Well let me see. I desire to write a new story, although this time a little different than the times before. It all started at my creative writing class. The instructor, Ms. Henson, asked me to stay after class wanting to talk with me. That kind of puzzled me a little, especially since her critiques of my writing were fierce. I paid for the class and it was a Learning Annex class, so my attitude was just learn from the open discussions, record her dialogue style lectures, and try not to let my ego be bruised from her notes, even though they were piercing at times.

After class drew to a close I just sat in my chair waiting until everyone who wanted to chat with her were gone. I didn’t know how much time went by until the last person went through the door. Looking up at the clock, since I never wore a watch, “shit” flew passed my lips, which drew her sea green eyes hard upon me. “Pardon my French Ms. Henson. It’s later than I thought, so what about we do this by phone tomorrow?” I stammered. She didn’t say anything.

Walking slowly toward me, her eyes fixed even harder upon mine and her angelic face now had an odd grimace on it. Stopping about two chairs in front of me, turning one around on the opposite side of the isle, sitting down while crossing her long, slender, yet thick, tanned legs she turned toward me. Since she was the instructor and I was the student the power structure dictated that I be docile and wait patiently.

First, Ms. Henson slid her right hand down onto her hip, which faced me. Next, slowly tracing the outline of her muscular thigh barely, hidden by a skirt, until reaching her knee, she began slowly, seductively scratching.

Sitting back in my chair I sought to grasp the total image of her not wanting to focus on any one thing in particular, yet oddly the surety of her fingers scratching captivated me. Her imagery was very illusive, softly seductive, yet expressively certain to hold my male attention. I realized she was playing with me, but I decided to follow her lead while saying, “And, what do you want from me?” with a sly grin.

Her strappy lawn type cami wasn’t very revealing. A few weeks back she indicated her full time position was a Professor, though she never mentioned what field. Pondering ethics, thinking she was prim and proper maintaining a look of professionalism, I was haunted by her sense of looseness.

After all this class was a class of entrepreneurship, an avenue for the everyday person to receive help with writing without the interference of academia criteria – no grades, no credits, and no competition.

“I’ve noticed, Tim, all your writing assignments are erotic in nature. May I ask why?” Her soft, demure, Irish accent slid into my ears.

Sitting more erect, tilting my head back and to the right, leaning forward, I replied, “Yes!” I heard a slight, curious giggle, and then realized how oddly my posture of thought appeared.

Silence followed, seeming to last a decade and finally I heard, “Oh, and why?” pass by her supple faintly clad lips of ushered in roses.

Allowing a moment or two for her focus to steady on me I began to explain. “The market, the audience availability, audience diversification, and maybe I am just plain horny when I am home alone.” Now easing further forward, leaning on the desktop I challenged her with a provocative wink reinforced with a sexy smile.

Now, she too, leaned forward like it was a tennis match, her breasts pressing harder against her cami, exposing two taunt, erect nipples. Taking in the emotion of her imagery I listened intently for her reply while noticing her hand was no longer on her knee, but moving, inching along her inner thigh cloaked in denim. Her other hand now upon her neck, fingers slightly spread, began dancing downward until her little finger slid from reality behind the low, rounded, lacy neckline.

I could tell something was happening, seeing a faint rose-colored blush being painted by those slender fingers. “But, why are all your papers free of graphic descriptions,” she asked pointedly. Suddenly, swiftly, she uncrossed her legs, pointing her curvaceous torso more in my direction. Following this she crossed her dainty ankles, pulling them back, which pressed her legs inward revealing more of her sinewy, well exercised thighs. In the back of my head I saw a vision of her jogging along some empty street – not quite dusk, not quite night. I could see her rounded, full, womanly breasts bounce a little, yet not much, because of her binding sport bra. And, those well tanned thighs, flexing, stiffening, even jiggling as her feet bounced off the sidewalk dimly lit by broken street lamps.

I fixed my hazel eyes onto hers, now dilated with curiosity. “I can write graphically, more pornographic shall we say, but, well, I have some trouble when I do.” Placing my hand on my upper thigh, seeing all her fingers dip below her faintly, yellow colored cami blouse I fought back desire. There was becoming a need, the want to free my stiffening length. Holding my eager eyes hard on hers, I only caught a glimpse of soft green between her inner thighs as she uncrossed her ankles. “Go on Tim, I’m interested, tell me more, please,” her perky, sensuous voice sang.

I thought how I should reply to this for a moment or two before saying, “Aren’t these chairs uncomfortable, Ms. Henson?”

