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"I hate this show."
Click.
"Can't stand the premise."
Click.
"Already seen it."
Click.
"Didn't we watch something like this just last week?"
If Tanya's thumb could talk, it would have some very choice words to say at the moment, none of which can be deemed acceptable for a lazy afternoon of channel surfing, though they must have surfed thousands of channels by now—an obvious exaggeration because a.) Mr. Berkman's cable package sucks, and b.) She'd probably lose count after about twenty. "You're so fussy," she gripes, leaning into the arm of the sofa. "Just pick something."
The bright summer sun that filters through the living room curtains sets his dirty blonde hair aglow and carves canyons from the wrinkles on his face, thoughts of slipping between them enough to make her blush, even as he turns and fixes her with the same irritated look she'd seen far too often when she was in his class. "Forgive me if I have a refined taste in television," he says. "I'm not going to waste my time on just anything."
Neither is she, but Tanya would hardly consider being in his presence as "just anything." "I thought they said time you enjoy wasting isn't wasted at all?"
"Maybe, but I'd rather waste it doing something fun. Like talking about your week over a cup of tea. And eating more cream puffs?" He smiles, arching his brows on the last part.
God, why does he have to be so suave? Not to mention handsome, with his gray eyes and his ponytail and his powder blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off the light fur on his forearms. She doubts he's even trying. He wouldn't need to. He's just…himself. And that's plenty for her. "You know we ate half the box already," she teases. "Your sweet tooth is gonna turn into a sweet cavity pretty soon."
"Well, that's a risk I'm willing to take." He pouts then, practically batting his eyes at her. "You'll bring some more next week, right?"
And the next week, and the one after that. She'd only stopped to pick up his groceries twice now, and where most would look at it as a chore, Tanya treasures every step from the supermarket to his house, even if half the crap he asks for she wouldn't eat on the very worst of days. She smiles. "Of course I will. But I'm not eating just to pass the time. If I do, I won't be able to fit into my skirt." And she really likes this skirt.
"OK," he muses, "what should we do, then?"
She shuts off the television and sets the remote on the coffee table. "Dunno. We could play a game or something."
"Checkers?"
More like Spin-the-Bottle. But she's not about to say that aloud. "That's kinda boring, too. And chess has too many rules. But maybe…" She shouldn't. She can't. Could she?
"What's on your mind, kiddo?" He asks.
"How about Truth or Dare?"
Mr. Berkman furrows his brow. "Isn't that for kids?"
"I'm a kid. I mean, I was once. And so were you. I think?"
"Yeah, I guess you're right about that." Grinning, he folds one leg underneath him and pats his knees. "Alright, hit me with your best shot."
Tanya smirks. "Truth or Dare?"
"Truth."
"Did you ever fail a subject when you were in high school?"
"No, but I barely scraped my way through trigonometry. Your turn. Truth or Dare?"
"Truth."
"What was your favorite part of my class?"
Besides getting to stare at him every day? "I liked how easy you made it look. I never really got bored or had trouble paying attention."
He puffs his chest out proudly. "That's because I'm good at what I do."
"You're good at a lot of things, actually," she replies with a bashful blush. "Truth or Dare?"
"Truth again."
"How many sweaters do you own?"
"Too many," he chuckles. "You've probably seen only half of them."
That's fine; her imagination can make up the rest. Classic knits and turtlenecks, earthy cardigans that complement his eyes like beacons in a thick fog. She could gaze into them forever, their pull on her heart too tempting to resist. "I'll take Dare next."
"Then I dare you to bring two boxes of cream puffs next time."
Tanya cocks her head to the side, earrings jingling a smug tune. "Come on, Mr. Berkman, aren't two boxes a little excessive?"
He shrugs. "You can never have too many cream puffs. Give me a dare now."
She dares him to come closer. To cup her cheeks in his hands, loosen her pigtails and brush the hair from her face. To make her feel like her childish infatuation isn't for nothing. But she knows he won't; if she wants his touch on her skin, she'll have to reach out and take it herself.
Her throat clenches. "Close your eyes." Mr. Berkman complies with a smile, and, heart pounding out of her chest, Tanya crawls forward and gently kisses him.
His lips are thin but soft, here today then gone in a moment as he pulls back and asks, "What are you doing?"
Tanya blushes. "Um—kissing you?"
"Why?"
Because she can? "Because I want to."
The light in his gray eyes flickers disappointingly, and those silken lips turn downwards. "I'm an old man, aren't there better people out there to kiss?"
"But I want to kiss you," she says. "Is that OK?"
Of course it's not OK. What was she thinking? Kissing a man more than twice her age. A friend, too. A mentor. No wonder he's embarrassed. He'd be a fool to even want to see her after this.
"I-I'm sorry," she stammers. "I shouldn't have." Resigned to her shame, she starts to turn away, but the delicate brush of fingertips over her cheek draws her back, and slowly Mr. Berkman leans in to cover her lips with another kiss.
Tanya's pulse skyrockets.
