THOSE LITTLE PINK PANTIES

Jeremiah K. Black

Artcover: Eva Slovak

Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

I thought about it when I woke up: that soft mound of your pussy in my mouth. Lying in bed like that, before the day had even begun. My cock was hard when I opened my eyes. Was I dreaming of you? Did you creep in while I was sleeping? With those slender legs and lips that whisper in my ear? Did I toss and turn without knowing it?

Why can’t I remember that dream? I know you’re in it. You’re in all of them.

Without thinking, my hand went down and wrapped around my cock. I thought of your lips and that dark lipstick you put on when I’m driving and we’re going out for the night. You do it without a mirror because you know it so well - you don’t need to look. I saw your eyes looking up at me, your hair brushing against my hips, your hand cupping my balls. I’m sure I pictured us both lying on our side, my cock in your mouth and your pussy in mine. I dreamt how you’d taste when I slowly ran my tongue around your clit, in that delicate pink skin you keep hidden in your panties. It was shining and wet, I’m sure, in my dreams, as my finger went in.

I wanted to run my hand up and down my cock thinking of you; of all the things I’d like to do to you in my bed when the sun was still down, and the rest of the world was sleeping. I wanted to shoot my cum all over my chest, the sheets. But I didn’t. I had to put it away, shower, drink some coffee, go to work. But it stuck there in my mind: a dark little secret. As the Catholics chanted their morning prayer, your pussy was wet and waiting. As they lamented about sick relatives and costly surgery for ailing dogs, I was tasting your juices. As they crossed themselves, I pushed your thighs apart. As they shuffled off to their homerooms grumbling that it was only Wednesday, I could think of nothing but you in my bed.

Why did we meet every day before classes… before any students are in the classroom? Because they’re Catholic and need to come together and stand in a circle and look at each other and be present and feel the day before it starts and ensure that everyone goes over the same fucking information a dozen times. And then, they’re all teachers so they need to talk it all to fucking death after it’s been said, again.

Janine, the sweet pear-shaped widow who hasn’t changed a lesson plan in 23 years, bless her godamned heart, never shuts up asking us to pray for her ne’er-do-well son, her dad who’s fighting colon cancer, and her cat, that’s right, her fucking cat, who’s in late stage feline leukemia and the bills are piling up in her mailslot. I wish she didn’t have a cat. I wish she didn’t shuffle with her head down in the circle as we all politely pray for Bubbles or Cheeta or whatever the fuck its name is.

Needless to say it was a long day in Catholic School Art Class starting with 8^th, then 7^th, 6^th, 3^rd, lunch, 1^st, and finally K5. Why do they give my K5 at the end of the day when all the meltdowns are imminent? Because they hate me, that’s why. They want to see me burn. They want to usher in all the problems and frustrations that the day has amassed and dump them in the Art Room so that Mr. Black has to bat clean-up with a room full of tired and whimpering six-year-olds.

There are people out there that make six-figure salaries doing something they enjoy…with adults. They sit at desks and drink coffee and create websites with templates or make something tangible. When they hit their quotas they feel good about themselves and they get a pat on the back. They talk to people around them, co-workers, about movies they’ve seen or places they’ve been. During their lunch break they eat out at Chili’s. On Fridays they have margaritas.

We teachers hate them all just a little.

In Mr. Black’s Art Class today we were making yarn art with Elmer’s glue. I told them they needed to take a piece of construction paper, think up a non-representational design… “A what Mr. Black?!” And use the glue… “It doesn’t come out Mr. Black!” to draw lines on the paper. “Huh? Draw lines with glue?!” then take a piece of yarn and place it on the line of glue. “That’s too hard Mr. Black!” and then repeat it until you get a pattern of different colors on your paper! Make it pretty. “I don’t want to do THAT Mr. Black. Can we free draw?” No, you can’t fucking free draw you little fucking prick of a kid. Do what I fucking tell you and SHUT YOUR LITTLE FUCKING PIEHOLE before I shove that entire ball of pink yarn up your arse!

As a professional, I didn’t say that. As a molder of young minds, I held my tongue. Mister Black thought it and found other ways to make them shed tears. Like calmly telling them they are inconsiderate, and did they want to go to the office and discuss the fact that you can’t follow directions with Principle Shaver? Did they really want to make Mr. Black call their parents and tell them exactly what just happened? Did they want the collective school/home complex to rain down retribution on their tiny little heads? I thought not. Because that could be arranged. Sweet God Lord Baby Jesus Savior Of Us All Up In Heaven I tried to maintain calm, but my mind was a raging ball of “What The Hell Am I Doing With My Life?” “Why Oh Why Am I At This Place?” “How Has It Added Up To This One Year Shy Of My 50^th Year On This Earth?”

At that point, baby, I was glad I had your pussy to think about. And think about it I did. I turned from the pre-pubescent chaos and thought instead about kissing you in my kitchen. Starting slow… maybe even sweet. Just the two of us. I thought about all the things I would do to you that night. I could feel your heat underneath your leggings. My cock was getting hard.

I thought about wrapping my arms around you and pulling you close, hard. So hard that it takes your breath away. I imagined using my knee to spread your legs apart. I pictured fucking you standing up next to my desk, your back bumping up against the whiteboard, posters of dead artists ripping off the wall as you grabbed for a handhold.

Then, little Gissele was tugging at my arm. “Mr. Black. Mr. Black. Mr. Black.” Giovani and Julian were running pell mell around the room. Yaraliz was crying… probably something Aneliz said. Jacob was eating crayons again. He likes the red ones best.

Will the day ever end?