I heard a very faint, yet audible giggle come playfully from her followed by, “Yes, let’s got out for coffee, shall we?”

Not allowing the moment to escape by, sharply I replied, “Better yet, why don’t I stop at Starbucks and grab us a couple of Venti Café Americanos and meet you at Mission Beach. The area in front of the Holiday Inn is usually secluded at this time of night and there is grass near the water’s edge where there are some benches. I have a blanket too!”

Sliding from the desktop chair she stood saying, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Still sitting I watched her short, somewhat thick stature move away and toward the door. I hadn’t noticed how round, her butt was until then and her calves flexed exposing pronounced muscular cuts from either jogging, tennis or some kind of sport. Reaching the door she turned while saying, “I have to lock the door, hurry along now.” Grasping my knap sack, stuffing my steno pad and last week’s assignment in it, I half scooted along the isle of chairs.

Reaching the door, stopping half way through it, I turned toward her, dipping my head, then gave her a very soft, sensuous kiss on her cheek. I don’t think she expected that, as her cheeks blushed a faint rosy red while her eyelids fluttered momentarily.

“Cream, sugar, or any other extras?” I asked.  

“Both, three bags of Splenda with a venti, and why don’t you add a couple shots of vanilla too. I love vanilla!” gleefully she replied.

The nearest Starbucks was about three blocks away and it took maybe ten minutes to get the coffee prepared. I was getting nervous thinking when I got there she would be gone because those ten minutes without a watch seemed like an hour. Driving a little hectic I arrived maybe fifteen minutes later, almost ran across the wide area of grass lit by the night-lights of the Holiday Inn.

But, there near the shore of slowly rolling waves was an image of a woman darkened by the long casting light of the full moon. My heart raced with hope it was her, my mind wrestled with darting thoughts of despair if it wasn’t. Why were these feelings so strong, after all I had no desires for her until tonight? Getting closer I felt an odd mixture of feelings roll through me realizing it was her, we were in a romantic setting, she must have been interested in something about me, though flashes that she was my teacher streaked between thoughts of erotica, romance and seduction.  

“I hope it is still hot enough for you,” I said while placing the coffee in her hand.

She sipped not once, but twice before saying, “Perfect.”

I smiled, allowed my eyes to wander from her eyes to her nipples straining against the cotton fabric of her cami, and the slight shaking of her knees in the late night air.

“Are you warm enough?” I inquired as I extended my arm toward her, then slowly, softly stroking her bare shoulder.

“Not really. I think we would be better inside where it is warm,” her shaky voice retorted.

My emotions were mixed now because I had envisioned connecting with her in a different level than student – teacher.

The beach would make a romantic yet seductive back drop too. “I live in Escondido, but that is forty minutes or so away,” I pointed out to her.

Silence surrounded both of us while we both looked at each other, sipping the coffee, and looking at the wide bluish, white light cast by the distant full moon. I didn’t know what to suggest, since up until then our meeting was of professional basis to some degree.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Why don’t we get a room here? I have my laptop and we can write some prose together.”  

The cold air against our naked skin caused us to scurry across the green expanse of grass, which now began to sparkle as a thin fog crept in. Just as we arrived at the sidewalk to the entrance Ms. Henson asked me to wait while she got her laptop. Intently I watched her shapely, curvaceous body slither away into the half dark parking lot. I felt oddly content while waiting her return, yet the familiar feeling of aloneness was nearby too. A few couples passed by me and as late as it was they surely were coming back from a club or maybe the Gas Lamp District after a night of dancing or partying.

In my head hidden fantasies of heated, passionate love making in the elevator, on the balcony, or even against the wall of the room’s foyer flashed like a slide projector gone rampant. Why were these thoughts so strong? My therapist once told me if I see fireworks when I meet someone to run. But it wasn’t Fourth of July right now and the sky was only full of sparkling stars, an ominous full moon casting its spell, and the darkness of night sliding toward morning.  

 “OK, I’ve got it. Let’s get a room,” she hurriedly said, while grabbing my hand, then pulling me along with her. We jogged toward the entry, forcefully pushed the door open and half panting asked the attendant for a room.

“I only have one suite available,” she said.

I looked away a moment, then back at her, then downward, then into her eyes as I sternly spoke, “There better be a deal in this or we’re going elsewhere!”

Ms. Henson nudged me somewhat forcefully with her buxom hip as she placed a credit card on the counter saying, “Whatever you have, we want it!”

