Hot Jesus: Poetic Seductions

Chapter One

Hot Jesus

“He looks like Jesus,” Monica says. She’s my roommate and the only person I know on campus. We moved in yesterday, drank margaritas, and fell asleep until about fifteen minutes ago. We barely made it to class. She is, of course, gorgeous, even in the morning.  Her long, blonde, curly hair frames her distinct features like she just walked out of a Renaissance painting. All she has to do is wake up, throw on a slip dress, and bop out the door. Bitch. I, however, look like a homeless person who has wandered into class. I walked out the door with my hair twisted in a messy topknot, the pajamas and t-shirt I wore to bed last night, and no a bra. I feel like rag-doll reject sitting next to Barbie. I sit there wallowing in my disgust when she repeats, “That’s what I heard. The professor looks like Jesus.”

“Nah, he’s probably some old guy,” I say as I put on my sunglasses. “Early American History professor. He was probably a goddam eye witness.” It’s not that I am so intent on hating the class. I am just resenting that the last open section was at 8:30 in the morning.

Dr. Vincent walks into the room, and he is nothing like I expected. He's wearing a pair of faded jeans, which only draws my attention to his ass, instead of the page number he calls out as he passes by my desk. As Mr. Vincent slips off his black leather jacket, he brushes back his long, curly hair that falls just past his shoulders. He’s wearing a "Just Push Play" Aerosmith tour T-shirt that listed the cities and tour dates. As he pulls his books and papers out of a bag and places them on the podium, he turns around to finally face the class. He has a well-trimmed beard and mustache to go with his beautiful sable hair. His T-shirt has Aerosmith printed on it with a robot in an orange dress reenacting Marilyn Monroe’s Seven Year Itch subway grate scene. Despite the apparent age of the shirt, it is not nearly as worn as twenty years would suggest. But it isn’t until my gaze drifts from the robots head back to his that I finally see them. He looks up from his papers, and there they are; his eyes are such a brilliant cerulean blue that I can see them even from the back of the room. I expected a fossil. What I got was rocker Jesus.

I start thinking a little too out loud. I do that sometimes. I think I'm playing this voice in my head until I realize that everyone heard what I was thinking. Apparently, I lean back in my seat and actually say, "Jesus.” The whole class is looking at me. Monica is trying to hold in her laughter.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Vincent questions. “Am I boring you?”

 "Ah, no. Of course not. I was just thinking that Jesus was significant to the settlers in America—you know, Jesus and the church were one of the main reasons they like came over here.” Okay, so it’s bullshit. But I really don’t want the professor to hate me already. I would like to at least hold out until about mid-term.

“Yeah, right. Good save.” He’s not buying it, but at least it gave him a reason to change the focus off me. "That's an excellent point. What was going on in England that would make groups of people want to sail three months in perilous conditions just to try to make a new life here?”

The class goes on, but I really am not paying any attention. It’s not that I don’t like history. I do. As a matter of fact, I'm reeeeeally loving history right now.

For the next class, I actually make an effort. I shower. I shave my legs. I even throw on a little makeup. Oh, and I read the assignment, so I will have plenty to talk about.  I check the mirror to make sure everything is perfect. I smooth my long, dark hair as I check to make sure my short, denim skirt matches beautifully with my tank top. Eye shadow. Perfect. Lashes. Curled. Legs. Long and tanned just right. I’m ready for class. But I am quite sure I am not prepared for this familiar feeling I have in the pit of my stomach.

I decide that I don’t need to examine my feelings, but I do need one thing. Coffee. I stop at the campus coffee shop, Cool Beans, and step up to the counter to place my order, “Black with two shots of espresso.” I say as I look at my watch.

“Two shots?  Why don’t you save them the trouble and just pour the grounds straight into your mouth?” I hear some man say behind me.

Turning around, I say, "Mind your own damn business.” It is Dr. Vincent. I must be cursed. "Umm, is exactly what the colonist said to England when the king was trying to interfere with—damn, I’m sorry. I just do not do well in the morning. Catch me at noon. I’m absolutely charming.”

He smiles slightly as he strokes his beard. “It’s okay. I’m much more pleasant later in the day as well. Much less of a smart ass.” His eyes up close are much more hypnotic than I realized. They are cerulean blue, but there seems to also be a flex of diamond dust. Much as I want to, I can’t stop staring. Finally, he gestures to me to turn around because my coffee is ready. I don't think I've ever walked and drunk so fast in my life.

Monica is waiting for me at the door. She doesn't drink coffee. She sticks to her regular Pepsi every morning, noon, night, anytime, really. I take off my sunglasses and sit down in the front this time. Monica follows me and sits in the front as well. “Wow, you look different today. Eye shadow and everything. I suppose this is all for Hot Jesus?”

“No, of course not. I just want to look like a girl today. And you are actually calling him Hot Jesus?  I think you’re going to hell for that one.”

“I’ve had a reservation there for years.” Monica just smiled.

Several weeks later, the intrigue of Dr. Vincent has seemed to snowball into frequent erotic daydreams. I sit in front of my laptop to type my history paper. History. That is where I see him. I close my eyes, and I see him standing there. He leans against my desk as his stare pierces my heart. Slowly I rise to stand in front of him. I can feel his breath on my neck. I can feel his hands around my waist. I kiss him softly until my passion demands more. He pulls me close and kisses my neck as his hand slides up to my breast. My heartbeat quickens. My breath becomes shallow as he—one by one—unbuttons my shirt. My leg wraps around him inviting him into me. Almost. Just a thin piece of lace separates him from plunging inside me. My shirt drops to the floor as he leads me back to the bed. His body climbs on top of me…

“Tiffany!” I hear the harsh sound of Monica’s voice. I open my eyes to see the blank page on my laptop. I was daydreaming. “Tiffany?  You were French kissing the air again. Was it Hot Jesus again?”

"I have no idea what you are talking about,” I say half embarrassed and half in jest. Monica knows what I dream about. I talk in my sleep.

“Well, at least tell me you got a mid-morning orgasm out of it.” Disappointingly, I shake my head no.

“Well, what is the problem?”

“I have no idea. And the worst part is that it has become historical period dreams. Last night I was a flapper in a speak-easy. Last week, he was Thomas Jefferson and I was Maria Cosway. Each time, he is more intent, more passionate, more dominant. And each time, I wake up before I reach my happy moment. I don’t know what the problem is.”

“I do.”

“What?”

"The problem is that you imagine him as the dominant partner. Your satisfaction depends all on him. You need to become the predator.”

“Or maybe I need to just get laid. Come on, let’s forget about our divorcee professor and have some fun instead.”

