I stepped away from the blackboard and moved toward my desk. The classroom erupted with an explosion of noise, as though a cooling wave of relief were washing across my students, releasing them from the restrictions of the silence I had imposed upon them. They laughed and spoke loudly, and picked up conversations in mid-sentence, where they had been left off from an hour before, when the class had begun. There was pushing in the milling crowd as they spilled through the open door leading to the hallway, and a few mild obscenities which I pretended not to hear. I chose to ignore them, and fortified this decision with the unspoken acknowledgement that they were no longer my responsibility. The day was over, and it was time for their parents to commence worrying about their behavior now-if, of course, they ever would. My job was done, completed as best as I was professionally capable. I pulled out my chair and slipped into it, nudging my knees under the desk.
My notebook lay closed upon my desk, and I flipped it open, fluttering the pages until I came to the lesson I had scheduled for my classes tomorrow. Years of teaching experience had conditioned me to plan my lessons one to two weeks in advance, so that I'd have free time in the evenings to devote to either supplemental activities, or for my own personal attentions. I never studied my lesson plans to the point where I would chart out each and every point I would make, as some teachers do. Rather, I had a generalized idea of the subject and topic of the lesson, and reinforced it with a quick perusal of my notes, to keep it fresh in my mind. I allowed my unconscious mind to work out the format, as I knew it would, developing an approach which would inevitably work perfectly. I began to skim the handwritten page. "Miss Harper...."
I looked up. Kitty Bonaventura was standing at the side of my desk, her books clutched tightly in her arms, folded like a shield across her tiny, budding breasts. She was a slender, unattractive girl, with short mouse-colored hair and faded unimpressive eyes. Pimples erupted like miniature volcanoes on her shallow cheeks, indicators of the turmoil bubbling below her adolescent surface, until her flesh resembled a slice of raw, uncooked pizza-which, incidentally, was her favorite food.
"Yes, Kitty. Is there something you wished to speak to me about?"
The girl flushed crimson, looking briefly over her shoulder to see whether anyone could overhear. The last cluster of students was squeezing itself through the narrow doorway, completely oblivious to Kitty Bonaventura and her problems, as they have always been for this somewhat sad, homely young girl.
"Well, it's about my...uh...test paper."
"Yes, what is it?"
She hesitated, as if afraid to continue. "Well, I uh read it over again, and I uh...you know...think I should have got this-"
"Gotten," I unnecessarily corrected.
"-Huh? Oh, yeah. Gotten. I think I should have gotten this last part right. I don't think I deserved such a low mark." She held out the paper for me to see, a long bony finger indicating the area in question.
I sighed to show my exasperation, then pulled the paper from her hand. Whenever I mark a test, I usually do it very carefully, and try to give the student the benefit of any doubt which may arise. I read the question quickly, to get myself oriented, and then I skimmed her answer. It was a typical high school attempt at bullshitting. It was obvious she had no idea what the answer was, so she attempted to talk around the answer, not really saying anything at all, but hoping that I would be gullible enough to swallow the garbage she was handing in.
My anger flared momentarily, and I looked up from the scrawled, almost illegible page, to tell her exactly what I was thinking, when I caught a glimpse of Richard Lowe, another one of my students, sitting at his desk, his hands folded neatly across his books, looking impatiently at me with anguish in his eyes. A flutter of excitement went through my body, and before he could catch my eye, I dropped my vision back to the page, and pretended to reread it.
The words blurred in front of my eyes as the implications of his being there reawakened my thoughts. It wasn't as if I had forgotten about him-for I could never have done that!-but in the confusion of the last few moments of class, and the sense of relief that I felt to know another work day was over, Richard Lowe was relegated to the back of my thoughts. The sight of him sitting there, and all it implied, brought him vividly back, and a second flutter of raw sexual excitement gripped my loins. I pressed my thighs together to stem the oozing wetness that was staining the crotch-piece of my panties.
"Well, Miss Harper, what do you think?" Kitty persisted. "Do you, uh, see what I mean?"
I looked directly at Kitty, avoiding any possible eye contact with Richard. Let him sit and, stew for a while more, I thought.
"See what you mean?" I repeated.
"Yes. About my paper. Do you see what I mean about my last answer? Don't you think it's right?"
"I'm not exactly sure I agree, Kitty. Let me have the paper back and I'll think about it. I'll let you know my decision on Tuesday, when this class meets again. How does that sound to you?"
"Wonderful," she bubbled, tingling at the idea that she might have pulled something over on me. Her thin, colorless lips parted into a smile, revealing twin rows of metallic braces stretched like iron ribbons across her teeth. "Thank you so much. That's...just thank you, Miss Harper."
"See you Tuesday, Kitty." I placed the test paper in my notebook, next to Tuesday's lesson, knowing full well what my answer would be. I allowed my eyes to wander across the lesson again until I heard the sound of Kitty retreating, and the gentle slam of the door as she left. Sounds from the hallway were dim and faraway, hardly intruding upon the almost brittle silence settling upon the classroom.
I continued to ignore Richard Lowe, tingling almost because I knew the kind of uncertainty that was racing through his thoughts. We were alone in the classroom, and he was feeling how different that was from the buffered safety in numbers which usually filled the room. Our traditional functions were melting away from us, and I could sense his mounting panic. I was more than a teacher to him now, more than Miss Harper, and he was more than just a student, much, much more than Richard Lowe. We were two human beings, without the convenient mask of our roles. I was a woman, and he was a young, innocent boy.
I continued to ignore him, filling with a sense of power which always accompanies this type of circumstance. Let him sit and wait and wonder and worry. Let him make all the moves, as uncertain and as terrifying as they must be. Creation of a mood, of a specific psychological state is always the most important part of a seduction.
Richard coughed.
I pretended not to hear.
He cleared his throat, moving his feet back and forth on the wooden floor so that they made a dull scraping sound. His finger tapped nervously against the edge of his desk.
I continued to read my lesson plan.
"Excuse me, Miss Harper," he said. His voice cracked and the words came out dry and squeaky.
I looked up, pretending surprise.
"Oh, yes. Richard. Excuse me, please. I forgot completely that you were waiting."
He smiled haphazardly, as if he were uncertain about the appropriateness of his reaction. He began to rise up from his desk, lifting his books in his slender, long-fingered hands, with the intention of coming to me.
I lifted my hand. "No, don't. I'll come there."
He settled back into his seat, straightening his spine until his entire body seemed rigid. The smile froze upon his face, mask-like, but his clear, troubled blue eyes revealed the uncertainty which lay hidden behind the wall of his unspoken thoughts.
Richard Lowe was very young, and very handsome, with delicate, almost fragile features, and wide innocent eyes that any woman would have given ten years of her life to possess. The lashes were long and tapered, very dark in color, in direct contrast to his fair complexion and long blond hair. His cheek bones were high and flaring, and the cheeks themselves were hollowed, giving him a drawn, aesthetic seriousness. With lips that were full and sensual, another feminine characteristic, pulled gauntly across his clenched teeth in that inflexible smile, I realized he reminded me very much of pictures I had seen of John Keats, the poet. The impression was further enhanced by his soft golden hair which flowed liquidly like a frame around his face, the gentle wave-like curls lapping at the open collar of his pale blue shirt.
He was sitting in the direct center of the room, three aisles from the hallway on one side, and three aisles from the bank of windows on the other side. As I walked down the center aisle toward him, I noticed for some reason that there was exactly as many empty seats behind him as there was in front of him-three. In that split second before we faced each other, I saw some sort of strange appropriateness in his location. For the. moment he was literally the center of my attraction.
"Well, Richard," I said, seating myself on the desk directly in front of him, "I guess you know why you're here today, don't you?"
His lips worked up and down, causing his tentative smile to crumble. "Well, ah, no...not really, I don't."
I stared down at him and smiled, as aloof and ll as superiorly as possible. I straightened my shoulders and stiffened my spine, giving the impression that I was taller than I was. Even though it was mostly illusion, I still seemed to tower above him. My thighs were squeezed tightly together, with my feet touching as they rested on the chair of the desk. My knees were on a direct level with his uptilted eyes. I smoothed the wrinkles in my tight-fitting short skirt, drawing his attention to it, as I'd planned. His eyes traveled downward for an instant, became aware of the nearness of my legs, and darted instantly back up, to the safety of my cold, glaring eyes.
"Don't you?" I challenged, my voice mimicking the tone one would use for a very young child. "Isn't that curious. I certainly thought by now you would have some idea. You must have some inkling as to why I've asked you to remain after class this afternoon. Don't you, Richard?"
I could almost watch the thought process register in the twitching muscles of his face. For just one moment his eyes began to drift down, away from the electrified current of our facial contact, when they stopped abruptly. He fixed them once again upon my face.
"Does it have anything to do with my test?"
"AH!" I clapped my hands together in an exaggerated gesture. "How wonderful. You do know."
He squirmed in his seat, his lower lip trembling. He caught it between the dazzling white rows of his teeth, sinking in until the lip turned white from the grinding pressure. The long tapering web of his eyelashes fluttered as he began to blink nervously.
"I wasn't sure..." he began. "I mean-"
"You weren't sure?" I said, the accusation implicit in my mocking tone. "My God, Richard-if not that, what then? Do you think I have nothing better to do with my valuable time? Did you think I had you here for a social visit?"
His mouth moved, desperately trying to frame words that would convince me of his reasons, but the confrontation was shattering, and he found himself unable to think clearly. He began to blink fitfully, as if in reaction to my words, as if they were physical slaps, stinging his flushed face.
I parted my knees slightly, pulling my thighs an inch or two apart. His eyes caught the movement, and he followed it unconsciously. I watched with a certain detached amusement as his eyes widened incredulously when he found himself peering up my skirt.
"I'm sure you don't believe that I've invited you here to make love to me," I said, using the same accusative tone, yet lightening it somewhat to give the impression that I might be making some sort of joke.
His face turned crimson, unmistakably indicating exactly what he had been thinking. He stammered and flustered, the energy of his denial causing him to rise up from his desk.
"No...no! Of course not....I-I never--"
I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into his seat. like my own private puppet, he dropped back down, effortlessly. The anguish in his face was incredibly evident, and I watched as he struggled with himself not to look at my legs again. But the continual, unwavering stare of my eyes upon his beet-red face was too intimidating, and he could not return the look. As his eyes moved down, across my body, I spread my thighs a little further apart. He closed his eyes tightly shut when he saw the movement, as though he were afraid to see what I was showing him.
"My, my, you are sensitive," I said. I leaned forward and touched his burning face, rubbing his cheek, ostensibly to soothe his shame and discomfort, but actually only heightening it. "Don't you know when you're being teased?"
I spread my legs further open.
Richard opened his eyes. He was looking right up my skirt, directly between my thighs. He closed his eyes and made a wet sound with his throat. Then he opened his eyes and pleaded them desperately at my cold, smiling face. There were beads of perspiration dotted across his forehead.
"Miss Harper," he spoke softly. He brought up a trembling hand and brushed it against the damp locks of his hair, pushing them back absently. "Miss Harper," he repeated, "I don't feel so good."
"Nonsense," I said. "Don't be such a silly little boy, Richard. Just sit down and let's be done with this. Is that understood."
"Yes, Miss Harper."
"Good. Now, about your examination. Where is it?"
He quickly opened his notebook and withdrew the sheet of paper which he had folded in half. I pulled it from his outstretched hand, tossing it open with a snap of my wrist. In bold red letters was scrawled: F See me!
"Ah, yes. Here it is. Now what have you got to say about-this."
I spread my thighs further, until they were at least six inches apart. I wore no pantyhose, so I knew my thighs must have appeared like two tapering avenues under my skirt, twin parallel lines converging at my panties. The mound of my pussy was broad and swollen, and I was very much aware of how tautly the pale blue material of my panties was stretched across it. The hair on my pussy felt damp from being flattened so tightly against my flesh, and I wondered whether he could see any of the hairs as they poked out from under the elastic leg bands of the panties.
Richard opened his eyes, stared at my cunt, took a deep, trembling breath, and spoke toward my face: "I don't know what happened, Miss Harper. Really, I don't. I studied...like I always do...I thought I was answering the questions right. Really, I did. I don't know what happened. I can't understand.. . . "
"I think I understand," I said, coldness crackling in my tone. "It seems to me that you really didn't study. No one could have done as poorly as this and tell me he sincerely made an effort to study."
I spread my thighs again. He trembled visibly.
"But I did!" he cried. "You can even ask my Mother. She saw me studying."
"She saw you looking at your text, perhaps," I said. I squirmed on the seat, using the tensed muscles of my ass to pull at the hem of the skirt until it inched further up my thighs. Greater and greater expanses of naked pink flesh emerged from under my skirt. "But not studying. Your body might have been there, but your mind certainly could not have been."
Richard rubbed his hand across his mouth. He shrugged hesitantly. "I don't know....Maybe...maybe you're right. Maybe I-"
"Maybe?" I repeated, showing him clearly that he had offended me. I slid my thighs around, until my knees were aimed at the three windows on my right. The bright afternoon sunlight streamed through in slanted, almost parallel slats of brightness, illuminating any of the remaining shadows which might have continued to exist between my widely parted thighs, under the rigid hemline of my skirt. My voice was sickly sweet in its prompting: "Of course I'm right, Richard. You know what I'm saying is the truth. Don't you, Richard?"
He looked up at me, something happening in his eyes, as if the veil of confusion were suddenly whisked away. His lips parted and he licked his lips nervously.
"Yes, yes, Miss Harper," he hurried to agree. "Of course. Yes, you're right. That was what happened. That's it. You are right."
"Good boy, Richard," I said, sliding forward on the desk until I had positioned myself so that he was looking directly between my legs. "Of course, Fm right. I'm always right. That's why I'm the teacher, and you're the...student."
He smiled nervously up at me. "I'll try better the next time, Miss Harper. Can I go now?"
"And do you know why you had difficulty studying this time, Richard?" I completely ignored his request.
He sighed softly, slumping in his chair. "No, why, Miss Harper?" he asked, barely audibly.
I leaned forward and brought my face down to his level. My thighs split wide apart as the hem of my skirt was almost lost in the pressing folds of my crotch. I glared directly into his frightened eyes, smiling malignantly. Despite his sheer terror, Richard's nostrils twitched from the sensual assault of my perfume.
"Girls," I whispered, licking my tongue around my puckered lips. "Girls."
He blinked, not understanding. "Girls?"
"You've been paying too much time to girls, and not enough time to your studies."
"But, I-"
"How old are you, Richard?" He shrugged. "Fifteen."
"And, do you have a girl friend?" He tilted his head almost imperceptibly. "Yeah."
"Do you see her a lot?"
"Weekends mostly," he said, beginning to squirm in his chair as he understood my direction. "Some times after school."
"What's her name?"
"What has this to do with my exam?"
"Her name, Richard. What's her name?"
"Alice."
"Are you going steady?"
He thought for a moment, his attention wandering for an instant from my face. I took immediate advantage, and began to rotate my hips, grinding them around in a slow, rolling circle, offering the invitation of my parted thighs to his reawakened awareness. My panties were sopping wet, and the material made a squishy sound as it rubbed against my flesh.
"We've been going steady for almost a year."
"Do you love her?"
He shrugged, as if to say he really didn't know. "More important, perhaps-does Alice love you?"
"I don't know. She says she does, but.. . . "
"Have you ever told her you love her."
"Yeah, but-"
"And she believes it?"
"Yes, but, Miss Harp-"
"Have you ever been intimate together?"
The perspiration was streaming down his face now, and his blue, opened collar shirt was stained with large ragged circles of wetness. His lips twitched nervously, and he unconsciously rubbed at them with the knuckle of his left hand, his teeth sinking into the flesh and pulling at it with tiny-rippling bites.
"I don't know what you mean?"
I laughed to purposely humiliate him. "Oh, come now, Richard. You know what I mean by that. Intimate. By that I mean did you ever touch her-breasts?"
The movement of my hips in its slow sensual grind caught his eyes again, and he stared between my widely parted thighs. The underside piece of my panties felt as if I had wet myself, and I could feel the material stuck up inside, between the fluttering crack of the lips.
"This is crazy, Miss Harper..." he began, sensing perhaps for the first time, exactly, inevitably where this could only end.
"Answer my question, Richard."
"Which question? I...don't remember-"
"Have you ever touched Alice's breasts?"
He nodded, sniffling out his response. "Yes."
A throb of excitement went through my body, making my knees weak and my nipples stiffen inside the rigid cups of my bra. I had him. I had him. He was mine...mine to do with as I pleased. I literally held him in the palm of my hand, to do with as I chose, even if I chose to close my fist around his squirming form, and crush the ego right out of him. He was like an insect trapped, a bug stuck on the point of a pin. There was no escape for him any longer, no where to turn, no road to freedom. Richard Lowe belonged to me, and I chose to exploit that power.
"Did you touch her tits on top of her clothing or under it?"
"Both," he answered, closing his eyes, sinking. My clitoris was erect between the lips of my cunt, and the grinding pressure of my drenched panties rubbed back and forth across the swollen nipple of pleasure. I felt the smoldering canal of my vaginal passageway flexing and releasing, like a grasping fist, as the dripping wetness of my excitement coated its sugary walls. My thighs were nearly as far apart as they could conceivably go without dislocating them, and my skirt was bunched uselessly at the edges of my panties, exposing the entire length of my legs. "How did it feel?" I asked breathlessly. Richard trembled, from head to foot. "I don't know...I mean...good. They felt good, nice."
"Was she firm, soft? Big breasted, small? How? Tell me."
"I don't know. Not too big." I clutched my breasts in my hands, squeezing into the pleasure-swollen mounds with all ten fingers, pinching them through my blouse. T lifted them and offered them to Richard, watching his eyes widen as I did so.
"As big as I?" I asked. "Smaller?"
He licked his lips. "About the same."
"Were they firm?"
"Yes."
"And the nipples-were they big? Were they stiff? Did it give her pleasure when you caressed them?"
"Yes...yes...yes! Oh, please, Miss Harper-"
"Did you suck them? Did you suck her breasts? Did you lick her nipples with your tongue?"
"Yes, I did. I did, Miss Harper. I sucked them."
"And she liked it when you did that, didn't she, Richard? Didn't she?"
The handsome young boy was staring unashamedly between my widely parted thighs, tears welling up in his eyes. "Yes, she did!" he cried, fear and excitement causing his voice to rise shrilly. "She loved it...she loved it! She begged me to do more...more! She said...she said...Alice said that it-"
"Yes...yes! What did she say?"
"She said-it made her wet!"
"And then you touched her between her legs, right?"
"Yes-s" he sobbed.
"You touched her cunt...her pussy...her twat. You slid your fingers slowly down her panties, and you felt her flesh. You felt her hair. You felt her-wetness!"
"Yes, I did! Please let me go home, Miss.. . "
"You touched her clitoris...you rubbed it. She squirmed. She pressed her body up against your hand, and rubbed those soft, wet lips back and forth across your fingers-"
"Yes...yes!"
"-You could feel her tiny little hole, nibbling at the tips of your fingers, like a hot breath, trying to suck you up inside of her..."
"Oh my God...oh."
"And you fingered her cunt."
My own voice was shaking with passion, and I had all to do to keep from prying my fingers away from my breasts and jamming them, down to my knuckles, into the seething pit between my thighs. I trembled fitfully, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth, as if to contain my mounting excitement, as if by doing so I could magnify the rushes of pleasure which were washing across my belly.
"Did you fuck her?" I asked.
Richard sobbed, tears spilling over, raining down his tortured face. "Yes, I did. Yes, Miss Harper-I did! I'm sorry...I-I'm sorry..."
"And she liked it, didn't she?"
"Yesssss!"
"Was that what happened, Richard, the night you were supposed to be studying? Were you with
Alice? Were you making love to her? Were you fucking her that night?"
"Yes, goddam-you-leave-me-alone!"
I laughed brittlely, to relieve my mounting tension. The grinding layers of pressure were too much for frail, immature little Richard, and he was coming apart at the seams, bursting wide open.
"What did you say?" I whispered, my voice harsh, urgent. "What did you say to me?"
Richard gasped, opening and closing his eyes as if he were blinking. His jaw dropped slackly, and saliva dribbled down over his beardless chin.
"I'm sorry...Miss...Harper. I-"
"What did you say to me?"
I stretched my thighs as wide apart as I could, sliding forward on the desk until my partially exposed crotch was only inches away from his face. I could feel the elastic of the panties pulling over the mound of my pussy, exposing half of it to his wide, staring eyes.
"I didn't mean...."
"Stand up, Richard," I hissed.
"Please, Miss Harper. I gotta go home. It's late...My mother will be-"
"Stand up!"
"Yes...yes. Pm sorry. I will. I..." He stumbled to his feet, swaying from side to side in the aisle, his head bowed, his eyes down cast.
"Look at me," I demanded. "If you can say that to me...if you can insult me like that, then you can stand and face me."
He looked up, between my thighs, at my almost naked bottom. He was wearing a pair of tight fitting jeans, and the throbbing silhouette of an erection made the front of his pants stand boldly out. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides.
"What's that?" I said, pointing to his stiffened rod.
He closed his eyes in anguish, squeezing out a few more tears. "Please...don't. Don't."
"What is that?"
He cowered from the command of my voice, shrinking back as if something physical had struck him. Conversely, his erection seemed to lengthen, stiffen, grow thicker and bolder, pushing out against the straining material of his jeans until I thought it would rip wide open.
His face turned scarlet, and in a voice that was a mumbled whisper, he said: "My...penis."
For a moment I said nothing, and somehow the silence was shattering. Then I laughed, laughed cruelly, in a cackling, belittling sharpness.
"Your-penis?" I repeated, shredding what was left of his ego with his own words. "Your penis. Is that what you call it? Your penis? Is that what Alice refers to it as? What did she say to you, Richard, that night when you made love? Oh, Richard, fill me with your penis?"
I could see the shaft clearly outlined against his pants. It seemed long and thick and incredibly hard. I knew if I put my hand there, even close to it, I would be able to feel the heat, even through the coarseness of the material. I was tempted, sorely tempted to do just that.
"Do you call it your prick?" I asked. "Your cock? Your rod? Your shaft? When you pull it up and down, when you play with it, when you masturbate-how do you think of it then?"
"My...God!...My cock," he said. "It's my...I call it my cock!"
I dropped my hand down between my thighs, running my fingernails across the naked white softness of my flesh. Richard's eyes followed the movement of my hand, from the inside of my knee, to the crease where the top of my leg folded into my crotch. The flesh was damp with perspiration, and it glistened dully in the streaming summer sunlight.
"Take it out, Richard," I said evenly. "Take out your cock."
He shook his head, moving it in short, staccato arcs, as if his neck were hinged, and the effort to turn it were somehow mechanical. His lips parted, and his jaw jerked up and down, without any sound squeaking out except for a low, rolling moan.
"Take your cock out."
"I...can't! I-"
"Richard!"
"Please, Miss Harper. I can't! Don't make me do this. Don't.. . don't.. . don't!"
I stretched my hand out, away from my thigh, toward the throbbing hardness that was like a thick lump across the front of his jeans. My fingers strained forward, toward the erection, stopping inches away from the swollen shaft.
"Richard," I threatened softly, "if you don't, I will."
"Please...please!"
"All right, Richard. I'm going to touch it!"
His entire body stiffened as my hand moved down, and I could feel the head even before my fingers made contact. I pressed down against the thickness of his erection, pinching the shaft through the jeans, squeezing it into the palm of my hand. It began to throb and swell, and Richard gasped, as if in pain, and he bent forward suddenly.
"Oh...Jesus!" he moaned.
His cock throbbed powerfully, and I could feel a spreading wetness ooze out from the tip of the shaft, wetting his jeans.
Richard Lowe was coming in his pants.
CHAPTER TWO
Excited by the throbbing wetness I felt under my fingertips, I moaned softly, and pressed my hand harder against the thickness of his erection. The wetness seemed to ooze out, spreading like a mist across the soggy material. I pinched into the swollen tip of his penis, where I judged the head of his shaft to be, and I squeezed into it with all my strength. Richard moaned in shame and protestation, but I ignored his pleas, and continued to stroke the shaft. For a moment the head seemed to swell in my grip, and I could actually feel it throb one last time as it spit forth the remaining ejaculation of sperm in a sticky, pulsating gush of wetness. Then the cock seemed to shrivel in size and thickness, like a balloon with a slow leak, until it was small and soft under the press of my fingertips.
The moment I felt the orgasm erupting under my touch, and when I felt the cooling stain of his excitement making his jeans smell of sweat and musky sex, I knew, right then and there, that I had to have Richard Lowe. I had to have him fully and totally.
But first I had to humiliate him further.
I slapped him viciously across the face.
The impact of the blow sent waves of pain shooting up from my hand, where it stung against his cheek, up the length of my arm, burning vibrations of dull aching tightness into my shoulder. The slap hit him flush on the cheek, drawing his eyes from their downward position, with a look of startled surprise, and perhaps even fear as he realized his ordeal was far from over. The blow staggered him, knocking him to one side, causing him to stumble, almost losing his balance, as he spun into the desks in the next aisle.
