Post by Charles Vane on Feb 1, 2016 0:46:27 GMT -5
This is going to give her wank material for weeks, Anka thinks. Months even.
Here's preppy little Mr. M on his knees in front of her, looking up at her with a wide-eyed innocent look that she knows to be fake, and which is all the more appealing for it.
Every word that comes out of his mouth is a lie. Not much of a surprise there; why break the habit? She's sick of his lies, sick of the way he covers them up with defiant blue eyes and a sulking little pout.
What she really wants is to step closer, crowd him some more until his back hits the wall, take his chin in her hand and force him to stop evading her gaze. What she really wants is to shake him, leave bruises on his skin. Make him crack and lose that defiant composure until he breaks down or lashes out and hits her. Shove him back on his knees and make him put those lying lips to a better use.
Mr. M's mom had been wild in bed, completely uninhibited, a far cry from her usual prim and proper self, and Anka can't help wondering if M would be the same. If he would be responsive if she pushed him down between the rows of wooden seats and ickleed him on the cold stone floor of the church.
She won't, of course.
Mr. M is underage, and Anka is a linguist and dance teacher. Maybe she's not a good gal or even a particularly good linguist- she has no delusions about herself - but there are lines she won't cross. Wouldn't cross. Not outside of her own mind, anyway, where she can't stop imagining what it would be like to have him. How long it would take for him to drop the scared little boy act. If he'd rake sharp nails across her skin and leave welts. If he'd gasp her name with a different kind of inflection than he speaks it now. If he'd lie about it to his friends afterwards, claim that no, of course nothing happened between him and Dance Instructor Anka, and avert his eyes when she passes him in the grocery store or in the hallways of the library he volunteers at.
And if she pushes Mr. M a little harder than necessary, if her tone is a little more suggestive than it should be, if her words hold implications that are not quite proper, if she gets off on how frightened he looks... no one will know. Who would ever believe a compulsively lying boy over the word of a student and dance teacher?
Here's preppy little Mr. M on his knees in front of her, looking up at her with a wide-eyed innocent look that she knows to be fake, and which is all the more appealing for it.
Every word that comes out of his mouth is a lie. Not much of a surprise there; why break the habit? She's sick of his lies, sick of the way he covers them up with defiant blue eyes and a sulking little pout.
What she really wants is to step closer, crowd him some more until his back hits the wall, take his chin in her hand and force him to stop evading her gaze. What she really wants is to shake him, leave bruises on his skin. Make him crack and lose that defiant composure until he breaks down or lashes out and hits her. Shove him back on his knees and make him put those lying lips to a better use.
Mr. M's mom had been wild in bed, completely uninhibited, a far cry from her usual prim and proper self, and Anka can't help wondering if M would be the same. If he would be responsive if she pushed him down between the rows of wooden seats and ickleed him on the cold stone floor of the church.
She won't, of course.
Mr. M is underage, and Anka is a linguist and dance teacher. Maybe she's not a good gal or even a particularly good linguist- she has no delusions about herself - but there are lines she won't cross. Wouldn't cross. Not outside of her own mind, anyway, where she can't stop imagining what it would be like to have him. How long it would take for him to drop the scared little boy act. If he'd rake sharp nails across her skin and leave welts. If he'd gasp her name with a different kind of inflection than he speaks it now. If he'd lie about it to his friends afterwards, claim that no, of course nothing happened between him and Dance Instructor Anka, and avert his eyes when she passes him in the grocery store or in the hallways of the library he volunteers at.
And if she pushes Mr. M a little harder than necessary, if her tone is a little more suggestive than it should be, if her words hold implications that are not quite proper, if she gets off on how frightened he looks... no one will know. Who would ever believe a compulsively lying boy over the word of a student and dance teacher?