"Teacher_s naughty wife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Ron)

CHAPTER TWO

Afterwards, drained, she took another shower, this time only to bathe.

It wasn't the first morning Joanne had inaugurated by a vigorous bout of masturbation. It had begun as an occasional thing. God, what else could she do, when she spent the night tossing and turning next to a husband who thought bed was merely someplace to sleep? And the few times she'd been able to coax a fuck or a suck out of him, he'd gone about it as if he really were asleep. Pump – pump – pump – squirt his cum up her twat, roll off, and go back to sleep. For Christ's sake! She was a mature, passionate woman, maybe no more passionate than the average, but that was plenty enough. She knew what she wanted, what she needed, and she wasn't getting it from her husband.

SQ she had to get it from herself. But, oh, it left her feeling so nasty when it was over! Masturbation was perfectly okay, it wouldn't rot her teeth or make hair grow in her palms or do any of the other awful things her mother had suggested when Joanne had turned twelve, grown tits, and begun to bleed. But who could live on finger jobs alone? she wanted to know. Who would even want to?

God, something was gonna have to change around here! No matter how uptight Tom was about getting his tenure, no matter how much he worried about his job and its future, he was gonna have to remember that he had a wife and that this turn-off of his was absofuckinglutely killing his wife!

She spent the morning at her housework. It promised to be such a nice day! It was a warm April day, and she stood at the back door, just breathing in the scent of fresh grass and the flowers across the fence in the neighbors yard. The morning sky was pastel blue, a few white clouds drifting across it, and it was too sweet a day to waste alone at home, feeling sorry for herself.

Standing at the sink, the idea came to Joanne. She splashed her hands in the dishwater, coated her arms in bubbles, blew them away, smiling happily. "Yes," she said aloud. "I'll do it," she added. "I'll put on that sexy yellow dress, the one cut way down to here and slit up the sides, and maybe I'll wear those black mesh stockings and the garter belt, too, I'll bet he's forgotten all about the garter belt. Mmmmmmm! I'll just pirouette into his office – let's see, his last morning class is out at twelve, so I should get there a little after – and I'll demand that he escort me to lunch like any other husband with two hours to kill. We'll go to that Chinese place, eat a nice light lunch, maybe some dim sun and tea, nothing heavy. And while we're eating, I'll grab him under the table. He won't be able to get away. And if I can't get a rise out of his cock, I'll send it back to the factory for repair, by God! Oh, yes! Maybe he'll even miss his two o'clock class? That motel on the edge of town. Do they really have closed-circuit porno movies on the TV sets? One way to find out. Oh, God, it's after eleven! I won't have time to make up! I'll look like a dishrag!" She dried her soapy hands and ran to the bedroom. Time was wasting.

It was three minutes after twelve when Joanne entered the outer reception room, the antechamber to the cubbyhole offices provided for non-tenured instructors and assistant professors. The girl who manned the reception desk was out to lunch, apparently, and Joanne marched past, peering down the corridor. The only office that was lit appeared to be her husband's. Probably copy-editing a lecture on the short stories of Ernest Hemingway. All he ever thought about was his job, his work. He spent late evening at the library researching topics he wanted to mention in class, rushing off first thing in the morning to be on tune for his students. Well, she thought, you deserve a break today, Thomas L. Hickman, and you are going to get it.

She considered the options. She could march to his office, rap on the door, and gain admittance. Or – Joanne turned, saw the intercom on the reception desk. She smiled. No, she thought. I'll let him come to me. She went to the desk, leaned her hip against the side, and she pushed the button marked 7, the number of her husband's office.

The only thing she could assume was that he'd forgotten to shut off his squawk box the last time he'd been buzzed from the reception desk. She pushed the button which flicked the box into life and she didn't even have time to lean down and purr a sultry message for her husband's ears. The box chattered into life and Joanne's heart nearly stopped beating.