On Friday night, we get dressed up and go out. I slip on my skinny jeans, low-cut top, and red lipstick. There's this club we like to hit. Not many of the college kids go there because the doormen really can spot a fake ID. The club owner has a talent for placing great bands most clubs miss because they play music with actual lyrics. But even when it's just the DJ spinning, it's not your regular top 40. It's a mixture of old treasures and new stuff too. It goes without saying that, consequently, most college kids are not interested in that kind of playlist. I can be dancing to Ariana Grade one minute, Nickleback, Def Leppard, and then Usher. But then I The same hour, the DJ spins Ray Wilson Picket. It’s fantastic.

The place is dark. To the right is the bar. It’s cramped with people and smells like scotch and worn leather. It runs from one end of the club to the other. People are waiting to get drinks. Women are waiting to get noticed. At the end of the bar, I see a man staring at me. He's tall and blonde. Not my type. But I figure, what the hell. Might as well at least give him a shot. I pretend to walk past him. He grabs my arm and says, "Hey, want to have the best time of your life.”

I jerk my arm away from him. “Does that line actually work on anyone?” He looks surprised like he has never heard a refusal, but I don’t wait for a reply. I just walk away. The place is packed more than usual. Great band tonight, I guess.

I walk the back to sit down for a moment when Monica comes up to me with two drinks. “Some guy got this for us. I told him you like screwdrivers, so this is for you."

I take it gladly. The drinks are strong as hell, but I need something to relax. About twenty minutes later, I hit the floor and just go on autopilot. The dance floor is one big mob of sweat and skin, but I’m ready to dive in. I move to the middle of the floor.

The band starts to play “Try a little tenderness” when I feel a body come close to me. I fall back towards him as we begin to sway to the music. My head is foggy. Since my body feels too long neglected, I don’t think to push him away. I turn towards him, watching as his groin press against me. His hips move with mine as my hands slip under his shirt and follow the contours of his abs. He’s chiseled, like a Greek god. He grabs my ass first. One hand moves to my stomach and then up to my breast. Locked in this moment, the rest of the people seem to fall away. He moves with me, almost as if he is moving inside me. I have yet to look up at his face. But I can feel his breath on my neck. His lips barely touching mine. My hands move up to his neck as I brush back his hair, close my eyes, and kiss him softly. He does not pull away. He gives into the kiss as he pulls me closer to him. I pull away slightly to take a breath. Just then, as our bodies move together, as I feel his cock press against me… my body becomes tense. He kisses me and allatonce, I come as my hand desperately clutches his shirt. We are still for a moment until my muscles relax again one by one. I look up to see my seducer. He is the same blonde I almost punched earlier.

Next thing I know, I am lying on a couch in a strange apartment. I don’t remember anything after the dance. What happened?  I don’t need to ask. I was drugged. As I peel back the fleece cover, I see that my clothes are just as I remember: On. I sit up slowly, as my eyes come into focus, tracing the walls, marking the corners of the room. My head is pounding. But I'm okay. As long as I wasn't raped last night, I'm okay. I look around to see an extensive library. Samuel Johnson, Federalist Papers, several biographies: Jefferson, Madison, Adams. I think all the presidents and their cabinet members are here. Add to that, books detailing Japanese history, Chinese Dynasties, and the rather bloody soap opera various accounts of European royalty throughout the ages, just this side of the wall of the library is impressive. This is one well-read rapist. Only then I hear some noise in another room.

“How are you feeling?” I hear a familiar voice say. I get up and walk towards the mysterious voice. As I turn the corner to what is the kitchen, I see a man pouring a cup of coffee. His faded jeans are frayed at the bottom as he walks to the back to reach for a mug in the cabinet. I follow the long, blue lines up to notice how well the light blue denim hugs the curve of his ass. As his hand finds the mug, the muscles of his shoulder blade and back make the dragon tattoo come to life. I almost forget that I am actually there in the room and not watching an erotic performance. He pours another cup of coffee and combs his hand through his hair. That’s when I see how long it is; dark with curls twisting and turning just past his shoulders. Finally, he turns, carrying the second mug of coffee to the island where I am. It’s Dr. Vincent. And he's half-naked just as I always imagined him.

“What happened last night?” I say, hand shaking underneath the counter.

“Drake slipped a pill in your drink.”

“Why did Monica give it to me then?”

"Oh, she didn't know. The only reason I knew was that I saw him do it. I was at the opposite end of the bar when I saw you guys walk in. Drake's an asshole. He's all concerned about conquest. He stinks up a perfectly respectable place. Don't worry. I took care of him. He won't be talking to anyone again until his jaw heals."

“What about Monica?”

“She’s fine. I sent her home with Carol, a friend of mine. He didn’t drug hers. That’s why he asked what you drank apparently. He followed you out to the dance floor. He knew the pill would take effect by the end of the song, then he was going to take you home. I’m sorry I didn’t get to you earlier. But I wasn’t sure that’s what he did until I saw the effects.”

“How did I end up here?”

“Well, when I saw that you were not okay, I took you, punched him, and broke his jaw apparently, and then carried you out. I didn't want to send you home with Monica because she was rather drunk by that point. I wanted to make sure that the only side effect was a deep sleep and nasty hangover."

“I don’t know how to thank you. Did I say anything or do anything that may need extra apologies.” I wince a little as I say this. I’m hoping I didn’t throw-up in his car or molest him as he drove.

“No, you were just sleepy. But one thing did happen.”

“Oh my god! What?”

“As I carried you in and lay you on the couch, you touched my hair and said, ‘Hot Jesus.”

“Wow. I don’t know what would make me say such a thing.” I’ve had dreams like this. But I'm usually naked, and I didn't study for the test. This is not happening.

“Nice save.” He just smirks.

I get out of there as soon as I could. I have never been so mortified. I’m sure the restraining order will arrive before mid-terms. As I walk home, I think about the previous night. Here I am, imagining Dr. Vincent as this historical gentleman when he is a real, live knight. He saved me and my honor. He carried me home to make sure I was okay. He didn’t even press the “hot Jesus” utterance. Going out was supposed to help me forget my hot professor. Instead, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

Chapter Two

Poetic Seduction

Over the next few weeks, the class is quite different. I sit in the back. I figure he can’t see me that way. I don’t really speak up. I just try to be the best student I can be. Well, the best student I can be while being completely invisible. I ace my mid-term. This class is going to be a solid A. I'm sure of it. I wake up early Monday morning, ready to pick up my next A. My term paper is perfect. I chose Jefferson. I love Jefferson. He only required five pages. I gave him ten. I can't wait to get this thing back!

