Allen Whitten - The teaser next door

Seeing the reams of paper still to be plowed through, he leaned back in his chair. He ran his hand across his brow and massaged the corners of his eyes. His gray-streaked head drooped a bit as subconsciously he admitted defeat, though consciously he clung to the hope that he could still enlighten these immature minds to appreciate the poetic masterpieces, to distinguish between the maudlin sentiments saturating the pages of most modem magazines, as well as saturating the minds of those who read their facile mouthings.

In essence he was blue-penciling his thoughts, deleting the pessimistic tones that threatened at any moment to break the barriers and confront him with their inescapable arguments of his own rank failure to enlighten and educate.

There were things on his mind, sensual things which ate into his concentration, things wet and warm and furry.

He stood and let his mind float out of the cloying confines of his room drift past emerald phrases locked in his mind, and dwell on more earthy things. On a tight pair of cut-off blue jeans hugging two well-defined hips that undulated to a rhythm more powerful than Keats.

And in a bastardization of the immortal bard, he felt his too solid flesh melt, and a warmness grip his loins.

Wendy Halliburton. He could not help remembering the seminar party. Hadn't she brushed against him then? It had been innocent enough. She had turned abruptly, standing quite close to him and bumped into him. He felt the soft resilience of her firm tits give against his arm. They were magnificent! He had already been made aware of her tits; how could he help it? Her breasts demanded attention, and he longed to give him his sole attention, but the others were there. Margaret was there. Now he was even more aware of Wendy's tits pressing into his arm, and he felt the flush of embarrassment flood him.

At the same time her loins had collided with the back of his hand, and had he touched the yielding flesh of her thighs, her belly, her cunt mound? He was not sure. The silken fabric of her dress was magnetic all sleek and warm. For one wild moment, out of control, he had wanted to turn his hand and cup it between her thighs and ardently stroke the soft female flesh, even through the cloth.

She had seemed to realize that. He thought he saw the glint of apprehension in her eyes, and he was surprised that she did not step quickly away, recognizing what had flitted ever so quickly across his mind.

Wendy. It was a haunting name, one that today he could not erase from his mind. He rolled it quietly across his lips, in a soft whisper, letting his mouth shape it, almost feeling the texture of the name. He tried to sound husky as he said it, as if he were poised above her, preparing to consummate their innocent brushing into a full-fledged frontal assault on her cunt.

He shook his head. What the hell was he thinking of? He was happily married, he told himself, but even as he admitted that, he found himself dredging up all the little annoyances that his wife taunted him with.

Margaret. Wife, mother of his grown son. Matronly was the word that came to his mind when he thought of her. He tried to apply words like "sensuous" or "passionate" to her, but quit when he realized what a dismal definition they made in conjunction with her mousy looks.

Words like "sensuous" or "passionate" were fitting to women like Wendy. She could give them meaning, could make the words into flesh. Ye Gods, and what flesh she gave them.

Margaret had never been a passionate woman, even when their love had been in its first bloom. Of course she performed her wifely duties, never shirking what she felt was her responsibility, but Martin had always been aware that she perceived of it in exactly that fashion as a dutiful response to her mate.

In her words, sex was "brutish, lacking the intellectual".

After they had fucked, she would ask, "Was I all right?" and he would invariably sing her praises, even when her performance had been less than adequate.

He paced about, restless like a caged lion.

Even he had begun to consider it a mere performance, and his own actions in the bedroom no longer had pep or energy. He would wheeze and grunt his way to orgasm, emptying his balls in her unprotesting cunt, yet always aware that something was missing.

What he wanted was a wantonness, an abandonment on the part of his wife. He wanted her to be a slut.

Now with Wendy, he was sure that he would not have to lead the slightest bit. And the more he thought about it the more enamored he became of the idea.

His wife was gone to a lecture. She was on the invitation committee, and also had to help with the refreshments. She wouldn't be home for hours.

He stared out the window at the life glowing in the trees and flowers. The sun had still another hour of life before it would disappear behind the horizon.

Martin touched the receiver of the telephone. He was tempted to call Wendy, to make her a simple overture, but the thought of rejection, of shocked outrage on her part, of embarrassment should she mention it to Margaret, stayed his hand. He would need a reason to call her.

She had said that she wanted to see the house. That would be his excuse. He would have to be careful about what he said.

He had come up with his opening remark. He would have to play it by ear from there. He did not want to rehearse anything for fear that it would sound stilted. He must be spontaneous.

Already he felt the excitement gripping him. Butterflies danced in his stomach, and lust, like a puckish elf, tickled his balls.

Wendy was playing with her pussy when the phone rang.

She had been stroking it for several minutes, not in any great hurry, enjoying the slow building of the warm tingling inside her tender cunt, feeling it spread.

She pouted when the phone rang, thought seriously about ignoring it, then shrugged. She was not far enough along in her self-stimulation that she could not resume later. If she had two fingers buried in her cunt, tickling her cunt, then she might have ignored the phone.

"Halliburton residence," she said, expecting it to be for her father or mother, and ready with her spiel about her weekend. She was surprised to hear Martin Wynn's voice.

"Wendy?"

"Why, Professor Wynn, what a pleasant surprise."

"I wasn't sure it was you. Your voice sounded so husky. I didn't interrupt anything important, did I?"

Well, fingering oneself was important for someone who was as horny as Wendy was, but she supposed she could tell one white lie to him.

"No. The reason I took so long was that my, uh, hands were dripping wet."

She still lay on her bed and continued to massage her pouting pussy.

"Doing a little housework, I suppose."

"Well, some things demand a lot of attention." He murmured agreement.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"Provide a little company. You mentioned that you'd like to see the house sometime. And well, my wife's gone to some silly lecture, and I find myself caught up with my work, and a bit lonely."

She caught the catch in his voice when he mentioned that his wife was gone for the evening. She lifted her pert little eyebrows. Was she getting a nibble from the professor? That would explain the nervous tension she detected in his voice.

"I could use a little company myself. But I don't have anything to wear."

"Oh, don't, uh, go to any trouble. That outfit you were wearing this afternoon will be fine. Let's keep it informal. It's so much more, uh, intimate."

She parted her cuntlips with one insinuating finger and began to pummel her clit.

"Yes, I like cozy little gatherings. Will there be just the two of us?"

Her clit was beginning to demand attention. It had risen to a fierce erectness.