A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)

7. Horny Redhead (Adult)


I awoke in the morning with my laptop closed between my legs. I hadn’t even been able to close things down before falling asleep.

Charlie sent me an email with her twitter handle. @hornyredhead91

I clicked to follow her.

@hornyredhead91: has discovered a cure for insomnia. Thanks Eirica. Luv ya!
@ClanGoddess87:  can't wait for an encore.

She could discover my true feelings about Arlen now, but I didn’t care. I suspected she already knew them and shared them. It was time to push Arlen further, so I emailed him a nude photo of Nipples, who knocked on the door just as I clicked send.

“Did you hear all the ghosts last night?” she asked, still wearing her nightdress. “They were rather noisy.”

“Were you doing anything?” I asked. “Were they interested in you?”

“I think all the commotion was in the hallway. Didn’t you hear it?”

“I must have slept through it,” I lied. “What do you want to do today? We could put up a Christmas tree. There are some for sale in the village.”

“That’s a great idea! I forgot that Christmas was on Saturday.”

“I don’t usually bother when I’m on my own.”

Finding a suitable tree in the village took a short time, during which I obsessed about Arlen. I couldn’t wait for him to say something about Nip’s picture. It might be the closest I could get to talking dirty with him. My mailbox was empty when we arrived home, and again after dinner.

@ClanGoddess87: Why doesn't he say something about her picture?

My following was quick to respond. Several said that I should give him more time. Some said I’d gone too far, and the smart-alecs wanted me to post the picture for them to decide.

@hornyredhead91: Maybe he would rather see you! I would.

Her reply filled me with dread, not for what she said, but because she said it. Should I tone down my tweeting until after I achieved my objective? I couldn’t. That was part of the fun. It was part of my exhibitionist nature: the buzz of the risk.

During my Facebook crawl, I discovered Charlie was online. I desperately wanted a repeat, but I withheld my approach. She didn’t, not entirely.

Charlotte Weeks: You there?”

She didn’t request a video chat.

Eirica Johnstone: Just going to bed. I'm not sure I have the energy to stay up 
late tonight.
Charlotte Weeks: Me, too. I've been thinking of you all day.
Eirica Johnstone: I've been doing the same.
Charlotte Weeks: You've been thinking of Arlen.
Eirica Johnstone: Are you jealous?

I was. As his student, she saw him regularly. My access was limited to his intermittent emails.

Charlotte Weeks: No. Last night scared me a little. I don't know 
what got into me.
Eirica Johnstone: Do you regret it?
Charlotte Weeks: Not in the least. Do you?
Eirica Johnstone: No. What scares you about it?
Charlotte Weeks: How much I want to do it again. I'm definitely a het, 
but this was so exciting.
Eirica Johnstone: You were right, though. I needed it.
Charlotte Weeks: I don't think Arlen is going to reply to your email 
this morning. That's not like him. He's never that overt.
Eirica Johnstone: What will he do?
Charlotte Weeks: Nothing. He will go on as if it never happened.

Charlie was right. I heard nothing from him until the next night, although another gaggle of his former students sent friend requests. These were mostly British, but much like the previous crowd. Most were successful musicians or composers, and had one or two children and an apparently absent husband. Did Arlen break up marriages?

As I checked them out, his email came in.

Arlen Stewart:
Dear Eirica,
I have another fantasy for you. I know you want something more explicit, 
but this is all I can muster. It is another that began as a dream and 
is structured like one, repetitive, as usual.
I am teaching a class, but only four students show up, all former ones 
of mine, but one current undergraduate. I won't say their names, as 
they will be meaningless to you. All are nude except one, who is wearing 
only a man's unbuttoned dress shirt – one of mine. “Are you good in bed?” 
she asks.
“I don't know,” I replied, as if such discussion is normal in a music 
class. “I'm not sure I am qualified to answer.”
“We could find out,” replied another, who stands and lays down on the 
table in front of me. It is only then that I realize that I, too, am 
nude. I decline the offer, but the first student insists. The student 
prostrating herself on my table is like a tiny china doll, and I am 
afraid to hurt her.
“We just need to get you started,” suggests a third woman, possibly 
the least attractive of the three, although I might be most attracted 
to her. I've never known why. She, too, stands and accosts me, 
dragging her hand down my chest to find my sex standing at attention.
“I think we need a survey,” the fourth comments.
“Yes, we must be scientific about it,” says the first. “You fuck 
the four of us, and then we vote on whether you're a good lay.”
The second woman squeezes me and insists on being first, requiring 
me to say what I'm doing as I do it. It happens quickly, and I take 
her roughly, standing against the wall. Meanwhile, the second woman 
waits patiently on the table. She wants me on top. “It's more traditional,” 
she explains. She is from a conservative Chinese family. She kneads my 
buttocks, as I squeeze myself into her. A very tight fit, I doesn't 
take long to climax, and I can't take much more. The fourth woman pries 
me off her and drags me to the floor before climbing on me. I find her 
more satisfying as she rides me hard.
The first woman was the youngest, and has a filthy mouth, yet she was 
the most cunning. As I roll out from under the fourth, she sits in her 
chair and waits … and waits. Meanwhile, I sit on the floor shivering. 
At first, I just want her to get it over with, and I become impatient 
as she plays with the button on her shirt – my shirt. She buttons it 
up to her breasts, which are small but fine, yet their enclosure balloons 
them within my mind. All I can think of is burying my face between them.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.

