Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 (11 page)

But Ryan didn’t seem to notice the full extent of her rapture. “Chaperoning a gym full of horny kids … in costume! Yeah, sounds like a blast.”

His sarcasm couldn’t put her off entirely, but their joint laughter doused a touch of her arousal. “An eighties-themed high school dance sounds like the perfect way to spend a Thursday night.”

Picking the sleeveless denim vest off the bed, Ryan held it against his naked chest. He wrinkled his nose. “You said you
were going to buy me a
Miami Vice
outfit. I wanted to look like Don Johnson.”

Angelique gave him a good once-over and tried to conceal her smirk. He was scrawny, pale, baby-blond, and cute as a button. She crossed the room to kiss her husband’s bare shoulder. Her thighs brushed each other with every step, driving the seam of her jeans deeper into her wet slit. “Thrift Store was all out of white suits,” she said. “Anyway, I didn’t want to be your Philip Michael Thomas.”

Grabbing her fluorescent green, paint-splatter, bat wing T-shirt from the shopping bag, she pulled it over her head and clipped it at the side with a vintage plastic ring. “Just be happy I didn’t put you in bicycle shorts.”

He slipped his ripped jeans on over blue boxers. “Or MC Hammer pants.”

“I bet if we brush all your hair to the front, we can get a Flock of Seagulls look going on.”

Ryan laughed. “Break out the hair spray, babe. We’re gonna do this thang!” Strutting into the bathroom, he reached for a comb and his precious products. “Hey, who did you idolize back in the day? I thought David Bowie was God. But I was a science club geek, so that probably doesn’t say much.”

“Oh, I wanted to be Vanessa Williams—first black girl to win Miss America. I begged my mom to let me straighten my hair, but no. I was just ten years old. I had to suffer all those little braids, the click-clacking beads … well, you’ve seen the pictures.”

“You looked adorable,” he said, combing his hair to the front and gelling the hell out of it.

Angelique joined him in the bathroom and pushed her kinky hair back with a headband. Rolling on her plastic jelly bracelets,
she looked at the pair of them in the mirror: grown-ups attiring themselves in the costumes of their forgotten youth. Still, they were a good-looking couple.

Maybe she was just seeking reassurance when she asked, “We’re going to look ridiculous, aren’t we?”

“Oh, Angie …” Ryan chuckled. “My students look at least this ridiculous every day.”

How comforting.

The school gymnasium was hot, even before the lights went out and bodies flowed in.
Like a Virgin
—the first cassette tape she’d bought with her own money—echoed off the painted concrete walls. Until mere months ago, this music relived its former glory only in gay clubs. Now the eighties were back and better than ever.

The girls had gone all out in their Cyndi Lauper–esque outfits, while the boys put on baggy jeans and Metallica T-shirts and called it a day. The girls didn’t seem to care, though. Angelique knew very well that dressing up was a form of masturbation for teenage girls, anyway. They didn’t need the guys to participate. Not until they got out on the dance floor.

God, it made her head spin, the way these kids danced—bumping and grinding, stroking and groping, riding each other’s thighs to bliss. Had she danced like that when she was young? Her only school dance memory involved standing about five inches away from Andy Twyford and setting her hands on his shoulders while he set his fingertips on her hips.
Awkward
—especially since Andy was shorter than she was and the music was too loud for them to hear each other talk.

Angelique found herself tapping her authentic eighties jelly shoes to the beat of “Material Girl” before realizing she found the lyrics mildly offensive. Was she getting old, or what? Compared
to these wild creatures of flesh, she would have been old ten years ago. At thirty-six, she was ancient.

When she spotted Ryan on his way back from talking shop with the school principal, she ran to him. Her stupid shoes were digging into her heels already, but she bore the pain with pleasure as she pulled her husband onto the dance floor. She pulled him …
close
. Tossing her hands around his waist, she straddled his leg and let her pussy take the reins.

Behind his Flock of Seagulls hairdo, Ryan’s eyes shot wide open. “What are you doing?” He chuckled with nerves and looked around the gym. “Angie, I’m a teacher at this school—”

“So let’s show these kids how it’s done.” She grabbed his ass with both hands and squeezed those delicious cheeks. A surge of sexual energy coursed through her arms, and then through her core as she pressed her pussy down against his ripped jeans. The seam dug into her clit a little bit harder every time she slid down Ryan’s thigh.

