Felicity

The square was a chaotic mob of sound and color. Trees were festooned with the bright blossoms of springtime, and hormones were running high. I assume that a sports team from our college had just won, or kegs were on discount, or somebody had sneezed, or another of the usual reasons college students throw a party in the quad.

No math was involved, so why should a professor such as myself care? Other than to surreptitiously observe the shortness of the cheerleader skirts and the length of the supple smooth feminine legs beneath. As a good math instructor, I contemplated there being some kind of ratio involved. And formulaic curves. It would merit further study.

Meanwhile, to avoid being trampled by the hundreds of drunken thronging partiers, I took the long route. Triggering an elongated series of events, but that came later.

Now, where was I?

Ah yes, stepping through a doorway into the richly carpeted student lounge. With the leisurely automated pneumatic wheeze of the shutting door, the cacophony and celebration outside muted. I stepped through the high-ceilinged cool darkness of the lobby, to open the next door down a long hallway past the entrance to the pub adjoining the pizza bar. It was there that I, Hector Hinkle, ran into Felicity Albright for the first time. Or rather, that she ran into me, having been pushed away from the entrance by a large bouncer, wearing his smug little bullying smile.

As she spun around, all four feet of her, she found herself off balance, and fell into my arms, so to speak. Given her height, it was more against my midriff that she fell, and for a brief instant I felt the warm tingle of her light touch against me, felt the brush on my chest of her soft long red curls, when she wrapped her pale thin arms around my waist to break her fall. Her long rage of plaits flew aromatically, beneath her green plaid beret.

Our unintended affection was soon over as she twisted back viciously to the bouncer, brandishing her wallet. “I am too 18,” she shouted angrily. “Look! It says right here. If you know how to read. I bet he can read,” she jabbed her finger at me.

“Sure, little girl,” said the bouncer with unguent soothing. “Nice fake. Come back in a few years.”

Felicity glared at me with wide fiery bright blue eyes set like burning gems in her ivory face. She didn’t look a minute older than thirteen, if that. Here build was thin and her chest was flat. Her alabaster-white bare belly was taut and thin, smooth and sensuous. And she carried herself with the assertiveness of a short person who stands for no disrespect.

“Here,” she thrust the wallet at me, blinking her eyes, which were subtly and artistically shadowed in purple and black. Her driver’s license displayed her two dimensional doppelganger in the little window. “Am I eighteen or what?”

I rapidly calculated her age from her birth date.

“Indeed, I believe you are correct,” I said. “With forty-two days to spare.”

At that point, I should have turned away. I should have walked down the hallway, leaving the two of them to settle their petty dispute. But something about her held me back.

The magnetism of feminine youth, the way she looked at me, so wan and petite, eyes shining with sincerity, with more than ordinary familiarity. My mind halted. Had she been in one of my classes? I didn’t think so. A damsel in distress. A fraction of my age, and any involvement was sure to cause grief and gossip.

But there was something about her.

“However,” I thus foolishly continued, “I think it would be futile to persuade this gentleman of your necessary maturity.” I waved and cheerfully nodded at the bouncer, still with his smug grin. Through the open doorway to the bar I could hear laughter and voices.

“But my friends are in there,” she pleaded, looking at me, her eyes tearing. “I just want to say hello.”

“Can’t you send them a… whatever you send with those glowing little rectangular things all of you young people carry around.”

Her brow furrowed. “A smart phone?”

“Right, that was what they call them.”

“I hate those things,” she said. “I prefer real life.”

I grinned to hear such a refreshing thing from someone her age. “Perhaps distraction would be appropriate.”

She continued pouting for a minute, then her mood shifted as she looked up at me with a sly smile. “Distraction. Had you something in mind?”

An idea indeed went off in my imagination with a pop like a flash bulb, one involving her wearing few if any items of apparel. But I left it unrepeated.

Her smile intensified at my befuddlement.

“Buy me a beer,” she offered.

“No,” I replied.

Her smiled turned defiant. “Really.”

“I don’t drink,” I replied. “Since I’m a professor of mathematics, and thus study statistics.”

“Like how many beers you’ve had,” she said.

“I mean the statistics regarding cause of death in this country. Alcohol is number two, behind tobacco.”

