September 25, 2025 • 39 mins
This episode is a longer adaptation of the story Lessons in this episode of the Your Daily F*ck podcast. You can listen to it here!
This Week's Episode
Clara, an art history student, understands the passion in paintings but feels a cold disconnect in her own dating life. A series of unexpected moments—a glance in a locker room, a revealing lecture from her brilliant professor, and a shocking first kiss with a woman—force her to confront a beautiful, terrifying truth about her own desire and the woman she's truly drawn to.
Starring
Riley, Heather
Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/roxy-s-erotic-whispers--6561938/support.
Introducing Roxy's Bookshop!
Download an ebook version of select episodes at Amazon. They're free for Kindle Unlimited subscribers!
Swipe Right (all six episodes in a full novel-length ebook!)
The Five Year Kiss
This Week's Episode
Clara, an art history student, understands the passion in paintings but feels a cold disconnect in her own dating life. A series of unexpected moments—a glance in a locker room, a revealing lecture from her brilliant professor, and a shocking first kiss with a woman—force her to confront a beautiful, terrifying truth about her own desire and the woman she's truly drawn to.
Starring
Riley, Heather
Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/roxy-s-erotic-whispers--6561938/support.
Introducing Roxy's Bookshop!
Download an ebook version of select episodes at Amazon. They're free for Kindle Unlimited subscribers!
Swipe Right (all six episodes in a full novel-length ebook!)
The Five Year Kiss
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hey there.
Speaker 2 (00:00):
This is Annie and I play Emma in the Swipewright
series of episodes here on Roxy's Erotic Whispers. I just
wanted to let you know that Roxy has all of
the Swipe Right stories now available in a deluxe e book.
You can find it on Amazon at Roxy dot show
slash swipe Right All one word. If you enjoyed the
(00:21):
Swipe Right episodes, you'll love reading ebook.
Speaker 3 (00:25):
Hello, my love lies, I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to
my Erotic Whispers, the podcast where we celebrate the sexual
empowerment of women through the power of stories. Sometimes that
empowerment is via just enjoying a hard fuck with a
stranger who's the right person at the right time, and
(00:46):
sometimes it's the culmination of romantic moments or even self discovery.
This week's episode is about discovery, discovering the sexual being
you truly are. It was co written by Kate from
Good Girls with Dirty Mind Studio and myself. Kate wrote
(01:06):
a wonderful episode of the Your Daily Fuck podcast called Lessons,
and I loved it so much I asked her if
we could collaborate on a longer piece for my podcast,
and I'm thrilled. She said yes, I'll link to her
original episode in the description. The stars this week are
Riley and Heather, and please note, as always, this podcast
(01:31):
is intended for adult listeners.
Speaker 4 (01:37):
The coffee shop is aggressively cheerful, a brightly lit box
of blonde wood and the incessant hiss of the espresso machine.
It smells of burnt sugar and the vague, milky perfume
of the girl wiping down the counter across from me.
Mark smiles. It's a good smile, technically symmetrical, teeth straight.
(02:00):
It's the kind of smile that's supposed to make a
girl's stomach do a little flip. Mine remains stubbornly clinically still.
Speaker 5 (02:09):
So lacrosse is going well?
Speaker 4 (02:10):
Then he leans forward over his untouched scone.
Speaker 5 (02:14):
You guys are undefeated, right, that's awesome, it's good.
Speaker 4 (02:19):
My own smile feels like a mask I've painted on.
Practice is brutal, but it's a good outlet.
Speaker 5 (02:26):
I bet you're so intense. I see you on campus,
always with your books, looking like you're about to solve
a major world problem.
Speaker 4 (02:36):
He means it as a compliment. I register this intellectually.
The proper response, of course, is a blush, a self
deprecating laugh, a gentle deflection. It is step three in
the standard courtship ritual, following step two, the offering of
a sincere sounding compliment. I observe the sequence of events
(02:57):
with a detached curiosity. My mouth performs the laugh I'm
supposed to give, hardly of just trying not to fail
my art history seminar.
Speaker 5 (03:07):
No way you're failing. You're like the smartest person I know.
Speaker 4 (03:12):
And then it happens Step four, the attempt at physical intimacy.
His hand moves across the small table, a slow, deliberate advance.
I watch it the way a biologist might watch a
creature extending a feeler. His fingers are clean, his nails
neatly trimmed. The hand settles over mine, which rests on
the cool, slightly sticky tabletop. His skin meets mine, but
(03:38):
there's no spark, no jolt of electricity, no sudden breath
stealing warmth. There's only pressure and texture, the faint dryness
of his palm, the slight weight of his fingers blanketing
my own. He begins to stroke the back of my
hand with his thumb, a slow, rhythmic gesture that is
meant to be soothing, intimate. A prelude does something more.
(03:59):
I want it to be thrilling. I want to touch
him back. I want him to hold my hand and
for me to be nervous and excited. But I'm not.
My mind simply catalogs the sensations rhythmic pressure applied to epidermis,
temperature differential negligible, no corresponding increase in heart rate. I
(04:20):
feel like I'm narrating a lab report. I'm supposed to
feel a flutter, a blush rising in my cheeks, a
sudden desire to lean closer. I'm supposed to turn my
hand over and intertwine my fingers with his. Instead, I
have an overwhelming urge to pull away, not from disgust,
but from a profound sense of nothing. It feels like
(04:43):
a handshake that has gone on too long. A foreign
object has been placed on my body, and I am
simply observing it, waiting for the experiment to conclude. I
look from our joined hands up to his face. He's
smiling again, his eyes full of a hopeful, gentle light.
He thinks this is working, he thinks we're connecting, And
(05:05):
all I can wonder is what's wrong?
Speaker 1 (05:06):
With me. Why does the.
Speaker 4 (05:08):
Single most universal human ritual feel like a language I
can't speak, a performance whose lines I've forgotten. I look
at his perfectly nice face and his perfectly nice hand
on mine, and I feel a deep hollow ache, the
ache of an empty space I didn't even know I had.
(05:30):
The air in the locker room is thick and white,
with steam tasting of chlorine and soap. Sound is slick
and distorted. Here, the rhythmic slap of wet feet on tile,
the percussive drip from a dozen shower heads, echo of
laughter bouncing off the damp tiled walls. My muscles scream
with the deep satisfying ache of a brutal practice. And
(05:52):
as I peel off the muddy, sweat soaked layers of
my uniform, I let my intellectual guard peel off with him.
For a moment moment, this is my museum. The casual,
unthinking nudity of my teammates becomes a gallery of living sculptures.
I see it all through my art history filter. It's
the only way that feels safe. A girl leaning against
(06:14):
a locker, her back curved in a perfect odalisque pose,
Ingre would have coveted, another toweling her hair, the tension
in her neck and shoulders, a study in kiscouro, light
and shadow playing over the hard lines of muscle. It's beautiful,
it's academic. It's a series of profound aesthetic experiences that
(06:35):
the date with Mark, with its sterile conversation and pointless touch,
could never hope to match. My gaze drifts landing on Jess.
She's standing under the light by the mirrors, one foot
propped on the bench as she leisurely rubs lotion onto
her long, powerful leg. The steam parts around her for
a moment, and my breath catches. She is shaved completely.
(07:01):
My artistics ie kicks in immediately, a desperate defense mechanism.
Such a clean, elegant line, I think my mind grasping
for the familiar comfort of analysis. A single confident stroke
egg on shield, would have adored the stark, minimalist honesty
of it. The beauty isn't in what's there, but in
the simplicity of the form itself. But the analysis is
(07:24):
failing me. The armor is cracking, because a brushstroke on
a canvas is a static thing. It's a final, closed statement.
This line, This is the furthest thing from an ending.
