autobiographical,  femmedom,  Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

Summer School

And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Wo-wo-wo

“I want you to ‘Mrs. Robinson’ me. Let me be your ‘Benjamin Braddock’,” he smiles coyly, tossing a soft hank of blond hair off his forehead, adjusting his glasses. “Honestly. Teach me.”

This makes me laugh and bite my lip. He’s too soft and sweet to be negotiating a summer fling with a woman 13 years older than him. He’s also too young to even know about The Graduate. 

“Well, you’re no young Dustin Hoffman.”

“And you’re sexier than Anne Bancroft.”

“Touche. What’s gotten into you tonight?”

“I don’t know? The whiskey? The heat? The way you’re looking at me like you want to eat me up.”

“I’ve had no such look, and you know it.” I swirl the ice cube in the bottom of my glass and he immediately reaches for the bottle and tops us both up. The brick of the patio under my feet is still warm. I sit back into the rattan sofa and set my feet in his lap. He blinks and slides his thumbs into the arch of one foot, suave as fuck, not missing a beat. The fading sunset and candle light hides the blush in his cheeks but I know it’s there.

“It’s a tricky thing to be, a twenty three year old virgin. Like, how do you get a job with out skills? But how do you learn the skills if no one will give you the job? It’s the same thing. Someone just needs to cut me a break and let me show them. I’d be so good for you.” He sighs then, not pathetically, but in a way that makes me want to let him lean into me. He’s tempting. We both know the steps to this dance.

“And what would you hope I’d teach you?” I take a long slow sip and let the whiskey pool in my throat before I swallow, eyes on him as he explains. His pitch is sweet, he’s determined and we both know it will eventually happen, but I’m enjoying making him work for it, making him articulate it, making him squirm.

“I need a full education. Anything you think I’d need to know. I want to please you. You could teach me how to kiss, how to undress you, how to eat you out. How to fuck. I’m not innocent, I just don’t have the experience to match my imagination.”

“Few of us do,” I can feel that my smile is too slippery as I say this, his grin matches it and a heady silence hangs in the air between us. The night blooming jasmine on the garden wall is oozing its exotic scent and the crickets are trilling in the grass. We’re in that dangerous place where the words start to run out and it’s all about the eyes, where just the tilt of a head or the softest exhalation can change the game.

“You want to kiss me, don’t you?” The words slip from my tongue like a warm purr.

“Yes. I do.”

“Well then?”

He grins as he leans in, closing the gap between us on the sofa.

“Slowly,” I whisper as his lips graze mine. “Slowly.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, Mrs. Robinson.”

 

5 Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *