Author's Note: This one is a small part of a much larger work I'm developing, as was one of my other stories, "The Time in Brussels". I probably won't publish the whole thing here -- too much of it is non-erotic. The character in this story is the same as in the other story, but the time is about thirty years prior.
The voice on the phone is from the past, Rob. We've been friends since before high school. Back when the Earth was cooling he was our drummer. It's been a long, long time.
"How ya doin' buddy?... Great!... Just a few days, working on a deal to sell my business."
We have a few laughs over the phone. It's amazing how time leaps back to the past and we are kids again.
We arrange to get together, but I put a condition on it: no strip clubs this time.
"Hey, it worked out pretty good for a while didn't it?" he says laughing, remembering Debbie.
I am thrown back into the time, how happy I was to be with her that year after she moved in with me, the good times, the love. When it was time for us to end it, we ended it amicably. I smile at my recollections of that time, the impossibility of our beginning. I smile as time suspends itself and the memory of the moment so many years ago ease into view.
Rob and I, we're walking into the club. The music and the darkness are a wall. Off to my right is the stage. The girl, naked, has a toned, tight body. Her ass is perfect. A fantasy forms quickly in my mind: the girl and I are standing, pressed close, kissing, I cup her ass in both hands, pull her to me, feel her respond as the kiss deepens.
But at the moment she's crawling away from us naked, on a blanket. She's moving slowly, sensuously, feline eroticism. It's enough for time to stop. Rob is talking to me, but already the girl has me entranced. I stand there and stare at her beauty.
The girl rolls onto her hip and swings a long leg high in an arc. The full pussy view, facing us now.
It's Debbie. And she's looking straight at me. I freeze.
Not three days ago, I'm at my desk, head down, writing. Jim Arsenault comes in to my office and introduces her, a grad student working with him. I've seen her around. She wants my help with her research bibliography.
She's in her late twenties, not a girl, not living inside the bubble of her own world. She is a young woman, has gained some wisdom already, has purpose now. She looks like a student, dressed down, plain. Plain, except for her hands. As she extends her hand to shake mine I notice her nails, long and manicured. The elegance seems out of place.
She's tall, lost in a bulky knit turtleneck that's big enough for two. She's wearing jeans, not tight. They're well-used, a few paint spots, a hole through one knee, the other nearly through as well. She's wearing boots, scuffed hikers with thick soles, but now I'm self-concious. Did I just give her a head-to-toe? She'll think I'm one of those.
She wears no makeup, hazel eyes sparkling at me. I see intelligence, but also her capacity for fun, for laughter, her natural way. Her face seems set into a permanent grin. That grin is just the root of her smile, a smile that blossoms, just a little crooked, enough to be distinct, interesting. Her left eye narrows almost impercetably as her full smile beams.
Her hair, dark and shining, is in a ponytail pulled through a baseball cap. The Stones logo. I notice that and it's how we start. She talks about the band, the last concert. It turns out that we both were there, our seats not that far apart either. She's confident, converses easily with me, unlike so many students who feel intimidated talking to their professors. It's refreshing to not have to go through that, to get straight to it, person to person. We engage in the conversation, familiar, informal, my new best friend. Jim dismisses us mockingly, but stays for a moment, leaning in the doorway.
Finally Debbie and I get down to business. To review her bibliography I invite her to come behind the desk so we can both see my computer terminal. I lean back to make room for her to log on in her own account. When I look up, I see that Jim has gone, so I roll my chair further away from her. Male professor, female student. Careers can be ruined.
As she bends over to reach the keyboard, her sweater rides up. I see her narrow hips, the shape of her ass, small, athletic. Her jeans have nearly worn through just below, horizontal tears . Worn white threads stretch and separate across the holes. Transparent red lace. Another image is captured in my mind: she is a different woman under those clothes. I roll my chair back a little further.
In a moment she's online. She moves away from the terminal so that I can roll forward to it. She takes her place behind my chair telling me what to navigate to in her thesis. I roll up to the keyboard, my turn now. I scroll down the entries in her biography, familiar with most of the sources, stopping here and there, asking her about a few.
She asks me to stop scrolling and leans over me toward the screen to point to a reference. Her face is beside mine, her right arm extended forward to the screen. I can feel her body pressing against the back of the chair, pushing it further into the desk.
But her left hand has landed on my neck where the collar of my shirt ends, pressing there for balance. I feel the warmth of her hand through the fabric and her fingers on my neck, skin on skin.
I'm frozen. Somehow, I haven't flinched, haven't reacted. This can't possibly be. We've known each other for less that five minutes. The door to my office is wide open, colleagues and students out in the hall. Is she aware of what she's doing? What should I do? I'm pressed right up against the desk now, trapped.
She seems unaware, as if her hand touches my neck idly, unnaturally familiar in my personal space. She is comfortable with the contact. It's as if this is normal for her, as if it's the way she is with everyone, social norms be damned. I try to relax, try to let it go, but it's impossible. I picture those long fingers, feminine, beautiful nails, curved, resting on my neck. I imagine her hand sliding up, caressing, in my hair.