It's a seem it's suggestion, it's an invitation. My academic
brain tries to fight back to talk about the negative
(07:45):
space and composition, but it's drowned out by a louder, deeper,
more primal voice I've never heard before, or desperately tried
to stifle. A paintbrush can't know the impossible softness of
the skin on either side of that line. An artist's
charcoal can't capture the subtle, shadowed heat that must emanate
from it. My gaze is fixed, and the world of
(08:08):
theory dissolves. All that is left is the physical, the tangible,
the wanting. I can't stop myself from wondering what it
would be like to trace that perfect line, not with
a brush, but with the tip of my finger, to
feel the skin give weight to something softer, wetter, to
(08:29):
open netline, to part those lips to see what's inside,
to touch it, to taste it. A sudden, shocking wave
of heat pulls between my own legs, a wet, heavy
ache that is entirely new, But if I'm honest with myself,
really isn't. My mouth is dry, my hard hammers against
(08:50):
my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. This isn't a sthetic appreciation,
this isn't a profound study of the human form. Pits
raw in its terrifying, and it feels more real than
anything I've ever felt in my life. Intellectual struggle is
over before it even began. Lust is winning.
Speaker 1 (09:09):
Thank God.
Speaker 4 (09:10):
I don't even know what to do with it. Doctor
Evelyn Alistair commence the lecture halp, not with volume, but
with a gravitational pull. She paces before the projection screen,
a slow, deliberate predator in her intellectual domain.
Speaker 1 (09:27):
Today.
Speaker 4 (09:28):
She's in dark, impeccably tailored trousers and a cream colored
silk blouse under a sharp fitted blazer. She is a
fortress of academic rigor, and yet I can't help but
notice the way the silk shimmers over the smell of
her breast as she moves. The projected image shifts to
an Egon shield nude, a woman with limbs like twisted branches,
(09:50):
her body stark and confrontational. The room is silent, captivated.
Speaker 1 (09:56):
Many male artists of his time painted women is passive,
af objects, reclining venus figures arranged for the comfort of
the male gaze. Shiel. She almost different.
Speaker 4 (10:09):
She stops pacing her silhouette framed against the raw painted
flesh on the screen.
Speaker 1 (10:14):
He was obsessed, not worth possessing the female form, but
with revealing its own, inherent, often tortured sexuality. It's an
honesty few men are capable of seeing, let alone capturing.
Speaker 4 (10:29):
She turns her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over the
darkened rows of students. It feels like she's looking directly at.
Speaker 1 (10:35):
Me, and as a woman who loves women.
Speaker 4 (10:39):
She says the words with such casual, unimpeachable confidence that
the air leaves my lungs in a silent rush, a thunderclap,
in the quiet of my own confusion.
Speaker 1 (10:49):
I find his work uniquely resonant. He strips away the
performance of femininity, the one intended for men, and leaves
only the raw, electric truth of the bar, the awkward angles,
the confrontational stares. This is sexuality that exists for itself,
for itself.
Speaker 4 (11:11):
The phrase lands in my mind and detonates.
Speaker 1 (11:14):
That's it.
Speaker 4 (11:15):
That's what I saw in the locker room. The casual,
powerful beauty of my teammates wasn't a performance for anyone.
It was just them. And here is this brilliant, beautiful woman,
giving it a name, validating the very thing I was
too afraid to comprehend. She understands. Of course, she understands,
(11:35):
she lives it. Suddenly, my academic admiration feels hopelessly inadequate,
a thin veil for the raw, aching desired churning inside me.
My artist's eye, the safe filter I've been hiding behind
is gone. I'm no longer studying a professor. I'm staring
at a woman, and I'm consumed with a want so
(11:56):
profound it feels like hunger. She's brilliant, she's charismatic, she's sexy.
A lecture ends, students. Russell notebook snap shot bags are zipped.
I remain in my seat, unable to move, my gaze
locked on her. I watch the way she gathers her notes,
(12:17):
her long, elegant fingers moving with an unhurried grace. I
watch the fluid, confident shift of her hips as she
turns to erase the board. The sharp, clean line of
her blazer over her shoulders only serves to highlight the
softness it conceals. I find myself tracing the path of
her soap blouse, imagining the warmth of the skin beneath,
(12:38):
though it would feel against my own. My eyes follow
the severe, perfect cut of her trousers, down the long,
elegant line of her leg, to her sensible, yet decidedly sexy,
heeled boots. I wonder, with a sudden, dizzying intensity, what
it would feel like to kneel before her, to unbutton
that perfect blouse and plays the soft crust of silk
(13:02):
with my own trembling hands. What is wrong with me?
I think, as I gather my own books and depart
in a hurry. A university formal is a sea of
predictable black suits and shimmering hopeful dresses. The air is
thick with cologne and hair spray, and a bad cover
band is murdering a slow song from the nineties. Mary
(13:24):
my Lacrossec Captain rolls her eyes dramatically from our table.
Speaker 1 (13:29):
Goddess is a bust.
Speaker 4 (13:30):
She gestures with her chin at the dance floor. All
the decent dancers are taken, and my date is more
interested in the open bar. Come on, she stands, offering
me a hand. Let's just sway for a bit so
we can say we danced, or make someone else jealous.
It's an innocent, practical invitation, an act of solidarity against
a boring night, and I take her hand on the floor.
(13:55):
She places one hand on my waist and takes my other,
her grip firm and familiar. It's just Mary, it's just
a dance. But the moment we start to move, my
entire world tilts on its axis. The clinical distance I
felt with Mark is long gone, replaced by a hyper
awareness of every point of contact. Our body is warm
(14:15):
and solid against mine. Through the thin fabric of our dresses.
I could feel a soft, full press of her breasts
against my own. Our waists are so close, I can
feel a heat radiating from her skin. It feels right,
it feels natural. A quiet, terrifying explosion is happening in
the pit of my stomach, a warmth that has nothing
(14:36):
to do with a stuffy room and everything to do
with a woman holding me.
Speaker 1 (14:40):
This is just.
Speaker 4 (14:41):
Mary, I tell myself. But my heart is pounding a frantic,
undeniable rhythm. Why does this feel more real, more intimate
than any time a boy has held me? The song
ends and we walk off the floor, laughing about the
terrible saxophone solo. But before I can even process the
storm of sensation inside me. A guy is there, Alex,
(15:03):
captain of the swim team, handsome in that effortless, sun
bleached way. He asks me to dance, and I agree
on autopilot. He pulls me close, his grip possessive. His
chest is a wall of hard muscle against me, and
I can immediately feel the insistent, rigid press of his
erection against my stomach. He's clearly into me. He smells good,
(15:27):
he looks good, and his hand is firm on the
smell of my back. It is by every metric I've
been taught, a perfect scenario, and all I want is
to be back in Mary's arms. All I can think
about is the memory of soft breast against soft breast,
the uncomplicated warmth, the feeling of rightness. Alex's hard body
(15:50):
feels like a cage, and for the first time, I
don't just feel a disconnect, I feel a preference. I
want the other dance back. The party is a chaotic messive.
Body is in sound, the air smelling of spilled beer
and sweat. Someone puts a bottle in the middle of
the floor for a game of spin the bottle, and
(16:11):
I'm pulled into the circle, laughing despite myself. It's stupid,
juvenile and exactly the kind of thing I need. The
bottle spins a green blur on the cheap rug, and
it lands inevitably pointing at me. On the other side
of the circle is Sasha, a drama mater with eyes
like dark ink and a perpetually amused smirk. Ooh, Clara.
(16:35):
Someone shouts the rules are a real kiss at least
ten seconds make a count. A nervous laugh escapes me.
Sasha just raises a theatrical eyebrow, gets up and saunters over.
The crowd is hooting around us.
Speaker 1 (16:52):
Well, he can't break the rules and may as well
give them a show.
Speaker 4 (16:57):
I expect a quick, silly press of lips a joke.
That is not what I get. Sasha's hand comes up
to cradle the back of my head, her fingers tangling
gently in my hair, holding me in place. Her other
hand rests on my waist, pulling me firmly against her,
and then her mouth is on mine. It's not a joke,
(17:19):
it's a statement. Her lips are shockingly soft and taste
of red wine. She doesn't smash against me, she explores,
her mouth moving with a devastating, practiced confidence. I feel
the tip of her tongue, trace the seam of my lips,
A silent, insistent question, and my body, without any conscious
(17:39):
thought for me answers. I open my mouth. The timid,
confused girl I've always been simply evaporates. A deep, undeniable
want surges through me, a primal need that I've never
felt before. I kiss her back, my hands, finding her hips,
pulling her even closer the world in the taste of her,
(18:01):
the softness of her lips, the shocking, perfect rightness of
it all. She pulls away, after what could have been
ten seconds or ten lifetimes. There are hoots and haulers
and cheers for the crowd. It was a performance. But
Sasha's eyes are wide surprised. I touch my own lips.
