A Very Candid Conversation

"I was just trying to examine this illustration," she says, flustered.

Brad smiles as he resumes his place opposite hers. "So now we can start."

"Uhh, sure."

She rummages through her notes under his cool gaze. She starts with a quick recap of the past week's lessons, with Brad nodding at certain points. She surprises herself with how she eases into this mentor-mentee mode like nothing happened. She's the Socrates to his bumbling Athenian youth, except she's sexy and not some crusty old fart, and he's anything except "bumbling." The pretty secretary brings him a notebook, on which he starts jotting down what she presumes are the highlights of her lesson. Yet, she feels there's something amiss in this picture-perfect tableau: that somehow he's merely acting the part of a student eager to learn new things, but in reality uses these moments as pretext to something else. Despite these suspicions, Sophia is drawn to play her role, too—she relishes how his fingers brush against her arm as he hands her a note, how his ocean-blue eyes gaze into her as she speaks "teacherly" things, trying to fathom what she actually has in mind aside from the fact that Mary Shelley was only nineteen when she wrote 'Frankenstein' and that Mary's mother herself was a famous early advocate of women's rights. If only he knew she's a blank slate at this point, awaiting his pen to write on her with hard, impassioned strokes...

This "unspoken dance" goes on for a couple of hours, hours that fly by as if mere milliseconds, ended only with the reappearance of the pretty secretary commanding a small retinue of pastry chefs, each of whom is rolling in a tray of their respective scrumptious concoctions: bread, coffee, tea, unnamable bite-sized things exquisitely smothered in chocolate, each evident to have been meticulously crafted by seasoned skill, most of which is going to end up uneaten in the trash bin. So this is how these people eat, Sophia thinks, and remembers the other night when Derek whipped up a tasty panini whose recipe he had found on the internet—how proud Derek was as he presented her a few slices of his creation perched amid freshly chopped garnish and a squirt of some red sauce whose name Derek couldn't even pronounce.

"Why don't we grab a bite," Brad beams, standing up. He helps her pick out the best morsels. She's not really hungry at this point—the incident with the turkey had taken away her appetite—but the flavors explode in her mouth and soon she forgets about her misgivings.

"What's this?" she asks, in-between helpings.

Brad sniggers mischievously. "Oysters. A powerful aphrodisiac."

Sophia treats it as a joke and laughs. She cannot believe this chocolate-covered, incredibly tasty, chewy thing has oysters within it. And knowing that all jokes are half-meant, she tosses the ball back in his court by asking for "more of this goddamn aphrodisiac, please."

Brad bows gamely. "Your wish is my command, mistress." If he is surprised with Sophia's spontaneous spirited cussing, he doesn't show it. He fills up a plate with the oyster pastry, and places it in mock deference on the table. He bows again, but it's so clumsy that Sophia giggles like a school girl. Obviously, the mood has relaxed. They talk about the school, Brad's impression of the other teachers, how Brad is handling his many swooning admirers. Sophia openly talks about her own memories as a high school student and his string of non-serious boyfriends before Derek Masterson came.

"I was 14 when I had my cherry popped," Sophia blurts out at the tail-end of her monologue about boyfriends. Now it's out there. A little more honesty. After all, they have been chatting about relationships, so sex is obviously fair game.

"Really?" He's gazing intently into her eyes, and this time, Sophia does not flinch. Their eyes meet for what seems like ages.

"I'm sure you've had a long line of girlfriends," Sophia teases. The food is nice, and she's feeling at ease, like she could toss away her shoes and snuggle somewhere and just let Brad talk about his own youthful adventures. But Brad frowns at the mention of "girlfriends."

"Actually, I had none."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope." He sighs. "I'm sorry if I was being weird earlier. You remind me too much of someone."

"There! A girl, right? So technically you had at least one."

"I'm not really sure if I could describe her as my 'girlfriend'. It was a relationship that was not easy to classify. But she was the first to teach me about the birds and the bees."

"Oh. You mean sex." She giggles; Sophia's future self will look back at this moment and wonders how the reserved girl of a few hours ago was replaced by this giggling nerdy sex fiend.

"But that was two years ago," Brad smiles. "I don't even know where she is, right now."

Sophia has an inkling they're probably entering a tricky area, but her interest is piqued: she wants to know what kind of woman drops someone like Brad. "Did she dump you?"

"It's complicated." Brad sips his coffee in the way one does when one's preparing to tell a long story. "Helen was my swimming instructor. I was fourteen, she was twenty-nine. She was a professional swimmer, and once competed at the Olympics. Her husband, Leon, was my father's childhood friend, so she's not really a stranger to the family. Leon was fifty-ish, I think, when they married. And I later found out, not really a great lover—he was emotionally remote, always away on long business trips serving as one of my father's trusted people."

