Russian Infusions: Part Three of the Competition for the Big O Show
(Since I will be in Italy for ten days I thought I would leave you with this final entry in the Sexual Triathelon. This segment, of course, is pure fantasy.)

Legs crossed under desk. Focus on the text."In most cases the doctors agree and the children are put on Ritalin." Put a comma after "cases" introductory phrase. Another comma missed before and. Don't put that comma in, but circle the space where the comma should be.

Tongue circling the areola. Was it biting or merely sucking which produced that rush of pleasure?

Focus on the text.

"As a result the children return to school with the same symptoms." Another intructory phrase without a comma. Circle in red. Uncross legs. Shouldn't have shaved them this morning. Look around at the class, heads bent, pretending to read the text.

The feel of his hand on the back of my head. Holding me to him that grey Sunday, Easter. Stronger than I imagined. The light touch of his hand on my back for the first time.

Cross legs and focus.

Finish reading paper. It's easier during the discussion. The students make blunders. The silence, the enraging silence, can be filled with questions, jokes, taunts, all which distract from the feeling of bare legs, but when out on the sidewalk again, the cool breeze will swirl under the full pink skirt, my paris skirt, a light fabrics which luffs and swirls when I walk. A skirt which could simply and easily be pushed up by the wind as by a human hand that does not have the time for zippers.

"Get underdressed."

The nature of the fantasy is fractured as the memory of him has become. I can remember unbuttoning his shirt, the way he intones the word "pussy", the ghost of his kiss on my cheek, neck, breasts, but I can not put all of these images together. In my fantasies, he is morely likely faceless, although I can recall his features seperately. Particularly his hands.

and his cock.

Waiting at home for me, how did he get in? There is no necessity for plot devices, he is just there, pushing me up against my wall. Taking my shirt off. Or not bothering, just pushing up the skirt.

Sit on the couch with the exams in my lap.

Feeling him underneath. Peeling off my top and then his to feel his skin against mine. The revelation of his flesh in my hand for the first time. He is so soft. In such a pleasing way, the way a child discovers velour.

Him lying on his side, like Bacchus, inviting me into those red sheets, inviting me into my own bed. Both of us naked. One hand held by the wrist above my head and me pleading with him to speak to me, in any language, not mattering if I understand it or not, not mattering how dirty it is.

How do say blow job, ass, pussy, cock, cum, whore, moan, faster, harder in Russian?

Sitting on the couch fully dressed, he has one hand behind my back, which forces my back to arch, as he kisses me gently across my cheek, on my lips, not deeply, just a taste, almost a whisper between us.

The exams having fallen onto the floor, under the couch, the flush across my cheeks and breasts, a bright redness, the pleasure of only imagining fading.

Pick up exams. Comma missing before and. Circle in red pen. Cross legs. Do not be distracted this time. Remember not to shave legs tomorrow.

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