They are tingling alive. The truth doesn't gently dawn on me.
(18:25):
It hits me like a physical blow, knocking the wind
for my lungs and leaving me utterly changed in the sudden,
ringing silence of my own mind. This goes against everything
I was taught. My parents would be shocked, my friends
at home would avoid me, the church would kick me out.
But it all feels too real. Too honest and too good.
(18:53):
I walk into Evelyn's office a week later, and the
air is different because I'm different. I meet her gaze,
my posture straight. There's a new quiet confidence humming under
my skin, a sense of self I didn't have before.
She notices immediately. The professional mask she wears so perfectly
is still there, but its edges seem softer. As I
(19:17):
talk about my revised thesis proposal, her eyes hold mine
for a fraction of a second too long. The slow,
approving smile she gives me isn't just for my academic insights.
It feels personal knowing. She comes around from behind her
desk to look at a reference book with me, and
she stands so close that I can feel the warmth
(19:37):
from her body, her scent of paper and expensive perfume
enveloping me. There is a palpable, humming energy that crackles
in the space between our bodies, and I love it.
Speaker 1 (19:50):
There's a new clarity in your arguments, Clara, a deeper conviction.
It's very compelling.
Speaker 4 (19:57):
I leave her office and walk out into the late
afternoon so on the campus grounds, bathed in a golden light.
The events of the past week spent in my mind,
the cold nothingness with Mark, the confusing beauty in the
locker room, the warm rightness of the dance with Mary,
the earth shattering revelation of the kiss with Sasha, and
(20:18):
now the charsed, undeniable energy with Evelyn. A piece is
click into place, forming a picture that is terrifying and
thrilling and undeniably true. I stop in the middle of
the crowded quad, the world moving around me as I
stand perfectly still, I'm a lesbian. The words form in
(20:41):
my mind, stark and clear. The confusion is still there,
a fog of uncertainty about what comes next. But beneath
it is a bedrock of certainty. This isn't a phase
or a whim or a sin. This is the very
core of who I am, and I have to investigate this.
(21:03):
It's too important, too real to ignore for a second longer.
My life, the one I'm actually meant to live, is
just beginning.
Speaker 1 (21:14):
The door to.
Speaker 4 (21:14):
Doctor Alistair's office clicks shut behind me, the sound sealing
me inside her world. The scent of old books and
something else, something warm, spicy and distinctly her, fills my lungs.
She's not behind the imposing oak desk that usually serves
as her fortress. Instead, she's leaning against the front of it,
(21:35):
one leg crossed over the other, a file my thesis outlined,
held loosely in one hand. A pose is casual, but
the effect is devastating. She's wearing a deep v silk blouse,
the color of a stormy sky. It's a professional garment,
but the way she wears it feels like a statement
of intent. The fabric drapes in a perfect alluring line,
(22:00):
drawing the eye down to the shadowed space between her breasts,
where a delicate silver chain rests against her skin. Clara,
the sound of my name in her low, intimate voice
makes my stomach cludge.
Speaker 1 (22:14):
Thank you for coming. I was very intrigued by your outline.
I try to focus on the papers in my trembling hands,
but my gaze betrays me. It flits from her intelligent,
knowing eyes to hunt to her mouth, and then inexorably
to the plunging line of her blouse. It's only for
a second, a quick guilty glance, but it's enough. When
(22:36):
my eyes snap back up to her face, she is
looking directly at me, and she knows a hot, mortifying
blush floods my cheeks. My mind is screaming. She saw you, God,
she saw you stare at her breasts. She thinks you're
a creep, a pervert. I'm about to stammer out in apology,
to make up some excuse, but she doesn't give me
(22:57):
the chance. There's no anger in her expression, no judgment. Instead,
for the briefest of moments, a slow, knowing smile touches
her lips before vanishing. She looks down at my outline,
tapping a perfectly manicured finger on the page, smoothly and masterfully,
giving me an escape. You've chosen Egon Shiel as a
(23:19):
focal point.
Speaker 4 (23:20):
Her voice is calm, though it seems to carry a new,
deeper vibration.
Speaker 1 (23:25):
A bold choice. His critics accused him of being a pornographer.
They fail to understand the difference between vulgarity and honesty.
Speaker 4 (23:34):
She looks up. Her gaze is so intense it feels
like a physical touch.
Speaker 1 (23:39):
It's never wrong to appreciate beauty, Clara. The key is
to be true to your own eye. So many people
are afraid of what they're drawn to. They censor themselves.
But art, real art, real life, requires the courage to
see things as they truly are, without shame.
Speaker 4 (23:57):
Every word is a perfectly aimed arrow, striking the very
center of my secret, terrified heart. She's talking about shield,
but she's talking about me. She's talking about the look
I just gave her. She isn't shaming me for it.
She's giving me permission for it. She's telling me that
my gaze isn't perverse, but honest. I manage a shaky nod,
(24:21):
Unable to speak, She pushes herself off the desk and
walks me to the door, stick gone nut. Her hand
rests for a moment on my shoulder. The warmth of
her touch seeps through my shirt, branding.
Speaker 1 (24:33):
Me, let that honesty inform your next draft.
Speaker 4 (24:38):
I walk out of her office and back into the
anonymous hallway, my body buzzing. I feel dizzy, electrified. She
wasn't just talking about my thesis. She was talking about me,
about the confusing, beautiful, terrifying things I've been feeling. She
saw it, she saw me, and for the first time
in my life, I don't feel shame. I feel profoundly,
(25:02):
breathtakingly scene. The conference room is hill and airless, smelling
of old coffee and academic anxiety. The two male professors
on the committee, doctor Gable and doctor Finch, sit across
the long mahogany table, looking impressed, slightly uncomfortable, and eager
to leave. I've just finished my final, passionate answer, and
(25:26):
the words still hang in the air, a testament to
the woman I've become.
Speaker 5 (25:31):
Doctor Gable clears his throat, HM, well, miss vance, an
exhaustive and compelling defense.
Speaker 1 (25:37):
Congratulations.
Speaker 4 (25:39):
Doctor Finch murmurs his agreement, and they gather their papers
with a rustle of finality, offering me tight formal smiles
before exiting the room. A heavy door click shut made
me alone in a sudden, ringing silence with Evelyn. She
hasn't moved. She remains seated at the end of the table,
regarding me, not with a kruical eye of a committee member,
(26:02):
but with an unnerving, palpable intensity. A slow, genuine smile
spreads across her lips.
Speaker 1 (26:09):
That was more than a defense clara, It was a manifesto.
Speaker 4 (26:15):
A praise lands deep inside me, a warm, spreading glow.
She rises and walks slowly around the table, not to leave,
but to lean her hip against the edge of it,
just a few feet away from me. The professional distance
has vanished. Tell me all that coded language you spoke of,
(26:36):
the subversive desire hidden in plain sight between the brushstrucks.
Do you find that it's still necessary? My heart stutters.
She isn't talking about my papers. I know she isn't.
Sometimes a candy, her smile widens, a flicker of something
hungry and knowing in her eyes.
Speaker 1 (26:58):
Or is it that once you confluent in the code,
you start to see it everywhere in a shared glance,
some lingering touch, perhaps a conversation that is pretending to
be about one thing when it is very very clearly
about another.
Speaker 4 (27:14):
She's talking about us, about every charged meeting in her office,
every loaded conversation over a page of art theory. I'm
out as dry. I can only nod. She pushes the
questioning further, her gaze on wavering, getting right up to
the line of appropriateness and then stepping deliberately over it.
Speaker 1 (27:35):
In the artist you chose, their work is so full
of a specific, palpable ache, the ache of wanting. Is
that an ache you understand now, Clara, not just academically,
but in your soul and in your body.
Speaker 4 (27:54):
She's asking me if I know what it is to
desire to want another woman so badly it feels like
a physical pain. She is asking me if I want her,
A question is so audacious, so far beyond the bounds
of Professor's student relationship, that it leaves me breathless. All
I can do is look at her. My answer is
(28:15):
plain on my wide, wanting eyes. He has a single word,
is a complete confession. A look of profound satisfaction crosses
her face. She has her answer. She pushes herself off
the table and walks to the door, her movements fluid
and impossibly elegant. She pauses with her hand on the knob,
(28:37):
turning back to face me one last time. The analytical
professor is gone, replaced by a woman whose own desire
is now an open, stunning thing.
Speaker 1 (28:47):
Well, Clara, your fluency is breath taken.
Speaker 4 (28:52):
And with that she is gone, leaving me alone in
the silent room, my heart hammering against my ribs, my
entire body tingling with the unmistakable, undeniable invitation she just
left hanging in the air. Graduation is a blur. My
very religious parents ask me about my thesis that earned
(29:14):
me high honors. From moment I panic. I can't tell them,
and I mumble something about art that they soon tune out.
Maybe some day they'll understand Egon Shiel. Maybe someday they'll
understand me. The dorm room echoes. My voice, if I
were to speak, would bounce off the bare walls where
posters used to hang, leaving pale, ghostly rectangles behind. The
(29:37):
Air is thick with the dry papery scent of cardboard
and the faint, dusty smell of four years at my
life being sealed away. I press the tape down on
the last box labeled books. The screech of the plastic
a sound of harsh finality. This chapter of my life
is over. I sink on to the stripped mattress, the
springs groaning in protest. I should feel tryph. I defended
(30:01):
my thesis, I graduated high honors. I am, for all
intents and purposes free at Looking at the stacked monument
of boxes, at the dismantled version of my life, all
I feel is a profound sense of melancholy, of being
adrift in the sudden, vast ocean of what comes next.
(30:23):
Just as the uncertainty threatens to swallow me whole, a
sharp electronic pain cuts through the silence. My laptop sits
on the floor, the only thing not yet packed. I
crawl over and see the notification on the screen. It's
an email. My heart does a painful, hopeful lurch when
I see the sender's name, a Alister. A subject line
(30:46):
is formal, almost cruelly so a final note and not
of dread titans in my stomach?
Speaker 3 (30:53):
Is this it?
Speaker 4 (30:54):
A polite professional farewell, a final congratulations before she recedes
back into the world of academ leaving me behind, leading
my fantasies to my own bed. With a trembling finger,
I click it open. The message is brutally beautifully.
Speaker 1 (31:13):
Simple, Clara, before you leave campus. I was hoping you
might stop by my office one last time. There's something
I'd like to give you, Evelyn.
Speaker 4 (31:22):
The words blur and then sharpen. It of what focus
so intense it steals my breath. There's something I'd like
to give you. The memory of her voice in the
conference from washes over me. Your fluency is breathtaking, she said.
This isn't about a recommended reading list. This isn't a
graduation gift to be wrapped in a university branded paper.
(31:44):
This is the door I know it I feel it.
I hope for it. This is the invitation I was
so terrified to hope for the one my body has
been aching for since the moment I truly understood who
I am. The melancholy that fill the room evaporates, replaced
by a surge of adrenaline so powerful my hands shake.
(32:05):
The uncertainty of my future crystallizes into a single, shining
point of purpose. My fingers fly across the keyboard, my
reply a single decisive word. I don't wait for a response.
I snap the laptop shut, grab my keys from the
dusty desk, and walk out of the room without a
backward glance, leaving the boxes and the girl I used
(32:26):
to be behind. The campus is quiet, now bathed in
the long shadows of the late afternoon, but the familiar
paths feel different under my feet. I'm not a student
walk into a meeting. I'm not a girl seeking approval.
I am a graduate, no longer a student appear. I'm
a woman walking with a steady, determined stride, heading toward
(32:49):
the Humanity's building and the only future that matters. A
heavy oak door of her office clicks shut behind me,
the sound of final, definitive end to our old world.
Evelyn is not behind her desk. She stands by the window,
a glass of amber liquid in hand, the campus lights
painting a halo around her silhouette. She turns, and the
(33:12):
academic severity in her eyes has been replaced by something softer, warmer,
and undeniably hungry.
Speaker 1 (33:20):
Clara, I'm glad you came, you invited me.
Speaker 4 (33:26):
A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face.
Speaker 1 (33:29):
I did.
Speaker 4 (33:31):
She gestures with her glass toward the leather chaise lounge.
Speaker 1 (33:34):
We're no longer professor and stutent, Clara.
Speaker 4 (33:36):
She takes a step closer, the scent of her perfume,
that familiar, intoxicating mix of spice and paper, enveloping me.
She stops just before me, her caze intense.
Speaker 1 (33:49):
Well, perhaps in some areas there are still a few
lessons to be taught.
Speaker 4 (33:55):
Her free hand comes up, and she traces a single
electric line from my collarbone, up the calm of my
throat to my jaw. Her touch is not a test,
but a statement, a promise, and perhaps her thumb is
now stroking my bottom lip.
Speaker 1 (34:14):
You have a few things to teach me.
Speaker 4 (34:17):
She leans in and kisses me. It's not the kiss
from the party born of a dare. Nor is it
a lesson. It is a mutual, desperate claiming. Her lips
are soft and sure, and I meet them with all
the pennant want of the last four years, my hands
tangling in her hair, pulling her to me. It is
a kiss of equals, a deep, searching, passionate conversation that
(34:41):
says everything we never could in this office before. When
she finally pulls back, we are both breathless. She takes
my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine, and leads me
to the chaise. She doesn't command me to lie down.
We sink into the coal leather together, a tangle of
limbs and eyes unspoken need. She is the one who
(35:02):
kneels before me, but is not an act of authority.
It is an act of worship. Her hands, so skilled
and sure, find the hem of my skirt and slowly,
reverently pushed the fabric up my thighs. Her gaze is unwavering,
a look of profound appreciation that makes a hot wet
agge pool between my legs.
Speaker 1 (35:23):
I believe in your thesis, you said, Egon, She'll believe
the body was a vessel for ecstasy. But see if
he was right.
Speaker 4 (35:31):
Her mouth is on me, and the world dissolves into pure,
unadulterated sensation. She is an artist and my body is
her canvas. Her tongue is a brush, but now the
strokes are not a lesson in control, but a desperate,
hungry exploration. She paints slow, deliberate lines along my inner lips,
(35:52):
before focusing on my clit with a lover's single minded intensity.
It is a pleasure so sharp, so focused, that I
grip the edges of the chaise. My knuckle's white. Her
tongue is soft, and it runs up and down my lips.
The intensity of the sensation simply unbelievable. She brings me
(36:14):
to the brink. Her name a gasp on my lips,
and she looks up, her eyes dark with passion.
Speaker 1 (36:21):
Tell me what you want, Clara.
Speaker 4 (36:23):
She whispers it against my skin, and the question itself,
this simple, beautiful act of asking, is enough to drive
me over the edge. My orgasm is a violent shuddering
wave that rips through me, a raw vocal cry of
release that echoes off the book lined walls. At some
moment of complete and total arrival, I'm left panting my
(36:47):
body a trembling, hypersensitive mess. She rises and kisses me deeply,
the taste of myself on her lips. As I'm pulling
myself together my clothes at tangled mess, I look at her,
at the woman who saw me and waited for me,
and my heart overflows. My turn. My voice is thick
(37:08):
with pleasure and a newfound, unshakable confidence. I guide her
down onto the shades, her body pliant and eager under
my hands. I'm the artist, now, explore. I kiss my
way down the elegant line of her body, unbuttoning her
soap blouse to finally feel the warm, soft skin beneath.
I taste the salt on her skin, I breathe in
(37:31):
her scent, and when I finally part her legs and
taste her for the first time, a groan of pure
pleasure is torn from her throat. I give her everything
she gave to me, the focus, the artistry, and the
final consuming release, feeling her body convulsed and hearing her
cry out my name. Afterward, we lay tangled together, her
(37:55):
head resting on my chest. The silence in the office
is no longer tense, but filled with a deep, peaceful contentment.
