Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 "I'm going to hell, aren't I?"

   [Mf, nc, blackmail, solo, hs, nosex, caution]

   + + + Erotic fiction + + +

   Mark looked down into his "D.A.R.E." mug and watched the creamer
swirling into the coffee and wondered how it had happened.  How had he
become a rapist?  A child abuser?  The lowest form of sex criminal there
was?  Maybe the lowest form of all criminals?  The lowest form of life?

   He had become a teacher to help kids.  He'd never had any children of
his own, and as he got older he started to realize that maybe this had been
a big mistake.  It seemed like there was a hole in his life; like he had
something to give, but there was no one who needed it, or wanted it.

   It wasn't a woman/companion he was missing.  He'd gotten divorced almost
8 years ago, and good riddance.  He'd dated occasionally at first after the
divorece, but it all seemed like more work than the reward of companionship
and/or sex justified.  He'd slowly drifted into a permanent bachelorhood,
becoming close to a recluse, only socializing during holidays, or the
occasional big sporting event.  And even then it was with people he'd known
for years.  No new faces, no anxiety over being embarrassed in front of
someone he didn't know.

   For sex he had the occasional trip to a strip club (followed by
masturbation), and lots and lots of on-line porn (to accompany his
masturbation).  He was happy enough with that.

   But that hole seemed to deepen and darken over time, and he found
himself looking into becoming a teacher.  The shortage of teachers in the
state meant that people with non-education degrees were being recruited to
teach technical subjects in high schools.  A six-month program, a few
months of being a teacher's aid, and suddenly Mark found himself with his
own classroom and classes.

   On the whole he was happy with the decision to start teaching.  The
majority of kids were good at heart, if a regular pain in the ass.  But
that's just how kids are.  Maybe he was a little more indulgent of the
girls than the boys, but that's hardly abnormal.  Mothers dote on sons;
fathers on daughters.  He had no daughters, but he had his students.

   Boys needed rules and discipline, girls needed advice and hugs.  Not
that he *could* hug any students.  Completely verboten, that, or any other
physical contact, with any student, boy or girl.  Also he couldn't curse,
or threaten physical violence, etc.  The students did all that to each
other, with vigor, but they were too delicate to withstand such things from
a teacher.

   Whatever.  He did what he could to constrain the bullies--at least
within his classroom--and he lent a sympathetic ear to those who wanted
one. And he wished more would confide in him so he could try to explain to
them what an unnatural environment high school was.  How everything was
weirdly distorted, and the wrong things were important, and how it would
all change once they hit the real world.  He wanted to hug those poor girls
who were convinced that they were unattractive and tell them how beautiful
they really were.  Tell them to stop submitting to the all the bullshit
they endured from their boyfriends, and from the other, supposedly
prettier, girls.

   He felt like what he really wanted to do was be like a father to so many
of them.  What had happened?  How had that become twisted into abuse and
rape?

   It was the porn, of course.  No, no, the porn didn't twist him or his
feelings.  It wasn't the porn that led him down the path from concern to
love, nor did it force him to make the wrong turn from love into sex.  No,
what the porn did was hand him the opportunity.

   + + +

   To call it homemade porn wasn't entirely correct.  Some kids did it to
engage the interest of a single person, and then that person betrayed their
trust.  Some kids were just confused and lost in the land of sexuality,
with hormones raging through their bodies and mixed messages clobbering
their brains.  Visually, prime-time television walked the line just this
side of soft-core pornography, and music videos sold sex more than they did
the music.  But meanwhile the words, the commentaries, the headlines, made
sex scandalous and dirty.  Sex was apparently the point and cornerstone of
marriage, and therefore fags couldn't get married, and an affair was the
worst possible crime a spouse could commit.  Wives defend and protect the
husbands who beat them, but they'll attack with a knife a husband who has
sex with another woman.

   Some of them were called "cam whores" and probably were--they sold
themselves through sex the same way that advertisers sold music, cars and
potato chips with sex.  Others were just competing, or joining in, or
showing off.  Within that twisted world of high school (and middle school,
dear Lord!) nudity in front of a camera was common and casual.  And the
competition drove things along until masturbation was as ubiquitous.

   Mark found himself caught up in this wave of webcam-porn.  He had
started just looking for younger and younger performers in his porn.  Human
brains are wired to find youth attractive.  Young mates are more likely to
be healthy and/or successful.  And American culture reinforces this "to be
pretty, you must be young" prejudice to the point of insanity.

   Or, at least it seemed to drive Mark insane.  Because his quest for ever
younger performers eventually led to him hoarding the little movies clips
of webcam porn.  At first it was a mix of various ages of women.  Or
various ages of "females", rather, as some of them were women, but others
were still on the "girl" side of things.  Not children, though.  Not child
porn.  Mark found and adopted the rationalizing term of "jailbait".  Young
women, too young in the eyes of the law, but old enough as far as biology
was concerned.  Or, at least, as far as the physical indicators of puberty
were concerned.

   The minds and personalities of these jailbait girls?  Unimportant.  It
shouldn't have been to Mark.  He knew better.  He dealt with "jailbait"
kids in his classroom every day, and knew they weren't adults, or young
adults, or pre-adults, or whatever silly term you may want to use.  They
were kids.  In another time, in another culture, folks the age of his
students probably would be adults.  Holding down jobs, starting families,
taking on real responsibilities.  But in the extended adolescence of the
U.S., they were a bunch of kids playing at grown up games.

   But as he watched the videos at night, hunched forward a little as if
that would help improve the poor resolution and choppy frame rates, he saw
them as little...  women.  They knew what they were doing.  They had
volunteered to be his whack fantasy.  They wanted him to be fapping away in
a darkened room, a couple of paper towels laid out to clean up the mess.

   And then, one night, while sorting through his daily catch of downloads,
he found Sarah.  Sarah was in his third period class.  She sat in the
fourth seat of the middle row.  She did her homework, got Bs on tests, and
spent a little too much time and energy socializing with the kids sitting
near her in class.

   He sat back and watched as she took a hairbrush and rubbed hair
conditioner on the rounded handle of it.

   Sarah?  She always wore shirts that went all the way up to her neck. 
She'd never worn a skirt cut any higher than her knees.

   Yet there she was climbing onto her knees, turning around and bending
over to stick her ass in the camera.

   Had she ever even cursed?  Said, "fuck" or "shit"?  She drew little
hearts to dot her "i"s in the notes he'd confiscated.

   That cute little scribe reached back to adjust the camera, and smiled
directly into it.  Showing a hint of her braces, before her bare vulva
became centered in the screen.  Thin, bright red minor labia wrinkled along
the edges of her tiny vagina, which was damp.  With excitement?

   Mark's penis throbbed.  It was so stiff and erect that it had started
bobbing to the increasing beat of his heart.  As he leaned forward again,
he stroked it gently.  He forgot the Sarah he thought he knew.  As the
hairbrush came into view, and was played up and down the narrow, virginal
vagina, he glanced at her puckering anus.  Pink, too, it seemed too small
to pass anything bigger than a Tic-Tac.  But as he stroked his penis
harder, he wondered if maybe she would slide the hairbrush into there, too.

   + + +

   After he had cleaned up the mess, he watched the video again, more
dispassionately.  He penis still went hard, but in a less insistent manner.
More of an acknowledging salute, then any kind of preparation for the hard
work of firing his genes into the future.

   Holy crap, that really was Sarah!  God, now what?  He should delete
this. Delete this file, empty the trash, and then defrag and compact his
harddrive.  Of course, he should delete *all* of this crap.  Anything that
could be even vaguely construed to involve anyone under the age of 20.  Or
25.  Better yet, 30.

   Mark deleted her video.  And the whole day's catch.  And then the whole
directory of "CamPr0n" as he had named it.

   But he didn't empty the trash.  He didn't do anything else.  He turned
off the monitor and went to bed.

   + + +

   He didn't have a first-period class, since he didn't have the
credentials to be a home-room teacher.  As the clock crept toward the end
of first period he felt nauseous, and realized that he had already had four
cups of the coffee he made with a Keurig in the combination supply closet
and cramped office behind the blackboards.

   He tossed out the last of what was in his "D.A.R.E." coffee mug, and
went down the hall to fill it with cold water from the drinking fountain.
The bell rang just as he finished topping it up, and he had to patiently
weave his way through the chaos in the halls to get back to his classroom.

   The immersion in the screaming students in the halls was like a dunk in
an ice cold bath of water.  He suddenly felt snapped back into reality. 
This was all familiar again, and he rolled through the second period class
like the previous night had never happened.

   He was actually starting into the lecture for the third period class
when he heard someone behind him sibilantly gossiping away.  He turned
around to verbally chastise whoever it was and found himself staring at
Sarah.  She was almost completely turned around in her seat, talking with
the girl behind her.  His brain locked up.  This was it.  The moment where
shadowy, guilty fantasy met glaring bright reality.

   He said nothing.  His mouth was parted, starting in on some
sarcastically polite request, but it was stuck in place without making a
sound.

   The students, other than Sarah, froze.  Either from a sense of guilt, or
from an anticipation of seeing someone else get in trouble.  It took a few
seconds for Sarah to notice the change in her classmates.  She looked
backed over her shoulder at Mark and smiled.  Her braces showing a little.

   She probably said "Sorry, Mr.  Mark" or something like it, but he didn't
hear.  Inside his head he was screaming, "Oh God!  Oh God!  Oh God!  I'm
going to prison!  I'm going to hell!  I deserve hell!  Oh God!  Oh God!  Oh
God!  Please don't get hard!  Penis--NO!"

   Happily, his penis was reacting only to his fear and was trying to slide
up inside him and pretend it was just a piece of misplaced intestine.  The
lump in the back of his throat was probably his balls.

   He reached out and picked up his "D.A.R.E." mug and took a sip of water.
He turned back to the board before saying, "Please, save it for after
class, okay?" He was squeezing his eyes shut and fighting to unclench his
teeth as he said it.

   He must have sounded apoplectic to the students, because at the end of
class Sarah came up to his desk and said, "I'm soooooo sorry, Mr.  Mark."
Her brow was bunched up and wrinkled from concern that she had really
pissed him off.  "I promise I won't do it again."

   Mark maintained the blankest face he could.  "It's okay, Sarah," he
said, "it wasn't...  I had other things on my mind, don't worry about it."
His heart melted at the look on her face.  Such a wonderful girl, so
concerned about his apparent anger.

   "Thanks," she said, and started walking out of the room.  Mark turned
his head to watch her go, his heart reaching out to quietly hug her.  And
then his eyes drifted down and he could see the panty lines through her
unusually tight pants.  And then his penis reached out to her....

   He would have banged his head on the desk, but the kids from the next
period were already filtering in, so he got up and went through the door on
the far side of the blackboards and made himself a cup of decaf. 
"Shaddup," he called through the door as the coffee brewed.

   * * *

   That night, Mark didn't even turn on the monitor of his computer.  He
thought about turning it on just to shutdown the computer (bittorrents be
damned) but decided to just avoid the thing all together.

   He watched TV for as long as he could stomach it, then when to bed early
on an empty stomach.  He was still a little nauseous and had skipped
dinner. Besides, the sleeping pill he took would hit that much harder on an
empty stomach.

   He didn't sleep well, but he slept.

   + + +

   He managed to ignore Sarah the next day, and then it was the weekend.

   He spent Saturday reading a book, doing the dishes and some other odds
and ends.  He vegetated in front of the TV for a while, then got on the
computer to check the TV listings.

   He ended up spending the rest of the day on the computer.  No porn
though.  Just killing time lurking on "community" websites, and playing
various puzzle games.  He never spoke to another human being the whole day.

   The only people he interacted with on Sunday were the workers at the
grocery store, and the old guys at the hardware store.  He did some minor
repair around the house (condo, in fact), was yet again disappointed by TV,
and was back at the computer.  He watched a couple of recent-release movies
that he'd bittorrented.

   He went to trim his beard before he went to bed and spent a while
scratching at it, looking at the grey hairs that were becoming more and
more prevalent along the line of his jaw.  "Turning into a goddamn
silver-back," he muttered, as he turned on the hot water to shave his neck.

   He took two sleeping pills, though better of it, and took a third.  He
went to bed without masturbating.  He hadn't fapped since he had ejaculated
watching Sarah plunge a hairbrush in and out of her thinly-lipped,
reddish-pink vagina.

   + + +

   The fog in his brain from the sleeping pills didn't really clear until
after lunch.  He skipped out of school after his last class in sixth
period, ignoring the grading and paperwork he should have been working on.
He drove to the YMCA telling himself that he's swim some laps, but he never
got out of his car.  He sat in the parking lot, and found himself longing
for a cigarette, and decided to go buy a pack, after six years of not
smoking.

   But once the car was moving, he found it easier to just head home.  And
so he found himself home, hours earlier than usual, with nothing much he
felt like doing.  He got on his computer and bopped through a few
"favorite" websites, not reading much.  He tried some websites that were
collections of purportedly-amusing images, and from there found himself
looking at pictures of sexy celebrities and models.  That led him into
soft-core porn, and then hard-core porn, and as he was waiting for some
promised "Hot Hottie Brunette teen Lovs In Up ASS!" to download, he dove
into the collection of porn videos he already had on his system.

   The promised hot brunette teen was, of course, a 40-something Filipino
who lightly rubbed her anus before spending 15 minutes bouncing up and down
on some soft, ugly, hairy guy's dick.

   But Mark didn't care by that point, he was into some of his favorite
videos.  The little core collection that builds up slowly over the years of
any serious porn surfer.  There were some general themes among the videos,
but nothing universal.  They excited him for different reasons, and to
different extents, depending on his mood.

   Tonight, nothing seemed to do it though.  Mark had laid out his paper
towels.  He had started soft and slow with his stroking.  Switched hands.
Switched angles.  Tried a revered wrist, but his triceps weren't up to the
task (if only he swam more often).  Full screen.  Sound on, sound off.  If
it's possible to get blue balls from porn, Mark was getting close.

   He knew it was there.  He'd always known at the back of his mind.  He
opened up the trashcan folder and undeleted it.  The "CamPr0n" folder.

   He started watching those.  He went from masturbating to really abusing
himself.  Like he was trying to beat the semen out of him.  Harder, faster,
and even harder, and even faster.  Nothing.  NOTHING!

   Mark was dripping with sweat when he opened up the trashcan folder
again. He undeleted the Sarah video.

   He slumped back in his chair as it started playing.  He penis flopped to
the side, mostly deflated in disappointment.  It was like a punch-drunk
fighter, leaning against the ropes for support, dazed, unconfident.  'What
went wrong, boss?' it seemed to ask.  But then there she was.  The look,
the smile.  The tease and the plunge.  He penis rallied.  As he stroked it,
it became alert, it was ready to charge into the breach, just one more
time. For you, my liege!  For England!

   Mark leaned in again, switching briefly to his left hand for the
stroking, he used his right for the mouse and turned on the video's sound.

   "You like that baby?" she said.  Or something like that.  It was
meaningless babel.  It wasn't even sexy.  It was more like she was
repeating things she didn't really understand but had heard were what you
were supposed to say.

   But it was her voice.  Most definitely Sarah's voice.  He leaned back
into the chair, and thought he could hear her voice saying, "I'm soooooo
sorry, Mr.  Mark....  I promise I won't do it again." His head rolled back
as he closed his eyes and saw her face, so beautiful, with the little
wrinkles in the middle of her forehead as she worried that she hadn't
pleased him.  "I promise I won't disappoint you," he imagined her saying,
his memory threw in the refrain, "I promise...."

   Leaned back like that, he had his penis aimed for a high trajectory, and
as he ejaculated so hard that his whole body snapped into ridgidity, the
chair creaked in protest, and his semen shot out like a wad of
half-congealed glue, up high enough, and traveling far ehough, to clear
even the keyboard and land squarely on the phone bill laying there on the
desk waiting to be paid.

   That was just the first round, but the subsequent ones didn't have the
mass to carry as far, and rained down on his legs and arms and, as he
slumped back and stopped stroking, dribbled onto his stomach.

   Mark was woozy.  His brain seemed starved for blood, and he felt close
to passing out.  Or at least dropping into a little nap.  He normally only
felt like that after long, long athletic sex with a woman who knew what she
was doing.

   "Holy crap," he said, blinking his eyes, and trying to get his head to
stay upright on his neck.  He started wiping all the semen off of his body,
and the chair, and wasn't that some on the floor?  He tossed the paper
towels in the general direction of the waste basket and pulled the chair
closer to the desk.  The video was still playing, but Sarah had pulled a
bed sheet up over her nakedness and was making little screechy exclamations
in response to something she was reading in the chat log.  He turned off
the sound.

   It was better with the sound off.  She didn't seem quite so....  young,
when you couldn't what she was actually saying.  "I promise," he preferred
to hear, "I promise."

   He decided to make a special folder for this video, and was
contemplating a name for it as he moved his keyboard a little and noticed
the phone bill.  And the widening pool of semen that was taking it over,
like a monstrous jelly-fish eating its prey.

   "Fuck" he said, impressed with himself, as he carefully lifted up the
bill, so as not to spill anything.  The spoo seemed to add a notable heft
to the bill.

   This meant something.  The amount of his ejaculate, and the force with
which his body and launched it on its mission was beyond anything he'd
achieved (by himself) in years.  Maybe decades.

   Was it love?  Was it some kind of highly purified lust?  It was pure...
something.  It was something he couldn't name or describe, but it was the
exact opposite of the pitch-black darkness in that hole inside him.  This
didn't fill the hole--it reacted with it.  It popped and fizzed and put out
a blinding light that burned away shadows in all directions.

   Mark studied the dome of semen on the phone bill and wondered if there
was any way to preserve it.  To show it off.  To be able to experience it
again, later?

   It wasn't the semen he wanted to experience, of course.  It was the act
of ejaculating it.  Mark shook his head and laughed at himself and rolled
the chair over to the wastebasket and tossed in the phone bill.

   They'd send him another bill next month, anyway.  Besides, his mind was
full of more important things.

   + + +

   He smiled a little too much at Sarah the next day.  She didn't really
notice, because she mostly paid little or no attention to him (he was,
after all, a teacher).  When class was over and she was leaving she glanced
at him and caught the leering curl of his lip, and stopped to say, "Uh?"
Which is teen-speak for "Oh, did you want to speak with me?"

   Mark just shook his head and looked away.

   That night, he masturbated to Sarah again, but, while it was good, it
wasn't the as good as the night before.  If there was just...  just
something a little more.  Some kind of connection, something that showed
she wanted *him* to be the guy jacking off.  A connection between them.  A
two-way connection.

   The next night he had to work late to finally catch up on his grading
and paperwork, and, by the time he finished eating, the bed was calling his
name stronger than the computer was.  (That this was even possible probably
said more about his age then his greying whiskers.)

   Over the nights to come, the video would become, unfortunately, all too
familiar.  He would unintentionally memorize it, and knowing exactly what
move, what motion or frame stumble was to come next made the video seem
robotic, almost unreal.  As an added horror his brain dredged up the audio
that he thought he hadn't heard, and now he knew what she was saying, and
how...  incorrect it was.  "Incorrect" in that it didn't fit into his
fantasy.

   He started having the same reaction to Sarah at school.  She would make
a joke about a fart and he would wince.  No, *his* Sarah doesn't joke about
that kind of thing.  She'd whine about something and he'd struggle not to
scold her for acting like a child.  Despite that fact that she was, of
course, a child.

   Her mistakes on homework or unanswered questions on tests seemed like a
personal insult.  Here he was, dying inside from wanting her so much, and
she obviously couldn't care less about his class or, by extension, him.

   And as she continued to fail to match up with any of his fantasy-fueld
expectations, he started to hate her, just a little bit.

   + + +

   He'd taken a break from Sarah's video.  He'd put it aside, realizing
that he was wearing it out.

   He started casting his daily nets again, trawling in piles of webcam
videos and sorting through them.  Compare the duplicates to see if one is a
better quality of video, or has more (good) content, or less watermarking.
Toss the ancient hags posing as teens (where "ancient hag" is any woman
over 22).  Shred the ones that gave up the "jailbait" pretense entirely and
showed pudgy little girls half obscured by the hairy bellies of their
fathers, who took these over-exposed videos of them pressing their dicks up
against their (step?) daughter's anus.

   His collection of keepers started to swell and he sorted them into
categories.  Baits, Anal, DogLovers, BFF, BJs, etc.

   And he found himself preferring the videos of humiliation.  Hairbrushes
were common, but a hammer?  That was a girl with a self-respect so low that
she would happily demean herself for a few more smilies in chat.  The girl
who stuck a Sharpee in her vagina, sucked it, then into her anus and back
to her mouth?  Wow.  What was her home life like that she would do that
casually for an audience?  She either didn't get enough hugs, or a few too
many that lasted way too long.

   Girls who where obviously being pressured into their performances were
even better, he decided.  "This is just for you," they'd stammer at the
camera, "Remember.  You promised." And after stripping and sticking the
camera half-way up their wazoo they'd flop onto their unmade beds, hug a
stuffed animal and whine, "I love you." No wonder the recipient recorded
the show and dropped the video into gaping maw of the Internet.  Was that
not the next logical step in a relationship built on her grinding her face
in shit to prove her devotion?  Only after completely humiliating her would
her "lover" finally grow bored and dump her.  (But, then she'd do the
pleading, always-entertaining, 'What you're missing' video!)

   But after Christmas break, when Sarah had already missed the first two
days of the new semester because her family's ski trip had run long, and
when it was becoming harder and harder for Mark to decide if he had seen a
given fingers-in-the-pooper clip before, he opened up her video again.

   As she repositioned the camera and assumed what Mark now thought of as
"The Position," he couldn't stop focusing on her anus.  It quivered as she
laughed at the weirdness and stupidity of this thing called sex.  It was
stretched downward in sympathy as she pushed the hairbrush into her vagina
passed the point of lubrication.  And maybe it winked at him, once or
twice.

   What would be completely awesome, he decided, was if she pushed that
hairbrush into her ass.  Slowly and deliberately, massaging it in and out
of her anus, the sphincter pulling outward with the retreating shaft, as if
to say, "Please, no, don't go!" And perhaps the sound of Sarah whimpering
and moaning?

   Mark closed his eyes and leaned forward so that his ear rubbed up
against the side of the humming monitor.  Hunched around the top of the
desktop, he occasionally banged his fist into the underside of it, making
the keyboard rattle and the monitor sway.  "Anything for you," he heard
Sarah saying, "All I want is to make you happy." And she meant it.

   Under the desk was not a good place to keep his PC, he decided, one new
video card later.

   + + +

   Careful planning was the key, he decided.  He was risking some serious
pain, hell, he was risking everything he had for this.  Luckily, Mark had
looked at his life and decided that it really wasn't much to lose.  Had he
been prone to suicide, he'd probably have blown his brains all over the
bathroom years ago.  But, no, he had plugged along, with noble thoughts of
teaching tomorrow's leaders, and with a growing distaste for quick and easy
meals that he ate for three days because they were intended to feed a
family of four.

   A pocket-sized gadget that would play videos was relatively cheap and he
picked one up at Best Buy on the way home from the school one day. 
Unfortunately, he managed to buy one that wouldn't play the format of file
that Sarah's video was in, but some digging around online found an
application that would convert her video to something playable on the PSG.
The image quality suffered quite a bit in the conversion, but it was good
enough to be able to see that it was most definitely Sarah with that
hairbrush up her twat.

   More confusing was figuring out all the webcam chat-rooms, and how to
capture videos.  Obviously it was to the advantage of the sites that hosted
the chats to pretend that video capturing didn't happen.  And they did
tweak the technology enough to make how to do so non-obvious.  But there
was always someone out there willing to spend the time to develop what you
needed to achieve whatever nefarious end you had in mind.

   In theory, you would then have to pay, but people Up To No Good are
notoriously untrustworthy customers, and so with patience and persistence,
you can eventually get the software you need with no strings attached.

   Not that Mark would have minded spending the money to achieve his
ends--he'd bought the PSG without much thought about the price--but he
didn't want his credit card attached to the purchase of software that had
few, if any, ethical uses.  And he wanted to avoid going too far down the
rabbit hole that is layered, online anonymity--the last thing he needed was
to be rubbing electronic elbows with pedophiles, well *professional*
pedophiles, and hackers.

   Though, he hit a wall with setting up an account on the video chat site
he'd chosen.  They were, apparently, under an indictment for something or
other and suddenly you had to verify your identity.  Which was the last
thing Mark wanted to do.

   After a brief flight of fancy about slowing down and taking the time to
create an entire throw-away identity, with credit cards and all, he came to
his sense and just signed up at a different website.  He also created an
account for Sarah (naming her Peach Melba) and set up all the trusts and
privates and alerts and what have you so that Peach and Paul would seem to
be the most passionate of lovers.  Cruelly separated by hundreds of miles,
but brought back together through the wonders of the Internet.

   + + +

   Everything was ready, but Mark was consumed with fear.  He had too much
of an imagination, and could see in his mind all the ways he would get
caught and punished.

   Of course, it was this energetic imagination that let him empathize with
people so easily.  And that empathy was one of the things that led him to
eventually become a teacher.  He was, in general, someone who really did
care about other people.

   And yet, here he was, poised to rape a teenage girl.  One of his very
students.  Did he really hate her that much?  As his kids worked on the pop
quiz he had thrown at them because he'd spent his previous night planning
his crime, instead of working on his teaching plan, he looked down on
Sarah. She was hunched over her desk like most of the other students,
petrified more by the idea of a pop quiz than any actual consequences that
may come from it.

   Yes, she was jsut like all the other kids.  She wasn't remarkable in any
particular way.  Did he loath her?  Did he really hate her enough to go
through with his plans?  And he found himself wondering about how would his
crime affect her.

   It was, technically, rape.  But not *really*.  It was just a little
private show.  He wouldn't even touch her.  He'd be miles away, his end of
the webcam chat actually a video stream of some random kid playing with his
dick.  The school year was half over, and he'd probably bump her grades
just to avoid any reason for her parents to come calling.  Summer would
come, he would fade from her memory.  By the next year she'd probably have
a new hairstyle, a new wardrobe, and another year worth of puberty on her
bones.  By then he'd probably have trouble picking her out from the mob in
the hallway between classes.

   But still.  He wasn't sure.  He ran his eyes over all the kids, to hide
his interest in only one, but that one still held his thoughts.  Except
that, instead of the real Sarah, the video Sarah kept bleeding in.  He
looked down at the scribbled lecture notes he'd made during the pop quiz in
his first class.  He couldn't shake the idea of her.  Of the Sarah that
only want to please him.  "I promise." What else did he have in his life,
anyway?  "I promise." If he didn't do this...  what would he do?  "I
promise." Start planning his suicide instead?  "I promise." What a
completely worthless piece of shit he was.  This, this was what he'd
become.

   He glanced up to see Sarah cheating off her neighbor.  "Sarah?" he said,
quizzically.  The reality of Sarah cheating was unimaginable beyond even
his most lecherous of fantasies.

   Her head snapped up and she met his stare with a burning glare.  Her
brow was knit, but not in any kind of adorable worry.  She was angry. 
"What?" she said, "I didn't do anything." She put her head back down to
stare at her paper, trying to pretend that she wasn't halfway out of her
seat.  Her body language was like that of a cat that had just run full tilt
into a closed sliding-glass door.  "This is completely normal," it said,
"Nothing to see here."

   Oh, really, now?  "Sarah," he said sternly, no hint of a question in it.
She glared at him, hunching defensively.  "See me after class." She turned
back to her quiz, but deflated a little, sliding over into the middle of
the seat.  Mark slipped his hand into his pocket and rubbed his thumb
across the PSG.  It had her video on it.

   After class Mark waved for Sarah to follow him into the small room
behind the blackboards.  He sat down in the old wooden office chair and it
shrieked with complaint as he leaned back.  Sarah slumped against the door
frame.  The light in the room was dim and drowned out by the sunlight
coming through the windows out in the classroom.

   Mark unconsciously struck a pose, his eyes closed, an elbow on the
little wall-mounted bench-top that acted as a desk, with his fingers gently
pinching the bridge of his nose.  "Cheating?" he said, "You?"

   "I wasn't cheating," she said, more of a plea than a statement.

   He was moving his hand away from his face as she spoke, and so he
paused, with his hand frozen in mid-air, playing shocked and appalled for
an imaginary TV camera.  "Lying, too?" he said.

   So dramatic, but Sarah was just confused.  "Huh?" she said, frowning and
bouncing a little to accentuate her pathetic slump against the doorjamb.

   Mark sighed.  He was reading from a different script than anyone else
around him, it seemed.  Again.  And forever.  Screw it.  "You were cheating
off of Marcy."

   "No, I wasn't," she said, shaking her head, knotting the ol' brow for
emphasis.

   "Give it up," he said, "I know you were cheating and I'm more curious
than anything else.  I would never expect you to cheat.  And cheat so... 
flagrantly."

   Sarah leaned away from the door and straightened up a little.  Her
shoulders were still sunken, but she squared them to her accuser.  "It your
fault" she said, staring just under his chin.

   Mark paused, baffled.  "My fault?"

   "You knew," she said, and she looked him in the eye, "You knew I just
got back from Vail." Her head moved forward, her chin too small to jut, but
it still aimed itself at his chest, as she said, "There's no way I couldn't
not fail.  I didn't even know what the homework *was*.  Of course I didn't
read it." Her hand came up, half inside the arm of her sweater, just a curl
of fingers really, and she aimed it at him like a lttle gun, "You did it on
purpose just to fuck with me."

   Mark was...  aghast?  The girl was livid, her body language was nothing
but threats, and she was slowly leaning forward, as if she could loom over
Mark as he sat.  And then there was the foul language.  "You can't handle
that I went to Vail and you were stuck in this shit-hole for Christmas,"
she added, starting to sneer, "Fuck you; you asshole."

   Slowly Mark stood up from his chair.  He wasn't particularly tall, but
he was still a head taller than most teenage girls.  As he looked down at
her, her hand slowly retreated back toward her chest, and the
preciously-pink, down-filled vest she was wearing.  As she turned her head
to break away from his gaze, her hand dropped away, flipping around the
lift ticket still attached to the zipper of the vest.

   This little bitch was throwing money in his face.  Money?  She went to
Vail, and he was supposed to be so enraged with jealously that he had
tossed out a quiz just to mess with her?  She thought he was some kind of
impoverished servant?  Only putting up with all this bullshit because he
needed the money?  And, she presumed that she was so important, that his
entire teaching plan would spin on the need to screw her over?

   Fuck with her?  She has no idea.

   The noise from the filling classroom was growing deafening and the last
thing Mark needed was an audience, anyway.  His frown deepened and his
teeth clench as he tossed his chin toward the door.  "Close it," he
hlaf-growled.  She did, and took the chance to step away from him, not that
there was much room to maneuver in there.

   He pulled the PSG out of his pocket and fiddled with it.  His growing
rage was screwing up his ability to think straight, and to operate the
little goddamn piece of Chinese bullshit.  He turned away from her and
jerked the device up close to his face as he stabbed at it.  And, then,
there is was.  In color, no less.  He smiled and took a deep breath.

   He didn't even look in her general direction as he motioned her closer.
"Look at this," he said, and turned the screen to her face.  "Recognize
anyone?"

   Her brow didn't knot.  Her face stayed blank and calm, like the water of
a frigid lake on a clear, windless morning.  Her hand came up, not to take
the gadget, but to gently touch the screen, which illuminated her face with
the garish glow of crappy videography.  "He..." was all she said before
lapsing back into silence.

   After a moment, Mark took it away and turned it off.  As he slid the
evidence into his pocket, he said, "Fourth period is about to start.  You'd
better hustle." She turned to the door, and as she gripped the knob, he
said, "I don't have any classes after sixth period.  Come see me again
before the day's over."

   She had paused.  That was all.  She said nothing, opened the door and
left.  Mark popped a cartridge of coffee grounds into the Keurig and poked
the "Brew" button a few times.  The bell rang before the cup was even half
full and he yelled out through the open door, "Shut up in there, dammit!"

   By this point they all knew about the quiz, so he said nothing as he
handed the stack of quizzes to the class kiss-ass to be passed out, and sat
drinking his coffee, staring out the windows.

   + + +

   "Hello?"

   "I'm back here," he said, pushing aside his paperwork.  Not that he was
getting anywhere with it, anyway.

   She moved on little cat feet and appeared silently in the doorway,
silhouetted in the afternoon sun, her face hidden in shadows.  Mark had no
idea what he was going to say.  He still wasn't sure why he had shown her
the video.  Yes, he had this whole nefarious plan laid out, but planning
something was no where near as real as actually doing it.  It was like the
difference between reading the owners manual of a motorcycle and riding
that motorcycle.  It all seems to easy, so uncomplicated or hazardous, when
you're just planning it.  And when his rage from earlier had left him, so
had his conviction.  He was, as they say, on the fence.

   "He..." she started, but again just fell into silence.

   "I don't care," he said.  That was honest, and non-committal.  Easy
peasy.  But she just kept standing there, trying to look small, facing the
wall across from the door, instead of facing him or, indeed, anything that
might be considered the "interior" of the room.

   Would Mark stand that same way on the doorstep of his prison cell?

   He shifted in his seat and dug out the PSG.  This time he played the
video for himself.  Did he still feel it?  Was that monstrous gob of semen
still churning inside him, waiting to explode for her?  Exploded over her?
On her?  Into...  her?

   That sensation of being "weak in the knees"?  You can get that even if
you're sitting down.  As the notion of actually having ravenous sex with
Sarah--video Sarah--lit up his imagination, Mark got that feeling.  He
sagged a little to one side, as his spine buckled.  "Oh God..." he said
quietly to himself.

   But she heard him say something.  "What?" she said.  A little adorable
quiver in her voice.

   "I..." he said, straightening up and turning to her, "I...."

   What he wanted to say was something along the lines of 'I'm going to
cover your face in my cum.  No, wait.  I'm going to cover your ass with my
cum.  No, wait.  I'm going to *fill* your ass with my cum.'

   But he steeled his nerves--there was, after all, almost half a school
year left.  Almost five full months.  Why rush things?

   "I wonder," he said, folding his hand in front of his chest, "Who is it
you *most* want to hide that video from." He waited.

   After a time, she shrugged.  But no more.  "Come here he said," gently,
waving her closer.  She shuffled into the room, stopping a foot or two
before him.  "No, no," he said, pointing at the floor directly before him,
"Come here." She moved forward until she was almost touching his knees. 
"Kneel down," he said, "Like you were praying." She was awkward as she got
down on her knees, because she was trying to keep her legs locked together
and her arms tight at her side.  Once down, she folded her hands in her
lap, and kept her head bowed.  Indeed, almost as if praying.

   Mark was suddenly empathetic with all those cretinous priests.  "What
you you pray for?" Mark asked.  He started to lean forward, but had to
pause and reach inside his pants to adjust the position of his penis,
currently cast from steel.  "Do you pray the other girls don't see it?" He
cocked his head and leaned toward her left ear.  "Do you pray all the boys
don't see it?" He moved his head fluidly, like the hood of a cobra
hypnotizing its prey, and into her right ear he whispered, "I bet it's your
father."

   She stifled a sob.

   He sat back up in the chair.  "Look up at me," he said.  She paused, but
did.  Her eyes seemed to dart around trying to avoid meeting his, but then
they did.  And their gazes locked.

   "Say this," he said, "I promise."

   "I..." her voice cracked.  She coughed, snuffled and said, "I promise."

   "All I want is to please you."

   She stared at him dumbly for a moment, then started, and repeated it. 
"All I want it to please you."

   "You promise?"

   "I promise."

   Mark sighed and sat for a moment with his eyes closed.  He pushed his
chair back, away from her, and grabbed a pen and a Post-It.  "Here," he
said, as he handed them to her, "I want you to write down this
web-address...." She didn't draw little hearts to dot the "i"s, however.

   After she had shuffled out again, Mark made himself a cup of coffee.  As
he looked down into his "D.A.R.E." mug and watched the creamer swirling
into the coffee, he wondered, where will this end?  And how far will it go
before it does?

   + + + THE END + + +

   Author's Note:

   + Fiction +

   "Fiction" means "I dun made this shit up.  It's not true.  It didn't
happen." If you think I'm protesting a little too much, you don't know some
of the emails I've gotten in years gone by in response to rape porn (which
is what this is, despite the lack of violence).

   + More?  +

   This story ended up taking a lot longer to get to the, er, "good bits"
than I was expecting.  Not that everything in here doesn't need to be in
here.  But, my original concept actually had our protagonist just abusing
Sarah as a kind of "gateway girl" leading on to more and deeper depravity.
To be honest, I was actually more interested in a girl named Jenny, and how
she would twist Mark's brain into a pretzel.

   But I ran out of steam (I tend to be an inspired writer, not a diligent
one), and this tale spiralled into a nice stopping point.  And to be
honest, at this point, I really have no idea how far Mark went with Sarah.
He may have changed his mind, sworn a secrecy pact with Sarah and quit
teaching.  He may have gotten his personalized, "I promise" webcam video
from her and left it at that.  Or, he may have escalated.

   In the end, I think it would all depend on what other events happened in
his life.  Would he start connecting with people again, and build some
healthy social connections?  Would he find an appropriate outlet for his
emotions?  Or would events conspire to leave him even more isolated?  Would
his world just get smaller and smaller, and would he grab at the only thing
he could reach--Sarah--and drag her into his collapsing waveform?

   + Feedback +

   If you'd like to hear more, please say something.  Though, I can't
promise anything.  Like I said, either I'm inspired to write or I'm not. 
Then again, while it's not 100% effective, blowjobs from experienced women
who know where a guy hides his prostate tend to be very inspirational, in
my experience.

   Oh, and if you found the story horribly offensive, please say so.  Just
please don't yell, and try to be specific.

   If you found the story just horrible, write one that's better.  I dare
you.  I *DOUBLE DOG* dare you.