He was freaking out—“Angie, come on, this isn’t funny!”—but her pussy didn’t give a fuck and her hands wouldn’t let go. She was possessed by the demon of high school hormones. They hung heavy on the air, along with the lingering scents of sweat, fruity perfumes, and cheap cologne. Angelique admired teenagers. They were shameless. She could be shameless, too. She would drink from their cups and dig her nails into her lover’s fine flesh. His energy was hers for the taking, and she would take it and transform it. Her pussy would be his desire and his home.

God, she wanted him.

Angelique was vaguely aware of the cries twinkling like strobe lights all around them: “Go, Lambert!” and “Nice dancing, Mr. Lambert” and “Who’s your bitch, Mr. Lambert?” The air hung heavy but electrified, like the calm before a lightning
storm. Any other time, she would have been pissed that some little punk called her a bitch. Now their squeaky voices disappeared under the beat of music she’d danced to in her bedroom twenty years ago. She’d been alone then. Now she was with Ryan.

“Is your wife drunk, Mr. Lambert?”

Only on the heady dose of teenage pheromones surging through my sweaty skin!
She threw her head back and wiggled her body for Ryan.
Watch my tits! Get a load of this! Don’t you want me, baby?
When she shot upright, dizziness destroyed her, and she giggled as an electric tornado touched down on her pussy. Her insides swirled as Ryan spoke—she couldn’t hear what he was saying—and dragged her unwilling ass into the hallway.

It was bright out there. She shielded her eyes against the fluorescent lights and the lockers painted shades of turquoise and peach. Ryan started to scold her, but there were too many students milling about. Grabbing her around the waist, he dragged her up the staircase and unlocked the door to his classroom. She laughed the whole way there.

“Are you drunk?” he hissed.

She felt eighties pop music booming up the girders. Its muffled beat rocked the floor beneath her pink jelly shoes and carried with it the spirit of torn fishnet stockings, cone bras, and messy crinolines. Those kids … their energy was inside her. Her jeans pressed hard against her clit and her body surged with hot, liquid sex. The trippy show downstairs hadn’t just been driven by a desire to fuck. No, it was rebellion.
Against what?

The classroom was dark—Ryan hadn’t turned the lights on when they came in—but the streetlights outside lit a path. She pressed her lips to his and pulled him toward the teacher’s desk, but he pulled away.

“What is going on with you?” Ryan snapped. “You’re going to get me fired.”

His brow furrowed, but she leaned back against his desk and winked. As she gazed at him through star-colored glasses, his expression slipped into concern. “Angie,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you high?”

Clapping her hands, she laughed, then wrapped him in a hug. “You know very well I’ve never even smoked a cigarette.” She kissed his neck. He smelled like skin and hair gel. His whole body felt like denim. “It’s these tight jeans, baby. I’m high on acid wash.”

The heat of his angry body radiated from his sleeveless vest. As his breathing regulated, his cock grew in his jeans—she could feel its hardness assaulting her thigh, and she crept up like a night stalker. Her juicy crotch, nestled into infinitely tight jeans, was desperate to meet him head-on.

When her hand rode down his chest, down toward that delicious dick she knew so well, he swept it away. “I’ve got to get downstairs. This is my job we’re talking about.”

She caught him before he could back away, and she knew he wouldn’t dare fight her off. Using his shoulders as leverage, she hopped up on the teacher’s desk and squealed as her jeans wrapped snug to her mound. She kicked off her jelly shoes. Her denim camel toe glowed by streetlight. When she leaned back and opened her legs, setting one foot up on the desk, Ryan was powerless. He stared at the denim mystery between her thighs as she slid her fingers down the fly.

Ryan took a big breath in, like he was going to say something, and then he let it out. Muffled music rose through the floor like a highway mirage. It thumped through her body with the energy rushing to her clit. “Lick me,” she said. “Kiss my jeans.”

Like a prophet before his savior, her husband fell to his knees. He cupped her ass in his hands, pulled her pussy close, and inhaled. As he released that breath, passionate reverberations ran through her body. He sniffed her crotch like a dog, and she loved it, but she wasn’t satisfied. “Lick me,” she repeated.

He did her one better—he attacked her cunt, biting her jeans like a rabid mongrel. Pangs of sexual electricity shot through her, from her clit to her tits, and all the way out to her fingers. Even her scalp buzzed in response to his animalistic zeal.

What could she feel through the thick denim seam pushing into her slit? Wetness—her pussy juice combined with his saliva to soak the crotch of her jeans. Warmth, too—she felt the heat of her seething pussy join his scorching breath. Her bare arms sizzled in waves as she sent her hand on a mission to find scissors in Mr. Lambert’s desk. Crazy to think that only hours ago those desks had been occupied by horny little high school students who saw her husband as nothing more than a straight-laced teacher. Imagine what those kids would say about him after tonight! She should feel guilty for making a scene, but as she pulled a pair of black-handled scissors from the desk, she felt only lustful adoration.

“Cut them,” she instructed, setting the scissors on her belly, blade facing away from him. “Make me Daisy Dukes.”

He looked up at her, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but he shook it off. “I’m not going to destroy your jeans … at my school … in my classroom!”

“Okay,” she said. She could be reasonable. “Then I’ll do it myself.”

Hopping down from his big desk, she tossed her foot up on one of the smaller student desks and started cutting from the bottom hem.

“What are you doing?” Ryan cried. “You’re ruining your jeans!”

A chuckle rumbled deep in her throat and, even knowing it might piss Ryan off, she let it out. “I think you answered your own question there, Sherlock.” She cut fast. Once she’d finished, he’d forget his objections.

He stood in the center of the floor at the front of the darkened classroom. His breathing seemed to grow deeper as he watched her cut off two entire legs of denim. All she left in the middle was the seam digging into her slit. That band of tough fabric kept her wet throughout the destruction of personal belongings. Now her trim black hair and her dark pussy lips were plain as day in the V of her thighs.

She’d cut her jeans off almost all the way to her hip bones on either side, but left the bluish-white cotton pockets hanging down. Around back, things got messy—it was hard to see what she was doing, and harder still to control the cuts. They were jagged, but they did a fine job of showing off her ass.

He barely blinked as she approached him in her T-shirt and barely-there cutoffs. “I have to …” He never did finish that thought.

“You have to take good care of your wife,” Angelique cooed. Unbuttoning his denim vest, she slipped her fingers inside and slid her hands down his chest. It was hot and damp with sweat. Her knees nearly gave out at the scent of him—man and hair products. She pulled him back until her butt met his desk and then she spread her legs. Wide. She took his hand and forced his fingers down her front. The waist on these jeans rested above her navel. They sucked in her belly like a corset. No way she’d be taking them off. Anyway, these tight jeans got her hot and horny as a teenager. Ryan could work around them.

When his fingers met her exposed pussy lips, she gasped and then stopped his hand from moving any farther. “Grab it,” she said.

He grabbed her pussy and squeezed. She grabbed the table to support herself. His touch made her weak as a kitten, but she knew what she wanted. “No, baby, grab my crotch!”

“I am!” He looked so puzzled, and his uncertainty warmed Angelique’s heart.

“Sorry.” She shook her head, smiling at his mystified expression. “Grab the jeans—the crotch of the jeans.” Weaving his fingers between her bare skin and the denim seam, she formed his hand into a fist.

After so much instruction, Ryan finally seemed to realize what she was after. He straightened up like his muscles were possessed by the spirits of the throbbing teenagers downstairs. Grabbing an ass cheek in one strong hand, he pulled up on the crotch of her jeans until he’d lifted her bare feet off the floor.

“Yessssss!” Angelique hissed as the sopping wet seam of her cutoffs dug into her clit. He rested one of her thighs on one of his, and the feel of his denim on her naked skin made her melt. The garbled music from below pumped through her veins. When she closed her eyes she saw strobe lights.

Ryan had her totally in his power. As he pulled her forward, the denim seam felt fatter and wetter and her clit grew bigger and harder. She hadn’t felt so engorged since she was sixteen, walking around all day and all night in tight jeans like these, feeling how wet her pussy got every time she sat down in class …

All she’d ever wanted throughout four years of math classes, English classes, sciences classes, and all the rest, was for some guy with strong hands to grab her by the fly and get her off on her own jeans. Why could nobody damn well figure that out?
And, hell, for that matter, why could she never tell anybody what she really wanted? But that’s what girls were like at that age—they strived to meet the man’s needs.