Sex Love and Sabotage

With the Mission: Impossible theme playing in my head, I skitter across the street, just a passing shadow flitting beneath the hazy glow of street lights.

Slithering through the shadowy drainage ditch, I work my way slowly to the along the row until I come to first shiny behemoth and slip under it. The misty, foggy night obscures the sound of the ratchet as I work with an almost mechanical efficiency, perfected through years of practice. A single bolt clatters to the ground and I quickly scoop it up and slip it into the bag tied around my waist.

I roll quietly from my position under the first Hummer the next one in the row. A few more quick twists of the wrench and another bolt joins the first in my little pouch.

As I drop the bolt on the fourth oilpan, I hear something. I look the side and see a pair of soft black leather boots moving across the pavement a couple of spaces away, coming towards me.

I roll farther under the vehicle, for the first time grateful that this hulking monstrosity is so wide and so tall.

I watch the boots come around the Hummer next to me and I know they don't belong to a security guard. Too small. The leather is soft and supple, the soles thin and flexible. They glide along the ground almost silently, with the practiced grace of a dancer.

I watch them slide up next to the Hummer that conceals me and I hear a slight clicking and then a pop as the lock on the drivers side releases. The door opens briefly and I hear the staccato click of wire cutters severing a connection.

The door closes again and the boots start to slip away noiselessly around the back of the Hummer and on to the next one -- my previous victim.

I realize that I am crossing paths with a fellow saboteur and I am intrigued.

I lay there, watching another figure move with practiced precision. Another lock pops. Another door opens. Another wire clipped. The door shuts again. The entire event takes less than 20 seconds.

I roll back across the pavement, under the cover of my previous victim and watch the figure work back along the row.

As the door on the last Hummer closes, the boots vanish into the into the drainage ditch. A few moments later a shadow flashes across the dimly lit road. A small, lithe figure slips over the low wall surrounding the cemetery on the other side of the road.

I decide I have to know who this kindred spirit is. I slither back to the ditch and slip back down the ditch and across the street. I hop the wall and drop to my stomach, straining to see the where the figure went.

I see another shadow pass across the face of a marble statue and slowly work my way through the tombstones and monuments. Being watched by the spirits of father, mothers, daughters and sons, I pursue this figure as silently as possible.

Finally, near the other side of the cemetery and beneath the spreading boughs of a birch tree, I catch up with the solitary figure.

I creep slowly up behind the mysterious figure and am just about to clap a hand over the mouth, when the figure whirls quickly, catches my wrist and pirouettes silently.

Suddenly, I find my arm twisted behind my back and a voice whispers in my ear, "Why are you following me?"

"I saw what you were doing to the Hummers and I wanted to know who you were," I say meekly, hoping to encourage my captor to loosen his or her grip slightly.

"You don't need to know who I am," the voice hisses at me.

I turn away, wrenching my arm free and turn. Kicking out a leg, I sweep my opponent's feet, knocking the figure from a crouching position to prone.

I quickly straddle the figure and pin his or her wrists. It's then that I see the face, almost hidden beneath the hood of an oversized black garment. It looks almost like a chemise with a hood -- loose and billowy, but gathered at the wrists. For a moment I am impressed by the chosen vesture and how it obscures the distinctive outline of the body -- and effective camouflage.

"Ms. F... F... F..." I stammer.

You cut me off, "Quiet. And get off me!" you tell me in a loud whisper.

I slump to the ground against the tree, dumbfounded. Here is my admired teacher, a respected member of the academic community out fomenting civic unrest.

I pull my black hood off and smooth my hair, trying to get my mind around this apparent dichotomy.

You pull yourself up to a sitting position, wrapping your arms around your knees.

"Well, hello, Austin," you whisper. "I should have expected this from you. I knew you were one of those discomfited elitists. I just didn't know you were willing to take action."

"I have to admit, I'm kind of proud of you," you say with a lilt in your voice.

"Can we go somewhere and talk?" I ask haltingly. "My truck is parked about a mile from here."

"Lead the way," you say, resuming your crouch.

Slipping from shadow to shadow, the two of us move silently through the night, reaching a large drainage channel, I slip down the side and start to lead you to the darkened tunnel beneath the streets.