She tilts her head up to look at me, a soft,
satisfied smile on her lips.
Speaker 1 (38:09):
So what happens now?
Speaker 4 (38:12):
I went my fingers through her hair, A feeling of
silken strands, a grounding, wonderful reality. I answer in the
only way I know how. I press a kiss to
her forehead. Now that I've graduated, I guess the real
research is just beginning.
Speaker 3 (38:32):
Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy Callahan,
and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by tenth
Mused Studio
Speaker 5 (39:00):
Two.
Hey there.
Speaker 2 (00:00):
This is Annie and I play Emma in the Swipewright
series of episodes here on Roxy's Erotic Whispers. I just
wanted to let you know that Roxy has all of
the Swipe Right stories now available in a deluxe e book.
You can find it on Amazon at Roxy dot show
slash swipe Right All one word. If you enjoyed the
(00:21):
Swipe Right episodes, you'll love reading ebook.
Speaker 3 (00:25):
Hello, my love lies, I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to
my Erotic Whispers, the podcast where we celebrate the sexual
empowerment of women through the power of stories. Sometimes that
empowerment is via just enjoying a hard fuck with a
stranger who's the right person at the right time, and
(00:46):
sometimes it's the culmination of romantic moments or even self discovery.
This week's episode is about discovery, discovering the sexual being
you truly are. It was co written by Kate from
Good Girls with Dirty Mind Studio and myself. Kate wrote
(01:06):
a wonderful episode of the Your Daily Fuck podcast called Lessons,
and I loved it so much I asked her if
we could collaborate on a longer piece for my podcast,
and I'm thrilled. She said yes, I'll link to her
original episode in the description. The stars this week are
Riley and Heather, and please note, as always, this podcast
(01:31):
is intended for adult listeners.
Speaker 4 (01:37):
The coffee shop is aggressively cheerful, a brightly lit box
of blonde wood and the incessant hiss of the espresso machine.
It smells of burnt sugar and the vague, milky perfume
of the girl wiping down the counter across from me.
Mark smiles. It's a good smile, technically symmetrical, teeth straight.
(02:00):
It's the kind of smile that's supposed to make a
girl's stomach do a little flip. Mine remains stubbornly clinically still.
Speaker 5 (02:09):
So lacrosse is going well?
Speaker 4 (02:10):
Then he leans forward over his untouched scone.
Speaker 5 (02:14):
You guys are undefeated, right, that's awesome, it's good.
Speaker 4 (02:19):
My own smile feels like a mask I've painted on.
Practice is brutal, but it's a good outlet.
Speaker 5 (02:26):
I bet you're so intense. I see you on campus,
always with your books, looking like you're about to solve
a major world problem.
Speaker 4 (02:36):
He means it as a compliment. I register this intellectually.
The proper response, of course, is a blush, a self
deprecating laugh, a gentle deflection. It is step three in
the standard courtship ritual, following step two, the offering of
a sincere sounding compliment. I observe the sequence of events
(02:57):
with a detached curiosity. My mouth performs the laugh I'm
supposed to give, hardly of just trying not to fail
my art history seminar.
Speaker 5 (03:07):
No way you're failing. You're like the smartest person I know.
Speaker 4 (03:12):
And then it happens Step four, the attempt at physical intimacy.
His hand moves across the small table, a slow, deliberate advance.
I watch it the way a biologist might watch a
creature extending a feeler. His fingers are clean, his nails
neatly trimmed. The hand settles over mine, which rests on
the cool, slightly sticky tabletop. His skin meets mine, but
(03:38):
there's no spark, no jolt of electricity, no sudden breath
stealing warmth. There's only pressure and texture, the faint dryness
of his palm, the slight weight of his fingers blanketing
my own. He begins to stroke the back of my
hand with his thumb, a slow, rhythmic gesture that is
meant to be soothing, intimate. A prelude does something more.
(03:59):
I want it to be thrilling. I want to touch
him back. I want him to hold my hand and
for me to be nervous and excited. But I'm not.
My mind simply catalogs the sensations rhythmic pressure applied to epidermis,
temperature differential negligible, no corresponding increase in heart rate. I
(04:20):
feel like I'm narrating a lab report. I'm supposed to
feel a flutter, a blush rising in my cheeks, a
sudden desire to lean closer. I'm supposed to turn my
hand over and intertwine my fingers with his. Instead, I
have an overwhelming urge to pull away, not from disgust,
but from a profound sense of nothing. It feels like
(04:43):
a handshake that has gone on too long. A foreign
object has been placed on my body, and I am
simply observing it, waiting for the experiment to conclude. I
look from our joined hands up to his face. He's
smiling again, his eyes full of a hopeful, gentle light.
He thinks this is working, he thinks we're connecting, And
(05:05):
all I can wonder is what's wrong?
Speaker 1 (05:06):
With me. Why does the.
Speaker 4 (05:08):
Single most universal human ritual feel like a language I
can't speak, a performance whose lines I've forgotten. I look
at his perfectly nice face and his perfectly nice hand
on mine, and I feel a deep hollow ache, the
ache of an empty space I didn't even know I had.
(05:30):
The air in the locker room is thick and white,
with steam tasting of chlorine and soap. Sound is slick
and distorted. Here, the rhythmic slap of wet feet on tile,
the percussive drip from a dozen shower heads, echo of
laughter bouncing off the damp tiled walls. My muscles scream
with the deep satisfying ache of a brutal practice. And
(05:52):
as I peel off the muddy, sweat soaked layers of
my uniform, I let my intellectual guard peel off with him.
For a moment moment, this is my museum. The casual,
unthinking nudity of my teammates becomes a gallery of living sculptures.
I see it all through my art history filter. It's
the only way that feels safe. A girl leaning against
(06:14):
a locker, her back curved in a perfect odalisque pose,
Ingre would have coveted, another toweling her hair, the tension
in her neck and shoulders, a study in kiscouro, light
and shadow playing over the hard lines of muscle. It's beautiful,
it's academic. It's a series of profound aesthetic experiences that
(06:35):
the date with Mark, with its sterile conversation and pointless touch,
could never hope to match. My gaze drifts landing on Jess.
She's standing under the light by the mirrors, one foot
propped on the bench as she leisurely rubs lotion onto
her long, powerful leg. The steam parts around her for
a moment, and my breath catches. She is shaved completely.
(07:01):
My artistics ie kicks in immediately, a desperate defense mechanism.
Such a clean, elegant line, I think my mind grasping
for the familiar comfort of analysis. A single confident stroke
egg on shield, would have adored the stark, minimalist honesty
of it. The beauty isn't in what's there, but in
the simplicity of the form itself. But the analysis is
(07:24):
failing me. The armor is cracking, because a brushstroke on
a canvas is a static thing. It's a final, closed statement.
This line, This is the furthest thing from an ending.
It's a seem it's suggestion, it's an invitation. My academic
brain tries to fight back to talk about the negative
(07:45):
space and composition, but it's drowned out by a louder, deeper,
more primal voice I've never heard before, or desperately tried
to stifle. A paintbrush can't know the impossible softness of
the skin on either side of that line. An artist's
charcoal can't capture the subtle, shadowed heat that must emanate
from it. My gaze is fixed, and the world of
(08:08):
theory dissolves. All that is left is the physical, the tangible,
the wanting. I can't stop myself from wondering what it
would be like to trace that perfect line, not with
a brush, but with the tip of my finger, to
feel the skin give weight to something softer, wetter, to
(08:29):
open netline, to part those lips to see what's inside,
to touch it, to taste it. A sudden, shocking wave
of heat pulls between my own legs, a wet, heavy
ache that is entirely new, But if I'm honest with myself,
really isn't. My mouth is dry, my hard hammers against
(08:50):
my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. This isn't a sthetic appreciation,
this isn't a profound study of the human form. Pits
raw in its terrifying, and it feels more real than
anything I've ever felt in my life. Intellectual struggle is
over before it even began. Lust is winning.
Speaker 1 (09:09):
Thank God.
Speaker 4 (09:10):
I don't even know what to do with it. Doctor
Evelyn Alistair commence the lecture halp, not with volume, but
with a gravitational pull. She paces before the projection screen,
a slow, deliberate predator in her intellectual domain.
Speaker 1 (09:27):
Today.
Speaker 4 (09:28):
She's in dark, impeccably tailored trousers and a cream colored
silk blouse under a sharp fitted blazer. She is a
fortress of academic rigor, and yet I can't help but
notice the way the silk shimmers over the smell of
her breast as she moves. The projected image shifts to
an Egon shield nude, a woman with limbs like twisted branches,
(09:50):
her body stark and confrontational. The room is silent, captivated.
Speaker 1 (09:56):
Many male artists of his time painted women is passive,
af objects, reclining venus figures arranged for the comfort of
the male gaze. Shiel. She almost different.
Speaker 4 (10:09):
She stops pacing her silhouette framed against the raw painted
flesh on the screen.
Speaker 1 (10:14):
He was obsessed, not worth possessing the female form, but
with revealing its own, inherent, often tortured sexuality. It's an
honesty few men are capable of seeing, let alone capturing.
Speaker 4 (10:29):
She turns her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over the
darkened rows of students. It feels like she's looking directly at.
Speaker 1 (10:35):
Me, and as a woman who loves women.
Speaker 4 (10:39):
She says the words with such casual, unimpeachable confidence that
the air leaves my lungs in a silent rush, a thunderclap,
in the quiet of my own confusion.
Speaker 1 (10:49):
I find his work uniquely resonant. He strips away the
performance of femininity, the one intended for men, and leaves
only the raw, electric truth of the bar, the awkward angles,
the confrontational stares. This is sexuality that exists for itself,
for itself.
Speaker 4 (11:11):
The phrase lands in my mind and detonates.
Speaker 1 (11:14):
That's it.
Speaker 4 (11:15):
That's what I saw in the locker room. The casual,
powerful beauty of my teammates wasn't a performance for anyone.
It was just them. And here is this brilliant, beautiful woman,
giving it a name, validating the very thing I was
too afraid to comprehend. She understands. Of course, she understands,
(11:35):
she lives it. Suddenly, my academic admiration feels hopelessly inadequate,
a thin veil for the raw, aching desired churning inside me.
My artist's eye, the safe filter I've been hiding behind
is gone. I'm no longer studying a professor. I'm staring
at a woman, and I'm consumed with a want so
(11:56):
profound it feels like hunger. She's brilliant, she's charismatic, she's sexy.
A lecture ends, students. Russell notebook snap shot bags are zipped.
I remain in my seat, unable to move, my gaze
locked on her. I watch the way she gathers her notes,
(12:17):
her long, elegant fingers moving with an unhurried grace. I
watch the fluid, confident shift of her hips as she
turns to erase the board. The sharp, clean line of
her blazer over her shoulders only serves to highlight the
softness it conceals. I find myself tracing the path of
her soap blouse, imagining the warmth of the skin beneath,
(12:38):
though it would feel against my own. My eyes follow
the severe, perfect cut of her trousers, down the long,
elegant line of her leg, to her sensible, yet decidedly sexy,
heeled boots. I wonder, with a sudden, dizzying intensity, what
it would feel like to kneel before her, to unbutton
that perfect blouse and plays the soft crust of silk
(13:02):
with my own trembling hands. What is wrong with me?
I think, as I gather my own books and depart
in a hurry. A university formal is a sea of
predictable black suits and shimmering hopeful dresses. The air is
thick with cologne and hair spray, and a bad cover
band is murdering a slow song from the nineties. Mary
(13:24):
my Lacrossec Captain rolls her eyes dramatically from our table.
Speaker 1 (13:29):
Goddess is a bust.
Speaker 4 (13:30):
She gestures with her chin at the dance floor. All
the decent dancers are taken, and my date is more
interested in the open bar. Come on, she stands, offering
me a hand. Let's just sway for a bit so
we can say we danced, or make someone else jealous.
It's an innocent, practical invitation, an act of solidarity against
a boring night, and I take her hand on the floor.
(13:55):
She places one hand on my waist and takes my other,
her grip firm and familiar. It's just Mary, it's just
a dance. But the moment we start to move, my
entire world tilts on its axis. The clinical distance I
felt with Mark is long gone, replaced by a hyper
awareness of every point of contact. Our body is warm
(14:15):
and solid against mine. Through the thin fabric of our dresses.
I could feel a soft, full press of her breasts
against my own. Our waists are so close, I can
feel a heat radiating from her skin. It feels right,
it feels natural. A quiet, terrifying explosion is happening in
the pit of my stomach, a warmth that has nothing
(14:36):
to do with a stuffy room and everything to do
with a woman holding me.
Speaker 1 (14:40):
This is just.
Speaker 4 (14:41):
Mary, I tell myself. But my heart is pounding a frantic,
undeniable rhythm. Why does this feel more real, more intimate
than any time a boy has held me? The song
ends and we walk off the floor, laughing about the
terrible saxophone solo. But before I can even process the
storm of sensation inside me. A guy is there, Alex,
(15:03):
captain of the swim team, handsome in that effortless, sun
bleached way. He asks me to dance, and I agree
on autopilot. He pulls me close, his grip possessive. His
chest is a wall of hard muscle against me, and
I can immediately feel the insistent, rigid press of his
erection against my stomach. He's clearly into me. He smells good,
(15:27):
he looks good, and his hand is firm on the
smell of my back. It is by every metric I've
been taught, a perfect scenario, and all I want is
to be back in Mary's arms. All I can think
about is the memory of soft breast against soft breast,
the uncomplicated warmth, the feeling of rightness. Alex's hard body
(15:50):
feels like a cage, and for the first time, I
don't just feel a disconnect, I feel a preference. I
want the other dance back. The party is a chaotic messive.
Body is in sound, the air smelling of spilled beer
and sweat. Someone puts a bottle in the middle of
the floor for a game of spin the bottle, and
(16:11):
I'm pulled into the circle, laughing despite myself. It's stupid,
juvenile and exactly the kind of thing I need. The
bottle spins a green blur on the cheap rug, and
it lands inevitably pointing at me. On the other side
of the circle is Sasha, a drama mater with eyes
like dark ink and a perpetually amused smirk. Ooh, Clara.
(16:35):
Someone shouts the rules are a real kiss at least
ten seconds make a count. A nervous laugh escapes me.
Sasha just raises a theatrical eyebrow, gets up and saunters over.
The crowd is hooting around us.
Speaker 1 (16:52):
Well, he can't break the rules and may as well
give them a show.
Speaker 4 (16:57):
I expect a quick, silly press of lips a joke.
That is not what I get. Sasha's hand comes up
to cradle the back of my head, her fingers tangling
gently in my hair, holding me in place. Her other
hand rests on my waist, pulling me firmly against her,
and then her mouth is on mine. It's not a joke,
(17:19):
it's a statement. Her lips are shockingly soft and taste
of red wine. She doesn't smash against me, she explores,
her mouth moving with a devastating, practiced confidence. I feel
the tip of her tongue, trace the seam of my lips,
A silent, insistent question, and my body, without any conscious
(17:39):
thought for me answers. I open my mouth. The timid,
confused girl I've always been simply evaporates. A deep, undeniable
want surges through me, a primal need that I've never
felt before. I kiss her back, my hands, finding her hips,
pulling her even closer the world in the taste of her,
(18:01):
the softness of her lips, the shocking, perfect rightness of
it all. She pulls away, after what could have been
ten seconds or ten lifetimes. There are hoots and haulers
and cheers for the crowd. It was a performance. But
Sasha's eyes are wide surprised. I touch my own lips.
They are tingling alive. The truth doesn't gently dawn on me.
(18:25):
It hits me like a physical blow, knocking the wind
for my lungs and leaving me utterly changed in the sudden,
ringing silence of my own mind. This goes against everything
I was taught. My parents would be shocked, my friends
at home would avoid me, the church would kick me out.
But it all feels too real. Too honest and too good.
(18:53):
I walk into Evelyn's office a week later, and the
air is different because I'm different. I meet her gaze,
my posture straight. There's a new quiet confidence humming under
my skin, a sense of self I didn't have before.
She notices immediately. The professional mask she wears so perfectly
is still there, but its edges seem softer. As I
(19:17):
talk about my revised thesis proposal, her eyes hold mine
for a fraction of a second too long. The slow,
approving smile she gives me isn't just for my academic insights.
It feels personal knowing. She comes around from behind her
desk to look at a reference book with me, and
she stands so close that I can feel the warmth
(19:37):
from her body, her scent of paper and expensive perfume
enveloping me. There is a palpable, humming energy that crackles
in the space between our bodies, and I love it.
Speaker 1 (19:50):
There's a new clarity in your arguments, Clara, a deeper conviction.
It's very compelling.
Speaker 4 (19:57):
I leave her office and walk out into the late
afternoon so on the campus grounds, bathed in a golden light.
The events of the past week spent in my mind,
the cold nothingness with Mark, the confusing beauty in the
locker room, the warm rightness of the dance with Mary,
the earth shattering revelation of the kiss with Sasha, and
(20:18):
now the charsed, undeniable energy with Evelyn. A piece is
click into place, forming a picture that is terrifying and
thrilling and undeniably true. I stop in the middle of
the crowded quad, the world moving around me as I
stand perfectly still, I'm a lesbian. The words form in
(20:41):
my mind, stark and clear. The confusion is still there,
a fog of uncertainty about what comes next. But beneath
it is a bedrock of certainty. This isn't a phase
or a whim or a sin. This is the very
core of who I am, and I have to investigate this.
(21:03):
It's too important, too real to ignore for a second longer.
My life, the one I'm actually meant to live, is
just beginning.
Speaker 1 (21:14):
The door to.
Speaker 4 (21:14):
Doctor Alistair's office clicks shut behind me, the sound sealing
me inside her world. The scent of old books and
something else, something warm, spicy and distinctly her, fills my lungs.
She's not behind the imposing oak desk that usually serves
as her fortress. Instead, she's leaning against the front of it,
(21:35):
one leg crossed over the other, a file my thesis outlined,
held loosely in one hand. A pose is casual, but
the effect is devastating. She's wearing a deep v silk blouse,
the color of a stormy sky. It's a professional garment,
but the way she wears it feels like a statement
of intent. The fabric drapes in a perfect alluring line,
(22:00):
drawing the eye down to the shadowed space between her breasts,
where a delicate silver chain rests against her skin. Clara,
the sound of my name in her low, intimate voice
makes my stomach cludge.
Speaker 1 (22:14):
Thank you for coming. I was very intrigued by your outline.
I try to focus on the papers in my trembling hands,
but my gaze betrays me. It flits from her intelligent,
knowing eyes to hunt to her mouth, and then inexorably
to the plunging line of her blouse. It's only for
a second, a quick guilty glance, but it's enough. When
(22:36):
my eyes snap back up to her face, she is
looking directly at me, and she knows a hot, mortifying
blush floods my cheeks. My mind is screaming. She saw you, God,
she saw you stare at her breasts. She thinks you're
a creep, a pervert. I'm about to stammer out in apology,
to make up some excuse, but she doesn't give me
(22:57):
the chance. There's no anger in her expression, no judgment. Instead,
for the briefest of moments, a slow, knowing smile touches
her lips before vanishing. She looks down at my outline,
tapping a perfectly manicured finger on the page, smoothly and masterfully,
giving me an escape. You've chosen Egon Shiel as a
(23:19):
focal point.
Speaker 4 (23:20):
Her voice is calm, though it seems to carry a new,
deeper vibration.
Speaker 1 (23:25):
A bold choice. His critics accused him of being a pornographer.
They fail to understand the difference between vulgarity and honesty.
Speaker 4 (23:34):
She looks up. Her gaze is so intense it feels
like a physical touch.
Speaker 1 (23:39):
It's never wrong to appreciate beauty, Clara. The key is
to be true to your own eye. So many people
are afraid of what they're drawn to. They censor themselves.
But art, real art, real life, requires the courage to
see things as they truly are, without shame.
Speaker 4 (23:57):
Every word is a perfectly aimed arrow, striking the very
center of my secret, terrified heart. She's talking about shield,
but she's talking about me. She's talking about the look
I just gave her. She isn't shaming me for it.
She's giving me permission for it. She's telling me that
my gaze isn't perverse, but honest. I manage a shaky nod,
(24:21):
Unable to speak, She pushes herself off the desk and
walks me to the door, stick gone nut. Her hand
rests for a moment on my shoulder. The warmth of
her touch seeps through my shirt, branding.
Speaker 1 (24:33):
Me, let that honesty inform your next draft.
Speaker 4 (24:38):
I walk out of her office and back into the
anonymous hallway, my body buzzing. I feel dizzy, electrified. She
wasn't just talking about my thesis. She was talking about me,
about the confusing, beautiful, terrifying things I've been feeling. She
saw it, she saw me, and for the first time
in my life, I don't feel shame. I feel profoundly,
(25:02):
breathtakingly scene. The conference room is hill and airless, smelling
of old coffee and academic anxiety. The two male professors
on the committee, doctor Gable and doctor Finch, sit across
the long mahogany table, looking impressed, slightly uncomfortable, and eager
to leave. I've just finished my final, passionate answer, and
(25:26):
the words still hang in the air, a testament to
the woman I've become.
Speaker 5 (25:31):
Doctor Gable clears his throat, HM, well, miss vance, an
exhaustive and compelling defense.
Speaker 1 (25:37):
Congratulations.
Speaker 4 (25:39):
Doctor Finch murmurs his agreement, and they gather their papers
with a rustle of finality, offering me tight formal smiles
before exiting the room. A heavy door click shut made
me alone in a sudden, ringing silence with Evelyn. She
hasn't moved. She remains seated at the end of the table,
regarding me, not with a kruical eye of a committee member,
(26:02):
but with an unnerving, palpable intensity. A slow, genuine smile
spreads across her lips.
Speaker 1 (26:09):
That was more than a defense clara, It was a manifesto.
Speaker 4 (26:15):
A praise lands deep inside me, a warm, spreading glow.
She rises and walks slowly around the table, not to leave,
but to lean her hip against the edge of it,
just a few feet away from me. The professional distance
has vanished. Tell me all that coded language you spoke of,
(26:36):
the subversive desire hidden in plain sight between the brushstrucks.
Do you find that it's still necessary? My heart stutters.
She isn't talking about my papers. I know she isn't.
Sometimes a candy, her smile widens, a flicker of something
hungry and knowing in her eyes.
Speaker 1 (26:58):
Or is it that once you confluent in the code,
you start to see it everywhere in a shared glance,
some lingering touch, perhaps a conversation that is pretending to
be about one thing when it is very very clearly
about another.
Speaker 4 (27:14):
She's talking about us, about every charged meeting in her office,
every loaded conversation over a page of art theory. I'm
out as dry. I can only nod. She pushes the
questioning further, her gaze on wavering, getting right up to
the line of appropriateness and then stepping deliberately over it.
Speaker 1 (27:35):
In the artist you chose, their work is so full
of a specific, palpable ache, the ache of wanting. Is
that an ache you understand now, Clara, not just academically,
but in your soul and in your body.
Speaker 4 (27:54):
She's asking me if I know what it is to
desire to want another woman so badly it feels like
a physical pain. She is asking me if I want her,
A question is so audacious, so far beyond the bounds
of Professor's student relationship, that it leaves me breathless. All
I can do is look at her. My answer is
(28:15):
plain on my wide, wanting eyes. He has a single word,
is a complete confession. A look of profound satisfaction crosses
her face. She has her answer. She pushes herself off
the table and walks to the door, her movements fluid
and impossibly elegant. She pauses with her hand on the knob,
(28:37):
turning back to face me one last time. The analytical
professor is gone, replaced by a woman whose own desire
is now an open, stunning thing.
