101 EROTICA STORIES (159 page)

The cries of the two women mingled with each other. The living room became an exclusive orgy of some sort. The air was filled with the thick scent of sweat and female juice. There was heavy panting along with the screaming. Limbs were intertwined. Body fluid began to drip on the couch, and the stain spread. As if in tune with the spreading stain, the women began to pound into each other harder, faster, and stronger. Female hips rose up, strained, and humped up and down. Hair flew in all directions, and mouths were moistened both inside and outside with sticky body fluid.

“I’m gonna come, Elle,” Miranda cried out. She shut her eyes, her hips still singing with the tune played by Elle’s fingers inside her anus. She wrapped her legs around Elle’s neck. Elle responded promptly by burying her face even deeper on Miranda’s pussy. Elle could smell, taste, and feel the most private part of gorgeous Miranda Larson. She felt like giving herself a big pat on the back. She wasn’t completely sure, but a large chunk of her was confident she was the only woman on the planet to have ever tasted Miranda Larson.

Elle slightly raised her head from Miranda’s cunt. “Come right away, honey,” she answered. “I’m going to burst real soon too. God, you taste so good.” She bent her head down into Miranda’s cunt again.

The next-door neighbors went on like that for several minutes. For Elle, it was a miracle she held her orgasm off for as long as she did. She was about to burst. She felt it in every pore. The feel of Miranda’s fingers sliding in and out of her down there was magical. There was no way she was going to compare the sensation to Roy’s cock. What she and Miranda had was miles apart from what she and Roy had. There was no need to compare the two, for they were completely different things. There was no wrong or right—there was only different.

Then the wave of ecstasy came rushing over, and Elle surrendered to it. She cried out again and again as wave after wave of pure pleasure rolled off her. In a few minutes, Miranda gave in to her ecstasy-filled sensations as well. When Elle sensed Miranda was about to come, she quickly placed her lips over Miranda’s crack. Elle loved the way Miranda tasted, and she wanted to get every drop of her into her mouth.

Miranda came practically into Elle’s mouth. Some of the fluid trickled down the corner of Elle’s mouth, but she got most of it down. She wanted to pleasure Miranda some more until Miranda could no longer get up in the morning, but Elle too was spent. She collapsed on top of Miranda’s pussy. Her hips dropped slightly so that Miranda’s face was almost covered by Elle’s most secret area.

What jolted the women into action was the sound of a car turning into the driveway. Elle and Miranda both sat upright, startled by the sound.

“It’s Anthony,” Miranda whispered, and that did things for them. They quickly scrambled around to get dressed. Elle was particularly distraught. She couldn’t imagine Anthony Larson’s reaction if he walked into his house right this instant and saw his wife in the arms of their next-door neighbor’s
wife
. Oh, the scandal would go on for ages! Elle shuddered at the thought as she pulled her denim shorts up her legs. She hated trouble, and she detested scandals. Then she thought of Roy, and her panic was quickly replaced by horror.

Roy would be heartbroken, that was certain. Somehow, Elle realized the betrayal would be a lot greater than had Elle fooled around with a man. Roy wasn’t a homophobe, but he was very particular with tradition. A woman-to-woman event was something Elle believed Roy wasn’t ready to swallow yet.

“It’s okay,” Miranda assured Elle as Elle hurried to put her ripped shirt on. “He takes a while to come in. We have a few seconds to spare.”

Elle eyed Miranda shrewdly. Miranda was fully dressed by now, and save for the tousled hair, she looked completely normal. Elle kept an ear out for the sound of the car engine. It had gone silent, and she assumed Anthony was in the garage by now. If he stayed as long as Miranda said he would, then that means . . .

“Quick,” Elle instructed. She stepped closer to Miranda, pulled her tank top up to reveal one lacy breast, and yanked the lacy bra down to set one boob free.

Miranda gasped but didn’t move from where she was. “Elle, what are you doing?” she whispered, beginning to feel frantic.

