Recess

RECESS

by

Corinna Parr

AMAZON EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Corinna Parr on Amazon.com

Recess

Copyright © 2012 by Corinna Parr

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed  with the exception of quotes used in reviews. If you enjoyed this book, please click the links after the story to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. All characters depicted herein are 18 years of age or older.

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Adult Reading Material.

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RECESS

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“Please. Not here,” she said.

Bold words, I thought. Mrs. Pickman spoke just above a whisper and her voice trembled with what I’ve learned to recognize as shame. Hot shame, shame that prickles over your cheeks and gets down between your legs, as if everyone can smell your secret on the air. I couldn’t, yet. But the way she stood against me, making a shadowed place between her back and my stomach; the way she let her weight shift from one heel to the other; that desperate quiver in her voice, they all spoke to me. Mrs. Pickman’s dark eyes wandered without focus over the construction paper art on the wall, and I wondered, as I felt up the smooth inside of her thigh, whether she would recognize Randee’s. Could she tease his voice from the riot of children’s laughter that came to us, muffled, from the playground outside? Might she fear that he was coming down the hall to find her? Would it matter to her?

Mrs. Pickman had a firm leg for a woman her age. Soft enough to get your nails into, but there was still muscle there. That long, sweet thigh muscle, one of my favorites, tensed and relaxed in my palm. I turned my wrist a little and curled up my fingers until I could trace the hem of her panties. Tight stitching, fabric that caught on my fingertips— cotton, probably in some drab shade or other, generously cut. And heat, blood-warm and pooling between my knuckles. She drew a sharp breath.

“Someone will see us,” Mrs. Pickman murmured, as if lecturing a child. I heard her heel scrape as her legs came further apart. I ran the pad of my middle finger lazily along the seam of her panties, pressing just deeply enough to feel the contour of her body beneath the cloth. And when I came to that soft place, that place where the cloth puddles down like it’s floating on thick honey, I pushed in a little more. Mrs. Pickman whimpered.
 
My skin tingled with her wetness, seeping through the wash-worn cotton.

She was very still now, like a rabbit crouched in high grass. She neither protested nor moved away as I bunched the cloth of her panties into a roll against one thigh; breathless, she let me probe along her petal-soft folds. Her eyes closed tightly; from her reflection in the window glass, it seemed as if Mrs. Pickman were trying to hold back tears, or perhaps to shut out the light that bore down on her in fierce primary colors from every part of the room. I spread her open, and found her clitoris, and she gasped— a wet, reedy sound through parted lips.

“Oh please don’t,” she begged, and I heard, please. I don’t want to do this, I want to do this, please make me. Please.

“Is there a Mr. Pickman, Mrs. Pickman?” I asked her, as I worked a finger into her sex. She didn’t answer me. She just knotted her little fists in the fabric of her skirt and leaned back against me, and when her buttocks brushed over my erection she whimpered again. I put another digit into her and started to pump them in and out. Mrs. Pickman coated my fingers, she sucked hungrily on them. Her hips twitched against me and then settled into a slow, luscious roll; she was a dancer finding the old steps again, steps she once knew by heart. Once this woman had flashed across the floor. I could feel it in the way she rode down on my digits, heard it in the hoarse moans she gave me, ghosts of earlier fuckings.

I might have bent Mrs. Pickman over the desk and taken her right there, in the full daylight of afternoon, with her skirt around her hips.
 
That’s where she must have been in her head, bumping at my crotch with a bodily need, and the caress of her buttocks shot through me every time we fetched against each other. It mounted in me and the wave of it became too much— too much light, too much color, too much raw space for two people in that barren classroom. Mrs. Pickman’s musk mingled with the giggles of children in the air. I took out my fingers and oiled her enflamed clitoris, rolled it, teased it until her whole body arched back against me. She thrust her sex into my hand, and her voice choked in her throat, and she shook, and shook; she couldn’t know it but each tremor she gave was mine. It caressed me. I took her orgasm along my chest and belly and cock.

Since then we’ve always spoken normally. Mrs. Pickman blushes a little but smiles. Randee is a very good student.

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Please enjoy these excerpts from other works I’ve completed!

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from WETWARE DREAMS

In her dream, Dorothy was bound to a gurney.

Leather straps crossed her shoulders and her ribs. They pinned Dorothy’s arms to her sides and pressed her back against the stainless steel beneath her. Squeezed between those bands, her breasts seemed even larger than they were. They strained the buttons of the threadbare grey shirt she wore.

A draft prickled over Dorothy’s legs, and she realized that she wasn’t wearing anything else. Below her thighs, where the shirt’s hem gave out, it was all plump, smooth flesh to the tips of her toes. As the chill crept higher, Dorothy tried to close her legs and was brought up short with a rattling sound. She raised her head.

Dorothy’s ankles had been shackled to the sides of the gurney.

She struggled then, but all she could do was shift and raise her hips. The helplessness of that undulation clutched her heart and quickened her pulse. Dorothy had no idea where she was, or who had done this to her. She didn’t know what they wanted with her. All she knew was that she couldn’t get free.

Dorothy fell back against the gurney, breathing heavily. Strands of hair had fallen over her face, into her mouth, but she couldn’t brush them away. The only light in the room was a dull, remote fluorescence that did little more than touch the edges of objects around her. Unable to see well, Dorothy listened instead: to her own breath, and the whisper of conditioned air, and below these, to a hum that she could not identify.

She heard someone approaching.

Before Dorothy could turn her head, a face appeared above her. A face, or perhaps a mask. The eyes were bulbous, glassy, without whites or pupils; the nose hooked like the beak of an ibis. Dangling from the back of the head were greasy black things that might have been feathers, or tarred ropes. There was no mouth.

The thing reached for her. Dorothy tried to scream, but no sound came out.

Its fingers narrowed at the tips to fine points. With a delicate motion of these points, the figure slipped the topmost of Dorothy’s buttons from its hole. Then the next, and the next, its fingertips clicking on the plastic of the buttons. Each button unfastened revealed more of her breasts and the deep cleft between them. Carefully, the stranger folded back her shirt between the straps until her bosom rose bare, kissed by the cool air and the fluorescent light.

Dorothy shivered. Her shackles clattered against the gurney. With her torso pinned down, Dorothy could only watch as the thing moved its hands over her.

Those fine fingertips brushed both of her breasts, tracing furrows into their curves. It stung a little, then tingled deep under the surface. The skin around Dorothy’s nipples puckered and the nipples themselves stiffened into prominent buds. She thought that the figure might rake them with its nails, but instead it turned its hands and cupped the sides of her breasts in its palms, pressing them together. Dorothy felt the sweat that had gathered between her breasts despite the chill. Trapped and motionless, she watched the masked stranger make mounds of her soft flesh. Her nipples were pushed close to each other and when they touched, the shock of it crackled down into her belly.

Again Dorothy tried to speak, to ask the figure what it was or beg it to stop, but all she heard was her own ragged breathing. Shadows gathered at the corners of her vision as the stranger’s touch took hold of her consciousness. Her chest rose and fell; her nipples ached to be fondled.

Instead, the other put a hand between her legs. Dorothy’s thighs shook. She jerked her shackles in an effort to raise her knees and close them against that touch, but the bands around her ankles kept her legs spread wide. She was both terrified and aroused, and powerless to prevent what was being done to her.

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from ALCMENE AGAIN

She was surprised by the force of Arthur’s kiss, the way he crushed her full lips and then tugged them into the shapes that pleased him. Sofia gave a little whimper that was stifled when his tongue speared her mouth. It was wet and muscular and he swept the cusp of her throat, threatening her air. Arthur’s arms closed like bands of metal around her waist and he pressed her hips against his. Borne back by his mouth and forward by his clutch, her body arched under him. She wondered if they might topple to the floor, entangled.

Struggling to match the eagerness of his tongue, Sofia realized that Arthur was rock hard beneath his dress green slacks. His erection dimpled the inside of her thigh. She was seized by the notion of wrapping her legs around him, easing that cock towards her sex. But they were in a public airport! The image of herself clinging to him with her skirt around her waist, her buttocks and flimsy purple thong exposed, replaced that rush of heat with embarrassment.

Arthur broke his kiss and Sofia gasped.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said.

“I can tell,” she murmured.

Arthur drove them away from the airport. They talked about little things, still somewhat bewildered by the novelty of one another’s presence. Arthur said nothing about his tour of duty and Sofia thought it best not to ask. She was a little worried, but he seemed happy, relaxed, comfortable. He smiled and gestured often as he talked.

His eyes never quite left the road, but Sofia saw him stealing glances at her tawny and sunlit thighs in the seat beside him. Half-consciously, she pressed her legs together and tugged on the hem of her skirt. Those glances became longer and more frequent until his conversation trailed away.

After a silence, Arthur said, “I see you’ve brought me a present.”

Sofia started to ask him what he meant, but her breath caught. Arthur had taken one hand from the wheel and curled it over her left thigh. His nails dug into the toned flesh between them. Moving his wrist, he pushed up her dress until the violet gloss of her panties peeked between her thighs.

Sofia’s breathing quickened and she shifted in her seat. “Arthur…” she admonished softly.

“Let me see it,” he said. “Spread your legs.”

“Arthur…”

His fingers were very strong. They worked down to her sex and stroked the lips through her panties, teasing up a curl of heat behind them. Arthur seemed to know just where her clitoris was, and when he rubbed it through the silk, she shuddered despite herself.

He was relentless. Her breath thickened into a gasp. She could feel herself swelling, aching for more of his touch. Her body didn’t care that they were moving down a busy street.