EVER SINCE man's fall from grace in the Garden of Eden, mankind has been asking the question: What is love and why does it make people react the way they do? It is a question of endless speculation, of countless theories. There is the love of man for his God, the love of a mother for her child, the love of country, the love of man and woman. Which of these is the most powerful?
The answer to that question, using pure logic, would appear to be quite simple: the love of man and woman is the strongest, for ii will make a man turn from his God, betray his country, make mothers leave their children.
Still, though, in spite of the virtual omnipotence of this sexual love, society has attempted to contain it and strip it of its power by a series of oppressive laws which today reflect the hysteria and the soulless stupidity of the times in which they were conceived.
In this exciting new novel by Elizabeth Watson you will read a love story, and we think it is one of the better novels published this year. The only thing different about this as compared to other books is that the female is twenty-five, and her lover barely fifteen. In most states of the Union, the heroine of this book, Sylvia Sorensen, is a criminal because of her attraction to the handsome teenager. Indeed, at the end of the book when she agrees to stay by the injured boy in the hospital and face his irate parents, the reader knows that because of her loyalty and deep abiding love for the youth she will be sentenced to the penitentiary for her "sins" against society. And yet, her only "sin" was to love.
Love needs no restraints so long as the love itself is real. But the restraints have always been there and thinking men have always spoken out against them. William Blake, the famous English poet and great humanitarian, might have added to our Foreword, for he, too, wrote about a love frowned on by society: Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time, Love, Sweet love, was thought a crime.
William Blake, 1792 We dare anyone to read Sylvia Sorensen's electrifying story between these magazine covers and remain untouched by the plight of two people -- strongly attracted to each other as male and female - who are forbidden to feel, to experience the most wonderful emotion mankind is capable of feeling.
The subject matter of this highly realistic novel (the legal age of consent) is rapidly becoming a political issue in the United States today, as is the freedom to read about it in the realistic and easily understood framework of fiction. We, therefore, are proud to publish this novel, but we do request that it not be given to the immature or those easily offended.
-THE PUBLISHERS
CHAPTER ONE
"Hemingway country," the attractive young woman speeding a-long in her green Volkswagen murmured to herself with a satisfied smile. Tossing back her long, corn-silk golden hair and unconsciously pressing down a little harder on the accelerator, Sylvia Sorensen added, "It hasn't changed a bit in over fifty years! The same sleepy old frame farmhouses with rambler roses and organdy curtains . . . the same clear brooks where Nick Adams caught trout. . . the cherry trees on rolling hills . . . the rich summer people's gingerbread Victorian cottages on the lakeshores. Oh, God, it's paradise! I can't believe I'm really here!"
The East Jordan Road, which meandered through the farmlands and forests of northern Michigan alongside the swift-flowing Jordan River, was indeed an idyllic spot on this late Indian Summer Saturday afternoon. Apart from the thrill which the young English teacher derived from being in the area where one of her favorite author's earliest books were set, she was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the scenery itself. One moment she was passing open fields ablaze with black-eyed Susans and scarlet-berried sumac; the next instant, the narrow road was bordered by the gnarled trunks of ancient oaks and the fragrant green of tall pines. Sylvia, born and bred in an industrial suburb of Chicago where even a dandelion-dusted vacant lot was fast becoming a phenomena of the past, rejoiced in the luxuriant autumn countryside and the fulfilling sensation of returning to the true roots of her heritage.
"This is really life," she muttered aloud. "Life the way it's meant to be, that is. And the last two years I spent in that ghastly slum school were just a nightmare. I'm going to try to forget all about that other world now that I'm far away from it. Forget all the ugliness and hate and frustration . . . discover a new way of life far away from the maddening crowd."
Despite her resolution to disassociate herself entirely from her former life as the eighth grade Language Arts teacher in a room filled with knife-wielding youths and their prematurely promiscuous girl friends and to fall into her new role as the sophomore class English teacher here in the peaceful lakeside town of Charlevoix, Sylvia Sorensen's smooth forehead was etched by a light network of troubled lines as images of the unpleasant incidents of the past years flickered before her mind's eye. Twelve year-old kids shooting heroin in the cockroach-infested rest-rooms ... the underweight, bifocaled class valedictorian attacked by his classmates in the locker room and wounded so badly he had to be rushed to the hospital ... a shy little thirteen year-old Puerto Rican girl with over-sized breasts raped by six toughs in the parking lot after the Valentines' Day dance . . . the sadistic principal who frankly declared that he "detested every one of the little bastards, and hoped the goddamned firetrap of a school would go up in flames and kill every one of them."
With an effort the attractive blonde pushed the disturbing images from her mind and turned her full attention to the peaceful country lane dotted with turn-of-the-century frame farmhouses and well-tended red barns. Rounding a corner, she spotted the yellow awning and "European Specialties" sign of a rustic inn where she had enjoyed a delicious charcoal-broiled lake trout two weekends before, on her first Sunday here in the Northern Michigan resort town. On that day there had still been outside tables crowded with the last of the summer tourists, but now it was the first of October and the restaurant would be occupied only by local people.
Debating whether or not to stop and try the interesting-sounding Salade Villageoise which she'd noticed on the hand-stenciled menu on her previous visit, the pretty schoolteacher slowed down almost to a standstill. Then, noticing the two other cars parked in front of the place, she pressed down on the accelerator again. That dark blue Lincoln belonged to Mr. Derrick MacAuslande, president of the Charlevoix School Board and the father of one of her English students, an attractive boy named Brian who had written an unusually sensitive essay on "My Summer Vacation" for the first creative writing assignment. MacAuslande and his intimidatingly sophisticated wife, Jessica, had been as nice as nice could be and Sylvia liked them, but she really felt like being alone with her thoughts this afternoon. Anyway, she'd be seeing them tonight when she and the other faculty members were invited to their home for a cocktail party, a friendly sort of getting-acquainted-with-the-community gesture.
"Well, not really alone," she admitted as she headed down the road toward Charlevoix and the small but pleasant renovated fisherman's cottage she'd rented. The twenty-five year-old was always scrupulously honest with herself, even when the truth hurt, and now a sad light shone from her sapphire-blue eyes as she softly mouthed the name, "Todd ..."
Todd Gillespie, the tall, dark-haired man to whom she'd been unofficially engaged for three years . . . who'd joined the service and fallen in love with a German girl . . . Todd, whose charming smile and kind brown eyes she would never see again. How much more magical this pastoral countryside would have been had he been beside her in the car as they coursed along the shores of the three lakes surrounding Charlevoix . . . how he would have delighted in the sailboats bobbing on the dazzling blue water, the atmosphere of serene well-being far from the cacophony of the big city.
But Sylvia was not by nature a moody girl, and by the time she'd reached her two-room bungalow she had erased all traces of bittersweet nostalgia from her mind and was concentrating on the cocktail party which she was to attend that evening. After all, there were other men in the world besides the unfaithful Todd Gillespie, and she must force herself to take a more active interest in them. The nice science teacher, for instance -- Ray Peters -- seemed to find her attractive. Tonight she would wear her favorite rose-colored dress to the party, let her long hair hang loose over her shoulders, spray on the French perfume Todd had sent her when he first went to Europe . . . she would, in short, be flirtatious and destroy all unhealthy memories of her first love.
* * *
"Well, well, everything seems to be going just splendidly," Derrick MacAuslande's voice boomed a shade too heartily in an effort to disguise his slightly intoxicated slur from his wife. He generally made a concentrated effort to avoid Jessica at parties, for her sharp-eyed glances at his always-full Martini glass quite destroyed his pleasure in his favorite occupations, drinking and watching pretty young females; but he'd accidentally bumped into her on his way out of the kitchen with a fresh bottle of Beefeater Gin. "Real nice crowd . . . real con -- a real con -- all. . . con . . . convivial . . . and the garden looks great..."
"Take it easy on the booze, Derrick," his wife replied. Her heavily-mascaraed false eyelashes fluttered down over her feline-green eyes in a martyred gesture, and her glossy crimson lips pursed in annoyance as she plucked the olive from his drink and popped it between her even white teeth with an eloquent sigh. "But yes, I think everything's going well - those antique lanterns I picked up at the auction in Boyne City last week are really the perfect touch, I think. A Great Gatsby atmosphere . . . not that you really notice -- you're just watching the women, like always."
Removing the olive pit from between her tight-lipped mouth with another meaningful sigh and depositing it in a fifty-dollar turn-of-the-century soap dish which served as an ashtray, the disdainful wife averted her gaze from her guiltily-reddening husband. As she started back out into the gaily-lit gardens outside the modernized Victorian mansion, she flung a parting insult at him.
"Just don't get up your hopes for a bit of hanky panky with little Miss Sorensen -- I saw you looking down the front of her cheap pink bargain-basement dress. She's occupied with Ray Peters, and he hasn't drowned himself in enough Martinis to destroy his potency."
The School Board president was not the only one whose expression tightened into a grimace of anger as his elegant wife sauntered back out into the lantern-lit lawn. Young Brian MacAuslande, whose bedroom was located directly above the kitchen and who was crouched on his narrow balcony observing the amusing spectacle of watching his teachers drink themselves into a state of raucous inebriation, felt his mother's icy voice cut through him like a keen-bladed saw. It wasn't her tone of arrogant disgust which made him flinch and creep back inside his dark bedroom - after fifteen years of her frigid attitude of dislike for all other members of the human race, he was resigned to it -- but her words about Miss Sorensen, his lovely blonde English teacher.
"No!" he whispered, his lean adolescent figure tensing, his fists clenching into iron-hard balls and beating against his slim, jean-clad hips. "Miss Sorensen wouldn't have anything to do with a slob like Peters ... I don't believe it!"
Every day for the past three weeks since the new school year had begun, Brian MacAuslande had been looking forward to his two o'clock English class with greater and greater enthusiasm. He knew each and every dress in the curvaceous blonde woman's wardrobe, felt life worth living when she appeared in the blue-knit jersey which displayed the faint blunted points of her nipples, or the short red-plaid skirt which revealed an extra inch of her long sleek thighs.
On that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon when she'd praised his "My Summer Vacation" essay before the entire class, and her big blue eyes had lingered over him in warm appreciation, he'd thought he would die from sheer joy.
An angel like Miss Sorensen couldn't possibly have the remotest vestige of romantic interest in a bastard like Mr. Peters, the science teacher who was too mean to even let you chew gum in class, and who'd threatened to fail anyone who broke any of the expensive chemistry equipment. She was far above such mundane, petty-minded mortals . . . she had a mind made for poetry and true love and truth . . . and a body too beautiful to be sullied by the hands of an unexceptional jerk who was so out of it that he thought he was really cool because he wore side-burns and a wide tie.
Although it certainly wasn't something he spoke of with the guys on the swimming team or during the rap sessions at the lunch table or in the locker room after gym class, fifteen year-old Brian wasn't really interested in the normal round of gossip about who had made the most headway into the panties of which of the girls in the sophomore class. Sure, Cecily Dilworth had nice big tits, Bev Calvert looked real cute in those short mini-shirts which showed a glimpse of her lace panties, and his groin throbbed in automatic jealous response to the news that Rory Greensky, the swim team captain, had actually convinced Julia Wallace to undo his fly and kiss his hardened cock, but over and above the normal physical reaction he felt toward these blatantly flirtatious teenage girls, he longed for love in the more romantic sense of the word. Everyone else in the English class groaned and complained when they had to read Shakespeare and poetry by Byron or Shelley, but in his heart of hearts the young MacAuslande lad felt more of an affinity with these sentiments than he did for trying to get his hands under some giggling girl's skirt.
Perhaps his favorite secret pastime was to re-read Hemingway's THE SUN ALSO RISES and imagine that he was sequestered in a cozy mountain cabin together with a kind and gentle woman, a beautiful blonde with sea-blue eyes the color of Miss Sorensen's. In fact, the heroine of his daydream looked almost exactly like his English teacher, with a softly curvaceous figure and long sculpted legs.
Now, as he stood breathing harshly in the shadows of his dark bedroom, this dream vision intermingled in his aching brain with a revolting image of the golden-haired teacher passionately pressing her lips against Mr. Peter's thin-lipped mouth. One second he saw himself running through an alpine meadow holding her slim white hand ... the next he saw those same graceful fingers caressing Peters' rugged face with its perpetual five-o'clock shadow.
"Jeez, I don't believe it," he muttered. "Mom's just being bitchy again ..."
There was only one way to suppress the feeling of anguished doubt, however, and that was to see with his own eyes exactly what Miss Sorensen was doing. With a stealth born of much practice in escaping from his bedroom without his parents detecting it, the curious youth slipped into the deserted hallway and scampered quick as a ghost toward the servant's stairway which led down to a pantry behind the kitchen. Brian loved his parents' big old Victorian house with its wealth of secret passages and unused rooms, and he knew a lot of secrets about the century-old dwelling that they had never suspected.
Leading from the pantry with its walls filled with dusty jars of preserves and his father's large wine collection was a sort of trap door leading out into the backyard. The fifteen year-old raised the creaking wooden door cautiously, saw that the guests were mostly congregated at the other end of the lawn where the lantern-lit swimming pool and pagoda lay, and stepped out into the cool night air.
It was a perfect early autumn evening, with a rich fragrance of ripening fruit drifting from the heavily laden apple and pear trees at the end of the large yard, and a sprinkling of fireflies skimming over the aster and marigold beds like a canopy of falling stars. Yet the youngster was not in the least calmed by the tranquil beauty which surrounded him; on the contrary, his heart pounded like a jackhammer against his thin cotton tee-shirt as he tiptoed through the dew-dampened tall grass beneath the orchard.
On many other occasions, Brian had spied on the guests of his parents' frequent parties, and he knew where anyone involved in a romantic tryst was most likely to be found. A meandering footpath led into the heavily-wooded back corner of the yard from the swimming pool area, artfully positioned so that it was a simple matter for an amorous couple to slip away from the crowd without attracting undue attention. Normally he was fascinated by the surprising, shocking and most educational things which took place in the hammock at the end of the path, but tonight he was praying with all his might that he would not see anyone.
"Oooohhhh, we mustn't..."
The soft, horrifyingly familiar whisper stopped Brian MacAuslande dead in his tracks. Scarcely daring to breathe, he crouched down to his knees behind a honeysuckle bush and peered through the branches, his worst suspicions confirmed. Yes, there in the hammock was his beloved Miss Sylvia Sorensen . . . and just as he'd imagined, she was kissing the science teacher full on the lips.
I can't stand to watch! his tormented mind whirled. I wish I were dead!
Although he told himself he didn't want to see what was happening on the gently swaying hammock two yards away from him, some strange paralysis froze his body to the spot and his wide brown eyes remained glued to the whispering couple. It was so still in the back corner of the garden that he could hear every low murmur, could even hear the faint wet sounds of their long kiss. Inside his jeans he felt a growing discomfort as his potent young penis jumped to attention and began straining against the restraining denim of his crotch, and without quite realizing what he was doing, he reached one hand down to stroke the aching protuberance.
"Why not, Sylvia?" whispered Ray Peters in an entirely different voice than the one he used in front of his high school science students. "There's nothing wrong with expressing affection in a kiss . . . and your lips feel so warm and soft. . . so very good ..."
"Mmmmuuuuuuuhhhh ..."
"And your body is so sweet -you're my ideal woman, honest."
Brian held back a gasp with difficulty as he saw the man's large, broad-fingered hand stealing over the delectable mounds inside the bodice of his English teacher's rose-colored dress. How dare he take advantage of her like that! If only he were a man instead of a teenager - he'd show that slob a thing or two!
Even as these angry thoughts of vengeance circulated through the distraught adolescent's seething brain, he was suffused with a deep sense of despair. Whether he liked it or not, he was only a kid, and although he was already as tall as his father and had a well-muscled back and strong legs from his swim team practice, his immature frame was no match for the heavy-set brawn of ex-wrestler Peters. In any event, the consequences of indulging in his rash impulse to beat the man up were too hideous to contemplate. The thought of being kicked out of school didn't perturb him in itself, but being shipped off to some reform school or military academy did. And his father would doubtless disinherit him . . .
"Nooo . . . no, please, Ray . . . pl--please . . . you mustn't touch me there," Miss Sorensen's voice wavered uncertainly as she feebly attempted to pull herself to an upright sitting position in the hammock. "Th-that's not right . . . what if someone saw us . . . really, Ray, please ..."
"Aww, take it easy, baby," replied the muffled voice of the Charlevoix High science teacher. "Don't be so uptight. C'mon, have a sip of my Scotch and relax."
Brian was well aware from surreptitious samplings of his father's well-stocked liquor cabinet just what effect Scotch had on one's system. Last summer he and his best pal, Dwayne, had consumed a half bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label the night before Dwayne's family had moved to Los Angeles. They'd gotten so crazy that they'd been on their way to the school with bee-bee guns to shoot holes in the windows. Luckily, they'd passed out in a vacant lot on the way.
How much has Miss Sorensen drunk? he wondered, willing her not to accept the proffered whiskey glass. When her full, pink lips, glistening in the half-light, touched the glass with a shaky smile, the boy's heart leapt in fear and then began thudding against his ribs so fiercely that it was difficult for him to breathe.
"After all, Sylvia," Peters' husky voice broke through the eavesdropping youth's troubled thoughts. "We're both mature, intelligent adults. Hell, you're not a blushing virgin - you're a beautiful, hot-blooded woman from the big city, and you ought to know the score. If we dig one another -- and I sure think you're one of the most interesting chicks I've met in a damn long time -- then we don't need to play little games like a couple of our students, do we?"
"I - I don't mean to be playing games, Ray," the twenty-five year-old blonde's voice was still uncertain, but she no longer resisted as the burly man cupped her firm-fleshed breasts in each of his hands and tweaked their sensitive nipple buds into tingling miniature erections. "I -- I like you, too. But. . . well, we are at a party given by the president of the school board, remember? And anyhow, maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I really believe that the place for sex is home in bed - and that sex really only belongs in a serious relationship. Do -- do you understand?"
"Sure I understand -- I've heard all that bullshit before. But I don't think you really believe it any more than I do, Sylvia. You're smart enough to realize that we're living in a modern age where it's just plain crazy to deny the needs of our bodies."
