The T A Pt 04

It's been a while :) my life flipped upside down in the last 2 years that has made it difficult to return to the narrator's character, so sorry if there's a definite change in how she speaks lmao.

Contains: butch/femme dynamic, slight begging, cumming inside, butch with dick, fingering, brief oral. if it squicks you out, just imagine its a really realistic strap :)

This takes place following the non-fucking version of events, but do whatever feels best to you.

***

On Tuesday, I'm late--of course. I snoozed a few too many times before I woke up in a panic, remembering that today is my early day. I tear through the getting ready process, completely forgoing any outfit that required much thought in favor of jeans and a crop top.

Mercifully, traffic is light, and I managed to get out the door just a little late. I have enough time to swing by for a coffee, if I haul ass.

So I haul ass.

In the end, I end up rocking up a cool three minutes after the technical start time, but hold the door for several other students behind me. So, in reality, I don't think that's late. My normal seat is taken (I am mentally hexing them. I think her name is Susanna?), with one of the only real options (i.e. not squished between people I don't know) being right in front of the T.A.'s desk. Okay, well, not right in front of, but it's the first seat in front of them. Nobody wants to sit there for some unfathomable reason. Whatever. The desk lines up just so with their desk that you literally cannot do anything but pay attention because everything else is in full view.

Small blessings.

I sit my bag down and we make immediate eye contact--and fuck, do they look good today. Perhaps they were cottoning on to my plan. Their flannel is in very flattering shades of dark blue and red, sleeves rolled up to show strong forearms. I'm practically fucking drooling. I have to remember to blink away, and I instead focus on getting my shit together. Figuratively speaking--I actually get my shit un-together and pull out my notebook and pen, the only materials I had in my car available to me. Ugh.

The lecture goes by pretty quickly, and the T.A. is looking very studiously down at their laptop. I try very hard to focus--honestly, I do--but I keep glancing back at them, only to find it un-met. I have to remind myself to unclench and relax, because I can't reasonably expect them to drop their work in order to make puppy eyes at me.

But a girl can dream, right?

When the individual work comes around, I realize mournfully that I didn't absorb a single word of that lecture. My internal monologue gets a little blaring at times.

The work is actually not that bad except for one damn question. I'm struggling with it, and for all the times that I imagined asking for their help as an excuse to come onto them, the time I actually do need help I feel a little shy.

The moment I'm debating whether I should get up or just try to get their attention quietly, they glance up at me, and I make a silent gesture of 'please help me.' Their face softens and they get up. I feel a little breathless at the thought of them so close again, but they remain at a respectably close distance as I explain my issue. They squint at the sheet for a second, focusing, and I will admit that I do my best bottom eyes up at them. They place the paper back on my desk, and I feel their eyes catch on mine for just a moment too long.

I'm celebrating my silent success when they move closer, resting their hand on the back of my chair. It puts their belt at the perfect distance that if I rested my arm on the desk and raised it just enough I could unbuckle it. My pussy throbs and I clock back in, just as they take a pause and pull back slightly to look at me.

"Is something wrong?" They murmur, intimate, and I feel my face get hot immediately. I don't know what exactly it is about them or why they have such a gift of making me wet over absolutely nothing, but fuck, they just make simple shit sound so hot.

I have to take a second, swallowing silently, before I look up at them, pulling my brows together a little. I sit up in my chair, leaning forward slightly, and shake my head. "No." And then--this was incredibly bold and a decision entirely made by my pussy--I slid my eyes up their body slowly, starting at their belt, pausing at their shoulders.

Their look gives me a chill. They're smirking slightly, eyes full of something that I can't quite explain but excites me nonetheless. My heart is beating in my throat and I know that I'm starting to get wet from this fucking staring contest. They blink and break the eye contact, crowding me just slightly once more as they go through the problem with me.

I try really hard to understand. But I get a little lost in the deepness of their voice, the kind way they explain things, their hands and forearms and fingers. It probably takes a good five or ten minutes, all told. At the very end, they check my work and I blink up at them nervously, waiting for my results.

"You got it." I make a triumphant and unidentifiable noise (my brain is fried from this butch). "And you even got the tricky part right. Good girl."