Is this real? Is this happening? Is she only dreaming? But how could her dreams have predicted that his hands would feel this gentle, his tongue warm and soft when he slips it into her mouth? It tastes sweet, like honeyed tea and the mounds upon mounds of pastries they'd eaten, and while Tanya had complained earlier, she could indulge in this vice until her blood turns to syrup, and her lips prickle with the memory long after they've stopped. But she won't let him stop; it hurts too much to think of it.
She whimpers and presses back with her tongue, cups his cheeks, tries to pull him closer. She wants his breath in her lungs, his hands on her body, his flesh against hers. There are so many clothes between them, but what can she do? It had taken everything just to kiss him; her fingers can't begin to remember how buttons work.
His teeth catch her bottom lip and give a light tug, Mr. Berkman moaning softly as he moves to kiss her chin, her jawline, over to the side of her neck, heart-shaped earrings jingling against the tip of his nose. The hand that had caressed her face now trails past her shoulder, skimming her waist and teasing its way under the hem of her shirt. Tanya shivers, and his fingers freeze.
"Tell me to stop—" He groans. "If you want—I promise I'll do anything you say."
She swallows, voice thick with longing. "Take off my clothes."
Attentive as always, Mr. Berkman carefully lifts the shirt over her head and tosses it aside before swooping in to kiss her neck again, his bony fingers circling around to fumble with the clasp on her bra. She helps him unhook it, then shrugs her shoulders so that it falls into her lap. He picks it up, thumbing the smooth cotton, and Tanya feels a puff of laughter on her skin.
"The bows are cute. It's very you."
"Th-Thanks," she smiles shyly. "I—" Her words slip into a gasp when Mr. Berkman's fingers graze the peak of one nipple, teasing it with light, careful touches, as though to map all the places he intends to kiss. Testing the waters to see if she'll beg for it. Giving a pinch just to feel her squirm. He does it again, harder this time, and she damn near cries.
It's too fast. It's not fast enough. She wants more, wants it to last. She's stolen peeks at his room the few times she was upstairs, knows what his bed looks like, has wondered how it would feel beneath her. Fuck, she's incorrigible. She doesn't even try to hide the moans when he mouths down to her nipple, fingers threaded through his hair so he can't escape. If she thought his tongue was hot before, it's irresistible here, sweeping out in long, slow licks that leave her breathless. He sucks gently, gives it a nibble. Gets her so distracted, she almost doesn't notice the hand sliding lower until it begins to stroke her through her panties, soaking wet and unbearably stifling.
"My skirt—" She gasps. "Take it off."
As promised, Mr. Berkman does as he's told, gripping the waistband of her skirt and pulling both it and her panties down in one go. He doesn't comment on the matching bows, but slips onto the floor and kneels directly between her legs, lips eager to pamper her inner thigh with moist kisses. One after another. Higher and higher. So close she can feel his breath on her lips. Tanya panics.
"W-Wait—stop—"
He draws back suddenly, his face flush with concern. "Sorry, did I do something wrong?"
"No, it's just—if you—" She bites her bottom lip. "Won't it taste funny?" At the very least, she should have shaved a little.
But none of that seems to matter to Mr. Berkman. With a purr, he runs the pad of his thumb along her slit, raising it to his mouth so she can watch him lick it clean. "You taste delicious," he sighs. "Better than anything I've eaten."
He sounds so cute, Tanya can't help but smile. "Better than macarons?"
"Much better."
Their eyes lock in wordless agreement. Slowly, Mr. Berkman settles back in. And when he flicks his tongue out to tickle her clit, Tanya nearly explodes.
How can it feel so good? He's barely a few licks in and already she's shaking like a leaf; she can't begin to imagine what will happen once he really gets going.
Oh, but she doesn't have to wait long to find out. Mr. Berkman is clearly a master at this, the way he bathes her from bottom to top, kissing and sucking her swollen clit until it begs for release. And Tanya could come in a heartbeat, with his soft tongue and rough stubble, his lips making love to hers. Slender hands curled beneath her cheeks and sweet murmurs humming in her ears. She moans louder with each lick, wriggles against him. Tries to split herself wider, so he doesn't miss an inch.
She never thought she'd be sitting here on Mr. Berkman's couch, with Mr. Berkman's face between her thighs. But wonders never cease, and Tanya had found the greatest of them all.
Panting, she lifts a hand to play with one of her nipples, reaches down to spread her lips as Mr. Berkman continues to lap and suck and nuzzle his way around her cunt like he owns the place. Her clit throbs against his nose, her toes curl when the point of his tongue worms its way inside, and in an instant all the thoughts that had piled up in her head come spilling out in one long, filthy stream of ideas. Just waiting to be fulfilled.
Will he really do whatever she asks?
"M-Mr. Berkman?"
He looks up, tongue still working its magic.
"I wanna see you naked."