Sophia leans on the table, a keen listener; her blouse shifts, and for a brief moment Brad's gaze finds her ample cleavage. But Brad is not to be distracted; he looks out the glass walls of the indoor pool, at the carefully manicured hedges in the garden, summoning not-very-recent memory.

"It didn't take long for us to find ourselves in an affair. Helen was lonely, and we were always in a situation where we were half-naked. She had this amazing body—"

Sophia arched her eyebrows playfully. "Attaboy!"

Brad sniggers. "—that's just so good to look at in a swimsuit. I always had—can I say it?—a hard-on during our swimming sessions, but she never seemed to notice it. At least in the first few months of our training. Until one day, she was teaching me how to properly do a dolphin kick—you know, to increase speed—when her hand accidentally brushed my, ermm..."

"Boner?" A wide, naughty smirk on Sophia's face.

Brad laughs. "Yes, a raging boner. I never had real sex at that point, so when she asked me to meet her at the dressing room, I didn't know what to expect. And even if I had expectations, Helen still exceeded them. The things she did—it's just too awesome for words."

Sophia is nodding sagaciously, her face impassive. "So let me get this straight. A 'hot' adult swimmer fucked you like a porn star when you were just 14? Did she get caught and imprisoned for having sex with a minor?"

"Oh, no." Brad laughs. "I would do everything to protect her from something like that. No, we actually carried on for months. It was an intense affair, and she taught me a lot of things. We often did it in an adjacent room over there—" he gestures toward an arced doorway at the southern end of the pool, "where no one could hear us. She was a noisy, extremely passionate lover. All her pent-up lust from all those years of being married to an ice-cold stone slab like Leon, it all cascaded down on me like a torrent of warmth and need—the way she'd ride me was breathtaking to behold. She even showed me things I only saw in porn videos, like a proper deep throat or a good 'motorboat'."

Normally, Sophia would have listened to her inner sense of right and wrong and stopped Brad right there. Or she would have walked out, feigning offense. But her internal moral compass is being crushed underfoot by her rising arousal. Whether or not this is all Brad's intention—from the craftily chosen venue, to her highly detailed "sexual confession—it is having a powerful effect on her. She reaches out for her iced tea and drenches her parched throat, but it is not enough. Even if she doesn't slip a finger into her undies, she knows she's fully soaked down there.

"But what happened?" she eventually says. "I mean, where is she now?"

"Well, my supposed swimming lessons had to end, and there was no good, believable reason for her to stay here. Besides, Leon wanted her in Switzerland for some huge business thing. And that was that. Three months of an incredible affair and it all ended up with not so much as a goodbye fuck."

"You're still so young. A highly attractive young man. I'm sure you'll still get a lot of action. And who knows, maybe some of it may even surpass the things Helen did."

"You really think so?"

"Sure." She smiles.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"I just told you the story of my life. Now it's your turn. Quid pro quo."

Sophia laughed. "That's hardly 'the' story of your life. You only told me the naughty bits."

"Honestly, that was it. Before Helen came, and after she left, I really had no life. It was all business here and business there. My father wants me to experience all the essential things before I hit twenty. That's why I asked your help. To help me manage things as smoothly as possible at school. It's all a formality, but I would feel phony if I didn't deserve the accolade. I don't like that. Plus, you remind me so much of Helen."

"Oh, no. You've got me wrong. I can't teach you about the whole 'birds and the bees' thing."

Brad laughs. "I didn't mean it that way."

Sophia's growing discomfort makes her uncross and cross her legs. She's feeling very horny, talking to this boy in this way. Her only resort is the tall glass of iced tea—the cold liquid coursing down her throat also somehow cools her down a bit. But the more Brad gazes at her as if she were Helen, the more she feels desperately aroused.

"So how did you end up married at twenty-two? What's your story?"

The beginning of the end. At the back of her mind, Sophia recognizes the trick: they swap sex stories, and who knows, she might end up as Helen Number Two in an unguarded moment—that is, if Brad doesn't stop doing that hangdog look. But her awareness of the ace that is not so hidden up Brad's sleeve isn't enough to stop her own mouth from eagerly describing the lurid details of her love life. In fact, she's like a dam newly broken: she spills out the beans, regulated only by the cadence she has learned in the few years of teaching at Camden High. She knows when to insert meaningful pauses so that certain facts sink in. She starts with Derek and how they met. Describing Derek's performance in bed—how he's different from the men she had previously known, how he knows to push all her buttons—means she has to go back to provide context, to high school and college, back in that distant time when sex was awkward and the boys enjoyed it much more than she did. Strangely, she feels she can tell all these things to Brad without worrying about how he might regard him. Would he later judge her, consider her a slut? She doesn't care. Maybe there's something in the tea. Maybe that oyster pastry. Or maybe she has been reassured with Brad's honesty, even if such "honesty" has a motive. In any case, Brad grunts and nods at the right places, and each time, she's assured she's saying the right things.