She considered, sizing me up, my age, the professorly clothes. “Tea instead?”

Again, I should have walked away. Being a professor, aware of regulations, morals, ethics and taboos against consorting with students. Completely forbidden. You know how people talk. How stories spread. And academics can be vicious.

But there was something about her. Magical, elusive, spectacular yet obscure.

I said: “All right, you’re on. My name is Hector.”

She scanned me. “Professor?”

“Of mathematics.”

“Well, then. Felicity, art major. This way?” she gestured. There was a coffee shop out the back door and across the patio, away from the thronging crowds.

“Why not?” I replied.

But she had already turned and was leading the way. She glanced back to see that I followed, which I did.

From behind, I saw her thin bare and cute tiny jean-clad butt as she walked. I could see now in the daylight that her pale face was delicately freckled. I watched her little girl legs, phosphorescent white skin glowing under black lace, beneath her too-short black skirt.

She seemed to relish in her smallness, enjoying her stature to dance like a gleeful child, with the simple purity of a clear brook cascading joyfully through a spring meadow. She was perfectly proportioned, head and body. Perpetually with a cryptic knowing smile of innocence.

We stood in the queue for the counter a while, behind a cluster of attractive young females. I could have sworn I saw her scoping them out.

“Tea,” said Felicity, once the girls before us had ordered, and she arrived at the register.

“What kind?” shot back the nose-ringed, white-shirt- and apron-clad- baristo, who had a thin goatee.

“Gunpowder green,” she said, flashing a cheerful smile.

“Right-o,” said the barkeep, pulling out a drawer to fill the teabag from a bulk bin covered with a transparent plexiglass lid. “And for you, sir?” he looked back at me.

“Coffee,” I said. “12-ounce. Black”

“Perfecto,” said the baristo. “Coming right up.”

We had soon paid and were seated with our drinks. I bought hers. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Bosch,” she said wistfully, in answer to my query. “He’s my favorite. So intense.”

“That he is,” I said. “I have one of his coffee table books at home.”

“Do you, now?” she replied.

“If you’d ever like to see it,” I blundered.

She smiled.

I was afraid to ask what her expression signified.

“I find you intriguing,” she volunteered. “See, usually I like girls. But what is it about you?”

“There is?” I replied.

“Yes, there is,” said she.

“Maybe the forbidden professor thing?”

“Maybe.”

She sipped her tea, and I my coffee. My eyes were caught on her little belly button, plainly visible in the center of her bare midriff, below her black crop-top. My mind wandered from her belly button down to what might be concealed below it.

“I’m a virgin, you know,” she said. “When it comes to men.”

“I’m not,” I said, snapping back to attention, “when it comes to women.”

“I didn’t think so,” she smirked. “But I bet it’s been a while.”

I paused, flushing. The other coffee shop patrons seemed absorbed in their own conversations. “It has,” I conceded.

She nodded, playfully, again the mysterious smile, delicately running her little finger along the rim of her teacup.

That very afternoon, Felicity did come by to see the book, after an amiable conversation on a wide range of topics. It turned out she was quite well learned on the subject of art history, and spoke a bit of French as well.

She enjoyed the ride in my dark green MG Midget, after which I showed her into my house. Standard suburban issue, comfortable, but nothing Lloyd Wright.

While I was showing Felicity in, Corinne rode by on her pink bicycle. The eleven-year-old blonde seemed to have a crush on me.

“Hi Corinne,” I said with a smile.

She stopped, taking in the fact that I was with Felicity. I could not parse the expression she gave. Fascination? Jealousy? Both?

“Hello Hector,” said Corinne. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Felicity,” I replied.

“Oh,” said Corinne. “Whatcha doin’?”

“We’re um…” I began, swallowing down the words ‘going to have sex!’

“Looking at art,” blurted out Felicity, rescuing me. “Books. Book. An art book. Bosch,” she continued, studying Corinne’s fascination.

Corinne’s hair was ashen blonde, with waves, radiating out on all sides. Her eyes were flint emerald, and seemed to sear right through you when she looked at you full on.

“Can I come see?” said Corinne, taking off her pink helmet.

“Sure,” I began.

“It’s adult art,” said Felicity. “Not for young girls.”

