Message-ID: <10737eli$9804291431@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: {Bruce Z.}JDR"After the Concert 1"( Mf ped )[1/3]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to <abuse@anon.nymserver.com>.
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <6i6gn6$lov$1@sparky.wolfe.net>
JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a
comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories
itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
to encourage them to continue entertaining you.
The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this
posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in
any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright
below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as
well.
=====================
AFTER THE CONCERT
copyright 1995 by Bruce Z.
Permission to reprint for non-commercial purposes is granted.
NOTE* The following is the story about a thirty-year-old male
teacher who becomes unexpectedly involved in a sexual, and loving,
relationship with one of his students, a thirteen-year-old girl.
===============================================================
* * * * * * * *
AFTER THE CONCERT
by Bruce Z.
(Part One of Three)
First, let me introduce myself. I'm a thirty-year old middle- school
science teacher. My wife and I have been happily married for just over six
years--I think part of the secret to our success has been our decision not
to have any children of our own, to spend our time truly together, without
the frustrations and stress of child- rearing. I do like working with kids
(that's why I'm a teacher), but I also like being able to return them to
their parents after work. I've been told that this is a secret for
remaining young at heart: to work with other people's kids. My job allows
me to remain in touch with what it's like to be young. I'm an authority
figure when I need to be, but it's different from parenting (or so I've
been told). I don't carry the responsibility of being "grown-up" twenty-
four hours a day. Because of teaching these past five years, I've remained
current with the fashions, the speech, MTV, snow-boarding, and, best of
all, the music.
As a kid, I was very much into rock music. I loved the cutting-edge,
progressive stuff, and made a pact with myself that I'd never turn into one
of those adults who said "the stuff you kids listen to these days is noise;
why can't you listen to the real music we enjoy?" It's amazing how many of
my peers did just that, former rock fans who never grew beyond Elton John
or the Stones and diss today's "alternative" scene as trash.
Ah, but I'm straying from my story here. The point is that I share an
appreciation for the same kinds of music that the students are into. I've
got an extensive collection of CDs and records, and I even go to some of
the concerts in smoke-filled clubs packed with kids nearly half my age.
Anyway, I went to a concert this week that has, well, changed my life. I'm
trying to figure out if it was one of the best nights of my life, or the
most unfortunate. One thing's for sure: I'll never look at Meade the same
way. She's one of my students. Just thinking about her now fills me with
confusion, ... and excitement.
I still can't believe I'm writing this. I've never had thoughts like
this before. I'm a good teacher, very professional in my dealings with
children. I've had a normal sex life. I'm married to someone my own age
(actually she's a bit older!).
Meade, the student I'm referring to, is in the seventh-grade. She just
turned thirteen (we celebrated with cake two weeks ago in class). Although
I'd never thought of her as anything other than a bright student, I did
consider her to be a physically attractive kid. There's nothing wrong with
that. She's got a very pretty face: high cheek bones, strikingly large,
pale blue eyes, thin blonde eyebrows, a straight, thin nose, and full pink
lips, a mouth that's quick to smile. She has long, light blonde hair that
she keeps in a pony tail. She's got a well-toned, athletic build,
relatively long legs, and she plays soccer and basketball for the school.
She's about five feet, four inches tall. She's intelligent (straight A's in
my class), and popular with her peers, becoming elected to student council.
We've had a good teacher to student relationship, but I feel that's true
for nearly all of my students.
Anyway, one of my favorite rock groups, Hole, was playing two
performances on a Wednesday night in Boston. Hole is a coed
alternative/punk band, fronted by Courtney Love who's gotten national media
attention as the widow of Kurt Cobain. She's also a brilliant musician in
her own right. I had to go. Normally, I wouldn't consider going to a
week night event because I'd be too wasted the next morning to properly
teach. Even if I went to the "early show" (it would probably end by 9:30),
Boston is at least a two-and-a-half- hour drive for me. Luckily, this
concert was during April vacation week, so I could go without any worries
about getting to work the next day. I bought one ticket for the first show
(it would have more energy). I would be going alone since my wife was
working that week, and doesn't appreciate loud music on quite the same
level that I do. I also reserved a hotel room. When I attend concerts I
like to make an evening of it: I get some drinks after the show, and don't
have to face a long, late drive home.
