iris whether a young man named Damon had visited her at home, for she couldn't risk letting her know that she was the one who had leaked her address. It did strike her that Iris didn't look quite the same as usual, but she wasn't about to ask why.

As Iris dumped some books and other paraphernalia on her desk, she saw that it was ten minutes to ten. Yikes! Just barely in time for class.

A colleague, Betty Harper, who taught European history, was rushing out to her own class, but stopped short when she saw Iris sitting wearily at the desk in her office, staring into space.

"Gee, Iris, you okay?" Betty said, adding with a smirk: "Rough night?"

Betty was fully aware that Iris seemed a pretty lonely soul, and she figured that Iris was just one of those people who either didn't want a relationship or was so choosy that she hadn't found the right man. Betty and her husband had had Iris over for dinner any number of times over the past four years, but Iris had always come alone. In fact, she had chided some students whom she had once overheard referring to Iris as "the ice queen."

Iris looked up in a daze at Betty. "I—I didn't sleep so well." In fact, Iris had slept like the dead and had woken up groggy, as if drugged.

"Well, hope you wake up—your class is in a few minutes."

Iris nodded distractedly, then wriggled on her seat, a wince of pain on her face.

That made Betty stop short.

No, there's no way—

She put the thought out of her mind.

That's just too absurd. She must have worked out a bit too hard at the gym. Someone so slender as Iris must work out.

Betty gave Iris a tentative wave and bolted out of the office.

In the few minutes Iris had before she had to trudge to class, she tried to think coherently on what had happened last night. The whole thing had already come to seem like a dream—a pleasant dream (although with a few painful bits), but a dream nonetheless. How could she have let herself go like that? What was it about that young man—scarcely more than a boy, for all his height, strength, and sexual experience—that had enticed her to yield to him so readily? It was shocking, appalling, outrageous . . . but she couldn't help smiling over certain parts of it, playing them over and over in her mind.

When she left the office, Carrie noticed a soft smile and a light in Iris's eyes. The transformation from Iris's usually gloomy expression was so startling that Carrie's jaw dropped.

*

It was late afternoon on Friday when Damon casually ambled into Iris's office.

Iris was furiously grading papers, trying to finish her work so that the evening would be uncluttered. She didn't even notice Damon in the room until he impudently sat on the corner of her desk and said, "Hey, babe, what's up?"

She gave him that wide-eyed look that had already wrung his heart several times before. "God, Damon!" she whispered. "You scared the bejesus out of me! What—what are you doing here?"

"Just checking in to see if we're still on for tonight."

Her eyes widened even more. "Go close the door," she hissed, even though that was something that was forbidden by school policy. Professors' office doors had to remain open, precisely to avoid compromising situations like this one.

Damon slid off the desk and did as Iris instructed, then sat heavily on a chair facing the desk. He gave her a meaningful look.

"You really shouldn't have come here," she said, still in a whisper, even though with the door closed there was little chance anyone could overhear them.

"Why not?" Damon said. "I could say I've just come to talk about schoolwork. I

am

a history major now, you know."

"Yes, fine, but—"

"So are we on?"

She looked away at him and colored. "Of course we're on."

"Great! I wanted to be sure I was wanted."

She swallowed painfully. "Um, maybe you could—you could come by for dinner."

He was touched by the gesture. "Gee, Iris, you don't have to do that."

Iris was a little peeved that he now seemed comfortable using her first name. She had rather liked it when he called her "ma'am": there was something delightfully old-fashioned about it. But she figured, resignedly, that after what they'd been through she couldn't possibly forbid him to call her by her name.

"I—I don't mind," she said. "It's no fun cooking for one. I think I'm a pretty good cook."

"I'm sure you are," Damon said genially.

"You like pork chops?"

"Love 'em!"

"Okay. Come by around six or six-thirty. You'd better go now." She tried to look severe, but probably failed.

"Sure thing, dear," he said, impulsively bending over the desk, taking her face in both hands, and pasting a wet kiss on her mouth. Before she could protest, he had flitted out the door.

I don't mind him calling me "dear," but I'm going to tell him he'd better not call me "babe" again.

It was to be expected that Damon showed up at Iris's house even a little before six. She rushed from the kitchen to the door, where she let him in without ceremony, escaped his attempt to embrace her, and dashed back to the kitchen. She was wearing a fetching apron that covered nearly her entire front, coming up just short of her knee-length floral print dress. There were a few streaks of flour on her face, as she was making a homemade breading for the pork chops while also making homemade mashed potatoes. She drew the line at the vegetable side dish: she'd just pop some frozen asparagus into the microwave. There was even an apple pie for dessert (store-bought).

