Charlotte

I think it was T.S. Elliot who wrote, "April is the cruelest month" . . . well it is actually March that is the cruelest, because that is when it warms up enough that the co-eds shed their bras and sweatshirts and compete to see who can poke the most nipple through a thin cotton t-shirt during class. I knew I was in trouble when Charlotte, a freshman, was arguing with Mugger, a freshman boy, about "aesthetics" during a session of my freshman seminar. Charlotte quite suddenly asked for my opinion about their dispute, "was Kate moss too thin to be truly beautiful?"

"No, she's pretty," I answered. I mean she is pretty. Maybe not my first choice in supermodel, but nothing to complain about either.

"Guess that means I will have to lose ten pounds to get your attention," Charlotte's reply before turning back to Mugger to make some deeper point about heroin chic.

I got her message loud and clear.

A week later Charlotte appeared at my office during office hours. How lovely. She was quite demure, actually, for her. She wore a dress. Showed lots of leg. No hose. Legs were shaved—I hadn't recalled that she had done that all semester. Her hair was up and she had painted her nails. And she had a question.

"Do you remember my mom?"

I had met her mom, and her, at one of those dog and pony shows that small liberal arts colleges do to attract uncommitted students.

"Of course I do," my reply.

"Mom had me when she was 42. You have got to admit; she is looking good for a woman who is sixty. And she didn't know a lick of English until she married dad. She is French, you know."

I recalled most of that from the dog and pony affair.

"And this is going . .?" my question to Charlotte.

"Just thought you would want to know about my genes and that I spent most of my summers in France while growing up. And they do some things a little differently there."

I had an idea of where this was going. I have seen "Gigi" after all.

She stood up and did a swirl.

"Do I rival Kate yet?" another Charlotte question. And how can it be answered without some bit of doom descending.

"Only if you think Kate is a rival? Has she enrolled in one of my classes?" I went for bit of wit.

"Not that I know of"

"Then I guess you have your answer. Kate's not a rival." Thought I was safe, but then blundered. "So what's the contest?"

"Your eye." She winked, checked her watch, "Ciao, got to run, class…boring history." And she was off.

About three weeks later, near the tail end of the semester, was in the office when an IM crossed my computer.

"What are you doing?" It was from Charlotte. She was in a computer lab. She continued, "Saw you were online. It is Friday and late, why are you still in?"

It was Friday at 5:00 and I was working to meet a writing deadline.

"Working to meet a writing deadline. Won't be heading home until late."

"Oh won't bother you…she said and signed off."

I finished writing around nine, emailed a text of a convention paper to my "reader" and headed home. I live about 4 blocks from campus in a great old house. High ceilings, hardwood floors, huge screened in porch at the back of the house. I got home and found Charlotte lounging on the screened porch.

"Thought you might like company when you got home," she said.

"You did?"

"I did, and I brought some wine. Chateaux Margeaux….your favorite, right?" She held up two bottles. I realized that maybe I tell my seminars a bit too much about myself.

"And how did you buy that?"

"I have good friends," she said, "and there is something to be said for good wine."

I opened the door and we walked into my kitchen. I took two wine glasses from a cabinet and handed them to Charlotte. I found a corkscrew, opened one of the bottles, and pointed back towards the porch. I was trying very hard to keep things public.

Charlotte had other ideas.

"Bathroom?"

"Just down the hall on the left?"

She was wearing one of those thin cotton dresses. And after her trip to the bathroom I got the idea that she had lost most of her underwear. In my twenties, I was good at winning bar bets guessing bra sizes . . . and Charlotte is a 34 C with "aggressive" nipples. Bra versus braless shows—and it's a good show.

We sat on the porch. Savored some wine.

"You know you could get my ass fired for doing this?" I opened.

"Only if I told…and why would I do that?"

"'Cause I do something to piss you off?"

"Well what if I piss you off?"

"You still have my ass because you are the youngster drinking wine on my porch."

"Hey, I had a birthday you old coot. I turned eighteen."

"But you have to be twenty-one to drink."

"But not to fuck."

She was a girl with an agenda. She stood up and handed me a thick sheaf of paper.

"Grade it. It's my final seminar paper. After you ink the grade, I am no longer 'your student.' I am a free woman."

I read the paper. I am sitting on my screen porch drinking great wine and reading a student's term paper. It was a good paper. It explained why Kate Moss was too flat chested to be truly beautiful . . . among other things. A half hour went by. I marked an "A" on the paper.

"Ok, done."

"Great, now how do I catch your attention?" Charlotte's question. "I have been busting my ass all semester and you seem to look elsewhere."

"You are seventeen."

"Eighteen, I had a birthday."

"You are my student."

"Not any more, final paper turned in and graded."

"Ok, you have my attention, now what?"

Charlotte got up, walked over to me, and gave me a kiss. It was a good kiss. Charlotte has very full rich lips. This is a child who will never need to get a collagen shot to pump up her lips.

I stood and embraced her. Truth be told, I had "noticed" her early on. Was turned on by the pouty lips, full breasts, and furry legs. Our tongues met and danced. My hands moved down her back and felt her tight butt. Damn firm. My lips moved to her neck, her earlobe, her ear, back to her neck. She cooed.

"Let's go inside."

I grabbed her hand and she followed.

I have two bedrooms that I sleep in. Call me crazy. One at the front of the house. One at the back of the house. It's an old house and it has a bunch of rooms. I sleep where the mood strikes. We went to the back bedroom.

I undid the buttons at the top back of Charlotte's dress and it fell away. Ummm. A sight. How to describe a perfect breast? I love a breast long on the top, fat and curved on the bottom, huge aureole, and big nipples. Charlotte may be the model. Large dark aureole, better than a silver dollar, with thick bulbous nipples. My mouth was on a breast instantly.

She is a girl with sensitive breasts. She later told me that she came twice while I milked her nipples. First little kisses around the bottom of her breast. Then I flicked my tongue around the aureole tasting it all. Then the nipple. First I sucked delicately. Then I bit lightly. Then my tongue teased. Sucked harder. Sucked lighter. Pulled ever so delicately.

She was right about Kate Moss.

I worked down her stomach to what I found to be a very full bush for a girl just turned eighteen. She had thick lips and a gorgeous clit. I liked down her left thigh and back up her right. I then teased her lips. First the left lip. Then the right lip. My tongue lapped really good juice coming from her gorgeous slit. Then I went to work on the clit. I touched, she came. I knew I could tax more from her. I licked gently, slowly, then faster. Her hips bucked, her legs clenched, I held my ground and licked harder driving my tongue on her tight bud. She shuddered. She shuddered again. She said "stop stop…." I paused and looked up. I grinned. And I dove back in….she came two more times. I slip up, kissed her, and rolled off to the side.

She caught her breath and said, "now it's your turn."