I arrived at the club early, as I usually do. I like to check out the
crowd, and establish myself near the front of the room but to the side of
the mosh pit (I'm a bit too old to be slam dancing!). So, there I was,
enjoying the rock atmosphere: gloomy lighting, smoke, loud DJ music. It was
an "all ages" show, and the MTV set was out in force. Lots of flannel,
pierced ears and noses, black clothes, ripped jeans, and tee shirts. I
didn't look too out of place: I was wearing ripped jeans and a long-sleeve,
plain black tee shirt. I've been told I look much younger than thirty.
Still, it was obvious to me that I was one of the oldest people there. The
crowd was mostly high school and college kids. I decided it felt good to be
able to blend in with that group at my age. Rock and roll keeps me young.
These self-satisfied thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice
behind me.
"Mr. Z! Mr. Z? Is that you?!"
I turned around to see a group of kids I didn't recognize. A somewhat
wasted-looking college girl with short black hair, wearing a leather jacket
and jeans, and hanging onto a similarly dressed boy of the same age. And
next to them...
"Hi! Wow, it's you!" she said, her face lit with the surprise.
It was Meade. I hadn't recognized her at first in the context of this
non-school setting. She had her hair down; I was used to seeing it tied
back in a scrunchy. Although she usually didn't wear make-up, her lips were
slightly shiny with lip gloss. Also gone was her usual "uniform" of blue
jeans and a sweatshirt. She was wearing a short, pleated, black skirt. Her
long legs were mostly covered by black cotton stockings that stretched up
to just over her knees, leaving a gap of naked thigh between the skirt and
socks, as is the current fashion. She wore black Doc Marten shoes, and a
tight black, long-sleeved tee shirt, with a low neck that exposed half her
collar bone. A pretty, young "MTV generation" girl.
"Hi, Meade. How are ya?" I felt a bit awkward. Should I be myself as
teacher or myself as concert goer? (There's a big difference!)
"This is, like, SO wild!" She turned to her company. "Cindy, this is
Mr. Z, my science teacher. Mr. Z, this is my older sister, Cindy, and her
boyfriend, Jason." They muttered unimpressed "hi's" to me. Meade continued
to look at me with a big, surprised smile on her face.
For a few moments, we all stood silently, no one sure of what to say.
I smiled at Meade. I had always considered Meade to be aesthetically
pleasing to look at, but I thought that she looked especially pretty
standing there in front of me. Her shiny blonde hair, spilling to her
shoulders, made an attractive frame for her pretty facial features.
I broke the silence. "I haven't seen you here before, Meade."
"This is my first time here. Like, it's SO cool," she said. "This is,
like, my birthday gift from Cindy. She goes to school here."
I'd gone to school in Boston, too. "Oh? Which school? I went to BC."
"Simmons." Cindy looked bored with the conversation already, as if she
wanted to get rid of the child, and get down to some serious drinking and
making out with the guy who kept squeezing her and kissing the side of her
face.
I talked with them a bit longer, mostly to Meade who was obviously
blown away to see her teacher in such "cool" surroundings. We made small
talk about the bands that were playing.
"I want to be closer to the stage," Meade's sister interrupted. "Let's
go before it gets too crowded."
I wished them a fun evening. Perhaps we'd talk about it after the
concert.
"After the concert, I'm going back to Cindy's dorm for the night.
There's, like, a party."
"Aren't you a bit young to go to a college party, Meade?"
"Oh, don't be like such a teacher, Mr. Z." She laughed. "I'm a
teenager. I can take care of myself."
I couldn't help feeling a bit protective. I was used to being
responsible for my students. And a "teenager" of just barely two weeks
seemed a bit young for a dorm party, even on a Wednesday night, if they
were like anything I remembered. I took some comfort knowing that Simmons
is an all-women's school with strict parietal rules; at least there
wouldn't be a bunch of drunken college guys trying to take advantage of
her.
"Well, be careful," I said. "Have fun. It was nice meeting you all.
Stop by in-between bands, or whenever, Meade."
To my relief, they all moved down onto the floor, across to the other
side of the stage. It was nice talking to Meade (though it was weird), but
now I could enjoy the concert without having to assume a role of
responsibility. I just hoped that Meade's sister would watch out for her.
She didn't seem to be treating her very well.
The opening band was a hardcore band from DC. They had a lot of
energy, and even invited one of the fans onto the stage to help with a
song. Not bad.