Damon consumed the meal with immense appreciation, and Iris watched him with quiet pride, delight, and a little awe. Well, what do you expect for an athlete—even though it was the off-season for the baseball team? She even pressed upon him to eat some of her own pork chop, which she felt was a little too large for her. He protested, but at her insistence he gave way. It didn't last long on the plate.

After pie and coffee, they sauntered over to the living room.

Iris was determined not to go right up to the bedroom: that would be just too degrading. And Damon sensed that, too, placing himself delicately on the sofa and patting the seat next to him. She sat there demurely and allowed him to put his arm around her shoulders.

She had to admit that there was a great deal of comfort in a man's embrace.

"What would you like to do?" she said, resisting the temptation to rest her head on his chest. "Watch a movie?"

"Mmm, I don't think so," he said. "Don't think I have the energy for that." The unspoken subtext was obvious:

I have a lot of energy for other things, but not for that.

"How about some music?" she suggested.

"That would be great!" he cried.

"What would you like?"

"Whatever

you

like."

She pried herself out of her grasp and headed over to her collection of CDs.

"Do you like classical?" she said.

"Don't know much about it, but if you do, that would be fine."

She wasn't exactly trying to force culture down this country boy's throat, but she picked out a nice CD of one of Mozart's late piano concerti and put it on.

As the orchestra burst into an impressive series of chords, and then the solo piano initiated a dazzling run of virtuoso scales, Damon's mouth opened a bit in surprise. He had, like so many others, thought that most classical music was stuffy and pompous—something that old folks listened to in imposing concert halls, sitting rigidly silent as if at a funeral—but this piece was lively, even electrifying, and Damon enjoyed it to the hilt. The slow movement was moody and atmospheric, and he was struck by how Iris instinctively sidled into his lap and rested his head on her chest. The dress had a scooped neckline that revealed a fair amount of cleavage, and there was a light sheen of perspiration on the top of her breasts that exuded a delicate odor—the odor of

her,

unmasked by deodorant, body wash, or perfume. He held her tightly, continuing to do so as the sprightly final movement made both of their hearts beat a little faster.

When the piece was over, he knew the time for other things had come.

Without ceremony he lifted Iris up in his arms and, over her (largely feigned) protests, carried her upstairs. He playfully dumped her on the big king-size bed while, staring fixedly at her, he proceeded to undress. She watched him open-mouthed as he peeled off his shirt, pants, socks, and underwear to reveal himself in glorious and already semi-hard nudity.

She was about to respond with her own striptease, but Damon forestalled her. Flipping her over onto her stomach, he undid the long zipper that extended from her neck to her bottom, then pulled the dress out from under her. Now she was only in bra and panties, and he quickly removed those. Then he leaped into bed with her.

Their first session was a bit frenetic. Iris was still sore from their repeated couplings of two nights ago, but she now ached to have him in her again. But he delayed that gratification. First giving serious attention to her glorious breasts, he then slid down her body, parted her legs, and plunged his face into her sex, licking both the hairs that covered her delta and her moistening labia and clitoris. She wrapped her legs around his back and pressed his head against her groin, shamelessly letting out cry after cry until an even sharper exclamation signalled what she suspected was the first of many climaxes she would have that night.

With a glint in his eye, Damon literally climbed up Iris's body and in a single motion slipped his cock into her and seized both of her breasts with his hands. Although gasping at his sudden entry into her, Iris instinctively raised her legs and bent her knees to accommodate him; however long her sexual drought had been, it was as if her body reacted on its own to facilitate their union. Damon pressed his lips—still coated with her juices—onto her mouth, affording her a sense of what her own sex tasted like; and he pounded her vigorously yet without violence, filling her to repletion and then, after several minutes, dousing her vagina with his emission.

Afterward, they resumed their now customary position: Damon on his back, Iris on top of him, draping him like a warm and soft human blanket. She strove to keep his seed in her, but it inevitably leaked out onto his groin, mingled with her own fluids.

As they recovered from this first coitus, she decided to do some probing of her own.

"So how many girls have you had?" she asked shyly but with an evident determination to worm the truth out of him.

"Not that many," he said evasively.

"What's 'not many'?" she said, lapsing into teacher mode. "Five? Ten? A hundred?"

He chuckled at the thought of bedding down a bevy of five score women. "Eight or nine, I think."

"That seems like a lot to me!" she cried.

