Charlottesville High School Ch. 05

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Big Breasts

I’m thinking one, maybe two, more chapters in this story, although I intend to leave it open ended in case I’m moved by a later inspiration.

In actuality my high school was not quite like this, although there was a teacher and a student-teacher who were.

As always, all story characters involved in sexual activities are 18 years of age or older.

* * * *

It wasn’t until I watched Jessica Harris, the Assistant Principal, exit the classroom building and head across the courtyard towards my art studio that I decided which of Marisa’s painting to show her. I covered two of them, one of her, one of her and her boyfriend Artie, making love to a women; she’d told me it was a friend of her older sister.

I’d show her the others.

I greeted Jessica at the door, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Thank you for coming.”

“I hope I can help. Where are the paintings?”

Marisa Pappan was my most talented student, the most talented I’d had in four years at Charlottesville High. She’d turned in nine works for display at the county student art fair; the rules provided that seven would be presented. The fair was less than a week away.

I led Jessica around the corner.

“This is Marisa’s abstract entry.”

It was, in my opinion, her best. A large piece, it was awash with bold strokes and powerful vibrant colors. It brimmed with passion and desire. Jessica, after a few moment’s observation, said, “Wow, that’s good. You can feel her ardor.”

The rules required one abstract, two portraits, a still life, a landscape, and two of the student’s choosing. The portraits were of her and Artie, sweaty and exhausted. She had, she’d confessed, tried to capture their look after they made love. The landscape, the Blue Ridge Mountains, was good. The still life, a vase and flowers, was competent but uninspired.

Jessica, after studying the portraits, looking at the landscape, and glancing at the still life, stepped back and said, “She’s good.” Her eyes returned to the portraits and she said in a tone that indicated that she’d guessed their context, “These might turn a few heads, but there’s nothing objectionable here. Where are the rest?”

I led her to the last two. “These are the ones I wanted to talk about.” They showed Artie and Marisa making love. They were splendid and sexy and erotic and would get Marisa suspended and me fired. Jessica took her time studying them before turning to me.

“They’re really quite good, but if we show them the parents will riot.”

“I know,” I answered, “but I wanted you to see them, to see how talented she is. She’s got to produce two new works by Friday; that’s four days away. The only place she has to work is here. Her family is poor and uninterested in her talent, they can’t afford art supplies and probably wouldn’t buy them if they could. I’d like to open the studio to her before and after school, to work in the morning, at lunch, at night, give her the chance to produce some new work in time for the fair. I know there’s a policy about kids at school with faculty after hours, but the studio is in a separate building, she wouldn’t have access to the main building.”

Jessica turned back to the paintings. “That is very generous of you. I’ll need to clear it with Principal Strickland, but I don’t imagine there’ll be a problem.”

* * * *

Marisa was not only my most talented student, she was my favorite and, in an odd way, I envied her. I’d grown up in San Francisco. My parents, first generation Japanese immigrants, were well off; I lacked for nothing material. But my mother ran my life, bustling me though an endless regimentation of activities. She was well-meaning, but it was a childhood in boot camp. Even the man I’d married (and since divorced) was introduced to me and championed by my parents. Marisa had none of those opportunities; she made her own friends, played her own games, lived a life she made for herself. She was a passionate free spirit.

* * * *

The next day I asked Marisa to stay after class. After answering a few questions posed by other students, I approached Marisa. As always, I was struck by her beauty. Slender, five feet ten inches tall, hazel eyes, there was no affectation in her appearance. She wore little or no make-up on skin tanned a light brown and her brown-cocoa hair, which she wore in an ever changing kaleidoscope of styles, was now straight and hanging past her shoulders.

Marisa could tell from the look on my face the news was not good. In her straightforward manner that made me feel more her equal than her teacher, she said, “So the school will not allow me to display the drawings of Artie and I making love.”

I did not reply, waiting for a furious protest about the rights of art, but she pursed her lips and waited.

“No.”

“I guess the ones with us and our friend are out also.”

I confessed, “I didn’t show those to Ms. Harris.”

“Really, she seems kinda cool to me.”

“She was. She praised your work, genuinely admired it. She wasn’t alanya escort offended, but she’s got to think about the parents and the School Board. For them anything that hints at the sexual is verboten. But I do have good news; Ms. Harris said I could open the studio in the morning, at lunch, keep it open at night. She kinda bent the rules so don’t advertise it. You’ll have time to produce some more canvases for the show.”