My embarrassment is overshadowed by my scholastic arrogance today, so I walk into the class and sit right up front this time. Dr. Vincent walks into class, carrying his bag with all our papers in it. He takes off his black leather jacket, which makes him look like he is either on his way to or from the stage of a rock concert. I half-expect him to pick up a guitar. But instead, He assures us, “Yes, I have your papers graded. Now, I will hand them out if you will all promise not to look through them until after class.” I don’t know why professors ask that. We all agree. And we all lie. Of course, we're going to look through it.

He walks around, handing out the papers. I swear he purposely put mine at the bottom. I'm sure it's because it's the best. Then finally, he places my masterpiece in my hand. I look down, smiling as my eyes fall on the letter— D? No, there must be some mistake. I did not bust my ass on this paper to get a fucking D! I just glare at him. "Fucking stupid-ass professor wouldn't know a great paper if it bit him on his ass!" I think to myself.  

Well, I think it is in my head. But when I notice the class has come to a complete stop and everyone is looking at me. "Was that out loud?” I don't even look at Dr. Vincent. I am sure lasers would shoot from his eyes to burn me to a pile of dust.

“Yes, it was, Tiffany. I'll see you during my office hours tomorrow.” I can tell he is trying to be very professional. But I can also tell he was so mad he could not think straight.

Throughout the rest of the lesson, he just glares at me. And I glare right back. As soon as the class is done, most of the students run out of the room. There are a few that ask about their papers. He just looks at me as if to say, “Don’t even start this here.” I go. I spend the rest of the day mad as hell and scared. I go to his office a day early and sit outside his door like I’m a second-grader who has been sent to the principal’s office.

I see him walking down the hall. He pulls something out of his bag and then looks up to see me. He shakes his head in disgust and walks faster like he can't wait to lay into me. He's furious. I'm a bit scared. Okay, I'm terrified. I could get thrown out of school for all I know. But I couldn't help but smile a bit. He's so damn hot when he's mad. I’m imagining his clothes falling off his body the closer he gets. “What are you smiling about?” He demands.

“I see you pay as much attention to appointment times as you do directions. I asked to see you tomorrow.”

"I couldn't wait 'till then. I really want to take care of this now.”

Dr. Vincent brushes back his hair and rolls his eyes. He opens the door. "Get in here.” I walk in as he closes the door. “Do you think that was funny disturbing my class like that?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Oh yeah. I’m mad at him. “I was just really upset by my low grade. Are you sure you didn’t confuse my paper with someone else’s?”  

He thows his things on the desk, “No, I did not confuse your paper with someone else’s. You’re the only one who took a five-page paper and digressed it to a ten-page paper. Did you ever hear of the word ‘edit?’” He looks at his watch. “Damn. I have an obligation tonight,” he says as he looks at me. He must see the desperation or panic written all over me because he adds, “I have to get home. But we can continue to talk about this if you’re willing to walk with me?”

“Deal.” I pick up my bag and stand attention.

“Alright, such formality is not necessary.”

Dr. Vincent just packs a few books and one file of papers in his messenger bag before we step out. He turns, locks his office, and we head out.

“You really thought it was too long?”

“Twice the length it needed to be.”

“But my research…”

 "Was off-topic and unnecessary. I don't need to know about Monticello and its many phases of construction when your thesis statement focused on Sally Hemming,” he says as his pace picks up, his stride one and a half times the length of mine.

"Will you slow down. Your legs are longer than mine, and you're not wearing heels."

“Hey, no one told you to put those on today.” He stops being hot at this point and just becomes damn obnoxious.

"Dick," I say under my breath.

He comes to a dead stop and turns around, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought. My hearing’s better than you think.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But that paper is an in-depth analysis of Jefferson.” I jump in front to stop him. “The only letter that should be on it is an A!” I look up at him and stare into those eyes again. I realize that I am way out of line. He has every right to fail me on the spot. But I can’t just walk away. My pride won’t let me.

“We are here, and obviously, this is going to take longer than I thought.” He says.

I turn to take it in for a moment. His house is a two-story Tutor style home with double casement windows on each side of the front entrance. We walk the winding front walkway to the stairs just in front of the door. “Come in, Tiffany. And leave the front door open.”

I sit down on the same couch I woke up on that morning. Dr. Vincent pours two cups of coffee and sits on the chair across from me. As he hands me the cup, I say, “Thank you.”

“Listen, Tiffany. I told all of you to come in if you needed help. I could have shown you how to trim it down. Why didn't you listen? You didn't even hand in a completed draft. You're lucky I didn't take points off for that as well.” He turns and shakes his head like I am a problem he is struggling to solve.

“I wanted to impress you.” I stand up and begin to pace. “I couldn’t come in for help.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous," he says with a wave of his hand like he is dismissing an outlandish excuse. “Why not come in for help?”

I look up at him. “You know why!” I didn’t know it until I said it. There is no taking it back.

“Look, I know you are uncomfortable about what happened that night. But it’s not your fault. There’s no reason for you to feel embarrassed. You were drugged.”

Feeling uncomfortable, I get up, circle the chair, and sit back down as he speaks before finally burying my face in my hands.

Dr. Vincent sits next to me, “I’m just happy I was there to help.” He rests his hand on my shoulder.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” I walk towards the window. I sigh, “Hot Jesus.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember?”

 "Oh, that?  Don't worry about that. Most of my students call me names much more colorful but not nearly as flattering.”

“It was a Freudian slip.”

“I figured that.”

"Ever since then… no, even before then. I can't stop thinking about it.” I pick up my bag and start for the door. He can't know. He can't ever know.

“Thinking about what? Drake?” He grinned, “His jaw is still wired shut.” Dr. Vincent caught my arm and turned me towards him. “I know you must be afraid of something. We have people here on campus you can talk to. And we can work out something about this paper.” He suddenly got incredibly concerned. I could feel a tear leave me. I try to turn away to hide it. He notices and softly rests his hand on my cheek to wipe the tear dry.

“I’m not afraid of Drake.” I reach up to his hand. “I’m afraid of you.”

“What?  Why? You know nothing happened that night. I simply put you on the couch. There was no impropriety.”

“I know. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust me.” He turns my cheek until I am locked in his blue eyes. I can’t help it anymore. All those dreams. All those scenarios that played in my head. I needed to take one chance. Just once.

He is just five inches away from me. I sit down on the couch, feeling the distance between us, noticing the smallness of the room. I watch him take the few short steps to sit next to me. His body so close; I can hear his breathing, feel the warmth of his leg just a centimeter away. Maybe he wants this. Maybe I don't care. So, at that moment, I take the chance. I touch my hand to his cheek and pull him to me as I tilt my head to the right and touch his lips with mine. My mouth opens, and so does his. And then our tongues entwine. Playfully, passionately, we kiss. Just for one moment. And then reality catches us in our dream. I break and run like a thief who stole something in the night. I grab my bag and dash for the door.

