Regular Sex ~ Issue 8 (The Regular Sex Series)

Regular
Sex 8 ~ A Lesson in Human Anatomy

By

Kitty
French

Welcome to the eighth issue of
Regular Sex, the brand new series of sexy half hour reads guaranteed to make
sure your weekend starts with a bang!

Enjoy, and remember to check out
issue 9 next Friday.

Happy reading,

Love Kitty x

Regular Sex ~ Issue 8 ~ A Lesson in Human Anatomy

'Am I in the
wrong room for the lecture?'

Mr. East, my
human biology teacher, looks up from the pile of papers in front of him on his
desk and places his red pen down.

'Come in,
Jessica.'

I glance over my
shoulder to see if anyone else is coming, but the corridor is empty.

'If you're busy,
I can...?' I leave the question open ended and cross my fingers behind my back
that he doesn't send me away. Truth is I knew perfectly well there wasn't a
lecture today. It's tomorrow afternoon, as it has been every other week of the
course. And while I'm being truthful, I'll also tell you that I hoped to find
him alone in here this evening, because I spend his lectures wishing everyone
else would leave so I can have him to myself.

I don't know
much about him. He's only been lecturing here for a few weeks, and boy is he a
hot replacement for the ancient professor he's filling in for. I'm so glad I enrolled
on the course now; I very nearly didn't. My family isn't the studious type, you
know? My sister spent too much time worrying about making out rather than making
her grades, and my olds work jobs that just about put food on the table.
Ambition isn't a word that gets thrown around much in our house, to put it
mildly.

It does in my
head, though. I turned twenty-one six months ago and ambition hit me like a
bludgeon over the head. If I don't do something different to my mother, I'll
turn into her; a washed out, unfulfilled, slightly bitter version of the woman
she used to be. I'm guessing there, throwing together a mix up of old photo's
where she's laughing a whole lot more than she does now and hazy memories from
my childhood. It scares me stupid that I'll end up in the same boat, and that's
the main reason I enrolled to study again five years after I walked out of
school with two fingers in the air and a stupid ass grin on my face. It's only
two evenings a week, but it's a start, isn't it? It's a step on the ladder to
get myself out from behind the petrol kiosk counter I now work five days a week
and into the midwifery course I've set my heart on. And you know what?

I'm kind of
enjoying college now I'm here by choice rather than because the law dictates my
attendance. I don't much like being told what to do, you know?

Anyway. The
corridor behind me is empty, and I step into the classroom and pull the door
closed again behind me. Mr. East places his pen down and beckons for me to come
on in.

I walk closer,
taking my time, aiming for bashful. I've dressed with care for this; I look a
bit St Trinian's in my short pleated skirt and tight white blouse. I added a
tie at home and took it off again, it was too obvious. Same for the over the
knee socks, which was a shame as they were bloody sexy. Mind you, the knee-high
boots I opted for instead aren't much different; the overall very bad schoolgirl
vibe is most definitely there. Have I got my hair in bunches? You bet I have. I
refrained from Britney Spears style fluffy hair bands, but only with great
sadness.

Are you
wondering what Mr. East is like? Let me tell you. I don't even need to look his
way to describe him; he's imprinted on my brain. (And also on my phone from the
surreptitious pics I've taken of him during lectures. What? Don't tell me you
wouldn't do the same. Trust me, you would.)

I'd say he's
late thirties, and he's tall and rangy with sandy hair that he rifles his
fingers through when he's lecturing. I swear you can practically hear a sigh
ripple around the room when he does it. He has this capable aura too; he looks
like a man who could climb mountains and cradle babies, and his clothes seem to
want to have sex with him because they wrap themselves around him like a flirty
woman.

He always wears
a shirt to class; today's is deep blue and long sleeved, open at the neck with
his sleeves folded back to his elbows. His watch that looks understated and
expensive, and he has these big, gorgeous hands that he's fluid and expressive
with them when he speaks, and I find myself watching them and wishing they were
all over my body.

It hasn't
escaped me that the class has steadily become busier and busier since he took
over, word is obviously getting around that there's a hot new teacher on the
block. It's a sad fact that my grades have slipped since he arrived. My
concentration is shot because my deviant brain can't stop stripping Mr. East
naked.