He moaned out loud, in pain, in shame, in surprise and confusion. He said something about being sorry, and his face turned purple with his suffering.
"You came!" I accused him, spitting out the words through my clenched teeth. I leaped up from the desk where I had been sitting, standing now in the aisle, and I felt my skirt slide like a whisper down my widely parted thighs. My panties were totally drenched, from the cheeks of my ass, well up past the broad mound of my crotch, sticking to my sweaty flesh like lipstick. I closed my thighs as a sudden wash of pleasure rippled across my belly, pressing into the swollen mound, as if I could contain that excitement or somehow deaden its effects. Just the reverse was the order, and the sensation rose until I was trembling in its wake, and my knees grew weak from the intensity of my pleasure. To cover over this momentary lapse of control, I screamed loudly again, spitting my contempt, and desire, into Richard's unsuspecting, innocent face. "You came!" I repeated. "You disgusting, vile, immature faggot! You came from that? From only that? So soon...so soon? Damn you!...Goddam you!"
His perfect blue eyes seemed unfocused and clouded, rimmed in red, stained with tears. He held his hands in front of him, his fingers open and uplifted, as if he were pleading with me through his anguish.
"I'm...sorry," he said, not fully grasping yet what it was he had to feel sorry about. He said the words automatically, without thinking, without measuring them against the present circumstance, saying them, rather, out of habit and training. For, if he had thought for a moment, he would have seen that our roles should have been reversed, and it should have been apologizing to him. Of course, I wasn't about to give him the benefit of that doubt, and was, in fact, content to take even fuller advantage of his pain. I allowed his pleading explanations to continue, knowing full well that the mood was building toward an irreversible conclusion. He said: "I'm sorry, Miss Harper. I didn't.. . I mean...I didn't mean to.. . I-I'm sorry."
I took a deep breath and attempted to compose myself, an extraordinary difficult task to accomplish, for I was trembling inside. My body was like an electric wire, charged full with passion, pent up to the bursting point, needing to be vented to prevent an explosion. I balled my hands into twin fists, digging my fingernails into my palms, but forced my arms to hang heavily at my sides. Looking directly into his eyes, in my softest, coldest voice, I said:
"Take out your cock."
Richard looked at me dumbly, blinking his eyes as if he had no understanding at all about what I was talking. The color drained from his face, and his lower hp trembled as he tried to speak.
"That's right," I repeated. "Take out your cock."
He shook his head, like a child who was afraid to hear the judgment of his parent over some misdeed he had performed. His hair splayed out from his shoulders as he continued to express his terror-filled apprehension. His eyes grew wide and clear, the color fading, until they seemed to bulge from the gaunt skull of his face. He lifted his hand, as if to brush aside my words, as if the movement of his fingers through the air between us could somehow erase my request.
"This-no!" he mumbled, shaking his head from side to side, his eyes growing wider and wider. "Miss Harper, this is crazy...insane! You can't...God, no...please!"
"NOW!"
The savage slap of the word, and the inflexibility of the authority that had delivered it, made him cower and cringe. He shrunk back into himself, appearing suddenly very much younger than his fifteen years. He had moved his hands up toward his face, as if for protection, but the reality of the moment stopped him before he had completed the protective response, and the hands dropped uselessly to his side.
"Now," I said again, whispering the word sensually. I touched his cheek with my fingers, caressing his flesh. "Now, Richard. Right now."
He nodded wordlessly, defeated. His hands, as if manipulated by some unseen power, moved to the zipper of his jeans. For one moment he hesitated, perhaps to rid himself of some last shred of resistance, and then he opened the zipper. The jeans were soggy with sperm, and gingerly, delicately, he separated the folds of damp material, coming at last to the cotton whiteness of his underwear.
"Good boy," I whispered, my palms sweating, my mouth suddenly dry. I stared into the yawning slash of material, my eyes fixed hypnotically upon the diminished lump of his penis. "Now, take it out, Richard. Take it out."
"Don't tell anybody, Miss Harper, please," he said. He looked small and helpless, just as I wanted him.
"Do as I say, Richard," I said, stroking his face more fully now, running my fingers across his shallow cheeks until I came to his mouth. Impulsively, I stiffened my index finger, and I pushed it at the wet open center between his lips. His mouth closed tightly around the finger, and he began to suck upon it, stroking it sensually with the tip of his tongue. The next time I repeated the request, my voice was purring sexily: "Take your cock out for me, Richard. For me."
"Yes, Miss Harper," he said, and he reached into the sodden mass of his undershorts, and pulled out his limp, coated penis.
A surge of raw sexuality charged through my body at the sight of it hanging there. The penis was small and slender, flaccid in state, dangling almost obscenely from the yawning mouth of his zipper. His flesh was pale, almost colorless in hue, and against the blond, patchy cluster of pubic hairs jutting from the open zipper, it was overwhelmingly erotic. I felt myself turning on un-like anything I could remember ever having felt before. And then, as if it somehow were not sexy enough, I watched as a single drop of sperm oozed from the tip of the shriveled penis, clung there for a moment, then broke away and fell, making a soundless wet splatter on the wooden floor.
Without thinking, I dropped to my knees and took the dangling appendage between my lips, and I began to suck.
"Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!" he cried, his voice filling the room as if he were in mortal pain. The entire length of his body quivered, as if the contact had produced an electric current which was now flowing through him. His arms jangled spastically up and down, and his breath sucked in audibly. "Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!"
His penis felt soft and mushy between my lips, and the lingering tartness of his discharge dribbled across my tongue, spreading into my saliva. The shaft was small and limp, flopping disjointedly against the sharp edge of my teeth. The instant I felt it between my lips, I tightened them around the shaft of the penis, sucking the lifeless finger of flesh deep into my mouth, until my lips were buried in his crotch. The cock throbbed once against the opening of my throat, and something slid down my gullet. Something thick and wet and rolling, tasting slightly of salt.
"Jesus, Miss Harper!" Richard continued, moaning in disbelief. His eyes were wide open, and he was staring down, in utter amazement. Never once, even in his wildest, most private fantasies, had he ever considered the possibility of something as incredible as this happening to him. "Jesus, Miss Harper! Jesus!"
I closed my eyes and began to suck, deeply, wetly, with every bit of technique I had developed over the years. The cock that was in my mouth, without question, was unaware of the indescribable ecstasies of oral-genital contact. Even if his adolescent Alice had attempted to fellate him-a probability I tended to doubt-her ability could not have been anywhere as accomplished as mine. What Richard was getting was the most mind-blowing, incredible fantasy-turned-real experience of his lifetime. Never before, and never again would any sexual experience effect him so profoundly, so shatteringly as the events I planned for him. This afternoon would live in his memory, live in his very personality, for all the rest of the afternoons of his entire life. So I closed my eyes and I began to suck, deeply, wetly, and with every ounce of my being.
"Oh, God, Miss Harper!" he cried, his body stiffening as my lips began to gobble up and down the twitching staff. His hands leaped up from his sides, and he grabbed my head with all ten fingers. He tangled his grip into my hair, straining with the muscles of his arms, pulling me closer to his belly, pushing his stiffening penis down into my throat, until my lips were puckered against his belly. His hips began to undulate, rippling in and out, picking up on the rhythm of my sucking as I pushed and pulled my mouth up and down the length of the shaft. "I can't believe this, Miss Harper. I can't believe this is really happening! It's-Jesus!"
I could feel the shaft lengthening in my mouth, growing thicker and longer, swelling as I filled it with renewed pleasure. The walls of the shaft began to firm, and the head of the penis thickened across the back of my tongue until it cut my breathing completely off, and I had to suck in air through my nostrils. The dank smelling odor of sweaty manliness was like a heady elixir, and I felt my head reeling with wild, sexual thoughts.
I stiffened my tongue on the back-slide of my lips, when the head of his shaft was pressed against my teeth, and I licked the tongue across the end of his penis, washing it with my saliva until it was completely coated. His cock moved like a precision engine, a piston, ramming in and out with mounting speed and accuracy, drilling the elongating thickness of his erection from the wet press of my lips, deep into the sucking opening of my throat. I hollowed my cheeks, until they made physical contact with the sides of the shaft, until the entire length of the erection was encased in the wet, pulling tube of my tongue, my lips, my mouth, my throat.
"Oh, Jesus, Miss Harper," he moaned, pressing upward with his hips, grinding them against my face, locking me to his belly with straining arms that were like bands of steel. Fully erect now, his cock began to swell and throb familiarly, leaking something thin and drool-like down my throat. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna-come!"
I released his erection.
"Noooo!" he moaned, and tried to pull me back against his wet, quivering shaft. "Don't, please...don't! I was gonna..."
I stood erect in front of him, my eyes blazing with passion, barely in control of my emotions. I could have allowed him to complete the act, for it certainly was something I would have enjoyed unquestionably, realizing as I did that it would have been his first time. But that was too easy, too simple a way to end it. What I had in mind for Richard Lowe would have made that type of release seem pale in comparison. I was going to give him something that he would never forget.
"Shut up!" I commanded. I pulled my hand back across my body, threatening to slap him again. He cowered at the gesture, shrinking back a step or two. He grew silent. I smiled. "Very good. Very good."
I stared down at his erection. It was thick and hard, capped with a red, circumcised tip, as long and stiff now as it had seemed shriveled and limp before. It was like a curving shaft of carved ivory, decorated with the fine branching network of veins and blood vessels. His testicles dangled obscenely down the front of his damp, disarrayed jeans, their flesh smooth and unwrinkled, covered with the fine, thread-like fibers of long blond strands.
"Don't let it go down," I warned, stabbing my finger into his face. My voice was threatening in its command. "Don't let it go down again until I'm finished with it. You selfishly ruined it once already. I'm not about to allow that to happen again, until I've had my fun." I smiled coldly at him. "Is that understood, Richard?"
"Yes, Miss Harper. Yes...."
I reached down and caressed the erection, sliding my fingers around the thick shaft. The wetness of my saliva coated it, and the movement of my hand was smooth and effortless against his slippery flesh.
"Good boy, Richard," I said softly, making sure to emphasize the differences in our age. "That's a very good boy." He bowed his head.
Walking quickly to the classroom door, I opened it and peered out into the hallway. The corridor was empty, devoid of teachers or students. It was after class hours, and we weren't about to be interrupted at this point. I pulled the door further open, and gestured to Richard to approach me.
"Come on!" I prodded, when he seemed hesitant
He began to stuff his still-erect penis back into his sperm-drenched jeans.
"Don't you dare! You leave that exactly where it is, exactly the way it is. From here on in, I'll be telling you exactly what I want you to do. And if you don't react fast enough for my view, the suffering and humiliation you'll endure will make everything that's happened so far seem insignificant by comparison. Understand?"
As though he'd received a shock, his hands pulled back from his open pants. He nodded imperceptibly, speaking in a colorless, defeated voice:
"Yes, Miss Harper."
I stepped out into the silent, empty hallway, shuddering suddenly from the thrill of excitement that shivered up my spine. My flesh broke out in tiny cold bumps, and I rubbed my fingers up and down against my arms, trying to make the skin smooth again. My breast felt swollen inside the clutching prison of my bra, and the nipples were so stiff they seemed brittle, readying to snap off with the slightest caress of pressure. The air in my lungs seemed to be screaming for release, but I let it out slowly, in short, shuddering slips of breath. I nodded to Richard, indicating for him to follow me.
"And don't let that go down," I said, pointing to his proudly rigid erection, "or you'll pray to God that you wish you hadn't." I looked quickly up and down the deserted corridor. "Come with me."
The school is arranged in the general shape of a square-off circle, with a single line stretched across the width of that shape. The classrooms are arranged along the outer rim of the circle, and the line down the middle was a corridor, connecting one side of the building with the other. We made our way down the hallway, to the intersection, and I poked my head around the bend of the wall, to see whether we could proceed any further. Thankfully, this corridor was empty, and I could see all the way across to the far side of the silent school.
"Wait here," I said, and I slipped down the hallway. About halfway down, I came to a door. Hesitating for a moment, I pushed the door open and I stepped in. After a careful inspection, I convinced myself that the room was empty, and I pulled the door open again. "Come on," I whispered, urging him forward. "Quickly."
Richard moved in short, mincing steps, hurrying to find some form of cover which would conceal his exposed condition. As he hurried toward me, I could not get over the feeling of how absurd he suddenly appeared. Fully dressed, with a stain of drying sperm like a dark patch across his jeans, and with his zipper open and his cock poking out, the up and down movement of his steps made the erect shaft bob like a cork on a stormy sea. The swollen head of his erection was like a weaving red eye, searing a path through the dimly-lit hallway.
He reached the door. "I can't go in there!" he protested, staring at the stenciled sign painted on the door. "That's the girl's bathroom."
"Shut up," I said, "and come on in."
Richard came right in."
We walked across the tiled floor to the stalls against the far wall. There were three stalls, and I entered the middle one, pushing open the swinging door. Richard followed me into the booth.
I turned and faced him. "Get down on your knees," I said. "Right now."
Obediently, he got down on his knees, kneeling in front of me, as if he were praying. I reached down and grasped the hem of my skirt, pulling it up until my thighs were completely exposed. I tucked the hem of the skirt into the waistband of my skirt, tucking also in the tail of my blouse. My legs were naked, right up to the swollen, damp mount of my panties.
"Lick my cunt," I said: "Through my panties."
And, like my own personal slave, obedient, fifteen-year old Richard Lowe, did exactly as I asked.
CHAPTER THREE
I was tired.
It had been a long, bone-grinding day, with one problem after another, with only a twenty minute break for lunch, and I was exhausted. I had to literally drag myself through my last two classes this afternoon, making mistake after mistake as my thoughts wandered and I found myself yawning. So complete was my fatigue that I knew if I'd sat down at my desk to present the lesson, and not stood at the board as I had, I would have fallen fast asleep, without any question.
Christ, I thought, yawning and stretching. I still had a long night ahead of me with even more work. I had thirty-two book reports to read and evaluate for tomorrow morning's class, and I'd put off marking them so long that they were way past due. Regents examinations in English Literature were scheduled for less than a month from now, and I was way behind in preparation. So the papers had to be done tonight.
I flushed the toilet and stepped out of the booth in the Women Teacher's Lounge down the hall from my office. Since it was after hours, the room was empty and silent, a condition of life which I found exquisitely pleasurable at the mo ment. The room was set up much in the same way as the girl's bathroom had been, with the exception of the carpeted lounge with its comfortably upholstered sofa and chairs, and I found myself recalling yesterday's incident with Richard.
The poor boy, I thought, silently amused. With the distance of one day giving me some sort of perspective about the occurrence, I found myself dwelling on the more comic aspects of the events; something which, I was sure, Richard himself would be capable of doing as he grew older and more mature. God, the things I made him do. I'd used him terribly, and he'd enjoyed every single moment of it. What young boy would not have? To be introduced to the detailed intimacies of love making with an older, more experienced woman was the secret fantasy of all boys, and perhaps even of all men. And, out of all men, only a handful of lucky ones had that fantasy fulfilled. Richard had been one of them, something I was sure he would be eternally grateful to me for. Even after, amid all his surface shame and humiliation, I knew, unequivocally knew, he had gone directly home and locked himself in his room or in, the bathroom, or wherever else young boys do such things, and had masturbated himself to the point of exhaustion, running his memory over, again and again, the various aspects of our wildly erotic afternoon.
I know he did, because I'd done the exact same thing. Even now, a day later, there was a soreness between my thighs, and the lingering, deadened sensitivity of having worked my fingers in and out, around and around, until the flesh on my pussy was rubbed almost raw.
But what memories! Christ!
After he had eaten me through my panties, I made him pull them down my legs, being careful not to touch me between my widely parted thighs yet, and I stepped out of them, naked from the waist down. I then commanded him to repeat the licking action, squatting almost on his face, until the swift, inexperienced work of his tongue had brought me to several orgasms.
And, even then, I wasn't finished with him. All the while he was eating me, I demanded that he masturbate himself, so that I could watch him, and wallow in my own erotic fantasies. I cautioned him not to permit himself to climax from his pulling fingers, and obediently he had obeyed, although it must have been an excruciating task not to come when he so clearly ached to do just that.
When I had come a sufficient number of times, I roughly pulled him up with both hands, and forced him to sit on the toilet, sliding forward on the seat so that his swollen, pulsing erection stood boldly, almost defiantly up in the air. I straddled him with my naked thighs, and I brought myself down upon the point of his amazing shaft. Guiding it into my body with my experienced fingers, I allowed him to pump the tool in and out of my wet underside, forcing him to watch the lips of my nether mouth slide up and down the pole of his erection. Threatening him with further abuses and humiliation should he come before I permitted him to, I managed to bring myself to two or three more orgasms before I allowed him to enjoy his pleasure.
There is nothing quite like the thrusting hardness of a fifteen year old stud bucking into you to let you know the real pleasures of sex. Something is lost through the years-perhaps enthusiasm, perhaps the sheer driving force of youthfulness, perhaps the uniqueness of the experience-to a woman in making love to an older, more mature and experienced male partner. All a woman has to do is get herself plugged by a young hard stud, and she'll never, never go back to the other. There is simply no comparison, no way to measure the two experiences.
Even when he came, deep inside of me, it was like twenty volcanoes going off. I could feel the sperm-actually feel it!-spewing into my sucking vaginal canal. It didn't ooze out, or plop out, as it does with older men, it gushed out, it shot out, it exploded out, like a liquefied bullet from the muzzle of his fleshy gun. I could feel every pulse, every throb, every movement, thrust, withdrawal, belch of molten fire which rippled through my loins. He came a gallon, even after having come in his pants, until the sperm filled me up, and dripped back down the shaft of his erection, leaving a fresh, new stain across his totally drenched jeans.
God, I thought, remembering. So hard, so thick, so full of unflagging energy and enthusiasm. Even when I pulled off of him, he remained erect, and when, still not satisfied, I got down on my hands and knees and took the drenched shaft again into my' mouth, I managed to bring him almost immediately, to even yet another orgasm. It filled my mouth, hot and wet and salty, spewing copiously between my lips, until I had sucked him dry, swallowing every single drop, until the penis was again flaccid, and Richard Lowe was begging me in pain to release him.
I did, satisfied for the moment, and allowed him to go home, slightly late, almost punchy from all the multiple layers of pleasure I had settled upon his aching flesh. Richard Lowe could go home again, assured that he would not ever again have to be concerned about my interest in him. After the first time, after the initiation, my desire for a particular young body usually was satiated. Richard Lowe could go back again to passing my exams.
But what a memory he was taking with him. God!
I snapped myself out of my reverie when I realized the memory was making me wet. And, at the moment, I didn't have either the time or the energy to satisfy the rekindling of passion which was steadily building in my belly. It was best to leave off now, before things got out of hand. Or, to be more accurate, into hand.
I stepped over to the sink, turned on the water, and vigorously rubbed off my oily, sweaty makeup. There was something about applying fresh makeup that seemed to have a beneficial effect whenever I was tired and dragging. I lathered my hands until they were dripping with soap, and I scrubbed my face energetically. When I was finished, I turned on the cool, running water, and I rinsed off the soap. Then, with paper towels, I patted dry my face.
With beads of water dripping from the end of my hair, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, attempting to objectively evaluate what I saw. Wide green eyes, clear, healthy complexion, topped off by honey blonde hair of medium length, cut into a growing-out fuck. My nose was straight and small, my cheeks slightly hollowed, giving my eyes a wider, higher appearance, and red sensuous lips, parted suddenly in a smile of definite approval.
Not bad, I commented at the face staring back at me! For thirty-three years old, not bad at all. Not that thirty-three was old, for it wasn't in my opinion. I was past the sensitivity of that awkward, younger age, and I was just blooming into the prime of my middle years. Gone were all of the hang-ups of my youth, and all those false values with their attendant pressures of mindless guilt. I knew exactly who and what I was, and I was well past the point where I was either going to worry about it, or try and alter my patterns of behavior. After long years of trial and error, I'd finally reached the plateau in my life where I could readily accept the senselessness, the futility of existence. I lived in a cosmos which was stupid, and perhaps even meaningless, and I could accept, philosophically, at least, the reality of knowing that I would probably die well before I ever had any opportunity of making any more sense of it then, than I had at its inception. Life was nothing more than a momentary series of diversions, sexual or otherwise, and I felt no reluctance in exploring it as it came along to me. The only thing, in fact, which did seem to mean anything was sensual pleasure, for it, at least, was intense enough to push everything else out of the spectrum in that exquisite intensity of its own moment. So, with all that in mind, I accepted my reflection for what it was: me. And, at thirty-three years old, that really wasn't bad at all.
I carefully reapplied my makeup, brushed my hair, and appraised the renewed image with a certain satisfaction. Even the fatigue seemed to have lessened.
The hallway was empty as I left the bathroom, and I was very much aware of the hollow sound of my footsteps as they clicked like empty echoes to the silence. My office was a few doors away, and I was beginning to remember all the work still in store for me before this night would end.
"Oh, hi, Miss Harper," Sandra Wilson said as I pushed open the door to my office. She was sitting in the chair beside my desk, reading a folded over paperback book. She looked up from it. "I was beginning to get a little worried. I thought that maybe you'd gone home."
I cringed inwardly. Sandra was one of my best students: I had her for an English honors class, as well as senior English. I was also her Faculty Adviser, and I was in no mood to sit through any pimply crisis which might be troubling her at the moment.
"Oh, Sandra," I said dryly, perhaps allowing my displeasure to show through. "What are you still doing here? It's well after hours. Won't your parents be worried that you haven't come home yet?"
She shook her head. "No, they won't even know. Both my parents work, so there's nobody waiting for me at home who will know, much less care."
Ah, I thought sagely, the neglected adolescent probably looking for attention or affection. There seemed to be more and more such children like Sandra over the years. God only knew what kind of world it was going to be when all these neglected children had matured. Technology, it seemed, was taking its toll on civilization in more ways than we had originally believed. I said:
"Is there something you'd like to speak to me about?"
Her dark features reflected confusion. "Oh, no," to worry about it, or try and alter my patterns of behavior. After long years of trial and error, I'd finally reached the plateau in my life where I could readily accept the senselessness, the futility of existence. I lived in a cosmos which was stupid, and perhaps even meaningless, and I could accept, philosophically, at least, the reality of knowing that I would probably die well before I ever had any opportunity of making any more sense of it then, than I had at its inception. Life was nothing more than a momentary series of diversions, sexual or otherwise, and I felt no reluctance in exploring it as it came along to me. The only thing, in fact, which did seem to mean anything was sensual pleasure, for it, at least, was intense enough to push everything else out of the spectrum in that exquisite intensity of its own moment. So, with all that in mind, I accepted my reflection for what it was: me. And, at thirty-three years old, that really wasn't bad at all.
I carefully reapplied my makeup, brushed my hair, and appraised the renewed image with a certain satisfaction. Even the fatigue seemed to have lessened.
The hallway was empty as I left the bathroom, and I was very much aware of the hollow sound of my footsteps as they clicked like empty echoes to the silence. My office was a few doors away, and I was beginning to remember all the work still in store for me before this night would end.
"Oh, hi, Miss Harper," Sandra Wilson said as I pushed open the door to my office. She was sitting in the chair beside my desk, reading a folded over paperback book. She looked up from it. "I was beginning to get a little worried. I thought that maybe you'd gone home."
I cringed inwardly. Sandra was one of my best students: I had her for an English honors class, as well as senior English. I was also her Faculty Adviser, and I was in no mood to sit through any pimply crisis which might be troubling her at the moment.
"Oh, Sandra," I said dryly, perhaps allowing my displeasure to show through. "What are you still doing here? It's well after hours. Won't your parents be worried that you haven't come home yet?"
She shook her head. "No, they won't even know. Both my parents work, so there's nobody waiting for me at home who will know, much less care."
Ah, I thought sagely, the neglected adolescent probably looking for attention or affection. There seemed to be more and more such children like Sandra over the years. God only knew what kind of world it was going to be when all these neglected children had matured. Technology, it seemed, was taking its toll on civilization in more ways than we had originally believed. I said:
"Is there something you'd like to speak to me about?"
Her dark features reflected confusion. "Oh, no," she suddenly exclaimed, understanding at last, "it's nothing like that."
Now I was confused. "What is it then, Sandra?"
She shifted uncomfortably on the chair. "Well..." she began. "I don't really know how to say this...."
I settled myself behind the desk, turning my chair so that I was staring patiently at her, exercising what professional technique I could to put her at ease.
"Just say whatever is on your mind," I assured her, smiling my understanding smile. "Don't be intimidated if you think you're not saying it well, because I don't really mind at all what you say, as long as you say what's bothering you. My job is to help you, Sandi-do you mind if I call you that?" Personalize it, I thought.
The young girl blushed. "Mind? No, of course not, Miss Harper. Everyone calls me that."
"Fine, Sandi, fine. Now just tell me what it is, and don't be afraid to say anything...personal. Whatever we discuss will go no further than this room."
She took a deep breath. "Well, Miss Harper, the problem has to do with...." Her face screwed up, as if she were forcing the words out. "...you."
I blinked. "With me?"