It’s raining when I leave. And I walk for quite some time until I am soaked. Then a car pulls up next to me, the door opens, and a voice says, "get in.” It's Dr. Vincent. I get in the car, and we pull away.

“I thought you had somewhere to be tonight?”

“Yes, well, that was before. Plans change.”

The blocks seem to speed by us in silence. One streetlight and then another. Finally, he breaks the silence, "You know, I’ve been driving for an hour trying to find you, Tiffany.”

“That’s funny, I’ve been walking for an hour trying to forget you, Dr. Vincent.”

“Right now, I’m Chris or Christopher. And we have a few things to talk about. Now would you do me a favor, and please get in the damn house.” We're back at his Tudor house, and it's still pouring. Worse than that, he is even hotter wet.

When I walk into the living room, I notice a few things had gone awry. The bowl that was in the coffee table is on the floor under the picture that now has broken glass. A vase is broken. A chair is tipped. I knew a tantrum of frustration when I see one. I’ve thrown a few myself at times. “What happened here, Chris?”

“What do you think happened, Tiffany?  You kissed me.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. You have every reason to kick me out of school. I see that you were mad. There are things thrown here. Wait, why am I calling you Chris?”

“You can’t just start something like this. Do you think I haven’t thought about it?  There are lines you just don’t cross. And now you’ve crossed them. And you’re sitting there all wet and beautiful and all the things that you are and—” Then he grabs my shoulders and kisses me. His kiss is so long and so deep that I can barely breathe. I pull away to look into his eyes half expecting to see the historical fantasies I played in my head.

“So you wanted this too?”

He begins to unbutton my shirt. “Yes.”

My hands slide his shirt up the waist to his arms and finally off. I trace his arms back down and glide my hands over his shoulders to his pecks and down to his abs.    

“Come with me.” He escorts me up the stairs to his bedroom. It is filled with even more books. The literary giants and contemporary masters line these shelves.

My finger skips over the spines, “You don’t read just history, then?”

He takes off my skirt and panties. I can feel his hand slide up my leg and caress my ass. "I read everything.” We fall on his king-size mahogany platform bed. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” He says as he takes my nipple into his mouth. He bites until a let out a little scream.

“This is so wrong.”

“I don’t care.” I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him closer to me. I want him inside me. “Please don’t stop!” I sigh as I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull until he also screams.

“Fuck!” he growls. I pull his head back as my mouth trails down his neck to his chest. My tongue tasted every bit of him like a thirst I've been waiting to quench these many months. I strip off his faded jeans as if I were a crazed fan and he was a rock star.  And then just stare at what I now get to have. He is just as I imagined. The serratus and external obliques of the abdomen and sartorius muscles of the legs meet at such a glorious presentation of his eight and a half inch cock that I could not wait to take it into my mouth. I lick my lips, circle his tip, and swallow him one inch at a time. His hands comb through my hair.

"Ohhhh Tiffany," He sighs as leans into me.

I take him in further as I slide my hands to his ass. He pulls my hair and begins to fuck my mouth.  This is enough for me. I think.

But then he stops. “Not yet, Tiffany. Come here.” He lifts me and lays me down gently.

“I will do whatever you want me to do, Christopher.” I reach up and brush the hair from his eyes.

“It’s not just about me, Tiffany. You’re not my student now. What do you want?”

“Read to me? Dr. Vincent.” I smile deviously.

He pauses a moment and begins, “I like my body when it is with your body.” His lips and tongue start trailing down my neck to my breast. He sucks on one nipple, lightly biting until my back arches off the bed.

“Oh my God, E. E. Cummings!” I sigh as I give into him.

Chris moves on to the other nipple and begins again. “It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.” He circles the nipple, “i like your body. i like what it does.” The sound of his voice, the heat of his breath just add to the feel of everything he does. “i like its hows.” Next, he kisses and bites as he rolls me on my stomach.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!”

Slowly gliding up my back he says, “i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smooth ness and which i will,” he kisses my back, “again,” and then kisses my shoulder, “and again,” then he kisses the back of my neck as he pulls me from the bed kneeling with my back pressed against his chest. “and again kiss.” And finally he kisses my lips as he slips his fingers down to my dripping folds.

The words, the sound, the touch of his fingers as he circles and skips over my clitoris. I cannot calm the tension that rises within me. I reach my arm around his neck to hold myself still. “Chris-to-pher. Ohhh Jesuuus. Hot Jessuss!”

He releases me and I fall to the bed. “I like kissing this and that of you, I like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz of your electric furr,” His lips and tongue move down my stomach. His hair sweeps between by breast trailing behind where his lips had just been. And then he reaches my crevice. I lift my hips to meet his mouth in anticipation as he parts my legs. His breath warms my inner thighs as he looks up at me. His fingers part my outer lips and he kisses me whole and deep until I can feel his tongue brush against my clitoris. His hair is nestled against me. I hold his head as my body moves under him.

I cannot hold back any longer. I break into a scream, “Ahhhhhhhh!” My back arches and I clutch the sheets underneath me. “I’m. I’m commm. Immmmg.  Commning.!”

“And what-is-it comes over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,.” He climbs on top of me, all the while kissing my breast and neck. Finally, he kisses me just as the tip of his throbbing rod is touching my dripping pussy. Then he stops, looks into my eyes, and asks,

"Are you sure?"

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He just smiles.

Christopher’s expression changes as his eyes become more intense. He brushes the hair from my forehead and then pulls me down by my shoulders as he rams his cock deep inside me. It hits all the way in until I could feel it knocking on the very bottom. I wrap my leg around him to pull him close to me, and he presses my knee to my ear as thrusts into me deeper again and again. He finishes the poem, “and possibly I like the thrill of under me you so quite new.” He kisses me and kneels as he seizes my breasts and brings me to climax.

“Ohhhhh Yesssss,” My nails dig into his arms as he squeezes my nipples. Internal muscles grow tighter around his throbbing cock. My body is trembling. I could feel myself pushing him out of me, but I was paralyzed.

“No. Not yet, Beautiful.” He grabs my hips and pushes himself deep inside as he lays on top of me and holds me close to him as he explodes inside of me. It was exactly what I needed.

“And brings all of her trembling to a dead stand still,” he whispers.

“You changed poems on me, Christopher.”

“I told you I read everything.”

The End.