"Tom, baby, please, oohhh, you're squeezing too hard, you're hurting my tithes! Don't be so rough, baby. You know you can have them any time you want. Let me straddle your lap. Oooohh, Jesus! Have you got a flashlight in your pants or are you just glad to see me, honey bunny?"

Joanne leaned on the desk, shocked. The strange voice continued.

"Bite me! Bite my little nipple. Feel how it gets fat and hard when you bite it? Now lick it. Use your tongue on me, you old cocker! My old cocker, sweet cocker, hard cocker, big cocker… suck me! Do you know that if you suck a woman long enough, she'll make milk in her titties, even if she's never had a baby? I wonder how long that has to be? Seems like I ought to have tits full of milk, the way you eat them up, you dirty old man. Sweet dirty old man. Let me squash down on your big itchy dick. Don't you just ache inside, ache for wanting to put your prick up me? Maybe I won't let you do it today. What do you think of that? Damn you, biting my nipple isn't any kind of answer! Take your mouth off and talk to me, Tommy baby!"

Tommy baby? There was a churning in Joanne's stomach and a sour taste at the back of her mouth, and she felt as if she were going to vomit all over the carpeted floor.

"If you won't let me put my cock in you," Tom replied, "if you won't let me, maybe I'll just bend you over and slide those tight pants down your sweet ripe ass and shove it up you anyway. What do you think of that, Miss Honeybun?"

Honeybun? Miss Honeybun? And Tommy baby? Joanne knew she was going to be sick. She raised her fist to her lips, pressed it down hard, anything to stifle the scream she felt rising in her throat.

"Why do you wear such tight jeans?" Tom was saying. "I don't like it, you strutting around with your ass on display."

"Mmmm, yeah," the female voice answered, "but just think of it this way – all those people looking at my ass and none of them can have it, none of them except my own sweet big cock professor. Mmm, honey, do I get an A for that?"

"An A for ass, the sweetest, juiciest ass ever! Let me unbutton you. Stand up. I want to pull your pants down. I want to smell your cunt and get ray finger in it and suck your juices off. You're not wearing panties, you slut! Let me get a fistful of that fresh hairy pie. God, you're dripping! Your pussy feels like a hot river, flowing onto my hands."

"Is that how Hemingway would have described it?" the girl asked, her voice taking on a tinny, almost adolescent innocent quality. But the laugh at the end of her question spoiled the effect, unless the laugh was the effect she aimed for.

"Fuck Hemingway!" Tom said hoarsely.

"Fuck Hemingway?" the girl replied. "I thought you wanted me to fuck you!" And again that adolescent voice broke into a knowing giggle. A giggle that turned into a long, succulent moan. "Oh, Lord, crook your finger again! I think I'm gonna come!"

"You'll come when I'm ready to let you come," Tom answered, "and that will be when dump a gallon of sticky cum up your tubes, baby, not before. Yeah, wiggle out of those pants. Kick them out of the way. When I get tenure, I'll have a bigger office, we won't have to put up with cramps. Mmmm, your snatch is so tight and wet and juicy, I want to eat it all up! Maybe when I get tenure we'll be together, you and me. All the time. Not just when we sneak around. Do you like that idea? Crimp your pussy if you like it. Ouch! You can stop crimping! I think you're trying to break my finger! I'll bet you could crack walnuts in that hole of yours, couldn't you?"

"Put your walnuts in me and find out," the girl giggled. "But why do I have to take my pants off and you get to keep yours on, hmmm?"

Joanne heard the clicking of a belt, and she knew what was happening. The voices on the intercom didn't have to give it to her in vivid detail, detail that would make the whole thing as clear as if she were in that cramped little office with them, with her husband this – this girl, this – whoever, whatever she was. Joanne felt her legs weakening and she eased against the edge of the desk, unsure whether she'd ever be able to stand up again.

She could have turned off the buzz-box. Sure. She could have gone tome and pretended that she hadn't heard anything. Yeah. She could shit purple and walk around the world on her hands with her legs kicking in the air, too. Her face was going pale, then beet-red, and sweat bubbled on her forehead, leaking out from under her tousled hair. She could feel perspiration forming in her armpits, too, and in the cleavage between her tits. It was fear-sweat, and she was sure she could sniff its rank, tense aroma despite her deodorant and talcum and cologne.