"You don't mind rats, do you?" I ask with a sly grin and a raised eyebrow.

You shudder and scowl at me. "Are you serious?"

"Nah. The alligators got most of them," I tell you, clicking on a flashlight, and walk off through the tunnel.

As we walk, we talk in hushed whispers. You ask me what I was doing.

"Well, I take the drain plugs out of the oil pans," I tell you, rattling the pack around my waist, "and replace them with little foam plugs, like earplugs. They fit really well and the no one notices they are gone until the Hummer is miles away. Once the engine and the oil heat up enough, it melts the foam, the oil drains out and the engine seizes up. It's ruined."

I hear you giggle malevolently behind me.

"What, pray tell, were YOU doing, oh pillar of the community," I ask.

"Well, I did some research," you begin "and found that the Hummers have sensors that monitor the tires to make sure they don't go flat and will inflate them if they start to lose pressure."

"So you were disabling the sensors? Why?"

"Well, it's not just the sensors," you explain. "I found out that if the circuit is interrupted, the sensor thinks the tire has gone flat and will try to inflate it. It will keep inflating the tires until it can't force any more air in and it will ruin the compressor and probably the tires too. And those tires cost about $300 a piece,"

"Ooooh. You're evil," I say with a smirk. "No worse than you," you say with mock indignation.

"Yuh-huh! I'm supposed to be an incorrigible miscreant. You're supposed to be ... well... corrigible, I guess."

As we walk on, making small talk, I feel your hand holding the waistband of my pants. I lead us on through the subterranean realm beneath the city.

"I used to play down here on weekends. My dad always wanted to go play tennis and I wanted to explore and have adventures," I explain. "That's how I learned about these tunnels."

Occasionally, I stop at a juncture, trying to get my bearings. I check the walls. When I stop suddenly, your hand slides up onto my waist and I catch myself starting to sigh or gasp or a little of both at your touch. I try to cover it up by clearing my throat, but I see a twinkle in your eye, even in the dim light produced by the flashlight, I can see you aren't fooled.

We emerge from the gloom of the tunnels, on the edge of a park and I lead to a single building of about eight apartments. They are older and a bit run-down. Air conditioners teeter precariously on window sills, paint peels from the siding and the sidewalks are cracked and uneven, weeds sprouting through the crevices.

"Want to get cleaned up?" I ask.

"You have a place here?" you ask incredulously, though I can't decide whether it's because I plan so well or because I'd live in such a run-down place.

"I wish," I tell you unlocking the door and opening it for you. "Since I only get a chance to do this every now and then, I just find a motel room. That way I can slip out of my house and no one knows where I'm going."

I get in the driver's side and drive us a few miles to a motel near the highway.

"Do you have anything to change into?" I ask. "No. I honestly wasn't intending to walk through the storm sewers."

"I've got an extra T-shirt in the room that you could wear if you want to rinse your stuff out. I know the water down there doesn't smell that good. I don't have any shorts or anything, but the shirt's probably long enough that it would be a dress on you."

"Thanks, I may take you up on that."

I pull into a parking lot, dotted with 18-wheelers and the occasional minivan.

"Sorry, it's not the Ritz." I say, pulling around to the back of the complex and parking in front of a room. "But you do get curbside service," I add.

I unlock the door, revealing an entirely unremarkable room. A king-size bed dominates the room. On the bed, a number of tools lie among scattered pictures of car lots and shop manuals for various SUVs.

"Kind of a mess," I say apologetically.

I pull a T-shirt out of a gym bag and hand it to you.

"See how this works."

You hold the shirt up and I notice that it's not as long as I thought. While it would cover everything, it would be equivalent to a very mini miniskirt.

"Well, it was a good idea," I say. "I'll bring you a longer shirt next time."

"What are you talking about? This will be fine," you tell me.

"Ummm. I think it's a little bit short, though," I tell you.

"I don't plan on going outside in it," you reply. "It'll be okay for a little while."

I stand for a moment trying to decide whether to remain on my good behavior or come up with some quip that hints at how attracted I am to you. I decide on the latter.

"You're trying to seduce me, Ms. Freewell," I remark, mimicking Dustin Hoffman's line from The Graduate.