Chapter One

Hot Jesus

“He looks like Jesus,” Monica says. She’s my roommate and the only person I know on campus. We moved in yesterday, drank margaritas, and fell asleep until about fifteen minutes ago. We barely made it to class. She is, of course, gorgeous, even in the morning.  Her long, blonde, curly hair frames her distinct features like she just walked out of a Renaissance painting. All she has to do is wake up, throw on a slip dress, and bop out the door. Bitch. I, however, look like a homeless person who has wandered into class. I walked out the door with my hair twisted in a messy topknot, the pajamas and t-shirt I wore to bed last night, and no a bra. I feel like rag-doll reject sitting next to Barbie. I sit there wallowing in my disgust when she repeats, “That’s what I heard. The professor looks like Jesus.”

      “Nah, he’s probably some old guy,” I say as I put on my sunglasses. “Early American History professor. He was probably a goddam eye witness.” It’s not that I am so intent on hating the class. I am just resenting that the last open section was at 8:30 in the morning.

      Dr. Vincent walks into the room, and he is nothing like I expected. He's wearing a pair of faded jeans, which only draws my attention to his ass, instead of the page number he calls out as he passes by my desk. As Mr. Vincent slips off his black leather jacket, he brushes back his long, curly hair that falls just past his shoulders. He’s wearing a "Just Push Play" Aerosmith tour T-shirt that listed the cities and tour dates. As he pulls his books and papers out of a bag and places them on the podium, he turns around to finally face the class. He has a well-trimmed beard and mustache to go with his beautiful sable hair. His T-shirt has Aerosmith printed on it with a robot in an orange dress reenacting Marilyn Monroe’s Seven Year Itch subway grate scene. Despite the apparent age of the shirt, it is not nearly as worn as twenty years would suggest. But it isn’t until my gaze drifts from the robots head back to his that I finally see them. He looks up from his papers, and there they are; his eyes are such a brilliant cerulean blue that I can see them even from the back of the room. I expected a fossil. What I got was rocker Jesus.

      I start thinking a little too out loud. I do that sometimes. I think I'm playing this voice in my head until I realize that everyone heard what I was thinking. Apparently, I lean back in my seat and actually say, "Jesus.” The whole class is looking at me. Monica is trying to hold in her laughter.

      “Excuse me?” Dr. Vincent questions. “Am I boring you?”

       "Ah, no. Of course not. I was just thinking that Jesus was significant to the settlers in America—you know, Jesus and the church were one of the main reasons they like came over here.” Okay, so it’s bullshit. But I really don’t want the professor to hate me already. I would like to at least hold out until about mid-term.

      “Yeah, right. Good save.” He’s not buying it, but at least it gave him a reason to change the focus off me. "That's an excellent point. What was going on in England that would make groups of people want to sail three months in perilous conditions just to try to make a new life here?”

      The class goes on, but I really am not paying any attention. It’s not that I don’t like history. I do. As a matter of fact, I'm reeeeeally loving history right now.

      For the next class, I actually make an effort. I shower. I shave my legs. I even throw on a little makeup. Oh, and I read the assignment, so I will have plenty to talk about.  I check the mirror to make sure everything is perfect. I smooth my long, dark hair as I check to make sure my short, denim skirt matches beautifully with my tank top. Eye shadow. Perfect. Lashes. Curled. Legs. Long and tanned just right. I’m ready for class. But I am quite sure I am not prepared for this familiar feeling I have in the pit of my stomach.

      I decide that I don’t need to examine my feelings, but I do need one thing. Coffee. I stop at the campus coffee shop, Cool Beans, and step up to the counter to place my order, “Black with two shots of espresso.” I say as I look at my watch.

      “Two shots?  Why don’t you save them the trouble and just pour the grounds straight into your mouth?” I hear some man say behind me.

      Turning around, I say, "Mind your own damn business.” It is Dr. Vincent. I must be cursed. "Umm, is exactly what the colonist said to England when the king was trying to interfere with—damn, I’m sorry. I just do not do well in the morning. Catch me at noon. I’m absolutely charming.”

      He smiles slightly as he strokes his beard. “It’s okay. I’m much more pleasant later in the day as well. Much less of a smart ass.” His eyes up close are much more hypnotic than I realized. They are cerulean blue, but there seems to also be a flex of diamond dust. Much as I want to, I can’t stop staring. Finally, he gestures to me to turn around because my coffee is ready. I don't think I've ever walked and drunk so fast in my life.

      Monica is waiting for me at the door. She doesn't drink coffee. She sticks to her regular Pepsi every morning, noon, night, anytime, really. I take off my sunglasses and sit down in the front this time. Monica follows me and sits in the front as well. “Wow, you look different today. Eye shadow and everything. I suppose this is all for Hot Jesus?”

      “No, of course not. I just want to look like a girl today. And you are actually calling him Hot Jesus?  I think you’re going to hell for that one.”

      “I’ve had a reservation there for years.” Monica just smiled.

      Several weeks later, the intrigue of Dr. Vincent has seemed to snowball into frequent erotic daydreams. I sit in front of my laptop to type my history paper. History. That is where I see him. I close my eyes, and I see him standing there. He leans against my desk as his stare pierces my heart. Slowly I rise to stand in front of him. I can feel his breath on my neck. I can feel his hands around my waist. I kiss him softly until my passion demands more. He pulls me close and kisses my neck as his hand slides up to my breast. My heartbeat quickens. My breath becomes shallow as he—one by one—unbuttons my shirt. My leg wraps around him inviting him into me. Almost. Just a thin piece of lace separates him from plunging inside me. My shirt drops to the floor as he leads me back to the bed. His body climbs on top of me…

      “Tiffany!” I hear the harsh sound of Monica’s voice. I open my eyes to see the blank page on my laptop. I was daydreaming. “Tiffany?  You were French kissing the air again. Was it Hot Jesus again?”

      "I have no idea what you are talking about,” I say half embarrassed and half in jest. Monica knows what I dream about. I talk in my sleep.

      “Well, at least tell me you got a mid-morning orgasm out of it.” Disappointingly, I shake my head no.

      “Well, what is the problem?”

      “I have no idea. And the worst part is that it has become historical period dreams. Last night I was a flapper in a speak-easy. Last week, he was Thomas Jefferson and I was Maria Cosway. Each time, he is more intent, more passionate, more dominant. And each time, I wake up before I reach my happy moment. I don’t know what the problem is.”

      “I do.”

      “What?”

      "The problem is that you imagine him as the dominant partner. Your satisfaction depends all on him. You need to become the predator.”

      “Or maybe I need to just get laid. Come on, let’s forget about our divorcee professor and have some fun instead.”

      On Friday night, we get dressed up and go out. I slip on my skinny jeans, low-cut top, and red lipstick. There's this club we like to hit. Not many of the college kids go there because the doormen really can spot a fake ID. The club owner has a talent for placing great bands most clubs miss because they play music with actual lyrics. But even when it's just the DJ spinning, it's not your regular top 40. It's a mixture of old treasures and new stuff too. It goes without saying that, consequently, most college kids are not interested in that kind of playlist. I can be dancing to Ariana Grade one minute, Nickleback, Def Leppard, and then Usher. But then I The same hour, the DJ spins Ray Wilson Picket. It’s fantastic.

      The place is dark. To the right is the bar. It’s cramped with people and smells like scotch and worn leather. It runs from one end of the club to the other. People are waiting to get drinks. Women are waiting to get noticed. At the end of the bar, I see a man staring at me. He's tall and blonde. Not my type. But I figure, what the hell. Might as well at least give him a shot. I pretend to walk past him. He grabs my arm and says, "Hey, want to have the best time of your life.”

      I jerk my arm away from him. “Does that line actually work on anyone?” He looks surprised like he has never heard a refusal, but I don’t wait for a reply. I just walk away. The place is packed more than usual. Great band tonight, I guess.

      I walk the back to sit down for a moment when Monica comes up to me with two drinks. “Some guy got this for us. I told him you like screwdrivers, so this is for you."

      I take it gladly. The drinks are strong as hell, but I need something to relax. About twenty minutes later, I hit the floor and just go on autopilot. The dance floor is one big mob of sweat and skin, but I’m ready to dive in. I move to the middle of the floor.

      The band starts to play “Try a little tenderness” when I feel a body come close to me. I fall back towards him as we begin to sway to the music. My head is foggy. Since my body feels too long neglected, I don’t think to push him away. I turn towards him, watching as his groin press against me. His hips move with mine as my hands slip under his shirt and follow the contours of his abs. He’s chiseled, like a Greek god. He grabs my ass first. One hand moves to my stomach and then up to my breast. Locked in this moment, the rest of the people seem to fall away. He moves with me, almost as if he is moving inside me. I have yet to look up at his face. But I can feel his breath on my neck. His lips barely touching mine. My hands move up to his neck as I brush back his hair, close my eyes, and kiss him softly. He does not pull away. He gives into the kiss as he pulls me closer to him. I pull away slightly to take a breath. Just then, as our bodies move together, as I feel his cock press against me… my body becomes tense. He kisses me and allatonce, I come as my hand desperately clutches his shirt. We are still for a moment until my muscles relax again one by one. I look up to see my seducer. He is the same blonde I almost punched earlier.

      Next thing I know, I am lying on a couch in a strange apartment. I don’t remember anything after the dance. What happened?  I don’t need to ask. I was drugged. As I peel back the fleece cover, I see that my clothes are just as I remember: On. I sit up slowly, as my eyes come into focus, tracing the walls, marking the corners of the room. My head is pounding. But I'm okay. As long as I wasn't raped last night, I'm okay. I look around to see an extensive library. Samuel Johnson, Federalist Papers, several biographies: Jefferson, Madison, Adams. I think all the presidents and their cabinet members are here. Add to that, books detailing Japanese history, Chinese Dynasties, and the rather bloody soap opera various accounts of European royalty throughout the ages, just this side of the wall of the library is impressive. This is one well-read rapist. Only then I hear some noise in another room.

      “How are you feeling?” I hear a familiar voice say. I get up and walk towards the mysterious voice. As I turn the corner to what is the kitchen, I see a man pouring a cup of coffee. His faded jeans are frayed at the bottom as he walks to the back to reach for a mug in the cabinet. I follow the long, blue lines up to notice how well the light blue denim hugs the curve of his ass. As his hand finds the mug, the muscles of his shoulder blade and back make the dragon tattoo come to life. I almost forget that I am actually there in the room and not watching an erotic performance. He pours another cup of coffee and combs his hand through his hair. That’s when I see how long it is; dark with curls twisting and turning just past his shoulders. Finally, he turns, carrying the second mug of coffee to the island where I am. It’s Dr. Vincent. And he's half-naked just as I always imagined him.

“What happened last night?” I say, hand shaking underneath the counter.

“Drake slipped a pill in your drink.”

“Why did Monica give it to me then?”

"Oh, she didn't know. The only reason I knew was that I saw him do it. I was at the opposite end of the bar when I saw you guys walk in. Drake's an asshole. He's all concerned about conquest. He stinks up a perfectly respectable place. Don't worry. I took care of him. He won't be talking to anyone again until his jaw heals."

“What about Monica?”

“She’s fine. I sent her home with Carol, a friend of mine. He didn’t drug hers. That’s why he asked what you drank apparently. He followed you out to the dance floor. He knew the pill would take effect by the end of the song, then he was going to take you home. I’m sorry I didn’t get to you earlier. But I wasn’t sure that’s what he did until I saw the effects.”

“How did I end up here?”

“Well, when I saw that you were not okay, I took you, punched him, and broke his jaw apparently, and then carried you out. I didn't want to send you home with Monica because she was rather drunk by that point. I wanted to make sure that the only side effect was a deep sleep and nasty hangover."

“I don’t know how to thank you. Did I say anything or do anything that may need extra apologies.” I wince a little as I say this. I’m hoping I didn’t throw-up in his car or molest him as he drove.

“No, you were just sleepy. But one thing did happen.”

“Oh my god! What?”

“As I carried you in and lay you on the couch, you touched my hair and said, ‘Hot Jesus.”

“Wow. I don’t know what would make me say such a thing.” I’ve had dreams like this. But I'm usually naked, and I didn't study for the test. This is not happening.

“Nice save.” He just smirks.

I get out of there as soon as I could. I have never been so mortified. I’m sure the restraining order will arrive before mid-terms. As I walk home, I think about the previous night. Here I am, imagining Dr. Vincent as this historical gentleman when he is a real, live knight. He saved me and my honor. He carried me home to make sure I was okay. He didn’t even press the “hot Jesus” utterance. Going out was supposed to help me forget my hot professor. Instead, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

Chapter Two

Poetic Seduction

Over the next few weeks, the class is quite different. I sit in the back. I figure he can’t see me that way. I don’t really speak up. I just try to be the best student I can be. Well, the best student I can be while being completely invisible. I ace my mid-term. This class is going to be a solid A. I'm sure of it. I wake up early Monday morning, ready to pick up my next A. My term paper is perfect. I chose Jefferson. I love Jefferson. He only required five pages. I gave him ten. I can't wait to get this thing back!