Her resolve began to crumble. "Oh, I know I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, Miss Harper. I really didn't mean to get personal."
A flutter of uncertainty, and resentment, which only added to the uncertainty, gnawed at the pit of my stomach. "Don't be silly," I said. "When I told you that you could say anything you wanted to when you came into this room, I meant just that. Now, what's on your mind, Sandi?"
"Well, I'm worried about you, Miss Harper," she blurted out. "You don't look good at all."
Amused, and undeniably relieved, I said: "Oh, really? I knew I was getting older, but I didn't think I was falling apart already."
Sandi put her hand up to her mouth, her cheeks flushing red. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean that. I just meant that you don't look healthy...like you're sick or something, you know."
"I think I get the idea."
"I know this is none of my business, Miss Harper, but I've been watching you for the past few weeks, and I'm sure there's something wrong. You seem so tired, so drained; as if you haven't been sleeping well or something."
I nodded, acknowledging the same observation. I had been feeling just as she'd described, and I. found it somewhat disconcerting that I'd not completely hidden that fact from the world.
"Well," I confessed, "I have been feeling somewhat tired. I really couldn't say why, except perhaps that the year's work is finally grinding down upon me. That, and all the extra work I've been taking on."
"Oh, I do hope that's what it is," Sandi said, and she seemed genuinely concerned. "I was watching you today, and you seemed as if you were just dead on your feet. I thought you were faint or something."
I laughed, mildly surprised. "Nothing seems to get past you, Sandra, does it?"
The irony went over her head. "No, Miss Harper, it doesn't. Not where you're concerned, at least."
"Oh, really? And why is that?"
Sandi shrugged. She was a very pretty girl, perhaps even beautiful, and the gentle spreading flush of self-consciousness which stained her cheeks, enhanced that attractiveness. Her hair was long and dark, a vivid jet black, gathered like clouds of drifting smoke against her face, flowing down in lazy curls across her shoulders. Equally black were her eyes, smoldering like jagged chunks of heated coal, waiting, it seemed, for a good strong wind to turn the simmering fire into a blazing inferno. The color of her flesh, as if in direct contrast, was milk white, so pale and clear it seemed almost translucent. There was a lushness to her body, like a well-ripened fruit, threatening to burst open and spill out her tender young juices. High, hard breasts pushed out against the tautly stretched material of her pale yellow blouse. Her waist was pinched and narrow, girdled with a wide leather belt now back in fashion, pulled tightly in to accent the wide, flaring swell of her hips. She wore a short, flouncy skirt which danced across the middle of her thighs. Her legs were strong and athletic, well-formed, parted slightly as they tapered down into almost comically tiny feet.
"I've made you a sort of hobby of mine," she explained, struggling to find the proper words. "I know that sounds silly, but-I admire you, Miss Harper. I really do."
Compliments, even from someone as young and as inexperienced as Sandi, were always welcome, and I found myself warming to the girl, despite my initial reaction to her having been in my office. I realized I'd never considered Sandi apart from any of my other students: she was always one of many, without much of a personality to set her apart from all the other anonymous faces which filled my classes. I'd never considered her as a person before. Until that very moment.
"Why that's very nice, Sandi," I said, holding something in reserve, unsure as yet that I wanted to involve my personality in the privacy of her fantasies. "I've always tried to be the best possible teacher I could. It's pleasing to know that all my efforts haven't been in vain. It's gratifying to know that someone was affected."
She continued to struggle, trying to get the rest out, and I found myself wanting to help her, very much aware of the difficulty she was experiencing. It is always a terrible ordeal to bare one's soul, especially to a stranger, as I was to her, and the pain must have been very real to this young, innocent girl.
"It's not just your being a good teacher," she went on. "Although you are-unquestionably. Before you I never had any interest in English before. Now I find myself reading everything. And poetry. I used to hate poetry. Until you read that poem by Shakespeare-that sonnet about his being depressed and full of despair-and I don't know, it was like a door opening up in my mind. I became aware of so many things in life, so many other levels that I never knew existed before. It's incredible, Miss Harper. I never dreamed that anything could be so beautiful, so meaningful."
I knew what she was saying, for Fd experienced that very same feeling myself, although much older, not until my freshman year at college. The awesome panorama of knowledge had opened up before her very eyes, and she was dazzled by the spectacle, humbled by its magic. I felt proud, suddenly, and touched that I had been the one to have been responsible for the flowering of her awareness. Every once in a while in a teacher's life, something just like this happens, and it makes everything worth the struggle.
"That's the twenty-ninth sonnet, isn't it? The one that begins-When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes.. . . "
"Yes," she said, beaming, and she quoted the rest back to me, without faltering once with the words. She was very quiet, respectfully so, when she had finished, and I found myself staring deeply into her eyes. She smiled, still self-consciously, and said: "I memorized it. It's the first poem I've ever taken the time to learn by heart. It's the first poem that ever touched me. It will always be special to me, Miss Harper, just as you will."
The mood was getting thick, so I attempted to enliven it with a feeble attempt at a joke. "The poem, perhaps, but surely not I. Twenty years from now, darling, I'll be long gone from your own personal chronicle of wasted time."
She missed the veiled Shakespearean reference in her enthusiastic assurance that that was not to be. "Oh, no, Miss Harper, that will never happen. like I said, you're more than just a teacher to me. Much, much more. You're someone who will always be very, very special to me."
I remembered suddenly the opening statement of our conversation, when I'd asked her whether or not her parents would be worried that she hadn't returned from school yet. No one was home, she had said, and I saw clearly how true that must have been for this young, obviously sensitive girl. Sandi was alone, and she needed someone to believe in. And in her innocence she had chosen me.
"Thank you, Sandi," I said, touched. "And, after all these flattering compliments, I'm sure you will always remain someone very special to me."
"It's hard sometimes for a young girl to always know what's important or right," she said, into the mood now, and allowing all her pent-up emotions to flow freely out. "Sometimes you need models, guides, someone who shows you what can be done with your life, and how it can be done. I look at you, and I say-wow. Miss Harper has everything. You're a good teacher, you're intelligent, well educated, and yet, you're a woman, really a woman. You didn't allow your being a woman to stand in the way of what you wanted out of life, yet you never let anyone forget that basically, you still are a woman. You dress well, you take pride in your body, and the way you look, you always wear just the right amount of makeup, you always have your hair combed just right-Jesus. You're soft and feminine, yet you have strength, and the convictions to act upon your beliefs. You're everything I've always wanted to be, Miss Harper. Everything."
My head was spinning, and my ego was inflated like a balloon. She was, of course, seeing only the surface, the eye-catching facade we all erect. Yet it was undeniably gratifying to know that even that, my most superficial qualities, had some effect upon a cold and uncaring world. I had touched, for a moment, because a moment was probably just long enough, another human being. We were communicating, Sandra Wilson and I, sharing something very few people ever had the opportunity to experience in the course of a lifetime.
There was a bond between us now, something that had not been there before, an irrevocable bond which would link our lives forever together, for as long as each of us lived. A bond that had nothing to do with our ages, our roles, or even with the fact that we were both women. Electricity flowed from her soul directly into mine, and then it flowed back, from me into her. We were two people who were really one, and even if she didn't understand that yet, she would, in time, just as I understood it now. We were sisters, in a sense, just as we were mother and daughter. The sister I never had, the daughter who would never grow in my belly, the mother Sandi had lost to a career.
"You can be like me," I said, realizing words would never be adequate yardsticks when measured against the wordless communion of what had transpired between us. "I'll show you how, Sandi. I'll show you the way. It's not hard, really. It won't be hard, at all."
She smiled, perhaps understanding, perhaps not. "Thank you, Miss Harper."
"That's not necessary, Sandi," I said, desperate to raze the last few barriers. "We're both women, and titles are so clumsy. My name is Lisa, and I hope you'll call me that, when we're alone, at least. I don't think it would go too well in front of the class. All right, Sandi? You call me Lisa."
"Jesus, that's-all right, Miss...Lisa. All right, Lisa, I'll try and remember."
Sensing that we had come to the end of something, or perhaps only the beginning, I looked across the space separating us, and I smiled.
"Say, it's getting late," I said. "And I don't know about you, but I really don't feel like hanging around this school any longer than we have to. What do you say we go, all right?"
The smile which blazed across her face began to flicker. "Oh, sure," she said, without much conviction. "That's fine with me."
"Come on," I said, poking her teasingly. "I didn't say we had to stop talking. All I said was that I wanted to get out of here. We can talk on the way, darling."
Sandi jumped up. "Sure, Miss Harper. I mean, Lisa. That's more like it."
I gathered together all the many things I had to bring home with me tonight, and I was glad for the moment, aside from everything else that had happened, that Sandi was with me, if for no other reason than to assist me with all I had to carry out to my car. If it weren't for Sandi, I would have had to make two, and perhaps even three trips.
With our arms full, I locked my office door, and we walked down to the elevator at the end of the empty hallway. We talked of general things, feeling very much at ease with each other's company. The elevator deposited us on the first floor, and it was a short walk from there to the exit, and to the parking lot behind the school, where my car was parked.
We dumped everything on the hood of the car while I searched through my pocketbook for the car keys. The sun was crawling low in the sky, and a lazy summer breeze rippled through the trees which flanked the school building. Mine was the only car in the lot, and for a moment I had the oddest sensation that we were the only two people left in the whole world.
"Can I drop you off some where, Sandi?" I offered, my voice sounding small and empty against the stillness oftthe parking lot.
She hesitated. "No, that's all right."
I looked at her levelly. "Get in the car, Sandi. I thought we were past the point of playing polite games with each other. If we can't at least be honest, Sandi, what else can we hope for?"
She smiled. "You're right, Lisa," she said. She went around to the far side of the car. "I guess I was just being silly."
I opened the door, slid behind the wheel, and opened Sandi's door. Handing her the bundles, we stored them securely on the back seat, then slipped in simultaneously, and slammed our doors. The feeling returned, almost immediately, of being cut off from the world.
"Lisa," said she, returning to her previous uncertainty, "can I speak frankly to you about something that's been bothering me?"
"Of course, Sandi. Isn't that what I'm here for?"
She shifted around on the car seat, facing me on an angle. She pulled her left leg up and hooked it over the edge of the seat, causing her short skirt to slide back, revealing an exciting stretch of flesh.
"It has to do with...sex." Her voice was hushed, as-if she were ashamed of the revelation.
"What about sex, Sandi?" I asked, shuddering to myself. The sight of her sitting there, so young, so open, so vulnerable was beginning to excite a far corner of my thoughts, and a trembling ripple of anticipation traveled down my spine. "You don't have to feel ashamed."
"Well, Miss Harper...Lisa," she began, pleading with her soft, delicate hands, "I just don't know how to get into this. I've never talked about this to anyone, not even Carol Dunn, my best friend. I hardly like to think about it myself, it's so terrible."
"Sandi," I said, smiling at her with my eyes, "don't be silly." I reached across the seat and hooked my fingers under her chin, lifting her downcast face until we were looking at each other again. "I'm a woman, and I have all the same needs and feelings as you have. I've slept with many, many men in my life, and I sincerely doubt that you can say anything to me about sex that I would find shocking. Now, why don't you get this off your chest, and tell me."
Sandi smiled back, almost despite her feelings of seriousness. "You know, that's funny, Lisa," she said, looking at me in a new, open way. "You know, I don't think I've ever thought of you in those terms-sexually, I mean. Somehow I've never thought of you-you know-having to deal with those kind of problems."
I laughed to reassure her. "Sandi, darling, you have an awful lot to learn about me. Believe me, I have a very active sexual life. It's one of the reasons, in fact, why I've never married. I've often said to myself it was better not to cheat on a husband than to cheat with one. If you understand what I'm getting at."
She looked surprised. "You mean, you've-"
"Sandi, I've done everything sexually, including gone to an orgy, and have had several very satisfying lesbian experiences. And when I can't find someone to satisfy my needs, I always can resort to this." I held up my middle and index fingers, the fingers I used when I masturbated. "So say what you want, in plain words."
The look of surprise turned to one of shock, and then, as though I had struck a sympathetic chord, her face turned crimson. Sandi began to sob.
"Oh, Miss Harper," she cried, tears streaming down her face. "What am I going to do? I'm so ashamed. I feel so...so dirty!"
I slid across the seat, gathered her into my arms, and rested her head in the hollow of my shoulder. My arms slipped around her back, and I held her firmly against me, feeling the heaving sobs of her tears wracking her frail body. I patted her gently, stroking her long luxurious hair with my open fingers.
"There, Sandi...there," I comforted, feeling the wetness of her tears on my cheek. "Easy now...easy. It can't be that bad. Nothing can ever be that bad."
"It is, Miss Harper! It is! And I don't know what to do!"
"I'll help you, Sandi. Just tell me what it is."
"It's Bobby!" she sobbed, as though the name alone would make everything clear.
"Bobby? Bobby who?"
"Bobby Mills," she sobbed, lifting her face away from my shoulder. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and tears streaked her pale cheeks. "My boy friend."
"Robert Mills?" I asked.
"Yes, that's him. You have him in your Creative Writing class. Bobby Mills."
"Well, what about him. And stop crying."
"He...he...oohhh!" More sobs, more tears, and she buried her face against my breast as she cried.
Anger flared inside of me, triggering irrationally a memory from a very long time ago, one which, after all these years, I still hadn't put into a desensitized perspective. Perhaps I never would; it was that kind of memory.
"What did he do to you, Sandi," I asked, hugging her tightly as my own anger made me tremble. "Did he...rape you? Did he force you to do something...unnatural." The memory flared vividly, like a flame licking at my pride. "Men do things like that to women sometimes...the filthy pricks! They take advantage of us, of our innocence, of our fears, and they...they...." The rest was lost in my rage. "That's why we have to be strong...stronger than they are. We have to fight back on their terms, and go for the only thing they understand-their balls!"
I was shivering with indignation.
Sandi looked up. "It's...it's nothing like that, Miss Harper," she said, shaking her head. "I only wish it were that simple...."
"We have to humiliate them..." I muttered, hearing her words but unable to check my mood until the terrible memory which now possessed me had run its course. "Tear them down...show them who's strongest-"
"Miss Harper," Lisa said, shouting over my words, "I think I'm a lesbian!"
Her words struck me numb. "What...what did you...? "
New tears erupted, and Sandi pressed her face against my shoulder. She felt strange now in my arms, different somehow than she had been only a moment before. I stroked her again, her hair, her back, wiping the tears from her eyes, but my fingers trembled with a new kind of excitement.
Sandi looked up again. "I don't like it, Miss Harper. I really don't...I-"
"Don't like what, Sandi?" I asked. Our breasts were touching, and I was very much aware of the contact, as, I'm sure, Sandi was. My nipples were hard and swollen inside my bra, and the fleshy mounds themselves ached with sensitivity. My mouth was dry, and the words tumbled out, hot and harsh, as if my throat had suddenly constricted. "What is it you don't like Sandi?"
"Sex. I don't like any of it."
"That's it, that's it-you're getting it out. Now, tell me more, Sandi. Tell me more."
"I don't like any of it," she went on, sniffling back her tears. "Sex, none of it. I didn't like it before with Derek, so I decided to go out with Bobby, just to see if there was any difference. But there wasn't, Miss Harper. There wasn't!"
"Who is Derek? What wasn't different? And, please, Sandi-call me Lisa!" My anger perhaps, my frustration, perhaps my excitement was making me snap when I should have been soft. I consciously made an effort to change my tone. "If I don't know what's wrong, darling, I wouldn't know how to help you. And I do want to help you, precious. I really do, Sandi."
"Derek was my first boyfriend," she explained, composing herself. "We'd been going out with each other for a couple of years, and for a while there I really thought I loved him." She sniffled again, gaining command. "I know now that I didn't, but at the time I thought I did, so I guess that's really what is important. Anyhow, Derek and I got to fooling around with each other-you know, touching and things like that, and you know, I really liked it. So one night we got carried away, and we made love. He took my...virginity."
"There's always some helpful man willing to do that!" I said bitterly. "I'm sorry, go on."
"I didn't like it. It hurt and was messy, and I was afraid of getting pregnant. But Derek liked it, and he kept on forcing me to do it. The more we did it, the less I enjoyed it. It didn't hurt any more, but...I don't know. It just didn't feel good either. Not the way it was supposed to feel, anyhow."
"Did he satisfy you?"
Sandi stared at me blankly. "What do you mean?"
I returned her stare with a look of incredulity. "Did he make you come? Did he bring you to orgasm? You know, the feeling you get when you touch yourself down there, when you rub your...clitoris. Did he make you feel like that?"
"You mean like when I get all wet and hot?"
"Yes, Sandra. Yes!"
She shrugged, as if it were somehow unimportant. "It started to feel like that one time, but it went away when he came. He pulled his...organ out, and he came all over the car seat. God, it was messy. It got all over my dress...Jesus!"
I shook my head. "Sandi, you and I have a lot to talk about. But go on, tell me the rest."
"So, I found out I didn't like it. I found out I didn't like to get laid. Or, at least, I didn't like to get laid by Derek. I still liked sex, I think. I did that thing to myself...you know, like what you said...in bed at night, and I enjoyed that. I just didn't like it with Derek."
"Then what happened?"
"I began to think that maybe it wasn't me, that maybe it was Derek."
"Good girl!"
"-So I began to think maybe I should try it with someone else. That's when I thought of Robert-Bobby Mills."
"Why did you choose him?"
Embarrassment colored her cheeks. "Bobby's got kind of a reputation around the school, as a...lover. A stud, really. He's good looking and all, and he's got a pretty nice personality, but he's most famous for the way he's...built." Sandi's face was scarlet.
"You mean, his...prick." There, I said the word! Now it was out in the open. "Just how big was his prick?"
"Nine inches."
"What?"
"It is, Miss-Lisa," she insisted. "I saw it! I had it-oohh...inside of me."
"And it really is nine inches?"
Sandi nodded. "It is, really."
A different kind of shudder went through my body, and a decided throb gripped my wet, flowing box. "Go on," I said, somewhat unsteadily. "So you made love with Bobby, and then what?"
"I didn't like it. Not at all. Not one bit. Not when it was inside of me, not when it was between my legs, not even when he...climaxed!" As she relived the incident, Sandi's voice began to rise, becoming more and more shrill, until she was trembling again. "So, don't you see, Miss Harper, I must be a lesbian! Why else didn't I like it?" Her voice grew very quiet then. "Why else would I feel the way I do about you...Lisa?"
I stared at Sandi, weighing a momentous decision in my mind. I saw her suddenly for what she was-my negative self, my alter ego. She was young, and I was old. I was blonde and fair, and Sandi was dark complexioned with hair the color of night. I was brutally cynical, and she was full of untarnished idealism. She was innocent, and I was corrupted. Looking at her was like staring into a strangely magical mirror which reversed its reflection, or somehow tapped a being from another time or dimension, one which was diametrically opposed to the world in which I lived.
How could I answer her question? What words could I find which would make her know what I knew, feel what I felt? There were no words. Besides, this was not a time for words. I pulled Sandi against me, and I kissed her.
"Yes!" she moaned, breathing into my open mouth. Her tongue slipped in a moment later, and we kissed deeply and wetly, there in that empty parking lot behind the empty school. "Yes," she repeated, tasting the sweetness of my saliva. "Yes...yes...yes!"
CHAPTER FOUR
My Creative Writing class met every Friday, late in the afternoon, the last period. On the whole, it was a fairly good class, filled with the sort of students one would expect in this type of class. One or two students showed something of promise, and one, even, suggested he might conceivably possess some smattering of talent. The rest wrote the most tortured prose, filled with brooding, obvious symbolism, written in the most figurative, almost baroque style since florid Victorianism.
The most prevalent form was some shapeless form, for which there was no conceivable descriptive term. Usually it was a short mood piece, of very tense emotion, searing its grasp of universal truth, making its pronouncements in a writing style which thundered its conclusions. Generally it was composed in the form of a poem-unrhymed blank verse, naturally-and contained no upper case letters, especially, and universally, the pronoun "i." Sorry, mr. cummings. And always, always it began in the middle of the last sentence of the piece so that the end of the end was in the beginning, and the beginning of the beginning was in the end.
And, speaking of poetry-anything was considered a poem as long as it was written in the form of a poem, that is, bizarre, fragmented images, strung together without the benefit of sentences, and, where capital letters were used only at the beginning of each line. Again, it qualified as a poem if it was deeply felt, written late at night, when the writer was either stoned or intensely depressed, or if it had to do with Truth or Reality or Art. It didn't matter that the work made no sense, as long as it was meaningful and relevant to the budding poet. And the best poems, according to the writers of them, were always written in a stream-of-consciousness style. This was accomplished by the author clearing his mind of all thoughts, and sitting at his typewriter, or with pen in hand, and just begin to write, setting down strings of words as they popped into the author's thoughts. Usually, it would go something like this: think not of man in his incandescent bestiality in which purpose and causality are not in reason, but filled with the flower sadness of soaring majesty; shadows glowing in their own irrelevance, burning with negroed profanity so that infinity is the pedantic answer cursing the question that lasts in the purposelessness of a scream weird defiance....And so on, ad infinitum. That was where it was at, man. That was Art. That was poetry...in the opinion of most high school creative writers.
Robert Mills was a student in my creative writing class, and while not as pretentious a writer as the type above, he was no Hemingway, either. He did write good clean prose, and I guess I should have been grateful for that. Most students, I'm convinced, write poems like the example shown, without punctuation or capitalization simply because it allows them not to write literate sentences, a weakness they all seem to possess. Robert, on the other hand, could write sentences. Uninspired, perhaps, and plodding, but sentences, nonetheless.
"Miss Harper," Robert Mills said, standing in front of my desk, "you didn't return my assignment."
The assignment for this week's class was to write a descriptive passage, showing a relationship of some sort between two objects. The assignment was simple and clear, structured, but free enough so as not to stifle any blooming creativity. Robert's paper, actually, was quite good this week, one of his better accomplishments, and was about an old man and a silver cane he'd received on his twenty-first birthday. The relationship was weighed between the old man and his cane. It was romantic in tone and execution, but quite good in places, containing some of the best writing Robert had given me all term long.
I knew where his paper was, of course. It was at home, on my desk. I'd left it there purposely, as part of my plan. Sandi Wilson had excited my interest about Robert, and the prick she said he possessed, and I was more than curious. I also felt I had something of a score to settle with him, at least on Sandi's behalf.
"Your paper," I echoed. "Didn't I return it to you?"
"No, you didn't."
Robert was tall and well-built, with the body and reputation of a natural athlete. His shoulders were wide and broad, his chest high and hard-looking, and his belly was no wider around than mine, but considerably flatter. Unconsciously my eyes were drawn to his crotch, in search perhaps of some evidence to verify Sandi's claim, but my curiosity was not to be satisfied so easily. He was wearing a pair of gray flannel slacks, very well-cut, but hardly tight-fitting enough across his loins to do anything but titillate my already erotic thoughts. I allowed my gaze to travel back upward, across the white, short-sleeved shirt he wore, until I was looking into his questioning face. He had blond hair, worn long but neat, eyes a shade somewhere blue and green, and was quite good-looking in a rather craggy, very masculine way. Also, for what it was worth, I could tell he was holding his stomach in.
"Are you certain?" I asked, and I pretended to look for the paper in my notes. I shuffled pages and tests back and forth in my search, muttering absentmindedly to myself. "It doesn't seem to be here." I looked up at him. "Are you sure you handed one in?"
He opened his mouth to protest.
"Oh, yes, of course, you did hand one in. I remember now. Yours was about the old man with the cane. Yes, yes, I remember now." I riffled my papers again. "Are you sure I didn't return it to you? I remember it very clearly. There was something I wanted to talk to you about on it." Good touch, I thought. Generate some curiosity.
"No, you didn't, Miss Harper," he explained. "I was sitting there, waiting for you to call my name, but you didn't."
"Odd. Perhaps I handed it to someone else by mistake." I rapped on my desk with my ruler, to get the classes' attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, did anyone receive the wrong paper back? Would you all please check? I'm looking for Robert's paper."
When it wasn't found, I turned back to Robert, a look of concerned concentration lining my face. I tapped my finger against my jaw, furrowing my forehead. Then my eyes popped open wide, and I stuck my finger into the air in front of me triumphantly.
"Yes, I remember!" I said. Then my face turned apologetic. "Oh, Robert, I'm sorry. I remember now where it is. I left it home. On my desk. I remember that it was one of the first I read, and I remember I was struck by it. But I decided not to mark it until I went back to it a second time, after I'd read all the other papers. And I-simply forgot it." I shrugged.
"Oh," he said, clearly disappointed. "Well, do you remember my mark?"
I thought for a moment. "Humm, no, I don't. Let me check." I turned to my marking book, looked up his name under the assignment, ran my finger across the line, and said: "Ah, no. I didn't enter the mark either."
His jaw pulled over in thought. "And you don't remember the mark?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"Well, do you remember what it was you wanted to talk to me about?"
I sighed in exasperation. "No, Robert, I'm sorry. I just have no idea at this moment."