She heard more clinking and clacking, and she could close her eyes and see it all as clearly as if she were watching it. Tom spreading his legs, the giggling girl pulling down his pants. And his cock springing up, a big red lance of erected gristle, capped by a sweet fat knob of purple flesh.

"Suck me!" Tom moaned, and there was an intensity in his voice that chilled Joanne, left her numb and shaking. She'd heard him say that before, many times, but not lately. And – my God, she thought – can this be the reason? Is it his job that's taken away his sex drive, or – God – is it this other woman?

Did she even have to ask? Wasn't the answer so obvious?

"Suck my cock! Bite it! I want to fuck you in the heart, I want to shove my dick down your throat until I touch bottom, I want you to swallow me, all of me, Jesusssssss!"

"Love it," the girl mumbled, and it was difficult to understand what else she was saying. Joanne blanched when the reason for that occurred to her. The girl had a mouthful of dick. Joanne's stomach twitched again. She knew she was going to be sick, knew it, knew it, knew it. If she could only lean over, pull that wastebasket close… she couldn't.

Her head was swimming and she blinked, rapidly, trying to clear away the blurs that wiggled across her field of vision.

"Love you," Tom said, huskily, throatily. "Really love you. Look up at me. Smile. I like to see you smile around my cock while you're sucking it. Know what I like even better? To see you smile when I ram it up your pussy and start to fuck you silly. Get up. I can't wait. If I don't get it in your cunt, I'm gonna blow my nuts down your throat, and I need to fuck you, baby, really need to fuck you!"

"Not half as much as I need to get fucked!" the girl purred, her throat not clogged now, her words coming out loud and clear.

Joanne wanted to scream, to curse and rage, but it occurred to her that if she could hear them, they would probably hear her. And she didn't know if it would be a good thing to bring this out into the open right now. She had to think first, she had to get it all straight in her mind, came up with some snappy repartee, something to tell Tom, to break his balls with words, to let him know that she knew what he was doing and that she was pissed off!

"Oooohhhhhhh!" the girl squealed, and Joanne felt sick knowing that she was listening to her husband fucking another woman. Not even a woman, she corrected herself angrily. A girl. A student, beyond doubt. One of the impressionable young minds he had been given to mold in his capacity as a teacher. God, the hypocrisy of it! Was this how a teacher interacted with his students nowadays? Was this what she'd worked for, saved for so he could attend graduate school? So he could sit in his office and fuck his girl students during the lunch break? Goddamn him to hell! Goddamn his lousy fucking soul! If anyone needed proof that. God was a man and not a woman, this was it. A female. God would have sent a blast of lightning down to fry that son of a bitch in his tracks. God, the male, was probably sitting up there in heaven laughing his ass at the pathetic tawdriness of it all. She knew she was going to be sick.

"Fuck me hard, but don't fuck a baby into me," the girl panted, and Joanne recognized the tone of voice of a woman heated with the passion of sex. "I forgot to take my pill this morning."

"Your tough luck!" Tom said with a laugh. "I'm going to fill you with jism, baby; gonna shoot till it's running out of your nose and mouth and ears! Rub your tits against me. Let me kiss them again. Your nipples get so stiff, I can't believe it. Such little things, and they get so big! Mmmmm!"

"Ooohhh, you're biting again! But don't stop! And don't stop fucking me, either! Ram it up me, Tommy baby, let me feel every inch of what you've got down there. Oh, God, it's so big and hard, I think it's gonna bust me, think it's gonna split my pussy, tear me to little ribbons of twat and hair. But I don't care. I want it, Jesus, I want it, I need it, I gotta have it! Screw meeeeeee!"

