Ron Taylor: Teacher_s naughty wife

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].

Joanne rarely drank, and when she did it was most often a chilled glass of some kind of lovely mild wine. Never in her life had Joanne felt the burning, urgent need to sit down and pour alcohol into her system, never until today. She could have used a cigarette but she didn't smoke.

The Blue Ball Tavern was very close to the college. All the better. She didn't have far to walk. She couldn't have walked very far, let alone get into her car and drive anywhere.

It was noontime and the tavern was pretty crowded. She pushed through the clusters of students sipping beer and munching pizza during their break from classes, and she got to the bar. A boy with bespectacled, pimple-spotted face, trying to grow a luxurious mustache, was just getting up to go to the john as she reached the bar, and Joanne slipped onto his stool. "Give me a scotch and water," she told the bartender. "On second thought, forget the water. And make it a double."