Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 01

Rather than tear off the skirt as I'd done in the past, I shimmied it down my hips, lowering it by degrees. I enjoyed teasing him with flashes of my forbidden flesh. He licked his lips several times, as if he were trying to restrain himself from tasting my revealed skin, and adjusted himself inside of his pants. My fingers itched to touch him, but I pacified them with my own body. The skirt slid tothe carpet unaided when I'd gotten it to my thighs. I stood clad only in my panties, a white cotton pair that fully covered me. I had thought them incredibly sexy when I bought them, though years later I see them as plain and schoolgirlish. They were the perfect pair to wear for a man with a schoolgirl fetish.

I hooked a thumb into the waistband and tugged them down a little, exposing a fluffy tuft of pubic hair to his gaze. It was the first time I'd shown a fully clothed man my privates. It had been mostly back seat fumbling or the room had been darkened. I had never taken my panties off for another person before, and it excited me incredibly to do it. I slid them down my smooth legs. The unmistakable aroma of my sexual arousal wafted from the damp crotch. I ought to have been mortified, but the rich, earthy scent made my blood pound.

"Give them to me," he ordered. I froze in the act of dropping them into the pile of my clothes. I couldn't fathom what he'd want with my panties. Mutely, I handed them over to him, secretly thrilled at the thought of his aristocratic hands touching my most intimate garment.

The professor lifted my panties to his nose and inhaled. I couldn't tell, but I thought his tongue had flicked out to taste them. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I had heard of perversions in men, but hadn't thought to witness them. The professor was tasting and breathing the wet sexuality of my body. The image burned into my mind and still has the power to arouse me.

Without thinking, I spread my legs a little, giving my hands room to slide into the wet space between them. Usually I would stroke myself, paying attention to my thighs, my hips, the curve of my ass, and the sensitive sides of my knees. Instead, I sank my fingers into my sex, parting my labia and rubbing at my clitoris. He let out a guttural expletive and dropped to his knees in front of me, pressing his cheek to my inner thigh so he could clearly see what I was doing.

I found that his eyes on my masturbatory fingers were the most exciting things I'd ever felt. Just knowing that he was between my legs, fully clothed, while I touched myself for both of our pleasures, filled me with a voluptuous heat. My panting cries, normally suppressed for fear of discovery and consequent reprisals, echoed throughout the room. My breathy moans mingled with the soft growls from his throat and the crackling of the fire. The sounds became such a part of each other and so mingled with my growing orgasm, that the sound of a fire will bring a rush of wetness to my panties even now, years away.

"You are beautiful," he told me, running his tongue over my wet knuckles.

My fingers made contact with my erect clitoris and my body convulsed, dissolving in orgasm. It hurtled me into a loud joy where the smell of my vagina mingled with the smell of his aftershave, the touch of my fingers melted into the touch of his tongue, and the sight of the stars behind my eyelids became the sight of him kneeling between my legs to watch my masturbation. I screamed, throwing my head back and letting the orgasm fully overtake and possess me.

It was the first time I had so given myself over to my own pleasure that I had not given a thought to the man's. I had assumed he joined me. Later, from the expression on the professor's face and the wet stain in his pants, I had correctly guessed that he had. I learned something valuable, something important. My pleasure, my obvious and uninhibited joy in my own body was an aphrodisiac to the professor. Indeed it is something most men crave. I did not realize then that the professor intended to teach me to be a lover; a mistress, a concubine, a kept woman. Later, though, I did. Through the many lessons we had during our brief period together, I acknowledged that the professor's aim was to teach me the depths of my being and what was in my soul.

As all young women do with their first lover, I fell in love with him and built the silly daydreams of marrying him and bearing his progeny. That love was painful, because even as I wallowed in it, I knew the truth. He loved my body, my soul, and my heart. He loved teaching me and he loved reveling in me. He also knew that he would let me go when the time came.

My heart broke when he quietly announced that he had found me a benefactor, if I wanted to be kept. A good man, an artist, who needed me more than he knew. My carefully crafted dreams, the ones I held despite knowing better, were shattered. I said things that I regret to this day, things that were not mended for years, almost before it was too late. Even though I did not wish to go, I acknowledged that I would, for it was who I was. He had taught me, but could only show me what was already within me.

He came to airport the day I boarded the plane bound for Italy. To see me off. My last view of my lover was of a dejected man, hands thrust in his pockets. With tears in my eyes, I fled down the ramp to my seat. I could not bear to face him with all of my love and recriminations. I penned him a letter, one full of love, gratitude, understanding, and forgiveness. I didn't send that letter for years, until it was nearly too late. We exchanged correspondence later in life, made plans to visit, but it never happened. Even before the plane bore me off to a new and uncertain future, I grieved for the loss of my professor. I still miss him.

To Be Continued...