“Oh,” said Corinne, with a sad smile, putting her helmet back on. Now her hair was a frizzed-out mess. “I’m not that young,” she said more softly.

Felicity urged me to come in so she could shut the door.

“See you later,” I said to Corinne.

“Bye,” said Corinne, facing me with her cute little butt as she rode away.

I sat on the nondescript but cozy grey couch, and Felicity picked up the coffeetable Bosch book, sitting in my lap. “Can I call you daddy?” she said with a blithe flip through the art book, squirming with her hot tiny butt muscles against my lap.

I was befuddled. She was moving faster than I had expected, and I found myself half-consciously working my legs, knees apart then together, over and over again beneath her.

“Certainly Felicity,” I replied, as affirmatively as I could. Encouraging her to keep going. “Call me what you like. Late for dinner, even.”

“OK, pops,” she said, turning around, staring in my eyes, stars in hers, and kissed me. It was a long, luscious kiss, with hints of passion, layers of lust, and a mysterious whiff of something beyond knowing, a sweet mystery.

She whirled onto her hands and knees, on the couch to my left, and unzipped my trousers, giggling. She tugged on what she found inside there. I gulped, moaning, too weak to resist what what I knew was a positively bad idea.

I watched her thin bare midriff, a graceful elliptical cylinder. Still fully clothed, she unzipped and undid, to expose me before her in all my sensitive secret vulnerability. Giggling, she found me with her tongue.

Soon her pixie-like mouth was radiating stardust as she took me in, her tongue exploring the soft pink landscape. Electric tingles surged up and down my spine.

“You know there are ethics about this,” I protested, cradling her head in my palms.

She smiled, letting me out of her mouth so she could speak. “But I’m not your student,” she answered, then proceeded onwards. There I was, bare before her beautiful face, as her sweet pure young tiny mouth plied the surface, kissing softly, sending shivers of frisson with every touch.

Eyes made up in airbrushed purple and black, she was an Egyptian goddess, an impertinent child.

“Besides, we barely just met,” she said, as if that made our encounter more ethical. She collapsed down on the the cushions and continued licking.

Now over the line, how far could we go? “Can I pretend you’re younger?” I ventured diffidently.

She grinned, her eyes fixed on me. “As I suspected.”

I waited. “Well?” I asked finally.

“Sure thing, daddy. I sure like your thing, you know, whatever they call it.”

“…”

She swallowed me whole, for a brief moment, then worked on the tip.

“Hey, toots,” I said, running my fingers along her soft young curved spine as she lay there beside me on the couch. “Let me play with you.”

“OK,” she said, getting up once more on hands and knees so I could reach under with my left hand and run my finger up and down her little fold, outside her white panties with roses on them, which I saw when her wool plaid skirt went up over her back.

“No,” she said, sliding my hand along her belly under the elastic. “Inside.”

My fingers found the aperture, beneath the white cotton fabric. There was barely any hair.

“Wait,” she said, pulling off her undies and tossing them impatiently aside. Still she wore the black lace leggings, renaissance sabots, and black crop top, her crotch and midriff alone being bare.

“Now,” she said glancing back with a grin. “Pretend I’m Corinne!”

“I can’t–” I protested. “She’s a blonde. I mean. And, it’s like, ethics, you know?”

“Based on what?” she asked.

“What based on what?” I replied

“Your ethics. Based on what?” she asked.

“Well, you know. Morality.”

“Cop-out,” she said. “That’s a synonym, not a reason. What is the reason you find it unethical?”

“Harming others,” I said. “Is unethical.”

“Who are you harming? Who would you be?”

Silently, I gestured out to where Corinne had been with my head.

“She left. You don’t have to refrain from talking about her.”

“It’s not respectful,” I said.

“And she’s never, um, ‘disrespected’ you the same way? Ever? You’re sure?”

“Not exactly the same, for sure,” I said.

She cocked her head. “OK, point taken. But where’s the harm? Point to it.”

“Well, I can’t. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t any.”

“What is it, then?”

“That our… cultural norms… the law…”

“But you’re not doing anything illegal.”

“Maybe it should be,” I said.

“You know,” she pointed out with a grin, “You’re getting harder from talking about this.”