I felt like we were being taken advantage of so I precociously stated, “What if we just got it on in the lobby for fifteen minutes and said fuck to the room!”

Both of them looked at me like I was from mars or some other distant planet.

“Forgive me, OK, we just want a room so we can finish a story we are composing for our editor. We were tossing ideas around on the beach, it got cold, and can’t you see we have a laptop? Do you want to sneak preview of a best seller?” I half whispered like it was a national secret.

I heard a very, very faint giggling laugh from somewhere near Ms. Henson and a younger, unstable voice saying, “It’s policy. I’m sorry. I’m just doing my job.”  

Stepping back a moment I looked at both of them then said boldly, “It’s not my money. You two decide.”

They both looked at each other a moment, smiled, then, the desk attendant said, “Ms. Henson I see it says on your MasterCard San Diego Unified School District. I think there is a discount schedule available for conventions and,” she finished with a sly wicked smile, “other official business.”

The both of them were working in unison like team members seeking the same victory. Now, I wondered was I on the team or was I the other team, then I began to chuckle aloud, causing their stares to fix on me. When she finally signed the transmittal I slid my arm around her delicate waist, pulling her toward the elevator while asking, “What floor, what room number?”   

The ride up the elevator was awkward, silent and thick with curiosity. “Ding,” sounded like a fog horn on a desolate eastern seaboard shore. The door opened, and there before us was a door with the number 703. She looked at me, I her and we shuffled toward our right to discover the numbers were getting smaller. Abruptly we stopped, turning like it was a Minuet to Schakowsky and were about to go beneath waiting arms, we hurried until finally reaching 713.

I looked into her sea green eyes, and she into mine. “Your eyes look red,” passed by her supple, serene, opaque pink painted lips.

Funny, I had not noticed that until now. They glistened in the light above the door in the dimly lit hall as if they were beckoning me, drawing my wanton soul toward her, beseeching my passion. Placing my arm around her neck very softly, gently, like a silk scarf on an early fall evening I guided her closer, then closer, and closer yet. I hesitated to peer into her dilated pools of darkness surrounded by tranquil, yet, torrid waves of alluring seas of green, which were searching my inner desires. They were loosening my very essence, capsizing my vessel of control, and taunting gentile spirit.

Passionately placing my lips hungrily upon hers, pressing gently, delicately, faintly seeking her taste, her want, her reserved desire I eagerly kissed those lips of temptation.  I allowed myself to disregard ethics, subtle morality, socialized caste systems of etiquette. That moment was an endless eternity; it was a second without any length of time. Like an eclipse in reality her lips parted slightly and our wet tongues began to parry, thrust, and duel swiftly, intensely, and hungrily. The endlessness of time drifted toward a sense of presence as she placed her hand against my head, sliding her fingers to and fro in my gray locks. Without hesitation I snaked my arms around her, pulling her hard against me, I measured her passion by the upward raising of her breast pressed against my chest. I knew we were interlocked in passion’s yearning lust, and our want of now.

Sensing her unsteadiness hearing the key plummet against the floor from her feeble attempt to unlock the door, I lifted my head back while fixing my surrendering gaze upon her. Seeing a smile like the early morning sun stretching its arms across a spring morning in Sierra foothills, I realized time was now forgotten. We were moving away from sensibility, lost to the past experiences, arriving to a land known as now.

Reaching downward I picked the key up, placed it in the lock, and then, slid it swiftly in-n-out. “Click” broke the silence, the stillness, the calm of the empty hallway. Pressing against the wide, early Spanish styled door, we moved in unison toward the unknown of tomorrow, toward the enchantment of the night’s passing, and toward the surety of the purity of mystery, to the awe of the present.

“My name is Nelleh,” Ms. Henson whispered into my ear as if spoken by the mystical, magic of one of history’s fabled faeries. Her voice transcended my presence, my reality, and perceptions reaching into the depths of my minds recesses. Like the flute of pan her song enticed me further into the opaqueness of darkness.

Lit only by the luminous glow of the transcending glow through a break in the curtains I followed her. Slightly, her hand guided me, led me, drawing me inward, tugging on the securities of my stalwart poise. Her curvaceous, womanly figure captivated my senses while simultaneously eluded my perceptions becoming translucent, numinous in nature, absent of both my rational and empirical senses.

Reaching to turn on the light her hand firmly grasped onto mine as she said, “NO! See me with your feelings. Touch my essence with yours. Know my presence without sensing your perceptions. Realize me with your soul.”