Felicia

Big Cock

1.

Abby ran as fast as her heels and knee-length skirt would allow, one arm wrapped around her bag, the other extended, reaching for the elevator. Her eyes pleaded for the doors to stay open long enough for her to slide her way in and narrowly make it to her first class on time. It had already taken her forever to find a parking space clear across campus. Finally in the right building (hopefully) she had four minutes to get to the right room, where she was due to teach her first college class. Ever.

“Hold it please!” she called out. “I’m coming!” She caught the eye of the guy standing closest to the front, who dropped his gaze back to his phone. He looked up again, annoyed, when the door stopped, blocked open by a pointed shoe. Only then did he reach out his own free hand to push the door open.

“Thanks,” Abby said flatly, her face flush. “Excuse me.” She squeezed her way through as the crowd in the car shifted like a single living thing. Abby gave her best shot a last minute groom in her blurred, metallic reflection in the elevator door: she brushed stray hairs from her damp brow, swept imaginary wrinkles from her blouse, tugged the bunches from her blazer, and spun her pearl necklace 360º. She wished the elevator had not been so full, adding to the morning’s warmth; if she’d wanted to walk into class with back sweat, she could’ve just taken the stairs. Instead, she was caught up in the heat of screens and screaming ear buds and open-mouth repartee.

“Smells like ass in here,” said a girl wearing a t-shirt adorned with a giant, smiling panda

“It always smells like ass in here,” replied the reluctant doorman. This earned a laugh from the Panda, and from a guy in the corner with a yellow ballcap over his eyes; he hadn’t laughed so much as said the word “Ha,” dragging out the “a” with his stoner droll.

“What did you end up getting in Calhoun’s class?” the Doorman asked the Panda.

“Omigod, a ‘B’!” she replied, indignant.

“Ugh, me too!” he said with outrage in his eyes. “Such bullshit.”

“Dude, right?” the Panda said, tracking the numbered lights above the door. “What’ve you heard about Whathisname right now? What is his name?”

“Boyle? Something?”

“You got Boyd right now?” a flannel-clad, bearded passenger chimed in.

“Boyd!” the Panda said, oblivious to Abby perking up at the sound of her name. “That’s right. Have you heard anything about him?”

“Nope,” the Beard said. “Probably some rando adjunct.”

“I know one thing,” the Doorman sang into his phone screen, “I’m not getting anything less than an A. He better know what’s up.”

“Haaaa,” the Ballcap added.

“Oh yeah?” the Panda laughed. “Is that a guarantee?”

“I’m serial!” the Doorman continued, “Shoooot, I got a schedule to keep and I need to get outta here on time.”

The doors opened on a groaning crowd forced to wait for the next car. As the doors closed, and Abby waited to ascend, the car made no movement, up or down.

Now what? Abby thought.

The lights and air cut off in one loud, industrial click, replaced with the low red glow of emergency lamps and the rabble of the other passengers, woken by this disruption. Abby, breaking from the others, exhaled in the relative dark, momentarily free from the pressure of being seen. It was a short respite, as the car came to life seconds later, to the commentary-filled relief of those around her.

The doors opened on Abby’s floor; several of the passengers spilled out. Abby herself stepped aside and slowed her stride, suddenly not in such a hurry to get to class.

2.

If any of the students had recognized Abby, they hadn’t said so, not aloud anyway, and certainly not to her. What they mouthed to one another while her back was turned, there was no telling. In addition to her elevator mates, other students trickled in, late and leisurely, while she copied on the whiteboard her name and the day’s agenda – struggling to remember both.

“Excuse me, Professor?” said a voice behind Abby that she immediately recognized. “Professor?”

“Oh!” Abby said, turning around. It was the first time she’d been called that, to her face anyway. “Yes?”

“Professor,” the Doorman continued, “Could you tell us how the grading is going to work in this course?”

“The grading?” she repeated, wiping her ink-tinged fingers together. “We’ll go over the grading in a little bit when we…”

“Because I need to get a good grade in this class,” the Doorman said.

“Yeah, me too,” the Panda added.

Abby smiled. “I’m sure everybody in here needs a good grade, Mr…” She retrieved a file of papers from her bag, and fumbled for the class roster.

“No but I really need a good grade,” he doubled down. “I have a schedule to keep and I need to do well to transfer on time.”

“I understand,” Abby said. “And we’ll get to all that…”

“Could you tell me what my grade is, like, right now?” the Doorman asked.

“Yeah!” the Panda added.

Abby blew pangaltı escort at a stray curl dangling in her face. “Um…” Finding the roster, she called off names that would take weeks to remember. All in attendance responded to their government names on cue, including the Doorman, one of four different “Michaels” or “Mikes” on the list. They all remained a blur of expectant eyes. Expecting what, exactly? Besides a good grade, that is.

“Issac?” Abby said.

“Here,” the Beard replied with a nod, arms crossed.

“Josephine?”

“Josie,” Panda answered, waving. “Here.”

“Michael Hernandez?”

“Hey,” said a sharply-dressed young man with a slicked-back pomp. He was good looking – almost very – and he knew it.

“Felicia?” Abby continued, squinting at the page, then back at the blur. “Is Felicia here?” The blur stared back, disinterested in her question.

“Excuse me,” a woman, probably in her sixties, called out from a seat by the window. “Miss Abby I got a question.”

Abby was surprised by her urge to correct the woman with “Professor Boyd, please” – an urge she resisted. “Yes, Ms…”

“Sister Aberdine Ford LeForge,” the woman replied. “Yes, my question is: You look young, girl.”

“Haaa,” Ballcap belted. Greg, was it? Gary?

Abby considered her outfit, smart and neat, common first-day fare at the midwestern prep school of her youth, painfully out of place in the SoCal classrooms of Mercer Community College. They weren’t trying to exude adulthood out here (especially the adults), and her attempt to do so made her look that much younger, a little girl wandering through her mother’s closet. “Well, that’s not really a question, Mrs. LeForge,” Abby offered.

“Sister, and I know that’s not a question!” Sis. LeForge spat, knocking Abby aback, her big blue eyes widening. “My question is: What are your qualifications to teach this course?”

Abby assumed “My college degrees?” was not the answer this woman wanted to hear (Right?). The fact that Abby’s best friend from high school was the department head, and had gotten her the job – in the 11th hour no less – was certainly not the answer this woman needed to hear. “Well I…”

“Because I ain’t ever seen you before,” Sis. LeForge continued in her husky drawl. “And I am paying good money for qualified instruction, and I don’t want any old someone off the street leading any of my classes. I thought Professor Hollis was teaching this course…”

“Ohh yeahhh…” Panda joined in, remembering.

“And the next thing I know,” Sis. LeForge continued, “I get an email telling me someone named ‘Boyd’ was taking it over. I don’t know you.”

“Yeah,” the Doorman added, followed others, suddenly stimulated by blood in the water.

Abby swallowed. She opened her mouth to quiet the rumbling, though she wasn’t sure exactly what she would say to do so. Luckily, the spotlight was not on her for long. The door opened, and stayed open, filling the classroom with the noise of hallway traffic. Her eyes followed a domino of gazes, from Michael A. to Michael Z., aimed at the girl propping open the door, holding a loud conversation in Spanish. She could be called small; her voice and her strident laughter seemed almost too big for her body. But she sported a substantial backside, and every few seconds she tugged at a wayward shirt collar strained by a full set of breasts.

Abby gradually found her voice. “Um… hello?” she said, waving. “Hi!”

The girl turned to Abby, rolled her eyes, then returned to her conversation. When she was done, she finally made her official entrance. She paused at Abby, looking her up and down.

“Hmm. You a boy?” the she asked Abby with a Spanish accent.

“Am I… Excuse me?” Abby asked with a nervous laugh.

The girl looked at her phone, and the whole room awaited the results of her investigation. “Are you Professor A. Boy?”

“Oh!” Abby said. She held her hand out, compelled to be hospitable. “Boyd. Abby Boyd.” She cleared her throat. “Professor Abby Boyd, yes.”

“Hmm,” the girl said. It was a sound of consideration and dismissal all at once.

Abby withdrew her hand and nervously returned to her class roster. “And you must be… Felicia?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “It’s pronounced Fe-li-ci-a. Not…” she slacked her jaw and dropped her voice, “Fuh-lee-sha.”

“H-ha,” Ballcap managed to add, fixed on Felicia’s jeans on the way to her seat.

3.

Abby made her way through the classroom, listening in on students pretending to discuss the reading. She’d handed out copies of an article, to the audible dismay of many (“Will this be on the midterm?” the Doorman had asked.) and asked them all to divide into pairs. She was sure several of the guys, and even a girl or two, had injured themselves, banging into one another’s rollable chair on their way to meet Felicia. In the end, Michael Hernandez – “Me llamo Miguel,” he’d smoothly introduced himself to her – had won pendik escort the coveted spot.

Abby tried to turn her attention to other pairs, few of whom convincingly tackled the task at hand. A few were brazen enough to hold text exchanges while their partners read solo. Others commiserated on the “utter bullshit” of past classes, rated the latest Lil’ So-and-So track, made predictions about the new Marvel movie, and fell into a general back-and-forth. As much as she tried to spread herself out, her ears and and eyes most often returned to the Latin duo of Felicia and Mich–…er, Miguel. Their palpable chemistry called for the increasingly low tones in which they spoke – leaning in ever closer, until they were almost whispering in one another’s ear. They spoke in Spanish, broken by the occasional “Shut up” and “You stupid” and “What-e-e-ver” from Felicia. She led with her chest (of course), arms folded, the desk pulling at her t-shirt. This time, though, she made no effort to cover herself, exposing a fair amount her bra. She didn’t appear to mind Miguel’s eyes dropping at every other word; if anything, she leaned in even closer. She cocked her eyebrow at him in perpetual skepticism, pursing her lips, only to break out into that laugh of hers. Miguel’s smile was almost prettier, making hushed proclamations.

Where would this encounter lead, Abby wondered. Something had to be done with that energy, after all. That was the thing about chemistry. Or was this a matter of physics?

Her mind wandered to her own recent tryst.

Calvin.

The near-anonymous mover who wound up in her pool, in her mouth, and finally in her bed, soaking her sheets. She thought about how hard she’d cum, clawing at the covers, waking to a strained throat from swallowing him and screaming his name; to thighs throbbing, appetite back, and, alas an empty bed. The mystery man had vanished just stelathly as he’d appeared. Like any woman, she’d been initially pissed at the sight of his ghosting, cursing him out loud to her empty condo. Though before long, memories of the night before took over, guiding the girations tangling the comforter between her legs. Her curses turned to moans, extending her stay in bed another 20 minutes. Better than a snooze button.

“Calvin,” she sang.

“Issac.”

Abby squinted the Beard into focus. He was staring back at her, waiting. For what? “I’m sorry?” she asked.

“You called me Calvin,” the Beard said. “But my name is Issac.”

Abby turned bright red. “I’m so sorry,” she said into her hand. “Issac. Of course.”

“See!” Sis. LeForge remarked from across the room. “How you ‘sposed to teach us if you don’t even know our names?”

The class suppressed a collective laugh, some better than others. They could just as well as have been laughing at Sis. LeForge and her Della-Reese-like bravado, but that didn’t matter to Abby just then. She kept her composure (There’s that prep school training, again.) but she felt herself grow hot, a dribble of sweat roll down her back again. She didn’t recall walking toward the door, but she found herself leaning on the handle nonetheless.

“Why don’t we take a 10 minute break,” she said, practically in the hallway already.

4.

Abby sat atop a closed toilet lid, twirling her pearls. The back of the stall door bore scratches from occupants past, initials mostly, from girls like her, craving privacy and praise all at the same time. Until now, Abby hadn’t realized how many letters of the alphabet relied on rounded parts, and how hard it was to achieve them with keys and coins alone.

She stood up, ready to head back, when she heard voices rounding the corner. She dropped back down; she never did like to be seen exiting a bathroom stall, even if she were just looking for a quiet place to sit (and there was no telling where her office was). She had enough trouble earning respect this morning.

“That new Lil’ So-and-So go hard though, right?” one voice said. Abby recognized it as the Panda’s.

“Yeah it do,” the other affirmed. “My boyfriend got me tickets to his show next month.”

Abby rolled her eyes. Felicia.

“Boyfriend?” the Panda asked a little too loudly, her voice echoing. “What about that hot piece of ass from class?” The two of them hovered around the sinks, zipping and unzipping bags, twisting plastic caps, brushing and applying and checking things twice.

“Who? Miguel?” Felicia asked. “Hmm. He know I got a boyfriend. I told him from the beginning.”

“He didn’t seem to mind, I guess,” the Panda said.

There was a pause, Felicia likely responding with a shrug or a knowing look. Abby was willing to bet that Felicia didn’t mind much either.

“Think me and him are gonna go grab a coffee right now, actually,” Felicia said.

“Right now?” the Panda asked. “What about Prof. Boyd?”

“Hmm. What about her?” Felicia said. “I see her.”

Abby panicked, but only for a moment. Her literalism, at times, rus escort kept her half a step behind.

“Aren’t you afraid of getting in trouble?” the Panda asked.

Yeah! Abby wondered herself, suddenly back in high school, playing lookout while the cool kids smoked in the girls room.

“With who? With ‘a boy’?” Felicia asked, almost offended. “Please, I don’t kiss nobody’s ass. And I’m not gonna start with hers. I know how to handle people like her, watch. It’s like this one time, right, I had this one professor who…”

But her voice trailed off as she and Panda made their exit, with Abby left to wonder just what it meant to be “handled.”

5.

Abby peeked inside the classroom. Everyone had returned by now, all except Felicia and Miguel, of course. Abby backed away from the door, and by the time she reached the elevator, she was still unsure about where she was going, exactly. What was she looking for, pushing the call button frantically? The two of them, of course, if she were honest with herself. But what would she do if she found them, stumbled upon them having “coffee” in a dark parking structure, or an unaccounted for classroom, suppressing hungry noises, their fingers tucked into each other’s garments.

Would she stop them? Reprimand them?

Would she watch?

Abby was developing some bad habits out west. And visiting some old ones, too.

Geez, Abby. Get a hold of yourself.

As she turned on her heel to head back to class, the elevator answered its call. She turned, and swallowed her first attempt at words. She fared better her next try, though they came out in a cracking, cautious whisper.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

She was met with a smile. That smile. Those arms, stretched out, muscular and lean, propping that body up against the elevator wall. That chest heaving in that t-shirt. Those legs underneath those jeans. Abby felt it all again in her fingertips, a phantom fondle, her senses working in tandem; looking at him rekindled the scent and the taste, the sounds and the feel of the other night. That night.

Calvin caught the door as it began to close.

“You comin, Abby?” he asked, flashing that smile.

6.

They stood across from each other inside the car, Abby with her arms crossed, avoiding his eyes.

“You mad at me, huh,” Calvin said, more than asked.

“Gosh, why would I be mad?” Abby replied with a pout.

“Aww, c’mon now,” he said.

“What? I’m not mad,” she insisted. “I’m just in a hurry. I have a class to teach.”

“Yeah? Which floor?” he asked, nodding at the panel of unlit buttons.

“On the… on this floor,” she said blushing. “Excuse me.” She reached for the button that would open the door, but Calvin caught her hand first, interlocking her fingers with his own.

“Hold on, now,” he said smoothly.

Abby rolled her eyes to make her annoyance clear, though she made no attempt to release his hold.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked.

“Well now,” Calvin shrugged. “Look like I’m here to see you.”

And when his other hand reached around her waist, it took little effort on his part to pull her in close. The feel of his whole body pressed into her back momentarily took her breath away. He brought her hand up to his freshly shaven face. He led her down his jawline, chin and neck. Their first physical encounter the other night had started, more or less, at the finish line. And so they’d skipped that middle stretch, the exploration, hands traversing over-the-clothes, eyes closed, caught up in the prospect of what could be found. Such an aphrodisiac, discovery.

“We… we can’t,” Abby said, her hand freely rounding Calvin’s belt, his own hands underneath her blazer, fingers creeping in between blouse buttons. “Not here… I…”

“What is it, baby?” Calvin hummed in her ear.

“I… I can’t…” Abby managed weakly, her thumb tracing the teeth of the zipper on his jeans.

“What can’t you do, baby?” That accent. The way he said “can” like “cane,” like sugar, sweet and raw. He pulled at her shirt, so neatly tucked into her skirt. “You let me handle it.”

Abby opened her eyes, fully aware of the waking world, even as Calvin tried to draw her back into that delicious sleep. She shook herself free of his grip, punched a button on the panel, and stomped to the other side of the elevator. The car jutted to motion, headed, apparently, to the ground floor.

“Shoot,” Abby said, straightening her blouse. “Could you…?”

Calvin hit the button for the floor they’d just left, though they continued to descend. He gave her a hungry look, watching her fix herself.

“What?” Abby said.

“So you are mad,” Calvin, said, still with that smile on his face.

Abby cut him a look, but offered no verbal response.

“Hey,” he said.

“I don’t have time for this,” she said. “I have to get back.” She again pushed the button for her floor, as though this would convince the machine to reverse course, mid-trip.

“Abby,” Calvin said, reaching for her hand. But no go this time.

“Don’t,” she said, pulling away. “I don’t want you to…”

“‘To’ what?” he said with a smirk. “Touch you?”

“I don’t want you to… to ‘handle’ me.”

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