Elle didn’t reply. She placed her lips over Miranda’s soft breast and sucked on like she had all the time to do so. She felt Miranda’s nipple harden inside her mouth. Aroused again, she ran her tongue all over the hardening nub and relished the taste of Miranda—any part of Miranda will do—inside her mouth. Once the nipple had grown erect to its full size, she bit and tugged on it gently.

Miranda, unable to help herself, moaned repeatedly. She knew what they were doing was risky, but she’d be crazy not to give in to Elle’s advances. She moaned again and again as Elle sucked, bit, and nibbled again and again.

Then Anthony’s voice came from the back door: “Miranda, honey?” he called out.

Elle tore her lips from Miranda’s breast and stood up, smiling naughtily. Miranda burst into laughter at Elle’s look and adjusted her tank top back into place. “Silly girl!” she told Elle affectionately.

Elle grinned. “I know,” she answered, and helped herself to a cupcake just as Anthony Larsen walked into the living room and Miranda ran off to greet her husband with open arms.

Megan Brioche was her name, and she was our English teacher. I was one of the new faces in the local high school, but even I was not spared from learning about Ms. Brioche’s reputation. She had something of a harsh and cruel streak, I was told. As an English teacher, she had every right to be every inch the grammar nazi that she really was. But you can’t expect a bunch of teenagers to understand that, though, especially those who went through her so-called iron hands. I had no idea what those “iron hands” meant, and I definitely didn’t intend on finding out what they stood for.

I knew Ms. Brioche even before I saw her. She was notoriously popular, but it was funny because the whole thing was done in a sort of hush-hush way. Kids feared or hated her guts but didn’t want her to know about it. Which is, if you think about it, really ironic because Ms. Brioche very much knew how much the kids would pay an arm
and
a leg just to see her guts burned to the ground. The thought didn’t scare her, I think. I mean, they’re just thoughts anyway. My best friend Bree, who lives on the other side of the world and whom I talk to on a daily basis, told me I should be cautious with the way things were going at school.

“So those kids hate that teacher,” Bree told me during one of our daily Skype sessions. “Doesn’t it creep you out, them thinking that way? They’d love to see that teacher’s guts spilled on the floor, and you’re doing nothing about it.” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest.

I laughed at her reaction. “You’re being silly,” I said. “They’re just kids. They won’t do whatever it is they dream of doing, trust me. Ms. Brioche’s too scary for that.”

“Yes, but did you know that thoughts eventually make way for actions, Blake?” Bree asked. “You sow a thought and you reap an action, something along those lines.”

I shook my head. “I know it sounds scary, but those kids are just being kids. Ms. Brioche’s teaching us seniors, by the way, and we all want to get out of high school and move on with our lives. No one wants to put that dream on hold, even for Ms. Brioche’s guts.”

“Whatever you say,” Bree replied, shaking her head as well.

That was Bree for you. I knew she would be arguing with me until her all her hair fell off if she was standing right in front of me at that moment. Bree lived to argue, and I secretly believed she would die to argue as well. But that’s just Bree being, well, Bree. I was glad she let me off the hook on the issue with Ms. Brioche. My best friend and I don’t see each other as much as we would like to, and there was no way either of us was going to spoil our regular video sessions over some English teacher whom I’ve never even seen.

To be honest, even though the infamous Ms. Brioche had some unpleasant things tied to her name, I wasn’t worried about her. See, I am obsessed with literature. Translation: I love English. I’ve been reading since forever, and while my interests lean toward the science fiction and mystery genre, I’m not likely to turn my nose up other topics of popular interest, like the classics and the horror department. Reading and writing are my life’s passions. In fact, the first time I got wind of Ms. Brioche and her iron hands, I found myself wondering what her favorite books were and who her favorite authors were.