My embarrassment is overshadowed by my scholastic arrogance today, so I walk into the class and sit right up front this time. Dr. Vincent walks into class, carrying his bag with all our papers in it. He takes off his black leather jacket, which makes him look like he is either on his way to or from the stage of a rock concert. I half-expect him to pick up a guitar. But instead, He assures us, “Yes, I have your papers graded. Now, I will hand them out if you will all promise not to look through them until after class.” I don’t know why professors ask that. We all agree. And we all lie. Of course, we're going to look through it.

 He walks around, handing out the papers. I swear he purposely put mine at the bottom. I'm sure it's because it's the best. Then finally, he places my masterpiece in my hand. I look down, smiling as my eyes fall on the letter— D? No, there must be some mistake. I did not bust my ass on this paper to get a fucking D! I just glare at him. "Fucking stupid-ass professor wouldn't know a great paper if it bit him on his ass!" I think to myself.  

Well, I think it is in my head. But when I notice the class has come to a complete stop and everyone is looking at me. "Was that out loud?” I don't even look at Dr. Vincent. I am sure lasers would shoot from his eyes to burn me to a pile of dust.

“Yes, it was, Tiffany. I'll see you during my office hours tomorrow.” I can tell he is trying to be very professional. But I can also tell he was so mad he could not think straight. Throughout the rest of the lesson, he just glares at me. And I glare right back. As soon as the class is done, most of the students run out of the room. There are a few that ask about their papers. He just looks at me as if to say, “Don’t even start this here.” I go. I spend the rest of the day mad as hell and scared. I go to his office a day early and sit outside his door like I’m a second-grader who has been sent to the principal’s office.

I see him walking down the hall. He pulls something out of his bag and then looks up to see me. He shakes his head in disgust and walks faster like he can't wait to lay into me. He's furious. I'm a bit scared. Okay, I'm terrified. I could get thrown out of school for all I know. But I couldn't help but smile a bit. He's so damn hot when he's mad. I’m imagining his clothes falling off his body the closer he gets. “What are you smiling about?” He demands. “I see you pay as much attention to appointment times as you do directions. I asked to see you tomorrow.”

"I couldn't wait 'till then. I really want to take care of this now.”

Dr. Vincent brushes back his hair and rolls his eyes. He opens the door. "Get in here.” I walk in as he closes the door. “Do you think that was funny disturbing my class like that?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Oh yeah. I’m mad at him. “I was just really upset by my low grade. Are you sure you didn’t confuse my paper with someone else’s?”  

He thows his things on the desk, “No, I did not confuse your paper with someone else’s. You’re the only one who took a five-page paper and digressed it to a ten-page paper. Did you ever hear of the word ‘edit?’” He looks at his watch. “Damn. I have an obligation tonight,” he says as he looks at me. He must see the desperation or panic written all over me because he adds, “I have to get home. But we can continue to talk about this if you’re willing to walk with me?”

“Deal.” I pick up my bag and stand attention.

“Alright, such formality is not necessary.”

Dr. Vincent just packs a few books and one file of papers in his messenger bag before we step out. He turns, locks his office, and we head out.

“You really thought it was too long?”

“Twice the length it needed to be.”

“But my research…”

 "Was off-topic and unnecessary. I don't need to know about Monticello and its many phases of construction when your thesis statement focused on Sally Hemming,” he says as his pace picks up, his stride one and a half times the length of mine.

"Will you slow down. Your legs are longer than mine, and you're not wearing heels."

“Hey, no one told you to put those on today.” He stops being hot at this point and just becomes damn obnoxious.

"Dick," I say under my breath.

He comes to a dead stop and turns around, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought. My hearing’s better than you think.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But that paper is an in-depth analysis of Jefferson.” I jump in front to stop him. “The only letter that should be on it is an A!” I look up at him and stare into those eyes again. I realize that I am way out of line. He has every right to fail me on the spot. But I can’t just walk away. My pride won’t let me.

“We are here, and obviously, this is going to take longer than I thought.” He says.

I turn to take it in for a moment. His house is a two-story Tutor style home with double casement windows on each side of the front entrance. We walk the winding front walkway to the stairs just in front of the door. “Come in, Tiffany. And leave the front door open.”

I sit down on the same couch I woke up on that morning. Dr. Vincent pours two cups of coffee and sits on the chair across from me. As he hands me the cup, I say, “Thank you.”

“Listen, Tiffany. I told all of you to come in if you needed help. I could have shown you how to trim it down. Why didn't you listen? You didn't even hand in a completed draft. You're lucky I didn't take points off for that as well.” He turns and shakes his head like I am a problem he is struggling to solve.

“I wanted to impress you.” I stand up and begin to pace. “I couldn’t come in for help.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous," he says with a wave of his hand like he is dismissing an outlandish excuse. “Why not come in for help?”

I look up at him. “You know why!” I didn’t know it until I said it. There is no taking it back.

“Look, I know you are uncomfortable about what happened that night. But it’s not your fault. There’s no reason for you to feel embarrassed. You were drugged.”

Feeling uncomfortable, I get up, circle the chair, and sit back down as he speaks before finally burying my face in my hands.

Dr. Vincent sits next to me, “I’m just happy I was there to help.” He rests his hand on my shoulder.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” I walk towards the window. I sigh, “Hot Jesus.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember?”

 "Oh, that?  Don't worry about that. Most of my students call me names much more colorful but not nearly as flattering.”

“It was a Freudian slip.”

“I figured that.”

"Ever since then… no, even before then. I can't stop thinking about it.” I pick up my bag and start for the door. He can't know. He can't ever know.

“Thinking about what? Drake?” He grinned, “His jaw is still wired shut.” Dr. Vincent caught my arm and turned me towards him. “I know you must be afraid of something. We have people here on campus you can talk to. And we can work out something about this paper.” He suddenly got incredibly concerned. I could feel a tear leave me. I try to turn away to hide it. He notices and softly rests his hand on my cheek to wipe the tear dry.

“I’m not afraid of Drake.” I reach up to his hand. “I’m afraid of you.”

“What?  Why? You know nothing happened that night. I simply put you on the couch. There was no impropriety.”

“I know. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust me.” He turns my cheek until I am locked in his blue eyes. I can’t help it anymore. All those dreams. All those scenarios that played in my head. I needed to take one chance. Just once.