You smile at me and for a moment I think you may be giving me a mischievous smile, but it may be my own wishful thinking.

"I'll let you go ahead and get cleaned up," I say, standing aside for you to make your way to the bathroom.

You take the T-shirt into the bathroom with you and I hear the water running in the sink for a few moments and then the shower starts.

I start to clear off the bed to sit back and watch some TV while I wait for you to finish your shower when I hear the bathroom door open and your arms slips out, holding your wet clothes.

"Could you hang these up for me, please," you call out to me. "They'll dry quicker out there."

"Uh. Sure," I say with a gulp.

I take the clothes from your hand admiring your slender arm and somehow, knowing that at the other end of that arm, you are naked, fills me with nervous excitement.

I hang the clothes up and go back down to sit on the bed, trying not to think of you in the shower, naked and wet. The attempt is a dismal failure and I find myself getting harder as I imagine you running your soapy hands up your legs or across your breasts or tilting your head back and letting the water splash against your neck.

I'm snapped back to reality as I hear the shower shut off and, a few minutes later, you emerge from the bathroom in my shirt. I'm right, it just barely covers enough to make the transition from obscene to merely indecent.

"Your turn," you say with a lilt in your voice.

I stand up doing my best to hide my growing erection. I walk to the bathroom, trying not to stare. I can clearly see the outline of your nipples against the fabric of my shirt and I note, with pleasure, the way it clings to the curve of your hips and ends high enough to give me a wonderful view of your taught muscular legs. I tear my gaze away, expecting to find you looking at me with disgust. After all, students are not supposed to ogle their teachers so blatantly. Then again, teachers aren't supposed to be so hot and appear in front of their students in nothing but an oversized T-shirt. And I wonder to myself, "T-shirt and panties or just T-shirt?"

But as I look up to see if you're staring at me, I notice that your eyes are focused on the sizeable bulge in my pants.

I walk to the bathroom, trying to hide my combination of pride and embarrassment.

Closing the door, I shed my clothes and turn on the shower. Stepping in, I let the water pour over me and I allow myself to stroke my hard cock. Knowing it won't go down on its own, I think perhaps I can take care of the problem myself.

My hand slick and soapy, I stroke my throbbing cock with one hand, the image of you in my shirt emblazoned on my mind. Soon my fantasy takes over and you are taking off the shirt and standing there in nothing but a pair of bikini panties.

I imagine you stretched out on the bed wearing only those panties. One hand cups one of your breasts, lightly rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, the other hand rubbing the fabric of your panties against your clit. Your tongue darts across your lips. Your eyes are closed and your head tilted back with pleasure. I stroke my cock, feeling it get harder, the head getting fuller and redder. I feel that familiar tingle and suddenly I am coming. Jets of come spewing from the end of my cock, I stagger in the shower, overcome by the power of my orgasm.

Panting, I stand there, my cock still at attention, a long strand of semen oozing from the tip. I lean against the wall, the shower soaking my hair and running down my back as my cock starts to soften.

I turn off the shower and reach for a towel and suddenly realize I've left my clothes out on the dresser by the TV.

I dry myself, wondering if I should walk out in a towel to get my clothes or if I should embarrass myself by asking you to bring them to me.

And as I dry myself, thinking about you bringing my clothes to me, my cock starts to rise again.

"Not now," I think to myself.

I wrap the towel around my waist and crack the door.

"Umm. Ms. Freewell," I sheepishly announce. "Would you do me a favor? I kind of left my clothes on the dresser out there. Could you bring them to me please?"

I hear you laugh a little. "Just a minute."

I peek my head out as you appear at the door with my clothes in hand.

"Thank you," I say and, as you hand them to me in a pile, my socks roll off the top, falling to the floor. We both stoop to pick them up and I notice that I can see down the neck of your/my shirt. You have no bra on and I can see the white flesh of your breasts and the beautiful hard nipples that cap them.

Our hands touch as we reach for the socks and I feel the spark between us.

Taking the socks, I stand up quickly, hoping to close the door and get dressed before further embarrassing myself.

Alas, it is not to be.

As I stand, the towel around my waist falls to the floor and I stand there before you, the bathroom door half open and me naked, my erection throbbing and hard as a bar of iron.

"Oh my," you gasp, more in appreciation than shyness.