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, trying not to seem bothered by it. "Oh, that's okay, Miss Harper. I guess I could wait until next week." He smiled bravely at me, then turned to leave.
"Robert," I said, and I purposely touched his arm to prevent his leaving my desk. Physical contact is somehow always interpreted as sexual behavior by adolescents, for some reason, especially if that contact is made by someone older than the adolescent. Of course, their consciousness inevitably explains it rationally away as something non-sexual ultimately, but not before the idea has passed through their thoughts. And that was the very idea I wanted to pass directly through Robert Mills' mind. I wanted to make sure he thought of me in vivid sexual terms, if at least only for this one time. I smiled lopsidedly at him. "Robert, you were counting on receiving that mark this week, weren't you?"
He shrugged philosophically, as much to my question as to the thrill of sexual thought which was presently coursing through his blood. "Oh, that's okay, Miss Harper. I don't mind, really, I don't."
"I really feel bad about this."
"Foget it, Miss Harper. No big thing."
"No, no, I'm not going to forget it. In fact, I can still get that paper to you today, if you'd like?"
"Sure," he said. "How?"
"Are you doing anything this afternoon?"
He thought for a moment. "No."
"Would it be possible for you to stop over at my apartment some time after class? I could give you the paper then. It's just on my desk."
He looked at me steadily for a long moment, weighing my words against all possible levels of fantasy and reality, attempting to re-evaluate his explanation for my having touched his arm. The thread of a very dirty thought began to weave its way through his brain, and I could sense him almost wanting to believe it. Then he pushed it back, partially, covering it over with a sense of sober reality that was twenty years too mature for him. Still, a glimmer of the thought remained, like a gnawing worm, chewing away at probability.
He shrugged again. "I guess I could-if it's not too much trouble?"
"No, of course not, Robert. Would I have asked you if it were? Don't be silly. Here, let me give you my address." I took a piece of scrap paper from the pile on my desk, and I wrote my full name and address out, in my most sensual, flowing handwriting. I was careful to use my first name, knowing that it would seem somehow intimate in his mind that I should have made him privy to something so secret and obviously important. I handed the paper to him. "Are you coming by car?"
He nodded numbly. "Yes."
"Oh, good. Then you shouldn't have any trouble at all. I live right here in the neighborhood. There's even a place to park your car in the basement of my apartment building. Just in case, though, I'd better give you my number." I took the paper back, wrote out the number, and handed it back to him. He accepted it tentatively, as if it might somehow explode in his hands. "I'll see you about five or so, all right?" I asked.
He nodded blankly. "Sure. Five is fine."
I smiled back at him, dazzling him sensually. "See you then, Robert. Now why don't you return to your seat, and we'll continue the lesson."
"Yes, Miss Harper," he said, and, as if preoccupied, he returned to his seat, sat down heavily, and continued to stare at me throughout the entire length of the lesson, his face a mask of indecision and deep contemplative thought.
As soon as the class was over, I collected my things, raced to the office, waited impatiently on line until all the rest of the girls ahead of me clocked out, then hurried to my car and drove speedily home. I found a spot in the basement just to the left of the elevator, something which almost never happens, and I took that to be a good sign. The elevator zipped me up to the sixth floor, and I was into my apartment, and into the shower, before five minutes more had gone by.
I showered quickly, enjoying the icy prick of the water against my naked flesh. It gushed forcibly between my breasts, and dribbled sensually between my thighs. I left the shower feeling refreshed and revived. I stood on the damp tiled floor of the bathroom, and rubbed the soft terry towel across my damp flesh, ostensibly to dry it, yet oddly awakening in it the beginning heat of a smoldering fire.
I rubbed the towel between my thighs, enjoying thoroughly the soft rippling pressure of my hand against my flesh. The edge of the towel under the wedge of my fingertips, slipped between the lips of my pussy, and an unanticipated shudder fluttered down my thighs. I cupped the towel against the mound of my cunt, holding it firmly in my hand until the fluttery sensation dissipated.
Across from me, on the back of the bathroom door, was a full-length mirror, and I found myself fascinated by my reflection. My irregularly shaped blonde hair was drenched, and it hung straight down over my shoulders like twin streaks of lightning. My breasts were firm and fully rounded, heavy but not sagging yet. I could see the creamy whiteness near the tips, where the suntan ended. My nipples were erect and red brown, and bubbles of water beaded against my taut flesh. The overhead light caught the bubbles, making them dance, as if my breasts were decorated with sparkling diamonds.
Once my waist had been slim and flat, so small that it made my breasts appear larger than they actually were, but there time had begun to take its toll. Not that I was fat, God forbid, for I wasn't. But there was a healthy roundness to the bowl of my belly, and the flesh was much less firm than it had been. My hips, however, flared out nicely, fully, sensually rounded.
With my hand firmly pressed to my belly, the towel was draped down between my widely parted thighs, in flowing white folds. like a pale corona, I could just see a few yellow hairs radiating out near the edge of the mound, curled out from under the rippled towel.
On an impulse, I dropped the towel and slid my hand around to my side. Involuntarily my breath sucked in at the sight of my reflection. The mound of my cunt was broad and wide, sparsely covered with an irregular patch of thinning pubic hair. At the base of the mound, I could see the lips as they came together, and the erect bud of my clitoris as it winked out from between them. The sight of my naked body both pleased and excited me.
I brought my hand back to my cunt. The hair was damp, and my flesh felt moist and clammy to the touch. I put my index and middle fingers together and positioned them above the inward curve of the mound, in the middle of my cunt. I began to slowly rotate the fingers, sending slow, ponderous throbs of excitement into the sleepy thickness of my body.
The sight of watching myself masturbate turned me on almost as much as the actual act of masturbation. I watched in the mirror as my hand moved against my cunt, barely slipping the tips of each finger into the wet split between the lips. I touched the bud of my clitoris just firmly enough to send a burning warmth to make my knees tremble.
I began to rotate my hips, pushing my hairy mound up against my fingers. I saw my hips pumping in and out in the mirror. My stomach muscles undulated, and my breasts jiggled just enough to disturb the beads of moisture gathered upon them, causing them to lose their surface co-hesiveness so that they spilled over. Trickles of ice cold water dripped down across my naked, burning flesh.
Under my fingers, a wetness was collecting between the lips of my cunt. My deeply pressing fingers were moving steadily against me, and pleasure was dancing with spiked shoes up and down the length of my flesh. Getting into the mood, I hunched, my middle against my hand, and felt a deep burning fire shake my clitoris with paroxsyms of raw shuddering intensity.
Without thinking, I slipped the two masturbating fingers down between the fold of my cuntal lips, parting them ever so slightly, and inserting the tips firmly between the drippy crack. My flesh was wet, and the fingers slid effortlessly through the sticky pit until I felt the hot, sucking heat near the center of my body, drawing upon my hand. I pushed my body forward, hunching forward, watching myself in the mirror, and impaled myself upon the two pleasure-stiffened fingers. With eyes open wide in amazement, I watched the fingers disappear into my wetness.
I moaned aloud, the pleasure was so intense. My cunt was very tight, very wet. I could feel the tensed, firm walls of the oozing passageway clutching at the probing hardness of my fingers. The passageway was still very tight, unprepared as yet for the penetration, neither fully aroused nor elastic enough to be relaxed. I pushed the fingers up hard, and almost slumped weakly from the intensely wet friction the fingers made as they scraped sensually against the sugary walls of the clinging canal. I pushed upward until my knuckles were softly cushioned against the pink-lipped mound, until the two fingers were extended fully within the hot sucking wetness of my cunt.
No! I cautioned myself, and reluctantly, I pulled the fingers out. My cunt was throbbing with sensation, like an exposed nerve ending, like an overwound spring, tensed and trembling, threatening to explode unless released. Tentatively I reapplied my fingers to my clitoris, touching the bud lightly. It was like the burning end of a cigarette, and icy shivers tickled up and down my spines. I rotated the love button lightly, trying to bring myself down gently from the incredible heights those same expert fingers had driven me to. There was no sense in finishing it like this, I rationally explained to myself. The cunt-wet fingers moved slowly, lightly, gently almost, mellowing out the sharp edges of my vivid mood. Not when Robert Mills was due to arrive within the hour. And Robert Mills, I reminded myself, was supposed to have a nine-inch rod!
Reluctantly, but firmly, I pulled the fingers away from my sloppy, dripping cunt. The temptation was great, and I knew if I came now, I still wouldn't have any difficulty in coming, again later, if and when the opportunity presented itself, but that wasn't the point. The point was that the second orgasm-the one I'd intended to experience with Robert Mills-could not have been as intense as the one I would have if I didn't come now. And more than anything, even more than the selfish considerations of the moment, I wanted the orgasm with Bobby Mills to be the best, and most intense orgasm I could possibly make it. With a sigh, I dropped my wet hand back against my side.
There was more to do, I reminded myself, and time was slipping away from me. I continued drying myself, retrieving the towel from the bathroom floor. My flesh was damp all over again, only it wasn't from the shower, or the humidity of the room. It was the results of my thwarted climax, and, as I cleaned myself thoroughly, I realized I'd stopped myself none too soon. I'd been closer to coming than even I'd imagined.
At the sink, I rinsed my face with cold water, opened the bathroom door to uncloud the mirror, and carefully reapplied my makeup. Plugging in my hot comb, I stroked it through my drenched hair until it was completely dry and fluffy. I was pulling at one of the longer locks of hair with my fingers, passing it under my nose, when the thickly cunt-wet odor of my previous excitement assailed my nostrils. I inhaled the odor deeply, closing my eyes, savoring the bouquet as if it were a rich, expensive perfume.
I'd actually had the hot water turned on, and the soap in my hands, before I stopped myself. I smiled wickedly at my reflection in the mirror. No, I thought, bringing the wet, smelly fingers back under my nose. I inhaled deeply once again. Let the odor remain, I thought. Maybe Robert will smell it. It should be interesting to see how he reacts to that. And, smiling still, I returned the perfumed soap to the soap dish, and I climatically closed the running hot water. I turned away from the sink, shut the bathroom light, and walked briskly into my bedroom.
Now, what should I wear? Certainly nothing too suggestive, for that would give him too much of an opportunity to read my intent clearly. Something suggestive, but not an open declaration. I opened my closet and stared in. And nothing, of course, underneath. I wanted Robert to be very much aware of my nudity.
I selected a red and purple lounging robe, made of heavy material, floor-length and opaque, which zipped up the back. I slipped it over my head.
The doorbell rang.
Quickly I peered at the clock radio on the night-table next to my bed.
It was four-forty-five. He was a full fifteen minutes early. Good, I thought, smiling. He's impatient for what he hopes might be.
The bell rang again.
"Coming!" I called out, and I reached behind, grasped the zipper in my hand, and pulled it up as far as I could. Then, reaching down over my shoulder with my other hand, I pulled the zipper the rest of the way up.
For one last time I examined myself in the mirror. Satisfied, I turned and hurried to the front door.
The bell rang once more.
"Be right there!" I cried, approaching the door. I leaned against it, holding the doorknob in my hand, putting my lips to the crack between the door and the frame. "Who's there?" I asked.
"Uh, it's me, Miss Harper," I heard a muffled voice reply. "Robert Mills."
I opened the door. "Come right in, Robert Were you ringing long? You caught me in the shower."
"Oh, I'm too early. Maybe I should come back a little later?"
"Don't be silly," I said, closing the door. I made a showy display of locking the door behind him. Gesturing for him to proceed, I said: "Go right into the living room. I'll be with you in a moment. I'll just go and get your paper, and I'll be right in. Make yourself comfortable."
He disappeared through the doorway, and I watched him as he moved. He'd changed his clothing since class, and was now wearing a pair of very tightly fitting, faded jeans, and a sleeveless vest, with nothing underneath. The muscles of his shoulders and arms bulged nakedly, almost proudly, clear indicators that the idea of sex was not. completely alien to his thoughts. As I had, Robert had dressed himself just suggestively enough to give me cause to wonder whether the choice of clothing had been accidental or purposeful. I was excited and pleased by his aggressiveness, for he seemed already a promising adversary. The muscles of his ass moved like tensed swells of water under the tautly stretched material of his jeans.
In the bedroom, I retrieved his paper from my desk, examined it quickly, considered what I might say about it should that opportunity present itself, then carried it over and placed it on my dresser top. Re-evaluating my reflection, and pleased with what I saw, I leaned forward and lifted the bottle of spray perfume from the center of the dresser top. Spraying it all over my body, lifting the hem of my robe, I annointed each of my swinging, pendulous breasts, then sprayed myself carefully between my thighs, from the crack of my ass to the hair of my cuntal mound. The robe dropped back into place, and I returned to the living room, the paper in hand.
Robert was standing in the living room, consciously positioned in front of my ceiling-to-floor bookcase. He had his thumbs hooked in the thick leather hp of his belt, with his fingers hanging tensely down across his lower belly, as though he were pointing to the thickened lump which stretched across his groin. He did not look at me when I walked in, a definite give away of his intention, and instead trained his eyes across the many titles.
"Find anything interesting?" I asked, somewhat suggestively.
He turned and looked at me, smiling lopsidedly. "You sure have a lot of books, Miss Harper. Did you read them all? It must have taken you years."
I laughed lightly. "It has. Reading books like those have been my whole fife almost."
He gave me a strange, almost penetrating stare. "Your whole life?"
"Well, a good part of it, anyhow. In college, graduate school, and ever since then. There has been time, of course, in between for...other things."
"I certainly hope so."
I held the paper up. "Why don't you sit down and we can discuss your paper."
"Fine," he said, and he sauntered into the middle of the living room, walking with a cocky kind of confidence. He was young and he was sharp, and it was obvious he had a very high opinion of himself. Without the restrictions and roles of the classroom, I was seeing Robert in a very different light. It was obvious from the leering grin on his lips that any remaining doubt he might have entertained as to the real reason for his visit was completely gone from his mind. He knew he was here to get laid. All it was was a matter of time.
I settled myself on the sofa, just to see how he would react, but he sat in one of the chairs across from the sofa. He leaned forward on the chair, giving me the impression of a forceful, almost aggressive youthfulness. He faced me directly, locking his eyes upon mine, never allowing his stare to flicker for an instant. I had the decided impression that he was trying to seduce me with his gaze, trying to hypnotize me with something like raw animal energy.
"First, I'd like to thank you, Miss Harper," he said, using words in the same way as he used his eyes. He was trying to take command of the situation by controlling the flow and direction of the conversation. "I know this must be an inconvenience for you, having me come here and all, especially after class hours...."
"Not at all, Robert," I said. "If I didn't want you here, I would not have invited you."
I sat back on the sofa and pretended to listen politely to his response. I opened my legs slightly, and saw his eyes catch the movement. Slowly I raised my left leg, and crossed it over the right, revealing a brief pink flash of thigh flesh.
That stopped him. He was in the middle of telling me how much he'd wanted to be a writer, and how he'd thought of nothing else ever since he was very young, when he stopped cold, in the middle of a word. He mumbled something, and picked up the fallen thread of his narrative, but his response was enough to convince me he was now very much aware that I was naked under the robe.
"Robert, why don't you sit over here, next to me?" I suggested, smiling at him. I patted the sofa cushion beside me with my flat open palm.
He returned my smile and stood up. The swollen lump of his prick was rigid inside his pants, yet he made no attempt to conceal its presence. He stood erect and walked boldly across the room, coming toward me with that confident smile almost pasted across his roughly handsome face. Judging from the thickness and pulsing length of his hard-on, Sandi's estimate conceivably could have proven to be something of an understatement.
Robert sat very close to me, and purposely, I'm sure, he allowed his knee to graze the side of my thigh. This was verified a moment later, when, instead of pulling his leg back, as might be expected had it simply been an accidental contact, Robert pressed his knee forward, grinding it into the softness of my thigh. Then he began to move his knee up and down against me.
I looked at his face, trying to judge what was going on behind his eyes. His blue green eyes twinkled with awareness. He licked the pink tip of his tongue around the edge of his teeth, a very sensual movement. My cunt throbbed. He smiled at me, almost nodding.
"What did you think of my paper?" he asked. His eyes were riveted to mine, and so intense was his concentrated gaze, they could have easily burned a hole in my flesh had light been filtered through them. "What did you think of it?"
I looked down at the paper. "On the whole, Robert, I believe it was quite good. Different somehow from your usual work...."
I stopped talking.
Boldly he put his hand down to his crotch. He began to rub his cock and balls through the material of his jeans. He continued to stare at my face, watching my eyes as they followed his hand's movement. When my eyes did not pull back from the sight in shock, and I didn't leap to my feet in shouting protests, Robert's grin broadened, until it seemed almost to crack his face in half. He squeezed his cock hard, lifting it through the material of the jeans, as if he were offering its considerable length to me.
I did nothing but watch. This was his game, and he had to make all the moves. He could have me, if he wanted me badly enough, but he had to take me.
And he did.
Without a single word of acknowledgement from me, he reached across the space separating us, and he slid his arm around my shoulder, pulling me against him.
What balls! I thought, in silent admiration. He was that confident in himself! Here he was, making love to me, his teacher, a woman almost twice his age, and he didn't hesitate for a single second.
He drew my face to his. His mouth was open, and he forced his tongue between my lips. My mouth molded itself against him, and I accepted his tongue. It snaked into my mouth, bringing with it a hot squirming fire that lashed against my own tongue, licking feverishly at my teeth, playing sensually across the roof of my mouth.
He kissed me well, employing that same self-assured confidence as he pressed against my lips, rotating slowly, grinding down with just the proper amount of pressure and abandonment. It was evident that it was a technique that had been well perfected.
His hand moved to my breast. He had large hands, and his fingers tightened around my flesh with an ease and certainty that was almost disconcerting. He squeezed the tit appreciatively, moaning softly in my mouth when he realized I hadn't worn a bra either. His gaze had only centered upon my crotch, and apparently he had only discerned that I hadn't worn any panties.
He pressed the flesh down against my body, moving his hand in small rotating applications of pressure. He pinched inwardly with his fingers and palm, catching the nipple against the material of my robe, causing it to grow hard and stiff. He ran his index finger across the tip of my breast, brushing the erect nipple back and forth through the fabric.
His tongue moved rhythmically in my mouth, hotly, wetly. I remained impassive, allowing him to kiss and touch me. He sensed this, and decided to make his own moves. He took his hand away from my breast and took it in his hand. Together, hand in hand, he brought my fist down to his crotch, wrapping my fingers around his erect cock. Then he lifted his hand and returned to my breast.
His cock was hard. And long. Much longer and much harder than any cock I remember having felt in my life, and I whispered a silent prayer of thanks to Sandi Wilson and her lesbian hang-up.
Of course, I was still going to get Robert for her, and for me, and perhaps for all women, but in the meanwhile, I was going to enjoy the throbbing hardness I held under my gripping fingers.
I began to pull at him through his pants. I ran the palm of my hand down the length of his cock, from his belly to the tip of the erection. His cock was very thick and I could feel the heat of his excitement generating up through the rough material of his jeans. I squeezed down into his flesh, wrapping my fingers under the material so that I had lifted it away from his belly, and it was cradled in my palm. I squeezed it again. It was as hard as a rock.
Encouraged, Robert slid his free hand around my back, found the zipper, and pulled it all the way down, to the top of my ass cheeks. He slipped the hand into my robe, over my shoulder, and continued his massage against my now naked tit. His hands were fleeting and cool against my hot flesh.
Without wanting to, I found myself moaning. Regardless of what I may have thought about his personality, and what he represented, Robert Mills was good. Damn good. The sound of my moans came out wetly, escaping from our sealed, open mouths and hot, wiggling tongue.
I could almost feel his confidence growing as he pressed his fingers into my naked flesh. He pulled his lips away from my mouth, and he slid his face down, kissing my breasts. He employed the same slow sensual grinding movement against my breast as he had against my mouth. He moved slowly, wetly, lashing his hot tongue across my nipples. I could feel his teeth biting into the erect flesh of my nipple, grinding pleasurably down as he grated the stiffened bud of flesh between his teeth. He sucked the puckered nipple up between his pursed lips. My breast ached excitedly from the wet, pulling suction of his oral expertise.
Then, suddenly, abruptly, he moved his hand away from my breast, and slid it across my stomach, then down, between my thighs. He guided his hand slowly, allowing me to savor the intent of the movement. I parted my thighs to permit him entrance, and he slid the hand up, under the hem of my robe, and he touched the wetness of my naked pussy.
His fingers curled around the broad, hairy mound of my cunt. His hand rubbed against me, pressing upward. I could hear the scratchy sounds of my hair against his palm, flattening under his tightening grip. The noise excited me, and I found myself moaning again.
Robert began to slide his middle finger up and down the slit of my cunt. The stiff first joint of the finger separated the thick outer lips. Sensually, he played in the moist slickness between, spreading the wetness of my excited discharge up and down the length of my oozing cuntal crack.
Smiling, as if he'd won something, Robert lifted his face from my tit. "Take my cock out, Miss Harper," he commanded.
Obediently, I fumbled with his zipper and pulled it down. His cock popped out, stark naked, like a thick burning pole. At first I thought he'd worn no underwear, until I felt the sweaty material under my fingers, bunched below the pole of his cock. In an instant I realized he had pulled the elastic top of his shorts down over his cock and balls, so that they hung out nakedly. The arrangement had been made either before he came here or while I had been in the bedroom, getting his paper. The sonofabitch was that sure of himself!
I moved my hand up and down his cock, stroking the smooth, slick shaft with my widely stretched fingers.
Robert returned his mouth to my nipples, sucking them up hard between his teeth, and began to circle his probing middle finger around the outside of my cunthole. His finger was barely inserted in the hole, and he moved the tip of the finger around slowly, letting it squish through the wetness, pulling the entrance hole tightly and tautly with his rotating hardness. I found the sensation almost excruciatingly intense.
Robert's cock was thick and long, and I squeezed its round, uncircumcised head under my fingertips, until he trembled from the pressure. I slid my cupped hands down, under his balls, and I rolled them across my fingers, squeezing into their elusive soft hardness.
Inserting the tip of his finger into my cunt, down to the first joint, perhaps half an inch into me, he continued to pull the finger around, in the same straining circle, stretching the lips of my cunthole until I felt the trembling excitement of pleasure from the caress. My wetness began to dribble from my body, coating the inside of my thighs, oozing down over his finger.
Abruptly, Robert said: "Suck my cock!"
I stared back at him.
"Suck my cock, Miss Harper!" he repeated, and, as if for emphasis, he thrust the finger tickling at my cunt, viciously up into my box. His finger was thick and long, and a swell of pleasure pushed outward from the jabbing movement. Involuntarily, the hole of my cunt clutched closed around his finger, catching the knuckles of his pressing fist in the soft outer thickness of my cuntal lips.
"Come on, teacher," he said with contempt. "You want to do it, don't you? That's why you invited me here, isn't it? Now suck it, baby...suck it!"
Actually, it hadn't been necessary for Robert to repeat his request, for I had every intention of sucking his cock, if not for his reasons, then certainly mine. At the moment, my mouth was literally watering in anticipation of swallowing his swollen throbbing shaft.
With his fingers moving inside of my cunt, and his lips sealed again to the slobbery nipples of my tender breast, I bent forward and took his cock into my mouth. I guided him with my hand, pulling down the monstrous shaft, until the tip of the erection grazed my lips, burning me with the heat of his passion.
I closed my lips over his cock, and it was incredibly hot in the wetness of my mouth. I closed my teeth around the sides of his shaft, pressing the flat part of my tongue against the underside of the organ. Saliva dribbled down the thumping pole of his hard-on as I began the up and down pumping of my pursed lips, bobbing above his belly until I had swallowed his full length. The head of the shaft was straining against the back of my throat, but I continued my downward plunge, until I could feel the cool scrape of his open zipper against my flushed cheeks. Wire-like threads of blond pubic hair, standing stiffly out from between the open flap of his shorts, tickled under my nose each time I slid down the length of his cock to bury my face against his sweaty crotch.
A second finger joined the first in my cunt, and together they became a hunching, driving piston as he slipped them in and out in a frantic sexual tempo. As if stunned by the effect, barraged by the thundering rush of sensation, the walls of my cuntal passageway opened and closed frantically around the rigid bluntness of his drilling fingers.
"Suck it, teacher!" he grunted, exacting in his mind some sort of revenge upon my body, and I wondered whether it was me personally he was venting himself upon, or just women in general. I sensed, there in that moment of awareness, how very close in intent Robert and I were. It was a shame, almost, that he was so naive. He had no idea at all that he had been suckered into this by my willingness to be used. The lesson he would learn would shatter his inflated ego. "Suck it, teacher! Suck it out! Suck out my come!"
I pulled my mouth away from his cock. This was not how the afternoon was going to end. It was time now for me to make my move.
"Fuck me," I said. My mouth felt strange without the throbbing hardness of his cock spearing it open. Saliva dribbled down my chin, across my neck, and onto my breasts. My eyes were closed tightly in appreciation of the sensations of raw sexual pleasure I was experiencing from his rapidly thrusting fingers.