"It isn't really. A couple were in high school, the rest here."

"I hope they weren't all—you know . . ." She trailed off.

One-night stands?

He read her mind. "A few were just for sex," he admitted. "I mean, there are times when the body just needs it, you know? But most weren't like that. Maybe I wasn't actually in

love

with the girls, but I did like them and care for them. It's a lie to think that men just want the physical act.

I

don't. I know it makes a huge difference if you have feelings for the girl." He suddenly got choked up and was unable to continue.

Iris was moved by his confession. "So . . . you tried to have a real relationship with these women?"

"Of course! Some of them didn't last very long, but one or two did."

"But you didn't find them—satisfactory?"

"It wasn't just me. Sure, I may have dumped most of them, but the last one—a girl named Louise, a year younger than me—dumped

me

a couple of months ago, right at the end of last semester."

"Why?"

"Oh, she just said we didn't really have a lot in common, and she couldn't see a future with me. Okay, fine. I wasn't terribly broken up; I wasn't exactly keen on

marrying

her or anything like that; but I thought we were having a lot of fun, and I did care for her. But that was her decision."

She didn't respond as she digested this information.

"What about you?" he said.

She froze, as he could immediately tell by the tightening of her back and bottom (which he happened to be massaging at the time).

"H'm?" he pressed. "How many guys have

you

had?"

She raised her head and glared at him. "You don't ask questions like that of a lady!" she said indignantly.

Damon was momentarily inclined to be flippant, responding with a variant of the old joke (

You're no lady, you're my lover!

). But in fact she

did

seem like a lady—in the best sense of that much-abused term. It wasn't at all that Iris was snooty or haughty or anything like that; but she had a quiet dignity about her, an instinctive sense of good breeding and classy behavior, that reminded him of an older and saner way of life.

And all this doesn't mean she isn't capable of having some fun!

But he was intent on the matter. "Oh, come on, tell me! I wanna know."

"Why?" she said pointedly.

"I just do! I told you about

my

past involvements, so why can't you tell me?"

"I'm not going to, that's why." She sounded as determined, even as bull-headed, as he had ever known her to be.

"Okay, okay," he said. The last thing he wanted to do was to have an argument at this delicate moment. Readily as she had welcomed him into her bed, he wasn't sure that she wouldn't just as readily dismiss him, without any thought of the consequences.

"But I gather," he added, playing with fire, "it's been a while."

"Yes," she said between gritted teeth.

"Well, I'll always be here for you," he said fervently. He didn't mean it just in the sense of

I'll always be here to warm your bed,

but rather:

I'll never let you down, I'll always do whatever you need me to do, I'll cherish you forever.

Somehow Iris sensed all this, and she looked at him, eyes glistening, with kindness and gratitude.

And as he continued to knead her backside, she said in a small voice: "You—you want to go into my bottom?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied dutifully.

"Okay. The lube is in the top drawer." She indicated the nightstand next to the bed.

This session didn't last quite as long as their last, but without a great deal of effort Damon managed to get four orgasms for himself and at least six for Iris. The last one was a vibrant session of sixty-nine (although he had to explain to her what that meant), during which he sensed that he might have made her come twice, maybe three times, before his own member—which Iris licked and sucked as if it were a huge lollipop, sometimes gripping the base with her small hand and at other times seizing one or both cheeks of his bottom—exploded like a geyser in her mouth. She bravely swallowed most of his emission, but afterwards leaped up from the bed and headed to the bathroom, where he heard her lap up several gulps of water with a hand.

"Sorry about that," she said sheepishly as she returned to the bed. "I—I'm not sure I like the taste of come."

"That's okay," he said. "I don't mind if you spit it out." He did, but he wasn't about to say so.

She snuggled a bit next to him, then said she was exhausted and wanted to sleep. He did too, and they lapsed into unconsciousness almost at once.

*

When Damon had shown up at her house the night before, Iris had noticed that he had brought along a large backpack seemingly filled to the brim with all manner of things. It turned out that he brought several changes of clothing with him, so she sensed—with only a faint hint of irritation at his presumptuousness—that he intended to stay the whole weekend.

She firmly rejected his offer to shower together: she was already sore enough (again) that she wasn't inclined toward further copulation right then, and anyway she wanted to get breakfast going. She was famished, and together they made an even larger breakfast than two days before. This time, in addition to an omelet and bacon, she added hash browns (out of a box) and homemade biscuits. It was a fabulous meal, and they were thoroughly satisfied afterwards.