Marisa, fiddling with a few strands of hair, said, “Wouldn’t that be a big burden on you?”

Not really. I thought. Recently divorced, nothing going on the romantic front. Hanging with Marisa seemed better than re-runs. “No, I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Touched, she said, “Thank you. You always been my biggest supporter. Let’s see if I can come up with a theme the School Board will adore.”

* * * *

She showed up promptly after school, a big smile on her face. She’d thought of something, but wanted me to ask.

“You look like the cat who caught the canary. What is it?”

“I’m going to paint you teaching. Sometimes when you’re really into it, you get a look on your face, it’s like, transcendent, like nothing matters more than art. That’s what I want to capture.”

I knew what she meant. There were times where it felt like the class really got it, that everything was clicking. I loved those moments. And while I was a little shy about being featured, she was right, the School Board would be eat it up. “It’s a great idea.”

* * * *

So I posed and we had an immediate problem. Try as I might, I could not simply conjure up a look of passion. Marisa tried capturing it from memory, but couldn’t quite get it right. Over the next two hours she tried various sketches, listened to my suggestions, I listened to hers, but we made little progress. The idea was good, but its execution was eluding us.

Marisa fixed two glasses of hot tea and sat with me. I was slumped forward, chin in my hand. Marisa leaned back, mulling something over, then said, “I’ve got an idea, but its kinda radical.”

“What?” I said.

“It’s what I do when I’m trying to capture the moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I want to get in touch with my passionate side, but can’t quite get there – too tired, bad day, whatever – I think of a boy or girl I like and touch myself.”

“Marisa, I can’t do that!”

“It’s how I did the abstract. I was trying to capture the feeling of becoming aroused, of coming. At first I’d let Artie touch me, but y’know, he’s a guy, he wouldn’t stop. We’d end up on the floor. So instead I fingered myself, got turned on, took the pleasure, then the orgasm, building within me, tried to express it. It took days, but it worked, don’t you think?”

I looked at the abstract. Yeah, it worked. I was also getting turned on thinking about it.

“Can we at least try?”

I looked back at the painting. The suggestion was insane, but exhilarating. What would it be like to so brazenly embrace the sensual side of my nature.

“Okay.”

Marisa returned to her easel; I stood, but was suddenly apprehensive. Was this really a good idea? Marisa saw my hesitation; she reached under her shirt and squeezed a braless breast. I looked around the room, ensuring myself we were alone, and slid my hand inside my shirt and under my bra. I’m an “A” cup; I held it in my hand. lt was warm; I ran a thumb across my nipple. I inhaled in a quick burst.

Marisa studied my face. “Good, that’s it, think about someone beautiful.”

I did and it was, of course, Artie. My gaze drifted to Marisa’s paintings of them making love; she followed my eyes. “Good, Artie is a wonderful lover.” She moved the paintings behind her so I would see them while looking at her.

Tardily, I objected. But he’s your guy, I mean…”

“No, no he’s not. Tao, people don’t belong to each other. He’s not mine, I’m not his. We choose to be together, but I don’t own him. And he’s told me how lovely he thinks you are. That you think the same about him, he’d be so pleased.

I should have objected to the use of my first name, but didn’t. I rolled the nipple between my fingers; my sex simmered. This was getting out of control; I needed to end it. As I was about to speak Marisa said, “That’s perfect, Ms. Okamata, keep going, we’re getting there,”

I took a deep breath and said, “Marisa I’m not sure…,” but without missing a beat, she said, “No, just a little bit more, we’re getting exactly what we need.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue with her. I slipped my other hand under my shirt; my breast was warm, engorged with blood. My mouth drifted open; I moistened my lips with my tongue.

“That’s perfect.”

I looked at Marisa’s portraits of herself and Artie after they made love; their faces were spent and joyful. I looked at Marisa’s paintings of herself and Artie making love. I’d never let myself know that kind of unrestrained passion. My art was polished and technically sound, hers was brash buoyant artvin escort ebullient. Even now while I was doing the dirtiest act of my life, touching myself in front of a student, I still struggled with whether to let go.

Marisa began talking to me, as if she could sense what I was feeling and thinking.