When I made my grand appearance at the high school, Ms. Brioche was on a two-month leave, hence I wasn’t able to attach a face to the popular name right away. Mr. Hanes took Ms. Brioche’s place for the whole two months. Save for his stiff, severe clothing and lousy necktie choices, Mr. Hanes was a terrific teacher. I enjoyed his classes thoroughly, and I could tell the non-English aficionados were having a great time too. I finally had the guts to ask Michelle, one of my English classmates, something that had been bothering me for some time.

“Is Ms. Brioche as fantastic as Mr. Hanes?” I asked Michelle, scooping my books into my backpack.

Michelle looked at me from head to toe, although not unkindly, and smiled mysteriously. The smile made me nervous for some reason, so I didn’t smile back. “You’ll see,” she answered, as mysterious as her smile. “Ms. Brioche’s coming back the day after tomorrow. You’ll know soon enough, Blake.”

Okay, so people were touchy on the subject of Ms. Brioche. I frowned, trying to make something out of my conversation with Michelle, then shrugged. To hell with Ms. Brioche!

Michelle was right. Two days later, Mr. Hanes was nowhere in sight and Ms. Brioche was in his place. Well, it was her place, technically speaking. I had forgotten Michelle’s bit of information and was sort of groggy that day. So when I tumbled half-sleepily into the room and saw a woman instead of the usual Mr. Hanes, I initially thought I had stepped into the wrong class. But there was Michelle in her usual seat, Marcus in the back row like he always was, and I saw a bunch of other kids who were clustered and seated in their usual places. I definitely had to be in the right class.

Then Michelle gave me a wave, and it was only when I made my way toward her that I remembered Ms. Brioche was set to be back this very day. And, boy, was she very back! I sat in my usual chair on Michelle’s left. She nodded to say hi, and I smiled back, although a bit hesitatingly. I stole a glance at my watch. There were still five minutes to go before class officially began, but it was so quiet already.

I glanced around. Was this really the rowdy English class I came to every Wednesday morning? Unbelievable. I sat straight in my chair and focused my attention on the woman seated behind the desk on the platform. She seemed to have an extra sense or something, because she looked at me just as I looked at her.

Our eyes met.

It was the very first time I saw Ms. Brioche in the flesh and in the face. Her reputation was wrinkled and ugly, and I somehow associated the same adjectives in terms of her physical appearance. But I was wrong. Ms. Brioche may be known as something of a wicked witch in school, but the same definitely can’t be said of her looks.

Megan Brioche was hot, as in sizzling hot. She had straight black hair that fell down to a tiny, slender waist. Her face was more on the square side, but her face shape did nothing to diminish her beauty. She had a high creamy forehead that screamed of intelligence. Her eyes were of a deep dark brown. They were so dark that they were almost blank. Her nose was a bit pointy, but you can’t tell unless you looked long enough, and when you do look long enough, you wouldn’t care about her nose anyway. Her cheekbones were insane. They could rival those of a ramp model’s, I swear. She had slightly full lips that were neither flat nor pouty, but they looked soft enough. Her neck was long and slender. It was creamy and graceful as a swan’s. I couldn’t believe it. It just didn’t seem fair for a person to be gifted with looks and matching brains to boot, did it?

I found myself hypnotized with Ms. Brioche’s dark, mysterious eyes. Good lord, I was being suckered into its deep waters! Then someone coughed, and whatever it was that Ms. Brioche and I together snapped and broke. I flushed and felt beads of sweat begin to make way into my forehead and on my back.

The bell rang, and English with Ms. Brioche began. She pushed the chair behind her and stood up. My eyes ran all over her figure. She was tall, roughly around five feet and nine inches, I think. She was wearing a bright striped sweater that hinted of a shapely figure underneath it and well-fitting pants that clung to every mold and curve like her skin itself. Her breasts were small but round and pert. Her hips were okay, nothing remarkable, but she had a good behind that spoke of regular walks and runs down difficult trails and paths. The girl had a firm tush, I had to give it to her. Looking at her ass, I felt the urge to run my hands down and all over them just so I could have an idea on how they felt, just so I could feel those toned muscles ripple and tighten beneath my flat palms.

What a fantasy. I flushed again. Thankfully everyone was too absorbed doing their own thing to notice. I felt something between my legs, but I ignored it. I couldn’t be fantasizing about my female English teacher, can I? No, scratch that—my
hot
female English teacher.

Other than a sudden attack of pure lust, I also felt something while looking at the divine being that was Megan Brioche. At eighteen, I do have the occasional body issues. Staring at Ms. Brioche was like having all your insecurities thrown in your face. She was so freaking gorgeous.

The class went by without any event. I, on the other hand, was too absorbed with thoughts of Ms. Brioche to focus on what it was she was saying. For an English nut like I am, it was a first. I just couldn’t concentrate. Every time I looked up to listen to Ms. Brioche’s lecture, I found myself looking with something like sheer rapt at her face and body. My eyes and brain seemed to never get tired of her, and I felt like I could look at her forever. The thought was so cheesy, I was jolted out of my reverie. I felt like giving myself a good, solid kick on the head.

It didn’t take long for the bell to ring again, this time giving the signal that class was over. I sighed in relief and snapped my textbook shut. I felt guilty not paying attention in class and thinking of lewd thoughts about my English teacher. I scolded myself for my silly behavior. I’ve never behaved like this in my entire eighteen years of existence. I can’t afford to mess up in school right now, especially with the college scholarship that has been offered by my university of choice. This time I took a deep breath.
I’ll do what I can to stay on top, I promise
, I told myself mentally. Ms. Brioche or no Ms. Brioche, I’ll do my best to be the best cream of the crop.

“Blake Summers?” a voice called out.

I froze. So did the few remaining students in the classroom. Michelle, opening her mouth to strike a conversation with me, shut her mouth with a slightly audible click. I still hadn’t moved from my position, slightly bent over my backpack. The dots of sweat broke out all over my body again, but they were bigger and more ferocious this time around.

“Ms. Brioche?” I answered in a calm voice. Which was a major achievement, considering the solid ball of anxiety I felt inside. Oh, my god, Ms. Brioche just called me! What did she want? Suddenly the stuff they’ve been saying about this drop-dead gorgeous but scary, twisted woman came rushing back into my head. I started to panic.

“I need you to come to my office after class,” Ms. Brioche said. Her voice was sort of clipped and cultured. It was a voice that was a complete contrast to her angelic looks, but like most of her flaws, it added to her charm.

“I see you’re new in this school,” Ms. Brioche continued. “I don’t know Mr. Hanes’s style of teaching, but I know it’s an excellent one. However, I do have a different approach to teaching English. My style is miles apart from Mr. Hanes’s, but that doesn’t mean it’s defective.” She paused to look at some sheets of paper in front of her. “I need to discuss my teaching style with you, make sure you know how it goes and how I run things here.”

Like I have a choice in the matter
, I thought. I nodded to my teacher. “Sure, Ms. Brioche. I have study period after this, anyway.”

“Great!” Ms. Brioche exclaimed, and stood up. “Follow me then, Ms. Summers.”

I grabbed my backpack and headed out to follow Ms. Brioche. I saw Michelle had waited for me outside. There was no need to tell her what happened. I’m sure she saw the whole thing with her own two eyes.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” I whispered as I passed by her.

“Not a problem,” Michelle whispered back. “Good luck, Blake.” Then she gave me a wink.

I was puzzled. What was that supposed to mean? You don’t wink at people who are about to be, well, punished. I knew I haven’t done anything wrong to offend Ms. Brioche, but I couldn’t get rub off the feeling that I was off to be punished for
something
.

Ms. Brioche’s office was small but tidy. It had a desk, two chairs in front, and a small couch in one corner. She held the door for me when I came in and shut it resolutely. Most of the room was in white. It had a minimalist, Zen-like feel to it, which I liked immediately. I stood where I was and waited for Ms. Brioche to begin whatever it was she was set to begin.