The Moment's Lust

Sophia married Derek Masterson right after college. She was looking for a job at a local bank, hoping that her physical charm could make the interviewer ignore the fact that she didn't have the right skill set. Armed with nothing but a little BA in English and a ravishing figure that although looked perfect in tight clothes also made people take her less seriously, she had gone straight to the bank because, as her mother would put it, "it's where all the money is." Derek happened to be the bank executive whose responsibility it was to decide the fates of the most promising applicants, and at first sight, he knew Sophia was "the right one"—not for the job position, unfortunately, but for that lingering vacancy, that awful void in his thirty-five summers: a wife. When she appeared at Derek's desk for the interview, Derek looked up from reading her resume, and his jaws dropped and stayed there.

"Aren't you that singer?"

"Who?"

Derek gulped. "Katy Perry?"

Sophia smiled (she was further upping the ante as far as her charm was concerned) and shook her cute little pony-tailed head. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about."

She'd later check on the internet who Katy Perry was. How surprised she was to discover the uncanny resemblance—her shoulder length hair, disarming smile, and curves that seemed to want to burst out of whatever she wears complete the uncanny resemblance. Heck, they even seem to have the same cup size. Although Sophia loved listening to music, she was more like the Regina Spektor type—she always had little patience for shouty pop tunes. She knew she was prettier than the average girl, but she never realized she actually had a celebrity doppelganger in Katy Perry. It made her feel good and confident and made her regard Derek Masterson fondly.

Derek was not bad-looking, really, she thought mulling over the man's dinner invitation. He still had a youthful shock of hair, with nice teeth and everything, and his physique vaguely reminded her of Daniel Craig emerging from the beach all dripping wet in that James Bond film, 'Casino Royale.' And above all, he seemed very smart—she always had a weakness for men who know how to cross their t's and dot their i's. She found his competency immensely attractive. And during that first dinner date, Derek made her laugh—they were eating at Hooters, of all places, and Derek happened to have a shit-load of jokes about the place, really green ones you wouldn't tell your sister. Derek's sense of humor clicked with her, and when he called up again for an encore, she eagerly said yes. And the rest, so says anyone who is too lazy to recall subsequent, probably cloying details, is history.

If Sophia had a therapist, he or she would stick a pin on the timeline of Sophia's life, marking that point at which she married Derek as the actual beginning of her sexual awakening. Before Derek, she had had a string of boyfriends, seven in total (if you'd include the lanky Johnny Timbers who obviously didn't know what to do with an actual live vagina and abruptly ended the affair after Sophia giggled like an amused mentor as Johnny fumbled with her breasts, "fondling them like unscrewing a pair of huge light bulbs"), whose wildly varying sexual abilities could make a rather jagged chart. Sure, she had sex, and lots of it, and if you'd ask those dudes, each of them would proudly claim that he was Sophia's best, most generous lover, ever. Because, indeed, Sophia made each man feel fulfilled—she knew what to do in bed, she knew all the motions, copying them from all the porn she's seen on the internet. You can even say Sophia had that delicious combination of talents: she could mimic even the "sleaziest, naughtiest" sexual position and convince her lover that not only she loved it, that she's also an expert at it. That's why whenever Sophia made love, she "fucked like a porn star." But the unspoken trouble was, Sophia never had an orgasm with any of those boyfriends—before Derek entered her life, she didn't know what an orgasm was, in the real, personally experienced sense of the word. She knew of it only as an abstract term, even at the "ripe old age" of twenty. Consider it a strange, even rare aberration, as in this day and age, even those in their early teens know how to pleasure themselves with readily available household items—say, a nicely polished cucumber, or an ergonomically shaped bottle of lotion. But not Sophia—she had mistakenly assumed that the rising pleasure that she felt while making love with any of those boyfriends was the orgasm itself, and so what was all the fuss about this all-too-average sensual pleasure? For all she knew, guiltlessly eating an entire slab of triple chocolate cake was more pleasurable than all the pre-Derek Masterson fucking she ever had.