"There was so much I didn't know. For example, I can have multiple orgasms while riding Derek's cock. I used to do that with my previous boyfriends, but it didn't work, I was always not satisfied. But with Derek, this connection, I can't even describe it. Just last night, we spent three hours just fucking, non-stop, like it was the very first time."

Brad's Adam's apple bobs up and down.

"I love it whenever Derek surprises me. I would be washing the dishes in the sink and he'd appear suddenly behind me, bends me over, pulls down my knickers, and starts pounding me right there."

Brad's face is beet red, but he tries to hide it by appearing calm. He's Dr. Oz on a late-night show, interviewing a controversial subject, pinching himself secretly in the arm. Sophia could almost burst out laughing—she knows she has upped the ante, beaten Brad in his own game, and now Brad's balls must hurt from all that pent-up arousal. And she's not even finished yet. This boy wants playing this game, she'll give it to him and exceed his expectations. She continues describing her marital sex life as detailed as she possibly could, down to the last sticky, juicy detail. Each time she notices Brad making a deep sigh, his fingers on the table slightly trembling, Sophia couldn't contain herself. She describes how she fucks like a porn star—she watches all these porn videos on the internet for the sole purpose of "self-education," and mimics the nasty things the actors say and do, even the facial expression.

"And I swallow," she confesses, her face impassive.

"Really?" At this point, Brad's Adam's apple is like a yo-yo, going up and down in quick succession. His eyes round in sheer amazement, he gulps down and says, "You're kidding, right?"

"Of course, not. Yes, I swallow cum. Is that so hard to believe? I love my husband. I did it only with him. I saw this porn video on the internet and this woman was getting fucked in the mouth. I thought I could do that. And I did. And I liked it." She smiles, as if she has just said something mundane, like "I drink milk" or "I love shoes."

Brad sighs. The only thing he says is, "Derek's one hell of a lucky guy."

"Yes, he is."

"I hope I can be as lucky—"

"Well, you'll find another 'Helen', I'm sure. You know that almost everybody at school wants you."

"Everybody except you." That hangdog expression again.

Sophia says nothing. Many years later, there would be many nights when she would remember Brad's face at that moment—hopeful and full of longing, stating something that was hoped to be the opposite—everybody except you. She knew, of course, that he was teasing, that he was daring her to say, "Of course I love you!," but in her mind she was winning this tug-of-war, this verbal dance, and perhaps because she has more real experience than Brad, she could see steps ahead. She says, "Yes, that's right," and knows Brad's confidence might be a bit shaken.

Yet, Brad smiles to mitigate the impact. Despite his physique and that classic Silverstone bone structure that makes him look more mature and manly than his actual age, he's still so young, and sharp discernment is not one of the hallmarks of his supposed precociousness. He can almost believe Sophia's declaration, despite the fact that the air around them is heavy with coquetry. That she's probably flirting when she describes her own sexual secrets. After all, what in the world is this? This sharing of the most intimate secrets? Sure, he started it, but he didn't really expect her to open up the way she did. Or perhaps she's just trying to drive him crazy. And so as an attempt to regain lost ground, or to simply return to the interesting subject matter, Brad says, "Do you mean you haven't even tried doing it with other men since you got married?"

Sophia is tempted to say, "How dare you ask a happily married woman that question?" But they're past that point where propriety holds sway—now, all the inappropriate questions are the meat of the game. She realizes the more intriguing things Brad learns about her, the farther they might stray from the point of no return. But she couldn't resist it. So with a straight face, she says, "I have been with other men."

Brad leans on the table, a naughty gleam in his eyes. "You what?"

"But only as a fantasy." Sophia smiles. "I guess all married couples need a little fantasy to spice up the things they do in the bedroom. And Derek and I are no exception. I fantasize about being with other men while we're having sex, and I don't find anything wrong with it."

"And does Derek know this?"

"Of course! He even participates in it."

Brad falls silent for a moment, weighing his next words. "I don't understand. You mean you get turned on with the fantasy of having sex with other guys? And it's alright with your husband?"

Sophia nods. Brad stares at her, his lips slightly parted, transmitting a mental image of a thirsty dog lapping up spilled milk on the floor.

"This fantasy," Brad stammers, "Does it include people you know?"

Sophia pauses a beat. She makes a big shrug. "Of course, not!"

