Ron Taylor: Teacher_s naughty wife

She was into her fourth or fifth drink, she couldn't remember and she didn't care, and it was one o'clock or maybe a little later. There was a clock on the wall but she couldn't see that far, not with any clarity of vision. The noontime crowd had thinned out drastically and she was alone at the bar. A few students, mostly couples, were occupying the booths along the wall, and the jukebox gave forth a disco-type soul song every now and then. Music didn't help, and neither did alcohol. She stirred her drink and listened to the ice clinking on the sides of the glass.

What in the hell was happening to her life? Her husband was fucking some other woman – not even a woman, a girl, a young girl, one of his students. How long had it been going on? Christ, even the little bitch who worked at the reception desk knew all about it, not to mention her bird-legged friend! Was the whole fucking world aware of Tom's extracurricular activities? God! And she hadn't even guessed!

"Bud," she heard someone say, and the voice came from her left hand side. She turned her head slightly and saw that a boy – well, he might have been eighteen or nineteen, probably a freshman or sophomore – had taken the empty stool beside her. The bartender set a mug of foamy beer down, took his fifty cents, and turned away. Joanne lifted her eyes slightly, saw that the boy was looking at her over the top of his mug as he sipped.

"Hi," he said, lowering the glass, a foamy mustache ringing his mouth. He licked at it, delicately, and she watched his tongue play along his lips. It was a small thing, that gesture, but it had a certain grace, a kind of attraction. The tip of his tongue was flat and very red, very moist. He had brown eyes and a mop of shaggy dark hair. And he looked at Joanne with a certain expectancy glittering in his eyes, as if he were waiting far her to return his greeting – and as if he were waiting for a lot more than a hello.

"Hi," she said, nodding, and her eyes lowered. His books were on the bar, and the top volume was an anthology of 1950's beat poetry. "Are you in Professor Hickman's poetry class?" she asked, speaking carefully. The back of her tongue was starting to get numb from scotch.

"Yeah," he said. "You're not, are you? I mean, I don't remember seeing you. And I'd remember you." He stared into her eyes for a long second, and then his gaze drifted downward, into the v-cut neck of her yellow dress. Joanne knew that he was eyeing her cleavage, the saucy exposure of the inner curves of her small, perfect tits, and she took a deep breath, knowing that it made her boobs lift, the bodice of her dress push outward slightly, the nipples of her braless tits put against the smooth cling of the fabric. Why did I do that? she asked herself, watching him take in the impression of her taut nipples. When he looked up he was smiling a little more broadly and for some reason, so was she. Joanne didn't understand that either, but it was the first time she'd smiled since the moment she'd turned on that Goddamned intercom back at the English building, and smiling felt so good.

"Oh, I know Professor Hickman," she said. "At least, I thought I did."

"Can't miss him," the boy replied. "Small guy, wavy hair, can't decide whether he wants to be Al Pacino or Rudolf Nureyev when he grows up." And he grinned.

Was he talking about Tom? She'd never looked at her husband in that light before, but after a moment's thought she could see the boy's point. Tom was tort, about five eight, and his hair was dark and wavy. He was in great physical condition, a tight, trim body, and he moved like a dancer. Or a street angel, maybe? It took a little time for it all to sink into Joanne's head, but when she had it straight, she laughed, and, God, it felt great to be laughing! Not long ago she had thought she might never laugh again.

"I sort of know him," she said. "I used to fuck him, if you want to know the grubby details."

"Oh," the boy told her, nodding, making a delightful mouth at Joanne. "Pre-Alice Custer, right?"

God Christ! Even this boy, this child, knew about it! Joanne sat up straight and she almost frowned and told him to go fuck himself, but what he'd said, sank in. Alice Custer. Was that the name of the girl she'd listened to? The one Tom had only just finished fucking in his office, the one who called him Tommy baby and was Miss Honeybun in return, the one he'd said he loved?

"Yes," Joanne said, raising her voice a little, "that's the cunt who edged me out. I don't know what she has, but that motherfucker…"

"Cool it," the bartender said, coming down the counter to where Joanne was sitting. "This is a nice place and I don't like people using that kind of language. It sounds like shit, especially coming from a drunk broad."

"Fuck you!" Joanne said, whirling. She picked up her half-full glass of scotch and threw it at the bartender. The liquor drenched his shirt and neck and the glass fell to the floor, breaking.

"Okay," he said, "get your ass out the door bitch! And don't bother coming back, right?"

"Blow it out your ass," Joanne muttered, sliding off her stool. Her feet touched the floor but she couldn't feel anything. Everyone in the tavern was staring at her and she didn't want to fall down and make a fool out of herself, not in front of so many people. Oh, God, she thought, trying to hold herself upright, I am so drunk!

"You need some help," the boy said, grabbing her around the waist. "Hey," he said, walking her out the door, his arm supporting Joanne, "I don't think you're in any shape to drive yourself home, I mean, if you're on wheels or anything, you know?"

"I don't have a home to go to," Joanne mumbled, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. He smelled good. Like a man. She'd almost forgotten what a man smelled like. She leaned closer as they went out onto the street, and one of her tits was pressed close against his side. She felt her nipple getting harder and harder behind the yellow front of her dress, and she knew that her teat was boring into his ribs. He felt so smooth and hard under his shirt, and he smelled nice, and she didn't want to go home and be alone, she didn't want to be alone, no, not now. "Take me to your home," she said, looking up. His face turned red and his eyes got big. "Yes," she went on, leaning up, the tip of her tongue appearing between her lips. She leaned close, touched his neck with her mouth and tongue, and he shivered against her. She put her hand on his shoulder. They were almost at the street corner, and there were people all around them, students mostly, but no one even looked twice at a couple kissing on the sidewalk, and she was kissing him. She was rubbing her mouth all over his neck, his jaw, moving up to bite his ear, and their legs were tangled and she was purring into his ear, "If you want me you can have me. I saw how you were looking at me back in the Blue Ball, how you kept staring clown at my tits, and I knew what you were thinking. So let's do it. Let's do it. Let's doooo itttttt!" She moaned the words as if anguish held her in an icy grip, awl she was rubbing her hand all over the front of his t-shirt. She could feel his nipples under her fingers, she could feel them standing up, erect. She tweaked them till he roared in a low undertone, and by then they had crossed the street. They were walking down West Court, and there was her car, whew she'd left it. There was a red parking ticket under the wiper, for she'd overstayed her metered time, but parking tickets didn't matter, nothing mattered. Her world had fallen to pieces and now anything was possible. She could even throw herself at some stranger, some teenaged child she had just met in a dim-lit tavern, and she could be stroking his body with her tits and her hands, purring into his ear the soft, hungry, horny words that were all she had left now.

"If you don't take me someplace and fuck me," she announced, growling like a cat, "I will throw you down on the sidewalk and rape you. And if you think I'm kidding, tell me no and see what happens."