Wiping her glistening juices from his mouth, Mr. Berkman stands and begins to unbutton his shirt—one, two, three, revealing a little more skin each time. The hairs on his chest are wispy and gray, his stomach soft, his pubes a bushy blonde when he shimmies out of his pants and briefs. Fully nude, he trembles with his hands at his sides as Tanya leers hungrily, unable to take her eyes off him. "Sorry," he says. "I'm not as young and attractive as I used to be."
No, he's even better. Tanya had seen half-naked twentysomethings in magazines and music videos, and none of them could hold a candle to how gorgeous Mr. Berkman looks, his body aged like a fine wine. She reaches for him, and nervously he steps closer.
She's never glimpsed a cock outside of trashy porn sites, wouldn't know what to do with one if she tried, but Mr. Berkman's is breathtaking, flushed and thick and curved slightly upwards. His balls hang heavy, his tip oozes precome, and Tanya can't resist running her fingers along the underside, a curious act that pulls a soft moan from his lips.
"What—do you want to do now?" He asks.
She wants to touch him more, to trace the veins on his shaft, press her lips to his foreskin so she can taste every last piece of him. She wants to see his face twisted in pleasure as he comes. She wants it all. Whatever he'll give her.
"I want you to be my first," she chokes out. "If that's alright with you."
Mr. Berkman smiles kindly. "I'd be happy to."
"Will it hurt?"
"Only for a minute."
"Then be gentle."
"I'll take good care of you."
With his warm words as reassurance, Tanya shifts backwards so she's spread out on the couch, allowing him to sink down alongside her. His cock burns hot against her hip, sticky and slick, but Mr. Berkman doesn't appear to be in a hurry, content with kissing her neck and teasing languid circles over her clit. Her tender lips throb wantonly, soaked by the time he slips a finger inside, all the way up to the knuckle. She squirms and gives another whimper.
"Everything OK?"
"Yeah," Tanya replies. "Just…embarrassed."
"Why?"
"'Cause you're—you were my teacher. And now you've got your finger inside me."
He chuckles and presses even deeper, curling the tip and hitting a spot that makes her moan.
"Mmph—please—do it now." She doesn't know how much longer she'll last, and if she's going to come, it'll be with him inside her. She'll make sure of that.
She only needs to ask once, and his fingers slowly retreat, damp where he parts her thighs so he can squeeze between them. It's not exactly easy on the narrow couch, but they manage as best they can, Tanya holding his arm to steady him along. Their lips find each other again, Mr. Berkman rubs her slit with the head of his cock, and finally he's pushing in, as gently and lovingly as she could have hoped for.
He was right; it does hurt a little. But the pain soon fades, and there's only Mr. Berkman's cock—stretching, splitting, stuffing her so full she feels she might burst. She hugs him tightly, and he whispers in her ear, "Is it too much? I can stop—"
"Quit asking me that." Her legs coil like a noose around his waist. "Don't you know how bad I've wanted this?"
"I know," he says. "Just tell me it feels good. Be honest with me."
As if she'd dream of lying. "It's perfect. How—does it feel for you?"
"Incredible."
"Then promise me you won't stop. Promise you'll take me to bed next time."
"I promise."
Pressing a kiss to her earlobe, he begins to roll his hips. Slow, then faster, shallow, then deep. The couch legs creaking, the two gasping and moaning. Tanya's nails in his back, his hair tickling her breasts. Mr. Berkman crying into her neck:
"Tanya—ahh—Tanya—"
His voice rings beautifully. She's so close.
"Mr. Berkman—"
"Roger."
"Roger—I'm—I'm gonna—"
Tanya comes hard atop her bed with her favorite vibrator pressed to her clit, legs clamped shut, chest heaving from the fantasy, the thought of Mr. Berkman buried deep inside her. Even now, with her eyes blinking open and reality creeping back in, she swears she can feel his hands on her skin, his cock throbbing as he calls her name one last time before the orgasm overtakes him, and they collapse boneless in the mess they've made of his sofa. Only, it's never happened, it never will happen. And maybe that's not such a bad thing. She thinks she can live with the embarrassment of having gotten off to her current friend and former teacher. It's not like she plans on making it a habit. Besides, what Mr. Berkman doesn't know won't hurt him. And what he does know—
She rolls onto her back and sweeps the hair from her eyes.
Well, it's nothing a couple boxes of cream puffs can't make him forget.
"Pass."
Click.
"Not interested."
Click.
"Maybe some other time."
Click.
"No—"
"Mr. Berkman, you really need to pick something," she groans. "I feel like we're falling into a pattern here."
"The only pattern I'm falling into is not listening when you tell me to go easy on the cream puffs," he quips. "And I don't see you making any suggestions."
"That's because TV is boring. It's all the same stuff, anyway."
"Well, maybe we should do something else, then. Like play a board game. How does checkers sound?"
Tanya stares blankly at the pictures on the screen, silence stretching for miles until Mr. Berkman asks, "You OK over there? What's on your mind, kiddo?"
"Nothing. Just a stupid idea." And, smiling, she changes the channel.