And if Joanne had never heard a woman in the pitch of orgasm before, she knew that she was hearing one now. She turned away, unwilling even to face the little communications box that had allowed her to eavesdrop on Tom at his daily grind. Grind! What a great word for it! He was probably grinding for all he was worth, ramming that – that bitch, that cunt – with the cock he couldn't give his own wife. She tried to picture the girl, but she couldn't pin a face the voice she'd been listening to. She could see Tom, clear as day, but he had a blob of shapeless flesh mounted on him, a hole that he was using his cock on. She strove to piece together elements, to deduce physical characteristics from voice, but she couldn't. Whoever, whatever she was, Tom was fucking her and telling her that he loved her, and Joanne was sick with the knowledge of it all.

The girl's moans continued, and they scraped on Joanne's nerves like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. She heard Tom grunt, a deep, throaty grunt, and she knew what that meant, too. He was about to come, about to squirt his jism into the adulterous pussy that obviously meant more to him than the pussy of his own wife. Joanne felt the tears budding in her eyes, and she knew she could not bear to listen any longer. Just before the first sob oozed from her lips she found the strength to reach down and push the 7 button off. The sounds stopped immediately, and then Joanne gave a husking, spirit crushed sob.

Then she sat up. "No!" she said. "I will not! I will not let him hurt me any more than I'm already hurt. I won't cry. I won't!" Courage foamed in her blood and she knew that the worst was over. She had learned the truth about her husband, learned it in the most degrading way possible, but she could live with that. She could even live with the prison sentence the judge would almost certainly give her (unless the judge happened to be a woman) when she blew Tom in half with a twelve-gauge shotgun this evening.

She stood up straight, tossing back her hair. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose into her tissue, then threw it into the waste can. "I'm okay," she told herself. "He's the one who'd better watch his fucking ass. Because he has overplayed his hand, but good!"

The door opened and the receptionist came in, a bubbly little brunette accompanied by a tall skinny girlfriend. They were talking about something as they entered the room but they stopped when they saw Joanne standing there. "Hi, Mrs. Hickman," said the receptionist.

"Hello, Sandy," Joanne said. She wondered if Tom had fucked the little brown-haired girl, too. She'd never considered it, but why not? Sandy was cute and outgoing, with gum bubble boobs hanging loose and braless under her clingy sweater. Her pants fit tight around her hips and tough she was a bit short in the legs, Joanne saw no reason why those short legs couldn't wrap around a man's body. She wanted to ask but decided not to. No sense making a case for premeditation, supplying a witness who might damage her in court. She was counting on a plea of temporary insanity.

"I, uh, I think Professor Hickman's in his office," Sandy said, moving behind the desk. She didn't touch the intercom. "He was working on something, I think, or maybe he was having a consultation with one of his students. I don't remember, but he didn't want to be disturbed. At least that's what he said, you know?" The skinny girl turned away and her shoulders twitched. She was trying not to laugh out loud. The bitch.

"That's all right," Joanne replied. "I really don't have time to wait. I don't even remember why I stopped by." She knew it sounded stupid but it was the only thing she could come up with. She went out the door, closed it not quite far enough for the door to latch, and she stood in the hallway a moment.

"Oh, fuck," the skinny girl said, "I think they're finished. And I wanted to listen in, too. Hey, maybe I can get my roommate's cassette recorder rid we can get them on tape. Be fun to play at parties? Is that really his wife? And she doesn't know about it? At all? My God, I don't believe it."

"Maybe she does know," Sandy said lazily. "Maybe she's frigid and lets him get his kicks when and where he can, y'know? Betcha a pair of pantyhose she was listening. Getting her jollies, huh? I've heard there are ladies who get off that way."

"Christ, don't ever let me be one of them!" the other girl laughed. "I do feel kinda sorry for her, though. I mean, if she doesn't know what's going on."

"To each her own," Sandy replied casually. "Have you got a cigarette? I'm all out." Joanne pushed the door completely shut, as quietly as she could. She went down the hallway, stumbling, angrily willing herself not to burst into tears, and she went out the door into the open air. The wind carried the scent of fresh flowers. It had started out to [missing text].