“I haven't seen anything worth getting excited about yet. I might as 
well not bother.”
“Please?” I beg. I needed her.
“Why should I,” she asks, tossing her ruby-red ponytail over her 
shoulder and un-crossing her legs just wide enough for me to see 
her ...” I can't say that. It is also a deep red.
“It's my pussy,” she says as though reading my embarrassed mind. 
“It isn't so bad if you say it aloud. Fucking is another word. It's 
just a bodily function. She swears a lot, and I try not to look 
at … it.”
“Say it!” she insists.
“I can't.”
“You won't know what you are missing if you don't speak to her.”
“Speak to her?”
“Come closer,” she bids, spreading her legs wider, but the shirt-tail 
covers it. “Say, come out to play little pussy.”
“Come out to play little pussy,” I oblige.
“She's a little deaf,” the woman says. “Come as close as you can.” 
I say it again, only a few inches away. I can smell her musky 
fragrance. “Why don't you release the lowest button so she can see 
you? But don't touch. You'll frighten her.”
I do it. Meanwhile, I ooze a drop of semen, which slops slowly to 
the floor.
“Blow on her. You might get her attention.”
At the touch of my breath, the little pussy convulses. The woman's 
legs spread wider.
“Taste her,” the woman bids. She leans back on her chair to let 
me closer.
I taste. It is bitter at first, but then I try deeper where it is 
sweeter. Her thighs close around my head. My greedy member drips 
more, leaving a dark wet spot on the floor. I can't see it, but I 
know it is there. She clasps her legs around me, pulling me deeper 
into her. I can barely breath. The spot on the floor expands. I'm 
kneeling in its slippery pool. The whole floor is covered an inch 
deep with my semen. Finally, she releases me, inviting me to unbutton 
the rest of the shirt with my teeth, tasting her, as I go.
The chair is gone and she is laying in the pool, my shirt, soaked, 
clinging to her torso. She rolls me over, so that both of us are 
gleaming with semen. I can't wait any longer, but I ease myself 
into her. She accepts me with a moan, whispering my name quietly 
in my ear. I glide in and out easily, faster and deeper, deeper 
than I have ever been into a woman. Her hair has come loose and 
floats freely in the pool, now three inches deep. Again, she locks 
her legs around me. I clench and then release as we float freely 
in the buoyant pool of semen.
Suddenly, all is dry, and she is laying on top of me, playing with 
the hair on my chest. “You get my vote,” she whispers, then I wake up.
I'm sorry that is so crude, but I couldn't describe it any other way. 
That took a lot out of me. I'm not sure I can give you any more of my 
fantasies. It does my head in. Charlotte told me she wants to play my 
trumpet sonata with you. Is that OK? She wants to write one for you, 
too. She's very good, and writes well for her own instrument. You might 
want to coach her on writing for piano, though. She writes difficult 
music at the best of times. Knowing you are a virtuoso might tip her 
off into oblivion.
I can't stick around tonight. Sandra is over for a late dinner, and I 
must be social. I've spent too long here as it is. All has gone ominously 
quiet in the other room. She is staying for Christmas, and I'll have 
lots of duties, so I won't be around until Monday or Tuesday. As they 
say, don't wait up. Enjoy your Christmas with Nicole.
Happy Christmas,
Arlen

Damn! It was just getting me going. Why did he have to fade to grey at the end? And why did it have to be about Charlie? That must have been about her, but what could I do? She was there and I wasn’t. No more messages until Boxing Day either. How could I change his mind? Another fantasy? And Sandra was there! Now I was seriously jealous.

Charlie was still online.

I clicked on her link and typed,

Eirica Johnstone: Fuck me, please.
Charlotte Weeks: Why so sudden, sweety?
Eirica Johnstone: Arlen fantasizes about you and I am very jealous. 
Fuck me hard up against the wall. Be as dirty as you want.

I waited. No reply.

Eirica Johnstone: Please?
Charlotte Weeks: How do you know he fantasizes about me?
Eirica Johnstone: We send each other fantasies, The one he sent me 
must be about you: 'a current student with ruby-red hair' and a 
foul mouth. Speak dirty to me.
Charlotte Weeks: May I see it?
Eirica Johnstone: If you promise not to get him in trouble. I still 
need him.
Charlotte Weeks: I promise. Need him?
Eirica Johnstone: I plan on seducing him.

Could I have been more blunt?

Another silence. I took the opportunity to excerpt the fantasy portion of the email and forward it to her. I waited as she read … and waited. I was about to give up and log off, but she stopped me by replying.

Charlotte Weeks: Interesting. Can I see you? Are you naked?”
Eirica Johnstone: Of course.

I positioned my computer so she could see all of me before opening the video link. When her picture came up, she was touching herself. I watched until she swooned, flopping back onto her pillow, leaving me a close view of her soggy bush. “I thought you were going to fuck me,” I pleaded, lightly aroused by her demonstration.

“That was your punishment,” she said.

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to know that he fantasizes about me, although I hoped he did, and I wouldn’t have wanted you to know. It’s your turn, and you must let me watch.”

Suddenly, I felt self-conscious that she was watching. I massaged myself lightly. I was already damp, but I waited. “Tell me why we all want to seduce him,” I said, sighing. I was going too slowly, yet slower hurt so good, not in a painful way, but through self denial.

“There is something we all get from him,” she replied, shrugging. “Favouritism, I guess. Maybe professional approval. His students win all the contests, and he puts us up for performances. He has a reputation.”

“A … reputation?” I wheezed.

“The boys have to earn it, but each year, a new person catches his eye. He does nothing, but we always know when it happens.”

“How … do … you … know?” I gasped, searching for that spot, flinching when I found it. I couldn’t hold off much longer.

“I think it is different with each of us. I knew when … keep going …”

Keep going? I couldn’t stop.

“Well,” she continued, “we run together sometimes. If I wear lycra, he gets at erection before we start. If he wears cotton shorts, and I wait long enough, he’ll have a spot, sort of like in his dream.”

“Don’t you …” I sighed, inserting another finger. “Don’t you just think he’s a perv?”

“He’s a straight as you can imagine. He’d never touch me, unless I touched him.”

“Sex … ual … ly?” Not long now.

“No, just normal touch. I don’t think he does sex. He’s asexual.”

“His fantasies …” I couldn’t continue, tensing, panting, moaning, groaning, tensing, wound tight like like a clock. My vision blurred as though I was losing consciousness, then I felt it, an intense warmth at my core, then the spring broke, and I convulsed in ecstasy, not as good as the previous night, but good enough for now. “… aren’t.”

She giggled. “I didn’t tell you I was a voyeur, too.”

“I thought you said you’d never had cybersex before,” I groaned, relaxing on my back, hands still working, trying to prolong my orgasm.

“Not over the Internet.”

“You mean … in person?”

“I have a room-mate, and she fucks her boyfriend at least twice a week. It doesn’t matter if I’m in sleeping in the room or not. Once they start, it’s as if I wasn’t there.”

“Is she there now?” I asked, finally stopping.

“No, I’m at my parents. They’re asleep.”

“You sure?”

“What’s it matter? I’m locked in my room now. They don’t know what I get up to. I’m not sure they care that much. Do you want to fuck on Christmas day?”

“It depends if I can get away from Nipples. She’s still here.”

“Maybe we could make it a threesome.”

“I’d feel uncomfortable.”

“You mean her seeing you naked?”

“She already has.”

“Really? Have you had sex?”

“Not with each other … with the ghosts, but not at the same time.”

“The ghosts touch her, too?”

“They do now. I taught her how to open herself to them. She’s not afraid of them any more.”

“I want to come visit you. This sounds exciting.”

“Not while she is here. She’s very insecure, I think.”

“Maybe,” Charlie shrugged. “When, then?”

“I don’t know. Sandra is staying a few days when she leaves. After that, your term starts again.”

“How about for your concert?”

“I’m hoping Arlen will be here.”

“I’ll stay out of the way.”

“I want at least one night alone with him,” I stipulated, “but I may need more.”

“I’ll only be able to stay the night of the concert anyway. I have a seminar the next day. I’ll have to drive back early in the morning.”

“How do you know the date?”

“Arlen’s posted it outside his office. We may need to hire a bus.”

“I have plenty of room, but I won’t have the time to take care of everyone. Besides, I will probably stay on campus that night.”

“Arlen can’t stay there anyway. I can bring a sleeping bag.”

“We’ll see, once it gets closer to time.”

“Please? Just the two of us? Separate beds, no physical contact?”

“Maybe, but let me just see about my schedule. Nipples may want to stay with me, too.”

“Fair enough. I’d better get to bed. We have family arriving early tomorrow, and we are going to a carol service in the evening, so I won’t be on until late.”

I closed up and shut down. The ghosts were restless during the night, perhaps jealous that I didn’t need them. I fell asleep reminding myself that I was not Charlie’s lover, nor was she mine.

Advertisements

3 responses

  1. Good fantasy..is it real 😉

    January 3, 2013 at 4:20 am

    • No, it is one character of another story (Ezzie Dryar) writing this story. She’s allowing her inner fantasies free reign. You might take a look at her story at thecultofanne.wordpress.com.

      January 3, 2013 at 9:07 am

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s