He is just five inches away from me. I sit down on the couch, feeling the distance between us, noticing the smallness of the room. I watch him take the few short steps to sit next to me. His body so close; I can hear his breathing, feel the warmth of his leg just a centimeter away. Maybe he wants this. Maybe I don't care. So, at that moment, I take the chance. I touch my hand to his cheek and pull him to me as I tilt my head to the right and touch his lips with mine. My mouth opens, and so does his. And then our tongues entwine. Playfully, passionately, we kiss. Just for one moment. And then reality catches us in our dream. I break and run like a thief who stole something in the night. I grab my bag and dash for the door.

It’s raining when I leave. And I walk for quite some time until I am soaked. Then a car pulls up next to me, the door opens, and a voice says, "get in.” It's Dr. Vincent. I get in the car, and we pull away.

“I thought you had somewhere to be tonight?”

“Yes, well, that was before. Plans change.”

The blocks seem to speed by us in silence. One streetlight and then another. Finally, he breaks the silence, "You know, I’ve been driving for an hour trying to find you, Tiffany.”

“That’s funny, I’ve been walking for an hour trying to forget you, Dr. Vincent.”

“Right now, I’m Chris or Christopher. And we have a few things to talk about. Now would you do me a favor, and please get in the damn house.” We're back at his Tudor house, and it's still pouring. Worse than that, he is even hotter wet.

When I walk into the living room, I notice a few things had gone awry. The bowl that was in the coffee table is on the floor under the picture that now has broken glass. A vase is broken. A chair is tipped. I knew a tantrum of frustration when I see one. I’ve thrown a few myself at times. “What happened here, Chris?”

“What do you think happened, Tiffany?  You kissed me.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. You have every reason to kick me out of school. I see that you were mad. There are things thrown here. Wait, why am I calling you Chris?”

“You can’t just start something like this. Do you think I haven’t thought about it?  There are lines you just don’t cross. And now you’ve crossed them. And you’re sitting there all wet and beautiful and all the things that you are and—” Then he grabs my shoulders and kisses me. His kiss is so long and so deep that I can barely breathe. I pull away to look into his eyes half expecting to see the historical fantasies I played in my head.

“So you wanted this too?”

He begins to unbutton my shirt. “Yes.”

My hands slide his shirt up the waist to his arms and finally off. I trace his arms back down and glide my hands over his shoulders to his pecks and down to his abs.    

“Come with me.” He escorts me up the stairs to his bedroom. It is filled with even more books. The literary giants and contemporary masters line these shelves.

My finger skips over the spines, “You don’t read just history, then?”

He takes off my skirt and panties. I can feel his hand slide up my leg and caress my ass. "I read everything.” We fall on his king-size mahogany platform bed. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” He says as he takes my nipple into his mouth. He bites until a let out a little scream. “This is so wrong.”

“I don’t care.” I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him closer to me. I want him inside me. “Please don’t stop!” I sigh as I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull until he also screams.

“Fuck!” he growls. I pull his head back as my mouth trails down his neck to his chest. My tongue tasted every bit of him like a thirst I've been waiting to quench these many months. I strip off his faded jeans as if I were a crazed fan and he was a rock star.  And then just stare at what I now get to have. He is just as I imagined. The serratus and external obliques of the abdomen and sartorius muscles of the legs meet at such a glorious presentation of his eight and a half inch cock that I could not wait to take it into my mouth. I lick my lips, circle his tip, and swallow him one inch at a time. His hands comb through my hair.

"Ohhhh Tiffany," He sighs as leans into me.” I take him in further as I slide my hands to his ass. He pulls my hair and begins to fuck my mouth.  This is enough for me. I think.

But then he stops. “Not yet, Tiffany. Come here.” He lifts me and lays me down gently.

“I will do whatever you want me to do, Christopher.” I reach up and brush the hair from his eyes.

“It’s not just about me, Tiffany. You’re not my student now. What do you want?”

“Read to me? Dr. Vincent.” I smile deviously.

He pauses a moment and begins, “I like my body when it is with your body.” His lips and tongue start trailing down my neck to my breast. He sucks on one nipple, lightly biting until my back arches off the bed.

“Oh my God, E. E. Cummings!” I sigh as I give into him.

Chris moves on to the other nipple and begins again. “It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.” He circles the nipple, “i like your body. i like what it does.” The sound of his voice, the heat of his breath just add to the feel of everything he does. “i like its hows.” Next, he kisses and bites as he rolls me on my stomach.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!”

Slowly gliding up my back he says, “i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smooth ness and which i will,” he kisses my back, “again,” and then kisses my shoulder, “and again,” then he kisses the back of my neck as he pulls me from the bed kneeling with my back pressed against his chest. “and again kiss.” And finally he kisses my lips as he slips his fingers down to my dripping folds.

The words, the sound, the touch of his fingers as he circles and skips over my clitoris. I cannot calm the tension that rises within me. I reach my arm around his neck to hold myself still. “Chris-to-pher. Ohhh Jesuuus. Hot Jessuss!”

He releases me and fall to the bed. “I like kissing this and that of you, I like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz of your electric furr,” His lips and tongue move down my stomach. His hair sweeps between by breast trailing behind where his lips had just been. And then he reaches my crevice. I lift my hips to meet his mouth in anticipation as he parts my legs. His breath warms my inner thighs as he looks up at me. His fingers part my outer lips and he kisses me whole and deep until I can feel his tongue brush against my clitoris. His hair is nestled against me. I hold his head as my body moves under him. I cannot hold back any longer. I break into a scream, “Ahhhhhhhh!” My back arches and I clutch the sheets underneath me. “I’m. I’m commm. Immmmg.  Commning.!”

“And what-is-it comes over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,.” He climbs on top of me, all the while kissing my breast and neck. Finally, he kisses me just as the tip of his throbbing rod is touching my dripping pussy. Then he stops, looks into my eyes, and asks, "Are you sure?"

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He just smiles.

Christopher’s expression changes as his eyes become more intense. He brushes the hair from my forehead and then pulls me down by my shoulders as he rams his cock deep inside me. It hits all the way in until I could feel it knocking on the very bottom. I wrap my leg around him to pull him close to me, and he presses my knee to my ear as thrusts into me deeper again and again. He finishes the poem, “and possibly I like the thrill of under me you so quite new.” He kisses me and kneels as he seizes my breasts and brings me to climax.

“Ohhhhh Yesssss,” My nails dig into his arms as he squeezes my nipples. Internal muscles grow tighter around his throbbing cock. My body is trembling. I could feel myself pushing him out of me, but I was paralyzed.

“No. Not yet, Beautiful.” He grabs my hips and pushes himself deep inside as he lays on top of me and holds me close to him as he explodes inside of me. It was exactly what I needed. “And brings all of her trembling to a dead stand still,” he whispers.

“You changed poems on me, Christopher.”

“I told you I read everything.”