The moment I'd said those words, his hand ceased moving, and I could tell he was appraising me coolly. "What did you say?" he asked. Without having to open my eyes, I knew Robert was smiling triumphantly.
I repeated the words. "Fuck me."
He laughed cruelly. "Say it louder, teach...and better!"
"Fuck me, Robert.. . please. Please fuck me."
"Louder!" He was confident now, and sadistically enjoyed the realization that he was making me squirm. It was a decidedly masculine game he was playing with me, and he had the leading role.
He was the supreme male ego: the man with the golden cock.
"FUCK ME...you prick."
Giggling nervously, he slid his fingers from the sucking mouth of my cunt. Trembling with passion, anticipating the fuck of his young life, he began pulling at my limp robe, tugging it over my head. The hand that had been in my cunt was wet, and he smeared my discharge all over my burning flesh. I raised my arms, and the robe came off.
I was naked.
Robert pushed me back on the sofa. Passively, I lay back, with one leg dangling off the edge of the cushions, and the other up against the back of the sofa, over the rear cushions. The entire length of my cunt, from the sweaty, spread cheeks of my ass, to the vee-like growth of hair barely covering my mound, was exposed to his leering view.
Hungrily, Robert slipped down on his knees, leaned forward, and began to eat my cunt. His tongue was hot and wet, and he slid it into my box as if it were a wet, squishy cock. I could actually feel him sliding up inside of me, spearing me open, filling the hole of my cunt with his tongue.
"Fuck me!" I moaned, this time on my own, my passion suddenly in charge. "You sonofabitch cock-fuck me!"
He pulled his face up from my drippy crotch, and he looked at me. The lower half of his face was smeared with the greasy lubrication of my oozing snatch, and his eyes were clouded with passion. His tongue hung between his parted lips, reminding me of a dog in heat. From the hungry look which creased his face, it was evident that he wanted to continue.
"Fuck me!" I said again, leashing out with every bit of my adult-woman-teacher authority, overwhelming him for an instant with the raw power I had, until this exact moment, held in check. I said: "I'm going to come, and I want to be fucked. My lover can eat me anytime. But from you, with that cock- I want to be fucked!"
His reaction was curious: as it somehow is with all people who wish to dominate, there exist paradoxically a basic need to be dominated. It's as though their strength is nothing but a reversed mirror image of a fundamental weakness. The will of iron, the roaring bellow of outrage, are, in truth, a lonely cry for help, and a desperate pleading for someone whose will actually is tempered with iron. And, for a moment, it seemed as if Robert Mills was really glad that I had taken the responsibility from his shoulders. His cock was big and long and hard, and that had to be enough for the world.
He climbed up onto the sofa, kneeling between my wide, yawning thighs, and he fell forward on top of me. His cock was burning hot, a livid poker of rigid flesh, and I felt him pushing it uselessly against the inside of my thigh. I pushed my arm down between our grinding bodies, and grasped the mighty shaft between my fingers. He continued his desperate hunching, pushing the rod back and forth against the palm of my hand, even as I drew him toward the fiery mouth of my cunt. I nudged him between the fluttering lips of my pussy, and he grunted, sliding down and in.
"Oh my god!" he cried, straining his knees against the sofa cushions, forcing the splitting wedge of his prick into me all the way. "Oh my...god!"
With all the energy and enthusiasm of his youth, he sawed his cock in and out of me, hammering the shaft against the roof of my cunt as though he were trying to punch a hole through my flesh. The roughness of his jeans against my naked thighs was incredibly erotic, and I found myself climbing around his thrusting, pumping ass. His swinging balls battered themselves against the straining lips of my cunt, sliding wetly at times between the sweaty crack of my ass cheeks. His cock was like a fireman's stoker, prodding the furnace of my cunt until the fire burning there roared in an inferno of awesome sexual passion.
I tightened the length of my vaginal passageway around his plunging rod, pressing my wet, sticky flesh moistly against the rigid flesh of his cock. I gripped it the way a pair of hands grip the end of a baseball bat, squeezing it with all my strength, until I could feel every inch, every throbbing blood vessel, every twitch and shudder up and down the length of the full nine inches. Something began to surge up the underside of the shaft, and I could feel his cockhead swelling like an inflated balloon against the walls of my passageway.
"I'm coming!" Robert moaned. "Jesus...God!"
His orgasm spilled over with the same intensity as his lovemaking had. His body stiffened, and he drilled his cock into my belly, grinding it forward, as if he were screwing it up into me, until the head of the shaft seemed to rupture. Robert came copiously, spilling his hot seed into the thirsting throat of my cunt. The orgasm was powerful, passionate, vibrant, scalding! It spewed into me, like water from a fountain, like lava erupting from the mouth of a volcano. As his come flooded my sucking box, his body began to tremble uncontrollably, as if he were suffering from some form of strange sexual palsy.
The very intensity of his orgasm was enough to precipitate mine. The hardness of his body, the vitality of his youth, the thickness of his cock, the burning fires which flooded my aching cunt, all touched me in some secret corner of memory, triggering off a response that had been branded there since the last passing moment of my own youth. For an instant I recalled those hateful, un-dulled peaks of an exquisitely acute consummation, and then my orgasm rung down upon me, crashing against my flesh, shattering like a fragile glass globe, piercing my inner cunt with the fine, delicate shards of release.
"Fuck me, you prick!" I cried, grinding my belly into his cock. I hammered my curled fists upon his back, pummeling his rigid muscles until my hands ached and I was sobbing. "Fuck me, you...fuck me...fuck-"
Wave after wave of shuddering passion pumped through my pleasure-wracked body. My cunt was like a pair of stuttering lips around his hot throbbing cock, twitching and quivering in rolling spasms of complete abandonment. Robert continued to pound away at my unbeaten cunt, until his hardness seemed to lose form, and it was impossible to distinguish him from the wet, spreading heat of my own orgasm.
As suddenly as it had flashed upon us, the orgasms peaked simultaneously, then began their slow, winding route downward. The waves of ecstasy began to diminish, and the blinding network of primary colors dimmed into cooler shades of pastel haze. With an effort, I pushed Robert off me, and he fell heavily to the floor.
My cunt was ravished, a single exposed nerve against which his endlessly thrusting cock had rapidly converted pleasure into pain. Robert lay there, on the floor, flat on his back, and his insensitive, unbowed cock continued to poke proudly in the air, coated with my sticky discharge, sliding sperm clotting against the sides of the shaft, as stiff and as long and as hard, as when it first went in.
He moaned and moved his hand floppily. "Miss Harper," he said, breathlessly, "that was...that was...God!...in my life...I never-never.. . . "
I said nothing, biding my time, waiting, the sprung steel teeth of the trap armed and ready. His personality, I thought. His personality would betray him.
And it did.
When he'd gotten his breath back, and he'd carefully pushed the actual meaning of what had happened into his unconscious mind, Robert pushed himself up on his elbow and stared at me, his face a mask of sweat.
"How was I?" he asked, his male ego, like his erect cock, waving like a victory pennant.
"You were good," I told him, saying the truth because that was all I needed.
"I would like to see you again...Lisa."
"The answer to that request is no, Mr. Mills," I said, so cold and filled with contempt that my lips actually sneered. "And hereinafter, I'll expect you to call me by my proper name. I am not Lisa to you, Robert, and I will never be Lisa to you. My name is Miss Harper. Is that understood?"
His face went to pieces. "Are you...kidding?" he asked incredulously.
The look I gave him was withering. "Act your age, Robert."
He was hurt, deeply wounded. "But-why?" he asked. "It was good, wasn't it...Miss Harper?"
Calling me that, after the way he'd used my body must have been exquisitely humiliating, and I felt vindicated.
"Yes, Robert, it was good. It was very good."
He gestured helplessly. "But...I don't understand."
"I know you don't, Robert," I said, sitting up, rolling my legs around so that they hung over the edge of the sofa. His cooling sperm dribbled from the dilating hole of my cunt, staining the cushion under me. "And that's precisely what's wrong with you, Robert. No matter how hard you try, now or twenty years from now, you'll never understand."
With that, I stood rigidly up, walked over to the middle of the living room floor, and picked up Robert's Creative Writing assignment, where it had fallen. I showed him what it was, and then I carefully tore it in two, and dropped the two halves back to the floor.
"What are you doing? That's my paper!"
I appraised him with a long cold stare. "One more word from you, Robert, and I'll fail you for the year."
He began to protest, then stopped. The look on his face hardened into one of pure hatred. "You...bastard!" he sputtered.
I-returned his humiliation with a smile. "I've done this to you, darling Robert, just to show you a little something about the nature of power, and how it actually works. I trust the lesson was not lost on you. You're a little boy, Robert; you're not ready yet to play adult games." I dismissed him with a flip of my hand. "Go home and grow up."
He was crushed, totally.
I pointed at his cock, which was shriveled into a puddle of damp spermy flesh. "Put that thing away, will you," I said, "and then get the hell out of here."
I left him sitting there on the floor, looking up at me, holding his cock in his hand. I pulled my robe over my head and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind met
When I came out, Robert was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
More than anything else, Gil Horton was dumb.
Of that I was unequivocally convinced. A student in my morning English class, Gil was a senior, scheduled for graduation in June, less than two months from now. But, judging from the quality of his class participation, the total shambles of his homework, and the dismal showings he made in the quizzes and examinations given to the class over the course of the school year, the prospect of graduation being realized for him seemed dim, indeed. How he'd managed to be promoted this far in school was a minor miracle; as far as I could determine, Gilbert Horton was a functional illiterate.
I could, of course, do as all those other nameless teachers before me had done-pass him out of some mistaken sense of values. As a student, Gil was quiet, afforded no disciplinary problems, and tried hard-which would, in part, further explain his success in being promoted: basically, he was a good kid.
But he was dumb, and there was no way that could be overlooked. Not in a senior English class. And certainly not when he was scheduled to take the State's Regent's Examinations some time next month. He stood no chance, no chance whatsoever of passing it. And how would it seem if I passed him, and he failed the state exam spectacularly? The very same exam my class was to have prepared him for? It would, at the very least, make me look incompetent, and that was a charge I wasn't about to be labeled with, not for Gil Horton, not for anyone.
So, after I tried talking to Gil, who assured me he would try harder, and giving him extra private tutoring personally, which completely failed to help in any measurable way, I decided to speak to Gil's parents, to see whether we together could come up with something of a solution. And, if we couldn't, it was always a good idea to inform them of this problem well in advance of graduation. At best it would be a very sticky situation.
An appointment was arranged between Gil's mother and I for my free period on Monday of last week. I sat in my office for the entire hour, waiting for her, but she never appeared. When I asked Gil what had happened, he shamefully explained that his mother was ill and could not keep the appointment. It became obvious to me, because there had been no call to me from her, and no advance warning from Gil that she was going to break the appointment, that his parents either didn't care enough, or they didn't understand the gravity of what was to be discussed.
Patiently, I composed another note for Gil to take home, writing it in much more emphatic terms, telling his parents that if they didn't meet with me today, Gil would be failed in English, he would not be permitted to take his English Regents Examination, and he would not graduate in June. In the letter I specifically requested to speak with Mr. Horton, for the impression I'd gotten from Gil was that it was at his father's insistence that the mother failed to meet with me. My best attack, therefore, and the only sensible approach I could see, would be to go to the source of one part of the problem-Gil Horton's father.
I looked down at my wristwatch, perhaps for the twentieth time since I'd entered my office. It was twenty minutes past one, and Gil's father still wasn't here. It seemed as if I'd been ignored and stood up again. Filled with a curious mixture of anger and depression, I talked myself into waiting five more minutes. Then, if he still didn't come-well, then I would do what I had to do.
To pass the time, I picked up my worn, dog-eared copy of Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables. Two of my senior English classes would begin the book sometime next week, so I was rereading it again, for perhaps the tenth time in my life, to familiarize myself with the narrative-a labor of love at best. Of course, my classes would hardly share my enthusiasm I knew, but perhaps someone, one of them, would be touched and that would be reward enough. I thought for a moment of Sandi Wilson, and a surge of pride swelled in my breast. And then, paradoxically, or significantly, I found myself thinking of Gil Horton, a student in one of those two senior classes, and my mood altered abruptly. I sighed with frustration, embittered by my own impotence, knowing there was nothing at all I could do to salvage Gil, and all the rest of the Gils who filled my classes, filled our schools, from a sad and empty life.
I opened the book and began reading, trying to get Gil out of my thoughts. The page before me was a strange history of air my readings. Almost every word, every sentence, every paragraph was underlined, often two or three times, with as many different colors of ink, testifying to the many, many times I'd read the book. My eyes raced rapidly over the all too familiar words of Hawthorne's Preface, written in that January of 1851, skimmed over the introductory paragraph of the narrative, until my eye caught upon the words of the second paragraph. I read them aloud, to myself, excited by the richness of their tone:
"The aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human countenance, bearing the traces not merely of outward storm and sunshine, but expressive, also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and the accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within...."
I looked at my watch again. Five minutes was up, and still no Mr. Horton. Well, I thought, feeling somewhat magnanimous, I'll give him five minutes more. That would be a whole half hour, more than a reasonable length to wait. Besides, I'd just remembered a passage in this first chapter which had a striking significance relative to events going on right now in America. I ran my index finger down the middle of the pages until I found that quote. I read it to myself, trying to decide how I could use the passage and relate it to current events.
It read: Old Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for the crime of witchcraft. He was one of the martyrs to that terrible delusion, which should teach us, among its other morals, that the influential classes, and those who take upon themselves to be leaders of the people, are fully liable to all the passionate error that has ever characterized the maddest mob....
A loud knock on my office door interrupted my reading, and I looked up from the page. Before I could tell the knocker to enter, and before I could do more than half rise from my chair, the door opened, swinging inward, toward me, like a great yawning mouth. There, framed in the doorway was Gilbert Horton's father.
The first sight of him sent a literal shiver of fear through my body, and it was as if he were some ghostly apparition, a demon spectre from the dark corridors of my past. His face, his build, the snarled look of obvious disdain that creased his expression in thick, cruel lines were all features I had known well in my own youth. But of course, that simply could not be. He-the particular he I recalled-was dead, for almost twenty years.
My look of shock and confusion must have registered in my expression. The sneer on his lips rippled, his mouth opened, and the man spoke:
"What's a matter with you, lady?"
The sound of his voice, the first external stimulus to have touched my senses since the moment the door swung open, a very long heartbeat ago, shattered the unreality of memory, and brought me back to the present. I shook my head, tossing my hair slightly, as if casting aside the shadow that had begun to settle across my thoughts.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," I said, rising, my voice distracted. "I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that-that you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone from a very long time ago."
He smiled, I think. "Oh, yeah. Hum, isn't that something. Who was he? Maybe we're related."
I brushed aside the possibility. "No, it's nothing; just a silly memory. Come in, please, though. I hope you don't think me completely rude."
Mr. Horton moved into my office, a huge rambling mountain of a man, his body and his personality filling the very room, making it seem suddenly small and closed off. He closed the door behind him, with as much force as he had employed to thrust it open, and the sound of the slam made me jump even though I was expecting it.
"No, really," he said, taking the seat beside my desk, possessing it as if it had become an extension of his physical presence, "who do I remind you of? What was his name?"
I gestured for him to be seated, but, since he'd already done that without my prompting, I sat down myself, a shudder of something cold fingering my spine.
"Just-an uncle," I answered. "His name was Jeffrey. Jeffrey Cliffords. He was my mother's brother. Uncle Jeff. He died when I was fourteen."
He shrugged indifferently. "Never heard of him. Probably no relative."
Gil's father was an incredible giant of a man, and even seated he seemed to tower over me. His face was thick and massive, with huge fistfuls of flesh for cheeks, black pin-like eyes, raisins punched into soft dough, and lips which flapped loosely up and down as he spoke, revealing yellowed, decay-marked teeth behind. His face was flushed red, as though his collar was perpetually tight, and the broken tracks of ruptured blood vessels threaded his flesh. The color of his hair was dirty blond it seemed, but it was difficult to judge accurately because it was still wet. He wore it very short, in an out-of-fashion crew-cut, so that the bristles of each hair stood greasily up into the air, reminding me of quills. He had no sideburns at all, and the hairline on either side was cut straight across, just above the ear, as though he'd taken a razor and shaved the offending hair off. Clean shaven generally, with a few clusters of wire-like hairs on the underside of his heavy jowls where the razor missed, his neck folded down in several creases of flesh, and seemed to be stuffed inside his open collared sport shirt. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and oozed out between the layers of fat hanging from his neck. He was the kind of man who would always seem to be sweating, regardless of the temperature. His voice was thick and hoarse, making it sound as though he were continually wheezing.
Without wanting to, that ancient memory that I had so carefully walled away from my conscious thoughts came flooding back into my awareness, triggered by the chilling similarity Mr. Horton bore to him. I consciously tried to push those thoughts away, trying to squeeze them back into those shadowy pockets of yesterday, but I was overwhelmed by the rushing flood of remembrance, and I found myself reliving, in the theater of my mind, that terrifying afternoon Uncle Jeff came to visit.
"So, Miss Heyward," Mr. Horton said, cracking his knuckles, "what's the trouble with Gilbert? God, I hate that name. My old lady give it to him; named him after her dad. So what's he doing, playing hooky or something like that? I'll break his ass for him."
I was home alone that day, I thought, remembering. Another part of my thoughts responded to his question: "Oh, no, Mr. Horton, it's nothing like that-"
"Travis," he said. "Call me Travis. Everybody does."
I smiled uncomfortably. "All right...Travis. As I was saying-
(i was home alone that day when uncle jeff came to visit...my mother was out shopping and dad was working...i'd just gotten home from school...that friday i was going to be fourteen)-it's nothing like that. In a sense it's actually much more serious...."
"He's not messing around with drugs or nothing, is he?" He balled his ham-like fists, and I found myself shrinking back into my chair. "I'll kill the bastid if he is!"
(i remember i was drinking a glass of milk in the kitchen on the sink countertop...mother had baked me chocolate chip cookies...my favorites...when the doorbell rang...i remembered how id answered it...my mouth filled with milk and cookies)
-I think I'd be capable of making matters clear to you. I see no sense really for you to be jumping to conclusions."
He glared at me, resenting my having put him down, even with such a minor rebuke.
Bristling somewhat, feeling my initial fear evolving into a generalized dislike, I took a deep breath and composed myself. Idiot-know-it-all...chauvinist...probably never listened to anyone in his life. I said:
"Gil's problem is scholastic. I have no discipline problems with him at-
(i opened the door and there was a tall heavily built man standing there...i didn't recognize him at first it had been so many years since i'd seen him...hi i'm uncle jeff he said.. . you must be little Visa)
-all. He's a well-intentioned, courteous, pleasant young man. I only wish the rest of my students were as well behaved as Gil-"
Travis Horton snorted. "Sissy. I should a known."
I felt tempted to snap back at him, but managed to keep my personal feelings in check. I cleared my throat and continued, pretending that he hadn't said anything at all.
"I teach English Literature here at Jefferson high," I explained, "and Gil is in one of my senior English classes. As you may recall, Gil received a failing-
(i didn't remember uncle jeff so well...the last time i'd seen him i'd only been a little girl...i remembered that there had been some problem and then uncle jeff had gone away for a very long time...there had been some talk about jail...i didn't understand...i was too young) - grade on his report card for the first two marking periods of this term, and there is a very definite possibility that he may fail again."
Travis Horton looked at me with disgust. "Is that all? Is that what this is all about? Shit." .
"Sir," I said coldly, "would it be possible for you to complete a sentence without dragging in (he frightened me though...oh come in uncle jeff i said...mommy's not home and daddy's at work...did you tell them you were coming...no i just got out last week...i didn't tell anybody...come in i said and i closed the door)-some form of obscenity? I find it very offensive."
"Excuse me, ladyF' he said mimicking the voice of a homosexual, flouncing his meaty hand at me, bending it delicately at the wrist. "I'm ever so sorry. To think that I've offended little old you. How sorry I am."
I glared at him with a hostility that was rapidly growing into unvarnished revulsion. I'd known men like Travis Horton before in my life. The world was full of them. Anything which didn't fit into their narrow views of life they either ridiculed or destroyed. They respected nothing, especially themselves. I said nothing about the insult, not wanting to make poor Gil suffer any more than was necessary for the insensitivity of his father.
"Thank you," I said sarcastically. "And now, if I may, I'll continue.. . . "
"Go right ahead. That's what you got me down here for, isn't it?"
"As I said, the possibility that your son will fail English is very-
(say this is a nice place you got here uncle jeff said...we walked into the living room...how 'bout offering me a drink...it'd be the sociable thing to do...i showed him where daddy's whisky was...he poured some into a glass and began to drink it down)-real. His marks just aren't good enough. He'd have to get an A on his final examination to average out to a passing grade, and I don't think that's going to happen. I've attempted to tutor him on my own time, trying to bring his grades up, but I simply-
(he took the glass and sat on the sofa...i sat in the arm chair across from him feeling uncomfortable in my own house...i wanted to go back into the kitchen to finish my milk but i was afraid...something kept me there...something i didn't understand)-haven't been successful. I've requested your presence today in the fervent hope that together we could decide upon some course of action to help your son."
He stared at me for a full ten seconds, his gross-face grimacing grotesquely as though there were something foul-tasting on his tongue.
He turned away from me with a sigh of exasperation, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, speaking as if he were addressing some invisible third person:
"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "Is this why you got me here today? Is this why you asked me to take a day off from work? Holy Mother of God!"
"Surely, Mr. Horton," I began, "you must see the seriousness of this matter."
"Let him fail! Christ."
"Sir, this is no joking mat (they really got this place fixed up nice...uncle jeff drained the glass of daddy's whisky then got up and poured some more...the bottle was almost empty...i felt myself becoming afraid...there was something almost menacing in the way uncle jeff was acting...don't worry i'm not going to steal anything...that's all in the past) -ter. I'm quite serious about-"
"And I'm serious about taking a day off from work!" he thundered, cutting me off. His bloated face grew ugly with anger. "You maybe get paid when you take a day off from work, but I don't! And to me, lady, that's no joke either!"
I calmed myself. Try another approach. "Mr. Horton," I said, controlling my voice, "perhaps you don't fully appreciate the gravity of my words."
"Talk plain, lady!" he growled. "I don't like for no lady to make a fool out-a me, hear!"
I bit my tongue at the obvious temptation, then said: "Sir, Gil is a senior. As such, he will be required to take a state-wide examination in English. If he does not pass that examination, he(say lisa when is ellen coming home...he drained his glass then got up and poured the rest of the bottle into his glass...i don't know she didn't say...soon though...and your old man what's he doing now...he teaches...a teacher...i might have known...roy always was a smartass)-will not be permitted to graduate. Four years of work, sir, will have been wasted."
He looked at me with exaggerated tiredness, yawning in my face. "Who cares?" he said, shrugging.
"Mr. Horton, your son can barely read!"
"like I said, lady-who cares."
"I care!" I said, raising my voice, losing control for the first time. "I care very much. And if you were-
(i hated it when adults said bad words...it scared me when they did...daddy never said words like that...i didn't like uncle jeff...wished he would go away...i wish daddy would come home...or mommy...my stomach felt funny...what the fuck is this...no more booze...where the fuck is it...you trying to hide it on me or something)-any kind of father, you'd care too!"
He lifted his hands from the desk and made a pushing motion at the air, an expression of disgust. "And what is reading gonna do for him?" he asked. "It's bullshit and nothing more. Fuckin' bullshit!"
Images flashed in and out of my thoughts, and the past and the present began to spin and interchange. In my mind I moved backward and forward in time, fourteen years old in one breath, thirty-three in the next. Fear and anger welled up in my belly like an ancient poison. My mouth was filled with a bitter, brackish taste.
"It will get him a job," I said, spitting the words out. "A decent-
(i don't believe you said uncle jeff...you're hiding it on me...ya gotta have some more around here someplace...i have to go to the bathroom i said i got up from my chair...what...i said i hafta go)
-job!"
Travis Horton hit his chest with both hands, his balled fists pounding off the angry muscles of his barrel-like chest, reminding me of a gorilla bellowing in rage.
'I'll get him a job!" he told me.
I looked at him with total, unmasked contempt. "Doing what?"
"Workin' with me."
I laughed in his face. "I might have known."
As it somehow is in men who fear ideas, there is a tendency to use money as a compensation for their lack of formal education. Travis Horton was no exception.
"Listen here, lady," he said, his face purple in his thick-throated rage, "I made twenty grand last year. How much did you make?" He snapped his fingers in my face. "I could buy and sell you like that!"
I drew myself all the way up morally, and looked down at him. "You could never-
(he laughed drunkenly...say you know what you 117 never kissed me hello ya know that...i stepped back away from the chair...i gotta go now my friend is waiting for me...you can just wait for mommy to come uncle jeff...come and give your old uncle a kiss...he came at me from across the room moving like a gorilla from an old monster movie)-buy me, sir!"
His lips twitched spasmodically, but he kept them firmly pressed together, as if he were holding back, locking his jaws together to keep the fury burning inside of him from bubbling out. His hands remained curled fists, an unspoken threat, grinding into the edge of the desk as though he were trying to reduce the wood to sawdust. Abruptly he rose to leave.
