As my pens cascaded off the desk, her giggle echoed around the empty classroom, the sound bright and bouncy and entirely fitting.
“Fucking Physics.” I muttered. I’d feel better if I could throw the text book on the floor and stamp all over it. I was a sham. The nerd being tutored by the cheerleader.
“Look.” Her finger stabbed at the diagram as through I hadn’t been staring at it for 20 minutes. “What you basically have is a line of thin slits, and the light refracts through them because the width of the slit causes a different bend based on the wavelength of the light. The bigger the wavelength the closer it is to the width of the slit, the more it bends.”
Part of my brain stayed hooked to the physics and grappled with the problem, but instead of the words “Why does the slit make it bend at all?” all that left my mouth was a grouchy “Bite me.” Fucking slits. Her knuckles traced the inner seam of my jeans and I squirmed beneath her touch.
“You should have done biology.”
I groaned. I could claim it was agreement, but it was the way her hand missed all the crucial areas of my body and moved to the neck of my shirt, her nails, I imagined, grazing faint pale trails on my fiery red throat, fingers pulling at the collar baring my skin.
“You’re the perfect example of active hyperemia at the moment,” she murmured, “All that blood rushing to the organs that need it most.”
She tugged at the shirt, the button resisting, then opening beneath her determined fingers.
“Pyrexia. Your body burning up for me.”
I am burning, but I am frozen in place, still as she explores me. This is not the first time our study sessions have twisted like this, but I still can’t believe she is touching me. People like her don’t touch people like me. Don’t kiss…
…the thought is lost since her lips, waxy with chapstick, glide along the line of my jaw from chin to ear and my thighs clench in response. I shift in my seat at the ache, the crotch of my jeans biting roughly at suddenly tender flesh.
She admonishes me to stop wiggling, teeth nipping sharply at my ear.
Trying to relax, I drop my head away from her, increasing her access to my neck and she rewards me with open mouthed kisses over my racing pulse, her teeth testing me. Tasting me with a drag of her tongue.
In a flurry of action, the table is shoved backwards as she straddles my legs, sitting astride my lap. Her heat pressed against mine. Tentatively, my hands span her waist and she rocks forward, head thrown back to grind exploratively against me, once, twice, finding a rhythm.
There are a million things I wish for in this second. I wish I had the confidence to push my hand between her thighs and increase the pressure for her till it was just right. To drag her forwards so I could bury my face in the deep V of her t-shirt. Inhale her. Taste her skin like she tasted mine.
The confidence to capture the moment. I want to be daring.
“Bite me.” The sound of my voice, husky and thick, surprises me. Surprises her to stillness.
“Bite you? You want a hickey?” To hear it as a question and not a shocked exclamation allows me to draw breath.
I pull my shirt away from my throat, exposing the jut and hollows of collarbone, normally hidden from view.
I inject as much self-assurance as I can into my voice. “Bite me.”
Her eyes are hot and possessive, holding mine for heavy seconds, before she curls her body to meet mine.
Marks me with her mouth. Marks me hers. Sucking my skin in a draw that pulls a strange tightness through my body. A satisfaction and need in the same sensation.
She bites down on the nub of flesh and I want that mouth everywhere. The pressure, the suction. A want I haven’t even considered before, not properly, becomes a need.
She sits straight and the cold classroom air strikes my skin. The purple and red bruise I can see only in the corner of my eye is the centre of both our attention. Fingers soothe and explore. Her expression is thoughtful, as though I was the specimen in an experiment.
Finally, she finishes studying the mottled flesh. Her eyes sparkle with something happy, something warm, as she imparts her conclusion.
“I think we need to find somewhere more private for our next study session.”
We had such a lovely Secondary School Science teacher, that at Sixth Form College, I was one of a group of six girls to take A-level Physics, along with about forty boys. My friend, Sam, was (and is) a cheerleader, was excellent at Sciences and helping coach those of us for whom it was more difficult, and after university went on to be Head of Science at a school in the north-east. As for who this slightly fictionalised Sam might have been biting…]]>