"But . . . but there's more to life than just the physical," Sylvia Sorensen's melodic voice rose into an abnormal shrilling tone which her jealous student interpreted as being outraged decency, but which was in fact a result of the unexpectedly strong sensations of desire the man's teasing hands had called up from her love-starved body. It had been several months since the good-bye letter had arrived from her GI boyfriend, during which time she'd been too depressed to want to date new men, and nine long months in all since the last time she'd been with Todd and enjoyed the pleasures of love-making. All the time he was away in Germany she had remained faithful to him, not finding the loneliness hard to bear as she dreamed of a magnificent white wedding and planned how she would decorate their first home with a cozy nook that could be easily transformed into a baby's bedroom.
In the three weeks since her arrival in northern Michigan, however, she had been making an increasingly successful effort to forget her unhappiness about Todd and throw herself back into life. Perhaps it was the healthy lake air, or the rich fertility of the autumn landscape, but she felt long-suppressed longings welling up inside her again. Oh God! She needed to be loved. Needed a man -- a virile man who could satisfy her gnawing need. Now, under the romantic canopy of glowing stars and with inhibition-deadening alcohol flowing through her bloodstream, she was tempted to ignore the dictates of her conscience and let herself believe her seductive co-worker's arguments.
"You know you want it as bad as I do," Ray hissed against her ear, simultaneously pressing his muscular leg up between her bare thighs in a meaningful manner which sent shivers of illicit anticipation rippling out to every nerve-ending in her slender figure. "Your breasts are all hard and swollen ... all ready for love ..."
"Noooo . . . noooooo ..."
Brian's heart was thudding so violently that he grew afraid he'd be overheard, but by now he was too overwrought to care. He was gratified to hear his idolized instructor's moans of protest -- of course he'd known she wouldn't really want a stuck-up bastard like Peters mauling her breasts -- but Jesus! Why didn't she do something to stop him instead of just making whimpering noises? Although Brian was an intelligent boy, his over-emotional reaction to the salacious spectacle prevented him from making the obvious comparison between the lush young woman's arousal and his own unwanted erection. All he felt was a deep sense of tragedy as Miss Sorensen betrayed his fondest dream with every quavering breath she drew.
She's nothing but a bitch -- no different than Mom, or all the dumb girls who want to play Spin the Bottle at parties, he told himself, closing his eyes for a brief second as a rush of nausea flooded over him. It was dumb of me to think anything different. Let her neck with a slob like Peters - I don't care!
The jealous fifteen year-old forced open his eyelids, vowing to leave the scene at once and to never so much as look at Miss Sorensen in class again. He'd just stare at his desk, or the floor, or the frizzy split ends of Julia Wallace's bottle-blonde hair. And he certainly wouldn't take any special pains with his English homework after this, either; just turn in any old one-sheet, crossed-out piece of junk when she asked for an essay or a book report, only enough not to flunk the class and have Dad revoke Ms promise of a new car on his sixteenth birthday next spring.
When the youth's gaze met the incredible sight of Miss Sorensen's pink dress slipping down to hang limply around her graceful waist, however, all ideas of fleeing vanished from his mind. What gorgeous tits she had! They were as round as cantaloupes and standing out proudly and firmly from her slender torso even after Ray Peters had unsnapped her white lace brassiere and it fell to her feet with a low swishing sound. She was every bit as beautiful as any of the PLAYBOY models he'd sneaked looks at down at the corner drugstore. God, he wished he could see her whole naked body -- and that son of a bitching science teacher would vanish into the ground. I can't stand it, his overtaxed adolescent brain screamed, and half-unconsciously he pumped up and down on the growing bulge between his excitement-shaking legs. It's not fair! How can she act like a slut with him when I REALLY love her?
Sylvia, completely unaware of her young admirer's acute distress, was panting aloud as her reservations vanished one by one, like small puffs of smoke dissolving into a cloudless blue sky. Until tonight, she'd never done anything more than kiss any man aside from Todd Gillespie, and even with her fiance, she'd never been half-naked in a place where anyone at all might see them. Yet the very lewdity of the situation was feeding the fires of her long-denied lust for physical satisfaction, and to her embarrassment she realized that the crotch-band of her filmy lace panties was drenched with the heated juices of her forbidden desire.
"Nooooo . . . ooohhh, noooooo ..." she whined again, but her protest sounded more like a lascivious entreaty even in her own ringing ears. "Please ..."
"So soft ... so lovely ..."
Her handsome colleague's guttural whispered compliments made the sensuous schoolteacher feel dizzy with passion. Suddenly nothing mattered save the delicious tingling in her nakedly freed breasts as his greedy fingers kneaded the tender white flesh and pinched the nerve-filled nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and she cuddled against his hard-muscled frame with a submissive moan. Beneath them the hammock swayed gently, making their embrace all the more erotic, causing their yearning thighs to press together in tacit admission of desire.
In the faint light of the half-full moon shimmering through the trees, Brian .MacAuslande could clearly distinguish the look of rabid triumph on his rival's square face. The bachelor's thick-browed eyes gleamed with an animal hunger as he surveyed the half-naked body of the trembling blonde in his arms, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat as he once again lashed his tongue deep into her unresisting mouth. Every cell in the adolescent's lean body throbbed with hatred for the self-satisfied adult who was taking advantage of his dream-woman, but even when his tension grew so severe that he felt he was about to explode into a thousand smithereens, there was still no outlet for his impotent rage.
"Oh, baby, what a pair of gorgeous tits you've got," mumbled Ray into the warm confines of Sylvia Sorensen's yielding mouth. "You're really my kind of chick, sweetheart, and I'm gonna make you feel good."
The naked-to-the-waist blonde shuddered as her fellow teacher's heated lips wrenched away from her mouth and fastened onto the sensitively tingling tips of her over-stimulated breasts. Strange ripples of masochistic pleasure-pain rippled along her veins and goose bumps broke out on her ivory-white skin as his sharp teeth nipped gently at the tautened buds and his moist tongue lapped at the mounds of her breasts as though he were savoring his favorite flavor of ice cream cone.
God, it feels wonderful, her befuddled brain cried. Why did I deny for so long that I need love? No -- I'll be honest -- it's sex, not love. But I don't care if it's sinful! He's making me feel alive for the first time in months!
Much to young Brian's self-disgust, scalding tears pricked at the corners of his eyelids as he heard the unmistakable growing passion in the beautiful blonde woman's sensuous sighs. There was no denying now that she was loving everything the other man was doing to her ... no use pretending that she was being forced against her will. As the teenager saw the man's hairy-knuckled hand creep slowly but surely along the gently rounded curve of her fabric-protected belly, then up her bare thigh beneath the hem of her pink dress, Brian felt something snap in his brain and he abruptly rose to his feet, clutching an overhanging honeysuckle branch for support as his knees almost failed to support him.
Neither one of the lewdly entwined schoolteachers grappling on the swaying hammock paid the least attention to the rustling sound in the underbrush a few yards away from them. Ray was praising himself silently for his impeccable seduction techniques as his eager hand inched ever closer to the panty-protected "vee" of the beautiful blonde's most intimate flesh, and Sylvia was engaged in a soul-wrenching mental struggle between the dictates of her Methodist-trained conscience and the needs of her healthy young body and alcohol-confused emotions. It was not until Peters had deftly pulled her panties down around her knees and she felt the cold night air on her feverishly throbbing vagina, that she came to her senses.
"No!" she said emphatically. "No!"
It was his fault, Ray realized later, for moving too quickly. If he'd taken more time with caressing each and every sensitive but relatively unsuggestive part of the English teacher's sensuous figure -concentrating on her breasts, flat white belly, firm inner thighs, petal like ears, swanlike neck - before searching out the tantalizing cuntal treasures of which he'd fantasized ever since the first time he'd spied her at the faculty meeting, then he probably would have succeeded in slacking the fires of his raging lust. As it happened, however, her lithe body grew tense as a metal statue the instant his obscenely probing middle finger slid underneath the tight elastic leg band of her lace bikini panties to make contact with the moist warmth of her velvet-soft vaginal lips.
"No, no," she'd hissed in a vehement tone far different from her earlier token protests. "Stop that! That's - that's going too far."
"Hey, baby, what the hell?" he'd tried to protest as soon as he could catch his breath.
Before the words had left his lips, she was clambering off the hammock, tugging her rumpled dress up over the straining mounds of her taut-nippled dress, yanking up the zipper with an angry gesture that spelled an end to any more fun and games in the moonlight. It was obvious from the rise and fall of her now modestly covered bodice that she was still as alive with desire as he, but the set of her lipstick-smeared lips and coldly determined glint in her big blue eyes told him that anything he might say would only make things worse.
"I'm -- I'm going back to the party," she said breathlessly. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see the pink spots of shame glowing on her high cheekbones. "People must be w-wondering what's happened to us."
Okay, okay, baby -- have it your way. But just wait till next time, the lust-fevered science instructor thought, stroking his inflamed hardness in frustration. You're a hot-blooded little bitch behind that Little Miss Morality facade, and you bet your life I'm going to prove it to you once and for all. I'll have you begging for my cock like a bitch in heat.
Aloud he only remarked, "Okay, sweetheart. No hard feelings? Okay?"
"N-no hard feelings," the blonde acquiesced, a little ashamed of her lewd reaction and very definitely shaken by the strange physical sensations which continued to swirl through her aroused figure.
Without waiting for him, she started off down the path toward the lights surrounding the swimming pool. To her shock, she stumbled over two pairs of nakedly entwined ankles halfway along the flagstone walk; before thinking better, she'd whirled her head toward the couple writhing in the dew-glistening grass and recognized the pudgy face of the school board president and the excitement flushed features of Miss Clara Pringle, the thirty-ish speech teacher whose husband was a traveling salesman. Luckily, both of the adulterous love makers had their eyes squinched tightly shut. Stilling a gasp, Sylvia sped on down the trail.
The crowd of people around the kidney-shaped swimming pool had thinned out considerably, making the blonde English teacher wonder guiltily just how long she had been absent, and those who remained were laughing and telling slur-voiced jokes in a way that told her that they were all more intoxicated than she was. A queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach and a dizzy sensation at the back of her temples told her that it would be a mistake to drink more if she hoped to drive her Volkswagen home safely, and in any case she felt too distraught to make conversation with anyone. Best just to slip away quietly . . .
No one seemed to notice her slim figure as she hurried around the pool beyond the pools of light cast from the antique lanterns and made her way into the open vestibule of the MacAuslande home to retrieve her lightweight coat and handbag. Muted lights glowed in the downstairs parlor where two people were seated around the ornate fireplace sipping wine and listening to classical music. Mr. McReady and Miss Ingalls - the two music teachers. Oh, God - not again! The music teacher's hand was up under her skirt, and her plain, moon-shaped face was twisted into a grimace of ecstasy which obviously had another cause than the unexcelled acoustics of her hosts' recording equipment.
And where's Mrs. McReady? Sylvia wondered wryly as she tiptoed past on her way toward the spiral staircase. Out in the garden making it with someone else's husband? As for Miss Ingall's fiance fighting poverty in the Peace Corps, I'll bet he's not fighting too hard to be faithful.
People, it seemed, were basically the same no matter where they lived. This faculty party taking place on a Saturday night in northern Michigan lake country could easily have been mistaken for a suburban swap club, a Chicago swinging singles get-together, a fraternity pledge bash, or a hippie orgy; only the details of the setting needed to be changed.
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players ... " the young English teacher quoted Shakespeare as she mounted the darkened stairs. Then, as she suddenly was aware again of the unwanted churning heat in her aroused breasts and belly and the thought of the many times in the past when her traitorous body had reacted against her conscious will, she sighed and paraphrased the bard.
"... all men and women are merely animals ..." she whispered under her breath. "Me, too, like it or not. I half wish I'd let Ray Peters go all the way, even though I don't like him especially. Beasts without a conscience - that's all humans really are. And you can fight it all you want to but you won't ever change it."
Sylvia was so preoccupied by her philosophical reflections that she pushed open the first door on the upper corridor without pausing to consider if it was the same room in which her hostess had placed the wraps. In a split second she realized her blunder, for though the room was dimly lit, its clutter of male sports equipment and football pennants, scattered sneakers and under-shorts, immediately struck her eye. She started to back out the door at once, then caught sight of the shadowy, slouch-shouldered figure leaning on the window-sill on the opposite side of the room.
Brian MacAuslande, the attractive, well-behaved youth in her two o'clock sophomore advanced class - she'd completely forgotten that he lived in this house. But what on earth was the matter with the poor boy? He was staring at her in horror, as though she were a two-headed ghost wielding a blood-dripping knife!
"Brian," she stepped forward. "What's the trouble? Are you all right?"
CHAPTER TWO
Fifteen year-old Brian MacAuslande thought he would faint for the first time in his life when his English teacher pushed open the door of his bedroom. For the long second before she spoke, he truly thought he was hallucinating, but the familiar sound of her melodic soprano voice told him that she was quite real as she'd been only a minute or so before in the garden hammock.
The teenager always locked his door; it was a matter of principle, a defiant declaration of independence from his hypocritically authoritarian father and critically prying mother. He'd gone so far as to purchase a heavy double lock with his allowance money -- at fifty dollars a month he could afford one which would have daunted a professional burglar - and tonight was the first time he could remember having forgotten to barricade himself securely inside the four walls filled with adolescent treasures. His room was his shrine, and until now no one had been allowed to enter without an express invitation. Miss Sorensen was the first!
Unable to reply to her question, he stood in tongue-tied embarrassment beside his window, nervously twisting the drawn curtains in one sweat-dampened hand and shielding the forbidden cigarette he'd just lit behind his thigh with the other. Thank God he'd only lit the incense-burning Thailand lamp instead of switching on the overhead light - hopefully she couldn't see that his face had turned bright red in a childish reaction of acute embarrassment.
But why was she here? Could it be possible that she felt for him some of the same overwhelming emotions he felt for her? No, it was unthinkable, especially now that he'd observed the way she'd been carrying on with Peters in the back garden. She was just spying on him, tormenting him the way all adults seemed to delight in doing. Any other explanation was nothing but a cruel delusion . . .
"Wh-what do you want?" he managed to splutter out in a belligerent tone as she took another step toward him.
If she bitches about my cigarette, I'm going to tell her just what I think of her morals, he vowed, and took a defiant puff on his Marlboro. And I don't give a shit if I get in trouble or not. Much to his annoyance he coughed, ruining the effectiveness of his gesture.
Sylvia took another hesitant step forward, her mind whirling in confusion. She was suddenly aware of a strange odor in the boy's bedroom, and as she spied the guiltily-held cigarette in his hand her first thought was that the boy was smoking marijuana. In the Chicago slum school she'd taught at, this was an all too common phenomena; so far she'd seen no evidence of drugs in northern Michigan, and Brian was the last student she'd expect to indulge in such illegal behavior . . . but that would explain why his eyes had such a strange look, why he was acting so paranoid.
"Ex-excuse me," she murmured, coming to a standstill when she was close enough to see the teenager's eyes. They didn't have that glazed expression she'd noted in the eyes of "stoned" kids, but that wasn't necessarily proof of anything. Perhaps they smoked something different in this part of the country, something that brought on different physical reactions.
"I didn't mean to barge in, Brian," she continued. "I - I was looking for the guest bedroom where your mother put the coats. Perhaps you can tell me where it is? But first ... are you all right?"
"Cross the hall," the boy muttered, staring down at the floor to avoid her questioning gaze. Of course he'd known she couldn't possibly be interested in seeing him - naturally it was merely a mistake. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"You - you aren't smoking marijuana?" Sylvia blurted out. She hated accusing him like that, but it was her duty as a teacher to say something. Perhaps by keeping quiet she would be sending another innocent youth along the dread path toward drug addiction.
"Huh?"
"That funny smell ..." the teacher said softly. "Please, Brian dear, tell me the truth. I won't say anything to your parents if you promise me never, never to do it again. It can destroy your entire life before it even begins -- believe me, I've seen it happen in Chicago ..."
"That isn't grass - that's just incense." The fifteen year-old's voice quivered with a fury born of deep frustration. It just wasn't fair that he loved and desired her with all his heart and soul, while she treated him like a naughty little kid. "How come grown-ups always gotta think the worst all the time? I thought this country was supposed to be a democracy where everyone's innocent until proven guilty."
The sensitive schoolteacher recognized at once that her pupil was telling the truth, and she regretted having said anything. Her own immediate emotional turmoil was forgotten as she recalled the not-so-remote torments of her own adolescence, the pent-up rage she'd felt against interfering adults, the way the most unintentional slur against one's developing ego cut like a keen-bladed sword.
"I apologize, Brian," she said, moving closer to him to plant an impulsive arm on his slumped shoulder. "I was wrong to accuse you, but -- well, I was only trying to help you. And you seem so upset about something that I - I thought ..."
Sylvia Sorensen's soft voice faded away into a querulous sort of gasp as her innocently intended contact with her handsome young student sent an unexpected spasm of electrical intensity blazing through her blood. It was a feeling akin to that she'd been feeling ever since running away from Ray Peter's insistent caresses, but far more disturbingly strong.
What in God's name is wrong with me? she asked herself as she quickly removed her tingling hand from his lean-muscled shoulder. Here I am transferring my sinful animal urges to a naive child. That's really too much!
The youngster, perhaps even more shaken by the brief contact than his teacher, tried to control the involuntary shudder that wracked his body by holding himself as rigid as a young tree trunk. Crushing out his cigarette on the wall-to-wall carpet, he glared bale-fully at the woman he adored.
"You don't understand," he accused. An unwanted quaver made his voice break in a way it hadn't done since junior high, and this display of weakness so angered him that his voice rose in impotent rage. "You don't understand nothing."
"Anything," she automatically corrected his grammar.
Brian didn't appear to have heard her. His wide, chestnut-brown eyes -- the exact same shade as those of Todd, her first and only true love -- shot scorching sparks of wounded animal anger in her direction, and then he once again dropped his gaze to the very expensive but very filthy rug of his bedroom.
"You don't even want to understand," he said in a low, intense voice. "It's all your fault, but you don't give a damn. You go around making out with some slob, and then come in here asking what's the matter and saying I'm smoking grass. Why don't you go back outside and screw Peters! See if I care!"
Oh, no. the anguished schoolteacher despaired. He saw what was going on there in the hammock. How in God's name can I explain to him . . . ?
Oddly enough, over and above her chagrin, the sensuous blonde was vaguely aware of a strange prickle of excitement at the audacious idea that this youngster had seen her lewd performance and had been so affected by it. Her eyes dropped instinctively to his slender hips -- sure enough, there was a telltale bulge protruding from his groin. The darling boy was so a-roused that he even had an erection. I must have drunk more than I thought, she told herself, blinking dizzily. How can I even be thinking such a thing? Brian MacAuslande -- not one of those awful slum brats -- he's a nice, well-brought-up . . .
Well-brought up or not, a second voice challenged from the back of her brain, he was spying on you and he was aroused, is aroused right now! It hasn't anything much to do with background, anyway -- I saw his father doing the same thing a factory worker might do with some girl he picked up at the corner bar. The only difference is that Brian's a sensitive boy who takes it all so seriously.
Neither voice inside the well-meaning teacher's head having warned her that her good-looking pupil had a violent crush on her, she once again reached out her hand to squeeze his arm. She intended to demonstrate that she was not his enemy, that she understood the problems of being a teenager and wanted to be his friend. Again, as she felt his warm, boyishly hard muscles quivering beneath her fingers, there was that shameful surge of physical hunger in her loins, but she refused to acknowledge it.
"Brian, dear," she began again, not realizing the effect her use of the endearing term had on him, "I'm not so old that I don't understand how you're feeling about . . . about what you saw. I know you must be shocked, and - and confused inside. I'd like you to feel that you can talk to me about it."
"I'm not shocked," the young MacAuslande boy lied, but his hurt cocker spaniel eyes gave him away.
"You must know that men and women have certain, uh, desires',' Sylvia faltered, very embarrassed but at the same time determined to help her young charge along the road to maturity. "That's part of the reason people get married. But sometimes - well, especially after a few drinks, it's easy for these feelings to get out of control. I don't know just what you happened to see," she paused, blushing in confusion as she remembered that she'd been half-naked and panting with lust beneath the stars, "... but, but - well, in a few years you'll understand."
"I understand perfectly well now," Brian declared. "And I'm sick and tired of hearing that line about 'when I'm older'."
His heart was thudding against his ribs again in tempo with the painful pulsations of his frustrated manhood against his Levi's crotch, and although he knew he was saying more than he ought, somehow he couldn't hold back any longer. Miss Sorensen looked so lovely standing there in the shimmering, multi-colored light cast from his Oriental lamp, with her golden hair hanging in disarray around her shoulders instead of being tied back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck like in the classroom, and with her marvelous breasts straining against the smooth front of her tighter-than-usual party dress. Every fiber of his young body yearned to kiss those succulent mounds the way the older science teacher had done ... to place his hands on the gentle curve of her belly ... to mash his lips against hers in that mysterious action called a "French kiss" of which he'd heard but never actually experienced.
"You're the one who doesn't understand ..." he blurted out in a voice that was close to tears.
"Understand what, Brian?" Sylvia asked softly.
In the farthest reaches of her soul, she was growing aware of what was troubling the teenager. Something warned her to remove her hand from his spasmodically shaking shoulder, but she found herself unable to do so. Alien emotions were building inside her, mingling and gradually overwhelming the disagreeable sense of frustrated desire which her coworker had aroused in her long-denied loins.
This little boy cares about me, she thought, feeling more dizzy than ever. He really wants me . . . not just to prove his own ego trip, but because he feels a genuine emotion ... a feeling ... of love for me.
"Understand what?" she asked again, her voice husky with out-of-control feeling. "What are you trying to say?" And then, unable to stop herself, the voluptuous blonde teacher was bending over toward him, her mouth only inches from his. "Tell me, darling . . . tell me what you want."
From outside the bedroom window came a loud burst of intoxicated laughter and a faint splutter of light as one of the guests set off a burst of unlawful, out-of-state-purchased fireworks. Neither the flaxen-haired older woman nor her hotly aroused pupil noticed, for by some sudden surge of mutual lust they had fallen into one another's arms. Their hands encircled each others bodies, and their wetly parted mouths met in a passionate kiss.
"Ohhh . . . ohhhh. Miss S-Sorensen," the boy stammered as she finally pulled away from him and stood staring into his glowing brown eyes with an odd, dazed expression. "Ohhh, you do understand!"
Sylvia didn't know what had come over her; all she was clearly aware of was a violently erupting heat in the pit of her belly coupled with an ever-accelerating need to clasp this sincerely excited youngster close to her. It's wrong perverted, she thought in alarm as she stood a scant foot away from him, clasping her arms to her heaving breasts and staring into his big, brown eyes. But no amount of rationalization could contend with her rapidly building sensation of tenderness, and when the boy reached toward her, she responded with another forbidden, but totally satisfying, kiss.
The fifteen year-old was rocketed into a mindless universe of joy by his idolized female's unanticipated response. Miss Sorensen was melting her lips against his just like in his most unrealizable fantasies, shoving her tiny pink tongue against the sensitive walls of his mouth teasing at his teeth, driving him into a frenzy of passion. He must be dreaming . . . but her fragrant breath was warm against his face, and the resilient softness of her breasts pressing against his recently-broadened chest was too real to deny.
"Oil, wow," he sighed into the soft cavern of her yielding mouth. "Too much ..."
The schoolteacher attempted to gain control over her peculiar emotions, to slip back into the role of authority, of mature adult sensibility.
"We - we mustn't," she muttered, jerking away, shivering, breathing with difficulty. "This is very, very wrong, Brian. I -- I'm a little drunk, maybe . . . not thinking sensibly. Please - just forget this ever happened."
As she spoke, Sylvia firmly untwined her arms from around the boy and tried to disentangle herself clenching from his embrace. She must be absolutely mad to have allowed herself to fall into such a dangerous situation; why, she wasn't fit to be in a position of responsibility with impressionable young adults. Yet even as she struggled to evade the boy's vise-like hold, her unfaithful loins churned with feverish flickers of liquid lightning, and her raspberry-pink tongue unconsciously traced over her tingling lips to savor every last droplet of his delicious boyish saliva.
"Really, Brian, stop it," she tried again when the eager youth refused to relinquish his ardent stranglehold around her slender back, or to remove his face from where it crushed against the sensitive flesh of her swanlike neck. "Let go of me, please."
Truly terrified of the consequences of her imprudent action now, the small-boned blonde exerted every ounce of her strength and wrenched away from the boy. For a second they stood staring into each other's eyes, shaking in mutual shock at the intensity of the emotions the forbidden contact had aroused, and then Brian let his eyes fall and muttered something in a husky, hurt-filled voice.
"What, Brian? What did you say?"
"I s'pose I'm not man enough for you, huh?" he mumbled, and she could tell that he was making a valiant effort to fight back tears. "That big bulky Peters - he's the kind you like. You said men and women need each other -- but I'm not old enough for you, is that it?"
A violent wave of pity cascaded over the older woman, leaving her as close to tears as the boy beside her. For a moment she was tempted to draw him back into her arms, but she caught herself in the nick of time. That would only make matters much worse. But how to repair his wounded ego? If only there were some way to tell him that his eager kisses, amateurish though they might be, excited her far more than the older man's more impersonal mouth-bruising assault . . .
"You mustn't feel that way, Brian darling," she said softly, holding out her hand toward him. "Look at me, honey. Really and truly, that hasn't got anything to do with it. I - I think you kiss very nicely. But -- but it's wrong! What in God's name would your parents say? I'd lose my job if they knew I was up here in your bedroom, you know."
"But they don't know, and they're too busy with their dumb party to give a darn," the boy retorted. "And why is it wrong. Miss Sorensen? Why? What makes my feelings different from Mr. Peters', huh?"
What, indeed? Sylvia asked herself. In fact, maybe his feelings are more real.
A dizzy cloud of confusion was spinning through her brain, weakening her resolve, deadening the warning voices of her conscience. A great yearning to feel those warm boyish loins of his close to her again jolted through her, sending her a step closer before she could get control on her emotions. How wonderful it would be to teach this innocent youngster about love . . .
"Teach me now to be a man. Miss Sorensen," Brian seemed to read her secret thoughts. "Please, let me try to make you happy. Show me how to make love with a woman . . . please, please!"
Sylvia's knees suddenly felt so weak that she had to sink down on the closest object of furniture, which happened to be Brian's bunk -style bed. She closed her eyes for an instant, trying to decide the most tactful way to escape from this temptation-wrought situation without hurting the boy's sensitive adolescent feelings, but before she'd begun to collect her thoughts she felt the mattress beside her shake and Brian's strong swimmer's arms were once again encircling her trim waist.
"Nooooooo," the fair-haired teacher gasped, but somehow she could not bring herself to tug away this second time.
"Honest, Miss Sorensen, I've never felt so happy in my life," the boy breathed against the soft, ultra -sensitive curve of her neck. "Can't I just touch your breasts, like that bastard Peters did? Then I'd be the happiest guy in Michigan. Please -- you let him, so why not me?"
At the boy's eager words, his schoolteacher felt a resurgence of wanton tinglings in her still-swollen breasts. A wave of white-hot warmth spread out from her nerve-filled nipple buds to every cell in her curvaceous figure, melting her body into soft putty beneath his caressing fingers, and she felt her will to resist growing weaker than ever.
"I'd - I'd like to let you touch my breasts, Brian," she said seriously, sincerely. "But it's something that could get us both in very bad trouble. I feel as if you're old enough to be acting like a man, but the rest of the world wouldn't look at it that way. I mean -- "
The teenager leapt from the bed, a grin of joyful triumph on his smooth features, and reached the door in two bounds of his long legs.
"Don't worry about anybody else," he reassured her as he fastened the gleaming iron double lock. "No one can come in -- no one's got a key. And they won't suspect any thing's going on, 'cause I always keep it locked. Anyhow, they're all too drunk by now to care about me."
The teenager's blase acceptance of his parents' alcohol abuse and general immorality rather shocked the older blonde, for in her own strict Methodist home drunkenness had been considered an unpardonable offense, and respect for adults had been beyond question. There was no time to muse over the effects of his sophisticated upbringing, however, nor was she in a mood to do so. Brian wanted to see her breasts -- that was the important thing at this moment.
"You liked looking at my breasts, Brian?" she heard herself murmur in an unfamiliar husky tone. A strange pulse was throbbing in her bloodstream, destroying all vestiges of trepidation and guilt and replacing them with a wild, seldom -before-experienced desire to break all boundaries of inhibiting moral standards. "You'd like to see them again . . . feel them . . . kiss them . . . ?"
Coming to a standstill halfway between the padlocked door and his Indian Madras covered bed, the MacAuslande boy stared at his golden-haired English teacher in shameless delight. His chestnut-brown eyes grew wider than ever as he heard the new tone of provocative invitation in her normally decorous voice, and the bulge between his jean-covered legs swelled thicker than ever.
"Would I ever!" he finally choked out.
"Come here, darling . . . come over close to me," Sylvia patted the mattress beside her. The multicolored coverlet was" still warm from his young loins, and the sensation sent her excitement soaring to a fever pitch. "Sit down beside me."
He obeyed at once, walking toward her with stiff steps due to the painfully throbbing protuberance between his legs. Deep inside the older woman's churning belly, licorice fingers of red-hot flames fanned to a roaring blaze, and erotic impulses she'd not experienced to any significant degree before now began teasing at the corners of her lust-deranged mind. The youth eased down beside her, so close that his boyish odor of the outdoors and his desire-derived perspiration caused a strong shiver of lewd anticipation to flow from the top of her flaxen head to the tips of her involuntarily curling toes in their open sandals.
What's going on inside me? she wondered, mystified by the vehemence of her sensual arousal. Even with Todd Gillespie I never felt so turned-on. It wasn't anything like this! And with one of my students' Maybe something's wrong with me for feeling this way, but it's so good that I just don't even care!
Pushing all thought of unnatural appetites away from her conscious mind, the voluptuous blonde flashed the eagerly trembling youth a sultry, sloe-eyed smile and reached up behind her neck to unfasten the zipper running down the back of her rose-colored dress. In one quick motion she'd tugged the light-weight garment down over the straining mounds of her full breasts, then placed the boy's passionately trembling hands on the filmy lace cups of her brassiere.
"You can take off my bra, Brian," she leaned toward him to whisper, tickling his ear with her small pink tongue as she spoke the lewd words of invitation. "Take it off and play with my breasts."
Brian needed no additional urging. With fingers that shook violently with excitement, he unfastened the hooks of a woman's brassiere for the first time in his fifteen years and let the gossamery garment drop to the side of his bed. It draped over the toe of a scuffed pair of tennis shoes, an incongruous touch which symbolically summed up the entire forbidden affair, but neither student nor teacher were thinking of symbolism as his fingers groped for the ivory-white half-moons of her passion-throbbing breasts.
Now that they were revealed just for his benefit and he was being allowed to caress their satin-smooth skin. Miss Sorensen's breasts seemed even more magnificent to the boy than they had while he was spying on her in the garden. Large as they were, they nevertheless stood out from her slender torso as proudly and firmly as though she'd been fifteen herself, instead of twenty-five, and their tiny strawberry-pink tips were surrounded by pale brown areolas which he'd not noticed in the darkness outside. Shuddering in incredulous delight, he plucked up the courage to press the softly resilient flesh and was rewarded by a low sigh of pleasure from his half-naked teacher.
"That's it, darling," Sylvia purred, the sensual tone of her own voice exciting her more than ever. "Squeeze them -- it feels so good when you do that. And you can kiss them, too . . . that feels even nicer ..."
In all previous sexual encounters with men her own age, the basically modest blonde had never taken the initiative in any way. She'd allowed her body to be used, or had broken away at the last minute - certainly she'd never dreamed of whispering encouragements, of attempting to incite them to greater heights of passion. Now, to her astonishment, she was unable to stop herself from sinking deeper into a swirling sea of uninhibited sensuality.
"Uuuummmmm," she moaned as the boy's even white teeth began nibbling on the sensitive buds of her nipples. "Gggoooooooddddddd. Now - now pull down my dress all the way, Brian. Then you can see the rest of my body . . . you can see what a woman feels like all over."
It couldn't be happening -- it was too stupendous to be believed! Even as his quivering hands gingerly tugged his English teacher's thin pink dress down over the luxuriant curve of her womanly hips, he was half convinced that this was all an unusually vivid erotic dream. How could she really want him, an insignificant sophomore. Hell, he wasn't even one of the real popular guys at school -- he was just an ordinary kid.
Then, as Miss Sorensen's translucent white bikini panties came into view, all logical thought evaporated from the boy's desire-demented brain. Panting in ardent anticipation, he stared at the sparsely curling tendrils of golden-brown pussy hair which had escaped beyond the tight elastic leg band of the flimsy garment, then reached out a tentative finger to touch one silken thread.
Spun gold, his befuddled mind whirled. The most precious gold in the world . . .
Later, when he awoke in the early hours of dawn to find gray rain splashing against the windows of his silent bedroom and a tormentingly tantalizing trace of flowery feminine perfume lingering on his pillow, this phrase would drift into young Brian's sleepy brain and he would write a long poem called "The Spun Gold Maiden". At this moment, however, they drifted from his mind as he ran one hand over the soft plane of the older woman's desire-tautened milk-white belly, letting his other hand edge toward the tight elastic of her panty waistband.
"Go on, darling," breathed the lust-inflamed schoolteacher. "Take my panties off, too. I want you to see all of me ... "
"Oh, Miss Sorensen," the boy exalted. "If you knew how many times I sat in class dreaming I could see you like this. But you're even more beautiful than I thought you would be ... "
Somehow the conception of the youngster sitting in his desk mentally undressing her while she diagrammed verbs on the blackboard or explained a Shakespearean pun increased the lewd thrills shooting through her nearly naked figure. How blind she had been -- so selfishly involved in her own concerns that she never gave a second thought to the dark-haired A-student whose limpid eyes followed her every smallest movement. All his deepest emotions had been centered on her, and now she would give to him selflessly, honestly, openly. And she would love every last minute of it, too . . .
Brian's inexperienced fingers were charged with sensitivity as he slowly eased the white lace nylon panties down over his teacher's satin-skinned hips and the full-moon mounds of her ripely swelling buttocks. Gradually, he was forgetting that she was in reality his schoolteacher, that she was a good ten years older than he, that their love-making was explicitly forbidden. She was transformed before his eyes to a goddess of love, a perfectly sculptured embodiment of everything he had ever dreamed about love and sensuality.
"Wow . . . you're so lovely ..." he rasped out as he delicately stroked the sparse golden "vee" of her pubic .triangle, then ran a careful finger along the warm smoothness of her inner thigh.
Impulsively, he bent down to kiss the curling tendrils, longing to delve deeper into the hidden splendors of her vagina, but not yet quite daring to act that brazen. Instead, he ran his hands down the full length of her long, gracefully curved legs until he reached her sandal-clad feet. He slipped them off, marveling at the loveliness of her feet, the translucent white flesh with its vague tracery of blue veins, the slightly curling white toes with pink polish glistening on their tiny nails. He kissed her foot, then slowly kissed his way up the inside of her leg again.
"Ooohhh, darling ..." moaned the twenty-five year-old blonde. "What a good little lover you are. No one ever did that to me before -- but it feels heavenly."
Encouraged by the older woman's heartfelt praise of his bedroom technique, Brian ran his hands back up to the tantalizing crevice between her lewdly parted legs. Once again he caressed her spun gold pubic curls and resilient inner thighs in an attempt to work up his courage.
"Miss Sorensen?" he blurted out at last. "Can I -- can I touch your pussy? Please?"
Sylvia hesitated only a second; the decision to allow this final profanity had already been reached in the deepest fathoms of her soul, and the deliriously titillating pressure of his eager young hands on her sensitive inner thighs obliterated the last faint commands of her conscience. Why not? she stilled these last inner arguments. Why shouldn't I give this sweet child the most beautiful experience of his life? Isn't it better that I initiate him into the wonderful mystery of love than that he discover sex by groping around in the backseat of a car with some silly girl who hasn't even got the sense to be taking the pill?
"Yes, Brian dear," she spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear her. "Yes, I'd like you to touch my pussy." Without volition, her long lithe legs opened even wider in silent permission for the handsome teenager to do anything he wished!
A strangled sigh of anticipation burst from the youngster's lips, and his teacher saw that his smooth forehead was beaded with glistening droplets of perspiration. There was also a queer light of anguish in his long-lashed brown eyes which puzzled her very much.
"What is it, darling?" she asked, her voice quivering slightly as her eager vaginal muscles constricted and pulsed in lewd anticipation of his touch. "Is something the matter?"
"I . . . well, I r-really don't know where to start ..."
Sylvia repressed a giggle, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but unable to suppress her amusement at the contrast between his appealing timidity and Peters' rough-and-ready attack. Before he'd seen her lips twitching, she'd forced her expression into a sympathetic smile.
"Of course not, darling . . . but I'll show you everything, so don't worry about a thing. But first," she raised her right hand up toward the prominent bulge at his groin, "why don't you get naked, too. I bet you're beautiful without clothes, Brian."
Brian reddened; although he knew from observing his classmates in the gym locker room that he had a more mature physique and longer penis than the majority of boys his age, he wasn't at all certain how he measured up in comparison with an adult male. Before he had a chance to worry about this, however, Miss Sorensen was swiftly unbuckling his leather belt and easing down the zipper of his denim Levi's. Her soft fingers squeezed the painfully pulsing rod of his eager potency through the cotton fabric of his jockey shorts, and she made a sound that seemed to indicate that she was impressed. "Oooohhh, Brian ... so nice and hard ..." she murmured. Then, seeing his look of delighted relief, she added, "Just like a grown man's penis, and you're only fifteen."
The inexperienced adolescent had never imagined that anything could feel as exquisite as his voluptuous English teacher's softly massaging fingers upon his eagerly throbbing thickness. It was a thousand times more stimulating than when he succumbed to the urgent demands of his maturing body and manipulated himself to climax, and far more thrilling than the times he'd kissed and hugged teenage girls at parties or in the woods during church school picnics. Up until now, the most erotic experience of his young life had been an episode on board a sailboat belonging to a summer girl from Lake Forest, Illinois, and that experience had been abruptly terminated by an unexpected summer squall just as she was removing her bikini top.
Closing his eyes, the enraptured youngster leaned back on his bed and reveled in the loving touch of the older woman's hands as she removed his jeans, socks, and tennis shoes. All the while she made cooing sounds of appreciation, praising his strong thighs, broad shoulders, golden-brown suntan, and lean buttocks. Then, when he was completely naked except for his eighth grade graduation wristwatch and the silver chain bearing his astrological sign of Pisces, he felt the older woman's soft warm breasts pressing against his chest.
"Now, Brian," she whispered, kissing his neck, "now we're ready to make love ..."
She eased down beside him on the narrow bed, gently turning him over onto his side so that they were staring straight into one another's eyes and their bodies were sandwiched together in a heated embrace. Since they were almost exactly the same height, his long hard erection pulsated against the lower part of her silken belly when their lips met in a gasping kiss, and her straining breasts pushed against his own ultra-sensitive chest nipples. By wriggling a little he could ease his aching stiffness against the sparsely-haired triangle of her curling pubic "vee".
Although Sylvia would have rather liked to prolong the fore-play, to delight in every forbidden inch of her young lover's handsome body, to teach him all the sensitive female areas, she realized that he was far too excited to hold back his long-pent-up teenage sperm for very much longer. The most vital thing was that he enter her vagina and experience the magical union of male and female.
"Turn over, darling -- onto your back," she instructed. "That's right ..."
God, he was a magnificent specimen of young manhood. When he lay on his back, his long slender cock stood straight out from his sparsely-haired groin like the trunk of a proud young sapling tree, with his well-developed genital sacs swelling at its base in perfect proportion. He was like a statue of a Grecian athlete in repose as his aquiline nostrils clenched together in excitement.
Feeling very wicked, but delighting in the very lewdness of her actions, the lust-driven blonde teacher moved so that she was crouching above her student's naked loins. Although she'd never before made love in any position other than the standard missionary style, she'd read that a woman achieved satisfaction more easily when she was on top.
Of course the main thing's to help Brian become a man, she told herself dizzily. But I hope I can cum, too. I've never orgasmed with a man inside me -- Todd was always too quick for me -- and it'd be lovely if this was a "first" for both of us.
With this object in mind, she eased up on her knees between the boy's spread thighs, drawing his hands up to caress her ripely swaying breasts at the same time. His fingers clutched at the pliant mounds more fiercely than before as his body sped into an uncontrolled torment of passion, but the unintended sharp piercing of his jagged nails against her tender flesh only increased Sylvia's own bliss.
"Harder, darling," she groaned, overcome by a strange spasm of masochistic frenzy. "Pinch my nipples . . . nip them with your teeth . . . oh, yeessssss . . . soooo gggoooooddddd . . . aaahhhhhh . . . oh, yeeessssss!"
In the next instant, the adolescent's loud moans had drowned out his teacher's fevered feminine mewls, for her hands had darted down to grasp the hotly pulsating pole of his fully erected penis. Gently, yet firmly, she eased down the rubbery foreskin to reveal the glans slit beneath. When he looked down through the crevice between her dancing breasts, he saw that a glistening drop of pre-cum secretions clung to the end of his blood swollen cockhead.
A wanton little smile played across Sylvia Sorensen's beautiful face as she, too, stared at the pearlescent point of male juice, and suddenly -- quite uncontrollably -she bent down to do something she'd never before dreamed of doing. Her tongue, still tingling from their feverish kisses of a few minutes before, darted out between her excitement parched lips to taste the bright teardrop of pungent boyish secretions.
"Ooohhhhhhh ..."
At the indescribable sensation of having the woman's moistly heated tongue slide over his super-sensitive manhood, the young MacAuslande boy felt as though his body was about to explode. Like the box of Fourth of July fireworks into which the beer-befuddled Charlevoix Fire Chief had accidentally dropped a lighted cigar last summer, he was going to erupt in a blazing shower of rainbow-hued sparks.
Not yet, he told himself fiercely, vainly trying to repress his passion. Oh God, don't let me cum yet. Don't let me fuck up the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me!
The bittersweet boyish taste of her young student's warm, blood-thickened cock so excited Sylvia that she was about to do something she'd always considered vulgar and unpleasant -- take the entire mushroom-shaped cockhead inside her lips. Before she could do so, however, his entire body tensed as taut as a steel cable and his anguished voice rang in her ears.
"Please, Miss Sorensen," he almost cried, "please! I -- I can't wait -- please, can't I cum inside your pussy?"
The blonde's already wetly swollen vagina pulsed in immediate response to the boy's ardent plea, and a warm gush of feminine fluid seeped along her passage walls and bedewed her cuntal lips. Deep inside her churning belly a chord of fervent desire began vibrating like the string of a finely-fashioned violin, a low, implacable humming sensation that sent a dizzy cloud floating before her eyes.
"Yes, Brian, yes," she purred.
"That's what I want you to do, little lover." Without another instant's hesitation, she inched forward so that her well-rounded ass-cheeks were jutting high into the air and her desire-dewed cuntal mouth was held in readiness exactly above the adolescent's eagerly jerking rod of flesh. Placing her right hand on the thick-veined staff, she guided it so that it pressed up against the blossoming lips of her pussy. Salty droplets of perspiration trickled down from her forehead as she bent over the youngster, and a warm rivulet of sweat was running between the swaying mounds of her ripe-melon breasts and dripping onto the boy's already damply glistening chest.
"Now, darling," she urged breathlessly. "Now! Push forward! Put your nice hard cock inside me!"
A strangled male moan echoed through the incense-thick air of the small bedroom, followed by an ecstatic feminine sigh as Brian followed her command and sank the throbbing head of his virgin penis between the flowering lips of her hungry vagina. His slender manhood brought nothing but unmitigated pleasure to her well-moistened cuntal passage -- it was an entirely different experience from the dull pressuring pain she remembered from the times she'd made love with her burly ex-fianc�. Even back in the garden with her fellow teacher, her long-denied vagina had been contracting and expanding in anticipation, and by now she was so highly responsive that she thought she would faint from pure pleasure.
"Ohhhh, sooo ggooooddd. . . " she deeply moaned in ecstatic appreciation. "More, Brian, more!
Come all the way inside! Give me every inch of your wonderful prick!"
At first, afraid of inflicting injury on his beloved teacher's tight pussy, Brian pushed forward with hesitant caution. But her lewd encouragement appeased his naive fear at the same moment that his arousal grew too fierce to suppress a second longer, and with a hoarse howl he flicked his lean hips forward to plunge almost all the way to the hilt into her warm wet cunt. Then, groaning like a madman, he rammed deeper and deeper until his virgin phallus was embedded firmly against the spongy tissue of her cervix.
"Aaahhh . . . ooohhh, Miss Sorenson ... it feels so fantastic I'm going crazy!" he babbled.
For a long minute he let his conquering cudgel lie thickly pulsating inside the warm, butter-smooth confines of the older woman's clasping pussy, delighting in the feel of her every ridge and wrinkle in her quivering cuntal walls. With every passing second, her inner muscles suctioned him more tightly, beckoning him deeper, fanning the flames of his passion until his brain dissolved in a red-hot blaze of carnal desire. Finally, as her maddeningly elasticized vagina gave his impaling potency an extra-enthusiastic squeeze, he instinctively withdrew and then began pumping in and out in the age-old rhythm of fucking.
"Good, Brian, sooo gggoooddddd," Sylvia panted, her voice shrill and uneven as he raced into her at breakneck speed.
Eager to savor every erotic element of this forbidden liaison with her sophomore student, the glassy-eyed blonde peered beneath her whitely jouncing breasts. How beautiful the youth's sweat-glistening body was as every muscle in his athletic frame strained and knotted in his first effort at being a man! His long, slender penis thrust up from his sparsely-haired groin as straight and rigid as a pole of angry-red iron, and there was a new expression of proud exultation in his sensitive brown eyes.
Shivering with rapture, the sensuous schoolteacher began shoving her naked loins downward to match the teenager's upthrusting lunges, gradually easing his over-eager tempo to a smoother, more erogenous movement. A stream of incoherent crooning and sighs spewed from her excitement-constricted throat as the first tantalizing wisps of approaching orgasm started teasing at her cock-impaled belly, and as her feverish babbling intermingled with the lewd noises of wet flesh slapping against flesh, the walls of the boy's bedroom were too thin to mask the wanton chorus.
"How can the kids these days listen to such disgusting music!?!" hissed Miss Ingall to her fellow music teacher, Mr. McReady, as they huddled in the cloakroom across the hall indulging in a last forbidden embrace. "I swear it gets worse all the time! Just hear what the MacAuslande boy's got on his stereo -- why, it's nothing but noise . . . and nasty noises at that!"
"Dear me, it does sound vulgar," agreed McReady, holding his hand on his bifocals so they wouldn't slip down his perspiration-slippery nose as he tenderly kissed his illicit lover's ears. "Don't listen, my sweet little lark."
Inside the echoing bedroom, blissfully oblivious to their unseen audience, the blonde schoolteacher and her fifteen year old student were catapulting toward a veritable cataclysm of climactic release. Their yelps and mewls of unfettered pleasure rose in a steadily accelerating cadence as their two naked bodies were welded into one writhing, bucking mass of white-hot flesh, and even if they'd been aware that their cries were resounding through the upstairs hallway, they were sunk too deeply into the blazing fires of mutual passion to exert any degree of self-control.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," chanted the lust-maddened teenager. "Shit, I'm really doin' it -- really fucking you! And it's so gggooooodddddd I never wanna stop!"
"Ohhh, yyyeeesssss," Sylvia caterwauled, digging her crimson-nailed fingers into his shoulders and squeezing her full-fleshed thighs tight to his hips as though she were galloping on a wild stallion. "Fuck me forever, little lover. Forever and ever and eevweeerrrrr ..."
Brian's passion-distorted features glowed with a wanton triumph at his teacher's shrill cry, and he began pummeling his lust-hardened penis up into her so violently that her tight-walled cuntal channel was chafed from the super-human friction. This slight edge of pleasure-pain only plunged her nearer to the precipice of orgasmic explosion, and her ever more frenetic response nearly drove the inexperienced youth out of his mind.
As the tortured groans wrenched from the fifteen year old's lust-twisted lips, he continued to slam up into his teacher's dilating vagina with savage abandon. Then, a split second after his cries had ceased to reverberate throughout the bedroom, his slim body tensed and his already massive manhood swelled to thicker proportions. Deep inside his blood-bloated testicles, the imprisoned semen began to churn in impatient need, and he groaned again.
"Aaahhhhh . . . I'm cumming!" As the first boiling droplets of pent-up boyish seed spewed from his exploding balls to rush at full speed down the long tube of his rigid penis and splash against the woman's ultra-sensitive pussy walls, bittersweet waves of sensation also began to flood through every cell of Sylvia's naked body. She had never before felt such a release: every nerve-ending was shattered into glowing sparks of pure ecstasy, and a rainbow-hued cloud bore her weightless figure over a mercurial roller-coaster of demoniac delight. Oblivious to everything save the magical floods of orgasm rapture, she stilled the boy's groans by meshing her lips against his in a hot, urgent kiss.
After a seeming eternity, the last lingering wisps of their mutual climax started to diminish. The exhausted adolescent gave a low sigh of perfect satisfaction as his sated penis deflated inside the moist warmth of the older woman's still-spasming vagina, then slipped from her reluctantly clinging cuntal lips with a lewd slurping sound. She collapsed on top of him, and for several peaceful minutes they locked in a loving embrace, their brains too drained for worries or guilt.
Brian began to snore gently, rousing his teacher from her near-somnolent state. Rising onto her elbows with a shaky intake of oxygen, she stared at his long eyelashes fluttering on his flushed cheeks and at the tousled shock of chestnut curls that fell across his high forehead. Even in slumber, he looked somehow older, more confident, than he had before their forbidden lovemaking, and this realization softened the blow of guilt which descended over her as she gained consciousness.
The deed was done. She had wantonly seduced one of her innocent students, disgraced herself in the most depraved way possible. In the eyes of the law, she was now a child molester and ought to be locked away behind bars to protect society from her unnatural perversions. And she'd done this unforgivable thing right in the child's bedroom while she was an invited guest of his parents! What if she were to walk out of his bedroom now, with the pungent scent of Brian's virgin sperm permeating her body, and run smack into the intimidating Mrs. MacAuslande? It would be the end of her job, and the end of her life as a respectable citizen!
"Oh, God!" she muttered under her breath, shuddering as she turned away from the boy's sleeping body and stared in despair at the scattered articles of her clothing. "How could I? What's happened to me to make me act so sick ... so crazy!"
From outside the curtained window drifted in the faint sounds of drunken laughter, clinking glasses, and car tires scraping on the gravel drive. She had to get away from here before the party was finished, had to force herself to retrieve her coat from the room across the hall and to walk out across the lawn to her car. There was no choice but to do this, yet for several traumatic seconds all she could manage to do was crouch above the no-longer-virginal boy in abject misery and stare at the childish clutter of his small bedroom.
Finally, wrenching her eyes away from the bookcase with its huge collection of science fiction and much-fingered volumes of modern and romantic poetry, she rose gingerly to her feet and began to pull on her stockings, underwear, and pink dress. When her fingers contacted her bare skin, they were so ice-cold that she gasped aloud despite her caution not to awaken the unconscious boy.
What can I say to him? she asked herself bleakly. How can I ever explain the terrible thing I've done? And how in God's name will I be able to face him in the two o'clock sophomore English class?
Sylvia inched silently toward the door and placed her ear to the keyhole, listening in an agony of paranoia for sounds in the hall outside. Hearing nothing, she flung one last guilty look at the naked boy; he'd rolled over onto his stomach so that she couldn't see his spent young penis, but to her astonishment the mere sight of his well-shaped buttocks and muscular swimmer's back sent a twinge of desire surging through her veins.
Repressing the emotion without allowing herself to consider its significance, the guilt-ridden schoolteacher fled from her student's dark bedroom and hastily yanked her trench coat from the closet in the adjacent room. In her preoccupation with her own sexual crimes, she failed to notice the adulterous music teacher quickly remove his hand from underneath the skirt of his blushing colleague, but she could not possible ignore her young lover's father. Mr. MacAuslande, his semi-erect penis protruding from the unzipped fly of his trousers, was vanishing into the bedroom at the end of the long corridor with the girls' gymnastics teacher in tow.
Even in the midst of her troubles, the blonde had to smile at the sheepish expression on the school board president's pudgy face, and although she told herself rather severely that her own sin was in no way excused by the lewd behavior of others, she nevertheless felt the black cloud of guilt lift off her shoulders. In fact, she was able to sleep very well once she got home, a heavy slumber untroubled by dreams for the first few hours.
Toward morning it began to rain, and Sylvia Sorensen was awakened by a crashing clap of thunder. From the bedroom window of her rented fishing cottage she could see heavy gray sheets of rain sweeping in from Lake Michigan to the sandy beach, washing before them a rubble of driftwood, plastic bottles, and other discarded remnants of civilization. A fierce wind tore off the last withered leaves from the tall elm tree in her yard and sent the neat pile of twigs she'd raked for a bonfire scattering helter-skelter over the dry brown grass, and an extra-vehement blast sent her clothesline twisting to the ground as well.
Shivering, the young blonde cuddled down under her blankets and buried her golden hair in her pillow to drown out the sound of the howling wind and thunder. Today was Sunday - she could spend the entire day here in bed if she wished, planning her lessons for the coming week and drinking coffee, or simply dozing and watching the rain beat against the windowpanes. Whatever she did, however, one thing was certain: she would not think about last night's despicable behavior. There was no way to erase the past, but there was also no good to come from brooding about mistakes.
Although the twenty-five year old schoolteacher was normally a sensible, self-controlled person, she discovered in the course of that rainy day that she was inexplicably unable to force thoughts of young Brian MacAuslande away from her consciousness. No matter how hard she tried to distract herself, a troubling vision of his handsome face kept flickering before her mind's eye and in her ears echoed the shameful memory of his frantic love-cries. She could not understand what was the matter with her, and finally ended up drinking three strong cups of hot buttered rum to deaden her nerves.
About six in the evening, the telephone rang, startling Sylvia so much that she nearly dropped the half-full bottle of rum. Even before she touched the receiver some instinct told her whose voice would be on the other end of the line.
"Miss Sorensen?" an eager young boy's voice hissed into her ear. "This is me - Brian."
Naturally it was because she'd imbibed a good deal more alcohol than was her habit - there was no other logical explanation for the way her blood turned to ice-water, then suddenly began boiling in her veins, or for the strange rippling sensations that threaded an unwanted path of excitation from her vagina to every nerve-ending in her body. The rum must also account for the puzzling difficulty she had in catching her breath to reply to her pupil.
"Brian ..." she said at last, relieved to hear that her voice sounded far more calm than she felt inside. "I - I must insist that you don't telephone me again. What happened last night was a terrible mis-mistake. It must never happen again! Never! You do understand that, don't you?"
"But - b-but, Miss S-Sorensen, b-but-"
"No, Brian," Sylvia said firmly, almost coldly, though there was a pain like a knife ripping into her heart at the sound of the tears in the anguished teenager's voice. "No more phone calls, and you must promise never to tell anyone - not anyone at all - about . . . about last night."
"I promise, Miss Sorensen, but-"
"No buts," she interrupted. "I'm very, very sorry I allowed this dreadful thing to happen, but now we're going to do our best to forget it."
"But - but I love you!" the boy burst out, half-sobbing. "Don't you understand? I love you'"
"But both our lives can be ruined," the older woman was desperate. "Brian, be sensible, think of-"
"I don't care! I don't care about all that bullshit! All that matters is that I love you!"
Sylvia hung up. What else could I do? she asked herself as the phone shrilled again and she shakily took it off the hook. I must put an end to it at once ... I must . . . and anyway, it's only an adolescent crush, not true love . . . he'll have forgotten about it in six months . . .
CHAPTER THREE
"... creative writing with a more individual twist, an assignment I want you to think of as something fun, not just another piece of homework. These journals can contain anything you wish -- poems, ideas and thoughts that you have when you're walking to school, dreams, character sketches. The only requirement is that you write something every day -- in a regulation-size notebook and in blue or black ballpoint, please -- in order to stimulate your creativity. I'll be checking through your notebooks each Friday."
There was a distressed moan from the class: on Fridays they had to turn in their science notebooks; they didn't want to write dumb old poems: what did she have to give them a lousy assignment like that for anyhow? Only Brian MacAuslande and the small contingent of eager "A" students remained silent amid the general uproar.
The bell rang, a nerve-jangling shriek which reminded the fair-haired English teacher of an air-raid alarm and always made her flesh break out in goose-bumps even after three weeks at Charlevoix High.
"Every Friday . . . and I don't want to hear any more discussion about it!" she called after the fifteen year olds as they jumped from their desks with a noisy clatter of textbooks and papers and started to flee from the classroom. Next period was the last one of the day, and they were already excitedly making after-school plans to meet in the "Sweet Shop" or at the Burger Chef, two of the current "in" hang-outs for the sophomore crowd. Again, only dark-haired young Brian and the habitual loners were silent.
Today was Wednesday, and Sylvia's nerves were tense as she awaited the incident that had taken place on Monday and Tuesday. Brian was once again loitering behind the others, not caring a bit whether or not he was on time for his Algebra class, and she knew that he would pause at her desk when the room was empty and fix her with that sorrowful cocker spaniel stare which tore at her heartstrings. She reached for her handbag, intending to escape to the faculty washroom before he cornered her, but she was too late.
"Miss Sorensen ..." he was standing mere inches away from her, so close that she could have reached over her desk to clasp the hand he held out in a pleading gesture. ''About this assignment ..."
"Yes, Brian?" She was relieved that he was at least partially coming to his senses and intended to discuss his schoolwork rather than the shameful incident she was trying so hard to forget. "What about it? You have some question about the journal?"
"We can write anything? Anything at all? And no one but you will see it?"
"Anything you wish, Brian," Sylvia replied.
Much to her dismay, she suddenly noticed that the youth had a prominent bulge growing between his long legs. Oh, God!
What on earth was she going to do to compensate for the indulgence of last weekend's sinful lusts of the flesh? And why in God's name was her heart beating so fast that it was difficult to breathe?
"Because I've al-already written something I want to put in it ... a poem ... a poem called 'The Spun Gold Maiden'."
"That's just fine. Brian," Sylvia was annoyed to hear that her voice faltered. "Just fine ..."
"I just want to say that it's about you. Miss Sorensen. I wrote it Sunday morning."
Sylvia's sapphire-blue eyes fluttered shut, for she simply could not bear to look at the handsome boy's woebegone face one instant longer. When she raised her lids again he was gone, slamming the door behind him with a vicious bang which sent the vase of roses on her desk toppling onto the floor. Those roses . . . they had mysteriously appeared here this morning, and much as she adored this particular apricot shade she couldn't bear to look at them because she was certain they were a gift from the amorous MacAuslande boy. Now, after staring at the spreading puddle of water on the floor for several long seconds, she rose with a weary sigh and tossed the long-stemmed blossoms into the wastebasket.
The last hour of the day -remedial reading - always seemed to drag on far longer than its actual sixty minutes, but today it felt even longer than usual. She kept reminding herself that it wasn't the pupils' fault that they were slow learners, but a throbbing drumbeat was hitting against her temples and she said a prayer of thanksgiving when the final bell clanged and she was finally alone. Hurriedly, just in case Brian should take it into his love-sick head to pay an after-hours visit to the Language Arts classroom, she made her way out to her green Volkswagon.
The car needed a wash, she noticed, suddenly feeling very tired. Maybe her whole life needed to be cleansed, sent to a figurative dry cleaner . . .
Since Sunday's all-day deluge, the weather had changed from last week's warm Indian Summer to a blustery, damp autumn bleakness. The thought of going directly home to her dark, lonely little fishing cottage was too depressing to contemplate, so Sylvia threaded her way through the narrow streets of Charlevoix to the Weathervane Inn. I'll drinking more than I ought to, she reflected bleakly after ordering her martini. But who could blame me; what else could I be expected to feel like in a crazy situation like this?
"Penny for your thoughts," a hearty male voice boomed in her ear, jolting her from her self-pitying reverie so suddenly that some of her vodka martini splashed from her glass onto the wooden table.
"Or are they worth more than that, Sylvia?"
Ray Peters dressed in a trendy new suit with a vivid-hued scarf knotted around his beefy neck -- not her first choice for company, perhaps, but it was better to talk to anyone than to sit here alone staring moodily into the fireplace's flickering embers. Ever since their reprehensible encounter at last weekend's ill-fated cocktail party, she'd been doing her best to avoid being alone with the science teacher, but perhaps she'd been making a mistake. Even though she wasn't actually all that fond of him, a low-key flirtation might be just the thing to dissuade her unwanted adolescent admirer from further attentions. Charlevoix High was a small school; within a matter of days, everyone would be aware that she and Peters were drinking together in the Weathervane.
"I'm afraid they're not even worth one cent," she molded her lips into a bright smile. "Guess this gloomy weather's making me feel blue. Why don't you sit down and cheer me up?"
Peters' broad face positively glowed with self-satisfaction as he plonked his brightly attired bulk down on the seat across from his curvaceous blonde colleague. At last she had come to her senses and was ceasing her silly pretense of ignoring him - women always came crawling back for more in the end. Accidentally on purpose, he let his knee graze against the nylon-smoothness of her graceful calf.
Despite her resolve to act friendly and receptive toward the sandy-haired science teacher, Sylvia could not repress a tremor of loathing at the proprietary way he nudged her with his knee. Who did he think he was anyway Mr. Universe?
"Waiter -- a double Scotch for me, and another of the same for the little lady," boomed Peters. Then he turned to Sylvia, undressing her with his beady eyes in a way that made her blush in confusion and look down at the martini-splashed table-top. "What you need is to get away from the grind for a weekend, stop thinking about the little bastards and have yourself a real good time. Rainy weather's real nice when you're staying in a cabin in the woods, for example. I got a super A-frame up in the Upper Peninsula where you can catch fish long as your arm and cook 'em in the fireplace."
"That sounds very lovely," Sylvia felt her smile fading and plastered it back on her lips with an effort. She felt sure he was going to invite her up to his cottage for the weekend, and every cell in her body rebelled against the idea. "But I'm not really much of a fishing fan . . . "
"Plenty of other ways to pass the time -- outside and inside," Ray winked and reached across the wooden table to press her limp hand in his beefy paw. "Some of my favorite games can be played in a nice warm king-sized bed. I think we could have a hell of a time up there away from it all. What'ya say we give it a whirl this weekend, Syl?"
The blonde once again felt her smile vanishing, but this time she didn't attempt to retrieve it. Maybe she was crazy, but the very thought of his thick, insistent fingers mauling her body and his puffy lips pressing against her mouth made her feel nauseous. Compared to young Brian's caresses -- but of course that had nothing to do with it. ..
Pulling her hand away from under Ray's gripping palm, Sylvia grabbed her fresh drink and downed half of it in one nervous swallow. To avoid looking at his face, she began chasing her green olive around the bottom of her glass with the swizzle stick.
"You know what they say 'bout green olives," the insensitive man was oblivious to his companion's discomfort. "Increase your sex drive, that's the story they used to tell at the Sigma Chi house at good old MSU. As a scientist I have my doubts, but let me tell you that we fellas ate a goddamn truckload of olives on Saturday nights and we had a pretty good performance record!"
Abruptly, Sylvia could take his innuendos and suggestive patter no longer. She stood, bumping against the table as she did so, spilling both of their drinks. "I'm sorry, Ray. But no."
"No? What's wrong with ..."
"No. No. No!" Quickly she snatched up her purse and started to run away. Then remembering she hadn't paid her bar bill, she opened her wallet and began to pull out bills. They fluttered to the table like wingless birds. "I'm going home."
"Sylvia? Hey Sylvia!" The disturbed young teacher heard his puzzled voice as she ran to the door, and a second later the cool night air hit her fevered face, helping sober her a bit.
She drove rapidly until she reached the small, sparsely populated street where her little cottage was located. The sky had already grown completely black. A brisk evening breeze scattered dry leaves across the road, and something about the rustling sound they made coupled with a mysterious aura in the air reminded the young woman of Halloween nights in her early childhood.
"It's the kind of night when witches ride," she murmured, glancing up at the glowing harvest moon rising over the sea beyond.
She was so preoccupied by the idea for a poem which teased at the edge of her consciousness that she did not notice the shadowy outline of a bicycle parked beside her driveway until the car thudded against it and she was jolted into alertness by a loud crash followed by a sharp cry. Luckily, she'd only been driving about ten miles an hour when she made the difficult turn, but she saw with an icy rush of fear that she'd knocked the lightweight vehicle to the leaf-coated lawn.
"Oh, God!" the strangled whisper tore from her fear-constricted throat and echoed out over the windswept yard. In a split second she'd switched off the ignition and leapt out of the automobile, running around to the other side of the driveway with her trembling hands clutched to her throat.
"It's okay, Miss Sorensen, I'm not hurt," a boy's shaky voice rose faintly from the pile of autumn leaves at the side of the driveway. "I - I just tore my Levi's on the spokes, that's all."
"Br-Brian . . . ?"
"Yeah, it's me, Miss Sorensen."
Sylvia stared in consternation at the boy as he rose slowly to his feet and stood staring at her with a rather sheepish expression on his handsome young face. Her first reaction was one of near-anger that he'd dared to disobey her express command that he stay away from her, but then she saw the dark splotch of blood trickling down his leg where the denim was torn away and concern overwhelmed her irritation.
"You are hurt, Brian!" she exclaimed. "Come inside and let me take care of that cut before it gets infected."
"Gosh, I'm really okay," the boy protested, but Sylvia noticed that he winced as he stepped down on his left foot. "Don't worry about me ... "
"Come inside, and let me have a look," repeated the high-school teacher. "I don't want you going away before I've washed that and bandaged it up, darling."
In her worry about the teenager's wound, the blonde did not realize that she'd called him "darling". Brian, however, was instantly aware that her cold tone of the past week had reverted to the warm intimacy of last Saturday night, and his cheeks blazed as red as the ripe apples on the tree beside Miss Sorensen's door as he stepped behind her into the house.
It's a miracle, he thought, staring around at the cozy room with its fireplace, wicker rocking chair, and overflowing bookcases. For over an hour, ever since the sun had fallen beneath the horizon and the shadows had lengthened enough to provide protection from the prying eyes of neighbors, he'd been poised in the bushes beside his English teacher's driveway trying to work up the courage to ring her doorbell. In his overwrought emotional state he'd not noticed that her car was absent from the drive, and had assumed her to be home since she always left one lamp burning to discourage burglars. All he'd been able to think of was how Miss Sorensen had reacted to the love poem he'd turned in as part of his English assignment.
How did she like it? he wondered again, glancing uneasily at the older woman from underneath his long lashes. Does she think I'm just a stupid kid she can kick out of her life, or does she think I have talent? Does she understand now that I don't just have a dumb crush on her . . . that it's genuine love that'll last for the rest of my life . . .
While Miss Sorensen was searching in the oaken cupboard for band aids and antiseptic, Brian seized the opportunity to study her magnificent buttocks and sculptured legs. She was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and a torso-hugging red cardigan sweater that revealed every charm of her lushly ripened body, and his fingers tingled as he remembered how warm and pliant her flesh had felt beneath his caressing hands the week before. Would he ever have another chance to feel her temptingly rounded ass-cheeks flexing and thrusting as she writhed in a frenzy of delight in his arms? He had to experience that indescribable joy again - he had to, or he would surely die!
"Now, let's have a good look at that nasty cut," said Sylvia, moving toward him but not meeting his ardent brown eyes. "Sit down on the couch, please, Brian."
Now that she and the boy were alone in the silence of her living room, the schoolteacher was having second doubts about the wisdom of having invited him inside. There was a look on his sensitive face which she recognized all too well from last Saturday night, and a quivering sensation in her own loins which was very disturbing. Of course, nothing was going to happen . . . but the minute she'd patched up his knee she'd make sure he left at once.
Even after the ugly cut was cleansed and wrapped in a neat white bandage, Sylvia saw that trickles of blood were running down her pupil's muscular left leg. Concern for his welfare once again drowned out her guilt-derived uneasiness, and without more than a brief second's deliberation on the propriety of what she was about to propose, she instructed him to take off his jeans.
"Wh-what!?" the teenager gasped, his walnut-brown eyes widening in astonishment. "What did you say, Miss S--Sorensen?"
"I think you have some more injuries higher on your leg," Sylvia said, her own feeling of discomfort returning as she heard the incredulous note in her student's voice and saw the bright gleam in his eye. "I can't get at the cuts when you have your jeans on ... "
Instead of obeying her instructions, the youngster merely went on staring at her with eyes that were dark pools of pure pain. Hardening her heart against the appeal in his gaze, the older woman raised her voice.
"Do as I say, Brian," she said in a schoolteacher voice. "Why are you staring at me that way?"
The MacAuslande boy's face turned as white as the binding on his lacerated leg, and then two feverish scarlet patches appeared on his high cheekbones as he bent his head and began removing his trousers. She hated him; it was evident from her cold tone, her complete disinterest in the vital part of his anatomy which was found inside his jeans. The pleasure she'd seemed to take in their lovemaking had only been a manifestation of her over-consumption of alcohol . . .
Tight-lipped, frantically trying to control her growing urge to gather her arms around the anguished adolescent and assure him that she did indeed hold a great deal of affection for him, Sylvia located the other minor scratches and quickly dressed them. Although she avoided looking directly at the boy's cotton jockey shorts, she was nevertheless vividly aware that there was an abnormally large protuberance throbbing between his naked legs.
"There we go -- everything okay again," she said with false cheerfulness, rising to her feet and busying herself with rearranging the items in the first-aid kit. "How does your leg feel now, Brian?"
"My leg feels okay, Miss Sorensen," the fifteen year old mumbled. Although the pulsing swell between his naked legs was growing steadily thicker, he made no move whatsoever to put his torn jeans back on. "But - but I feel like hell!"
"Whatever do you mean?" Sylvia queried, but she knew exactly what he was going to say before the words left his lips.
"I -- I told you how I feel . . . you know I love you. But you don't care at all -- you just act like nothing ever happened. I bet you didn't even think about what I wrote in that poem! How can it mean nothing at all to you? How?"
"Poem? Oh yes, the journal." The troubled teacher stared hard at her student, her blue eyes as tormented as his brown ones now. It was all her fault that the poor child was suffering so, but what could she do that wouldn't make the situation worse than it already was? "I ... I didn't get a chance to look at it yet, Brian."
"I told you I was writing it for you -- I told you before. But you just don't care ..."
"I'll read it now, dear," said Sylvia softly. "Why don't I get us something to drink, too? I'm afraid I haven't got any Coke, only tonic and fruit juice. Would you rather have orange juice or Schweppes?"
"I'll drink whatever you're drinking -- I'm not a little kid, even if you try to treat me like one," the teenager replied, scowling sullenly at the floor.
The bulge in his throbbing groin was growing more painful by the second, but though he longed to blow his teacher's mind by openly rubbing his aching erection, he was too shy to do anything so audacious. Love and vicious resentment boiled in equal parts in his blood, leaving him reckless and dizzy and wracked with crazy compulsions. Once he'd seen a magazine that the swim team captain stole from his father's suitcase after his parent returned from a Pork Raisers' International congress in Copenhagen. The glossy colored photographs had showed every lurid detail of a swarthy-skinned male's cruel rape of a delicate blonde who strongly resembled Miss Sorensen, including a very memorable shot of his incredibly long prick plunging deep into her helplessly gagging white throat. That's what Brian wanted to do right now -- shove his pain-pulsing penis inside the mouth that had lied to him, and show her that he was really a man, not an unimportant little boy.
At the same time that this salacious scene flashed before his mind's eye, a conflicting urge burnt deep inside his churning young belly. He wanted her to look at him with loving tenderness, to caress him and teach him more about the mysteries of lovemaking in a soft and gentle manner. As she moved toward the kitchen, full buttocks undulating inside the snug confines of her denim cut-off jeans, he felt his heart thudding against his chest in the hopes that his love poem would move her to reciprocate his emotions.
Sylvia's hands shook as she poured a strong vodka-tonic for herself and a very weak one for her teenaged guest. One crimson fingernail snagged on the ice tray, and she spilled cold water on her bare thighs as she removed the cubes from their blue plastic container.
What's going on inside me? she asked herself dizzily. Maybe I shouldn't have made my drink so strong. . .
Fishing Brian MacAuslande's journal from the pile of papers on the kitchen sideboard -- it was immediately distinguishable from the other twenty-five notebooks because he'd laboriously stenciled his last name on the binding in Medieval lettering -- she returned to the main room of her small home. He was still sitting with his young penis tenting out his undershorts, torn jeans discarded beside his sneaker-clad feet, fingers nervously picking at the nubby fabric of the sofa cushions. Blushing a bright shade of pink, she handed him his glass without looking between his band aid covered legs.
Why can't he pull up his pants, she thought, taking a long gulp of her fortifying vodka tonic. How in God's name am I supposed to act natural when his huge hard-on is staring me in the face?
For a moment she hesitated uncertainly in the center of the room, not sure whether to sit beside her pupil on the couch or to move across the room to the wicker rocker beside the window. Finally, with a nervous little laugh which grated against her own ears, she sat down at the far end of the couch and opened the notebook.
Relax, Sylvia! she scolded herself. It's your job to be calm and friendly and restore his self-confidence without giving him any wrong ideas . . .
"Well, now, let's take a look at this poem of yours!"
That wasn't quite the right tone, either -- it was too casual, too flippant -- but it was the best she could manage for the moment. Dropping her flushed face to the neatly written first page, she directed her attention to "The Spun Gold Maiden".
"It's not very good, I guess, huh?" the youngster squirmed nervously as Sylvia read and reread the tender poem. "I mean, maybe it's old-fashioned and corny?"
Sylvia felt a light mist of emotion clouding her vision as she looked into the boy's yearning eyes. It was so important that she say the right thing now, that she encourage his creative talent, not destroy his innocent ability to love and trust . . . yet at the same time to temper his passions toward a more normal love object. How to discourage and encourage at the same time? That was the problem . . .
And the real problem, a second voice from the darkest reaches of her soul interrupted, is that you don't really want to discourage him at all. What he feels is beautiful and genuine, and it's the most wonderful gift anyone's ever given you. Why destroy it? I need him just as much as he needs me . . .
"No, no, Brian dear," she turned toward the embarrassed youngster with a heartfelt smile. "It's -- it's a wonderful poem. . . I -- I don't just mean that it's well-written, but that what you're saying about me makes me feel very happy. I don't think there's anything old-fashioned or corny about having the ability to express your emotions. It's a gift that you ought to be proud of, a very rare gift."
"You really mean it? You're not just trying to say something nice?"
"Of course I really mean it!"
"And you're not mad at me anymore? About last Saturday night?"
"Mad at you?" There was a strange warmth stealing through her bloodstream, distilling out all drops of doubt and guilt, which made the young schoolteacher feel so light and joyful that sensuous laughter bubbled from her lips. "No, Brian, you misunderstood. I wasn't ever exactly mad at you - I was just worried about all sorts of things which maybe aren't the important things after all. I was thinking with my head and not with my heart."
Brian's smooth face was slowly brightening into a mask of blissful delight, and the bulge inside his jockey shorts started pulsating so violently that it threatened to thrust through the cotton fabric.
"It did mean something to you, too?" he asked softly. "You don't really think it was a mistake, like you said the other day? Wow, it hurt when you said that, Miss Sorensen!"
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Brian," Sylvia murmured.
Although she knew perfectly well that she had better remove her hand from his naked leg before it was too late, some mysterious power blocked her brain's ability to direct her muscles. Instead of edging back toward her corner of the sofa, she pressed his warm flesh harder than ever and leaned forward so that their faces were no more than a foot apart.
"And -- and it was good for you, too? M--making love, I mean?"
Oh, dear, this is getting out of hand, the schoolteacher's conscience warned. But the words echoed faintly in her mind, and they had no effect on her stroking fingers or on the melting warmth spreading throughout her veins.
"Yes, Brian ... it was good for me . . . very, very good ..."
You're crazy -- why did you say that to him? screamed her moral monitor, but it was drowned out by a far stronger voice.
This is the first time in your life that you've felt anything so sure, so true . . . Listen to your heart for once ... let yourself be truly alive . . .
The teenager, unaware of the battle raging inside the older woman's bent blonde head, abruptly leaned over to kiss her full on the lips. His audacity amazed him, but the fierce sexual frustration which had been building inside him all week long could no longer be contained. Love and lust boiled inside him like lava ready to erupt from a volcano, and the softness of her lips and flowery fragrance of her perfume fanned the fires of his passion to a fever pitch.
"We mustn't," the teacher mumbled weakly, but she made no real effort to wrench her mouth away from the boy's heated lips. "Really, we can't..."
There was, she realized with painful clarity, one and only one way to put an end to this indecent embrace. She must revert to the pose of cold hostility she'd affected all during the school week, freeze the youth away with icy indifference. Yet this solution was clearly impossible, for her own faithless loins were burning with loving tenderness and a fervent desire to once again experience the vibrant touch of the child-man's eager caresses.
"Oh, Miss Sorensen! I thought I'd never be able to kiss you again! I was ready to do something really crazy - drink Drano like Clara Pringle's big sister did when she got pregnant, or something," Brian confessed as his hungry tongue ferreted deeper into the warm confines of his golden-haired idol's mouth.
It took a second for the young woman to digest the import of her ardent admirer's whispered words. Oh, no! The boy had actually thought of suicide because of his unreciprocated love for her! It was impossible, horrifyingly impossible! Yet, considering his high-strung artistic temperament, she realized with a chill of dread that it was indeed all too likely.
"Listen to me, Brian," she pulled away her mouth to stare earnestly into his brown eyes. "You must never, never think of anything like that again, no matter what happens. Life is too much of a miracle to squander it on a passing emotion of despair, especially for someone like you who has a real talent for translating feelings into art. Promise me you won't let yourself think such thoughts again!"
"Gee, of course not, Miss Sorensen," the boy sounded shaken by the intensity of her speech. "But so long as you love me, I wouldn't even dream of anything like that!"
"Oh, Brian, Brian ..."
Before either student or teacher knew quite what was happening, they'd fallen into each other's arms and were stroking and squeezing every part of the other's body with shocking frenzy. The springs of the aged couch creaked reproachfully as their yearning loins locked together and their lips once again meshed in a wild kiss, and although neither of them took any notice, the rusty hinges that held the arm to the frame edged out of place so that they were hanging together by a tenuous strip of century-old metal.
"Your lips... so soft and warm . . . your neck . . . like a swan . . . your breasts . . . like baby birds . . . your thighs . . . like wild mares," Brian waxed poetic, all his romantic inclinations unleashed by his teacher's praise of his poem.
The darling boy . . . what adult man could say anything like that to me? Sylvia's muddled thoughts whirled. Aloud, she breathed, "Sweet little lover," and reached down impulsively to clasp the frantically pulsing rod of his manhood.
"Aaalihhhhhh," groaned the adolescent, arching his torso so that their bodies were welded together with her full breasts straining against his chest and he could feel her taut little nipples boring into his hairless chest through the thin cotton of his "Charlevoix Swim Team" T-shirt.
And I don't want any protection -- I want to feel every sinew of his beautiful body, she thought. How wicked I am -- I don't know what's happened to make me feel this way ... All I know is that it's too late to stop . . .
The high school sophomore's mind was churning in even more frantic whirlpools of arousal than that of his ten year older English teacher. Once again, the salacious illustrations of the Danish magazine he'd seen some months before swam in Technicolor before his mind's eye, and suddenly a lust-crazed request bubbled from his constricted throat.
"Please, Miss Sorensen," he pleaded, squeezing the pliant mounds of her maturely swelling breasts in avid affection. "Will you do something special for me? Will you, please?"
"Of course, Brian darling," Sylvia purred in a sultry, sensuous voice. "I want to do anything that'll make you happy ... to teach you everything I know about love-making . . . Just tell me what it is you want me to do ... "
"Can you - c--can you kiss my prick? P--put it all the way into your mouth?"
Although she hoped the lad didn't realize it, Sylvia was shocked and dismayed by his request. She'd performed fellatio only one time before, because her ex-fiance had demanded that she do so, and she had experienced only discomfort and revulsion as he shoved his oversized member down into her throat without thought of the injury he might be inflicting upon her. More important than her memory of the physical unpleasantness, however, was her guilt-giving impression that this was an action performed only by the most sleazy of prostitutes.
"Wherever did you get an idea like that?" she demanded, drawing away from the youngster, her body tensing in involuntary distaste.
Brian was afraid he'd gone too far, but he was too far entangled in his lovesick passion to be able to think clearly.
"I ... I saw some p--pictures," he confessed, praying that he'd not destroyed his chances to enjoy lovemaking with the woman he idolized above everyone else in his life. "I - I mean, I didn't think it was something wrong ..."
And is it really wrong? Sylvia pondered dizzily. There was actually no logical reason for believing so -- it was nothing but a prejudice, a moral hang-up. And since she'd already broken every moral precept in the book, what was the difference if she broke another!?
"No, darling," she answered after a second's pause. She drew him close to her again, kissing his neck, his shoulders, drawing off his cotton T-shirt so that she could press his hairless chest with her lips. "It's not wrong . . . nothing two people do with their bodies can be wrong if they are honest about what they feel for each other."
The twenty-five year old teacher hadn't realized that she harbored this sentiment, but when she heard the low words issue from her passion-parched throat she felt certain that they were true. Even if she'd had any doubts, the glowing eyes of her adolescent lover would have erased them from her mind.
"Lie down, darling," she murmured into his ear, delighting in the feather-soft texture of his waving chestnut hair and the peach-fuzz velvet of his ear. "Lie down on your back, and let's take this off before you pop right out of it!"
Brian groaned in an agony of ecstasy as the older woman's gentle hands withdrew his jockey shorts to free the throbbing shaft of his fully erect penis. His young cock had never felt so long and thick before, not even last Saturday night, and to his astonishment it swelled to even greater proportions as he saw Miss Sorensen lick her petal-pink lips and bend her golden head down over his aching groin.
"Ooohhhh . . . oooohhhhhh, it's too much ... I don't believe it. . .," he jabbered under his breath as her tiny red tongue stabbed out to tease at the seeping droplet of pre-cum secretion which danced on the narrow glans slit at the end of his blood-bloated cockhead. "Ohhhhhh . . .oh, yeeeessssss ..."
Sylvia shivered as she tasted the pungent, pearl-colored drop of male fluid, then let her tingling tongue glide hesitantly over the sensitive glans again and again until the youngster groaned beneath her. A shuddering vibration of arousal started strumming through her blood, an aching, bittersweet longing to subjugate herself to the youngster who loved her with every fiber of his being. It was a totally new sensation for her, a weird masochistic sort of lust that she in no way understood, but at the moment she was far more interested in relishing every wanton moment of her emotions than in analyzing psychological motivation.
"Brian . . . my sweet little lover . . . how good your cock tastes, darling ..." she gurgled as she sank her raspberry-colored lips around the bulging head of his upthrusting phallus. The lewd note of hungry vulgarity in her own voice shocked her, but instead of feeling shame at her wanton display of uninhibited lechery, she felt only a wild onrush of prurient passion.
The inexperienced youngster's breath tore from his heaving chest in tortured gulps for oxygen as he felt the blonde's moist velvet lips clasping around his aching pole of throbbing flesh. As he watched her small mouth straining around the bulbous head of his rampant penis like an elastic band stretched to the breaking point, strange new emotions began to churn inside him and he heard his own voice spewing out obscenities in a way he'd never have dreamed himself capable of only a short hour before.
"Yeah, suck my prick," he insisted, tearing at the lace-wool fastenings on the front of the older woman's red cardigan sweater, then ripping open the buttons of the lightweight cotton blouse she wore underneath. "Suck it good . . . kiss it . . . yeah . . . yeahhhhh ..."
More aroused than ever by the fifteen year old's bold encouragement, the stimulated schoolteacher ran her tongue around the mushroom-shaped foreskin, then reached out her trembling left hand to shove the rubbery flesh up and down over the redly glistening glans tip. She felt as though she were sinking into a morass of mind-disintegrating mania, being suctioned deep into a bog of carnal quicksand of such ferocious power that there was no way to escape from its clutches. Blind clouds of seething sensation drifted before her glazed blue eyes as she ceased her frenzied massaging of the iron-rigid teenage cock and once again sank her hungry mouth over the convulsing warmth of his hammering hardness.
The first time she'd tasted a male penis, she's been so frightened and worried about not pleasing her demanding boyfriend that she'd felt only a blind panic and vague revulsion. In any case, it had been over so quickly that she'd scarcely had a chance to realize what her own feelings were; he'd plunged into her mouth, rammed down to the hilt a few frenzied times, and then withdrawn to spew his boiling load of semen over the front seat of the car.
Now, as she writhed above the naked body of her favorite pupil in the privacy of her own living room, the situation was a totally different one. She wanted to bring the boy all possible satisfaction, and since she felt nothing ugly or evil about what she was doing, her every touch was charged with sensuality. The fact that she was making him feel more of a man than he'd ever felt before exhilarated her, but equally significant was her own growing sense of mature feminine sensuality.
"Uuuuummmmhhhhhhh," she mewled in ecstasy as she flicked her teasing tongue down to the base of his rampant stiffness. Her nose grazed the dark hairs on his groin as her eager fingers explored the velvet-textured sacs of his blood-engorged testicles, and then with a groan she instinctively commenced a tantalizing up and down fucking motion with her mouth.
Brian felt as though he were going to faint from sheer bliss as the golden-haired schoolteacher's head began to bob over his torturously pulsating manhood in a furiously energetic tempo. Every last nerve ending in his pleasure-tensed body sang with erotic sensation, and his eyes bugged from their sockets as he watched the older woman's tousled curls dancing above him in slavish subjugation.
''Oh, you suck me so gooooodddd ..." he howled. "Suck my cock forever and ever and ever ..."
Every nerve, every tautened muscle in the youth's naked figure was pushed to the explosion point as he frantically rammed his massive member as far as possible into the accepting cavern of Sylvia Sorensen's madly gulping throat. The salacious spectacle of her pink-flushed cheeks hollowing and bulging out around his impaling shaft infused him with a thrilling sense of brute masculine strength, an emotion so disorienting that the normally mild-mannered boy sank his nails so deep into her half-revealed breasts that he drew blood onto the flimsy nylon fabric of her brassiere.
"Ooohhhhhhh . . . you hurt me . . . you hurt me so goooooddddd ..." Sylvia wallowed in a lascivious sea of wantonly uncaring sensuality.
Sylvia's passion-driven leg kicked out and knocked the arm off the antique sofa, but neither she nor her naked young lover heard the thud as the furniture disintegrated. At the same moment, her wide-stretched lips had dropped all the way down to the base of the boy's blood-bloated balls, and her nose was teasing against the velvet-textured sac of his wildly swaying testicles. Simultaneously, her tongue raced up and down the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, and she dug her long fingernails into the sensitive nipples of his flat male chest.
Brian hadn't been sure whether or not he ought to ejaculate inside the butter-smooth walls of his teacher's magically pressuring mouth, but as his passion drove him further and further toward the shuddering shoreline of a mind-dazzling tidal wave of release, he no longer cared. Every muscle in his lean young body tightened to steel-rod rigidity as the first wisps of his powerful climax started to flood through him, and his strangled groans drowned out the lurid wet sucking sounds of her woman's furiously working lips and cheeks.
"Uuuuggghhh. . . aaarrrggghhh. . . " he choked out in incoherent ecstasy. "Nnnooowwwwwww!"
Sylvia nearly gagged as the first white-hot cascades of boiling male seed spewed deep into her desperately gulping throat, but she forced herself to keep her lips glued to the exploding cock-shaft as it released its scalding load into the convulsing confines of her impossibly strained mouth. The sharp edge of pain didn't matter, she realized dizzily as she eagerly lapped up each and every pearl-white droplet of spurting sperm. She was making Brian MacAuslande feel like a mature man . . . and in a few minutes, after his ecstasy subsided, she would teach him how to bring her equal delight by kissing her throbbing pussy with his soft young mouth.
Showing him about love is teaching me as much as it is Brian, she marveled as she relished the heated jets of sperm which spilled down her throat in a seemingly never-ending cascade. Now I know that nothing a man and a woman can do together is dirty or shameful, so long as it's done to make each other happy. Why do people feel ashamed about kissing a penis, but not about kissing on the mouth? And why do they make stupid smutty jokes about a man doing it to a girl? Kissing down there's intimate and beautiful ... I can't wait to find out how it feels . . .
As these new revelations about human sexuality filtered through the intelligent young woman's brain, a strange joy which was both serene and scintillating stole like liquid lightning through her naked figure. Never before in her twenty-five years had she felt so sure of herself as a woman and a human being, nor had she so much as imagined that it could be possible to be simultaneously seething with exhilaration and basking in a balmy sea of tranquility.
At last the boy's groans grew fainter, and his sated cock shrank to a limp miniature of its former self. Still, his teacher continued to clasp the deflated young flesh pole between her sperm-splashed lips, tenderly slithering her tongue over the head as its protecting foreskin slipped over the glans slit to cleanse away every last glistening drop of sticky white cum.
"Oh, wow!" the boy murmured exhausted ecstasy. "Ohhhh, Miss Sorensen . . . wow! That was the most super thing that ever happened to me!"
"Rest for a moment, little lover." Sylvia let the satiated boy's spent penis glide from between her sperm-slickened lips, then eased her voluptuous body up from his groin to lie with her flushed face cradled against his shoulder. "And then we'll try something else that'll be just as super!"
"What do you mean - something else?" he asked, raising his head from the sofa cushion with an eager grin.
Sylvia smiled back at him, noting with pleasure that already his potent young penis was stiffening into a second erection.
"You can kiss me down here, Brian dear," her hand drifted down over her belly in the direction of her golden pubic "vee". "Kiss my pussy . . . how will you like to try that?"
"Wow!" the boy was immediately fully alert. "Wow! Super wow!"
CHAPTER FIVE (The actual text DOES skip Chapter Four)
Indian summer had returned to northern Michigan in a glorious blaze of scarlet and gold. Each morning when Charlevoix High School's golden-haired English teacher awoke in her small lakeside cottage, she was greeted by the sight of brightly-hued fishing boats bobbing on the blue water and the crimson foliage of an ancient sugar maple growing beside the lake. On one edge of the scene framed by her bedroom window grew tall, dark green pines, and at the other could be seen a glimpse of the gnarled apple tree with its heavy burden of ripe red fruit.
Each morning of the week following her turbulent erotic indulgence with fifteen year old Brian, Sylvia Sorenson found herself waking when the first pearl-gray light of dawn filtered through the old-fashioned lace curtains of her bedroom. Rather than feeling tired after being roused from sleep so long before her normal rising hour of eight a.m., she discovered that these hitherto unknown morning hours were her favorite time of the day. The world was clean and fresh and full of promise in the mysterious, constantly changing light of dawn, and although it was rather chilly before the sun ascended over the horizon, the slender blonde liked to sit on the steps of her cottage with a hot mug of coffee. Munching a crisp apple from the tree beside the door, drawing in a lungful of smoke from the first cigarette of the day, she'd stare dreamily across the water at the fishermen towing in their day's catch of trout and whitefish.
And then at seven, after she'd put on her school-teacher uniform of modest knee-length skirt and conservative shirt or sweater and was drinking a second cup of coffee, there would be a sound of bicycle tires in her driveway and a familiar pair of glowing chestnut eyes and shock of unruly dark brown hair would be staring in at her back door.
How lucky that Mr. MacAuslande had taken it into his head that his son would become a lazy good-for-nothing Communist hippie if he kept on receiving a fifty-dollar-a-month allowance without having to make an effort to do more than move his wrist to accept the money. And how shocked the school board president would be if he only knew the true reason behind his only son's unexpected show of ambitious integrity!
"He's a real eager beaver!" she'd overheard the balding executive boasting at a recent PTA meeting.
"Five o'clock in the goddamn morning his alarm goes off, and he's away on his bicycle with his sack full of papers. And even when it's coming down so hard you can't see your hand in front of your face, he won't let me drive him around. 'No, Dad,' he says, T got my job and it's my responsibility to do it myself!' The wife's afraid he'll catch pneumonia this winter, but I tell her the kid's tough as nails. And I tell her I'm proud we've raised a real chip off the old block, 'cause that's just the way her Dad made his millions!"
There was never time for more than a quick embrace during those morning visits, but after the adoring paperboy had pressed his eager lips and hands over her mouth and breasts and desire-dampening crotch band, the sensuous schoolteacher felt charged with a vitality and enthusiasm which made her days fly by without any of the irritations, headaches, and boredom which had often plagued her in the past. She sang along with the radio as she drove the short mile to the high school, smiled serenely at her rudest and most disinterested pupils until she gained a reputation as one of the nicest teachers at Charlevoix High, and could even manage to be genuinely friendly with the other faculty members as they choked down their dreary cafeteria cuisine in the echoing dining room.
Seeing Brian in her two o'clock sophomore English class was a quite different matter from their secret morning meeting, but Sylvia was feeling so strong and happy that even the problems of acting utterly natural and unconcerned with her lover in the presence of the other twenty-five students did not unnerve her. After she dreamed up a pretext for moving the MacAuslande lad's desk to a spot where she could only see him by craning her neck around a rather sickly pink cyclamen plant, she was able to half-pretend that he was just another fifteen year old, one who happened to be a more eager student than most, perhaps, but in no other way exceptional.
Today, Saturday, she awoke even earlier than usual. The last faint pinpricks of stars still lingered in the gray sky as she stepped into her shower, and even by the time she'd dressed in jeans and a v-necked pullover and run a brush through the long waves of her golden hair, the sun had not yet acquired any warmth. Slipping on a wool jacket, Sylvia stepped outside anyway; she wanted these peaceful moments of communion with nature in order to sort things out in her innermost soul about the wisdom of the course she had embarked on for this weekend.
"Of course it's crazy to go off with him," she murmured, gazing thoughtfully up into the pink-tinged sky, then out over the violet-blue waves. "But crazy or not, I don't want to change the way things are between us. I've never been so happy in my life, and I believe him when he says it's the same way for him. Maybe that's what makes it so good - that we believe each other, trust everything the other does or says. That's a very rare thing ..."
Smiling in a gentle, tranquil manner which was inexplicably different from her look of a short month before, the blonde stepped back into her kitchen and began preparing a copious picnic basket with provisions for her illicit weekend. Calmly and capably, she decided what they would need for the two days -- it was important that nothing already resting in the MacAuslande cabin be touched, for the boy's parents were under the impression that he was going off on a Boy Scout overnight and would be suspicious if they later discovered supplies missing from their vacation hideaway.
"Salt . . . pepper . . . toilet paper ..." she muttered aloud, all the while listening with half an ear for the awaited sound of bicycle tires. "Hide the bike in the basement . . . eggs and bacon . . . soap . . . bread and cheese ... a bottle of wine? Why not... "
In a way, it made the moralistically-raised young teacher uneasy to have to sneak around in this devious way. She realized that it was a waste of energy even to think about it, but it was hard not to feel resentful against a world that would not allow them to come out and openly declare their mutual affection. Surely their love was at least as pure and fulfilling as that of any more conventional relationship she'd ever seen -- why did it have to be shameful and sinful in the prejudiced eyes of society?
The sun had climbed over the horizon by now, sending bright rays splurging across the worn tile floor of the kitchen. Warm enough to take my bathing suit, I think, Sylvia decided. As she was fishing the skimpy pink garment from the bottom drawer where she'd put all her summer clothes, she heard a sound on the gravel outside and then a boy's cheerful whistling. All troubling resentments vanished into thin air as she rushed to the door to greet him, her heart spilling over with joy and anticipation.
* * *
"You know what I wish?" Brian rolled lazily over onto his side on the soft grass beside the lake, his lean naked loins glistening like polished bronze in the early afternoon sunshine. "What I wish more than anything else?"
"What, darling?" Sylvia Sorensen's voice was languid and lusty, for she'd just awakened from an hour's nap in the unseasonably hot sun following a morning of swimming, a lunch of cold chicken and garden-fresh pears, and a blissful interlude of lovemaking. How wonderful it had felt when his hand had explored the sensitive folds and crevices of her secret female flesh . . . how proud he'd been when he discovered her nerve-filled clitoris and brought her to orgasm with his teasing middle finger . . . and then entered her from behind to send her spinning into a seemingly never-culminating orbit of successive climaxes with his skillfully spearing cock-shaft!
"I wish this day would never end, that we could always be sitting alone in the sun, fucking when we felt like it, eating good things when we were hungry, sleeping together on the grass when we were tired. That's the way life was meant to be, isn't it? Not all this shit about going to school where you don't even smile at me, or sitting around at home listening to my dumb parents nag about doing better in algebra so I can get into Princeton. Who wants to go to some stupid college anyway? All I wanna do is be with you and be happy."
Sylvia was tempted to agree with the boy, but although a significant part of her soul longed to escape from the reality of day-to-day life, she was mature enough to recognize the daydream for what it was. It would be unwise, unkind, to encourage the youngster's illusions.
"I don't think you really believe that, Brian darling," she said softly, reaching out to streak his golden-brown back with the lean youthful muscles which she so admired. "You're a clever boy -- you must realize that it's no use trying to escape from the world. We - we should just be grateful that we've found as much happiness as we have ..."
"But what's going to happen to us?" the teenager's voice rose to a fervent wail, and his sinewy muscles tensed to iron-rigid cables as he eased to a sitting position. "I can't bear it if it's going to always be sneaking around like this, telling lies and all. Our love's too good for that sort of nasty stuff, Sylvia."
It had only been for the past twenty-four hours that her young pupil was addressing her by her Christian name, and the blonde still felt a chill of surprise at hearing her name spoken by his boyish voice. She was equally disconcerted to hear the emotions he'd voiced; she'd been thinking this all along, but hadn't been at all sure that Brian was mature enough to be thinking of anything except the immediate present. Actually, she didn't much feel like discussing their future, for every solution she could come up with was either utterly untenable or emotionally unacceptable.
"Well, darling," she said when his piercing black eyes were staring at her too intensely to avoid any longer. "It's difficult to give that question an easy answer, you know ..."
"But I can't stand it if you hook up with some other guy - some guy your own age who can marry you and all," the boy burst out, digging his fingers into the tender flesh of his naked teacher's breasts so fiercely that she had to stifle a wince of pain. "Really, I'd go out of my mind!"
It occurred to Sylvia that -although she realized it would be best for the youth's welfare -- she, too, would be in an agony of despair if Brian should start going steady with one of his cute mini-skirted classmates. But she was being ridiculous, utterly insane! How had she allowed herself to fall into the trap of caring for a mere child, to become so emotionally entangled that now she was endangering her career and his future by her inability to put an end to the illegal relationship?
After this weekend, she placated her guilty conscience, I'll break away slowly and carefully so as not to hurt his ego now that he's changing into a self-confident young man.
"But Brian," she tried to speak lightly, to lighten the intensity of the conversation, then kissed him in the hopes that this would make him forget the sensitive subject. "We mustn't spoil the present by worrying too much about the future."
"I can't help it," the adolescent mumbled. "I keep thinking about you with that bastard Peters."
Although the youth's voice was still troubled, he returned the blonde's insistent kiss and his ever-eager virility gave an eager jerk as it started to swell into his third erection of the day. It couldn't be only her imagination - the slender shaft was definitely longer than it had been the first time they made love, and the velvet-textured sac of his testicles appeared to have enlarged as well. This evidence of her pupil's rapid advance toward maturity thrilled the adoring teacher almost as much as the sight of his new self-assured smile and the easy masculine grace with which he strolled through the school corridors these days.
"Don't be silly, darling," she admonished. "You've got nothing to worry about on that score!"
Although his older lover's voice was warm and sincere and the hands and lips which caressed his body like melted honey were obviously driven by desire, Brian MacAuslande was still not fully convinced that she really thought of him as a man. No matter how often she assured him that he was a perfect lover, he couldn't manage to rid himself of the suspicion that she would be happier with an older, more experienced male. Now, after his love had grown during this ultra-private weekend in the woods, he was burning with the desire to prove that he was a perfect lover, a man she could cherish and respect for the rest of her life.
Sylvia, instinctively aware of the direction his feelings had taken, reached down over the flat plane of the teenager's stomach to gently squeeze his hardening phallus. The best thing they could do was to make love again, for at least the physical facet of their bizarre love was always strong and honest and unconfusing. Each day, her lust to touch his beautiful young body grew fiercer, and she was eager now to forget their all-too-real problems by indulging the yearnings which were growing inside her churning belly.
"Turn over, Sylvia," the boy demanded suddenly, and she was surprised to hear a note of authoritative aggression which had never been there before. Normally she was the one who took the initiative in their lovemaking.
"What, darling?" she gazed at him, shivering in anticipation at the glow of animal lust in his dark eyes. "What do you want?"
"I want to prove I'm a real man!" was what the boy longed to say, but the obscene plan which had taken hold of his young brain was so shockingly stupefying that he found himself tongue-tied. Instead of replying, therefore, he only wrapped his arms around his teacher's curvaceous naked form and eased her over onto her belly with hands that dug more roughly than usual into her fair skin.
A strange heat smoldered inside Sylvia as she sensed the youngster's exceptional degree of arousal. Apparently he wanted to make love to her from behind another time, she decided as she felt his steel-hard shaft burrowing along the sensitive crack between her obscenely offered buttocks, and certainly she had no objection. Compliantly lifting her excitement-tingling ass-cheeks higher into the air, she let out a low whimper of lewd encouragement and twisted her neck around to smile back at the ardent lad.
"You'd like to make love this way again. Brian dear?" she purred, wriggling her long, model-perfect legs in uninhibited invitation. "It was nice, wasn't it, huummmmm?"
An uncontrollable compulsion to destroy her image of him as a timid teen and replace it with that of a sophisticated and strong-willed adult was growing by leaps and bounds inside young Brian's stimulated brain. In his innocence, he connected maturity with crudity, sadism, and all manner of other acts which his elders treated as forbidden. Although he had often found himself feeling repulsed or uninterested in the locker-room conversations and dirty books beloved by most of his classmates, his head was suddenly churning with vividly retained memories from the Danish magazine and a variety of similar publications which had circulated through the sophomore class.
Utmost in his lust-demented mind was a particularly salacious so-called "Marriage Manual" which had portrayed a voluptuous bride. The girl had looked sixteen at most, though better developed than many of the girls in his grade, and her virginal white lace gown was ripped into shreds and hanging from satin shreds to her firm peaches-and-cream flesh as an under short clad male held her pinioned with hands so huge they completely covered the ripe mounds of her fearfully clenching buttocks. Underneath the lurid color photo was a caption in Swedish, German, French, English and Japanese: "Beg for it, baby," it read. "Take it out and tell me to do it from behind!"
Brian had stared at that picture for a long time, wondering what his mom would say if he asked her to buy him manly continental-style shorts instead of babyish cotton underpants, and more importantly exactly what was meant by "doing it from behind". Their early afternoon dog-style screwing session had caused this vision to haunt him once again, and now he wanted to "do it from behind" in the shockingly unnatural way rather sketchily described to him by the senior captain of the swim team.
"Wait till ya try it, kid, it's out of this world," the leering eighteen year old had assured the younger boy. "Ten times tighter than cunt, even pure cherry cunt, and after you've done a broad that way, she'll really do anything you say after that. No kidding!"
At that time, of course, young Brian MacAuslande had not been so fortunate as to know what a female vagina felt like clasping around his frustrated manhood. Now, he considered intercourse to be the most exquisite sensation in the entire world, and if there were anything that reportedly was even better, he was determined not to miss out on it.
"No, that's not what I'm doing," he choked out between lips that felt swollen and numb with arousal. "I'm trying something new now!"
Something new? Sylvia couldn't imagine what he meant, for they'd already experimented with every position she'd ever dreamed of. Nor could she understand the change which had abruptly come over her young pupil; but in a way it was oddly titillating to have him force her into submission.
"Uuummmmm, darling," she smiled, then buried her golden head in the soft dune grass beneath them, wondering at the really animalistic gleam in his brown eyes. What in God's name did he have in mind? "Anything you want to do ... "
Brian was undeniably nervous about what he planned to do to his older lover -- what if she got really mad and left him? No more morning kisses, her lips tasting of coffee, the neatly folded newspaper discarded on the floor ... no more wildly wonderful weekends . . . nothing but loneliness -- but he was nevertheless determined to go through with it. If he could successfully ravish her in this final way, she'd be really and truly his and he'd never worry about competition from slobs like the science teacher again. That magical possibility was worth the margin of risk. He only wished that he were a little more sure of the techniques involved in anal fucking . . .
Taking a deep breath, the naked fifteen year old pried his English teacher's shapely legs far enough apart so that he could kneel between them. Then, with a jagged intake of breath, he ran a tentative finger along the moist-velvet crack between the two round white hills of her upthrust ass-cheeks. Her slight wince and nearly inaudible gasp incited him rather than discouraging his bold advances, and without another second's hesitation his middle finger shot out to tease tentatively at the puckered brown ring of her anus.
"Wh-what darling . . . ?" Sylvia demurred as her never-before-touched nether orifice contracted in automatic response to his prodding fingertip.
The idealistic blonde had believed that she'd succeeded in erasing all old-fashioned moral hang-ups from her mind, that she'd learned to accept all physical expressions of affection as being healthy in the process of educating her inexperienced lover in a natural approach to human sexuality. Nevertheless, she felt a very real resurgence of the guilt she'd thought she'd conquered when her stimulated body reacted to the lewd touch with an erotic flicker of lust.
"What? Please ..." she murmured again when the insistent finger slithered down to her desire-dewed pussy, wiped up some of the female juices, and then eased back down to the forbidden anal opening to moisten it.
It didn't seriously occur to the unworldly schoolteacher what the fifteen-year-old had in mind; she merely was torn between feeling ashamed at his touches but not liking to say so in a way that might hurt the boy's feelings or arouse unhealthy attitudes. Yet when Brian's fingers continued their lascivious prodding along her sensitive backside, she knew she had to say something. Perhaps the boy simply didn't realize how unnatural it was to touch that particular part of the body . . .
"Brian, please," she tried for the third time. She didn't raise her head from the lake bank because she didn't want him to see the involuntary flush of pleasure that his obscene exploration had brought to her cheeks. "I -- I really wish you wouldn't do that!"
"You said I could do anything," the boy retorted in a lust-distorted voice that rang out too loudly in the woodland silence. "And now I'm gonna do what I wanna do. Gonna show you I'm a man!"
"But of course you're a m -" Sylvia started to argue, still not daring to believe the lurid suspicions which teased at the corners of her innocent mind. Suddenly his short-nailed finger darted forward to dig a sharp two inches into her palpitating anal channel and her reasonable tone changed to a shrill wail of shocked dismay. "Oh, no! Stop that!"
"I'm telling you what to do this time," the youth dove into his new role as a victorious Viking ravager. "It's me who's giving the orders, and I say reach back and take hold of my cock! Put my prick into your ass from behind!"
Sylvia was shocked to the very root of her sheltered soul. How could such vile obscenities be issuing from the soft, sensitive lips of the same youth who had written her the beautiful spun-gold maiden ode? What had turned him into a younger and more slender version of the crass and vulgar Peters within a matter of minutes?
"Brian, stop, please!" she tried to appeal to his better nature by attempting a wheedling tone, but the rummaging finger delved deeper and sent fresh sparks of red-hot anguish shooting out to every nerve-ending in her naked body. "What's the matter with you this afternoon?"
"I said take my pecker and stick it in your ass," the boy insisted, ramming his middle digit into her rubbery passage so vehemently that it was embedded up to the second knuckle.
In his mind's eye swam a dizzy, surrealistically distorted rendition of the photograph he'd scrutinized some weeks before in the erotic pamphlet. As he mentally juxtaposed a burlier version of himself with the bridegroom in the "Marriage Manual", his vague twinges of guilt were overpowered by a mysterious, almost sadistic delight in his teacher's scandalized cries, and his recently awakened penis swelled to a cudgel of baseball bat dimensions. Despite his doubts as to whether his huge erection could possibly penetrate the clinging channel which seemed scarcely capable of admitting his slender finger, he grabbed her left hand away from where it clutched to the grass and forced it over his massive member.
The inexperienced blonde felt her blood freeze in her veins as she realized that Brian really intended to go through with his horrifying plan, and also that his potent phallus was virtually double its normal size. If he actually attempted to enter her back there, he would split her in two, cause some humiliating injury which she would never dare to admit to her doctor and would suffer from for the rest of her days. Greater even than her fear of physical damage, however, was her heartbroken grief that her darling little lover could treat her with such barbarous mercilessness.
"Please, please," she was crying now, hot tears which splashed to the matted grass below her down-pressed face. "Are you crazy, Brian? Please!"
Perhaps the wine she'd shared with him at lunch had driven him into this diabolical mood - was that possible? Then, as the ruthlessly impaling finger withdrew with a sordid sluicing sound and his fingers tightened around her wrist to shove his bludgeoning instrument directly against her circular anal entrance, she no longer wasted energy considering the causes of his behavior. All that mattered was to stop this humiliating assault before it was too late.
"No, Brian! It'll kill me!" Sylvia was too disturbed to notice that the louder she protested, the more the boy retreated from her into the demoniac darkness of his lust. "This isn't something educated, decent people do, darling. Please -- you don't want to hurt me, do you?"
"Do it!" was the boy's only reply, and it was uttered in the passion-constricted tones of a total stranger. His penis was aching painfully as he forced the older woman's slim white fingers around it and rubbed its blood-bloated head against the elastic ring of her unyielding anus, and he didn't feel like arguing any longer. "Put it in your ass!"
The pulsating phallus felt like a white-hot battering ram fashioned from human flesh as it shoved against the clenched orifice of Sylvia's rectum, and she certainly had no intention of relaxing enough to admit it. Yet, despite her firm resolve to refuse to allow this sinful depravity, there was a strange tremor of masochistic arousal wafting through her veins, a gentle vibrating chord of rising desire. No matter how hard she tried to repress her awareness of these rising emotions, they were still an undeniable reality.
When his teacher refused to obey his command, the boy was so irate that he flicked his strong hips and rammed forward without thought of hurt or harm he might inflict on her furiously squirming body. Somewhat to his surprise, his adrenalin-aided strength succeeded in plunging his hammering hardness a full two inches inside the firmly clenching channel walls. It wasn't a full impalement, but it was sufficient to convince the boy that this was indeed the world's most magnificent sensation, and the friction on his blood-distended weapon plus the wild triumph of power raised his passion to the fever point.
For a moment the agony in Sylvia's pinioned backside was so excruciating that she could not even cry out in protestation. In the next moment, however, the pain doubled as the huge shaft sank all the way to the hilt inside her, and she wailed like a madwoman as a black cloud of torment blinded her to the peaceful lakeside.
"Aaarrrgggg! Oooowww hhhwww!" her shrieks echoed out over the water, speeding a flock of wild ducks who'd intended to spend the night on their immediate way to the distant south.
Brian, however, was far more excited than frightened by the inhuman ferocity of the older woman's shrill wails, and he let his lust-engorged testicles swing against the satin smoothness of her widespread ass-cheeks as he throbbed his penis inside the impossibly tight walls of her anal passage.
There was an eternity of waiting as the youth wrenched the tender-fleshed cheeks of her nakedly quivering buttocks apart, opening her up even further for his coming assault. Pain flooded every cell of her body as the stiff shaft pulsed inside her, lay still, then throbbed again, but even though she sincerely believed that she was dying, there was a tortured pressure that was almost erotic which was growing inside her over and above her pain.
The obscene sight of his hungry penis crammed inside the dime-sized opening between the girl's billowing buttocks so incited the teenager that he could not resist digging his fingernails into the tempting white flesh as he spasmed his cock inside her pain-convulsing passage. Unwittingly, he was beginning to carry her over the threshold of shame and pain into the domain of obscenely perverse pleasure where he himself had been since this salacious scene began, but he had no way of knowing this since piteous tears still spilled from her blue eyes and pleas for mercy flowed from her mouth.
"No . . . nooooo . . . pleee zzzeeeee ..."
Abruptly, Brian yanked his exquisitely stimulated shaft from the kid-glove snugness of Sylvia's rectum, dragging tiny tendrils of tissue from her over-stuffed passage along with his long rod. Then, before the schoolteacher even had a chance to hope that the humiliating violation was finished, the heated thickness once again raced all the way into her raw, chafed anal depths.
"Oh, God! Aaaahhhhhhhh!" she screamed again.
Her screams were as loud and frenzied as before, but if the truth were told it would have to be admitted that her muscles were already accustoming themselves to the huge impaling instrument and that the initial fiery torture had faded to a not-unpleasant pressure. With each jackhammering downstroke and powerful out-thrust, her involuntary arousal grew more dominant. Soon she could no longer ignore the fact that her faithless loins were coming alive under this unnatural attack, and although she feared she might hate herself for the rest of her life, she abandoned herself to the perverted pleasure with a heart-wrenching groan.
"Oooowwwhhhhhh! " she howled, and there was a new note in her voice that even the lust-deafened youth perceived. "Aaaahhhhhhh . . . !"
She likes it! he gloated, boring down harder than ever into her deliciously tight nether passage. She really digs it after all! Now she'll know I'm a man!
Within minutes, Sylvia's ass-cheeks were starting to undulate in uncontrolled little circles which served to draw the shaft deeper into her unnatural opening and heightened her growing pleasure. Swinging her golden head around, she peered back over her shoulder, over the ripple of her arched spine to the point where the man's thick instrument was stuffed into her cruelly stretched little rectum. The salacious sight increased her lewd arousal tenfold, and she rocked wantonly back against him, telling him with her writhing loins what she could never bring herself to say aloud.
Brian, too, was gaping down at his teacher's body in hungry lust. There were droplets of cuntal moisture dribbling down her spread-eagled white thighs as her empty little pussy mouth opened and closed like a fish's in greedy yearning, and her luxurious mane of flaxen curls was thrashing around her head on the brown October grass like an unholy halo. God, she was beautiful! And she was all his now! He'd conquered her completely!
"It's good, huh?" he panted, impulsively reaching down to stroke the desire-drenched slit of her vagina and tweak the tiny red button of her erect clitoris. "Say you like it, Sylvia!"
"Oh, God, yes, yes," the schoolteacher was shocked to hear herself sobbing in a delirium of wanton lust. The perverted thrills surging through her sensuous figure with the additional stimulation of her nerve-filled bud were a virtual tidal wave, a sensation far more exquisite than she'd ever dreamed possible, and there was no longer any way she could hold back her shameless passion. "Oh, harder!" she moaned. "More! More!"
Brian, half out of his mind by now with the sweet ecstasy of success and the wild reverberations of the blonde's spasming rectal muscles, felt the first impatient stirrings of implacable sperm deep in his balls. The heavy testicles jolted against Miss Sorensen's wriggling ass-cheeks with each downstroke, increasing his urgent need for release, and though he would have loved to continue with the perverse anal fucking for hours and hours, he knew his moment had arrived.
"Aaahhhh! I'm there! I'm cumming!" he howled like a conquering caveman. "I'm cumming in your aasssssss! CCCUUUMMMIIINNNGGG!"
As his screams reverberated across the quiet landscape, Sylvia felt his fingers involuntarily tighten on her pleasure-tingling clitoris. Then, a split-second later, floods of white-hot life-giving seed were spilling like volcanic lava into her unnatural orifice, speeding her over-stimulated loins into the most magnificent orgasm of her twenty-five years. The spurts of seething sperm filled her whole abdomen with a strange flameless fire which burned and seared and spurred her over the edge of consciousness into a magical universe where everything was formed of pure bliss and she floated on a rainbow-hued cloud of sensation, and with a little moan she collapsed in a faint beneath the orgasming youngster.
When she came to her senses, Brian MacAuslande's perspiration-slickened loins were collapsed on top of her splayed-out figure, and he was snoring in contented satiation. His spent young penis had slipped from the depths of her sperm-spattered bowels and lay cradled in the crevice between her ass-cheeks, and his flushed face was resting on her back as though it were a pillow.
"My God," she murmured softly, flexing her aching anal muscles. They were very sore indeed, but that didn't bother her at all. All that mattered was the wonderful explosion of ecstasy they'd experienced together. "Who would have believed it . . . ?"
Brian, hearing her low whisper, sleepily raised his long lashes to smile at her.
"You're not mad, Sylvia?" he murmured, a little guilty light of worry appearing in his dark eyes.
"No, Brian," she kissed him as he rolled over to lie beside her. "I think I love you more than ever ..."
Just as the couple had started to fall into an impassioned embrace, a rumbling peel of thunder and sudden cold tensed their bodies and sent their dazed eyes swirling over the landscape. During their wanton lovemaking, the weather had undergone one of the sudden changes of autumn; dark clouds were encroaching from the horizon, and the tall pines sang an ominous song "in the strong wind that was blowing in from the north. Brian gave his teacher a quick kiss and jumped to his feet.
"It's gonna be a bad storm," he swept a practiced eye over the storm. "Better get the boat in, or it'll smash up on the pier and Dad 'll find out I've been here and give me hell."
"Yes, you better," Sylvia stood up too, stretching her satisfied body like a contented cat. "It would never do for him to find out we were here, 'cause then where would we spend our weekends?"
For a moment she stood on the beach watching her young lover's lean naked body sprinting over the sand and into the lake. Then, sighing happily, she turned back toward the small log cabin. It would be best if they left before the rain began, for the roads in this part of the state weren't as good as they might be. She'd better start packing the car and cleaning the cottage while he brought the boat in, although she'd rather have watched how he strained and heaved to do the job like a full-grown man.
CHAPTER SIX
Sylvia was wiping the glasses from which she and her illicit young lover had sipped wine that noon when a crash from the shed outside so startled her that she almost dropped the expensive crystal goblets. For a second she thought the building had been hit by a shaft of lightning, for the sky had begun to be punctuated by fiery bolts in the last few minutes, but then a sharp human cry of pain pierced above the sound of distant thunder and she dropped her dishtowel and went rushing out to the shed.
The boy was no longer screaming when she reached him, for he was half unconscious with pain. Feeling as though she were going to faint, Sylvia surveyed the grim scene that met her eyes: the heavy boat had fallen on him as he tried to lift it onto the rack, pinning his naked leg in such a way that she was certain the bone must be shattered. There was no way on earth that she could disentangle him from his painful position, she realized in the first horrified second.
"Oh. Brian, Brian!" she moaned, her voice breaking with intensity. "Oh, darling, does it hurt very badly? Who can I get to help?"
"Sylvia ..." the boy groaned, then he sank into a dizzy faint and left her standing there alone, clutching her fingers against her palms until she drew blood and weeping helplessly.
I have to do something . . . she thought as she turned and ran wildly back to the cottage. There must be a phone book or some doctor's number somewhere . . .
Sure enough, a Dr. Calvin Cooper's number was tacked on the wall beside the old-fashioned black phone, and to her vast relief she discovered that even in this wilderness it was possible to dial direct without going through a curious operator. But when the number rang thirteen times without anyone picking up the receiver, she hung up in despair.
Neighbors? Not for fifty miles, Brian had told her. In summer several other families stayed on the lake, but now it was October and the nearest farm was fifty miles away, on the outskirts of the small hamlet where Dr. Cooper practiced. She could call the boy's parents, of course, but what good would that do? They were too far away to help .. .
At the thought of the school board president and his wife, the full tragedy of the situation hit the schoolteacher full in the face. Sinking down onto a nearby wicker chair, she dropped her face into her hands and indulged in a second's sobbing despair. There he was naked in the barn . . . together with her . . . without the knowledge of his parents. . .
"We're both ruined ..." she muttered numbly, then dried her tears and dialed the doctor's number once more. Maybe by some nervous fluke she'd misdialed the first time.
This time Calvin Cooper answered - he'd just arrived back in his office after delivering a baby, he told her cheerfully, but when he heard her breathless story his voice sobered and he promised to arrive as soon as he possibly could. There was a small hospital about sixty miles away, and he had a fast car which doubled as the local ambulance.
It seemed an eternity before the doctor arrived. The blonde sat beside Brian's broken body in the shed, holding his hand and talking to him in the most reassuring tone she could muster, but it was a wasted effort since he never really regained consciousness for more than a second or two. All the way to the country hospital she continued to hold his hand, grateful beyond words that the raging winds and driving rain made it impossible to carry on a conversation with the gray-haired doctor in the front seat. Only when they reached the small brick building and the boy was rushed into surgery did they exchange words.
"And you must be a relative . . .Mrs. MacAuslande's sister from St. Louis, maybe?" he asked. "Would you rather ring his parents, or shall I?"
"I - I'm not a relative, no," Sylvia stammered, annoyed to discover a damning blush rising over her neck and cheeks. "I - I'm his schoolteacher . . .,"
Her voice faltered and drifted off into embarrassed silence as she realized that the elderly man was staring at her with a very queer expression in his kindly eyes. Suddenly she remembered that the boy had been stark naked, and she blushed redder than ever.
"I th-think maybe it would be b-better if you telephone them," she mumbled, looking down at the pattern on the tile floor as though it were of great interest to her. "I have the number ..."
* * *
It was only a little over an hour before Brian was brought out of surgery and rolled into a private room with a big window looking out over rolling hills covered with pines and autumn foliage, but to Sylvia Sorensen it seemed an eternity in hell. Her long, tapered fingernails were bitten to the quick by the time she was allowed to sit beside his bed and wait for him to regain consciousness, and her nerves were so on edge that she burst into tears when the surgeon informed her that the operation had been successful and the boy was expected to walk normally again within six months.
"Very, very lucky," he, too, seemed to be looking at her curiously, wondering what her relationship to the adolescent might be. "If it had fallen an inch to the left, I'm afraid he'd have lost the leg for good. But as it is, he's a strong lad and I'm sure there'll be no serious complications so long as he has a calm environment for recuperation and no further shocks. That last part's mighty important, though, because he had a rather severe concussion, too."
"Yes . . . yes . . . oh, thank you ..."
Sylvia realized that she sounded like a prattling idiot, but she was simply too distraught to get hold of herself. Every ounce of her self-control must be reserved for acting competent and gentle when the boy awoke, she shivered, feeling an icy alarm at the doctor's last words. Would the scandal which was certain to ensue be detrimental to darling Brian's health and ability to recover?
It'll all be my fault ...Oh God, I just can't bear it, she thought wretchedly. I'll go mad. . . I know I will.. .
Gradually the youngster's breathing seemed to grow more regular, his color more normal. Dr. Cooper and the surgeon stuck their heads in the door to say that he should be conscious in some ten minutes, and that the boy's father had rented a private helicopter and should be there within an hour now that the storm had grown less dangerous. Nodding numbly, smiling in a crippled effort at normalcy, Sylvia watched them exit and turned her full attention back to the form of her beloved student.
"Miss Sorensen . . . Sylvia . . . Sylvia ..." a weak voice aroused her from her guilt-stricken reverie.
"Brian!" the schoolteacher half-sobbed. Within an instant she was at his side, covering his cheeks with gentle kisses, clasping his cold, limp hand. "Oh, darling, you're all right! I'm so, so glad!"
"Wh-what happened . . . ?" the boy was still drugged, and his voice was slurred and slow, but he managed to give his teacher's hand a responsive squeeze. "Oh . . . the boat . . . falling . . . does Dad know - he'll be mad ..."
"Your Dad'll just be glad you're okay, Brian," Sylvia said with a good deal more confidence than she felt. "He'll - he'll be here very soon ..."
"I don't wanna see him," the boy's hand gave a more vehement squeeze. "I just wanna be with you!"
"Well, darling," Sylvia plunged ahead bravely, not knowing if it was wise to say this now, but not sure either that it wouldn't be worse if she simply vanished. "I'm afraid that he won't be exactly overjoyed when he finds me here with you ..."
"So what? I don't care what he says -- I just want you to be with me forever and ever! You won't let him chase you away, will you? Promise me you won't!"
Blinking away the smarting tears that misted at the corners of her Scandinavian-blue eyes, the flaxen-haired high school instructor strained to think and speak logically and not to allow the youth's plaintive entreaty to catch at her heart strings and distort her judgment. Instead of looking directly into the doleful black pools of Brian's haunted eyes, she stared fixedly at the clean bandage bound around his forehead.
"But Brian, dear," she tried to speak with conviction, "naturally your parents will want to be alone with you. You'll have your mother to take care of you . . . you won't need me. And -- naturally they'll be angry that we were at the cottage together. Really, dear, I think it'll be better for us all if I just go away now."
"No!" the boy's voice rose in such a loud, hysterical scream that the blonde was afraid the doctor or nurse would come barging in.
"Not go away forever," she hastened to add. "As soon as you're well we can -- can see each other again."
Visit me in prison, maybe? she thought in bitter despair. Or find me when I've escaped to another state and changed my name? How much I hate lying to him, but of course he's in no condition to accept the ugly facts yet.
"You don't really care about me at all if you can give up so easy!" Brian challenged. "Please, Sylvia, please! Don't leave me!"
"I don't want to leave you, darling, please believe that, but--"
"Then don't go away . . . stay here by my bed . . . stay with me . . . stay--"
The boy's voice faded away into an incoherent sigh as the pain-killing drugs he'd been given once again sent him into hazy unconsciousness. His hand fell away from the woman's grasp, and as she looked at the skillful sun-brown fingers which had brought her body such inexpressible joy and which could pen poems and express his thoughts with an ability far beyond his years, something snapped inside her brain and her mind was made up for her.
"Yes, Brian," she whispered to the sleeping adolescent, then bent down to kiss him tenderly on his slightly parted lips. "I'll stay with you ... no matter what! Your father can say or do whatever he chooses, but I'll fight for our love with everything I've got."
The boy's hospital window looked out on the highway winding through the woods toward the hospital. Any minute now, a rented car or taxi carrying an irate Mr. MacAuslande would be rounding that curve by the rain-glistening birch grove and skidding to a screeching halt in the parking lot behind. Heavy footsteps would be thudding down the tile corridor as the infuriated school board president hastened toward his injured son's bedside to save him from the perverted clutches of his child-molesting English teacher.
Or perhaps the doctor had not told him of her presence, and they would meet with her automatically having the upper hand because she was prepared. That would certainly be better . . .
But whatever direction fate took, the gently smiling blonde who sat stroking the invalid's hand and watching out the rain-streaked window was determined that she would meet the challenge. It might be absolutely mad; a malicious world would doubtless do its utmost to destruct the untarnished bonds of mutual devotion and ardor which united them, either by legal force or by the equally nefarious power of psychological poison. Sylvia was not naive enough to believe that they would be able to float away into a paradisiacal private cocoon like the mountain cabin in For Whom the Bell Tolls, Brian's favorite Hemingway novel. Yet although she realized that the mere difficulties of survival in a society bent upon their downfall were overwhelming, she felt suffused with a strength of conviction which allayed her fears.
The expected automobile, a mud-splattered Hertz Rent-a-Car, was rounding the corner now, and Sylvia's heart sank as she saw that both Mr. and Mrs. MacAuslande were seated in the back seat. Kissing the sleeping boy one more time, she moved away to sit on the chair on the far side of the room, steeling herself for the unwelcome encounter.
But whatever happened, she vowed in silent certainty, she would be following the true commands of her heart and soul. And that was the only thing that mattered in the long run . . .