When the house lights and music came back on after their set, I looked
across the floor to see if I could find Meade and her group. There'd been a
fair amount of moshing and body-surfing. I hoped she'd been okay. I scanned
the crowd, but saw no sign of them. I thought that maybe they'd moved away
from the shoving bodies.
"Hi!'
Meade was standing next to me.
"They were pretty good, huh?" she asked.
"Yeah. Lots of energy," I agreed. "Where's your sister and her
boyfriend."
"I don't know." Meade gave me a look of disgust. "Like, I turned
around, and they weren't there." Meade looked around the room. I sensed she
was hiding her feelings of panic from me. "They, like, drank a bottle of
Tequila right before coming in, and got pretty wasted."
I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry. Maybe they're in the bathroom."
"Yeah, like, puking. Serves them right."
"Yes it does," I agreed.
"Was this a good place to see the band from?" she asked. "Like, I
could hardly see, and kept getting shoved."
"Yeah. This is a good place. Good view, and no one's shoving," I said.
"You can stay here if you want."
"Really?" Her face lit up. "You wouldn't mind?"
"No. It'd be fine."
"Thanks, Mr. Z!"
"Only, if you're going to stand here, please don't call me Mr. Z. too
loudly. It makes me feel too grown up, like I don't really belong here."
"Oops. Sorry. I won't." She had a cute laugh.
We talked about music, she told me about some videos, and I told her
about other concerts I'd seen. Occasionally, we'd scan the crowd for signs
of her escorts, without luck. Then the main act hit the stage.
Hole was terrific, as I knew they would be. They rocked hard, the
crowd totally connected with them, it was one big party. I even lost my
feelings of self-consciousness at standing next to my student, and sang
along, bouncing up and down from where I stood. From time to time, Meade
and I would happen to look at each other, and smile at the shared
experience. A few times she playfully knocked against me, and I gently
knocked her back. All too soon, it seemed, the 90 minute-long set was over,
and the house lights came back on.
"That was great!" shouted Meade above the din of our ringing ears and
the excited crowd.
"Sure was," I agreed. "I'll have to get my coat. What about you?"
"Yeah. I need my coat, and my pack with, like, all my overnight
stuff."
"Let's do that first," I suggested, "then we'll find your drunk
sister."
I started to head towards the coat check and exit. Meade followed
behind me.
"Do you think Cindy's looking for me?" Meade shouted from a few people
behind me; it's always tough trying to stay with a group as you wade
through so many people, all trying to squeeze through the same exit. I
stopped a moment to let her catch up to me.
"She might be," I said. "I think the best thing to do is wait right
outside. They'll have to come out sometime, and will see you there."
We continued towards the exit. Because she was a girl and younger and
less aggressive, Meade kept getting separated from me as people shoved in
front of her. I finally took her hand, and pulled her along through the
crowd. From time to time we were forced to stop, and Meade and I would
stand beside each other, her hand in mine. I became aware that I enjoyed
the feeling of her soft, warm hand. There was a certain intimacy in what we
were doing, and I felt somewhat guilty. I looked over at her worried
expression, and smiled.
"Don't worry, Meade. We'll find them."
"I know," she said, and smiled. Without thinking, I squeezed her hand
a bit, and she squeezed back. Then she rearranged her hand so that her
fingers intertwined with mine. I looked down at her smooth hand, multiple
silver rings on most of her fingers, her nails painted alternately pink and
red, several braided bracelets tickling my wrist. I felt warm inside, and
smiled at her again. This time when our eyes met, I felt as if I were
blushing, and had to look away. I wasn't sure why I was feeling the way I
did. Christ, I kept telling myself, she's in the seventh grade.
Finally, we got our coats, and Meade also got her backpack. I took
Meade's hand again, and led her outside. We stood in the street, scanning
the steady stream of flannel, leather, and denim that poured from the club.
After fifteen minutes, the stream had slowed to a trickle, it looked as if
they were about to let in the crowd for the second show, and there was
still no sign of Meade's sister. It occurred to me that I was still holding
Meade's hand. Aware of the eyes of the people next to us waiting to get in,
I almost reflexively let go, but just shifted my grip instead. I was
enjoying Meade's company, and she didn't seem to want to let go of my hand,
either. I didn't care what it looked like to other people.
"I don't believe her!" Meade spoke up, disgusted with her sister's
irresponsibility. "She's ruining my birthday."
"She might still be in there. Maybe she passed out or something." I
looked at Meade. She was getting close to tears, and I couldn't blame her.
Poor kid. What a lousy thing for her sister to do. I walked over to one of
the bouncers at the door, and explained our situation. He asked someone to
check the club for me. A few minutes later we were assured that Cindy was
not in there.
"That's just great," Meade burst out, tears welling up in the corners
of her eyes. "I'm, like, stuck here with nowhere to go." The first tears
rolled down her cheeks. I had the impulse to wipe her tears away, to feel
her soft, wet cheeks under my fingertips. She looked so vulnerable standing
there, in her denim jacket, hunched slightly forward with the backpack
slung over her shoulders, feeling she had no place to go. I felt very
protective of her as I watched the tears collecting at the corners of her
pouting lips, and once again thought of brushing them away, but I stopped
myself.
"Hey, Meade, don't worry. Calm down. I'll take care of you, okay? I'm
not going to leave you here."
She sniffed. "Okay." She let go of my hand to wipe her cheeks. I
noticed that she had drawn a flower on the back of it with colored markers.
"Now what should we do?"
I wasn't sure. "Do you have her phone number?"=7F
"Yes."
"Well, let's get to a pay phone, and call her." I looked at my watch.
"It's only a bit after 9:30. We have plenty of time." That seemed to calm
her down.
We tried calling, but there was no answer. We tried again a few
minutes later. Still no answer. Rather than dwell on our failure, I decided
we needed to do something fun to raise Meade's spirits. We walked to
Kenmore Square, and got some pizza. We sat at a booth together, and had fun
making comments about the after- concert crowd.
"Do you think people think we're a couple?" Meade said.
"If so, they either think I look very old for my age, or you look very
young." We laughed. "They probably think you're my daughter."
"Hey!" Meade protested. "I'm not that young! I COULD be on a date, you
know."
"Okay. We're on a date then. Pass me another slice of pizza, my
dearest Meade."
She laughed at me. "Yes, sweetie-pie." We were joking, but I found it
secretly exciting to play with her this way. "Can I call you Bruce?"
I looked up at her, a bit startled to hear her use my first name.
"I mean," she said, "once we asked you why we can't call teachers by
their first names, and, like, you said it wouldn't bother you, but, like,
it's just because it's the rules in school and stuff."
"I did, didn't I?" I said, remembering the discussion. "Sure, I don't
mind." Although it didn't bother me in the slightest, especially given the
more familiar situation, I did hope that this wouldn't create problems when
we got back to school.
"So, Bruce, do you think we should call Cindy again?"
"Well, Meade, that's not a bad idea."=7F
We tried the number again. Again, there was no answer.
"What do we do now, Bruce?" Meade asked. She was obviously enjoying
being able to address me by my first name. I thought it was kind of cute.
"Do you know where her dorm is?" I asked.
"No. I mean, I can't remember."
"Then all we can do is to keep trying your sister's number. In the
meantime, I suppose we can go back to my room."
"Where?"
"I've got a hotel room," I told her. "I hate driving back after a
concert. Anyway, you can join me for awhile. Until we reach your sister,
that is," I added quickly, guiltily. "We'll keep trying to call your
sister--she's got to come home sometime, and in the meantime we can watch
TV, or listen to the radio.
We took the subway, and were soon at the hotel. Somehow, I felt
strange and a bit guilty entering the room with a pretty thirteen year-old
girl. Of course, there was nothing wrong with this: I'm her teacher, I
thought, she's in the seventh grade, and I'm helping her contact her
family. It was because I was consciously thinking of her as "pretty" as we
walked into the room that made me feel a bit less than professional. Once
we were inside, she bounced onto the bed, sitting down, and looked around
the room. I saw it the same time she did: a bottle of white Zinfandel in a
pile of ice in the sink.
"Bruce, you've got some wine," she said matter-of-factly.
"Yes, Meade, I do. I like to have some to unwind after a concert."
"Can I have some?" she asked, the same way students ask if they can
chew gum in school, hoping that this time the answer will be "yes" although
they expect "no."
"Well, just a little. I don't want to return you to your sister
drunk."
"She'd never know!"
I laughed. "You're right. Still, I need to look after you until we
find her." I asked her if we should call her parents, to let them know she
was okay. I thought that perhaps Meade's sister might have already
contacted them, panicked over losing her. Meade told me that it wouldn't do
any good. Her parents were gone for a few days, somewhere in the mid-West,
attending a wedding. In fact, that was why they had consented to her
staying with her sister.
