Juliet Takes Stage [mf, student-teacher, anal]

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1. ~*~ I took Ken’s Acting classes through all four years of high school — and his Poetry and Advanced Comp classes Junior and Senior years. My friends used to tease me about being his biggest fan, which I guess was true; I loved his classes, and even I would have admitted that I had a huge crush on him. Hell, I wasn’t the only one: a bunch of my girlfriends did too — and at least a couple of the boys, for that matter. He’s a good-looking man, definitely, and that rumbling voice and those eyes… Well, they did things to me that I honestly didn’t even have words for at the time. But it was more the passion with which he taught, and the passion for the subject that he inspired in me and in the other students that put me under his spell. I’d taken acting classes before I got to high school, but they’d never felt like a personal journey of discovery before. He would ask all of the classic acting-teacher questions: What do you want? What’s in your way? What are you going to do to get what you want? But where those questions had always seemed academic before, suddenly, under his piercing gaze, they felt inspiring and deeply, deeply personal. He was asking about the character, about her motivation, but he always said, What do YOU want? He always said, Every character is just some aspect of you, some part of you that you don’t usually show the world. So don’t ever think of the character in the third person: you are the character, and the character is you. The first time I ever thought of Ken sexually was actually in the middle of an acting class. We were working on Shakespeare monologues, and I had just done Juliet’s “Gallop apace ye fiery-footed steeds” speech, which I still dearly love. I had worked hard on the iambic pentameter the way that he had been teaching us, and I had made sure that I understood — really understood — all of the words, and I had sung the speech like an aria, which had felt really good at the time. The rest of the class had applauded energetically — even Erica Travers, who hated everything I ever did, who hated me for no reason that I could ever see. But when the applause died down, Ken just sat there against his desk at the foot of the stage, face stony. “Very pretty,” he grunted. “The scansion was great, and you’re on-voice, which is a nice improvement.” Now he scowled, dark eyes flashing. “But. What. The. Hell. Do. You. WANT.” I was caught off-guard by his question, by his tone. I could see my shock reflected in the faces of my classmates. “I… Juliet is waiting — ” “Not Juliet, Allison. YOU. And I know what you’re doing: you’re standing on a stage, dancing back and forth, looking like you have to pee.” The class tittered. Erica looked like she’d just been given a Christmas present in April. Now Ken stood, walking to the foot of the stage, and I had to fight the urge to step back, to hide — even though I was humiliated, I knew my need to do what Ken was asking, to learn what he was teaching meant far more to me than my own puny ego. Still, I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t see what he wanted me to do. “I’m…” I huffed. “It’s… It’s just a monologue, Ken — there’s no one else on stage, I mean, who could I want anything from?” “Just a monologue?” he asked, voice low and intense in a way that I found sparked all sorts of interesting responses in my body. “Listen to me, Allison — it’s not just a monologue, not just one of the greatest soliloquys ever written.” He turned to the class, who were scattered through the seats of the little theater that served as the acting classroom. “What’s the difference between a monologue and a soliloquy, anyone?” The other students, who were all sitting wide-eyed, shrugged or shook their heads. He turned back to me, his gaze piercing me. “A… a soliloquy,” I rasped, trembling, “is a monologue where the character is alone on stage.” “Thank you, Allison. But just because the character is alone doesn’t mean she doesn’t want something from someone.” I want YOU, I thought, for the very first time, and was scared speechless by the intensity of the feeling. Sensing my agitation, Ken turned out to the class again. “Who could she be talking to?” “To herself?” said Erica, looking pleased to be able to show me up. “To the audience?” said Jordan, my friend, who looked as if she wanted to throw her arms around me and pull me off of the stage. “Both good,” Ken granted. “And in Shakespeare’s plays, characters talk directly to the audience all of the time. And in that case, it’s just like talking to a character on stage: you’ve got something you want from them, something you want them to do.” He looked back up at me, and I found myself trembling again. “But in this case, we know who she’s talking to — she tells us in the first line.” “The sun,” I croaked. “Exactly,” Ken said with a grin and a nod, and I felt as if a fist had just released its grip on my heart. “Phoebus was another name for Apollo, the sun god, whose fiery-footed steeds pulled the chariot of the sun across the sky. So, Juliet, what do you want?” “The sun to set.” “Really? Is that what you want?” “Romeo,” I gasped. “She wants… I want him to… come.” I hadn’t meant it as a sexual innuendo, but it was a classroom full of sophomores — they heard sexual innuendo everywhere. A fierce round of giggling rippled across the little auditorium, and I blushed. But even as my skin caught fire, the image appeared in my mind’s eye, clearer than any DVD: that was exactly what Juliet wanted, for Romeo to