STORYLES

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Aur main staff room chali gayi .Me: May I come in sir.Prof: Come in, have a seat.Main baith gayi. Us vakt staff room mein koi nahi tha shayad saare teachers busy the.Prof: Toh beta tumhe randi chale karne ka bohot shauk hai kya? (Sir ke aisa bolne par main ekdum shock ho gayi.)Me: Sir aap kya bol rahe ho?Prof: Ye dekh beta, bholi mat ban. Maine suna tune kis tarah se chillaya aur tere shirt ke 2 button bhi khule the. Aur do ladko ke bich bethi thi tu ashleel ladki.Me: Sorry sir please maaf kardo.Prof.: Ye dekh beta maafi chod mujhe bhi maze karne de aur main kisiko nahi batauga. Aur tujhe badhiya grades bhi de dunga. Tu bhi khush main bhi.Ye sunkar mere jaan mein jaan ayi. Par sath hi mujhe bura bhi lag raha tha ki iss buddhe se chudna padega. Tabhi uss professor ne mujhe kaha ki koi aa jaane se pehle staff room ke toilet mein chalo wahan koi nahi ata. Toh main vahi chali gayi.Abhi woh comod par baith gaye aur mere shirt ke saare button nikalke mujhe topless kar diya.Aur fir mere. Her voice is always soft."It's me—Roger," the voice insists. "C'mon, Caroline, don't play games!" What games, Roger?" she laughs, "I haven't spoken to you for so long, I nearly forgot what you sound like."Her retort brings an audible sigh from him and then a quick response."I know—I know; Caroline," pleads the caller. "But I'm going to make it all that up to you this weekend." A single weekend," she pouts, "to make up for all..." Okay, I admit it," he begs, "it's only a start, but this will be special."A pause takes hold of the moment."What did you have in mind?" she purrs. When he doesn't answer she provides the reply."Never mind; I always know what you have in mind. Anyway, I thought you were in Frankfurt. I couldn't possible break away..." I am in Frankfurt, but not for long," he corrects. "The buyout talks broke down. No one was ready. The Germans have to crunch their numbers over the weekend and we'll get back together on Monday morning. I'll have nothing to do until they're.
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She had taught me it meant: “I want you”.I wrote up from down. The poem started narrow in between her breasts, barely scraping their shape, leaving them two angelic silences, punctuated by nipples. As for the poem, easily smeared, it crawled and crawled up the valley. It conquered the plains open under her throat. Then, the offensive! A quick cavalcade around made it a collar of words, a black river that matched any a jeweller.It kept climbing. The best poem I had ever written. In laces swirling around her neck, reaching and conquering her chin and cheeks. Reading only of lust and passion. I called her “ma douce” by her breasts, “mon hétaïre” by her throat. And I will swear, by the way her mouth widened at the touch of the iron, she felt the words in her flesh, as the pen darkened her bright red lips with hard capital letters that read: “MA PUTAIN”.I couldn't stop, dipping the pen time and time in her cupped hands. She was trapped by the ink she held, and adored by the ink that held.

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