Mr. Murphy's Mattress

iii. Lolita

"Let me just lock it up," Mr. Murphy said, grabbing his keys. He brought you outside the classroom and locked the door, then unlocking his car and helping you get in. The drive was quite long to his place, and God, it was awkward.

"Here," you whispered, sliding your hand on his lap, but he quickly shoved your hand away and shook his head.

"None of that."

When you both pulled into his driveway, you noticed another car parked. "Your wife's home," you said. He shook his head.

"That's my brother's, but he's out clubbing."

"Where is your wife anyway?" You asked, stepping outside.

"She's out of town with her girlfriends. They're on a camping trip," he answered, unlocking the front door. When you stepped inside, the place was so home-y and cozy. You slipped your shoes off and took off your coat, Mr. Murphy helping you.

"Where's your room?" You began unbuttoning your shirt.

"It's the last room down the hall. I'll be there in a second," he said before sighing.

As you undressed, you noticed a picture of him and a woman who seemed to be his wife propped against the lamp on the bedside table. You noticed another picture, one of an older looking woman.

You felt Mr. Murphy's presence behind you, and the floor boards creaking underneath. "This your wife?" You asked, picking up the other picture.

"Yes," he answered. You rolled over and saw him fully naked, your professor, Mr. Murphy, fully naked.

"This feels so wrong," you whispered. He nodded and slid his veiny hand to you.

"Let's just get it over with, I need a good fuck," he mumbled.

"That's why I'm here," you said with a smile before Mr. Murphy took you in his arms and pressed his lips against yours.

The room became warmer and warmer as the sound of kissing and breathing filled it up. "I never got why all the girls liked you so much," you said in between kisses. He chuckled and shook his head.

"Me neither," he said. You felt his bare dick against your thigh as you were on top of him, kissing his neck. You stopped for a moment, shuddered in disgust, and kept going. "Are you okay?" He asked.

"Yeah, it's just," you started. "Your wife doesn't do this to you often?"

He laughed and shook his head. "She says she's too old to fuck. We have sex, but we don't fuck."

You tilt your head, confused. "Is that not the same?"

"No, sex is more romantic. Fucking is just dirty, sinful," he explained.

By 1 AM, you two had been going all night. You were now slowly riding him, his sweaty hand on your back, his deep groans filling the silence.

"You really wanted to fuck me?" You asked, chuckling.

"Oh god, not you. I just wanted to fuck someone;" he shook his head.

"Mr. Murphy, you—"

"God that sounds awful," he scoffed. "Cillian, just for now. Please."

"Okay, Cillian," you said hesitantly. "You haven't even came yet."

"I'm getting close, okay? I'm old." He laughed and you pretended to gag. Soon enough, your slow pace had become quicker, and the two of you were moaning and grasping onto each other.

You felt his legs trembling beneath you, and yours were as well. His breathing became heavy and loud, and his head was tilted back with sweat trickling down his hair. At that moment, his blue eyes opened and pierced through you, and you both shared an orgasm, the most intense one you'd had in a very long time.

-

Laying naked next to each other, staring at the ceiling, you'd talked for an hour.

"You seem like me," he claimed, glancing over at you. "Lost, broken."

You shrugged and smiled at him. "You have a wife and a house. A stable job, how can you be lost or broken?" You asked. He shook his head.

"My mother always told me that you can only have so much and remain sane. But now I think I've reached the point where my sanity is slipping. I grasp onto anything for that extra dopamine. That's why I agreed to have sex with you."

"I thought you said we were fucking, not having sex," you teased. He chuckled. "Your mother seems very wise. Do you not talk to her anymore?"

"My mother passed," he whispered in response.

"I'm sorry," you said, reaching your hand out to hold his face. He was now turned to you, your faces were close.

"Don't be," he mumbled. "You didn't kill her. She killed herself."

"And your father?" You asked, running your fingers through his curly hair.

"My father was a drunk. Every night he'd come home from the bar, beat my mother 'til she was knocked out cold, and beat me until I begged for mercy."

"And somehow you're the coolest guy I know," you chuckled.

"Me?" He asked, shocked.

"Yes, I loved your work. I read all those magazines you submitted to. Your war poetry? That was brilliant!" You exclaimed.

His face lit up. "You read that?" You quickly nodded in response. "I didn't think you'd be into that kind of stuff."

"You write like Vladamir Nabokov," you complimented.

"He's a huge inspiration," Mr. Murphy stated.

"Lolita's one of my favorite books," you said. "Lolita, light of my life—"

"—fire of my loins," he finished in sync with you, a grin on his face.

At that moment, he grabbed your face and kissed you passionately, rolling over on top of you and you melted like a snowflake in his arms, letting the worries melt away with you.