In many ways, Derek opened up Sophia's senses like only a seasoned, well-experienced lover could. He doesn't come too early or too late—time and plenty of experience with many previous lovers have given him the skill to discern the perfect timing. But to say that Derek was able to teach Sophia orgasm by the sole virtue of his longevity would not be entirely accurate; true, Derek was unencumbered with the intense bursts of youthful passion, but saying so would not do justice to the man's sexual wisdom.

The first time Sophia had an orgasm, she was not sure about what she felt, but it felt right, it justified all the fuss about "the whole sex thing." Unlike all her previous boyfriends, Derek had let her on top, told her to let it all go, to "fuck my brains out" like only a woman could. Her previous boyfriends almost invariably did her lying on her back, spread-eagled, and they came too early, concerned only with their own satisfaction. Some experimented, but it was all awkward, their motions acted more from remembered scenes from some porn, half-heartedly done and weakened with the lack of conviction borne from plenty of actual experience. For instance, there was Jake, one of those boys, who wanted to try a "69," but he was too tall, and all her mouth could reach was his navel. Derek, however, helped her navigate a balanced sexual path, letting her take the reins but taking over in the tricky places. But what really opened her up was Derek telling her to make love like a man, so she had to be on top. At first she was just grinding, letting it in and out, expecting the old things, merely mimicking what she had seen in porn just to please him, while Derek nibbled her breasts and whispered all sorts of naughty things to her ear. Then at one point, something inside her clicked—in her pleasure of pleasures, at the core of her being, the tiniest explosion occurred, and when Derek didn't stop and continued fucking her, the explosion repeated, increasing in intensity and frequency. After her first series of orgasms, all she could think of was getting a private room so that Derek could fuck her in complete abandon. It was pure bliss, and extremely addictive.

In time, merely having sex was not enough—they had to be more and more inventive. Much to their mutual delight, they discovered a common love for experimentation, for the kinky stuff, as long as they stick by the mutually agreed rules. She discovered Derek is one of those men who are turned on with the idea of being a cuckold. They were having breakfast at a French-themed cafe one morning when Derek caught her staring at the waiter more than what was necessary. The waiter was a tall, twenty-something fellow, and he looked like he had come from an audition for a Calvin Klein commercial.

"You like that?" Derek said.

Sophia blushed. "Don't be silly."

"No, I mean, hypothetically, if there are no rules, or if I allowed it."

"Of course, not!"

"Sure? You won't fuck that waiter?"

"Derek," she said, "I will never fuck anyone else as long as I live."

Derek said nothing. She would admit it only later that night, when Derek repeated the question about the hot waiter, as he rammed her pussy with all his girth and length, whispering to her ear, "Imagine he's fucking you right now," and instantly the image flashed in her head and brought her to a quick succession of multiple orgasms. The role-playing started that way. On most nights, she plays a more active role in choosing who she's "fucking", mostly her students or co-teachers, all of whom have no idea that they're part of her sexual fantasies. But by the time Sophia was hired at Camden High School—thanks in large part to Derek's friendship with the school principal, Ken Yasuhiro—Sophia had reached a frequency, depth and intensity of longing that she realized Derek could not thoroughly fulfill. She began to deeply long for another man's cock. Most recently, with Brad Silverstone, the one important question keeps throbbing in his head like a woman hard-on: should she, would she tread over the boundary between fantasy and reality? Does she have the nerve to engage in what could be taboo, even criminal?

