The sun was pouring in through the skylight over the bed. I glanced over at Sharon asleep and thought about the events that brought me to this moment. Meeting her at the Left Bank Café, getting invited to hear her read her erotic story and here I was fucking this fascinating sexy woman. My journey was not only introducing me to lusty women, it was giving me a surprising perspective on my life. Until two days ago, when I impulsively left my routine and just took off with no idea where I was heading, I had no idea how little I knew about life. I knew history. I was a scholar and loved writing my historical novels, but now I was wondering if I could ever return to my previous way of living. For years I had been disciplined, conscientious, responsible—the virtues I believed were admirable. I believed Ben Franklin's motto, "Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise." Well, now I wondered whether it should say, "makes a man healthy, wealthy and ...boring."
I got out of bed and glanced over at Sharon sleeping. I slipped on my jeans and went down the ladder and found the tiny bathroom. While I was peeing I looked down at my penis and thought, "You sure have been getting a lot of exercise, lately." I glanced at myself in the mirror, looked into my eyes, nodded to my image and said, "They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but you seem to be learning some tricks pretty quickly."
I heard Sharon coming down the ladder and when I opened the bathroom door, she was there, "Hi," she smiled. She was wearing her jeans but no top. "Mind if I use the potty," she said.
"It's all yours," I said as she squeezed by me, her tits rubbing against my chest.
When she came out, she asked, "How about a cup of tea?" She seemed a little nervous as she filled the kettle and put it on the hot plate. We were silent and it felt awkward. Finally, she said, "I feel a little weird. I've never done anything like this before."
"It's weird for me, too," I said. "I was just thinking how my life has suddenly changed by my taking off like I did."
"I'm shy," she said. "I keep to myself and live a quiet life."
"Me, too," I said, "But now I'm wondering why. Is it fear? Is it wanting to play it safe and protect myself?"
The teapot whistled and she poured two mugs over the teabags she had placed in them.
When she handed me my mug, our fingers touched. She smiled at me. "Now here I am with a stranger in my cabin with my tits exposed and I like it. I know I write erotica because it's safe. I can fantasize about things that would never happen in real life and then, look what happened today."
"Your story surprised me," I said.
"Wait until you hear some of the others," she said. "My imagination is much wilder than I am," she added.
"But does that mean you want to be that wild?" I asked.
She took a sip of her tea and looked me in the eyes. "Yes, I think I do, but I frighten myself."
"What do you mean? I asked.
"I don't understand why I write what I do? Why do I fantasize about being raped and ravished? What does that say about me? I don't want to be raped."
"Those are honest questions." I said.
"The story I read to you, "The Pickup," I wouldn't dress like that or do what she did to pick up a stranger."
"But you did. You picked up me in the café."
"That's right, but it's not the same. I didn't dress up in order to lure a man,"
"You looked pretty sexy in those tight jeans and tee shirt without a bra," I said. "Maybe you do try to seduce men with your body and don't realize it and the way we looked each other was definitely sexy."
Sharon was silent. She looked at me, surprised at what I said. "I like how I look and feel in tight jeans. And maybe you're right. I was attracted to you and I was writing an erotic story. I was turned on by how you looked at me, but it was very hard for me to invite you to my cabin. I've never done anything like that before."
"You followed your urge and overcame your fear and went after something you wanted." I said. "You were tired of living a fantasy life and when we met, you grabbed the opportunity."
Sharon looked at me and took a sip of her tea before speaking. "You're right. I am tired of fantasizing about fucking and wanted this to happen. I'd say we're both lucky." She looked at me and smiled.
"We are lucky. Life is filled with opportunities but we must grab them and that's what we did."
"That reminds me of a story I wrote. Would you like to hear another story?" she asked.
"Sure, but if it's like the other one, I'm not sure you'll get to finish it."
Sharon laughed then picked up her folder and thumbed through the pile. Before she read, she got up to pour both of us more tea. I loved how she looked in her tight jeans and her tits sticking out. When she came back to the table, she smiled. "I like how you look at me," she said.
I smiled and asked, "So what's the name of this story?"
Sharon took a sip of her tea and said, it's a rape fantasy called, "Wanting It." I'm almost embarrassed to read it but I want you to hear it." She looked at me and then down at her story. " Here it goes....Wanting it!"
Caroline was in her senior year at the College of Art and was a painting major. She had access to the studios at anytime and spent most of her waking hours in the cozy corner of the big studio next to a large floor to ceiling window. It was on the north side of the building and she loved the light that came in. She also spent a lot of time in her studio because she had a huge crush on her teacher, Jonathan Lockhart. He also spent a lot of time in the studio since his divorce. He was a developing a good reputation as an artist and was preparing for a show at the Peterson Gallery, a prestigious place to have a one-man show.
Though he had a studio at his house, since the divorce, he could not afford another studio so used the college. Caroline loved being in the studio with Jonathan and valued his comments on her painting but more than that she wanted him. When he stood next to her looking at her painting, she wanted him to grab her and fuck her on the floor. They would talk about color and shapes and how the lines intersect and what were her plans and how much talent she had, but everything was intellectual. She suppressed her lust and pretended that their relationship was teacher-student, nothing more, but the more she suppressed, the hornier she got. He was in his forties, graying slightly. She was twenty, a student, someone teachers were not suppose take advantage of.
Caroline was determined, however, to have him cross over the line and fuck her. She became obsessed and could not wait to get to the studio every morning, knowing he would be there working on his show. She stayed late at night and he was impressed with how serious she was as a painter but had no clue at how serious she was about seducing him.
She knew she had to be more aggressive to get beyond the platonic, intellectual relationship. She started wearing sexier clothes--short mini skirts with low cut blouses, tight low cut jeans with tee shirts without a bra. When he stood next to her, she stood closer than usual and brushed her tits against his arm. It was late spring and the days were getting hotter. She wore tight cut off jeans that barely covered her ass and her bikini top which barely contained her tits. She caught him looking at her body a few times and smiled at him, letting him know she liked how he looked at her. She thought she was breaking through his reserve but knew she he had to be brazen and daring to get him to take her.
Sharon looked up at me and took a sip of her tea. The story was giving me insight into the way some women think. I didn't know what to say at first, but knew she wanted some reaction. "I like the story," I said. "I think I'm a lot like Jonathan,"
"That's interesting, because though I'm not like Caroline I would like to be," she said.
"You'd like to be more daring and seductive," I asked.
"Yes, but I'm too afraid." Sharon paused and then continued reading.
One night Caroline brought a bottle of wine to the studio, got two glasses and walked over to Jonathan's side of the studio. All the other students were gone. She wore a short tight denim skirt, a small peasant blouse that was low on her shoulders and revealed a lot of cleavage. She wore no bra and knew her tits were visible through the blouse. "If this doesn't get him to fuck me, nothing will," she thought.