I had to stop him. I had to get him. I had to pay him back.
"And," I said, hurtling my challenge, "if we're going to make value judgments, sir-
Ci tried to run...i swear to god i did...i ran but i fell down...i was crying and screaming...i couldn't get up...he kept coming at me)-I read several hundred books last year. How many did you read, my intellectual giant?"
He turned at me with a swiftness and grace that was surprising in a man so big. He pivoted on his heel and jabbed his finger toward me, as if in his imagination he saw us literally as fencers, and he was thrusting back at me with the death blow.
"I never read a book in my life and I'm glad."
"My God!" I said almost floored by fanaticism of his convictions. "What an incredible thing to brag about. You elevate ignorance, sir, almost as(whatsamatta he cried slapping my face because i was crying...what have they been telling you about me...they've poisoned your mind to me ....talking about me...behind my back...saying all kinds of...of...bad...things)-as highly as you praise your all so important money! Well, it's no wonder that Gil is having difficulty. With you as a parent it's a minor miracle that Gil can even find the school, much-
(stop it...stopit...stopitstopit...he slapped me on my face and i was crying...no uncle jeff don't...please don't...please) less function in it!"
His rage exploded from his mouth, with his arms flailing the air between us as if it had offended him. He spluttered and fumed spitting out fragments of words, a jumble of thoughts:
"You-all you!...All a bunch of hippie...commie...intellectual bleed-"
"My God," I said, cutting him to ribbons, "how about that! A real live Archie Bun-
(his breath smelted of stale whisky...fingers pawed at my breasts pinching nipples through bra...hand clawing at my skirt...under my skirt...ripping my panties down my legs)-ker in the flesh!"
His hand trembled as he wagged his sausage finger in my face. "You know whatsa matter with you? You know whatsa matter with you, lady? You're an old maid! You couldn't get yourself a man so you walk around the world with a perpetual rag on!"
"A man?" I said in mocking incredulity. "What would you know-
(his lips slobbered all over my naked breasts his teeth bit into my nipples until they were almost bleeding...two fingers were pushing at the lips of my cunt wedging themselves into the tight straining mouth of my canal...don't uncle jeff...don't...i'm a virgin)
-about being a man?"
He sucked his breath in. "Watch it, lady," he warned, becoming very still. "You're getting too close."
I went for his balls. "You think you're a man? Why, because you have that dangling piece of flesh between your legs instead of a cunt? Do you really think that makes you a man? A monkey has a cock! So does a gorilla! Is that what you are, Mr. Horton? Homo sapien penis erectus!"
"You can't talk to me like that," he cried, and he came toward me like a lumbering grizzly bear. "Nobody can talk to me like that!"
I pushed the chair out from under me, standing erect to greet his challenge. I spread my thighs, as if flaunting my body at him, the tight skirt of my dress straining across the broad mound of my cunt. He was like a wild, enraged animal, a charging bull, and I stood there, cool and detached, like a matador, waving my cape of goading words, piercing his ego with the sword of my femininity.
"A prick!" I cried, lashing out viciously, wanting to hurt him, hurt him, humiliate him until he begged for mercy. "A bloody prick! A walking talking muscular-
(prick between my thighs...i could feel it...hot hard long thick...pushing at the lips of my cunt...sliding up into my novice cunt...he was heavy on me pressing down...crushing me...hot breath on my face...his tongue in my mouth...don't uncle jeff...stop...don't. . , stop...don't...stop...don'tstop...don'tstop...ohgod uncle jeff don'tstop)-prickr
"Bitch!" he cried, and he slapped me across the face with every ounce of his strength. "Bitch!"
The blow rocked me and I thought I was going to pass out. Darkness came up and covered my thoughts; reality began to fade into it. I clung to my anger, my rage, my exploding hatred, and I pulled myself through. I stood my ground, with my hands on my hips, my legs spread in a defiant taunt. I spit in his face.
"Prickr I called him. "Prick...prick!...prick-"
I left him no choice. The razor was to his balls and I was slicing it across his flesh. I had even humiliated his strength, shattered the mirror of his identity. He had to act now or he would never be capable of acting again.
He grabbed me roughly by the shoulders, and threw me back against the wall. My breath gushed out, and my skull smacked with a dull thud into the plaster, shattering the sickly green paint which covered the wall. Before I could scream, he was upon me, smothering me into his arms, pressing me back against the wall with his body, kissing my open mouth with his avenging tongue.
His hands tore at my panties. I kissed him wildly back, running my fingers down to his pounding cock.
"Rape me!" I moaned, feeling the swollen head of his shaft press itself between the oozing lips of my cunt. "Oh sweet Jesus-
(his cock went in and out in and out in and out...deeper and deeper and deeper...breaking me open...filling me up with his cock...until so much blood had run down my thighs that i passed out)-RAPE ME!"
CHAPTER SIX
Un-like his father, Gil Horton was on time.
I was sitting at my desk in my classroom, going over the notes I had prepared for the class scheduled for the following period. I was alone, sitting at the head of the room, with my blond lacquered oaken desk settled solid and square on the wooden floor, like a monumental tombstone facing the empty rows of desks and chairs. It was overcast outside, and the sky was filled with dark, swirling clouds, ragged fingers of lightning, and a distant rumbling of thunder. A storm was approaching, so the overhead lights were turned on, spilling down a cold, unflickering fluorescent brightness.
I looked at the notes randomly, familiar enough already with their content not to need this additional free time to prepare. Actually, I was waiting; waiting to see whether Gilbert would respond to my request for this meeting. Depending upon whether he appeared or not, and, if he did appear, how he conducted himself during the course of the meeting, a decision would be reached by me as to whether he would pass or fail my course.
I could, of course, do nothing about his Regents examination, nor did I care to. After the climatic meeting I had with his father last week, I really didn't care whether Gil passed my class or failed it; I was past the point of caring I wanted something much more personal from Gilbert Horton: I wanted revenge.
One might believe that I would show compassion for the innocent boy, concluding that he has suffered in life enough just having been exposed to the crushing, ego grinding influences of his father. Innocent, also, he might be considered, of any responsibility for his father, and what had transpired in my office with him, just as his father had been innocent of any liability for my uncle's attack upon me while I was only a very young girl. To all of this I say-no. No person, really, is ever innocent. We are all victims, each and every one of us, doomed through no act of our own, forced to relive, again and again, the immutable tragedy of the past. No exceptions were ever made, not even for poor young Gilbert Horton.
I heard his knock at the door the first time, but I chose to ignore it. It was a feeble little thing, barely audible, like the gentle tapping of a bird, pecking at a tree, searching for something to eat. I continued to stare at my page, reading the same sentence in my notes, over and over again. The knock came a second time, a little louder, but not much. I refused to look up. Finally, he rapped with his knuckles, and I turned toward the door. There, framed in the window glass in the upper portion of the door, I saw Gilbert Horton.
"Come in," I said impatiently, making him aware, in that one command, that I had heard the first two knocks, had ignored them, and that he was now disturbing me. "You're not going to stand out there all day, are you?"
His face flushed crimson, and he turned the doorknob. Gilbert Horton entered the empty classroom, walking softly, lightly upon the floor, holding his books under his arm, hanging at his side. I allowed him to walk all the way over to my desk, wait a few minutes as I pretended to be reading a long paragraph from my notes, then looked up, past him, and said: "The door."
"What?"
"The door," I repeated, as pointedly as possible, indicating the classroom door. "You've left it open. Go back and close it, please. This is not a barn, you know, it's a classroom. I'm sure you wouldn't have left the front door of your house open like that, would you? No, of course you would not. So go back and close it, please."
I went back to my notes, listened for the sound of his retreating footsteps, heard the silent click of the closing door against the metal frame, then concentrated upon the sound of his softly falling steps as he returned to my desk. I let him wait there until I looked up and acknowledged his presence.
"Yes?" I said.
He seemed confused. "Ah, you wanted to speak to me about something, Miss Harper?"
Gilbert Horton was the complete antithesis of his father. The most accurate description of him physically, although not the most complimentary, was that he was a twerp. He was a painfully thin, anemic-looking boy, perhaps fifteen years old, but certainly looking younger, with sandy colored hair that lay flat upon his narrow skull the way moss grows upon a damp rock. His eyes were small and weak, their color pinkish, with no lashes or eyebrows I could discern, and they were carefully hidden behind a pair of thick, out of style horn-rimmed glasses. His complexion was pale, almost sickly white, with large, misshapen patches of redness, scattered randomly across his face and neck, making it seem as if he were suffering from hives. The dome of his head was high, almost grotesquely so, leaving one with the impression that his head was much too large for his narrow bony shoulders. At the center of his face, giving him a slightly pragmatic sharpness, was an extraordinary nose. Long and thin, it hooked downward, overhanging so low that it was almost parallel to his top lip. Completing this imbalance was the total absence of any chin. His face seemed to fall away from under his bottom lip, folding back in loose, hanging flesh, until it merged incredibly with his scrawny, gaunt neck.
No wonder his father hated him, I thought coming as close as I could even come to feeling sympathy for another person. He was the living embodiment of everything his father feared.
"Yes, I do wish to speak with you, Gilbert," I said, looking up at him from my position behind my desk. He shifted uncomfortably, from foot to foot, continually rearranging the pile of books held awkwardly in his hands, hoping I was going to give him permission to be seated. I didn't of course, and instead, probed his face openly with my somewhat hostile gaze. "You know why, of course, I spoke with your father last week, don't you?"
He shrugged and looked ashamed. "I guess it's because of this class...." He avoided the direct answer, probably because it was painful to admit.
I wasn't about to let him off that lightly. "Specifically, Gilbert, why was he here?"
"Because I'm doing poorly, I guess...."
"Because you're failing, Gilbert," I said sharply. "Because you're going to fail this course, without any doubt, and you're going to fail your Regents, and, even more specific than that-because you won't graduate in June."
His face dropped. "I really won't graduate?" he asked, uttering the words as if speaking them had now somehow made that possibility unalterable. "Really?"
I laughed tiredly, shaking my head in ostensible exasperation. "What do you think, Gilbert?"
He chewed his bottom lip. "I thought maybe I could still pass. You know, study and things, and work real hard, then-I could pass."
"Have you been studying all along?"
"Yeah. I mean, every night. I read everything, I do my homework carefully, but-"
"But you don't seem to understand it," I offered. "Do you, Gil?'
His eyes dropped and he sighed. "No...I don't. I guess I'm just too dumb." He said it with the obvious self-serving humility that begs the compassionate listener to refute the statement.
I didn't.
I wanted him exactly where he was. I wanted him to begin questioning those things about himself of which there would always be a certain degree of doubt in his mind. I wanted him down upon himself, so that when I really got down upon him, I could crush him, and he would be grateful to me for having put him out of his misery.
"Did your father tell you what...happened in our meeting?" I asked.
He thought for a moment using the expression on his face to indicate that he was seriously attempting to remember. "No-o," he said drawling slightly. "No he didn't say anything, really."
"Are you certain? He said-nothing? Nothing at all?"
"Well-" he hesitated.
"Come on!" I said gruffly. "Let's have it."
"Well, Miss Harper, he didn't say anything, but I sensed something had happened. I got a feeling from him about it."
"Go on."
"My father doesn't like you, Miss Harper," he said, smiling inwardly at himself, as if some strange personal psychology of his thinking had in someway found that fact comforting. "I could tell. He didn't say anything about you, or tell me that he didn't like you, but I know it's true." He laughed then, abstractedly.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"You know something, Miss Harper? I think my father is afraid of you. Isn't that crazy?"
My eyes narrowed. "Are you afraid of me, Gil?"
He returned my look, almost boldly. "I think I am, sometimes," he said. "But then, other times, I'm just not sure. I don't know, Miss Harper. Maybe I'm afraid of you, but then, maybe it's just that I understand you."
That surprised me, and I found myself arming my defenses, as if I somehow sensed that this young, probably somewhat retarded adolescent, posed a real threat to me. As if he and I, under different circumstances, could have either been intimate friends or mortal enemies.
I laughed once, to ridicule him, but the sound came out thin and unconvincing. "Whatever can you mean by that, Gilbert?" I said, trying to dismiss the idea.
He shook his head, as if he really didn't know. "I'm not sure what I mean, Miss Harper. I have trouble sometimes with words. I don't find myself thinking in words. It sounds crazy, but I find myself thinking-I've always found myself thinkingfeelings and...colors."
"Colors?"
"Yeah, like right now, the color I get from you, in talking to me, is blue. But not sad blue. A kind of cold, pale blue, like a thin crust of ice. And then, behind it, I sense a...redness. like a fire burning brightly, and the only thing that keeps it from burning you out is that thin blue layer of ice." He shrugged. "I told you it was crazy. But that's the way I think. That's what goes on in my brain. I have feelings about things and people; and colors."
I was impressed, although I didn't permit myself to show it. I've often heard and read that handicapped people have an uncanny ability to compensate for whatever deficiency they possess, often in strange, inexplicable ways. History was full of men and women who have gone into violent epileptic fits and come out of them with a clear, if somewhat fragmentary picture of the future. And stories of idiot savants-mongoloid idiots so mentally incapacitated they barely could feed themselves, but possessing a strangely precise ability to multiply two lengthy strings of numbers in their head, and come out with the correct number in an instant, or possessing the ability to tell you what day of the week Washington's birthday will fall on in the year 3451, and to be right always-have been so well documented that no one doubts their existence. Could it be that Gilbert Horton had his own way of compensating? The possibility was a chilling one.
"You never explained why you think you understand me at times," I said, cautiously almost. "Tell me about that, Gilbert. I'd be interested to know."
He shrugged and smiled. "It has to do with my father," he said. "I get a feeling-and I know this is crazy-that he was your father too, when you were a little girl. Maybe not him, but someone like him. Someone like my father."
"That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard in my life," I said, dismissing him with a flip of my hand. I thought of Uncle Jeff. "It's all in your imagination, Gilbert. All in your imagination."
He shrugged and smiled. "Is it? If you say so."
I changed the subject abruptly. I didn't like the feeling I got back from him. I had the decided impression that he was staring into my thoughts, laughing at me.
"Getting back to the reason I asked you to come here before class," I said, "I'd like to know how you'd feel if you failed my course, and, consequentially, failed to graduate."
That eerie awareness he seemed to possess, that chilling, intuitive insight into my character, dropped away as suddenly as it had manifested itself, and the old Gilbert Horton returned. He was again a young, innocent, somewhat backward boy facing what must have seemed to him, the supreme crisis in his life.
He said: "I'd feel really bad. I want to pass and I want to graduate. I want to prove to myself that I can do it, but mostly I-" He stopped.
"Mostly you-what?" I prompted.
"Mostly I want to prove to my father that I can do it."
"That's important, isn't it?" I asked.
His face became very serious. "It's the most important thing I'm ever going to do in my life." He made a humorless laughing sound in his throat. "He never graduated even from grammar school, and he resents me. He's been after me for a year, trying to force me to drop out, just so I wouldn't graduate." His eyes turned inward, and his voice became quiet. "Well, looks like he's won."
"Not necessarily," I said.
He looked up. "I-I don't-"
"How would you like a chance to pass?" I asked.
He looked at me suspiciously. "Don't make fun at me, Miss Harper. This is much too important a thing. I don't like to be teased."
"I'm not playing any games," I answered. "I'm offering you a real chance to pass my course. In a sense, I'm offering you a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"I'll pass you in my course. Your mark will only be a D, but it will be a passing grade."
He sighed in disappointment, shaking his head. "That isn't going to help me pass the Regents. I'd need a miracle for that. And you know, and I know, that if I fail the Regents, I won't graduate."
"No, you're wrong. You can graduate."
He rubbed his nose with the knuckle of his left hand, weighing my sincerity with his steady gaze. "How?"
I explained: "If I give you a passing grade in your class work, and you go on and fail the Regents examination, which seems probable, all that will happen will be that you have failed to qualify on a statewide level. But as far as Jefferson high school is concerned, you will have fulfilled all of your requirements here."
The idea was beginning to sink in, and a glimmer of budding awareness flickered dimly in his eyes. "Go on," he said.
"The only way you can be prevented from graduating is if you fail both the Regents examination, and my senior English class." I smiled at him. "But if I pass you-"
"I can still graduate!"
I held up my hand. "It will mean, of course, that you will have to accept a General diploma instead of an Academic diploma, because of the Regents failure, but it will not prevent you from graduating."
"That's right!" he cried, the idea blossoming in his consciousness. "My God-that's right!"
He dropped his books on the edge of my desk in his enthusiasm, and he clapped his hands together, jumping up from the floor. Then, just in the middle of his ecstasy, he paused, his face grew serious, and he stared at me with questioning doubt.
"That's only half of the deal," he said. "What's the other half?"
I looked at my watch to see how much time we had before the next class began. We had enough time for what I had in mind.
"Are you willing to do what I tell you to do?" I asked.
He considered the question. "Is it illegal?"
I laughed. "I guess it probably is, in a strictly legal sense, but it's nothing like what you're contemplating. You won't go to jail, if that's what is concerning you."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure," I said.
He nodded. "All right, then I'll do it, Miss Harper. I'll do what you want...just as long as you pass me."
"And you'll do anything I ask? Regardless of what it is? Regardless of how strange it may sound to you?"
"Tell me what it is-I'U do it."
"Even if it involves a certain amount of risk? You'll do anything I ask of you? Anything? You'll obey me, as if I were your master and you were my slave?"
"Miss Harper, if you pass me in this class, I'll do anything you ask me to do, without question."
I smiled at him, then lowered the boom. "Gilbert," I said, "take out your cock."
His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "What did you say?" His voice was breathless and shrill.
"I said-take out your cock. Right now."
He looked at me with wide, pleading eyes, his face suffused with blood, as though the blotchy patches of color which mottled his complexion had suddenly congealed into a single burning blush of embarrassment. He opened his mouth to say something, could think of nothing appropriate to say, then turned slightly, and looked over his shoulder at the doorway leading out of the class to the hallway.
"Don't worry about anyone seeing you," I said, allaying one part of his concern. "Just turn your back to the door, face me, open your zipper and pull out your cock."
"But if somebody comes in!"
"Without question," I reminded.
He closed his eyes until his face tightened, the color of his shame deepening a shade. "Yes, Miss Harper," he said, his voice a subdued whisper.
I watched him with a certain sense of detachment, spreading my thighs in the well of my desk as the wetness deep inside of me began to ooze out against the crotch of my panties. His hand was trembling as it went to his zipper, pulling it down until the baggy material of his pants spread open. He was wearing a pair of briefs, and the protruding lump of his genitals seemed small and lost within the folds of the pale material. He hesitated.
"Have you ever made love to a woman?" I asked.
He looked up at me, his face scarlet. "No...I've never had a girl friend."
Knowing how important it is to a young man to be considered an experienced lover, Gil's admission of virginity must have been particularly painful for him.
I continued to hammer away at him. "Have you ever been naked in front of a woman before?" I asked.
Tears began to well up in his eyes. "No...never. Not even my...mother."
I smiled at him, exercising my half of the bargain. "Don't stop now, Gilbert," I said. "You're just getting to the best part. Take it out, please."
Sucking in his breath, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he released his penis from the briefs. The shaft was very small, and very flaccid, hanging limply down the front of his pants, looking infinitely more obscene than it would have had it been erect. His testicles remained within the pocket of the shorts, and from what I could judge of the flesh I could see, Gilbert Horton seemed not to have very much pubic hair, either.
I made a tsking sound with my tongue. "Oh, well," I said resignedly. "Can you make it hard?"
Gil refused to look at me. "I don't know. I'm kind of...you know."
"Make it hard, Gilbert," I said, ordering him.
"All right.. . . "
He began to pull upon it ineffectually, using his thumb and index fingers to stroke with. The shaft remained flaccid, and it looked as if he were pulling upon a dangling piece of soft rubber.
"Come on, Gil!" I said sharply. He jumped, opening his eyes and looking at me for the first time since he had exposed himself. "You can do better than that, certainly. Do it yourself the way you do it when no one is watching you. Make believe you're enjoying it."
He sniffled and nodded, shaking his head up and down in a rapid succession of jerky arcs. He closed his eyes tightly and began to concentrate. Taking his limp penis into the palm of his hand, wrapping his fingers around the finger-like shaft, he began to stroke himself up and down. The head of his penis was barely visible inside the curled circle of his fingers. He began to breathe heavily, and a single drop of perspiration trickled down the hooked avenue of his nose, catching at the tip, hanging precipitously, threatening to drop off.
I watched him working, wondering what was going on in his thoughts. It was interesting, I thought, permitting myself the luxury of philosophizing, the humiliation and degradation a person would endure in order to get that which he considered important.
"Do you play with yourself very much?" I asked.
He shuddered. "No...I hardly ever."
"I want the truth!" I snapped.
"Yes...."
I laughed softly. "How often do you do it?"
He shrugged, pulling himself up and down, grunting with the effort. "It depends. Sometimes not so much...sometimes a lot."
"How many times is a lot?"
"Two...three times."
"A week?"
His face turned beet red. "A...day." He said the word so softly I had to lean forward to catch the sound.
"My my, you're a very passionate boy, aren't you."
His hand stopped moving, and he unwrapped his fingers. His penis was erect. Even in its aroused state, it was hardly more than four inches long, and no wider than a good thick index finger.
"Christ," I said cruelly, "you're not very big at all, are you?"
Gil said nothing. He stood rigidly in front of me, with his eyes closed, his hands hanging tensely at his sides. The flush of embarrassment reached from the base of his neck right up to the roots of his hair.
"Well, are you?" I asked. "Say something!"
"No...I'm not. I...I'm not very big at all. I'm small in fact." His body was wracked with dry fitful sobs.
"How would you like to fuck me?" I asked. His eyes opened wide. "Are you...serious."
"You're goddam right I'm serious," I said. I reached out and touched the pencil-thin shaft, stroking it affectionately, as if it were my own personal pet. "I don't think I've ever had anything quite so small inside me. It should be an interesting experience."
He trembled spasmodically. "You mean right now? Right here-in the classroom?"
"Later, little man." I released him from my grip, folding my hands together, interlacing the fingers on the edge of my desk. "Right now I have something a little more...varied in mind for you. Are you interested?"
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"I want you to eat me."
"Ohmygod!" He slumped forward, and for a moment I thought he'd fainted. At the last minute he caught himself on the side of my desk, and straightened himself. He swayed from side to side as though he were drunk. "This is the wildest thing that ever happened to me...Jesus!"
"You'll do it?" I asked.
"Yes, of course! Did you think I'd say no?"
I stood up, pushing my chair back. It scraped along the floor, and the sound sent a shiver up my spine. Lightning cracked loudly, and, as if on cue, a torrent of rain beat against the window pane.
"Get under my desk," I said.
He stared numbly at me.
"I said get under my desk. Into the well of the desk. Then I'm going to sit in my chair, slide forward, and place my legs in there also. And while
I'm teaching the next class, you're going to be licking my pussy."
"Holy shit!" he gasped, the color fading from his face. "This must be a dream. It can't be real!"
He began to move toward my desk, walking stiffly, like a robot.
"Wait," I said. I walked across the breadth of the classroom to a point against the wall, halfway down from the door. Without thinking to hide his exposed state, Gil turned and watched me. I lifted my skirt, held it up with one hand, and with the other, pulled down my panties. I stepped out of them and dropped my skirt. I said: "I almost forgot about these." I swung them around the tip of my index finger.
Gil began to collapse. Then I realized all he was doing was hurrying to get under the desk.
I positioned my chair, seated myself in it, then, checking the door to make sure that there was no one peering in, I pulled up my dress until it bunched tightly at my waist, and I slid the chair forward. My legs went under the desk. I parted my thighs.
Feverishly, as if he were starving, as if he were waiting for this moment all his life, Gilbert Horton began to eat my cunt. I'd come three times by time the class had taken their seats.
"Today, ladies and gentlemen," I said, forming the words almost painfully as Gil's invisible tongue did its work well, "we are going to begin a great American classic, The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne."
There was a general cry of displeasure, and, for the first time since I'd been teaching, I found myself not resenting it. The noise helped to cover over the soft sound of my moan of pleasure as I came again.
As I worked into the lecture, I found myself curiously thinking of Uncle Jeffrey, and then, logically, Travis Horton, Gil's father. I said:
"One of the central themes of this novel is that the past creates the present and the future, and that, regardless of how one may attempt to escape the past, he is always its prisoner." I opened my copy of the text to the Author's Preface page. Before I read, I said: "Hawthorne himself, in The House of the Seven Gables, tells us at one point: 'no great mistake, whether acted or endured, in our mortal sphere, is ever set right.' " I pushed my cunt into Gil's mouth. "We shall see how this novel demonstrates that idea."
I began to read, in a carefully modulated voice, that betrayed no trace of the hidden pleasure licking into my body under the cover of the desk. I read the Preface and the first chapter, pausing at those passages I felt conveyed the meaning of the novel.
" 'The point of view in which this tale comes under the Romantic definition,' " I read, " 'lies in the attempt to connect a bygone time with the very present that is flitting away from us.