“Sometimes I wonder, can you, can I, can any of us, fully desire someone else if we don’t comprehend the need to love ourselves? But isn’t that impossible without an intimate relationship between our spirit and our body. Defining yourself within your body means finding a balance for your sexuality. To explore our boundaries as human beings we must embrace the search for our wildest fantasies. Mentally, and physically, we crave to love. There is nothing to be afraid, nothing to feel ashamed.”

Her words were hypnotic; I experienced them more than heard them. My breathing flattened out, there was a direct connection between my breasts and my swelling sex.

Marisa was staring right at me. “Let go Tao, discover, embrace your complexity. Love starts with you, every aspect of you. Love it all.”

I half sat, half fell into my chair, pushed aside my bra, let the feeling in my breasts flow through me.

“That’s so good. You’re doing so well.”

My legs drifted apart.

“Now touch your sex, the center of your being.”

My right hand still under my shirt, tugging and flicking the nipple, I pulled my left hand out and slid it inside my panties. I spread my pussy lips with two fingers, dragged moisture to my clit. It was peeking from its hood; I touched it, circled a fingertip around it. My face flushed; I moaned. Marisa was continuing to paint, occasionally glancing at me. She was so beautiful.

“Keep going Tao, this is perfect.”

I returned the finger to my pussy lips, they were swollen and slippery, teased them for a moment, drove the finger into my cunt. I was so tight. I shuddered; my eyes closed to tiny slits; pleasure pulsed through me. I pulled the other hand out from under my shirt and reached for my clit, rubbing the sensitive bud. My moans filled the room; my breasts rose and fell with each breath; my nipples, freed from my bra, scratched against the rough fabric of my shirt.

I kept going, surrendering to my needs, jettisoning my fears. Marisa continued working at her easel; I found comfort in her presence. Sometimes we’d catch each other’s eye; she’d smile, serene and calm, and reassure me, “You’re doing so well, live in the pleasure.”

I pressed the pad of my index finger to my clit, pushed a second finger into my cunt. The pressure built inside me, yearning to get out. My groans shortened, became hard sharp grunts, and then, blessedly, it was all too much and the spring let go. My eyes shot open, I shuddered, I came. The orgasm started in my groin, spread through my body. I yelped – a sharp high scream – my pussy and asshole spasmed, and I rode out my orgasm, slowly drifting into a happy nether world and slumping on my chair.

A hand stroked my face; I opened my eyes. It was Marisa, her touch was sweet and gentle, her eyes warm and happy, her smile intoxicating.

“Are you okay?”

Struggling to catch my breath, I said, “I can’t believe I just did that, but yes.”

“See what wonderful things happen when you let go.”

She held out her hand; I took it and followed her to the easel. She draped her arm across my shoulders; I studied the canvas. She’d captured a look on my face of blissful intense pleasure. I was concerned about its overt sexuality, but over the next ninety minutes, as I did administrative work, Marisa incorporated that expression into a woman lecturing a classroom. It was, I thought, remarkable.

I drove Marisa home; she did not own a car. We agreed that I’d would pick her up at a local coffee shop the next morning; she’d work before school and during lunch. She asked if she could bring Artie to model tomorrow evening; she wanted to paint me instructing him. I thought about what Jessica had told me; it would be okay.

At home I stripped, checked the batteries on my vibrator, and with the image of Marisa’s erotic art in my mind and her words ringing in my ears, surfed through a series of powerful orgasms.

* * * *

The next morning, in the shower, I wondered: how would I feel facing Marisa? How would she react to me? I’d masturbated in front of her; I’d never done that with anyone, even my husband. Would I, would she, feel awkard?

Wearing a button down shirt and a short skirt I entered the coffee shop. She looked up from her bagel, stood, smiled, hugged me. No, she was not put off.

I ordered a coffee to go; we chatted on the way to school. I felt close to her. What happened yesterday, not the masturbation per se, but the opening up of myself to her, had created a new, unforseen, intimacy between us.

Except when occasionally asked to pose, that morning and at lunch I left her alone to work on what she’d started last night. It wasn’t until the end of burdur escort the day, while waiting for Artie and Marisa, that I scrutinized it. She’d transformed a face full of sexual ecstacy into a teacher, full of passion and desire, lecturing a class. The parents, the School Board, would love it. And, I wondered, was there a bigger point here? All my life I had placed sex in its own category, walled off from all other activities. Did Marisa’s art demonstrate that the joy of sex, that joy in the delights of your own body, was no different than any other passion? By constraining one passion had I constrained them all?

