THURSDAY NIGHT

Jeremiah K. Black

Artcover: Lupe Ron

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.

It’s Thursday night. You’re due at my house five minutes ago. I check the bed first. It’s made… Neat. The cotton ropes are where I can reach them. The blindfold is tucked in the drawer. So is the whip with a black leather paddle on one side and a feather on the other. There are tea candles lining the headboard and a couple on the bedside tables. The lamp is on. The little one with the red lampshade that makes the whole room appear warmer than it actually is.

I reach down and slide my right hand into the front of my jeans, underneath my boxers. My cock is getting hard at the thought of you. I curl my hand around it and feel the warmth of the shaft. I think of your mouth: the way your lips part just before they take me in. I see you rolling your tongue around the tip, your cheeks bulging out as my cock goes in. You’re an expert at sucking, blowing your hot breath on my balls, licking the inside of my thigh, running your hand around my shaved crotch, holding my erect dick in your hands. You tease me. You take your time. Your eyes looking up at me as I hold my breath, desperately needing you to take it all in your throat, fluttering your eyelashes, parting your legs while you feel my cock slide in your mouth.

I pull my hand away. I’m so hard now it almost hurts. We can’t have that. Not yet.

I turn around and take a look at myself in the full-length mirror on my bedroom door. I have blue jeans and a white button-down speckled with tiny blue sailboats. My salt and pepper beard is freshly trimmed. I’m showered. My short black hair is tousled, but not messy. I don’t look my age.

When I think of you I feel like I’m 22, barely able to keep myself in check. Every time I see you I want to feel your hair in my hands as I pull your lips to mine. I want your breath in my mouth. My waking daydreams are filled with the feel of your tongue darting out to meet mine. I trace your open lips with the tip of mine, getting your lips wet, shiny. They are always slightly open, your lips. They’re almost lazy, waiting for me to go inside, open them up wider.

There are days… too many to count… when all I do is think of those lips and all the things I would like them to do. I can’t help but be drawn to them when you talk or stand beside me. I feel like a letch, like all I do is want to kiss you and slowly run my hands up and down your back, peel your sweaters and bras and jeans and skirts and socks and panties from your body until you are naked and lying next to me under the covers, our bare legs touching, your nipples erect, both of us wondering where it’s going to start.

Am I going to start with your nipple? Maybe kiss it? Bite it? Am I going to run my hand down past your belly button and use my finger to tease my way around your clit? Or are you going to place your hands on my shoulders and press me back until I am lying on the bed while you cradle my balls in your hand and kiss your way down my chest?

I have thought about this for days now. Is there something wrong with me? Should I get help? Every time I have more than 30 seconds to reflect during the course of my day I am remembering the feel of my tongue inside your pussy and the way you taste when I lick the ball of your clitoris, one hand on each cheek of your perfect ass, my beard soaked in your wetness. I see the way your hands flutter above your breasts just before your orgasm hits.

It affects my work. It affects my relationships. I want nothing to do with any of it. My principal, Mr. Carrella… Have I talked about him? Tall, thin, with a lumpy head? He walked into my room yesterday… maybe last week. And asked me if there was a problem. Problem? I asked him. Why would you ask that? And he didn’t really say anything other than that he… and some of the other staff… were worried. About what? I asked him. He didn’t elaborate but I could tell by the look on his face that he was concerned. Not concerned enough to do anything about it, yet. But concerned that I might not be happy? Or engaged? With my teaching. With the students… who are energetic, angry little globs of defiance who either put their heads down on their desks and zone out or openly and actively drive me to the point where I turn in my two weeks. That would be the ultimate victory for them. The little fuckers.

They look at me as if I’m some nebulous cloud of gas that they can’t quite put together. They’re trying to figure out just what it would take to dissolve me; scatter me into nothing so I transfer to another school, never come back. I can see the slight rage beneath their eyes. Not at me specifically, but I take the shape of their target every time they walk into the room because I’m the guy trying to keep them from swearing, touching each other, playing their hand-held games, and generally being assholes to the world.

Most days, Gerardo sits at his desk like his chair is about to explode. Melanie’s permanent expression is a squint. The 7^th and 8^th grade combined classes are a mess of flailing limbs, rotating sub-adult bodies spinning around the room like balls of dust. Angel, the kid that’s always talking shit, said to me earlier today: “What the fuck do we need art for anyway?”

How many years would I get if I just punched him as hard as I could in the face? Caught him right under the eye and saw him spin back in the Art room, maybe take out a desk or two, see the students scatter, rainbows of paint flying everywhere.

Not often, maybe once or twice a week, I have that thought. Not always with Angel. Sometimes it’s with Yomar, or Kendrick, or Joseph. Would I call it a daydream? Or just a brief vision? And it always starts with the way they look at me like they want me to do it. Like it would be fun for them. It would be something they could carry with them for the rest of their lives like a badge: “I made the Art Teacher so crazy he lost it.”

What would it feel like to splinter the bone on the bridge of their nose? To get just a second of fear in those eyes instead of contempt?

You look at me differently. In your eyes I just see hunger. With maybe a little something underneath.

So I escape into thoughts of you and the perfect shape of your face. Your brown/red hair that falls like a crazy flowing stream down your neck. The way you stand next to my bathroom sink in the morning, the door cracked open. Do you do that on purpose? So that I’ll watch you? So that I’ll study which of your feet takes the weight and how you shift your body in front of the mirror when you apply lipstick?