Many writers lay great stress upon some definite moral purpose...not to be deficient in this particular, the author has provided himself with a moral,-the truth, namely, that the wrong-doing of one generation lives in the successive ones.
I gasped as Gil rammed his tongue all the way up inside of me. Perspiration began to run down my cheeks as I felt myself building toward another orgasm. I continued to read:
" 'Still, there will be a connection with the long past-a reference to forgotten events and personages, and to manners, feelings, and opinions, almost or wholly obsolete-which, if adequately translated to the reader, would serve to illustrate how much of old material goes to make up the freshest novelty of human life...."' Thinking of Uncle Jeff, happy that he was dead, I began to come. My voice only cracked once as I continued with the lesson: " 'Hence, too, might be drawn a weighty lesson from the little-regarded truth, that the act of the passing generation is the germ which may and must produce good or evil fruit in a far-distant time; that, together with the seed of the merely temporary crop, which mortals term expediency, they inevitably sow the acorns of a more enduring growth, which may darkly overshadow their posterity...."'
The orgasm peaked and died, but the enthusiastic stroking of Gil's tongue didn't, and he continued to stuff himself upon the wet sexual feast between my parted thighs.
As I began to build, almost immediately toward another orgasm, I found myself remembering the pathetic brutality of Travis Horton in his desperate attempt to prove to himself that he was a man.
" 'If so,' " I read, speaking loudly to cover over the wet, squishy sound of Gil's darting tongue, " 'we are left to dispose of the awful query, whether each inheritor of the property-conscious of wrong, and failing to rectify it-did not commit anew the great guilt of his ancestor, and incur all its original responsibilities. .
" The triple image of Uncle Jeff, Travis Horton, and his son, Gil Horton fused suddenly in my mind. I read: " 'To the thoughtful mind there will be no tinge of superstition in what we figuratively express, by affirming that the ghost of a dead progenitor-perhaps as a portion of his own punishment-is often doomed to become the Evil Genius of his family."
I read on, and on, and on, coming, and coming, and coming, until my body was raw, almost licked clean, and my mind was blank of all personal responsibility, as I came to the final paragraph: " 'From the look of unutterable woe upon his face, it appeared to be his doom to spend eternity in a vain effort to make his accounts balance...."'
I closed the book and tried to sum up the salient points covered in the reading for the past hour, before I passed out from coming.
"Most of Hawthorne's books deal with the past, as does this book. What does he tell us of the past? First, he tells us we must pay for what we do. We pay for our past again and again, down through the ages." I lifted myself from the chair a fraction of an inch, and I drove my wet, sopping middle hard against Gil's open, sucking mouth. "In a very real sense, we are constantly in the process of creating the past."
My class looked at me blankly, as if I were speaking to them in Serbo-Croatian. The only thing which prevented me from screaming in frustration was the fact that I was building rapidly again toward another orgasm.
"Can anyone paraphrase the theme of the first chapter of The House of the Seven Gables?" I asked, without too much hope of eliciting a response.
To my surprise, someone raised a hand.
"Yes?" I grunted optimistically, the orgasm swelling in my belly.
"The sins of the father are visited upon his sons," came the perfect reply.
"Very good," I said, and I came again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was positively embarrassing, but-I had a crush on Brian Steele!
I fully realize that the term-having a crush on someone-dates me somewhat, but dammit, that's exactly the way Brian Steele made me feel! It was the craziest goddam thing in the world, but that seventeen year old stud made me feel things I haven't felt since I was a flirty fourteen year old! The first time I saw him, my mouth literally dropped open, and I was dumbfounded. I could actually feel my heart pounding in my breast. I was certain that it wasn't that mythopoeic enigma known as love-at-first-sight, because what I felt toward Brian Steele decidedly was not love. It came a lot closer to lust. In short, to be perfectly honest about my feelings, he turned me on! He gave me hot pants! He made me wet! And-thank God for the Women's Movement!-he gave me a hard-on!
It was the craziest goddam thing that had ever happened to me in my life. I could barely talk rationally about it without finding myself resorting to the wildest forms of excess over him. It was as though I had no control over my emotions. I was embarrassed and humiliated, and I thanked god that no one, other than myself, had noticed the utter shamelessness of my behavior toward him. Had they, I was certain that my friends would believe I'd gone insane, I'd probably get fired from the school, and I'd be branded for life as some sort of reversed Lolita.
This strange hold that Brian Steele seemed to exercise over me was, on another level, positively frightening. By nature, or inclination, I have always been a very reserved, almost detached person, choosing my friends very carefully, and my lovers with extreme caution. But the moment I laid eyes on Brian Steele, I felt all this necessary caution, all those years of discipline, suddenly ripped away from me. And, even after I'd rationally convinced myself that this obsession was foolish, and perhaps even dangerous, I still couldn't prevent myself from not only fantasizing about him sexually, but wanting, aching almost, to act upon those fantasies and make them real. I had completely lost all control of my thoughts concerning him, and I was rapidly on the road to completely losing all control of my behavior toward him.
And what was infinitely worse-Brian Steele seemed to know exactly how I felt!
How did it happen? I've asked myself over and over again that very question. In a matter of a few weeks the entire pattern of my life has been totally disrupted, perhaps beyond all repair, and I found myself either upon the brink of a nervous breakdown, or upon the brink of consciously contemplating an affair with a seventeen year old boy. An affair, I might add, un-like the trifling exercises I engaged in with any of my young, innocent students. The thing that I felt toward Brian Steele-and perhaps this was the most frightening aspect of all-was much, much more than a simple sexual attraction, and the affair suggested many, many more levels of involvement than anything I'd ever engaged in in my life.
I did not want it to happen, but I did not know how to stop it! It was as if my life, and perhaps his, had suddenly gone out of control, and I was incapable of exercising any brake upon it, a prisoner of my own existence, as I rushed headlong, blindly into a fate which could only end in despair and tragedy.
How innocent I had been that first day when Kermit Rhinegold, the assistant principal, called me into his office just before class, to introduce me to Brian Steele. How willingly I'd gone to that office, the proverbial lamb being led to her own slaughter.
"Miss Harper," Rhinegold said, in his grating nasal voice, "I would like to take this opportunity to introduce you to Mr...." He looked at the record card he was holding in his hand. "...Barry Steele-"
"Brian," Brian corrected. "Brian Steele, sir."
"Huh?" Kermit looked at him. "Oh, yes, of course-Brian Steele. Brian is a new student here at Jefferson High, having just moved into our neighborhood, as it were, and we have determined that you shall be his homeroom teacher, as well as grade advisor."
I nodded politely at Brian. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Steele."
He smiled back at me, flashing a set of dazzling teeth. "The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Harper."
Kermit went on, obhvious: "Barry has transferred here from New Mexico where he was going to school. He's been in several schools actually, and has, to say the least, quite a varied academic background. He will also be in your senior English class, and will, if we can so arrange things scholas-tically, be graduating in June. I realize, Miss Harper, that this is somewhat of an inconvenience to you, but it would be appreciated if you could prepare him for the English Regents examination which will be given two weeks from Wednesday. I know I'm not giving you much time, but I'm confident you can handle this matter." He smiled at me.
"I'm sure she can handle it," Brian said cryptically.
I was a little upset, to say the least, but what could I do but follow orders. Besides, I found myself liking Brian almost immediately, although I must confess my first reaction to him was considerably much more innocent than the feelings that would follow.
"Fine," I said, smiling at Brian. "In fact, you can come along with me right now, because my senior English class meets this period."
Kermit Rhinegold nodded to me with his head, indicating he wanted to speak to me in private. He stepped about a foot away from his desk, still in full hearing range of Brian and he began to whisper to me in his usual loud voice.
"Here are his records," he said conspiratorially. "He's a very bright boy, Miss Harper. Just take a look at the I.Q. Well above genius level. I don't foresee you having any difficulty with a student of his caliber." He handed me the records, then smiled.
Folding the records into my notebook, I stepped over to where Brian was standing. Kermit followed me.
"Well, Barry," he said, sticking out his hand, grasping Brian's fingers, and pumping vigorously up and down, "it's good to have you aboard."
"Thank you, sir," Brian said crisply. "I'm glad to be here."
"Sir?" said Kermit appreciatively. "I like that, Barry. Did you hear that, Miss Harper? Sir! Well, let's hope you have something of an influence on the rest of the rowdies in this school. Sir...I like that very much."
In the hallway alone with Brian, walking to my classroom, we began to talk.
"Where in New Mexico did you go to school?" I asked. , Brian laughed softly, and it sounded like music. "God, which one?"
"Have you been to many schools?"
"Well, let's see. I've gone to school in California, Nevada, Colorado, Paris, Germany-"
"Wait a minute, Brian," I said, stopping him. "I don't think I understand?"
"My father," he explained, "is a Colonel in the Air Force. We've kind of moved around with him from base to base, wherever he was stationed. That's why I've gone to so many schools, and have had so much difficulty in graduating. I realize I'm kind of old to be in high school."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"That's not so old, really."
He laughed again, that strangely musical way. "Oh, I don't know, Ms. Harper. I'm probably a lot older than you think-in many ways."
Even then, innocent as yet to the real potential of his personality, I found the remark peculiar, and somehow disconcerting.
I had reason, I soon learned.
In class, Brian was brilliant. He was well read, literate, and could write as well as any professional writer I've ever read. I found myself liking him initially because of the novelty of having a student appreciate what I was talking about, and I found myself calling upon him more and more, favoring him in the classroom, always giving him the benefit of the smallest doubt on any of the examinations he took. Yet, despite his obvious superiority, I found myself tutoring him after class and during my free periods, at Kermit Rhinegold's insistence that he be prepared for the Regents. And, much to my shame, I found myself enjoying being alone with him, even though I knew the extra lessons were totally unnecessary.
"Lisa," he said to me. We were in my office, after class hours, and we were discussing the ambiguity of symbolism in Moby Dick, a subject which had absolutely nothing to do with the Regents, but a-subject nevertheless which we both found fascinating. To my surprise, Brian had not only read the Melville classic several times, but understood it well, and could converse intelligently with me about it, without my having to condescend to explain it on a high school level. And, to my further surprise, and consternation, I found that his insights into the book, in many cases, were unique and fascinating in their possibilities. "Lisa," he said again, "could I ask you something?"
I looked up from the passage I was reading. I had long since given him permission to call me by my first name while we were alone, since I could hardly consider him the usual high school student. Actually, I found myself considering him a peer; and, in some cases, I was very much aware of a reversal in our roles, where I saw him as the teacher, and myself as the student.
"Yes, Brian?" I said.
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"You can ask," I said. "And, if I don't think it's too personal, I'll answer you."
"What do you think of me?"
I laughed, sensing he was playing a game with me. I'd observed him do that on many occasions. He'd have something very specific in mind, but he would never approach it directly, and instead would come upon it obliquely, asking a string of pyramiding questions which would lead inevitably to the original question he had in mind all along.
"What do you mean by that?" I retaliated. "What do I think of you as a student? What do I think of you as a gifted young man? What do I think of you as-"
"A lover," he offered.
I laughed, not taking him seriously. "As a lover, you say. Well, let's see now.. . . "
He touched my arm, and I stopped instantly, as if he had communicated more with that random physical contact, than anyone had ever said in all the words I'd ever heard.
"I'm quite serious, Lisa," he said softly.
I found myself trembling inside, and because of that, because I was too ashamed to reveal my actual feelings, I responded with a protective mask of aloofness.
"Really, Brian," I said, pulling my arm out from under the touch of his fingers. My flesh tingled and my mouth was dry. "I hardly think this is a subject suitable for discussion between us." In my mind I dismissed it. "Now, if we could get back to Melville...."
"Have you ever wondered how it would feel to have me make love to you?" he persisted.
A very familiar image flashed in my mind, and I tried, unsuccessfully to push it out. I saw myself naked, bent over on a bed, and behind me, also naked, was Brian. His prick was erect, and he was pushing it into my anus. I shuddered, closed my eyes, then opened them again. The image remained at the front of my thoughts.
"Brian, let's just stop this, please," I said angrily, directing the anger more at myself than at him. "I'm almost twice your age, and I am your teacher. I find this subject matter very offensive, and I wish you to stop it immediately. And I never, never want you to mention it again."
Our eyes made contact, and I felt another surge of raw sexual energy course down the length of my spine, curve under my ass, and explode in the growing wetness between my thighs like a bolt of lightning. The contact had happened by chance, or design on his part, I could never be sure of anything when I was dealing with him, but the accident soon escalated into an all-out test of wills. I found myself staring deeply into his eyes, and he staring back into mine, as though we were waging some form of silent combat, with the soul of the loser the ultimate prize hanging in the balance. I found myself thinking of Melville suddenly, and the line that Ahab spoke of Moby Dick:
All visible objects...are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event...some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the moldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask....
The idea, and the chilling reality of Brian Steele's cold, powerful stare frightened me, and I broke off the contact. Perspiration had made the back of my dress stick to my flesh. My hands were trembling.
"Brian, I think we'd better be going..." I Said, my head spinning dizzily around. I felt naked under his gaze, as if he were looking right through my facade, into the black pit of my personality. "It's getting late."
I pushed my chair back and stood up. So did Brian.
He reached for me gently, but with a strength I'd never experienced, and he pulled me against him. His body was hard and thick muscled against my softness, flattening my breasts against his chest. The thickness of his erection tapped against the mound of my cunt, as if asking for entrance. He tangled his strong hands into my hair, and he pulled my head to the side viciously. Pain exploded in my skull, and my eyes closed in anguish, and my lips parted as I began to cry out.
Brian pressed his open mouth over mine, sliding his thick, licking tongue between my lips, stuffing the cry back down into my throat, where it had come from. I struggled against him at first, trying to hit him, trying to work my knee up between his thighs, but the grinding press of his kiss, and the excruciating pain burning at the side of my head where he was pulling at my hair, robbed from me every ounce of resistance.
He kissed me deeply and wetly, lashing his tongue over the roof of my mouth, pushing it down my throat, prodding my tongue with his as if it were a lazy animal he were attempting to arouse. His saliva was warm and wet, and I found myself sucking it from his tongue, drinking it greedily down, as if it were the elixir of life. The pounding hardness of his erection maddened me with its teasing in-and-out thrusts, as if he were purposely taunting me with the promise of its fierce penetration.
His hand came up and circled my breasts, pressing into the tender mound through my dress. He squeezed his fingers into my swollen breasts, grinding his palm flatly against the tip of the mound, pinching the erect nipple through the thickness of my bra, until the sensation was deliciously excruciating, and I found my knees weakening.
And then, all of a sudden, without my having realized it had happened, I found myself kissing him back, with all the surging, untapped passion bubbling inside of me, that I'd refused to acknowledge had ever existed.
I broke the kiss off, not yet ready to face that kind of truth about myself, and I slapped Brian across the face, as hard as I could, with every ounce of strength I could muster. The stinging slap stung the air, pealing like a clap of thunder.
I was trembling with rage and shame. "You...bastard!" I cried, tears streaking my makeup. Wetness oozed down the sides bf my legs. "You...little boy!"
Brian stared at me, unperturbed. His eyes were cool and dispassionate, like two chips of clear blue ice. The red marks of my fingers branded his face.
"If you ever," I said, shaking so terribly I could hardly stand, "ever!...come near me again...I'll have you arrested for attempted rape!"
He said nothing.
"Do you hear me!" I screamed, addressing the inscrutable thing I hated behind the veil of his features.
He shook his head and sighed, speaking to me as if I were a child. "Lisa...Lisa," he said, his voice soft, patient. "Why are you trying to fight it? Don't you know it's useless?"
"Get out of here!" I screamed, not wanting to hear his words. "Get out of this office, get out of this school, and get out of my life! If you ever so much as speak to me I'll...." My anger sputtered in frustration when I could think of no punishment suitable to fit his transgression.
Brian shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and left. The moment the door closed, I cried for fifteen minutes, then went home and masturbated until my forearm ached, my thoughts filled with degrading sexual fantasies of Brian Steele.
I didn't see Brian after that, for almost a week, and I found myself growing frantic. Time and time again I was tempted to call his home, to see whether anything had happened to him, but I'd convinced myself not to. That would be exactly what he wanted me to do. So I waited for something to happen, knowing full well that I had not seen the last of Brian Steele, not by any stretch of the imagination. And, hatefully, I found myself covering for him, marking him present in my class attendance book, marking him present in my English class. Hatefully, I say, because I knew he was staying away on purpose, and because he knew I had no choice but to cover for him. I waited up until the last day of school, the day of my final exam, when he walked into my classroom, as boldly and as brazenly as he had that first day, smiling at me with his awesome charm, as though he'd never been away, as though nothing at all had happened.
"You're late," I said, whispering hoarsely. The other students were already ten minutes into the examination. "I hope you've studied."
He accepted the examination booklet that I'd, handed to him. "Would it make a difference?" he asked.
My anger flared. "Sit down and get to work!"
He turned, smiling and walked down the center aisle, to the back of the room, and he seated himself in the last desk, well behind all the rest of the students. He dropped the test booklet on the desk, slumped in the chair, with his legs straight out in front of him, and continued to smile at me, ignoring completely my final examination.
You prick! I thought, staring back at him with contempt. Well, this time you've gone too far. This time you've overestimated your strength. This time I'm going to win. I may have marked him present for a few days, but I was not about to falsify his final exam. If he handed in a blank paper, then, by god, that was the mark he was going to get! In the end, as it was with all of them, the power rests with me! Lisa Harper! And then, as if in answer, he won again.
Numbly I watched as he slid his hand down between his muscular thighs, and he began to fondle himself. I could see his erection stiffening through the material of his jeans. He rubbed himself lazily, as if he had all the time in the world.
I was shocked, repulsed, but fascinated. My mouth opened slightly, and I found myself breathing deeply. My eyes stared in total disbelief as his fingers moved up to the hp of the zipper, and pulled it silently down.
Smiling, Brian inserted his hand into the zipper, and pulled out his thick, erect cock. He continued to stroke himself up and down, the swollen thickness of his shaft slipping effortlessly through his fingers. I watched as the tempo increased, as his legs parted slightly further, as the smile on his face took on a look of wicked pleasure.
Sweat poured down my face, and I found myself holding my breath. No...no! I cried, calling out to him with my mind. Don't!
But it was too late-he began to come.
I watched the sperm bubbling from the tip of his prick, flowing like thick milk over the pole of the shaft, oozing between his tightly clenched fingers, and I was overcome with a sense of my own doom.
Regardless of what else happened-I had to have Brian Steele.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Fantastic!" Brian Steele groaned, pumping his hips back and forth as he drove his cock into my mouth. "Jesus Christ, Lisa-that's fantastic!"
Brian was kneeling above me, with his thighs spread around my head, and I was laying on my back on the bed in his room. We were both stark naked, and he was holding my head up by my hair, driving his erection in and out, plunging the shaft deeply down my throat, fucking himself into my face as though I were nothing more than an extension of some vivid erotic fantasy he was experiencing. My eyes were open wide, and I could see his hairy balls bouncing against his thighs as he drilled my sucking mouth.
In self defense almost, to keep from gagging on the throbbing length of his cock, I reached up and grabbed the pole of his cock with both my hands, wrapping my fingers around the slippery, saliva-wet shaft, and I began to jerk him off as I continued to suck him. I slid my fingers up and down the length of his cock, coordinating their movement to match the plunge and withdrawal movement of my straining lips. As I sunk my mouth down, as far as I could go, swallowing as much of his rock-like hardness between my lips as I could, I jerked my hands downward, banging my fist into the flat, heaving hardness of his belly. Then, when I pulled back, reversing the order of my advance, my fingers slid up the length of the reappearing shaft, until my doubled fists hammered at my own lips. The entire length of his erection was dripping with saliva, matting down his pubic hair, dribbling over his wrinkled balls, making the organ feel smooth and slippery under the tightening grip of my fingers.
"Soon, baby!" he moaned, pulling my face back and forth by my hair with his jerking hands. His back was bent like a bow as he strained against me. "Soon, Lisa...soon!"
I quickly picked up on the urgency of his excitement, sucking him harder, deeper, wetter. My face slipped furiously up and down his cock while my two hands jerked off the rest of his length. My tempo became frantic, and my coordination went completely berserk, losing all skill, relying totally upon raw passion. My wet fists hammered away at my pursed lips, until I could taste the warm saltiness of my own blood oozing between my teeth.
"NOW!" Brian Steele cried. He shoved his cock all the way down my throat. "I'm coming-now?'
I could feel the head of his cock expanding across the opening of my throat. Something thick and surging pumped up the length of the shaft, throbbing against the cushion of my tongue. The head of his prick opened up, and the orgasm exploded out, filling my mouth with his sperm. It was like a thick paste as it spread all over my tongue and teeth. My cheeks began to puff out as they filled like pockets with the spewing torrent of his sticky discharge. Between my straining fingers, I could feel his cock trembling as the rushing orgasm pumped more and more sperm between my lips.
I swallowed mindlessly, insatiably, drinking it down as if it were rich, creamy hot ice cream. Thick lumps of the fluid poured from the end of his cock, like water from a fire hose, gushing, spilling, rolling down my throat. I could almost feel it splashing in my stomach. So overflowing was my mouth, that the sperm oozed out from between my pressing, puckered lips, until the wetness ran like milky rivers down my chin. My hands banged into my face, splashing the sperm all over, drawing even more sperm from the limitless depths of his balls.
As if he were never going to stop, Brian's cock continued to pump come into my arid mouth. I used my hands like a pump, stroking him to create a vacuum, helping the sperm along its course. And then, when that wasn't effective enough, I began to squeeze my fingers into the softening flesh of his cock, as though it were a wet washcloth, and I were trying to wring it dry of the last few remaining drops of his sperm. My mouth was filled with drool, and I'd swallowed so much, my throat felt raw.
Fatigue began to wear me down, and I stopped pumping my hands up and down. The shaft was slippery, and my fingers unlaced, and my hands fell away from the fleshy pole. As if they were weighted down with lead, my hands dropped to the bed, sending faint ripples through the mattress. My mouth, however, continued to suck upon the spongy stick of his cock, even after it had ceased to throb, and no further sperm oozed out. With my sliding tongue, I cleaned the sperm from the inside of my mouth, licking the end of his cock clean, as well. Even though it was finally flaccid, I found myself continued to marvel at its hugeness.
"Enough," said Brian, untangling his fingers from my hair. I continued to keep my neck tilted forward, refusing to relinquish my hold upon his limp penis. He began to push me away with his hands. "Come, on, Lisa-let go. It's beginning to hurt."
He put his fingers into my mouth, and pried my lips apart. Then, in a single fluid motion, he jerked his hips back, pulling his cock out of my mouth, and tilted to the side, falling from his kneeling position on top of my chest. He landed on his side, causing the bed to bounce violently, rolling over on his back, with his arms splayed out in exhaustion. His cock hung limp and broken-looking against the bulging muscle of his thigh. His chest rose and fell fitfully.
"God...Lisa," he moaned, staring at the ceiling. "That was...incredible. You've got some mouth."
I was in no mood for compliments at the moment. The fire of my passion had not dimmed in the slightest. In fact, just the reverse had happened. Feeling Brian go off in my mouth as he had only made me hotter, more passionate, more in need of his releasing attention.
I pushed myself up from the mattress, the wetness between my thighs running like paste down my flesh. My breasts were swollen, and the nipples so erect, I was almost afraid to touch them, afraid they would snap off in my hands. I could actually feel my clitoris between the fluttering lips of my cunt. It felt like a hot marble, rubbing erotically back and forth as I moved. I could hardly see where I was going, my eyes were so clouded with passion. Groping on my hands and knees, like some kind of low animal, I reached for Brian.
"Hey, come on," he protested, lifting his knee so that his prick was out of reach. "Cut it out. It's still too sensitive."
"But I need to come!" I cried, my flesh on fire, my blood boiling. "You came...now I want to. You promised me. You said that if I let you come in my mouth, you'd satisfy me....Now I need it, Brian!"
He shook his head. "Sorry, lady," he said. He pulled himself erect, leaning heavily against the headboard of his bed. "No can do."
I thought I was going to go out of my mind I was so aroused. "But you promised!"
Brian was still breathing hard, and his naked, sleek flesh was covered with a thick, oily coating of perspiration. The thick muscles of his chest looked like armor plating as they rose convulsively up and down. Propping himself up further, he reached across to the nightstand beside the bed and worked a single cigarette from the crumpled pack. He put it in his mouth and lit it with his lighter. He sucked deeply on the cigarette, making a sizzling sound with his lips.
"Christ," he said, exhaling loudly, "I needed that."
"What about me, goddam you!" I screamed, so frustrated I thought I was going to cry.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. He offered the cigarette to me. "I didn't know you smoked, Lisa."
I slapped at him viciously, knocking the cigarette across the room. "You cruel sonofabitch," I screamed, trembling with rage. "You know damned well what I'm talking about!"
Brian cocked his head slightly, masking his sweaty, handsome face in a look of innocent concern. "Lisa, darling, I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Perhaps if you told me...."