Brad's head hangs there, uncertain to take her answer on face value. On one hand, that was a big, over-shrug right there; on the other hand, something in the gleam of his English teacher's eyes seems to tell him he's spot on. Maybe Miss Masterson has fantasized about her students—maybe she has fantasized about him! This possibility seems so near the truth, he's actually secretly elated. Whatever he was thinking earlier, however it was bluntly put asunder by Sophia's distracting confessions, it has arched and reconnected with his idea and suspicion about the real internal state of things with this beautiful creature.

Dolph Lundgren drives her home later that afternoon. Sophia spends the minutes inside the limo reimagining Brad in his swimming trunks, Brad naked, Brad doing his swimming instructor. Now that she's gained the perspective of time and distance, she allows herself to let go, to fully play out the obscene images in her mind. She's so aroused that by the time Dolph Lundgren is depositing her at her doorstep, she has that far-away gaze of distraction; the limo had been gone for a few minutes when she realized it so.

Alone in her living room, Sophia could not put a finger on what's bothering her. She suddenly decides to drive to around a few blocks to clear her head. Something's distracting her, with her mind floating amid enticing might-have-beens. Something about the last few words she exchanged with Brad bothered but also excited her. She feels she might have talked too much. She might have opened up herself too much. Right after the conversation, when she's gathering up her things and notes and Brad watches her, she felt naked and vulnerable. In her normal reckoning of things, sharing the story of your love life and the things you do in the bedroom may be a casual thing with girl friends or BFFs, but not with your student—especially not with the one you tutor right in his own home. The higher, saner part of her brain tells her she might have been trying to seduce him, which is bad, really bad, as far as legal things are concerned. She could go to jail. Derek would leave her. She'd be an irreparably broken woman even before she hits 25. And what would her mother say?

But equally persistent and demanding is that more primitive part of her brain who controls her primal impulses and needs, her senses of pleasure and pain, that part that doesn't give a flying shit about right and wrong, only caring about the things that can sate its appetites. Even now, that part of her brain nags her about her acutely aroused state—if she would slip a finger in her underwear, she will find she's already soaking wet. Indeed, she doesn't have to—she knows, she feels it, she's blushing. She's been horny since seeing Brad in those trunks, emerging from the pool, getting naked right in front of her. And that intimate conversation—how crazy was that? She's never had that with anyone except Derek, and that was when they were already married. What the fuck are you doing?

She gets out of the house and plants herself in her car's driver's seat, her head a jumbled mess of thoughts. She pulls out of the driveway with no thought of a destination. Anywhere but here. But a few miles out she realizes she's so horny that she cannot drive properly, what with this distraction, this deep itch—a thought affirmed when at a road bend, she almost grazed an oncoming car. Sophia parks by the roadside, along a stretch of country road populated only by deciduous trees and perennials. She can do this quickly. She doesn't even have to kill the engine. She runs a hand up her skirt, into her underwear, and discovers she has been literally dripping wet. She slips two, then three fingers inside her, which are immediately embraced by her slippery warm wetness. She rotates a slick finger on her bulging clit. She starts slow as her mind runs through images of Brad and him mouthing snippets about Helen in that room by the pool, at the southern corner, where no one could hear their moans, him, a boy of only 14 then, the heir to the unimaginably wealthy Silverstone business empire, and Helen, about her age, tendrils of golden hair on her bouncing breasts. Sophia's mind helpfully makes Helen look exactly like her: in her mind, she's the one stroking his cock, sucking it, guiding it inside her, vigorously meeting his every thrust, swallowing. In an endless loop.

Sophia fingerbangs her snatch in increasing intensity.

Fuck. That. Pussy. Brad…

The rhythm ups in frequency, her need rising, a raging tsunami of lust.

…Stroking his cock, sucking it, licking it, guiding it inside her, over and over and over.

Yes, that's it. That's right. Fuck that bad girl now…

A car appears ahead, cruising toward her, lights blinking.

I'm coming I'm coming I'm coming harder harder harder...

It's a police car, and it parks right across the road. The door opens, and an elderly officer appears. He fixes his hat solemnly, as if the hat makes the man. He crosses the road, a-la John Wayne.

Now now I'm coming now fuck me harder harder now now now Brad now...

Her mind explodes and for a millisecond, the orgasm is blackness and whiteness spreading across her field of vision.

When she slides down her window and offers the police officer the old "I had a little migraine attack, so I had to stop" alibi, Sophia's face is calm, her demeanor all business, but her right hand, her fingers are still wet and slightly trembling. Sophia makes her most disarming smile—the one she remembers Katy Perry did in some Youtube video clip—hoping that her charm would be enough to stop all the questions. The officer nods and offers to escort her all the way to her house, just to make sure she's safe.