* * * *

That evening Marisa showed Artie what she’d started last night, he was fulsome and insightful in his praise, and suggested that Artie and I sit at a large table, a reproduction of Monet’s Water Lillies unfurled before us. We sat, but I was having trouble relaxing. Did Artie know what happened last night? Letting go in front of Marisa was one thing, in front of this young man quite another. It also didn’t help that I was already self-conscious around him, in part, because I (along with a few other teachers) had a bit of a crush on him. A crush, I realized, that Marisa was now aware of.

Sensing my discomfort Marisa made three glass of tea and sat down with us, trying to take the edge off the tension. We chatted, no topic in particular, and when we finished Artie carried the cups to the sink and Marisa walked around the table to massage my neck and shoulders. When Artie returned Marisa instructed him to sit nest to me and touch my leg, to help me become comfortable with his proximity. His fingers were soft; goosebumps spread across my body.

Marisa said, “May I call you Tao?”

In the heat of passion last night she had; it seemed okay now.

“Yes.”

Her hands slid across my upper chest. “I can’t begin to express how much your support means to me; I am so grateful. I know I’m supposed to see you as a teacher, and I do, but you’re also a friend and a beautiful person with a wonderful heart.”

Her hands felt good on my neck and shoulders; Artie squeezed my leg.

Marisa leaned down, her voice low, bewitching. “I need you to let go, embrace your passion. Lose yourself in your feelings. Love your body, love yourself.”

She walked back to the easel; Artie took her place, working my shoulders and neck, moving down my arms.

Marisa said, “Remember yesterday. Reach inside your shirt, touch your breasts.”

I looked at Artie over my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, he knows, no one else will.”

When I hesitated Marisa reached inside her shirt, touched her breast. Her eyes, which had been locked on mine, closed; she shuddered, purred. Artie, as if nothing unusual was happening, continued working my shoulders. Marisa opened her eyes, looked at me, and said, “Accept the animal that lives inside you Tao. Nurture it, feed it, balance and love it.”

My sex was burning. Why couldn’t I be more like Marisa? Her passion showed in her art, in the joyous way she faced each day and, as made plain the last few days, her sex life. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, reached under my shirt, pushed aside my bra, kneaded the flesh. Artie’s strong fingers worked the muscles that ran alongside my spine, then he unhooked my bra.

I dragged my thumb across a nipple.

Artie dug four fingers from each hand into my neck, forcing my head forward; my long black hair hung past my face. I heard Marisa’s voice, “And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Giving and spreading love everywhere you can. Life is too short not to.”

Artie’s hands returned to my shoulders. Marisa, in the midst of a powerful inspiration, was working feverishly. When she saw me looking at her she said, “You’re doing so well, this is perfect. Doesn’t Artie have wonderful hands.”

That he did. His touch rumbled through my body. I felt it in my chest, my toes, my fingers. I was becoming more and more aroused; I imagined Marisa and Artie in bed together, making love.

Artie’s hands moved to the front of my shoulders; then his fingers were under the hem of my shirt. I knew I should say no, I wanted to say yes, but I took the coward’s way out; I said, did, nothing, silently consenting. His hands brushed mine aside and covered my breasts. He squeezed, tenderly, I didn’t know a man could be so gentle. He spread his fingers, dragged the fingertips from the bottom of my breasts to the top, avoiding my nipples. He did it again, then again; my breasts became the center of my universe.

I heard a voice, penetrating the fog. It was Marisa. “This is perfect, you’re doing so well Tao. Now, let go, trust me. Can you do that?”

I nodded yes.

“Very good.”

She looked at Artie and he walked around, knelt before me, and, starting with my calves, massaged my legs. When he reached my knees he moved my skirt back, then worked the top of my thighs. It felt great and subtly, incrementally, it moved my legs apart. He could see the outline of my sex through my panties – they were damp with the unmistakable evidence of my arousal – but showed no sign of recognizing what was plainly before him; he just kept working my legs, moving forward. I was quiet, passively awaiting the fate I didn’t have the courage to seize.

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