"Fuck me, you prick!" Tears squeezed out of my eyes in my anger, and when I felt them staining my cheeks, I became even more angry, this time at myself, for exposing myself to more of his humiliation. I wanted to claw his face, rip his heart out with my fingernails. "Fuck me, you son-of a bitch! You promised."
He sighed philosophically. "Darling, I know I promised, but-" he indicated his limp penis "What can I do about this?"
"You...promised...me."
He picked up his limp prick in his hand, flopping it back and forth, so that it made a wet plop against his fist. It reminded me of a dead fish.
"Well," he said, shrugging, "If you really think you can do something with this?...."
"You cocksucker!" I cried, weeping openly now, crying as much in anger and frustration as in humiliation. I banged my fists against the mattress in sputtering disappointment. "You prick, you scummy thing, you emasculated, ball-less faggot...you shit...you dirty, filthy, degenerate liar...you...you!...you-"
Brian looked at me, feigning shock. He waited until my rage spent itself. "Are you quite finished?" he asked, blowing smoke in my face from a second cigarette he had lighted.
"No!" I screamed. I slapped the second cigarette out of his hand. It fell on the bed.
Brian picked it up. "You know something? You're probably good for me, Lisa. You'll get me to quit smoking yet."
I glared at him, feeling my passion burn itself out in my belly, shrinking smaller and smaller, until all that was left of it was a smoldering, burned out ash.
Brian snapped his fingers. "I know!" he said. "Why don't you use your fingers? That's it-do yourself!"
I spit at him. "Fuck you."
"Come on," he urged. He leaned forward, coaxing me on. "I think that would be wild. I'd love to see you jerk yourself off. Come on, Lisa...do it for me."
"You go to hell," I said coldly. "I am finished playing your games. No more...no more! No more humiliation, no more doing things for you, your way, no more being used! No more, Brian...no more!"
He shook his head. "Does that mean you're not-"
"I'm getting out of here." I made a move as if to climb off the bed. I looked at Brian. He was busy smoking his cigarette, consciously making an effort to ignore me.
I trembled with indignation. "All right!" I said. "I'm going!" Walking on my hands and knees, feeling somewhat absurd, I crawled to the edge of the mattress, and stepped off the bed, and stalked across the room, stark naked. I began to rummage through the pile of our hastily discarded clothing.
Brian continued to smoke his cigarette.
"Where's my dress..." I muttered, pretending I couldn't find it in the tangled heap of clothes. I said it louder, so he'd have to respond: "Goddamn it, where's my dress?"
Brian looked up. "Search me," he said, and he made an exaggerated shrugging motion.
I pulled the dress out of the pile. "Here it is!" I pulled it over my head, disregarding my underwear, buttoning it half-way up so that my breasts still hung out. I stalked back across the room. "Where are my shoes?" I demanded absurdly.
Brian pointed with the cigarette. "Right there."
"Fine."
I slipped into the shoes. "I'm going now," I said.
Brian studied his burning cigarette. "Hmmmm."
I stomped across the floor to. the bedroom door. I put my hand on the doorknob, then hesitated. I turned and looked back at Brian who remained on the bed, still studying his cigarette.
"You're not going to say anything?" I said, feeling my conviction slipping away.
Brian looked up and smiled. "Goodbye." And then, as if it were an afterthought, he said: "Oh, yeah. Make sure you don't forget to put your tits back inside your dress before you go out on the street. I wouldn't want you to get a chest cold or anything."
I fumed, gritting my teeth. "And you're just going to sit there? You're not going to try and stop me?"
He pressed the tips of his fingers together. "What do you want me to do, Lisa?" he asked, sounding angry. "You want me to beg you to stay? I'm not going to." He crushed the stub of his cigarette out in the ashtray. "You know, you're really something. You really are. There you are, threatening to walk out on me, and you're pissed off. You're fucking incredible. You really are."
"Now wait a minute," I said, stalking back into the room, thankful for the opportunity to argue, using it as an excuse not to walk out. "Can you blame me for being mad? After what you did to me?"
He swung his feet around on the bed, placing them on the floor. "And what did I do to you that was so goddam terrible?"
"You ignored me." I walked back and forth in front of him, the heels of my shoes clicking loudly against the bare wooden floor. "You used me! You lied to me! You humiliated me! You-"
"How did I do all of that? By refusing to fuck you?" Brian shook his head in disbelief. "What the hell did you want me to fuck you with? My cock was limp...useless! You drained me...What did you want me to do? Put a splint on it and then shove it into you?"
"But you promised me!" I insisted. "You promised that if I allowed you to come in my mouth-"
"Well, I'm very sorry," he said with indignation. "But I didn't mean to disappoint you. I didn't plan it that way, you know. How the hell was I supposed to know that you were so goddam good that I wouldn't be able to continue? That's never happened to me before....Dammit."
I saw what he was trying to do, and I attempted to head him off. "Then why couldn't you have acted differently towards me?" I asked. "Why were you so cold, so indifferent, so cruel?"
"I wasn't any of those things." He stood up and pointed his finger at me. "You know what I was, Lisa? I was humiliated!"
"That's right...that's right!" He began to follow me around the room, shouting at my back. "I was humilated by you! What makes you think you're the only one who has any pride. How do you think I felt, after I promised you that I would fuck you, and then found out I couldn't? How do you think that made me feel?"
The argument was almost believable, but.. . .
"You were humiliated," he muttered. "You know I'm supposed to be something of a stud, Lisa. At least in my eyes I'm supposed to. I'm only seventeen, you know, in the prime of my sexual powers. How do you think it makes me feel to know I failed you?"
I know what he's trying to do, I told myself. I know what he's trying to do. Yet, despite that awareness, I found myself wanting to believe him.
"And then you wonder why I was quiet," he continued. "You didn't even give me a chance to explain! What's that? Can't perform? I'm leaving! Then zip! You're off in a huff. No explanations asked for, no explanations needed." He looked at me with the eyes of a wounded doe. "You know, I'm not a stud service, Lisa. I'm a person."
With that, he turned and walked away in silence. He sat on the edge of the bed, lighting another cigarette. I stared at him, sensitive of the silence which had settled on the room, not knowing quite what to say. It sounded so plausible, yet somehow I had the feeling he was conning me. "Brian.. . " I began.
He looked up at me. "I was going to do you, Lisa," he said, his soft voice quivering with emotion. "Honest to God, I was. I just needed a little time...a little time to recover.. . . "
I suddenly felt shitty about the whole thing. "Is that the truth, Brian?"
"Of course it is, Lisa," he said. His eyes were open wide, and there were tears in them. "Would I lie to you? Would I, baby?"
"No," I said in a humiliated whisper. "I guess not." I walked across the room and sat next to him on the bed. I reached across and touched his naked knee. "I...I'm sorry, Brian. I guess I just misunderstood."
He placed his hand down on top of mine, patting it affectionately. "Forget it, baby. It's no big thing. Just as long as everything is all right between us again." He looked at me. "Is it?"
"Sure," I said, sensing that I had lost something very fundamental. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry, Brian. I...I'm sorry."
"That's okay, Lisa," he said, looking away from me, the unmistakable glow of triumph in his clear blue eyes. "I forgive you."
I bit my tongue, but said nothing. Why bring it all up again. It was bad, but it was over.
But Brian wasn't about to let it drop so easily. Just as I might have done in his place, he pressed his advantage aggressively.
"Come to think of it, Lisa," he said. "You've been acting strangely all night long. Is something bothering you? Are you due for your period or something?"
In the eternity of the instant before I responded, my thoughts went back over the events of the night, touching lightly upon them in flashing images, reviewing each one in mind, as they led up to this very moment.
I hadn't wanted to go out with Brian, I remembered. Not this way, at least. It was too dangerous. Someone might see us together, and then my reputation at the school would have been irredeemably shattered. But Brian had insisted that we make it more than just a night of frantic lovemaking at my apartment. We should celebrate, he'd said. Make a night of it. We should celebrate my passing your class. So we did, against my better judgment, and we went out together on, as he called it, "our first date."
We'd gone to a film together: a sleazy porno film in a dirty, rundown theater, filled with men who did nothing but stare at me more than at the fucking and sucking on the screen. I felt incredibly embarrassed and ill-at-ease, but Brian had insisted that we sit through the entire show, shorts and all, so we'd be in the proper mood for later on.
Afterwards had been no better. He took me on a tour of all the dirty book stores in Times Square, making me enter each and every one of them, forcing me to stand right next to him while he flipped through the beaver magazines, and then through the special, imported magazines from under the counters. And then back out again, walking through the crowded Manhattan streets, through the throngs of men and women, any of whom conceivably could have known either Brian or me. And, on those who didn't know us, how their heads would turn as we walked past them. And they would stare at Brian, and they would stare at me, and they would stare at each other and smile with superior, unspoken awareness.
Finally, after we'd eaten frankfurters on a street corner, Brian decided to take me home. His choice of transportation was strictly for my benefit-the subway. And, as. we were sitting beside each other on the crowded subway car, with all those other strangers staring at us, Brian decided to "put on a show for them if they really wanted to watch something." Before I had a chance to say anything, he pulled me to him, and kissed me passionately on the mouth, forcing his tongue between my protesting lips.
And then, the worst offense of all, in front of all those fascinated onlookers, Brian reached up while he was kissing me, and put his hand on my breast, fondling it through the soft material of my sweater. I thought I was literally going to die when I felt his fingers tighten around my tit; I could feel the hot blush of embarrassment rising up from my feet until my face was a glowing deep scarlet. It remained that way until we left the subway, all during the long ride home. And then, when we'd gotten here, it had been no better. No one was home at Brian's house, so, after I'd given up trying to convince him it would be safer at my place, we came to his parents' home to make love.
Making love was hardly the word for what happened. Brian had been brisk, functional, and totally lacking in any tenderness in the way he handled the situation. He'd been crude, vulgar, and he'd made fun of my naked body, telling me my tits were beginning to sag. And then there was the traumatic mess of the blowjob, and the way he'd treated me afterwards, twisting things somehow so that I wound up apologizing to him for my hurt feelings!
God, what a night it had been. Each and every thing Brian had forced me to do had been calculated to humble me, humiliate me, and degrade me. A thousand times during the night I'd asked myself: why am I standing for this? Why am I allowing him to do this to me? Why don't I just pick myself up and leave? But I didn't leave, no more than I could have left a moment ago, when I'd threatened to. I couldn't leave for a very simple reason: because I was as much a product of my own past as was any character, from any book.
"Is something bothering me?" I said, repeating Brian's question. "Don't be silly. What could be bothering me? It's all in your imagination."
Brian leaned close to me. "I'll tell you something that isn't my imagination." He grabbed my breast as it hung out of my dress, pinching the nipple. "I think I can do it again now."
A shudder went through me. Brian was ready to teach me my next lesson.
"Good," I heard myself say.
"Stand up," he commanded.
I did as he asked, and he stripped the dress from me, kissing my breasts, and fondling my cunt. He played with the clit a few times, then thrust his middle finger into the pudding of my cunt, stirring the finger around several times, until he'd managed to reawaken the sleeping, unfulfilled orgasm from before. Despite my premonition, I felt myself responding to his next abasement.
"Get on the bed," Brian said. "I think I want to eat you."
I let him eat me, not because I wanted him to, but because I needed him to. In the end, however, I realized the reason had lost its meaning. The results were the same, as I was driven to those same heights of passion I would have been had his motives been different. I wrapped my thighs around his neck, and I pulled his head against my wet, humping middle.
"Turn over. I want to get you from behind."
I turned over, laying flat on my belly, spreading my thighs.
He slapped my ass stingingly. "Get this up high," he said, pulling me up roughly. "That's right. Sort of kneel down. Put your face against the mattress, and your ass up in the air. Good...good! Now spread those thighs. Wider...wider!"
I compiled with his every request, with no more resistance than a marionette hanging from the fingers of a supreme puppet master.
Brian climbed down between my thighs, licking my cunt from the rear. He drilled the wedge of his tongue in and out, then up and down, licking me from the tip of my clitoris to the puckered ring of my anus. His tongue stopped there, and he stabbed it forward, spearing into my anal canal. I groaned in exquisite ecstasy, nearly swooning from the intensity of my pleasure. I could feel his thick spongy tongue inside of me, stretching open the tight mouth of my ass, filling that gripping passageway.
He began to flit his tongue from left to right, pushing himself deeper and deeper into me, as if he were attempting to touch every inch of that unexplored channel. I could feel the saliva rolling down the crease of his tongue, pouring into me, until I could feel it bubbling out, and dripping wetly between the dank cheeks of my ass.
His tongue withdrew, and I almost came from the sudden rush of sensation. I caught my breath, and grasped my emotions tightly in my fists, aware suddenly of the next grade of mortification Brian had promoted me to.
"I'm gonna fuck your ass!" he declared, as though he were reading my mind. And, as I thought about it, perhaps that's exactly what he was doing.
The final degradation, I thought, oddly relieved. The final humiliation. Well, so be it. Let it come, let it happen, and then, let it be over.
Brian positioned himself behind me. He pushed his erect rod toward me, missing the hole by about an inch.
"Lower!" he demanded. "Put your ass lower. Raise your spine. That's it-up on your hands and knees. That's it! Now-back!"
The tip of his cock brushed my anus. I tightened myself instinctively, closing my eyes, tensing my muscles. Shame made my face flush with self-hatred as I saw a mental image of myself: on my hands and knees, like a slave prostrating herself before her master; and Brian the master, ready to exercise his thick-fleshed superiority.
Brian gripped the cheeks of my ass between his powerful hands, and he pulled them apart, as if he were trying to tear my body in half, ripping me up the length of my spine. As he did so, he thrust himself forward with all his strength, pitting the thickness of his cockshaft against the rubbery, resisting hole of my anus. I felt the ribbed hole strain as it attempted to remain closed, protecting the last bastion of my virginity. But the force of Brian's thrust was too powerful, and the wet hole oozed open. And, for the first time in my life, a cock-Brian Steele's cock!-slid up into my ass.
"Ohmygod-it hurts!" I moaned. I tried to pull away. I tried to expel it from my anal canal by tightening my muscles around the cudgel-like invader. "Oh, Jesus...Jesus!"
Leaning forward, on the ball of his knees, struggling for the best possible leverage, Brian moved his hands from my ass cheeks to the front of my thighs. He grabbed my legs and pulled me back. He drove the pole of his cock forward, pushing himself deeper and deeper into me, impaling me upon a column of rigid flesh.
My ass-hole was on fire. The blunted tip of Brian's shaft was just beyond the ring of muscles at the entrance of my anal canal. His cock felt like a crowbar inside of me, prying me open.
"Fuck me hard!" I cried. "Push it into me!"
Brian's fingers tightened like iron pinchers into the tender flesh of my thighs. In a spectacular feat of strength, he lifted my body up from the mattress, and sawed the cock into my ass. The suddenness of the movement, and the overwhelming force with which it was delivered, made my spine seem as if it were going to snap. I could feel the length of his cock, straining to get in.
And then, somewhere deep inside of me, something loosened, and the canal opened wide.
Brian's cock slid up my ass.
"Oh my God!" I screamed in agony. It was as if a hard column of fire were being rammed into my body. And yet, somehow, before the penetration was half over, my scream of pain, had become a long, loud moaning sob of pleasure. "Oh my God! . . .Oh my God!...OH MY GOD!"
Deeper and deeper the cock pushed: like a blunted knife tearing a path through my resisting flesh.
"Take it!" Brian cried, humping himself violently against me. "Take it, Lisa...take it!"
Then deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until every throbbing inch of his hard flesh was inside of me. The sensation was un-like anything I've ever felt in my life. I screamed in pleasure: "Oh...Oh!...Oh!"
Brian's cock was hard inside the canal of my ass. There was pain no longer-only the most excruciatingly intense pleasure I have ever known in my life. It was so total, so swollen, so filled with sheer, perfect levels of ecstasy I was awed and humbled before it. I squeezed myself down around the incredible hardness spreading through my body, and a wave of weakness engulfed my thoughts, and reality began to slip away from me. I was a heartbeat away from both coming and passing out, and I didn't care which happened first.
"Fuck me, baby!" I heard myself moan, weak from so much pleasure. "Oh God-fuck my ass!"
Brian began to move against me, pulling his cock back, as if he were going to withdraw. The canal of my ass gripped his cock fiercely, attempting to hold back the movement, sensible of what would happen the moment he began fucking himself in and out. My insides felt like they were being ripped out: as if he had a hook on the end of his deeply-embedded shaft, and it had pierced my vital organs. Inch by straining inch he drew further and further back, with the swollen head of his cock rubbing, scraping, clinging tenaciously against the slick tunnel. It was a singularly sexual, tremendously erotic sensation.
Finally, I could feel the head of the shaft almost empty the passageway, hovering for an instant at the very mouth of my anus. Then, with an angry, determined effort, Brian pushed forward again, refilling me with his ravishing cock, and I began to come.
I moaned, like an animal, because there simply were no words commensurate to the pleasure of my orgasm. I screamed, at the top of my lungs, coming and coming and coming, again and again, with each throb of his pounding shaft, with each new penetration, from every humping thrust of his cock as it reamed out my anal canal. Colors began to flash wildly in my thoughts, and the well-lighted bedroom seemed to grow dim, then spin wildly out of control. In and out, in and out Brian thrust, ramming his cockshaft into me from a hundred different angles, each penetration touching off a new, and never before experienced level of release.
And yet, as blinding and as shattering as my orgasm was, a single element of my thoughts was somehow detached from the flood of pleasure, and looked upon it objectively, telling me what this all meant: Brian Steele, as he fucked my ass, and made me come until I thought I was crazy, was literally dominating my body, physically as well as symbolically, and there was nothing at all I could do about it: Brian Steele was now in sole possession of my soul.
CHAPTER NINE
If I thought that Brian's humiliation of me was at an end, I soon discovered I was gravely mistaken.
I continued to bow before him, on my hands and knees, while he filled and emptied the aching anal passageway, until his orgasm, patiently delayed until I had finally ceased coming, exploded into that twitching, throbbing channel. Brian's cock began to swell, and he thrust himself harder and deeper, opening me until it seemed as though I could feel the bulb-like head of his shaft somewhere deep in the pit of my belly. His balls began to rise up, like a swelling, mounting tidal wave, rubbing softly against the straining cheeks of my ass.
"Now!" he cried, and I understood very clearly the precise double meaning to his announcement. "Now!...Now!...NOW!...NOW!"
Brian began to come. His cock trembled and spit, and then seemed to shatter inside of me. His sperm spilled into me, hot...incredibly hot!...as if someone were pouring molten lead into the lining of my ass-hole. It was like magma...like fuming lava...like the breathing fire which roars from the mouth of a flamethrower. I could feel it coating the canal of my anus like jellied napalm, clinging to the walls of that overwhelmed crevice of flesh, until the walls themselves were burning brightly, consuming my body from within, igniting a raging inferno that would never quite burn itself out. My ass was flooded with his heat, his liquid fire, and it oozed thickly out, like bubbling sulphur, scalding my flesh, searing the loose, fluttering lips of my empty, wasted cunt.
He remained inside of me until his thick swollen shaft ceased to belch flame. He remained inside of me until his cock began to shrivel, withered by the incredible heat his passion had generated. He remained inside of me until his cock was soft and small and limp, and then he pulled it out. My anus re-closed fitfully, as if it had lost its elasticity, making wet, squishing noises. Sperm, cooling finally, seeped from my vanquished anus, like blood oozing from an open, gaping wound.
And then, to add to the completeness of my subjugation, Brian kicked me in the ass with his naked foot, knocking me off balance, and I fell, face forward onto the stained, sweaty mattress. I lay there, on my belly, my face buried in the folds of the bed, with his sperm trickling like a time-weary river between the hills of my ass.
Brian spoke: "Lisa...Lisa...Jesus Christ. That was the most incredible...erotic experience I've ever had in my life. It was exquisite.. . . "
I said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
"I've never felt an ass so tight before," he continued. "Oh have never had a woman who loved ass fucking as much as you seem to. Christ, I thought you were going to grind my prick to dust, you were squeezing me so hard...." He laughed. "It was almost as if you were trying to snap it off at its base so that you could keep it in your ass-hole for the rest of your life...."
He let that sink in, then went on:
"Can I ask you something?" He waited for my reply, and, when it didn't come, he continued, as though I had answered him. "Have you ever been fucked up the ass before? Have you ever had a man's cock up there?" Again he waited for my answer. "The reason I ask is that you reacted like a virgin. You know-the pain, the incredible heights of your pleasure. I was just wondering. Was that the first time for you, Lisa?"
I didn't answer.
"Answer the question, Lisa," Brian commanded. His voice was soft, gentle almost, but it was a command nonetheless. He was exercising his power over me, testing its limits, if it had limits.
"Brian," I said, testifying to his unlimited control over me, "that was the first time. No man...no cock...no finger has ever been there before you. You were the...first."
He laughed, savoring his triumph. "Good."
I lay there, face down on the bed, completely prostrated before him, the master now the slave, the student now the teacher, and I waited for his next command.
It came.
"Turn over, Lisa," Brian said.
As if I were resurrecting my body from the dead, I moved. Pain danced along the knots of my spine, and my brain flashed in and out of consciousness. Every single part of my being ached in-candescently, until just movement alone was an unendurable agony.
I endured it. I turned over and faced Brian. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his legs folded Indian-fashion, and he was smoking another cigarette. I sat down gingerly, resting the weight of my body upon the ravaged point of my ass.
"Move back further," he said. "Back against the headboard. And sit up! No slumping."
I moved myself against the headboard, sitting as erectly as I could.
"Now, spread your legs. More...more, dammit! I want them wide open."
Numbly, like a robot, I obeyed. I spread my thighs as far as I could, until my joints ached, and the cheeks of my ass were straining apart.
"Good girl, Lisa," he said, and I heard myself, as I'd said those very same patronizing words to Richard Lowe, Robert Mills, Gilbert Horton, and a host of so many other nameless faces upon whom I had once exercised my total domination of their minds and bodies. He said: "Very, very good. You did that really well."
I sat and waited, my thighs spread wide open in a gesture of subservience, my will shattered, my ego shredded; humbled, humiliated, and broken.
Just as I'd done to so many others. I'd always known this day would come, when I'd meet someone stronger than I, or sicker than I, if that's a better word, or more frightened than I, but I never quite expected it to be a mere boy. Somehow it seemed appropriate now.
"Put your hand between your legs," Brian said, puffing smoke into the fetid air; "Masturbate."
I stared at him.
"Do it!"
Why not? I thought. It didn't matter now, really. The power always goes to the strongest. Yesterday I was strong, today Brian is, and tomorrow-tomorrow it will be someone else. I took what little consolation there was in knowing that Brian Steele would be in my position one day, and that someone else would be making him jump through whichever hoops he decided that Brian should jump through. As I said, it was not much of a consolation.
I began to masturbate.
"That's it...good!" he approved. "Very good. And no bullshit either-no faking it. I want real passion, real wetness. I want you to do it to yourself the way you do it when there's no one watching you. I want to watch you come."
I closed my eyes and began to concentrate on my task, wanting, suddenly, to do it well for Brian.
"Oh, yeah," he said, pleased with the variation he'd come up with. "While you're doing it, I want you to tell me about your most intimate sexual secret. The thing you're most ashamed about in your life, the thing that humiliated you the most. Something you've never told anyone else in your life, ever."
My thoughts went back twenty years. My fingers worked in the swampy wetness between my thighs. I said: "My Uncle Jeffrey, once upon a time.. . . " I began to tell him my story.
The bed moved, and I opened my eyes. Brian was gone.
"Don't stop!" he commanded. He was standing near the bedroom door, with one hand on the doorknob. He was wearing his jeans and he had a cigarette dangling from his lips. "Don't stop jerking yourself off!"
I continued. "Where are you going?"
Then came my last surprise.
"I want you to make love to my friends," he said.
I opened and closed my eyes, but nothing changed, and the world didn't go away. "Your friends?" I echoed. "I don't think I understand...."
Brian laughed cruelly. "They're in the next room, Miss Harper," he said. "They've been in there all along, taking turns peeking through the keyhole, watching you." He threw the door open. Standing in the doorway were five or six young boys. "They're still watching you. See, fellas. That's a teacher."
I closed my eyes and concentrated on my masturbation. Pleasure began to swell inside of me, as it always would. Solipsist sex.
"And there was a microphone," Brian added unnecessarily, "under the bed and connected to a tape recorder, so we can preserve this evening for posterity."
I opened my eyes and stared at the boys. They were all naked, with hard, muscular bodies, and thick, erect cocks. I recognized one or two of them. They were students from my classes.
"Have fun," Brian said. He stepped out of the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.
The boys advanced upon the bed.
I closed my eyes again in concentration. My hand was working feverishly against my clitoris. And, just as they touched me, I began to come.
Soon, I thought, coming all over my fingers, insensible of the hands pulling at my breasts, the cocks pushing against my flesh. Soon it would be over. After twenty long years, the nightmare was finally drawing to a close. Thank you, Brian Steele...thank you for releasing me!
I opened my eyes to greet the bright burning new morning.