Is that bad?
It's not really, is it? Except for that I'll probably flunk the class and end
up in the blasted petrol kiosk forever, which would actually be very bad
indeed. That's kind of why I'm here. I figure that if I take things further
with him I'll work him out of my system, and if he knocks me back I'll
hopefully be too mortified to let him distract me from my work in the future.
It's not much of a plan. In fact, I made that last bit up to sound more
cosmopolitan, because if he knocks me back, there's every chance I'll never
darken the door of this classroom again. I haven't really thought this through
beyond getting him alone. He's looking at me now over his dark rimmed glasses,
and I wonder if he really needs them or if he just wears them as part of his
sexy teacher uniform.

I hope it's that,
because I plan on sliding them off his face soon and I want him to still be
able to see the underwear I've splashed out on especially for him. It's red,
but not slutty, if that's even possible. It can't actually BE slutty at the
price I've paid for it!

'Is there
anything I can help you with, Jessica?'

You betcha
sweet ass there is, Mr. East. You can help me out of my clothes, for starters.

'Well, actually,'
I pause and bite my bottom lip. 'Seeing as it seems I've mixed my days up, it'd
be a big help to me to go over a couple of points from last week’s lesson.' I
cast my eyes at the pile of marking on his desk. 'As long as you're sure I'm
not interrupting?'

He rolls his
shoulders and flexes his neck to the side. 'I could do with a break from these,
anyway.' He nods towards a chair at the front of the class. 'Take a seat. I'll
be with you in one minute.'

He picks up his
pen and writes something down on the paper on top of the pile, and I glance out
of the window at the playing fields beyond. It's late summer and the room is
sun warm from the big glass windows along one wall, and bathed in mellow
afternoon shafts of light. I watch dust motes dance in the beams, and breathe in
the smell of polished floor and academia. It's a place I only appreciate now as
an adult, a quiet space, an underscore of peace. Or else it was, before Mr.
Eat-me-East arrived and turned the place into eye candy central.

'I'm ready for
you now,' he says suddenly, and my head snaps back around to look at him. A
slight smile plays around his full mouth, and his petrol blue eyes look amused
and enquiring.

I'm ready for
you now too
. I sit up to attention and throw an answering uncertain smile
his way.

'What was it
about last week’s lesson you wanted to run through, Jessica?' he asks, and OMG,
the way he looks at me! He's relaxed in his chair and idly flicking the pencil
across his knuckles.

I should tell
you at this point that we're studying anatomy at the moment. Imagine it; this
hot as hell guy who looks more like he should be on TV than in a classroom
using an overhead projector to point out the finer points of the female body to
a group of students who are hanging off his every word.

'This might
sound stupid, Mr. East, but I find it really hard to remember all of the correct
anatomical terminologies. I mean, I know the common ones of course, but I
wondered if you had any hints or tips on how to remember the more tricky ones.'

He nods slowly,
looking at me over his glasses.

'I see.'

Does he? Does he
see through my lame question to the real one beneath it?

He's messing in
the drawer of his desk now, and when he closes it again, he has a pen in his
hand.

'I learned this
little trick years ago,' he says. 'Come on over here.'

So far, so good.
I cross to his desk and perch my butt on the edge of it. If it surprises him,
he doesn't show it.

'Let's say you
wanted to memorise the bones in your hand,' he says, then lays his left hand
flat on the desk. No wedding ring, thankfully.

'The bones in
your fingers are called phalanges,' he says, and then he writes the word along
his finger in bold blue rollerball ink.

I nod and repeat
the word.

'And here?' He
strokes his fingertip down the back of his hand. 'These are your metacarpals.'
He writes the word again. 'And then right here are your carpal bones.' He writes
on his skin again, close to the base of his thumb.

I'm looking at
his hands and imagining them sliding up my skirt.

'So you write on
your hands to remind yourself?'

He lifts one
shoulder in a relaxed shrug. 'Not just my hands. I find if you label your body
in the morning and keep checking it, by the end of the day you've pretty much
got it fixed in your head.'

This is an
unexpected direction for our conversation to head in, but not an unwelcome one.
I can work with this.

I pick up his
pen and write on my own middle finger as he did. Phalengas.

'Nearly,' he
says, with a little twist of his mouth. He takes the pen from my hand. 'If
you're going to try this method, it's kind of necessary that you spell things
right.'

He hovers the
pen over my hand. 'May I?'

I nod. Yes, oh
yes, you may correct my deliberately bad spelling. He draws the roller ball
slowly through my writing, a light pen stroke that goes all the way along to my
red fingernail.

I watch as he
twists himself around to the right angle to write on my index finger instead.

'There,' he
smiles. 'That's better.' He looks at me again over his glasses. 'Shall I do the
others for you?'

'Yes, please.' I
make my voice soft, barely more than a whisper.

Mr. East shifts
a little in his chair and then lays his free hand over my fingertips to hold my
hand still.

'So here, in the
back of your hand,' he slides a finger up from my wrist to the base of my middle
finger, 'are your metacarpal bones.'

His pen follows,
gliding over my skin, spelling out the word. While he's there he marks my carpal
bones just as he did on his own hand.

'See?'

He places the
pen down, but interestingly he leaves his other hand resting over my
fingertips. I like that.

'I think this could
work for me,' I murmur, then read each of the words out loud for his benefit. For
kicks, I close my eyes and say them over again, touching the appropriate place as
I speak.

'Very good.
You're a fast learner, Jessica,' he says when I open my eyes again, and his
blue ones glint with approval. He smells of warm spice with a background of
lemons, lingering hints of his shower gel or aftershave perhaps, and of
something else too, something less tangible or identifiable. It's sexual and
manly, and it makes me want to bury my head in the open neck of his shirt.

'Do you write on
other places than your hand, too, Mr. East?'

He raises his
eyebrows at my question and pauses for a beat. I sense that this is a crucial
moment; he could say no and that would pretty much shut me down.

'Anywhere I especially
want to remember.'

I smile. 'You
must have got through some shower gel when you were studying.'

What kind of an
idiot thing was that to say? He probably thinks I'm a nutcase
. I am.

He doesn't
respond, probably because there isn't very much he could say to my inane
waffle. I need to get this seduction back on track. I want him to see me as a
femme fatale, rather than a vaguely hysterical 1D style fan girl who might lick
his face at any moment. I mean, granted,
I might
lick his face at any
moment, but we haven't quite reached that stage in proceedings yet.

'Here, for
instance,' he picks the pen up as he speaks, and then he writes radius in
bright blue, looping letters on my forearm. I gulp, because he's moved his
other hand from covering my fingertips to holding my hand, and then he flips my
hand over to reveal the underside of my arm.

'And here?' He
places the nib of the pen against the sensitive skin and a second later he's
scrawled ulna there.

To impress him,
I close my eyes and go back over the bones in my hand from memory and then add
in the bones of my arm too.

'This here is
your humerus bone.' He runs his hand down from my shoulder to my elbow, in a
way that no one could really describe as professional between a teacher and a
student. 'I could write it on your blouse, if you like?'

I glance down to
hide the smile that tugs at my mouth, and then back up again a second later
when I'm under control.

'I don't think
I'd like that, Mr. East,' I say. 'It might be easier if I just slip it off for
a second.'

His Adam’s apple
moves as he swallows hard. He doesn't stop me though, just looks at my fingers
when they slip first one, then two buttons free. It's unbuttoned all the way
down now and I pause for a second before I open it to build his anticipation.

I scooch further
back on his desk as I pull the material back, and I arch a little for his
benefit. I don't go too wild though, because we're still playing this game and theoretically
we haven't crossed the line.

I mean, we have,
because I'm taking my blouse off for him, but he hasn't touched me or been
inappropriate in any real way yet.
I can't wait until he is.

Oh, wait. He's
just done something inappropriate, with his eyes at least. He looked at my tits
for a few seconds, and well he might. My bra pushes them up just enough to give
me a full, rounded cleavage without making me look like I'm trying too hard,
and the deep red lace is vivid against my pale skin.