Speaker 1 (28:47):
Well, Clara, your fluency is breath taken.
Speaker 4 (28:52):
And with that she is gone, leaving me alone in
the silent room, my heart hammering against my ribs, my
entire body tingling with the unmistakable, undeniable invitation she just
left hanging in the air. Graduation is a blur. My
very religious parents ask me about my thesis that earned
(29:14):
me high honors. From moment I panic. I can't tell them,
and I mumble something about art that they soon tune out.
Maybe some day they'll understand Egon Shiel. Maybe someday they'll
understand me. The dorm room echoes. My voice, if I
were to speak, would bounce off the bare walls where
posters used to hang, leaving pale, ghostly rectangles behind. The
(29:37):
Air is thick with the dry papery scent of cardboard
and the faint, dusty smell of four years at my
life being sealed away. I press the tape down on
the last box labeled books. The screech of the plastic
a sound of harsh finality. This chapter of my life
is over. I sink on to the stripped mattress, the
springs groaning in protest. I should feel tryph. I defended
(30:01):
my thesis, I graduated high honors. I am, for all
intents and purposes free at Looking at the stacked monument
of boxes, at the dismantled version of my life, all
I feel is a profound sense of melancholy, of being
adrift in the sudden, vast ocean of what comes next.
(30:23):
Just as the uncertainty threatens to swallow me whole, a
sharp electronic pain cuts through the silence. My laptop sits
on the floor, the only thing not yet packed. I
crawl over and see the notification on the screen. It's
an email. My heart does a painful, hopeful lurch when
I see the sender's name, a Alister. A subject line
(30:46):
is formal, almost cruelly so a final note and not
of dread titans in my stomach?
Speaker 3 (30:53):
Is this it?
Speaker 4 (30:54):
A polite professional farewell, a final congratulations before she recedes
back into the world of academ leaving me behind, leading
my fantasies to my own bed. With a trembling finger,
I click it open. The message is brutally beautifully.
Speaker 1 (31:13):
Simple, Clara, before you leave campus. I was hoping you
might stop by my office one last time. There's something
I'd like to give you, Evelyn.
Speaker 4 (31:22):
The words blur and then sharpen. It of what focus
so intense it steals my breath. There's something I'd like
to give you. The memory of her voice in the
conference from washes over me. Your fluency is breathtaking, she said.
This isn't about a recommended reading list. This isn't a
graduation gift to be wrapped in a university branded paper.
(31:44):
This is the door I know it I feel it.
I hope for it. This is the invitation I was
so terrified to hope for the one my body has
been aching for since the moment I truly understood who
I am. The melancholy that fill the room evaporates, replaced
by a surge of adrenaline so powerful my hands shake.
(32:05):
The uncertainty of my future crystallizes into a single, shining
point of purpose. My fingers fly across the keyboard, my
reply a single decisive word. I don't wait for a response.
I snap the laptop shut, grab my keys from the
dusty desk, and walk out of the room without a
backward glance, leaving the boxes and the girl I used
(32:26):
to be behind. The campus is quiet, now bathed in
the long shadows of the late afternoon, but the familiar
paths feel different under my feet. I'm not a student
walk into a meeting. I'm not a girl seeking approval.
I am a graduate, no longer a student appear. I'm
a woman walking with a steady, determined stride, heading toward
(32:49):
the Humanity's building and the only future that matters. A
heavy oak door of her office clicks shut behind me,
the sound of final, definitive end to our old world.
Evelyn is not behind her desk. She stands by the window,
a glass of amber liquid in hand, the campus lights
painting a halo around her silhouette. She turns, and the
(33:12):
academic severity in her eyes has been replaced by something softer, warmer,
and undeniably hungry.
Speaker 1 (33:20):
Clara, I'm glad you came, you invited me.
Speaker 4 (33:26):
A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face.
Speaker 1 (33:29):
I did.
Speaker 4 (33:31):
She gestures with her glass toward the leather chaise lounge.
Speaker 1 (33:34):
We're no longer professor and stutent, Clara.
Speaker 4 (33:36):
She takes a step closer, the scent of her perfume,
that familiar, intoxicating mix of spice and paper, enveloping me.
She stops just before me, her caze intense.
Speaker 1 (33:49):
Well, perhaps in some areas there are still a few
lessons to be taught.
Speaker 4 (33:55):
Her free hand comes up, and she traces a single
electric line from my collarbone, up the calm of my
throat to my jaw. Her touch is not a test,
but a statement, a promise, and perhaps her thumb is
now stroking my bottom lip.
Speaker 1 (34:14):
You have a few things to teach me.
Speaker 4 (34:17):
She leans in and kisses me. It's not the kiss
from the party born of a dare. Nor is it
a lesson. It is a mutual, desperate claiming. Her lips
are soft and sure, and I meet them with all
the pennant want of the last four years, my hands
tangling in her hair, pulling her to me. It is
a kiss of equals, a deep, searching, passionate conversation that
(34:41):
says everything we never could in this office before. When
she finally pulls back, we are both breathless. She takes
my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine, and leads me
to the chaise. She doesn't command me to lie down.
We sink into the coal leather together, a tangle of
limbs and eyes unspoken need. She is the one who
(35:02):
kneels before me, but is not an act of authority.
It is an act of worship. Her hands, so skilled
and sure, find the hem of my skirt and slowly,
reverently pushed the fabric up my thighs. Her gaze is unwavering,
a look of profound appreciation that makes a hot wet
agge pool between my legs.
Speaker 1 (35:23):
I believe in your thesis, you said, Egon, She'll believe
the body was a vessel for ecstasy. But see if
he was right.
Speaker 4 (35:31):
Her mouth is on me, and the world dissolves into pure,
unadulterated sensation. She is an artist and my body is
her canvas. Her tongue is a brush, but now the
strokes are not a lesson in control, but a desperate,
hungry exploration. She paints slow, deliberate lines along my inner lips,
(35:52):
before focusing on my clit with a lover's single minded intensity.
It is a pleasure so sharp, so focused, that I
grip the edges of the chaise. My knuckle's white. Her
tongue is soft, and it runs up and down my lips.
The intensity of the sensation simply unbelievable. She brings me
(36:14):
to the brink. Her name a gasp on my lips,
and she looks up, her eyes dark with passion.
Speaker 1 (36:21):
Tell me what you want, Clara.
Speaker 4 (36:23):
She whispers it against my skin, and the question itself,
this simple, beautiful act of asking, is enough to drive
me over the edge. My orgasm is a violent shuddering
wave that rips through me, a raw vocal cry of
release that echoes off the book lined walls. At some
moment of complete and total arrival, I'm left panting my
(36:47):
body a trembling, hypersensitive mess. She rises and kisses me deeply,
the taste of myself on her lips. As I'm pulling
myself together my clothes at tangled mess, I look at her,
at the woman who saw me and waited for me,
and my heart overflows. My turn. My voice is thick
(37:08):
with pleasure and a newfound, unshakable confidence. I guide her
down onto the shades, her body pliant and eager under
my hands. I'm the artist, now, explore. I kiss my
way down the elegant line of her body, unbuttoning her
soap blouse to finally feel the warm, soft skin beneath.
I taste the salt on her skin, I breathe in
(37:31):
her scent, and when I finally part her legs and
taste her for the first time, a groan of pure
pleasure is torn from her throat. I give her everything
she gave to me, the focus, the artistry, and the
final consuming release, feeling her body convulsed and hearing her
cry out my name. Afterward, we lay tangled together, her
(37:55):
head resting on my chest. The silence in the office
is no longer tense, but filled with a deep, peaceful contentment.
She tilts her head up to look at me, a soft,
satisfied smile on her lips.
Speaker 1 (38:09):
So what happens now?
Speaker 4 (38:12):
I went my fingers through her hair, A feeling of
silken strands, a grounding, wonderful reality. I answer in the
only way I know how. I press a kiss to
her forehead. Now that I've graduated, I guess the real
research is just beginning.
Speaker 3 (38:32):
Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy Callahan,
and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by tenth
Mused Studio
Speaker 5 (39:00):
Two.
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