come, to climb her balcony and climb into her bed, and undress her, and… Ken cleared his throat. “You guys think Allison’s joking — but she’s not. Juliet’s a young woman — younger, even, than you guys — but it’s her wedding night, and she’s very clear about what she wants to happen. Learn me how to lose a winning match, Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. You guys didn’t invent sex, believe me. Give me my Romeo, and when he shall die…” Here he grinned out at the class; then he smiled up at me, and gave me a wink. “Anyone know what she means by die here?” Silence. Ken smiled at me, but his gaze was dark and full of low, banked fire. “Elizabethans used the phrase the Little Death to mean… orgasm. Come, Romeo, come, thou day in night!” Again the class tittered. My blood was racing. Ken’s eyes locked on mine. “Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it, and though I am sold, not yet enjoyed. Allison. Juliet. What do you want?” “Romeo.” More titters. Ken cut them off. “And what’s in your way?” “The sun won’t get out of the fucking sky.” Laughter, this time — no doubt to hear little goody me use that word — but Ken and I let them laugh. He nodded up at me. “And what are you going to do to get what you want?” “I’m going to beg the sun to set, to hurry, and night to come — Thou sober-suited matron — and bring me my Romeo.” “Exactly,” said Ken, eyes aflame now. “Do it again.” I did the monologue again, and I know the scansion was probably not as good, and my voice was all over the place, but I begged, I pleaded with the sun to hurry the fuck up, to bring me my Romeo, my husband, my lover, so that he could climb in my window, and pull off my clothes, and fuck me. And Romeo — who had been a faceless, featureless figure to me before — suddenly had a very specific face: it was Ken who I saw leaning over me, Ken’s long, thick fingers tearing away the mall-bought clothing from my fevered, quivering body, Ken who kissed me and — gently, patiently, insistently — initiated me into a mystery I was only beginning to understand that I wanted to solve. When I finished, I felt spent, drained; my panties were damp and my bra felt incredibly tight, but I was barely aware of them. The class applauded again, even more loudly this time. But all I heard was Ken’s hands clapping, Ken’s voice, as he sat there on his desk: “Wow. Allison. Wow.”

2. ~*~ I am bent over that desk, staring up at the small stage where my sexual initiation began — though neither of us knew it at the time — and then back at him: my teacher, my lover. Ken is behind me, kissing, licking, nibbling his way slowly up the backs of my thighs, and I feel my fingers grasp the front of the desk. Determined not to give in too easily, not to dissolve immediately into a sexual, submissive puddle, I ask him, willing my voice to something like an even tone, “When you taught me all about… Juliet — about how horny she was, about how she wanted Romeo — ” His tongue draws a long line up my left hamstring to my round ass, and in spite of my resolve, I am struck speechless for a moment. “ — Where you… Where you thinking of Veronica, of watching her play Juliet, of wanting to — ?” His tongue circles my asshole, and I gulp. “Yeah,” he murmurs, into the incredibly sensitive spot between my fat cheeks. “I was thinking about how sweet and sexy she was as Juliet, of the incredible amount of subtext she managed to get into and when he dies…” His lips press against my bum, and I groan. “But the minute you started the monologue, she went right out of my head. Seeing you, kneeling there… As a teacher, it’s hard not to pick up on the students’ feelings: anger, sadness, happiness. But you, I could sense your excitement, your desire. Could see your nipples pressing through that damned Beatles t-shirt. First time — ” He presses his tongue against my rectum, and thrusts in, making me cry out, those same nipples doing their best to drill through the wood beneath my chest. He withdraws his tongue, and my whole body quivers, a small orgasm — a Little Death — flowing through me. “Had to shove my hands in my pockets because watching you got me hard, right there.” He begins to kiss his way up my spine. “That was the first time I ever thought of you sexually, Allison.” “Me too,” I pant. “Me too, you. You were who I was thinking of. I… wish… Wanted you just to jump up there, take me in front of everyone, fuck me right up there, everyone watching, Erica fucking Travers seeing how you made me feel…” He groans into my back, and I feel his cock, hard, between my knees, sliding up between my thighs as he stands. “You were my student. You were a fucking sophomore. You were barely sixteen.” “Didn’t mean I didn’t want you. Wanted you so bad, Ken.” “Allison.” I can hear him, feel him breathing hard behind me as his hands tremble, fumbling to open the lube. The length of his cock is pressing up now against my cunt lips. But that’s not where he’s going this time. His left hand is fever-hot as it presses down on my left cheek, opening my bottom to him again. The lube gel, however, is cool as he squeezes it from the tube against my asshole, and I shiver. With the index finger of his right hand, he begins to work the slippery gel into me. Terror is beginning to grip me, and I know that I have to think of something other than that slow, insistent invasion. “D-did you and Dana fuck this way?” Ken’s teacher — his first lover. He grunts, and adds a second finger, evoking a low groan from me. But I won’t stop: I continue through gritted teeth, “Did she, Ken? Did she take you up her ass?” He pushes