Chapter 8: All Things Must End

For the next month we saw each other as often as we could, always within the safety of her house. Being young and foolish, I of course was willing to risk everything to be with her more often. I fantasized about having a quickie in one of the locker rooms, or getting a blowjob between classes, but in the deep recesses of my brain I knew it couldn't be like that. We did talk about such things, and she confessed to having similar fantasies, but was much quicker to point out how it could never happen. Losing what we had was the biggest deterrent to indulging our fantasies, and we both desperately wanted the fantastic sex that we had every time we were together.

Every day I came to class hoping to see her briefcase standing proudly on the end of her desk. It was like a signal flag—when it was up, my entire day got brighter and I think I walked around with a smile on my face and a stiff cock in my pants until she was in my arms that evening. If her briefcase was lying flat, it meant that her husband would be home that evening, and we would not be able to see each other.

On those days I was moody, and quiet, and had a tendency to snap at people for no good reason. I did my best to contain my churlishness, but it didn't always work. It was made harder because I could see her walking through the halls, and I could see the way her hair moved, and I could imagine the way her breasts moved when she was naked, and the way her nipples played hide-and-seek in her hair.

On those nights I locked myself in my room and wrote stories about her to fill the time. I wrote about her body, and her hair, and the way she smelled, and the way she tasted. Those stories would certainly have got me expelled if anyone in the school system saw them, so they were given only to her. Her reaction to each story was interesting in itself, and it gave me real insights into how to structure the plot and the dialogue to grab the reader's imagination and hold on to it for the length of the story. Of course, since each of the stories had a strong sexual component, each reading typically ended with nudity and orgasms for at least one of us.

On those magical nights when we were naked with each other, we did our best to push the other to new heights of ecstasy. I did learn how to make her orgasm time and again by playing with her breasts, and she did her best to discover any other erogenous zones on my body. We played with each other, and laughed as often as we made love. We even played with fantasies, and she did her best to surprise me with something new as a way of teaching me about sex, and sexuality, and the way to navigate a woman's body.

I never knew how she would be dressed, or how she would present herself when I arrived at her door. Some nights she opened the door completely naked; on others she would be dressed in some form of costume, or uniform. She transformed herself into a naughty nurse, and a stripper, and a streetwalker with her ass showing beneath her skirt while she balanced on six-inch stilettos. One night she wore thigh-high leather boots, but nothing else, and spent much of the evening swatting me with a riding crop while she called me her boy toy and forced me to serve her. Of course, paying homage to her dripping pussy with my tongue wasn't really what I would call torture.

On other nights, she would appear as a complete submissive, ready to carry out my slightest command, and to fulfill my smallest whim. The first time she did that, I found her on her knees in the hallway as soon as I stepped through the door. She was naked, her hands behind her back, and her hair in a ponytail. She looked up at me, and I nearly came in my pants when she said, "Please, Master. Please use my mouth to pleasure your cock. Please fuck my mouth, Master." She licked her lips, then opened her mouth and closed her eyes, waiting for my response.

I was already steel-hard and could barely fumble my jeans down as I stepped up to her. When the head of my cock touched her lips, she dove forward and swallowed me all the way in one motion. When her nose touched my stomach, she swallowed and I nearly lost it. I grabbed her head, then closed one hand around her ponytail and used it as a handle to move her head back and forth. I actually did start fucking her mouth, raping it as I drove in and out of her quickly, and forcefully. I knew I wouldn't last, and I knew that she wouldn't have wanted this to go on for a long time. It was no more than a minute before I was yelling with the strength of my orgasm, and spraying cum down her throat as I pushed into her as hard as I could. She was gasping for air when she pulled back from my cock, but pulled it in again to clean it with her tongue.

She repeated the submissive scene two weeks later, and confessed to me that she usually came at about the same time that I did. Something about being completely submissive like that, and being used harshly, really turned her on.

We went even further into her fantasies one night when we re-enacted the spanking scene from my very first story about her. I was amazed by the way she responded to being spanked, and by the strength of her orgasm when the spanking was finished. The next night she confessed that she had had trouble sitting down all day, and had to spend most of it standing up to teach. I responded that henceforth I would only spank her on Friday nights, so she would have the weekend to recover. Her answer was to grab my balls, since we were naked at the time, and to squeeze them firmly to let me know that she would be the one to decide when, and if, she got spanked again.

The nights we spent together were nearly idyllic. I learned every inch of her body, and every nerve ending in it. I could bring her to orgasm very quickly, or delay it for at least an hour before she came, screaming in ecstasy. She taught me how to make love, and how to just have sex, when to be slow, and when to race to the end as forcefully as possible. We should have known that it wouldn't last forever, that it couldn't last, but we just ignored any thought of the future, and concentrated on bringing each other as much pleasure as possible in the present.

It all came crashing down one night at dinner. My father came in late, apologizing to my mother, and announced that he had momentous news that would affect us all. He told us that he had been appointed as the CEO of a multi-national company, and would be running everything from the company's headquarters on the West Coast. It would mean leaving within a month in order to take up his new duties, perhaps even sooner than that.

I stopped breathing when I heard the news. Literally, I did stop breathing because I began choking on the mouthful of food I had been chewing when he made his announcement. My mother started yelling in fright as my face turned red, but my father calmly stepped behind me and wrapped his arms around me, then pulled sharply under my ribcage. The second time he did it, the half-chewed piece of meat flew across the table and landed on my sister's plate; the face she pulled was really quite funny, although the incident itself wasn't.

When I could breathe again, my father released his hold, and my mother fussed over me until I had managed to convince her that I was fine, and it was just the shock of Dad's announcement that had caused me to inhale at the same time as I was chewing.