"I'm sorry," I stammer, closing the door. "I couldn't help it. It happens every time I'm in a motel room with a beautiful woman," I say trying to save face with a joke.

I hear a knock on the bathroom door.

"Austin," you say gently from the other side. "Please don't be embarrassed. I'm really quite flattered. If you weren't my student or if neither of us was married, I probably wouldn't have let you close this door that easily."

"Really?" I ask. Then I add, "It's just that I do think you are really beautiful, but I think you are fascinating, too. And it seems kind of, I don't know, chauvinistic of me to get all hot and bothered like that because I don't want you to think I see you as merely an object."

"Hey," you say firmly. "If I'd ever gotten the slightest impression that you were anything less than honorable, I wouldn't have come into a motel room with you. Now get out here."

After a second or two, I open the door and see you standing there. My black shirt. Your hair twisted up in that odd little way that keeps it from getting wet in the shower. You're smiling at me with head cocked to the side just slightly.

"Come sit down and talk with me," you say.

I see you look at me as I step out into the room. Just my jeans on. Shirt in hand. Skin reddish pink from the hot shower. My erection still clearly visible through the denim. You hop onto the bed, sitting at the head of it and pat the gaudy hotel bedspread in front of you.

"Sit down," you say.

I sit and look at you, sitting there cross-legged in front of me. Your hands in your lap press the shirt down low enough to cover you. "Damn," I think to myself, "I still can't tell if she's wearing panties or not."

"Now, I'm really flattered that I excite you. It's kind of crazy. I never considered that one of my students would look at me that way. So don't let it bother you."

"If you say so," I tell you. "I just couldn't get the image of you out of my head. The fact that we are obviously so similar in our political views and the fact that you look so unbelievably sexy in my shirt made me think about things I'm not supposed to think about."

Now I can see the devilish side of you start to come out. You lean back, putting your hands on the bed behind you. You smile.

"Like what?" you ask, feigning innocence.

A glance confirms my suspicion. "Yup, panties" I tell myself.

Abandoning caution, I change positions. Now I'm on my hands and knees and I'm watching you and moving toward you. I feel something like a wild animal stalking prey.

"Like how much I'd like to kiss you," I tell you as I come face to face with you.

Staring into your gray eyes, I look for some kind of sign. I see defiance and passion. Now I know you are daring me to do it and hoping I will.

I lean forward, thinking I will press my lips tenderly against yours. I see your eyelids flutter and close as I move closer, and as my lips touch yours, tender is automatically abandoned.

My mouth touches your and instantly I am ravenous. I hunger for you and I know you hunger for me. Our tongues slip into each other's mouth and our moans mingle in the breath we share.

It's a kiss that seems to last forever and yet it's too brief. Time stands still and everything in the world stops except the two of us. I taste your tongue and feel my tongue run across your teeth. I feel the roof of your mouth and I feel your tongue against mine. I hear our breathing. It sounds like a wind tunnel in my head as I breathe through my nose in passionate, panting breaths.

I take your face in my hands and feel how soft your skin is and I feel your fingernails on my chest as your fingers lovingly trace my scars. We break our kiss with a gasp. It's like being pulled from a live electrical wire. My body tingles and my breathing is ragged.

"Okay, here's the deal. I'm married. You're married. You are my teacher. I am your student. We can give each other all kinds of reasons not to and if you want me to stop I will with no questions asked and no hard feelings. But right now, I want to make love to you more than anything in the world and unless you tell me no right now, I'm going to."

You give me a hint of a smirk and say. "No. I won't say 'no' to you."

Grasping the bottom of my shirt, I pull it over your head. Your breasts look magnificent and I fall to them immediately -- sucking and licking, first one, then the other.

My hands roam across your belly and down to those panties. I slide my hands over the smooth fabric and I feel you squirm as my fingers slowly inch toward your clit, searching. And when I drag my fingers across it, you jump a little. I cup my hand over the swell of your mound. The heel of my palm slowly grinds against you and you squirm under my grasp.

I move back up to kiss your lips again and I feel your nipples against my chest as our tongues seek each other out again.

Your hands reach around and squeeze my ass, pulling me tightly against you and I feel you grinding yourself against my thigh.