The Scholar

I lie beside him in a large bed. I am dressed in something lacy, gauzy, expensive thing that he picked from my closet. He is nude, his young body firm and lightly muscled, still moist from our earlier exertions. I love his smell at these times.

I, also am moist and I clasp a washcloth between my legs. It was warm when he brought it to me but it cools now in the pleasant air of the bedroom. We borrowed a chateau from a friend for the weekend. My scholar's lessons continued but this time together is free time for him to design a delight for both of us. The fruits of my labors and his attention to his studies are evident.

Free time is an occasion to relax, for him to play with what I've taught him, but also a time for him to make mistakes.

At his direction, I danced for him earlier in the evening, after dinner. My attire was his design, a peasant dress with a bodice that revealed my décolletage, the undergarments flimsy enough to hint at details of my feminine nature. He directed the artists we summoned to assist us in preparing my hair and makeup. Everything was to his liking, every piece of jewelry on me his gift. It was an excellent opportunity to learn about him, to watch him, to enjoy him.

After the preparations, we dined and shared the simple conversation permitted by our intimacy. He was free to ask anything, to tell anything, to practice what I'd taught him of the words women like to hear in the lead-up to physical intimacy, but free time meant he'd receive no coaching, no feedback.

I'd simply respond as I believed a lover would respond.

Of course, he screwed up. He is young, you know.

"I am fascinated by you, my darling. What lead you to your current profession?" Yep, there it is.

"By profession, do you mean 'whore'?" I showed in my eyes the fury boiling behind them.

He instantly began recovery as I'd taught him, but I wasn't about to let him free easily.

"Oh, no, please forgive me, I didn't mean…"

"A woman who takes payment for sex, what other term could you have in mind?" I know my face was red and now it showed the hint of tears. Even a man could tell.

"I hold you in the highest regard and what you do with me, for me couldn't be further…"

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? It's the oldest pickup line in the world! I've obviously failed in everything I'd tried to do!" Finally, it's time, I burst into tears and sob into my napkin.

He tried to take me in his arms. I shrug away violently. (This is a lot like any movie you've ever watched isn't it? It didn't seem that way to him - I guess it's different living it.)

"GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE! DO YOU THINK I HAVE NO FEELINGS AT ALL?" Screaming this, I run to the ladies lavatory which I'd told him he was never to enter.

I washed my face and repaired the damage, giving him sobs to listen from time to time.

Music.

I hear music.

He's playing his clarinet. I didn't even know he brought it with him. Wait a minute. Did he plan this?

I immediately decide that I do not ever want to know.

I'll just enjoy the moment.

A long time ago in our relationship (not so long in time, but does time matter?) I told him I loved a certain song. It was a fleeting moment in a frantic conversation, surrounded by a thousand inconsequential topics and I never expected him to remember.

He's playing that song on his clarinet.

Now, I'm crying, but for another reason.

An envelope slips under the door.

It's indigo, the color I told him I associated with intuition. In the language of our relationship, it signifies me. The specific me of 'Us'.

The card inside is off-white, the color I taught him to use in neutral communications. The ink is black, as I taught him to use in all personal cards, and the message…

The message…

The message says, "I hold you in the highest regard. The woman I will love the deepest and forever will be measured by, not compared to, you. Would you permit it, I should try to win you as that woman and spend the rest of my life trying to live as a man you could be proud of. Since you have forbidden this, I will not. But do not ever think I hold you as less than perfect in any aspect. There are relationships that define one's life and our relationship is the first such in mine. I do not ask your forgiveness in this communication as I will end it by saying that I understand if you banish me from your presence forever. With respect and sincerity, Your Scholar."

I'm soaking with tears, silent tears. No sobbing. My emotion is real and my anger (faux or not) is gone. My face is a mess, again.

Another envelope comes under the door.

This one is magenta, a color I taught him to associate with harmony and balance. In our relationship, I taught him this color means him, the specific him of 'Us'.

"Dearest Teacher, I realize this should be the color that means the 'Me' that is not part of our relationship, as I believe I, and I alone, have put that relationship in danger with my foolish question. I could pretend it was phrased improperly, but to attempt to explicate myself from this sorrowful situation would be to denigrate your feelings, and I beg you to understand that I feel them deeply. If that is because I still feel so close to you, a feeling I do not deserve in any way, I apologize. In this communication, I do beg your forgiveness and offer anything in my power in exchange for the tiniest bit of relief to your anger and hurt. If I could take it all away with the deepest loss to myself I would do so without hesitation."

He has pricked his finger and left a dot of blood on this card. This is our symbol to one another that is available to exchange for anything. It is the currency of our relationship. In return for this dot of blood, so tiny, he would act at my direction in a way that I know he would find opposite to the values and morals I know he cherishes. He would do the thing that would destroy us, but he would do it.

The clarinet begins again. He plays a song we heard the first night we dined together in a public place. At my direction, he'd worn my panties, bra, and garters with stockings beneath his clothing. I wanted him to learn early how certain things men like are uncomfortable and impractical. I explained to him that I didn't teach him this to ask him not to enjoy such things, but to understand the magnitude of what women were willing to do to please men as part of a relationship.

He'd spent hours learning these two songs. Hours, away from me, thinking of me.

Finally, he spoke through the door.

"Please, Teacher, you must forgive me. I do so honor and respect you and your pain is mine. I tremble before you and …" I can sense the tears on his face but I will not let him off.

Not yet.