My blood runs cold and I know I still for a second. That..That, I definitely feel in my pussy. They have that fucking smirk again and I try desperately to not react, but it's clear that it had some affect on me. My cheeks get hot and I look down, shy. "Thanks. I'm applying to be on Mrsa."

"What?"

"For the high IQs. You know what I mean? It's for really smart people. You know what I'm talking about."

They look lost for a second, and I can see their cogs turning before they nod. "Oh. Mensa?"

I nod in response and they bark a laugh, a little too loud in the room, which makes me laugh silently behind my hands. "Yeah. Mensa. What's--MRSA is that disease, right? That eats you?"

They continue to laugh, although quieter, and I find myself joining along quietly. "Yeah. You nailed it."

The sexual tension had been cleanly cut through with a knife in the moment my fucking idiot ass messed that up. God. It did make them laugh, though, so I guess it's okay. "Thanks," I whisper, grinning up at them. They still have their hand on the back of my chair, not at all making me uncomfortably crowded; it makes my heart pound and my stomach tight.

They grin down at me and bow their head, giving a 'no problem' expression with their hand. "Anything else?"

I actually do have a surprise in my bag for them, and it's hard for me to tamp it down. I always want to just tell them. I shake my head. "Nah. I'm good. Thank you."

They return to their desk and I finally finish the worksheet a few minutes later, trying not to feel embarrassed at how long it took me to finish. Almost everyone else has left, but I'm the last to turn in my paper, and I huff and pack my shit up a little dejectedly. This changes, however, as I realize that my T.A. is still there as I've finished packing, grabbing their water bottle at the same time as I stood up. I turn to face them, surprised. "Oh! Sorry. I didn't know you were there. Are you waiting for me? I didn't part near the front, I got here a little late, so I'm all the way to the back--"

"I can walk you. It's no problem," they interrupt gently. I shake my head but they nod, reaching out to grab my bag, too. It doesn't take much for me to relent, especially when they look so handsome. I follow after them with my purse, catching up as they prop the door open for the students waiting. We chat easily as we walk, mostly the songs we had sent one another. As we get outside of the main walkway, they say:

"You know, you were three minutes late."

I turn to them, pausing, in faux shock. "Were you counting?" This makes their cheeks turn a little red and I giggle, nodding. "Yeah. I woke up late."

"You know what that means--"

"What?" I look at them seriously, brows raised. It feels like flirting--I can't explain this. Maybe it's the suppressed smiles from both of us.

"You owe me a donut tomorrow."

"Oh, shit, that's right. But you know what, this morning, I said 'a coffee sure sounds nice.'" I unzip my purse as I say this and pull out a small bag, grease stained and slightly squished. Oops. I offer it to them and they take it anyway, laughing loudly.

"Hey, thanks."

I shrug and start walking, grinning. "No problem. Sorry it's a little squished. Did you like my dramatic reveal? I've been working on my suspense building."

"Yeah, I can tell. I loved it," they laugh, taking a bite from the donut. I feel so stupidly giddy and I really shouldn't; for some reason, a crush on them feels off limits. I can fantasize about them, yes, or maybe we can kiss, or whatever. I don't know, I can't be the judge of that yet--but surely it can't be acceptable.

I don't examine this any further and accept it for what it is.

"It's more of a thanks for taking care of me the other day, too. I really appreciated it. And appreciate. Present tense."

"Oh, yeah. Of course. I told you I had fun. You're a lot of fun to be around."

This makes me scoff and turn my head, feeling bashful. "Hey, thanks. You too. Sorry if my energy is a little much, sometimes I feel a little...intense."

They shake their head and throw the donut bag in a trash can as we pass. "No, no. It's delightful. You're really delightful."

This really makes me bashful. I absolutely cannot hide how red I'm sure my face is based on how hot it feels, and shove their shoulder gently. They laugh and there's so much earnest kindness there that it makes my stomach flip and I really grin. Full on cheese. "Stop that. Thank you. I've never gotten that before."

"Oh no? I'm surprised. It's very true."

I can't look at them because I might? Throw up? I think that's the sensation happening. I'm sick to my stomach from how fucking deliriously hot this butch is.

"Thank you. That's very sweet."

They bring up one of the songs I sent them, and we continue to chat idly about it as we get to my car. As I'm getting in, they hold the door, leaning in after what seems like a moment's hesitation.

"Hey. I'm having a get together this weekend, if you want to come. It's just going to be some friends and board games. Very low-key."

I'm startled, and I'm sure it shows on my face. I blink to reality before giving an enthusiastic agreement. They tell me they'll text me the details, and I catch their eye as they close my door. I give them a shy smile, which they return, and shut it.

I'm officially in.

The rest of the week leaves me in what feels like a fugue state. The prospect of the party--get together--is so exciting that I feel like my true Chihuahua form is taking over and all I can do is vibrate and shake. This is certainly one of my most exciting ventures of the semester, and boy, does my imagination run with it. They're absent from class on Thursday (secretly devastating) and our texting relationship isn't solid enough for me to needle them for where they were. I can just tease them on Saturday.

The actual day doesn't come quick enough. My friends can tell I'm preoccupied; I'm sure the grocery employees could see it, too. I can't help it.

I'm obsessed.

I don't get crushes a lot. I'm talking for real crushes where you obsess and get all nervous and entertain fantasies in your head. Butches are hard to come by, and my flavor of femme isn't the most popular in our town. Besides, this one sort of fell into my lap; I was for real not looking for anything this year. I decided after a particularly bad night over the summer that I would spend this next semester--at minimum--focusing on me. I've allowed exceptions, of course, because focusing on me also involves making out. But then, my psychology class just happened to be the same one as my T.A. and was actually interesting. It was an incentive for going to class, at least on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

They really owe me money for all of the time I've spent thinking obsessively about them. I'm in my friend's car as it lurches to a stop outside my apartment, breaking me out of my internal monologue.

"You okay, dude?"

I nod, feeling a little sheepish. "Yeah. I'm just nervous about later."

"Let me know how it goes. I wanna hear aaaalll about it. And if you need to bail, I can help if you need. And I have your location."

I grin and hop out of the car, grabbing my bags as I go. "Cool. I'll let you know if I die or whatever."

We exchange our goodbyes, and I'm feeling a nervous burn in my tummy before I even get to my room. There's still several hours to go, but I can't focus on anything else. My mind keeps flashing to the fantasies I've acquired: me, spread open on a desk, trying desperately to keep quiet as they eat me out; the hard press of a bulge under their chinos into the soft lace of my panties as I grind back and forth on it; them steadily filling my pussy with thick fingers, starting as a light graze over my underwear. I remind myself these are not possible: their friends will be in attendance tonight.

That's okay--I'm very adaptable.

I lay on my bed, soft sheets cool against my skin, and think about them pressing me against the wall of the bathroom, warm hands grabbing my hips and waist possessively. They kiss my neck and admonish me for making noise, reminding me that there's people over as they put their thigh between mine, making me gasp at the sudden contact with my pussy.

My hands drift down to my panties as the images lazily float through my head. I glide my nail--gently pointed--over the fabric and gasp at the contact. My other hand shoves my shirt up, using the thumb nail of my other hand to flick gently at my hardening nipple. It's making me squirm as I think of the same being done to me, pressed against the wall. I think of the steady pressure of a thick, wet finger as they gently open me up, grunting quietly in my ear. I put my other hand over my mouth as they pull out just as slowly as they pushed in, my frantic noises dampened by my hand.

"Good girl."

This makes me--real me--shudder and instantly climb closer to orgasm. I slip my delicate fingers under the waistband and start rubbing my clit slowly, imaginary pace matching my actual one. It takes no time at all before I cry out (thankful my roommate is not at home) and cum. I whimper and go jelly, and a fresh bubble of nerves makes my stomach flutter. Again, I consider the ethics of fantasizing so deeply about someone that doesn't have a say in whether or not it's actually cool if I use them for masturbatory material. Allegedly, this is something straight men do often. Sometimes they do it to their friends. I was never sure of the truth in that statement because it always gave me the creeps, but now it's really plaguing me.

Or, at least it plagues me for a little as I get up to get ready. I shove off my wet panties and pull off my shirt, stepping in front of my closer and the mirror hanging over the door. I look at my body, trying to use gentle but honest eyes as I trace the curves; my tits, small but perky with rosy nipples; the softly dramatic curve of my waist; the way my weight falls to my hips and thighs; the Mediterranean hair that I've spent years becoming comfortable with. I haven't cut my hair in a few months, spilling over my shoulders in a dark contrast to my skin. It's always been woefully straight, but as I've gotten older, I've become used to it. I look and appraise, eyes trailing over the freckles and moles dotting my body. It's making me a little horny again, and I feel my pussy getting warm at the thought of how my T.A. would see my body. Would they see the same curve of my waist or gentle upward slope of my tits? The way my hair falls over my shoulders? Again, I imagine another pair of hands roaming my body as I stand in front of the mirror, dragging my own across my skin. It's not the same, and I can't masturbate again, anyway.

Getting ready goes by in a flash, and I enter a semi-fugue state until I'm texting them as I close my car door.

Me: hi! Leaving now :) sure u don't need anything?

Them (with surprising speed): No thank you, I think I have everything. Looking forward to seeing you!

I can't say anything else because I'll be tempted to text and drive, so instead, I just turn the music up as I start my drive to the address that I may or may not have checked five times, just to be sure. It's really not that far from my apartment, and I find myself wondering if they took this same route to get back to their place after being my Uber. The thought of their shitty little hatchback loudly rolling down the road makes me laugh.

When I get there, I have to take a second after I've parked. I have a few joints in my bag, as any good guest should. I reapply my lip gloss before stepping out and making my way to their apartment. They live on the bottom floor of a very modern set of buildings. They greet me at the door with a wide, unrestrained grin.

"I love your complex. Trés chic." I make my way past them. The door closes and I feel their warm hand ghost over my lower back, sending a wave of goosebumps down my skin, as they lead me to the living room. The décor is very simple and clean; wooden bookshelves full of books, an arrangement of dark, cushion-y looking couches, throw blankets tucked neatly into a wicker basket by the coffee table. I sit down on the loveseat and they sit next to me at a very respectable distance and lean back, arm relaxing against the couch behind me. I bite down on my lip to suppress my smile.

They introduce me to the two people that are there already, and as we all chat about our majors (I'm the only English lit major, which is okay, because more than one of us and any party is liable to turn melancholy as fuck), a small handful of other people trickle in. They're all really, outrageously nice; our game of Monopoly feels like a fucking marathon, and I lose, but so does my T.A.

When everyone leaves, I start gathering trash and dishes to bring them to my T.A. in the kitchen. They take the dishes but shake their head at me.

"You're my guest, go sit down. You don't have to clean."

"No, for real. It's good for me. Maybe you could vouch for me with my roommate." I grin at them but acquiesce while they start rinsing dishes to put them in the dishwasher. I lean against the counter, watching their broad shoulders and thick forearms move as they work. I know I'm not doing a very good job of hiding my gaze, but I'm not sure that I even care--I can't think of a single reason why I can't allow myself to be railed by this fucking delicious butch in front of me. I think I can feel myself grow a little wet just thinking about their hands sliding up my thighs. I watch them until they finish their chore and dry their hands on a dish towel, then turn and lean against the counter on the other side of the kitchen (I say other side, but it's literally three steps away. They're living in a college town on a single T.A. budget which is reflected in the budget). Their arms cross over their chest and a smirk plays at their lips. I return a coy smile.

"So, do you invite all of your students to game night?"

"Not all of them, no."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head. "What makes me so special, then?"

Their brown eyes drop to the ground before I watch--no, *feel*--their gaze rake up my body, finally meeting my own with a heavy, hot look. A little flash of pink as they lick their lower lip, maybe subconsciously, but I feel my heart trying to beat itself out of my chest. There's a heat pooling low in my stomach and in my pussy; it's all I can do to remain upright.

"Maybe you can show me," I offer, soft and sweet. I want to fucking throw up (in a good way) as they cross the kitchen to me, and every nerve on my body feels alight when their hands come to rest on my hips.

"You want me to show you?" They murmur. They're close enough now that I can smell their sandalwood shampoo or deodorant or something, and it's making my mouth fucking water. I look up at them through my lashes and nod jerkily.