She is still there, pressing against me, confident in the familiarity while I'm acutely anxious. That's it. I've got to stop this.
At that instant, before I can speak, she straightens, both her hands on the back of my chair. I rush, try to recover normalcy, try to return to my academic world so that nothing else can happen. What if there's more from her?
As if nothing has happened, we're back into her work, discussing it as peers. My mind is blocked, distracted. I am flustered, worried that I'm blushing and she'll see. I wonder if I'm babbling.
Still, she's engaged in her work. She seems to have no idea, but there is that permanent half smile on her face. I start to relax a bit. I turn away from the terminal to face her, swing my chair around. She stands above me, still too close, stands her ground and looks down at me. That grin, the smiling eyes. What is she saying?
Still talking, she steps back, relaxes, sits on the window sill. It's hard not to look at her. She is leaning back slightly, supporting herself with her arms straight at her side, hands gripping the sill. Even the thick heavy sweater can't hide her body as she leans back. One leg is straight, the other relaxed, open, revealing. Another image forms in my mind, her clothes vapourizing, fading out of view until there is only red lace, smooth skin, her tight body.
I realize I'm not making eye contact anymore and a gush of embarrassment flushes through me. When at last I meet her eyes, there is a pause, an instant of time frozen.
Her crooked smile slaps me, but playfully, mischievously. This happens to her, men look and stare. She's used to it, likes it.
Eventually she returns to the chair in front of my desk and in a few minutes we finish. She gathers her things, gives profuse thanks. She offers her beautiful hand once more, and heads for the door. My last glimpse shows her face, turned to me, smiling, an impish glint, as she disappears. She is gone.
But she's not gone. Three days later, here she is again, a leg pointed skyward, her pussy lips spread. But I'm the one who feels exposed. She could really hurt me. Could take this to the department, wreck my chances at tenure.
We're frozen, the two of us. Her eyes are wide, not alarmed, but surprised. I can only imagine my own expression.
Then, an impossibility, another image seared into my mind, indelible.
She winks and gives me her crooked smile, wicked.
I break eye contact, flustered, and try to find Rob. I need to figure something out, quickly. He wants to sit up front, Perverts' Row, but I refuse and head to the back where it's darker. My mind races.
I drag him to the back, ostensibly so we can talk as well as watch. We sit and order our beers. My eyes are radar, scanning the room for her, but she's nowhere in sight.
The other girls circle and cruise, earning their livings. I start to wonder about them, fathers' daughters, little girls who never dreamt of this in their futures. Here they are now, scantily clad, surgically enhanced, fantasy objects, objects of desire trolling for their rent. And their tuition. Debbie.
Light escapes out into the room as a door far off in the corner opens. There she is. She stands for a moment letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, surveying the place. Is she looking for me? Wondering whether I've scurried out? As her eyes sweep the room, again, our eyes connect. But this time, I look away immediately. Rob has been babbling the whole time, so I start paying attention to him for a while.
But I can't stand not knowing where she is, need to keep tabs on her location. I do a quick scan of the room. There she is at the bar, facing away from me. It gives me a moment to look. Her hair, black and shining in the flashing lights, drapes just below her shoulders. It is long, but not so long as to straighten. It has shape, character.
She wears a short black sheath dress, spaghetti straps. The dress is short, but not so short that she couldn't wear it to a party. It sets her off from the other girls, their sequins, outrageously skimpy outfits, stripper clothes.
The dress lengthens her legs, taught, smooth skin. She's wearing high heeled black sandals. She's leaning on the bar with both elbows, chest high, probably giving the bartender a good view of her cleavage. She stands on one leg, the other cocked casually behind it, toe down. She stands, pulls a bill out of a slim handheld bag and hands it across the bar.
Drink in hand, red wine, she turns and begins to walk slowly toward me. Time slows and the room shrinks to just the two of us. She is not striding, not trying to close the distance between us. All I see is her body in the tight black dress, its sway as she slowly, casually puts one foot in front of the other, a fashion model on her runway. She is a gazelle, long, slender, narrow hips. The dress is cut low across her chest, her breasts free, just the smallest movement as her body sways, feminine as she walks. I am meant to watch her. Tall and slim, confident, casual, stunning. She knows how to make me watch, wants me to watch as she approaches.
Distractedly I hear Rob exclaim beside me.
"Jesus." He is taking in the same picture as I am.
Still ambling toward us, not breaking her step, she raises the glass and takes a sip. I see her eyes above the glass, mocking eyes, but mocking without ridicule. She knows. She knows her power over men, over me. I am her weak man, her prey, unable to tear my eyes away from her beauty, her feline movement.
I can't stop staring, but my mind snaps back to reality. She is a student, knows who I am, what I do. I am vulnerable, vulnerable. My panic rises, chaos ricochets in my head. What will she say? What will I do?