his fingers all of the way into me, pressing all of the air out, leaving me breathless. At his mercy. “Yes,” he whispers. And I hear the splash of lube again — one-handed, into his palm, this time. “Yeah. She wanted to teach me… everything.” I can hear the slurp as he applies the gel to his hard cock. Oh, God. He is. He is going to fuck my ass. “Know you did with Rachel.” “Did that bit turn you on?” He withdraws his fingers, and I can feel the cool air tickle the open ring of muscle. Turned on. Holy shit. “And… Veronica? Did you… stick your cock up into her little, tiny ass?” “Huh. No, actually. And her ass wasn’t so tiny. It wasn’t anywhere near as beautiful as yours.” He kisses the fat ass in question, and then stands. My ass, my whole body flushes with the compliment. I can feel him closing behind me, can feel the fronts of his muscular thighs pressing against the backs of mine. Can feel the thick head of his cock, slick and hot, pressing against my asshole. The head stretching me open. Beginning to push in. Out of habit, I don’t ask about Meredith. We never talk about his wife. We’ve never fucked in the bed they shared. Every other room in his house. In the theater, fulfilling the fantasy that was born that day when Ken and Juliet taught me what desire felt like. But never in their bed. Honestly? I don’t mind. I don’t want to share him with a ghost. And then he presses that thick, amazing, terrifying cock deep into me, into yet another place where no one but he has ever been, and we both scream. ~*~ Meredith died in a car accident not long after that class where Ken had finally shown me — shown us all — that there was nothing dry or academic about Shakespeare. She had been coming to pick Ken up after a rehearsal. Taylor Ferris, who was a year ahead of me, a junior on the volleyball team, had apparently been coked to the gills, driving her parents’ big old Hummer at about ninety on our little suburb’s quiet streets. Taylor’s tank had t-boned Meredith’s Prius at an intersection just two blocks from the school. Working the backstage crew for that show, I’d been standing out in the parking lot with Ken, chatting about nothing, basking in his presence, when we heard the sirens and saw the lights. We watched for a minute, and I think I said something like, “Hope everyone’s okay,” before Ken pulled out his phone and tried to call Meredith. When she didn’t answer, Ken just began to run — first at a jog, and then at a sprint — toward the flashing lights. Not knowing what else to do, I ran with him. The Prius was wrapped around the front of the Hummer like a bow tie. The huge SUV seemed hardly to have been scratched. Taylor was sitting in the open door, talking to an EMT. Her face was slack and pasty, but she looked fine. A police officer stood to the side, cross-armed. “Meredith?” I heard Ken say. He began to run toward the wreck of his wife’s car. “MEREDITH?” Two firemen stopped Ken, grabbing his arms. “MEREDITH!” Ken tried to struggle past them. The two big men in their rescue gear had to wrap their arms around Ken to keep him from bulling his way to the wreckage. The one closest to me looked green, as if he were about to vomit — or to cry. “His wife,” I asked the man. “Is she — ?” Gritting his teeth, the fireman shook his head. “MEREDITH!” ~*~ “FUCK!” screams Ken, thrusting even deeper, until at last I feel his balls slap against my open cunt, his pubic hair tickling my lower back, which causes me to contract the muscles in my ass, squeezing him tight, and we both groan. “I have you,” I rasp, anything but on-voice. “All of you. Mine.” “Yours,” he groans, sliding out and then slamming back in, beginning to fuck my ass in earnest. Fuck it hard. His fist in my hair pulls my head up, back to him, so that his teeth close on my neck and his left hand, which has been clutching my hip, grasps none too gently at my breasts. Scary. Terrifying. Sexy as fucking hell: the heat of him, the pressure of him, so deep inside me. His hips are slapping against the flesh of my ass, and the rhythm is building to a crescendo that might scatter me into the sky like a million sparks — Cut him out in little stars… — and Ken’s left hand, the one I love to watch him stroke himself with, slides down my sweat-slick belly and between my thighs, where my cunt lies open and flowing, weeping in sympathy and envy as he plows my ass. With no preliminaries — taking possession — he slides two fingers deep into my pussy and with his thumb flicks at my clit, and I can feel an explosion, an awful, awesome volcanic explosion of an orgasm building up inside of me, can feel as first the wall between his fingers in my cunt and his cock in my ass and then the rest of my lower body turns to lava. “YOURS,” Ken growls, slamming into me, “yours, and you… you… you are fucking MINE!” Ken is — usually — an incredibly thoughtful, gentle lover. He knows the power that he has over me, and he is usually careful never to abuse it. But in that moment, there is nothing gentle about him: I gave him all of me, and he is taking me, claiming me completely. “Yours,” I weep, feeling my orgasm begin to flutter, to squeeze against his fingers, his swelling cock. “All yours.” And with that, he erupts, and I explode, and there is nothing little about the Little Death that we share, howling and cursing, in that moment.

3. Hi! This is another of my Juliet Takes Flight stories. It continues below (darned character limit). Hope you like! I’ve got more online — go to [my blog] (http://kdwestwrites.wordpress.com) for links.

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