Tom III — Rosemary Cummings

This is the last letter. I swear. Then I’m shredding these pages.

Three times you made me cum yesterday, you dirty boy. But that’s not entirely true, is it? You are dirty, but I’m dirtier. And I made myself cum. The truth is, there is no you—your cabin is as dark and still this morning as it has been since you left yesterday.

You’re a memory, Tom. A memory turned fantasy, a plaything for a dirty mind. And it was my own mind that seduced me. I know that. In a few years you’ll realize that wanting’s more fun than having. Lust is bigger than its object. Wanting you—and I do, Tom, I want you very much—is not about you. It’s a spell I cast over myself, a key to any number of fantasy fucks. Like this one:

I could imagine myself as your teacher. It’s not so far-fetched. I even considered going back to school for it once, when I was younger. If I had, I’m sure I’d be strict, no-nonsense. A stickler teacher, a hard-ass with high standards. And I certainly wouldn’t bend the rules for you, Tom. I wouldn’t pad your grade or overlook absences to keep you eligible to compete at meets. No, I’ve already told you how much I resented the jocks for thinking they were above the rules when I was in high school. I’d want to make an example of you. But I’m not without a heart. I might be persuaded to let you make up the work you missed after school or on weekends. You would complain about me to your teammates, but not wanting to press your luck, you’d show up on time to our private sessions, your uncreased copy of Homer in hand.

We take turns reading aloud from The Iliad. You falter at first in this little-used skill but soon find the rhythm. Your mouth seems to enjoy the feel of the words, your voice strokes easily through the verse the way your body does the water. Your body. I’ll try not to think about it. Professionalism demands that I not notice it at all, but the truth is, I have. There’s no escaping the firm figure you cut, the long inverted triangle of torso beneath your S— High School Swim t-shirt. Fibers of muscle in your arms, your legs, your neck flex into full relief when you walk or turn the page or bend for something in your backpack. Your body has the same effect on me in the classroom as it did on the deck the first time I saw you—instant, urgent, dumbfounding desire. Corralling my attention to the text, to the task at hand takes a tremendous effort of will, but I’m equal to it. Another genuine want buoys my self-discipline: I want you to learn.

We pause every so often to discuss a passage. At first, you are incredulous to discover that girls are the points around which the major conflicts of this story pivot. Thousands of dudes fighting a ten-year war all because one guy’s wife ran off with a Trojan? Achilles refuses to fight because he’s butt-hurt over Agamemnon taking his slave girl? Living as you do in the land of sexual plenty, it’s hard for you to fathom the loss of a woman as a motivating factor. You sit scoffing at the story, at the fact that you have to be here on a Saturday—just like a modern-day Achilles by the shore.

Hey, I tell you, if anyone is in a position to understand these ancient warriors, it’s you. I ask you about swimming, why you do it. You shrug, say you’re a natural. Sure, you started with that natural aptitude, which you developed through training, practice. Same with these guys, I say, waiving the book, only with fighting. Why do you compete? I ask. Another shrug, but now I see you’re thinking. Because I can. Do you want to win? Yeah, of course, you say. Once you’re out there, something takes over. You want to take it all the way. Naturally. And what about the glory you get from winning? The respect of your teammates, the adoration of the entire school? The girls who want you in such numbers that they become expendable? A smirk—Well, that’s nice, too. You expect those things, don’t you, Tom? Yes. You think you deserve them. And if someone could take them from you—if someone did—you might be angry. You might think an injustice had been done to you. You might do something about it.

You nod, I’m reaching you. I’m about to continue reading, when you interrupt me. But, Ms. C, it’s still pretty messed up that the women just get passed from guy to guy, like objects or whatever. This from you surprises me, Tom. I’m not sure if you’re actually concerned with the rights of women, in antiquity or generally, or if you're pandering to me. I study your face. Your expression holds a hint of playfulness but is otherwise earnest. You want to please me. This understanding lands a few inches below my belly. It’s dangerous.

As the weeks pass, I tell myself that I’m using your solicitousness for your own good. What does it matter if your little crush makes you a better student? I ignore the fact that it flatters me, that it makes me feel sensual and powerful. After our meetings, I glow with allure. Men stop me in the market to flirt. I feel eyes on my body as I walk home.

None of those eyes feel quite as good as yours do, Tom. That’s where the danger lies. I can feel you look at me when I’m reading. Lately I’ve been letting those moments elongate, lingering in the sensation of your gaze before I lift my head with that stern look that jerks the reins of your attention. We’ve been treading a line. All the while I’ve believed that I’m in control, that I permit your little infatuation, your lingering looks. I don’t want to admit that I’ve started to long for them, for you.

The semester draws to an end, we’re nearly finished with the epic. Patroclus, Hector are slain. Achilles will fall. Each death inspires a twinge of sadness in me that I’ve never felt before. The paper you write on the inescapable role of fate surprises me with its merit. I see this as a final vindication of my methods, excusing any impropriety I may have allowed as we worked together. During our last private session, I commend your efforts, your diligence. You thank me for being tough on you. I tell you you should be proud of yourself. You bask in the praise, and you are proud.

This pride emboldens you. When you stand to go, you walk to me with arms outstretched, a goodbye hug. To refuse the embrace would be to admit that some indecency exists, not that I could resist this lone and last opportunity to touch you. An electric rush when our bodies meet prolongs the contact. I feel your fingers close around the ends of my hair. I pull away. Later, Ms. C. Goodbye, Tom.

Did you hear the catch in my voice? It that what makes you stop just before the door and turn to face me again? Your mouth is a smirk that speaks. Maybe you want to plead with me to stay. Your eyes fix on my breasts. I am stunned. There’s no mistaking your meaning. We’d spent a long time discussing the symbolism in that scene on the ramparts of Troy where Hecuba bares her breast when she begs Hector to stay away from battle. You’d been skeptical when I told you there was nothing overtly sexual in this gesture of desperate, maternal vulnerability. At the time I'd been grateful for this sobering instance of your obvious immaturity. Now your gaze turns my nipples to stone.

You move closer. Except for my heart and the coursing, florid tracery of veins in my chest and cheeks, my entire body seems to have been petrified. I make no protest as you reach for me. Your fingers clear the neckline of my blouse. They scoop my left breast from the cup of my bra. My flesh feels like hot dough in your palm.

You tug my breast free, then release it, regarding me with savage satisfaction. Ever since we read that passage, I haven't been able to stop thinking about what you'd look like this. You bow your head to circle the stiff nipple with your tongue and pull my other breast from the fabric. The hem of my blouse forces my tits up and together, an action you enhance with your palms pressing on either side. Your mouth drags across the nearly touching nipples. Life returns to my limbs only to rush from them. I am breathless, weak-kneed. I'd slide to the floor were it not for my grip on your solid shoulders.

A sensation of great force, something swirling like a typhoon, circles my solar plexus then pushes upward, passing through chest, vibrating throat—a great, guttural groan. This is no girlish sigh or porno performance whine. This is a chthonic pleasure cry. It excites you, quickens your blood. You suckle furiously at my tits and grind your pelvis against my hip.

The nerve endings in lips of my cunt blink to life, as if tapped in code by tiny fingers. My clitoris cries out like a beacon. But when I look down and see your glossy dark hair, your arrogant boy lips on my breasts, something shifts. I reel back from the sight—too much like nursing, it reminds me of who we are, of this vice, the danger. I try to pull away from you, but you’re frenzied for the taste of me, you won’t relent. You are a hungry, monstrous mouth set upon me from all sides.

It’s panic that makes me strike out, a brutal backhand across the cheek. The stun makes you release me. But as you grimace from the blow, your hands reach, not for your face where instinct should send them, but for your cock. When you grasp it, you release your own deep grunt, a sound of abandon that thrills and fortifies me. As if to test this phenomenon, I slap you again, lighter this time with my palm. Your eyes spring open.

I seize your chin roughly in my hand, and bring my forehead to touch yours. I stare you down the way a person might show dominance over a dog. “How dare you,” I say. The tone of my voice is measured, but anger files the syllables to precision. My thumb and forefinger squeeze your mouth into a smashed gape, and it is into this hole that I direct my words. “Who the fuck do you think you are touching me like that." I feel your breath rush out. You’re trembling with the effort of keeping your eyes down and your mouth still.

I don’t bother to cover my tits when I stride to the door and turn the deadbolt. I say, “This is unacceptable, Tom.” You are motionless before my desk, one hand still clamped on your crotch when I take a slow seat before you. “Take your clothes off,” I say. You undress in a kind of spasm. There are the magnificent sculptural muscles of your chest and shoulders, the corrugated plane of your stomach rippling with anticipation. Sharp cornices of muscle angle over each hip bone to drive the eye down to your erection. Your cock is thick and pink, thrusting out and up from a thatch of dark hair, jeweled with moisture at the tip. I’m seeing you for the first time, so I can’t help but remark on how beautiful you are. “Beautiful,” I say, remembering myself, “but impudent. Reckless. Very bad.”

This last word lands like a stone dropped in your gut. I can see the contractions of muscle ripple out. Your hand twitches as if to reach again for your erection. “Don’t move, Tom,” I tell you. Your lips part and red blooms on your check where I slapped you.

“You always got away with breaking the rules, didn’t you?” Your silence complies with my command to remain motionless, though you’re quivering with the work of holding still. I rise to my feet.

“But you knew I wouldn’t let you get away with it. I never have.” I move slowly around the desk and come to stand beside you. Your trembling emits an energy of extreme alertness, as if every cell in your body is awake now, listening to me, watching to see what I’ll do next.

Your spine is a seam that parts the musculature of your back. I press the tip of one finger into its origin at your lower back, then drag that finger slowly up the indent. You gasp, chin lifting, body arching at the touch. When my finger reaches the base of your neck, I wrap the whole hand around that sturdy column and press. For all your brawn, you bend easily at this concentrated pressure. I fold you, bringing your chest down to meet my desk, grinding you into its surface. When I withdraw the hand, I warn you again. “You must stay completely still, Tom.”

In this position, your legs are slightly bent. I can see the fragile, bluish bulge of your balls between the upper thighs just below the level of your speedo tan line. The wet tip of your erection nearly touches the vertical face of the desk front. When I run a hand over the white dome of your ass, your breath flutters a stack of papers.

For a moment, my excitement edges into nervousness, doubt. I’ve never spanked a man before, Tom. But then I see the the ropes of your quadriceps harden, which drives a jolt of ferocity from my fingertips to my shoulder, sending the arm high overhead. I drive it down with all my force. My palm smacks the meaty middle of a cheek. I aim for its mate. After a few more slaps, a rosy mottle colors the pale skin. Your back rises and falls with quickened breath. I bring the next blow down on that hub where buttocks meet and slope into the thighs, just above your testicles. You cry out as your flesh transmits the vibration of the slap around your balls and up the shaft your cock, the tip of which rams against the desk when your hips jerk forward.

“I said don’t move.” But I know from experience that it’s nearly impossible not to, and I don’t really care if you stay still. I strike this tender place again and again. At each blow, you thrust your pelvis and deliver a deep, throaty groan that spurs me on. I flail at your ass with all the force I can muster, but soon the shoulder of my working arm begins to burn with fatigue. I fear the limits of my strength will not permit me to spank you hard enough. To rest, I grip your flexing bottom. “Touch your cock,” I say, and press my fingernails into the tenderized flesh.

When you obey, my cunt surges with wet, hungry pleasure. I ache to touch it. I fumble with my belt and the fly of my jeans. As my fingers rake over wet folds, it dawns on me that I’ve nearly missed the solution to my problem. With my clit pressed between the fingers of one hand, I work the belt free of its loops with the other. It’s hand-stitched, tanned leather with a simple silver buckle, about an inch and a quarter in width and sable in color; a gift my ex-husband brought brought back from some work retreat at a Durango dude ranch during the waning days of our marriage. I'm sure neither of us imagined such a use for it then.

I don't know how I know to double the belt by holding both ends together in my hand, but I do. This thickens the strap as it shortens it, allowing me to stay as close as I want to your shuddering body. With your face pressed against the desk, you don't see me raise the whip.

The leather sings through the air, the bite of the lash astounds you. You yelp. At first, I'm afraid I've hurt you too much. I rub my fingers over the long red welt, already lifting in a diagonal line across the cheeks. I bring my lips to the wound, run my tongue along the tender stripe. That's when I realize that this blow has not stopped the furious pumping of your fist around your cock. This excites me, Tom. I tug gently on your testicles and you whimper against the desk. You press up onto your toes, presenting your ass to me, begging for the belt with your body.

Ok, Tom. I bring the lash down hard. Again and again, pausing every so often to stroke the striations of my handiwork with fingertips wet from my pussy. Your hips buck as I beat you, as you fuck your hand—a synchronicity of blows and strokes that connects your orgasm, when it comes, to the crack of the belt. One savage lick seems to explode you. I drop the belt and clutch at your wounded bottom, bearing down on my clit as the cum continues to jet from your cock.

Fuck. I am so close to cuming, Tom. Not just in the fantasy, but now, here. The hand that held the lash holds this pen, the other's been between my legs since you pulled my tits from my top. I had no idea when I began this letter that we’d wind up here, that my mind would make its way through these shadows of my imagination. But here I am. And I have to cum. Again. One last time. For you.