"I really should send you away." My tone is even, businesslike, without a hint of emotion. It's as if we had just met - the night he first visited and kissed me for the first time. The night he had me in the way men have women. He would have thought it was intimate, that first night. He knows better, now. I've taught him real intimacy in our lessons, since. My tone also reminds him what he's almost thrown away with a careless word. I know him well - he treasures our feelings, our 'Us'.

Just as I do, by the way.

"I agree. I understand. Just tell me and I'll leave." I hear a muffled sob. He's trying not to let me hear since he thinks I wouldn't respect such a blatant attempt to sway me.

I open the door.

"If we're going to cry, we have to cry together."

We're instantly in one another's arms. Real tears wet one another's backs. Our hands caress and cherish and soon kisses find necks and…

We break and look into each other's eyes. Unprofessionally, I feel closer to him. He looks all red and wrinkly, but real joy shows in his eyes that I've forgiven him. Real joy.

"I wish to fix my face, but at my dressing table, so that you can watch. We won't use this bath again, ever."

"Thank you, Teacher."

"It will remind us of the power of a careless word."

"It will remind me of what I really cherish."

"…about our relationship?"

"…about you, Teacher."

I leave this be, but I smile at him. We move up to the bedroom we've shared and he goes to wash his face while I re-do mine. I prepare myself in a way he will associate with my willingness to engage in heavy, sordid, limitless sex. Makeup sex. Passion without cerebral thought. Fucking, for lack of a simpler term, but fucking like wild animals. Female, male, pheromones.

I change into a simple, form-fitting red dress. I stay barefoot, in keeping with my desires.

He comes back from the bathroom, his face composed and thoughtful. Not so thoughtfully that he doesn't appraise me in his masculine way. He responds to my appearance - his face flushes, his eyes turn lustful. His shoulders square and he stands tall. He is a man, my man for now and he has just what I need. Just what I want.

"There's a lovely fire downstairs, with a pile of comfy quilts arranged just so in front of it." I say before he pushes me onto the bed. I turn quickly and walk out the door toward the stair. My bottom does that thing it does when my reptile brain wants to encourage male attention.

He hurries after me.

We're almost running before we find our way downstairs. I know if he touches me, we'll do it on the stairs. Not that it wouldn't be romantic, but I really want to be taken in front of the fire.

I reach the pile of quilts safely and kneel before him. The warm glow of the fire probably enhances my appearance before him. The thin fabric of the dress is no match for the warmth of the flames and I feel it gently caress my bare thighs and chest. Kneeling, of course, is a turn-on for most men, as well. He pauses a moment before coming to me, enjoying the sight before him. I sigh with pleasure that he is well taught.

"I need a moment before we start," I say, ever the instructor, I'm afraid.

"Yes," His voice trembles as his eyes meet mine.

"This is free time. Think only of pleasure, of feeling, of love. There's nothing to learn here, just a woman needing her man. I intend to let myself go with you, the way I did on our first evening. This time it's my choice. I need to know you as a man, not as my student. There will be no review, no critique. Just … make love to me. I'll call you Jason instead of 'Scholar' to signify this and I'll say no more about it."

"Very well, but I do not know your name, Teacher."

"It's better you do not, but for tonight I'll ask you to call me…" I pause.

He watches expectantly.

"Call me 'Gabrielle'. It's the name that I chose, not the one I was given. I've never used it with a student before, so it'll be unique to you. There's only one other who knows I like to be called that and she is certainly not a lover."

"Gabrielle," he tries it, feeling it in his mouth.

"I love the sound of your voice saying it. Now kiss me, please…" I smile and unbutton the first button below my cleavage. The skin is moist from the warmth.

"I thought you weren't going…"

"Are you going to make me…" my protestation is silenced by the pressure of his lips. He was a good kisser before I taught him and I enjoy the sensation of release as I drop any pretense that I could teach him any more. I am free, free to respond in a natural manner. I just … enjoy him, his lips, his tongue, his hand guiding my chin to him, his arm around me.

I forget what I've shown him, what I've taught him, what little and big movements there are to please one another. I just do it and he does me. His finger finds my middle bare of panties and waxed smooth for his pleasure. I watch his smile and his finger penetrates me and finds me hot and soaking for his attention. One of us released all the buttons on the dress and he parts the fabric and covers my nipple with his lips. He nibbles and sucks them and I swear I fainted at his touch. When I open my eyes, he is inside me and I know the wonder of man and woman and the way we're made to fit together and to please one another. My hands find his buttocks and I press him into me, following his motions. Oh, God, the joy of being fucked. It's just wonderful. My legs tangle with his as I am frantic that we not be separated for the tiniest instant.

I build and build and love this man and his stamina but he gasps and squirts into me, the pulsations strong and insistent. He is young and it goes on for some time, the infinity we seek as completion. I do not sully our time by pretending I'm done as well, but I relax and enjoy his breath on my neck, his hands still clasping my buttocks, one finger touching my anus, circling still. He relaxes and I feel his weight on me. I can breathe and I enjoy this weight, this utter relaxation after he's come.

I stroke his hair so fond of him, so loving him at this moment. I feel the fire dying down and I push him beside me and kiss his sweet lips once, twice, and then again. I pull the covers over us and lick his moist cheek.

This time my tears are joyous. I feel I will never know such happiness. There is no future no past just the now - the fire dies and I smell this wonderful man beside me and the sticky icky sense of what he's left inside me.

He'll wake in the morning and remember he owes me one.

I taught him well.