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From: suenewhamp@aol.com (SueNewHamp)
Subject: Sue's 23rd: Red Hot 1/2 (4some, something for everyone)
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NOTE: This story is, of course, for adults only -- so don't read it if you
don't think you can be mature about it. Reading and writing these stories
should be acts of fantasy, and I hope that you can keep your notions of real
and fantasy life separate in your mind. I know I can. If you would like to let
me know what you think, or if you have a follow-up fantasy (which is something
that I REALLY like), you can reach me at suenh@kear.tdsnet.com ... but I can't
promise to return your emails... I do have some other things to do in my real
life! 

**********************************

	RED HOT     by Sue 
			part one of two 

In the context of this newsgroup, you all know me as an enthusiastic lover of
adventurous sex. but I also take great pleasure from my work life, where I get
to meet and socialize with many fascinating people. My business calls on me to
consult with organizations that want to improve the decor of their offices.
Normally, this means businesses and office complexes that want to make their
sterile cubicles and hallways more human and hospitable. When the principal of
an elementary school in my area called to ask about my services, I was
genuinely surprised. I wouldn’t have thought that schools would be able to
afford the art work and fine appointments that are usually the basis of my
advice. But he explained that a group of local artists had volunteered to
donate their paintings and sculptures. The principal (John) felt there needed
to be a consultant to help select from the available works and fit them into
the existing environment of the school building.

At this point in the conversation, I was figuring out how to tactfully let him
know that this wasn’t the job for me. I envisioned paint-by-number seascapes,
popsicle-stick sculpture, and Elvis-on-black-velvet... and I didn’t want to be
the arbiter of this kind of pseudo-art. But before I could give voice to my
refusal, John started to list a few of the artists that had offered to donate
their pieces. Somehow, this small community in rural New England had attracted
a loosely-knit colony of accomplished masters of the visual arts. I was
intrigued by the possibility of working with these people, and the concept of
incorporating great and challenging art works into the backdrop for young
students’ education was alluring. When the principal asked me what I would
charge for consulting, I tapped into the more generous side of my personality,
and offered to serve the school on a gratis basis. After all, these artists
were willing to trade in the five- and six-digit prices that their works could
normally fetch on the open market, for the gratification of helping the school.
Who was I to ask for more?

As a way to warm-up to the project, I asked John if I could come for a visit to
the school, to see the building and meet some of the teachers. It is a tenet of
my business that the people who occupy a building are really my clients, and I
always seek to determine what they want.

When the day arrived for my visit to the school, I awoke an hour before my
alarm was set to go off. I lay there in bed for a while trying to fall back
asleep, but I could tell that it wasn’t going to be possible. Normally, I’m a
sound sleeper. When I have insomnia, I know from experience that it is because
something is troubling me. I knew what it was. The prospect of going to an
elementary school put me out of my comfort zone. My active sexual life, and my
inclination to fantasize graphically about the people I meet, was completely at
odds with the situation I would be in. Without any equivocation, I draw the
line sexually when it comes to underage kids. I was lying in bed worrying about
how to control my impulses in this inappropriate context. With time on my
hands, I decided to take the edge off my natural high-pitched lustful appetite.
With no partner to help me out, I took matters into my own hands. From the
bedside stand, I took out a printout of a story that a had been written for me
by a fan of my stories. With the dawn’s soft light illuminating the words, I
read this man’s well-written fantasy of how we got together, and how we engaged
in the most energetic and kinky sexual games. The second half of the story
focused on how he pulled his long, hard cock out of my grasping cunt and slowly
snaked it into my asshole. 

This writer knew in advance that I am not inclined toward real anal sex. My
experiments in this area have been totally unsuccessful, involving discomfort
and pain. Pain is not something that I think of as sexual and exhilarating. But
he also knew that I like a bit of teasing around the edges of my asshole, and
that I was fascinated by the fact that being fucked in the ass works wonders
for at least a few women. So his story got me worked up very quickly. I propped
myself up on an elbow, and held the pages in my left hand, as my right hand
wormed into the tight space between the mattress and my hips. As usual, I was
sleeping in the nude, so my fingers were able to find the accessible objective
between my thighs. My level of arousal was evident by the slippery moisture
that lubricated the inner folds of my labia. As his story built gradually to
its climax, my fingers insinuated themselves more and more insistently into
those puffy flaps of skin, chasing and trapping the hard nub of clitoral flesh.
Instinctively, my hips began to rise and fall against the resistance of my hand
and the mattress. As the fictitious man in the story reached his orgasm,
stimulated by my mythically compliant asshole, clutching and pulsing around his
throbbing cock, my own very real orgasm soared from a gentle pianissimo into a
full-blown crescendo. My face burrowed into the papers while my fingers
strummed over my clitoris, struggling to keep contact as my hips humped and
pumped uncontrollably.

Two hours later, I was on-site at the school, getting a tour of the facility.
My masturbatory therapy had worked wonderfully, for I was now in the
appropriate frame of mind for the task and the setting. And I was fascinated by
the challenge that it presented. It was a very new building, basically well
designed but too clean and cold for my tastes. Many of the walls stretched up
10 or 15 feet, and were decorated on the lower portion with the product of the
youngsters art classes. But above the six-foot line, it was nothing but
silver-gray cinder block -- lots of space to showcase the masterworks that I
chose from the studios of the artists. Occasionally, John and I would stop in
to a classroom. To my untrained and unaccustomed eyes, each of these rooms
appeared to be a chaotic storm of pandemonium, but John proudly gave me an
overview of the educational philosophy of the school, and I started to see how
much learning and productive activity was taking place in the midst of the
seeming chaos. And the smiles on the kids’ faces were contagious, infecting me
with the enthusiasm and idealism that pervade the whole place.

My world is inhabited almost entirely by adults, both in my work and play. So
this was such a different environment for me. As John and I whisked from room
to room, I was fascinated by the behaviors and attitudes of the kids. I was
introduced to the teachers in each class, but they didn’t make much of an
impression on me..., until we entered Polly Trinka’s third grade classroom. In
the center of a swarming mass of 8 year olds was a stunningly beautiful and
serene woman. Polly Trinka was thin and tall, and her natural charisma was
almost instantly apparent to me. Above and beyond all the things that
registered on my consciousness in those first moments, it was her hair that
really knocked me out. It was the most radiant shade of orange-red that I had
ever seen on a person, almost as if the swirling strands were composed of
burning embers in a campfire, lit from within by the fiery heat. 

John must have noticed my interest in Polly’s classroom; when we left her room
and entered the relative quiet of the hallway, he remarked that she was clearly
the most beloved and effective teacher in the school. All the parents want to
get their children into her class, the kids get the highest scores on
standardized tests, and the other teachers and administrators respected her so
much that she was asked to be principal a few years ago. It was only the fact
that she refused the promotion -- preferring to keep her hands-on connection
with the kids -- that made John’s administrative appointment possible. 

John went on for a few minutes elaborating Polly’s attributes. When I finally
got the chance to respond, I said “It’s obvious that she has something special
going on, and the one thing you didn’t mention about her must be the thing that
everyone notices first.”

“Oh, you mean her hair, don’t you?” John said. “It really is amazing isn’t
it....?” And his voice trailed off in embarrassment. I could tell by John’s
gushing description of Polly that he was an admirer, and in a way that was more
than just professional. And I had already noticed that John was not married (to
be honest, I check out the left hand of most men that I meet within a few
minutes!). Similarly, I had also seen that Polly did wear a wedding band. I had
to wonder what it was like for her husband, living with someone so seemingly
perfect and esteemed? There were obvious aspects of her personality that her
friends saw as being “nice.” But for someone who had to live with her, she
might be perceived as prudish, condescending and orthodox. Her beauty and
charisma might serve her well in her professional life, yet interfere with her
intimate and sexual life. I found it impossible to picture her engaged in wild
and kinky sex. Probably her limit was the missionary position once-per-month,
in her king-sized bed with the lights out. What a waste!

Anyway, as we compared our impressions about the remarkable Polly Trinka, our
discussion was interrupted by the school bell, signifying the end of the school
day. The hall that John and I were standing in was instantly filled with the
random, Brownian motion of the laughing, screaming youngsters. Within five
minutes, the corridor was again silent, and we proceeded to the conference room
for our meeting with the teachers. Twelve of them attended, and I was glad to
see that Polly was there. We went around the room introducing ourselves, and
one man was of particular interest to me, for two reasons. First of all, he was
the art teacher for the school, so this related to my consulting job. Secondly,
his name was Michael Trinka, and he sat right next to Polly. Math isn’t my
strength, but I can put one and one together -- the two of them were married.
And what an interesting contrast they made. Whereas Polly came across as
refined and ethereal, Michael was very earthy, with burly Eastern-European
features. Not that he was fat: he was big and muscular and swarthy, and just as
Polly’s hair was her signature characteristic, Michael’s hair was dramatic. His
head, cheeks, and chin were covered with dense, brushy black hair, and even the
backs of his hands sprouted with long dark curls.

I was also intrigued by the way the two if them interacted during the meeting.
Generally, the tone of the discussion was positive and constructive. Many of
the participants had good ideas about where the artwork should and shouldn’t be
placed, and which of the artists were most appropriate. But there were plenty
of friendly disagreements amongst the teachers and, most memorably, between
Michael and Polly. Michael was a proponent of elegant, peaceful, objective
pieces, whereas Polly was in favor of large, powerful and anarchic works. Each
spoke persuasively and fervently for their positions, yet they provided
respectful space for each other to speak, and they listened intently as the
other spoke. When Polly’s position eventually garnered the support of all the
other teachers, Michael was magnanimous in defeat, granting that Polly’s ideas
(having to do with challenging the sensibilities of the students) were probably
best for the school.

After two hours, the meeting finally broke up. Several teachers came up to me
to emphasize their enthusiasm for the project. Finally, I broke away and walked
over to where John, Michael and Polly were sitting, engaged in a continuation
of their previous debate. When I sat down with them, I complimented Polly and
Michael on how skillfully they handled their differing opinions. Michael
laughed and said that their life together was full of juxtapositions. Their
backgrounds, their politics, their personalities, and of course their
appearances were almost entirely in opposition, yet they loved each other so
much that they had struggled to find a way to build on their differences. 

This was fascinating stuff. I wanted to know more about how this worked for
them, but before I got to ask another question, Polly said she had missed lunch
so that she could talk to some parents about their kids, so she was starving.
She invited me to come to their home for dinner. I asked if John could come as
well; I didn’t want to be a third wheel, and I was attracted to him anyway.
Perhaps my mischievous elf was whispering in my ear, for I hadn’t forgotten
about John’s unstated infatuation with Polly, and I wanted to see how that
would play out. While I was within the environment of the elementary school, I
had no trouble restraining my libidinous thoughts. But now the image of being
away from the school with four interesting people got my juices flowing, both
figuratively and literally. My expectations were tempered by my expectation
that Polly was too much of a goody-two-shoes to be interested in anything wild
and kinky. But perhaps John and I could slip away early and act on our
impulses. 

I haven’t described John yet. He matched my stereotypical image of a principal
-- intellectual, politically cautious and astute, clean-cut and genteel. And
very handsome, too, with sandy brown hair and a long thin nose holding up his
horn-rimmed glasses. Compared to Polly and Michael, John was kind of “white
bread,” but I found him easy to talk to, and i think that we had been
unconsciously flirting with each other all day. My read was that he would be
available for a fling if I wanted, and that he would be an attentive and
enthusiastic (if somewhat conventional) lover. I had successfully held my
erotic predilections at bay since my morning masturbation, but now that we were
making plans to leave the school building, I was happy to let the free and
erotic spirits back into my consciousness.

Anyway, we all trundled off to our cars, and I followed the Trinkas’ car for
about 10 minutes, until we arrived at their home. It turns out that Michael had
built it himself after he got out of college. It was obviously handmade, with
unusual angles and materials incorporated into every room and surface. Here was
an art teacher that could do more that just teach. He was a true creator,
bubbling over with inventive energy. Everything about the house flowed
seemlessly, leaving the overall impression of a comfortable and alive home.
There was something sensuous and personal about it.

Polly was in charge of the meal for the night (they took turns), so she
assigned the three of us to chop vegetables and start some pasta, while she
disappeared up a ladder into the loft to change out of her “teaching outfit,”
as she called it. As I was slicing the zucchini, Michael felt compelled to let
me know that my technique was somewhat unsafe. He offered to show me a better
way to grip the knife, and when I agreed, he sidled up beside me and held my
fingers to place my thumb and index finger on either side of the blade. I could
smell his musky, masculine scent. I could feel the strength in his hands and
arms. His sexual magnetism was just as strong as the more ethereal charisma
that emanated from Polly’s personality... another one of their many contrasts.
That erotically charged feeling of anticipation that I am so fond of was
beginning to pervade my body.

Then Polly reentered the kitchen. What a transformation! Her so-called
“teaching outfit” was beautifully tailored, and modest to the point of being
frumpy. Now her attire was chic and sexy. She was wearing dark green spandex
Capri pants, and her silk blouse was sheer and silvery-white. From the way that
the glistening fabric was pushed from side to side as she walked, I could tell
right away that her breasts were unconstrained by a brassiere. And if she was
wearing panties, they didn’t telegraph any impression through the skin-tight
fabric of her pants. She was barefoot, and her hair, which had earlier been
done up in a loose bun atop her head, was now free to waft down onto her
shoulders, emphasizing even more the shimmering radiance of her carrot-colored
tresses. She had mutated from a Pollyann-ish schoolmarm to a provocative vixen
in only a few minutes.

I was stunned by the change. When I turned to see how John reacted to the sight
of this siren, I could see that his stirring of the pasta was preempted by the
stirring of his passions. 

Polly spoke directly to John, saying “If I didn’t know better, I’d be worrying
that your eyeballs are going to pop right out of their sockets. I realize that
you are used to seeing me in a particular way: as the dedicated schoolteacher;
as the maternal care-giver; and as the meticulously proper and trusted guardian
of the impressionable youth of our town. But I hope that you can see that I’m
not that serious and predictable all of the time. The same goes for Michael.
Sometimes, we just have to let our hair down.” She emphasized this thought by
flipping her glowing mane around her shoulders. “Perhaps you, too, have had
thoughts and feelings that you wouldn’t want to talk about at a PTO meeting.
Hopefully, you’ve had the opportunity to act out some of those taboos.”

(continued in part 2, where most of the really ot sex takes place!!!)

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