“OK, but isn’t it wrong to imagine something against the law? Or that might hurt someone?” I said.

“Is sex with a willing and eager minor worse or not as bad as murder and torture?”

“I’d have to say ‘not as bad as,’” I conceded.

“Watch TV any night of the week and you can see torture and killing, multiple times. Not only is it legal, people make gobs of money writing this dreck for the lurid but shallow imaginations of middle-aged housewives across the land.”

I was silent.

“Well?” she said.

“You have a point there.”

She sat on my lap facing away from me, my pike before her, cuddled in her moist crotch, playing with it, bouncing like a small girl, and singing little nonsense rhymes.

Each line of verse was completely different, and there was no consistent rhyme, though some of the couplets had similar sounds.

Falala nanana

Apricot banana

Howling santana

Dice and delights

and rice with, um,

rum and dice and

sites of Santanas,

howling with bandanas

Like an electric guitar, whoo hoo!

And as she ‘blew the whistle’ she gave my tip a little twirl.

First she composed the rhyme slowly, then started repeating it faster and faster, the rhythm of her hips and pelvis following suit. All the while, she played with my rod, which by now was uncompromisingly stiff. I felt the hot moist undercurrent of her fold pressed against the top base of my shaft.

“Oh, man,” I said.

She spun her head around to look at me with a possessed grin, filled with madness.

She jumped up, her tiny butt in my face, spread her legs wide apart and lowered her naked crotch over me. Amazing how agile and flexible she was. I held her bare thin waist. So taut, so smooth.

I felt my tip connect with her vagina, and plunge into her hot dripping softness a little ways. Until it was too tight to go any further.

There was a drop of blood tangled in my pubic hair. She had just lost her virginity.

She moaned in front of me while she alternated her pelvis back and forth to work me deeper and deeper inside of her.

The first time ever for her. I imagined what it must be like, to feel the pulsing strength of my full hardness inside her very core. How special for her to allow me this privilege, to break down her sacred barrier, as I danced beneath her.

I leaned forward and whispered quietly into her ear, my mouth pressed against her silky neck, hushed through her fragrant red curls: “I love you! Oh Felicity, I love you!”

“Oh,” she called back. “Hector!”

Now she had opened up a little ways, and was deftly sliding up and down my stubborn stiffness. I kissed her bare backside as she bounced up and down. She glanced behind at me, but was too caught up in the intoxication of the moment to spare any attention.

For my part, as the minutes passed, the hollow aching knot inside my pubic arch welled up with greater and greater longing, and I felt such tender emotion for this young girl, swelling in my heart and lungs. Such sweetness, and in that moment of wild passion I adored her madly.

The colors of this ordinary scene took on spectral hues never seen before, lights visible and invisible playing against the shadows with tantalizing arcane secrets of intimacy. My ears now clearer, could hear for the first time distinctly harmonies of bird songs as they cheerily chirped outside.

I held her waist for a while, then moved my hands up higher on her torso, to run my fingers across her tiny breasts, through the fabric of the black top she still wore. She let out a yelp when I did so, and her moans became louder and louder as my fingers passed lightly across her little nipples, through the cloth.

Eventually, I could hold back no longer: I unleashed my seed inside of her. We both held still for the silent rhythmic pumping, that splashed warm spurting sweetness into her welcoming interior.

It turned out she had been nearing her climax as well, for as I let go in her, she shuddered and shook, gyrating ever so slowly as she sighed: “Ah! Ah! Ah!” over and over. Chaos and ecstasy filled the galaxies.

Then there was a quiet lull.

She angled around with a mysterious grin, and somehow manged to rotate a hundred and eighty degrees, so that she was now facing me, all the while still impaled on my still-stiff rod. She sat down once more and kissed me on the lips, long and sensuous, as I felt liquid dripping back down onto me. We kissed again and again, ever so sweetly.

Afterward, we went walking in the university flower garden, petals luminous in the late afternoon sun. Eyebrows of students and staff alike raised at seeing the two of us so gleefully together, but no questions were asked.

We kissed and held each other when nobody was around, and later watched the sun setting on the ocean from a nearby hilltop, the clouds radiant and spectacular with the shifting spectra of burning colors reflected in the distant moving waves below.

Alison

Alison White was my star pupil that semester.