Free Recess by Corinna Parr

 
    RECESS
     
    by
     
    Corinna Parr
     
    AMAZON EDITION
     
    * * * * *
     
    PUBLISHED BY:
    Corinna Parr on Amazon.com
     
    Recess
    Copyright © 2012 by Corinna Parr
     
    Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed  with the exception of quotes used in reviews. If you enjoyed this book, please click the links after the story to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
     
    This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. All characters depicted herein are 18 years of age or older.
     
    *****
     
    Adult Reading Material.
     
    *****
     
     
    RECESS
     
     
    ****
     
     
    “Please. Not here,” she said.
    Bold words, I thought. Mrs. Pickman spoke just above a whisper and her voice trembled with what I’ve learned to recognize as shame. Hot shame, shame that prickles over your cheeks and gets down between your legs, as if everyone can smell your secret on the air. I couldn’t, yet. But the way she stood against me, making a shadowed place between her back and my stomach; the way she let her weight shift from one heel to the other; that desperate quiver in her voice, they all spoke to me. Mrs. Pickman’s dark eyes wandered without focus over the construction paper art on the wall, and I wondered, as I felt up the smooth inside of her thigh, whether she would recognize Randee’s. Could she tease his voice from the riot of children’s laughter that came to us, muffled, from the playground outside? Might she fear that he was coming down the hall to find her? Would it matter to her?
    Mrs. Pickman had a firm leg for a woman her age. Soft enough to get your nails into, but there was still muscle there. That long, sweet thigh muscle, one of my favorites, tensed and relaxed in my palm. I turned my wrist a little and curled up my fingers until I could trace the hem of her panties. Tight stitching, fabric that caught on my fingertips— cotton, probably in some drab shade or other, generously cut. And heat, blood-warm and pooling between my knuckles. She drew a sharp breath.
    “Someone will see us,” Mrs. Pickman murmured, as if lecturing a child. I heard her heel scrape as her legs came further apart. I ran the pad of my middle finger lazily along the seam of her panties, pressing just deeply enough to feel the contour of her body beneath the cloth. And when I came to that soft place, that place where the cloth puddles down like it’s floating on thick honey, I pushed in a little more. Mrs. Pickman whimpered.   My skin tingled with her wetness, seeping through the wash-worn cotton.
    She was very still now, like a rabbit crouched in high grass. She neither protested nor moved away as I bunched the cloth of her panties into a roll against one thigh; breathless, she let me probe along her petal-soft folds. Her eyes closed tightly; from her reflection in the window glass, it seemed as if Mrs. Pickman were trying to hold back tears, or perhaps to shut out the light that bore down on her in fierce primary colors from every part of the room. I spread her open, and found her clitoris, and she gasped— a wet, reedy sound through parted lips.
    “Oh please don’t,” she begged, and I heard, please. I don’t want to do this, I want to do this, please make me. Please.
    “Is there a Mr. Pickman, Mrs. Pickman?” I asked her, as I worked a finger into her sex. She didn’t answer me. She just knotted her little fists in the fabric of her skirt and leaned back against me, and when her buttocks brushed over my erection she whimpered again. I put another digit into her and started to pump them in and out. Mrs. Pickman coated my fingers, she sucked hungrily on them. Her hips twitched against me and then settled into a slow, luscious roll; she was a dancer finding the old steps again, steps she once knew by