No, she can't. Yes, she will. She might. Sophia Masterson vacillated according to the moment's lust. Look at Brad Silverstone. He's only eighteen, for God's sake. Sophia knows that a word of rumor, an eyewitness's finger, perhaps not even a witness but only anyone who has uncannily read her inner thoughts and desires can demolish her career, her life. She couldn't imagine going to prison for fucking one of her teenaged students—not to mention that single person whose family owns half of the entire world. But as she gazes across the room and sees him dreamily scribbling on a notebook what she presumes are the words and lines that could coagulate into an essay about Jane Austen, all Sophia Masterson could think about is taking his clothes off. The fact of him being so young and so…forbidden aroused her even more. She's already wet; she has to cross and uncross her legs to realize she's hot and sticky down there. Underneath the teacher's table, hidden by half an inch of wooden board from the prying, lustful eyes of boys with raging hormones, Sophia's shapely legs softly caress and rub at each other, hitting her clitoris at just the right angle, and at each slight movement, each contact with the fabric of her underwear, she climbs a step higher toward an orgasm. Right there in the classroom. "Oh, God," she thinks, "I hope they don't see it in my face." But even as she wants so much to stop, to return to planet Earth, here in a place where she's supposed to be doing nothing but educating the dark, spoiled minds of these rich youngsters, she's climbing faster and faster—now she has let a hand slip past her skirt, deftly into her knickers, very slowly kneading the slippery wet folds of her labia, pressing the clit and rubbing a finger slowly around it. She's biting her lower lip when she catches herself, then with an arm still under the table, a hand deliriously playing with her pussy, one image flashes in her mind: that of her spread-eagled on the table, Brad Silverstone pounding her fiercely like there's no tomorrow, with all the savage vigor of his youth. And faintly, as if humming the beginnings of a song, Sophia uncontrollably lets out a moan, which she tries to disguise by pretending to cough and say completely banal teacher-ly things like, "Don't forget to use the book as a reference, okay, class?"

The scattered, half-hearted responses reassure Sophia that nobody has noticed her. She gazes dreamily at the book in front of her, closing her eyes to savor the utter pleasure of that orgasm. She notices Brad Silverstone staring at her. Then as the boy smiles and shakes his head and continues writing, holding that pen that seems so tiny, like a little fragile stick jutting out at the end of the boy's muscular arm, Sophia realizes he's not staring at her at all—he's watching blank space, conjuring words about whatever "strong women in modern fiction" he could think up.

Without warning, Brad stands up and walks toward the teacher's table. He hands her his handwritten essay, folded in half, like a sacred object. "My essay, Miss Masterson," Brad says, almost a whisper, as if afraid anyone else might hear. She nods. He stands there, looking at her face.

"What?"

Brad just smiles. He leaves the room. When she's sure he's gone, she unfolds his paper, and what she reads sends her heart jumping to her throat.

There's no essay. Only a scribbled note that says, "Library, References Section, 6 PM."

She quickly folds the paper and inserts it into her book. Instantly, there's an insane mix of emotions welling up within her. One, what arrogance! Is he ordering her around, his teacher, just because his father owns the school? And two, its exact opposite: Oh my God, Brad is interested in her! It feels dangerous—she's being beckoned to cross that bridge, and Sophia is unsure about how she might respond to this. Her awareness of her inner secret desires and needs is precariously balanced only with her uncertainty about her capacity to control herself when the situation—that delicious event in her fantasies—arises. Would she be able to resist? Or would she just melt like butter in his hands?

From the corner of her eye, she could see—sense, more like it—that Brad is standing outside, by a corner window, gazing at her, an admiring shadow. Sophia blushes despite herself. She pretends to be carefully reading the book, but her lower lip twitches. In her mind she's thinking, I'm not a school girl, anymore. I'm her teacher, for Pete's sake! I'm an intellectually and emotionally mature person! But that same mind tells her that there's only a mere six-year difference between them. He's practically her age, too! And maybe in a different context, if she had met him in a different place, this budding desire could have fruition. Her heart is pounding madly in her chest to remind her that she, too, craves for this, for something sinful. And it all excites her—to fantasize about the boys is one thing, but to have one actively pursuing her—can this even be considered a pursuit?—by someone no less than Brad Silverstone, she couldn't deny the thrill that makes her flesh quiver. She's on the verge of giggling—she feels like years younger, as if she's 14 again, a young girl who is just discovering what boys are capable of wreaking havoc in a girl's life.

The bell rings. As everyone rises up, the first thing her eyes seek, although stealthily, is that shadow by the window. But he's no longer there. As the room empties, Sophia opens her book and unfolds Brad's paper again, examining the writing. She thinks the pen strokes are earnest, as if the one who wrote this meant it. But no—she won't give in, not even a tiny finger, to that seduction. Although even as she thinks this, that delicious weakness that she feels undermines whatever conviction she tries to conjure. Her future self sees her walking out of that classroom, her steps springy at the prospect of something precious that is just within her reach, if only she would grab it, possess it, savor it. Her future self shakes her head in understanding why Sophia will eventually make those damned choices, and why she would do them again in a heartbeat.