"Do you have to call your wife?" Meade asked.
"No, she goes to bed early because she has to be at work by seven-
thirty." Instead, I tried Cindy's number again. A woman answered.
"Hi, is this Cindy?" I asked.
"It's Sharon." I had reached the dorm's hall phone. Apparently the
rooms didn't have phones of their own. I briefly explained the situation.
She said she'd seen Cindy within the half- hour, and would get her to the
phone. After nearly fifteen minutes, just as I was about to hang up and try
again, Sharon returned to the phone, apologetically telling me that Cindy
had gone to a party with her boyfriend a few minutes before, and hadn't
mentioned any little sister. "She was really wasted," she added. She had no
idea where the party was, where the boyfriend lived, or how to contact
them. She promised to leave a note for Cindy to call as soon as she got in.
I told Meade what had happened. "It looks as if you'll be staying here
tonight."
"What a bitch!" Meade vented her anger, then saw my look of concern.
"Sorry, Mr. Z. She just pisses me off."
"Hey, think nothing of it. She pisses me off, too." I couldn't resist
adding: "She IS a bitch."
Meade smiled briefly at my comment, then looked serious again. "Is it
okay?"
"Is what okay?"
"Like, me staying here?" She looked down. "I'm sorry I ruined your
evening."
I sat down beside her. "You didn't ruin anything. It was a great
concert, and I had fun getting pizza with you."
"Yeah, me too." She smiled at my reassurance. "When do I have to go to
bed?"
My heart leapt for a moment as I considered the single king- sized bed
in the room. I quickly pushed that thought away. "I can sleep on the couch
over there, so, I guess whenever you get tired."
"I'm not tired yet, Bruce. Can we watch TV?"
"Sure. I'm not tired either, after all that excitement, and it's still
early." Meade switched on the TV as I went over to pour myself some wine.
"Do you really want some?" I asked Meade.
"If I'm allowed."
"Just so long as you sip it, and don't get wasted."
"I won't."
I brought Meade a glass of wine, sat down on the bed next to her, and
offered a toast to her birthday party.
She smiled as her glass clinked against mine. "Thanks, Bruce." She
delicately lifted the glass in her colored marker tattooed hand, put it to
her lips, and took a sip of wine. "This is, like, way more fun than
Cindy's." We sipped the wine, and watched MTV. I realized that I was really
enjoying Meade's company. Although she was young, she was intelligent, and
we had a good conversation about people who aren't responsible, about
music, and about the concert. She told me that she'd thought the lead
singer of the opening band was cute.
"Do you think Courtney Love is cute, Bruce?"
I told her that I didn't think of Courtney as "cute" - she was way too
tough and punk, but I agreed that she was sexy.
"Like, who else do you think is sexy, Bruce?"
I laughed. "Well, Meade, I'm not sure this is an appropriate thing for
me to talk about with a student."
"No, come on. I won't, like, tell anyone."
I considered it for a moment. "Well, Juliana Hatfield is, and Mariah
Carey, and Tori Amos, and Joan Jett. Madonna is sometimes."
Meade shook her head, interested. "Not just in music. Like, who do you
think is good-looking at school?"
This conversation was getting a bit weird for me, but the glass of
wine dampened my resistance. "I don't think I can answer that, Meade. The
women teachers are nice, but I don't find any of them attractive."
"What about students?"
I smiled at her. "I'm too old for that, Meade."
She persisted. "No, Bruce, I'm curious. Like, if you weren't too old,
who would you think was really pretty?"
I looked right at her. "You are." It just came out, but I couldn't
believe I'd said it. It had to be the wine.
Her high cheekbones blushed a bit, but she didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," I said quickly, trying to
recover myself, "but you asked, and I think you're an attractive girl. I'm
your teacher, so of course I don't normally go around thinking about you
like that. Usually, I just think that you're a real nice person who I enjoy
having in my class."
A silence followed as we each finished our glass of wine. Meade
promptly got up, and went to pour herself another glass. I jokingly warned
her to take it easy, and she turned around with the full glass, gave me a
devilish look, and gulped down the entire glass.
* * * * * * * *
AFTER THE CONCERT
by Bruce Z.
Part 1
-30-
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |