8 comments/ 72177 views/ 61 favorites Sam & Teach Ch. 01 By: ElizaMix Note: All characters engaging in sexual activities are 18 years or older. This is part 1 of 3. ***** Roman architect Vitruvius once classified columns, or Orders, into three categories. The Doric order, thick and unadorned, represented manly beauty. The Ionic was more decorative, with curled volutes at the top, and represented womanly beauty. The last, the Corinthian order, with its capital resembling the acanthus leaves and its thin delicacy, was in "imitation of the slenderness of a maiden." Greenstone academy is fronted by a row of Corinthian columns. Every day I pass between them, through the front door, and every day I ask myself what the hell that guy was smoking. They don't resemble maidens. They resemble overly decorative columns of stone. But just at this moment, as I'm listening to Mr. Perfect Asian with His Perfect Plan for the Future, I try to imagine a pretty maiden on my knee, and all I can think of are stupid columns. "...and after I graduate from Berkeley, I intend to leverage my science degree with my MBA to create a start-up company." "Why's that?" I ask. "Because—" he pauses and gives me a double-take. "What?" "I was just wondering why you wanted to start a company. What do you plan to sell, or create, and what do you hope to gain from it?" He looks at me confused. "Nevermind," I say. "I'm glad you see that science - especially that of Physics - is as important as any business connection. You know Elon Musk?" "Yes! He created the electric car - the Tesla." "Yep. And Space X too. Did you know he first got his undergraduate degree in Physics?" He nods. "Good," I say. "Then—" A knock sounds on the door. "Looks like the next student's here." I reach over my desk and shake his hand. "A pleasure to have you in my class. If you ever need help or even want to run a business idea by me, do not hesitate to visit." I mean what I say. Jacob Song - my student - is a fine young man, I'm sure. We're only one week in but I know he'll be a good student, and a credit to himself, his parents, and his culture. But he's boring. I've met a million like him. I look at my schedule, noticing the name: Samantha Pierce. A troublemaker. Those, at least, are interesting. "Let the next student in, if you will." Greenstone Academy is private and prestigious. My students are the sons and daughters of wealthy men who, by and large, marry beautiful women. As such, most of my female students are beautiful. They have been taught by their mothers how to present themselves to the world. Which isn't to say they are all eye-candy. Not at all. Most of them are bright, peppy little balls of eager sunshine and industry. Future leaders and scientists and all that. But not all of them. Case in point: Samantha. She sidles past Jacob into my office, strutting like she owns the place. She glances over my decorations - the Physics doctorate from Cornell and my research awards and the table of elements and the Hubble photographs of bright nebula, and glowing quasars, and exploding super-nova - and dismisses with them a toss of her head. She's dressed in such a way to reveal as much flesh as possible without breaking any rules: Her jean shorts grip her upper thighs, revealing long white legs. A simple tank-top does little to cover her shoulders or the slope of her delicate feminine neck. Her dyed blonde hair's been done in up in a careless bob. She watches me watching her, and sharp green eyes beneath dark eyebrows reveal nothing so much as a sense of annoyance and scandal. I require all my students to partake in a small interview with me? And I make it a test grade? How dare I? But yes, I dare. "Hello Samantha," I say. "Yo man." "Word," I say. She rolls her eyes. "How are you?" I ask. "I'm fine. How are you?" "Excellent!" She doesn't bother to look at me as we talk. The sound of her foot tapping is clearly audible. "I'm not taking up too much of your time, am I?" "Yeah you are." "Ah. Sorry to hear that. But who can complain about a free test grade?" "Sure." "Do you know why I require this interview?" "No," she says. "But I'm sure you're about to tell me." "You're right. I want to get to know my students. Science is not just about boring old facts rotting away in a dusty book. It's about ideas and explorations and people - helping people. I don't want you to see me as some authority figure commanding facts from on high, like God delivering the commandments to Moses: ye shall not covet thy neighbor's electron." I wait for her to crack a smile. Nothing. Tough audience. "Chemistry joke," I say. "That's why—" "Noble gases are noble? Because they don't covet their neighbor's electron?" "Hey!" I say. "Penny for the smart lady. Anyway, like I said, I want to get to know my students and my first question is one you've heard probably a million times and you're probably sick of getting asked but I feel like I must: what do you want to do when you grow up?" She hesitates and for a moment I think she'll refuse to answer, but then she says, "I want to be a model." Her answer makes sense. Her dreamy there-but-not-there apathy would be perfect for the runway. She certainly has the face for it, pretty if not beautiful, smooth and flawless, polluted by neither freckle nor blemish. And the body: long legs, flat stomach, thin and delicate arms. Androgynous like all good models. Her breasts are a little too big but not enough to disqualify her. "Or an actress," she adds. "Interesting," I say. "Have you done any modeling? Or acting? Are you in the drama club here?" She shoots me a venomous look. "I don't do drama club." "Oh," I say. "So you want to be like a movie actress? A Hollywood dream girl?" "I've done a few commercials," she says. "Cool," I say. "Anything I might have seen?" "Doubt it," she says. "You don't know that -" We're interrupted by her ring-tone, which sounds like a combination of death metal, boy band, and a hammer smashing a glass jar full of nails. The latest and greatest in improvised instrumentals, no doubt. She flips out her phone, an iPhone in a pink case inscribed with roses. She chats rapid fire: "Yo? Yeah. I have some left. Yeah. You know the price? Okay. Be right there." She hangs up and jumps to her feet. "Hey—" "I gotta go!" she says. "Did I pass?" Before I can answer, she's out the door. I shrug. It's not exactly a test you can fail. But the next one is, and she does. I give her a big fat zero because she copies another student's work, right down to the nonsensical reasoning on one of their free response problems involving a juggling dinosaur. I schedule another meeting to discuss it with her - at 3:30 pm, an hour after school lets out. At 3 pm, I head out to my car to pick up some of the tests - including hers. But as I pass by one of the shadowy niches outside our courtyard cafeteria, I hear her voice and another student's. Intrigued I move closer, keeping out of sight, hidden behind one of the 'maidenly' columns. I see her talking to two freshmen. Tiny little creatures. I don't recognize either of them; they're both wearing hoodies. I flip out my phone and begin recording. "Twenty a pop," she says to them. They look between themselves. "Fifteen." "Fifteen? Does this look like the Grand fucking Bazaar? You give me a chicken, I gave you a bag of nails, and oh my poor oh children are starving so give me your biggest slice la la la. I say it's twenty and you either pay up and get what you want, or you don't." The two look at each other nervously. "Okay. Are you sure this Ralph-nail—" "It's pronounced Rohypnol. It's as advertised." They hand over their money and receive a half-full bottle of pills but as they're about to leave, one of them stop and asks, "I heard you sell other stuff." "Yep," she says. "Just think of me as the seven-eleven of drugs. X, coke, heroine, marijuana - and not skunk weed neither. Name your poison, and I'll deliver." "Cool. You're cool," says the freshman and heads off. When they're gone, I step out. Samantha's head snaps up, and she tenses, ready to make a run for it. But seeing me, she relaxes. "Hey teach!" she calls out. "Am I late for the meeting?" "Not yet," I say. She watches me warily as I walk closer. When I'm a few steps off, I ask her, "Do you know what Rohypnol is?" "So you heard." "Yes, I heard." I raise my phone. "And I recorded it." She jumps to her feet. "You did what?" "Answer my question." "If I sold it, I know it. Rophynol aka Flunitrazepam. It's a benzodiazepine. It lowers inhibition by blocking a neurotransmitter in the brain." After a moment, she adds, "It's a roofie." "I know what it is. You sold a date-rape drug to some hormone-addled teenage boys?" "Oh please," she says. "Don't even. What they do with my product is none of my business. I don't make their choices for them. I just make money." "You're selling drugs - hard drugs - on a school campus. Christ, Samantha, that's a felony. You're looking at serious jail time." She smirks. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of conclusion. How much?" I fold my arms across my chest. For the first time, she begins to look worried. "So - what? You're going to give that to the police and let them lock me up? Look I'm sorry. Cut me some fucking slack. Aren't you suppose to, like, be a role-model and a teacher and guide me in the proper ways? Well - guide me." I look her up and down. "Come with me. Now." She follows me to my small cinderblocked cell of an office and once inside, I shut the door behind her and lock it. I lean back against my desk, while she stands there, looking equal parts annoyed, frustrated, and dismissive. I appraise her. She's not lovely, but she is hot. Her jeans hug her hips and reveal a curvy, well-shaped ass. Her shoulders are bare, but for white straps from her tank-top and black straps from her bra. "Take off your clothes," I say. "Excuse me?" "Don't waste my time, kid. First, you cheat on the test. You lack basic honor. Second, you sell drugs - hard drugs, rape drugs - to young kids. You lack basic morals. You offer me money, but I don't need it. What then? A sordid deed can only be bought with more sordid deeds. A girl like you, I'm sure you know what I want. Or I can take this video." I tap my phone. "And we can get the police involved." She narrows her eyes and for a second looks like she might spit in my face. But then she does as I command. She jerks her jacket off. Then her tank top, which she tosses aside, revealing a black bra that covers her small breasts. Then her jeans. They're so tight that she has to shimmy out of them, angrily and impatiently. In just skimpy black underwear and bra, she places her hands on her hips and gives me an annoyed look. "Happy?" she asks. "No," I say. "Take off everything." "Seriously?" "Do you think I'm fucking around, Samantha? We're not on the river of love. This isn't some peep show. After you take your clothes off, I'm going to use you for pleasure." "Whatever." She reaches behind her to undo her bra. Her breasts are revealed, small tits that can't be more than size B. Then she slides her panties down, revealing a cunt that is bare but for a landing strip of black hair. She doesn't bother hiding anything. In fact, she seems to embrace her nudity, thrusting her hips forward. "Now what, big boy?" I shake my head. Defiant to the end. "Kneel," I say. She does and her hands reach out toward my belt. "Let's get this over with." I brush her hands away. I undo my belt, slip down my pants and boxers, and let my cock spring free. Her young body has made me hard already. She moves forward with open lips, taking me inside. She blows me aggressively, swirling her tongue, bobbing her mouth up and down on the tip, using a free hand to stroke me in time with her mouth. She wants to take control - but I said I was going to use her for my pleasure and I meant it. I begin by thrusting deep into her mouth. The tip hits the back of her throat, and she immediately recoils and places two hands against my thighs. She pushes me back out of her mouth. "Really?" I say. "A girl like you can't deep throat?" "Fuck you," she says. "I just have to work up to it." "Alright," I say. "Work up to it." Bless her heart, she does. Where before she stared straight ahead, focused on her technique, she returns to her aggressive blowjob staring straight up at me. After she's covered my manhood in her saliva, and made her bobs deeper and deeper, she looks at me and nods. I slide myself down her throat. She gags a little bit, but doesn't recoil. I slide out and then back in, and she quickly grows accustomed to it. I fuck her mouth, and she lets me. She breathes in and out of her nose, cute nostrils flaring. After a bit, I pull out to let her catch her breathe. "Jesus christ," she says. "Cum already. I have things to do." "Samantha—" "You've been down my throat, teach." She rubs some smeared mascara out of her eye. "Call me Sam." "Okay, Sam. I'm not one of your Justin Bieber teenage boy-toys, ready to pop my rocks at the first kiss." I lift her up off the floor. "Bend over my desk." She shrugs. "Figures." She does as I say and scoots her cute ass out. When all's said and done, I'm an ass man, and hers couldn't have been more perfect. Smooth-back, with the knobs of her spine just visible, and a heart-shaped bottom just begging to be fucked. In fact... I reach over to a cabinet marked Confiscated, where I keep my whiskey and items I've had to take from students. I snag a jar of lube jelly, take a big dollop on one finger, and press it against her asshole. She freezes. "Stop," she says. "What?" She pauses. "Nothing. Nevermind." "Okay." I slip one lubed finger into her ass. She inhales sharply. "No wait stop." I wait. "Don't make fun of me." "Okay." "I've never had it back there before." "Really?" "Yes really. I wouldn't have fuckin said so otherwise." "Okay. Good to know. And?" I give her a minute to respond, my finger half-way up her ass. She doesn't say anything, so I begin to move it in and out. After she begins to relax, I add a second finger. She inhales sharply again, and I get the feeling she wants to tell me to stop. But she doesn't. After I finger her asshole for a bit, I lube up my cock and place it against her backdoor. "Stop. Wait," she says. "I don't want you to fuck me there." I chuckle. "What, were you saving it for someone special? I'm going to fuck your ass." But I don't press forward. Finally, she says. "Okay. Okay. Do it. You're right. I cheated on the test. I sell drugs to little munchkins. I'm a whore. Fuck my dirty asshole. Pound the shit out of me." "If you say so," I say and press forward. She grits her teeth. "Do it, teach. Fill me." I want to. But I don't. I give her a third of my length and move slowly and let her get used to it. Then more and more. When I finally fill her completely, she lets out a loud groan. She looks back at me, almost disbelieving. "Are you all the way in? Fuckity fuck fuck, teach. Out, out, out." I obey her and give her a moment before I begin to push back in. "Impatient son of a bitch," she grunts. She grabs the edge of the desk and I can feel her relax. "In, in, in, it is." We establish a rhythm. Or I establish a rhythm and she accepts it. Despite the situation, this beautiful proto-model splayed out on my desk, asshole slick with lube, my cock buried deep inside, I can't cum. She's too tight. So I fuck her and she gets used to it and I fuck her harder and she gets used to that. By the time I cum, I'm pounding her asshole so hard that the desk is moving. When I feel the first surges of my orgasm, I grab onto her flanks, thrust inside her and fill her. She screams like a banshee, in what I hope is an orgasm of her own and not a spiritual transformation into a creature of the nether world. "Goddamn," she says as I pull out, my cock slipping out of her well-used behind. She reaches behind and touches her gaping asshole gingerly. "That is going to hurt so bad tomorrow." "Probably," I say. She looks back at me, down at my cock, and then begins to retrieve her clothes and put them on. I sit back, unchanging and watch her put her clothes back on. She knows I'm watching, but doesn't acknowledge it. When her jacket is back on her shoulders, and her hair returned to some semblance of normality, she turns and looks at me. "Okay," she says. "We're even." I don't bother to hide my look of contempt. "Even? We're even because you offered me something that I could have gotten for a hundred bucks down on Tom Jones Road? How much drug business did you do tonight? Three hundred, four hundred?" Her look shows me I'm not far from the mark. "We're not even close to even. I have three conditions: first, stop dealing drugs. Call up those freshies and get your rape drug back. Second, take your studies seriously. Not just in my class. I'm going to be asking your other teachers too. Third, we'll need to conduct an interview once a week, just to make sure." She rolls her eyes and does an air-quote while mouthing 'interview.' "You wanna be a model or an actress or whatever, that's going to take work, and it's going to take dedication. By letting you go, I'm taking on responsibility for what you do. Don't be a punk." "Whatever, teach." "That's right. Whatever I say. And the first order of business is to retake your test, without cheating this time." I snag a blank copy from my shelf. Her jaw drops so low that she could have passed for an Edvard Munch replica. "You - what? Now?" "Yes," I said. "Now." I hand her a pencil, an eraser, and a calculator. I put on my clothes. Then I sit in my chair, fold my arms, and wait for her to sit down. After a moment, she does. Then she begins her test. The test takes her an hour, and I grade it on the spot. A 58. "Far better than a zero," I say as I hand it back to her. "Study harder next time." "Uh huh," she says and grabs the test out of my hand. "Your cum leaking out of my ass did wonders for my concentration." "See you in class tomorrow," I say. "And here - in a week." I do see her in class the next day. She is dressed more conservatively than her norm. A longish striped skirt and black leggings and a baggy shirt. She sits down gingerly and slowly and with a visible wince. I feel guilty. I had gotten carried away, and I had no illusions that what I had done was anything but wrong, no matter her own sins or her poor attitude. But in fact, she begins to apply herself. I don't even have to ask the other teachers. She was a legendary slacker and this new change is the talk of the teacher rec room. I personally fail to notice much of a change in her attitude - her looks toward me ranged from resentment to boredom. But at least she turns in homework for five days straight. A new record, up from zero. In a week, it is time for our interview. I had prepared well for it. By which I mean I had prepared nothing. There was nothing to prepare for. Her knock is hesitant and light. "Hello Samantha," I say rising from my chair. "Take a seat." "Sam," she clarifies. She shuts the door behind her, locks it, and sits down. Her movements are nervous and jerky. "There's nothing for you to be afraid of," I say. "No?" "Nope. You've turned your homework in. All the other teachers are talking about your strange 180. As far as I know - and admittedly I'm not exactly 'in the know' - you haven't dealt any more drugs. I'm impressed," I say. "Oh goodie. That's just what I hoped and dreamed for - for you to be impressed." Sam & Teach Ch. 01 I shrug. "No need to be a bitch." "Says the asshole." I stand up. "You're free to go." "What? That's it?" "That's it," I say. She begins to stand up and then sits back down. "Nope. No way. That's not it. I wore this sexy miniskirt and this lace thong for nothing?" I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah. That's right. And I prelubed my asshole." I cough. "You what?" "Ten minutes ago, in the girl's bathroom. I put lube in my asshole and frigged it with a dildo." I stand up and walk around the desk beside her. "Uh oh," she says. "I'm in trouble now." She rises to her feet and looks me in the eye. Her green eyes are like fiery emeralds. "But I ain't afraid of no ghosts." She's tall. But I'm taller, and I'm definitely stronger. I grab her shoulders, kick the chair out of the way, and press her against the wall, mashing her breasts against it. I reach down behind and under her miniskirt. Her thong is textured lace, and I move it aside. She wasn't lying: her asshole is wet with lubricant and slightly gaping. "Told you so," she says. I don't wait. I unzip my pants, pull my cock out, and I'm inside her asshole inside of ten seconds. "Fuu—" she stops, mid-gasp and slowly exhales "—uuckkk." I pump her a few times. She's so slick, and her asshole is already accommodating. Her dildo must have been huge, and the image of her in the girl's bathroom, leaning against the stall, hands behind her thrusting a dildo inside of her, it's like electricity. The layers of clothes between us are too much. I pull out of her and take my pants all the way off. She looks behind her, curious why I stopped, sees me taking my clothes off and does the same. She pulls her tight-fitting shirt off and lets her mini skirt slide down to her legs. She leaves her bra and thong on. "Take those off," I say. "I thought guys liked a girl in her undies." "Not this time," I say. "I want to feel your skin." "Ooo la la," she says. She begins to slowly tease the thong down her hips. "Take them off," I say. She stops and looks back at me and sees something in my face. It's easy to guess what. Unbridled lust. Hunger of the soul-crushing variety. All morals out the window, intelligence barely hanging on, fingers gripping the sill. She drops the thong. She snaps her bra off in one motion. She bends her back, offers her ass to me. I'm inside her quickly. My groin pressed against the cute pears of her ass cheeks. My chest against her back. "Your cock is so much better than my dildo," she says. I nod, even though she can't see it. And then I fuck her in a hurry. I fuck her like we're on a train headed for a dead end. I'm not sure whether she has an orgasm. I don't know - she moans a lot. I trace the lines of her back, the delicate bone structure, the muscles shifting as she presses against me, preparing herself for each hard thrust. I kiss her neck, I smell her hair. Her arms raise to the ceiling, hands intertwined, and I hold them up there. I hold her hips. I hold her shoulders. I hold her hair. Exactly one week from the first time, I come inside her ass a second time. After I do, I just lean against her for a minute or two, returning back from wherever land I'd fled. I pull out of her and immediately begin putting my clothes on. She bends down and begins the same. Her bra first and her shirt. I finish and look at her. Very cute, very very cute - and I'm embarrassed as all hell. When she begins to pull her thong up between her legs, I stop her and try to put our relationship back on a level I understand. "Your thong," I say. "Leave it behind. I want a trophy for the asshole reaming I just gave you." I immediately regret my words. But she slips it down her legs and hands it to me. I pocket it. Then after she puts on her mini-skirt, I zip it up. "Thanks," she says. "Yep," I say. "See you tomorrow in class?" "Yep," I say. The next day, she raises her hand and asks her first question ever. "If gravity works the same on everything, then why does a snowflake fall slower than the rain?" The other students automatically snigger because it's Sam, the low-class drug-dealing wanna-be actress blonde, who asked the question, and a look of sadness and confusion crosses her face. It's a valid question, actually. "Air resistance," I say. She beams at me. The guilt nearly floors me. For next week's interview she tries the same stunt, but pre-warned, I resist. I tell her she's doing great, to keep up the work. But that's only part of what she wants, and she leaves frustrated. I cancel next week's interview. Her grades immediately slip, and I regretfully take her aside. She suggests she needs to be punished. I threaten her with the video and tell her to get her act together and cut the crap. "What?" she says. "Fuck you too." And stalks away. Two weeks later, when I'm doing my usual rounds after school, I catch her selling drugs, and in the exact same place I caught her the first time. I assume it's just a stunt, a bit of play-acting, just for my benefit. But then maybe that's arrogance. It was arrogance - and lust - that allowed me to compromise my morals in the first place. After she sells a baggie of pills of god-knows-what, I confront her. "Oops!" she says. "You caught me." "Sam - Samantha, do you think this is some kind of game? This is serious. It's - it's wrong." "No shit," she says. "And what you did, isn't?" "I know it was, and I said so from the start. Would you have rather I turned you in?" She shrugs. "But I see now that I should have. I don't have any choice now." I turn and begin to walk away. She follows me, and I stop. "What are you doing?" "Aren't we going to your office?" "No Samantha. No more meetings. We're done. You had your chance." Her green eyes flash angrily. "What the fuck, teach?" When I don't budge, she adds, "What-the-fuck-ever. Later, asshole. " I don't think she believes me. I return to my office, look through the directory, and dial her mom's cell-phone. I get a voicemail and I leave my message: "Hello Mrs. Pierce. This is your daughter's physics teacher. There's been an... issue with your daughter, a behavioral problem. That is, I caught her selling drugs on campus. I haven't gotten the police involved, not yet. I'd like to avoid that if possible. But please come see me at your earliest convenience." I click the phone down and wait for a call back and try to grade papers in the meantime. I can't concentrate. Instead, I unlock and open my Confiscated drawer and pull out my bottle of whiskey, and also her lace thong. I pour a glass of whiskey and sip it as I look at her tiny undies. In the weeks after our last... intertwining, I'd wrapped it around my cock a dozen times and masturbated. I had forgotten the minutiae of pleasure, of course. But I remembered the highlights. I remembered her anger and disappointment when I'd told her "That's it." I remembered her words: "Your cock is so much better than my dildo" and her defiant admission that she'd "frigged" her own asshole. I remembered her moans, the smell of her hair, her smooth back, the geometry of her curves. Each time I had masturbated, after I had come, I felt guilt, a remorse that I had started the whole thing in the first place. Now my regret is of a different flavor: I regret that I'm not with her right now, when I could be. It's confusing. After thirty minutes have passed and no call from her parents, I lock up my office and return home. My house is empty, and cold. I turn off the A/C. I make dinner and eat it mechanically. Then I put on a movie - some mindless action movie or other - and fall asleep. A pounding knock at my door wakes me. It's her. Rain is coming down in droves, raindrops attacking the ground like kamikaze pilots. Her blonde hair's wet and bedraggled. Her clothes are soaked through. Lightning and a crack of thunder boom so close my house shakes. "Jesus, Sam!" I say. "What are you doing?" "My parents kicked me out," she says miserably. "I didn't - I just - I don't have anywhere else to go." I let her in and guide her to my couch. I get a fire going and wrap a blanket around her shoulders. "How'd you even know where I live?" I ask. "The directory." She sniffles, and I look over at her, to see whether she's crying or just cold. Both it seems. I can't help but notice her red bra visible through a soaked white shirt. Her nipples are hard, visible through both layers. I look away. But she notices and looks down and realizes what I had looked at. She begins to tiredly strip off her clothes but I stop her. "No," I say. "But—" "Just no. You can have my bed. I mean, you can sleep in it." "But—" "I'll take the couch. I insist," I say to her challenging look. She nods wearily. I guide her up the stairs to my bedroom, get out a change of clothes for her, and wait as she changes in my bathroom. The clothes are too big, not at all up to her usual fashion standards, but she seems too tired to care. She climbs into bed, and I tuck her in. "Want a bedtime story?" I joke. "Thanks," she mumbles and she's out like a light. I look her over briefly and then head downstairs and lay down on the couch. I'm keyed up. But I'm also exhausted. In fifteen minutes, I fall into a deep sleep. I wake up to the feeling of my cock enveloped by warmth. I slightly open one eye. Samantha's moving her head up and down on me. I can feel her lips and her tongue carefully pleasuring my manhood. In a soundless flash of lighting, I see that she's completely naked - and that one of her hands is between her legs. I'm a heavy sleeper; I wonder how long she's been at it. In my half-dreaming, half-waking state, I fear that if I do anything sudden, it will all vanish in a puff of smoke. Like she's some fairy princess come from Faery Hill. After a bit, she stops her fellatio. She pauses for a long while. Then she jabs me softly. "Hey teach," she whispers. I don't respond. She jabs me a little harder and whispers a little louder. "Teach, you awake?" I don't respond. She shifts her weight and next thing I know, a new warmth envelops me. Her cunt. It's a short-lived warmth, though. She slides off me and shifts her position, slowly, stealthily, trying to keep her weight off me, as if I could possibly sleep through this. Eventually, she finds her balance and the warmth returns and she begins to move up and down. I risk a peek. She's sitting over me sideways, her hands behind her on the top of the couch holding her up. She rocks up and down, letting just the tip of me slip in and out of her warm snatch. It's a teasing, wonderful pleasure, and it all takes all my willpower not to thrust up inside her. My patience is rewarded moments later when she slowly lowers herself down onto me completely. I can feel her pubic hair on my thigh. She moans, realizes she did so, and one hand flies to her mouth, covering it. She adjusts her weight, freeing her other hand. While sitting on me, not moving, just allowing me to fill her, she takes turns tugging on her nipples and rubbing her clit. After awhile, she begins these full, long up and down motions, and after a few of these, she goes completely still, except a furious rubbing between her legs. I can feel her orgasm on me, I can feel her trying to contain it. Her skin shivers. Her legs begin to shake. I decide it's a good moment to come alive. I put my arms around her and carry her up the stairs, inside her the whole time. She's light as a feather, as if she has escaped gravity. She rests her head on my shoulder. When we reach my bedroom, I lay her down and without any unnecessary words, begin to move inside her. I want her every which way. At first, her legs are spread wide, opening her teenage cunt to me. She's allowed her 'landing strip' of pubic hair to grow a little wild. Together, we watch my cock disappear inside her. She makes cute little moans every time I fill her. Then I lift her legs up to my shoulders, making her tight. I press my weight on her and thrust down into her, pressing her into the bed. She likes that and comes twice. Silently, but I can tell from her hands gripping my forearms and from the look in her eyes, her green eyes burning like fires in the night. I flip her over and take her from behind, my hands grasping her hips. She grasps my wrists, letting her upper body rest on the bed. From there we transition to her being on top. We take turns being the mover. First she jackhammers up and down, pounding her ass on top of me, then she holds still while I thrust from below. After that we end up spooning and, exhausted, I gently move in and out of her from behind. Long, slow strokes, like ocean waves caressing the shore. She speaks for the first time. "Don't be rude." "What?" I say. "My other hole is jealous." Without waiting for a response, she moves forward, causing me to slip out of her. "Hold on," she says. She rubs her cunt for wetness - but we've been fucking so long that she's not as wet as she wants to be. "Fuck." She growls and then spits her in hand. She reaches behind her and rubs first one finger then two in her asshole. Impatiently, she reams herself. Then she spits on her hand again and reaches behind and rubs me, making me slick with her saliva. I've been on pins and needles this whole time. I'm still hard. With all this done, she scoots her ass back into me and guides me toward her 'other hole.' It's not as slick a fit with lube, but I do pop in. She grunts, half in pleasure, half in pain. "I'm naughty," she says. "I deserve this, but take it slow." I do. I fuck her with small micro-thrusts, barely moving in and out of her. The motion is not the important thing - being inside her is. "Okay," she says. "Harder now." But we're at an awkward angle; I can't do much. Sensing this, she pulls forward, slipping me out. Then she lies down, her chest flat on the bed and reaches behind her to spread her ass-cheeks, opening herself to me. "Will this work?" It does. I slip inside her, stuffing my thickness inside her tight hole. I fuck her hard, harder even than our first time together, but it's still not enough. "Do me harder," she moans. "Pound me into your fucking bed!" I obey. My groin makes slapping noises against her ass with each downward stroke. She buries her face into the pillow, trying and failing to stifle her moans. "Oh fuck teach, oh fuck, come on, fill my dirty ass with your dirty seed." It sets me off and I empty what seems like a never-ending load deep into her bowels. As soon as the first splash of cum enters her, she screams her pleasure, clenching her ass hard around me. I fall beside her replete. Perhaps, I should feel guilty, but I am too empty. A good empty, a peaceful empty. Together, we stare up at the ceiling and listen to the rain. "What now?" I ask. She turns her head and looks at me dreamily. "You could try kissing me," she says. I chuckle, and do exactly that. Sam & Teach Ch. 02 Note: All characters engaging in sexual activities are 18 years or older. This is part 2 of 3. ***** I wake up before she does and sneak out of the covers, doing my best not to wake her. The sun has just risen. My bedroom - which is mostly all windows, facing out on a thick forest - has begun to glow orange. In the soft light, Sam looks angelic, except for her dyed blonde hair crunched up against the pillow. The covers have fallen slightly, revealing her small breasts, her naked neck, her delicate feminine shoulders. A master sculptor could not have shaped a more perfect body, and at the ripe age of eighteen, she is youth incarnate, possessing a beauty so fresh I can almost taste it. It will fade and be replaced by a more mature, more durable beauty - and there is much to be said for that. But for now, at this exact moment, her girlish beauty is the stuff of poetry. The thought disquiets me. The peace of last night has fled from the light of the rising sun. I don't know how I feel about my student being in my bed. The first two times I fucked her were one thing - they were pleasure. Actions of lust. But last night, no. I could not pretend there wasn't something more, mixed in with the lust. I go downstairs to make breakfast. I crack open six eggs, add a dash of paprika and a cup of milk, and beat them together. Then as I'm heating the butter in a pan, I get out a sausage and cut it into slices. The eggs and sausage are well under way by the time I hear Sam give me a sleepy, "Hey teach." I look back. She's wearing her white shirt, and very clearly no bra underneath, with a pair of red underwear. "Good morning," I say. "What's cookin'?" "Sausage and eggs." She hugs me from behind and presses her face against my back. "Mmm, I do like sausage." Her hand drifts down my front, slips inside my shorts, and grabs hold of my cock. I respond - of course - growing hard, but I gently reach down and disengage her hand. "Not now," I say. Based on our past experiences, I expect her to get angry. She doesn't. Instead, she gives me a minx smile and says, "Your loss." She sits back at the table and proceeds to ogle my kitchen. I like to cook, and so I keep my kitchen in good-working order, well-stocked. Marble counter-top, refrigerator with a glass front, an old oaken rough-hewn table. Flowers sprouting from vases wherever possible, a decorative ode to a long lost girlfriend. As Sam explores my domestic side, her face takes on a look of wonder, reminiscent of some ancient European sailor seeing America after a long journey. Her eyes widen and narrow, as if she is judging my décor. But she says nothing, and I don't ask. I finish the breakfast, and we sit down and eat. "About last night..." I begin, after a bite of egg. Sam forestalls me with a raised hand. "No, teach. It is what it is. I don't want to ruin it by talking it to death." "Leave the dissecting to the scientists." "Yea." She takes a bite out of a sausage, and juice runs down her chin. I hand her a napkin, and she wipes it away. "What about your parents?" I ask. "It's cool," she says. "They sent me a text. They're very worried and just want me to come home." She pauses. "By the way, thanks for ratting me out, jerk." I sigh. "I don't think you left me any choice." "Spare me that bullshit. Fatalism is la la la." I don't have any response to that, so we eat in silence. I get up and pour myself a glass of orange juice. Lots of pulp, just the way I like it. I gesture with it toward Sam, and she nods. I pour her a glass too and bring them both back to the table. "Won't they ask where you were last night?" I say. "I'll tell them I was at a friend's. They won't ask which. They're not really concerned about me," she says. "They're more concerned about appearing to be concerned. About seeming like 'good parents' to their friends and to society, because that's what's expected of them." "That's a little harsh," I say. "I'm sure they—" "You don't know them." That's true. We finish our breakfast in silence. When we do, I begin to stand up with my plate. "No, no," says Sam. "'He who does not cook must clean.'" She grabs our plates and glasses and silverware and carries them to the sink. I can't help but take the opportunity to check out her cute butt in her red underwear. How could I not? But she catches me when she looks over her shoulder. She smiles and says, "By the way, teach. What'd I get on last week's test?" "You failed. A 67." "Two more points for a 69," she says. "Maybe I can earn a little extra credit?" she gives me a lascivious wink. "No," I say. "Be serious, Sam. Grades are important. Knowledge is important. Be more than an empty head." She shuts off the water and turns around to look at me. "Is that what you think of me? Just a body and an empty head?" "No," I say. "You have potential. You're very bright. But you refuse to let yourself shine." "Because I don't do well in physics? Why do I need to know about projectile motion and forces and apples falling on people's heads to be a model? How will that help my career?" "Oh?" I say. "So you only learn if there's money involved? Science is about more than that. It's about taking control of the world around you, about understanding why things are the way they are. Understanding the ballet of atoms and electrons and forces, the way they touch and untouch, and keep the universe ticking and turning like some giant clock. Having knowledge is like..." I search for a more modern metaphor "...it is like the difference between low-quality video and high-definition. Having knowledge - be it science or fashion - makes the world a richer place, with every breath, and every thought." She shakes her head, half-laughing. "Oh my god, Teach. You are so fucking sexy." "Speak for yourself," I say. "How about this?" she says. "We make a little wager. Give a girl some more tangible motivation. If I get a B or better on your next test, you have to give me the best head I've ever had." "And if you don't?" "Then I give you the best head you have ever had." I open my mouth to say no, but then she cuts me off, "Before you answer, let me put up these dishes." She turns around and dries them and as she does so, she curves her back, her cute bottom thrust out on display. I am reminded of the first two times I fucked her, which reminds me of last night's love-making, which reminds me of her green eyes flecked with gold, like distant stars and galaxies glowing in a night sky. She stands up on her tip-toes to put the two plates in my cupboard, and when she turns around, she runs her hands up her body, over her flat stomach and the curve of her breasts. She ends by stretching her arms above her head. The motion pulls her shirt up, revealing her red underwear, her long shapely legs. Then she says, "You were saying?" pointedly looking at my visible bulge. I shake my head. "It's a deal, you bloody little minx." "Good," she says brightly. "Then I best get changed and head on home. Wouldn't want the parentals to get a bad rep with their society friends." The next test is on two-dimensional kinematics, a comparatively easy topic. She takes it exactly four days after we make the bet, on the same day her parents scheduled a meeting with me. I have mixed feelings obviously. I've been on the receiving end of her oral skills and they were wonderful. But in the end, my desire for her success outweighs my desire for her body. Of course, being 'required' to go down on her wouldn't exactly be torture. As soon as my last class of the day is over, I find her test and grade it. She gets a 77, a low C. Frustrating. I know she worked hard at it. A knock sounds on my office door, and I glance at the clock. It's twenty minutes before Sam's parents are supposed to be here. "Come in," I say. It's Sam. She's dressed in a knee-high plaid skirt and a white blouse with frills. A purer look than I'm used to. She's the image of a schoolgirl, except for the black stockings covering her long legs. "Hey," I say. "What'd I get?" she says excitedly. "I... haven't graded it yet." "Bullshit." She slings her bag on the ground and reclines sideways in one of my chairs, her legs dangling over the arm. "Did I fail then, huh? What'd I get? Tell me." "A 77." She jumps up. "No way!" I show her the test. "Sorry. But it's a big improvement. Don't beat yourself up over it." It's like telling water not to be wet. When she puts her mind to something, she really does go all out. Her downcast look is real. "You know, about our bet..." I begin. "You don't have to—" Her head snaps up. "Oh no you don't. A deal's a deal, teach. I promised the best blowjob you've ever had. If I can't deliver on my test grade, at least you can let me deliver that." She begins to scoot around the desk. "Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" "Delivering?" "Sam, your parents will be here in twenty minutes." She glances at the clock. "More like thirty minutes. They're always late." In one motion, she lifts up her white shirt and pulls it over the top of her head. She's wearing a green push-up bra that gives her more cleavage than usual. She tosses the shirt in my face. "Sam! Put your clothes back on." I toss her top back to her. But she lets it fall. "No." She pushes me back in my chair and unzips my pants and fishes out my cock. Before I can further protest, she slides her mouth over me. Checkmate in two. "Fuck," I say and glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes. And as good as she is - there's no way I can last that long. I let her continue. But she refuses to go hard at me. She teases me. Barely moving her lips up and down on the tip. Using only her tongue, a light touch that drives me wild but doesn't give me the satisfaction I need. Desperate, I place my hands on the back of her head and begin to push her down. She resists and pulls off me, my hardness slipping out of her mouth with an audible pop. "You have to let me work up to that, teach, remember?" I glance at the clock. Ten minutes to go. I roll back in my chair. "Sam, you need to go, your—" There's a hard knock on the door and it begins to open. I react. I push Sam forward, hidden underneath my closed-front desk, and roll forward as close as I can - my stomach pressed against the edge of the desk. Sam's parents walk in. Her mother is, to no surprise, beautiful. Cold, almost, in her beauty, with soft features that have been made more severe by expertly applied make-up. Her black hair practically shines in the light. Her dad is tall and Nordic and reminds me of Thor. He exudes an aura of success and comes at me with hand outstretched, clearly expecting me to rise and shake it. I'd love to do just that, but my cock happens to be hanging out. Instead I offer my hand and stay seated. "Excuse me for keeping my seat," I say. "I pulled a muscle when I was playing football. Trying to keep my weight off it." Her dad nods knowingly. "Ah a good ol' pigskin wound. I experienced my share of those in my day. Back when I was QBing for the Bruins, you know? They called me the rocket," he adds at the same time that his daughter reapplies her mouth to my rocket. She begins bobbing her head up and down, applying just enough pressure so that I can feel her soft lips dragging over me. I try not to let it show on my face. "So," says Sam's mother. "About our daughter. You said there were 'behavioral issues.'" "Ah, yes, I—" Sam bobs her head a little faster, her lips pressing a little tighter. "I, um, I caught her selling drugs." "Drugs? What kind of drugs? Hard stuff?" Sam takes her mouth off me, leaving my cock, wet and warm from her saliva, to cool in the open air. "No, no," I say. "Just marijuana." As if to reward me for my answer she takes me back into her mouth and begins doing something with her tongue, this little twist right around the underside that drives me wild. "I, uh -" "Are you okay?" says her mother. "Give the man a break," says her father. "A pulled hamstring hurts like a bitch, right?' "Yeah," I say. "Hurts like a bitch. Well, I, uh, I know I should have reported your daughter, but I've appreciated the efforts—" Sam chooses the moment to take me down her throat "—the, um, the uh efforts that your daughter has made in my class." They look between themselves. "We were under the impression that she was failing physics?" "Yes," I say. "But she has begun to improve." I gesture toward her test. Her father glances it over and nods, unimpressed. "We appreciate your discretion," and looks over at his wife who begins to pull out her checkbook. Their daughter releases me from her mouth and instead begins to swirl her tongue around the tip of my cock while stroking me gently with her hand. If I weren't so morally compromised myself, I might have had room to get angry at their bribery. Instead I wave my hand. "No, no. That won't be necessary. I spoke with Samantha, and we made a deal. She promised to behave—" at these words she immediately stops what she was doing "—that is, to cease selling drugs—" she resumes her ministrations "—and to improve her grades, in exchange for keeping this between we four." "Thank you so much," says her mother. "She's always made a mess of things, even from a young age, she was always breaking things. She's a lot of trouble." "Yeah," I say. "I can imagine." Sam bites me very gently, so I add, "But she has a lot of potential." She returns to lovingly sucking me off, doing that thing with her tongue, and I can feel my orgasm coming. I try to pull my hips back, but she doesn't let me go. Stop, I telepathically transmit to her, you're going to make me come. When she fails to get that message, I change it to: I'm going to come. Don't gag. Please don't gag. "Glad you think so. That makes one of us," he says and adds more but I can no longer hear him. His daughter's lips, her tongue, her mouth making love to my cock - the sensation crowds out all other sensations. I'm so hard, my cock is practically straining inside of Sam's mouth as she slowly, deliberately slides me down her throat, all the way down, until her lips are against my root. She holds me there, massaging the tip with her throat. The pleasure is intense. It's a struggle to even keep my eyes open. It's so good I can't even come. It's not until she pulls back and gives me a bob or two that I'm finally able to unleash the torrents of semen that I tried to hold back. I exhale very evenly and steadily and keep myself completely still. "—hope your injury heals quickly." Sam's Viking-esque father stands up and offers his hand. "No need to get up. And thank you again for your discretion." "Yes," I say weakly. "Thank you. I will keep you appraised of Samantha's progress." "No need," says her father. "Just let us know if she fucks up again." The two leave and shut the door behind them. Fifteen seconds after it closes, I slide back and let Sam up from the floor. "Goddamnit Samantha, you said they were always late." She opens her mouth to show her pink tongue covered in my white semen which she proceeds to swallow. After she wipes her chin, she says, "Did I say that? I meant they are always early." "Sam, that isn't funny. We're in dangerous territory here. I could get fired." I begin to stand up. She pushes me back into my chair. "Shut the fuck up." She lifts herself up, to sit on the edge of my desk, and places one stockinged foot on my chest. "The only thing I want coming out of your mouth is your tongue." She hikes her plaid skirt up her thighs, revealing almost exaggeratedly girly underwear, pink with rainbows and unicorns and god knows what else. "Nice underwear," I say. "But you lost the bet." "Do I give a fuck about the bet?" she says. She snaps off her bra, and tosses it aside. She reaches down and pulls her underwear aside, revealing her completely bare pussy. "Start eating." I lean forward and kiss her thighs. "Don't fuck around," she says. "I want your tongue in my pussy now." I do as she says; she's wet and she tastes like the earth, like rain-water dripping from wild berries. "That's more like it," she says. "Fuck my slit with your tongue." I do my best and just when my tongue grows tired, she says, "Now, my clit." It takes me half-a-second to find it nestled in its little hood, but that's too long. "Fuck teach, do I need to draw you a map?" She grabs my head and holds my mouth where she wants it to be, easing up when I'm doing things she likes, forcing me down I'm not. I suck on her clit, and flick it with my tongue, drawing abstract paintings on the canvas of her pearl. After I do this for a few minutes, she scoots up even more and it's clear what she wants: for me to stick my tongue in her asshole. I've never done it before. I don't hesitate now. She likes it. She uses her grip on me to alternate between her asshole and her clit and after two switches, she comes, her thrusts against my face synchronized with the waves of her pleasure. When she finally stops jerking, I pull away and use my sleeve to wipe her juices off my face. She smirks. "Now you know how I feel. You came rivers. It's a good thing I know how to swim." She licks her lips. "You liked me blowing you in front of my parents, didn't you?" I don't deny it. "Ah," she says, leaning back in post-orgasmic bliss, playfully tugging on her hard nipples. "Honestly, teach, that was the best head I've ever given. I'm a fucking blowjob artist. You too. You made me cum so hard." She leans back still further and then suddenly says, "Ow!" and springs up. I catch her before she falls. She searches for the source of her injury and finds her test on the desk. One of the staples had poked her in the shoulder. She lets it fall back to the desk, and her mood is immediately dampened. She climbs into my lap and curls up. My pants are around my ankles, my cock is out, and her panties are still pushed to the side, revealing her cunt. But her gesture isn't sexual. "I'm sorry," she says. "About the test." "It's alright. Just do better next time." "I can't." "Of course you can." "What do you know about it?" she says. "You're a frikkin' genius. It's all so easy for you. It just doesn't make sense. I hate math. Do you have any idea how much I studied? Can't you just pass me?" "No." "Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?" She rubs her head against my chest. "Stop that," I say. "I'm not going to pass you unless you earn it." "You're more than willing to fuck me, though." "What does that have to do with it?" She uncoils herself from my lap, stands up, and adjusts her underwear and her skirt. "I dunno. Maybe if I weren't spending all my time fucking you, I'd have more time to study." I shrug. "We don't fuck that much." "Okay, well, whenever you're lecturing in class, that's all I can think about it. Maybe physics is just stupid." She locates her bra, puts it on backwards, and then rotates it around after hooking the catch. "My brain isn't wired for it. Where's my shirt?" I find it and toss it to her. She pulls it over her head. "Study harder," I say, as she adjusts her hair. She gives me a sort of euuughh-you-don't-get-it look. "Blow me," she says. "Better yet, blow yourself." With those final words, she hefts up her bag and strolls out the door, shaking her cute behind. The next day, as I'm lecturing on forces and circular motion and Newtonian mechanics, she squirms in her seat. I can tell something's on her mind and, sure enough, after everyone has left, she approaches me. "I have an idea," she says. "Great," I say, looking out into the hallway. It's empty, but this still makes me anxious. There's no telling what will come out of this girl's mouth, but it's unlikely to be sugar or spice or anything nice. Sam & Teach Ch. 02 "Help me study for the next test." "Huh?" I say. "Don't I already? I am your teacher." "I mean more." Two students pass by, and I wait until they're gone to respond. "Okay, how?" "Tie me up." I glance out the hallway. It's empty. "Lower your voice." She leans forward close to me and whispers, "Tie me up." I gently move her back. "Don't do that either. And anyhow how will that help?" "You know, quiz me. Whenever I get a question wrong, punish me." "I still don't see how that's going to help." I walk over, shut the door, and come back. "You like sex." She rolls her eyes. "Make it work. Be rough with me. That never stopped you before." "Yes but—" She crosses her arms. "Holy shit, teach. Don't be such a big fucking baby." I shrug. "Okay. Alright," I say. "But you need to study on your own first. The next test is in two weeks. On Friday." "So Thursday night. it's a date, your place?" She sees me hesitate at the word 'date.' "What else do you call it when a guy and a girl meet up and plan to boink each other's brains out?" "Study hall?" She laughs. "Oh teach, you slay me." Then she's out the door and gone. I feel uneasy. Sam likes it rough - and I like giving it rough. But there's always a line you shouldn't cross. And I've begun to feel protective of her. Even against myself. Especially against myself. Two weeks of fantasizing and a couple purchases at our local sex shop, and my caution has transformed into eagerness. I've got an idea about how to deal with my unease. The day she arrives, I'm practically shaking with excitement. It is definitely true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, or the dick grow harder, at any rate. She said she'd arrive by 5:30. She has some modeling shoot or something or other. By 5:20, I've showered, changed my shirt five times, and find myself waiting on my couch, drinking a beer that I'm not even tasting. At 5:30 sharp, a knock sounds out my door. I leap over, open the door, and there she is, cuter than any earthly creature has a right to be. "Hi hi." She gives me a peck on the cheek and rushes inside. She's wearing a pair of jeans and an old, loose-fitting t-shirt. A couple bangles cover her arms. She gestures to herself, "Sorry for being plain Jane. But I figured you'd be taking my clothes off right away anyway, so..." She unzips her back-pack and pulls out a coil of black nylon rope. "But I did bring this! Where to?" I take the rope from her and put it aside. "I have rope. But before we do this, you have to agree to one rule." "Yes?" "If I go too far, you have to say the safe-word." "Teach, I can take whatever you can throw at me. That's what makes it fun. I don't need a safe-word. A safe-word sounds boring." "Sam, it'll make me feel better." Her star-lit green eyes analyze my face, and I guess she decides this is a battle she can't win. "Alright, what's the safe-word?" "I don't know. I thought you would want to choose it." "I don't need a safe word. It's your idea. You choose." "Okay. How about snowflake?" She half-laughs, half-smiles, flashing her even white teeth. "Sure, teach, sure. Where to?" "Bedroom." She leads the way up the stairs, her hips swaying the whole time. When she sees the ropes attached to the edges of the bed, she emits a growl. "Fuck yeah. I am so ready for this." She doesn't wait to begin stripping, and I sit back and watch the show. She slips the bangles off her arms and lifts her shirt over her head. She's not wearing any bra, and her small pink nipples are already hard. She pulls her tight jeans off, bending over as she does to show me black briefs with pink frills. They quickly come off, tossed in the same corner as everything else. Naked and glowing, she turns to me. "How do we do this?" "Climb onto the bed," I say. "On your back. Spread your legs." She does as I say, and I slip ropes around each ankle - which are spread to opposite posts - and pull them tight. Then I do her hands, which are bound together, to the center of the top of the bed. "How is that?" I ask. She tries to move her limbs. There's a small amount of slack for her hands, but not much. They're definitely trapped above her head. Her legs have even less flexibility. I put two pillows behind her head, so she can look at me without straining her neck. A small gesture, considering some of the punishments I have in mind. I stand back and study my handiwork. Her small breasts are pulled up, given more firmness with her hands above her head. Her tiny pink nipples point out proudly. Her trimmed pussy is bared and open, and already I can smell her arousal leaking into the air. She is beautiful and sexual and vulnerable, like a virgin laid out on a sacrificial altar. Sam looks at me. "You're grinning like a child with a new toy," she says. "You too," I say. I master my lust and turn on my teacher voice. "So, my dear student, know this: you are in my power now and there is nothing you can do to stop me and that your only hope is to prove your knowledge of the mysteries of the universe. Are you ready?" "I'm horny as fuck. Maybe I'll answer every question wrong, just so you can punish me, but..." she smiles. "Nope. That'd be cheating." "Yes it would," I say. "And then you would be doubly punished. Let's start with an easy one. What are Newton's three laws?" "Cake: first law is objects movin' stay movin' unless acted upon by a force." "Good," I say, gently tracing my fingers up her long, perfect legs, to her waist, the bones of her child-bearing hips, her ribs, her breasts, her neck. "And the second?" "Second is force equals mass times acceleration." I kiss her collarbone, the corner of her lips, her ear lobe. She shivers beneath me. "And the third?" I whisper. "Every force has an equal and opposite reaction." "Excellent," I murmur. I kiss the inside of her elbow, the side of her knee, her hip. I end with a kiss between her legs, licking her puffy labia. She's already soaked, and trembling with excitement. "At sea-level, what is the acceleration due to gravity?" I ask. "Nine point eight," she says. "Is that it?" She looks at me confused. "Yes?" "No. Nine point eight meters per second, per second. OR thirty two point two feet per second, per second. Units matter." I go to my night-stand and retrieve from a bag two objects, two dildos, which I hide behind my back. "You have two choices for what goes into your pussy. One is half a foot, the other is a third of a meter. Make your choice." "Is that a trick question?" "I don't know. Is it?" "Knowing you, it is. And knowing you, the trick is that it's not a trick. A third of a meter." I show her the two dildos. One is twice as long as the other and considerably thicker. Her eyes grow wide at the big one. "Half a foot - six inches," I say as I shake the smaller one. "A third of a meter - twelve inches," I say as I shake the longer. "No way," she says. "Yes way." I lean over her and press the dildo against her opening. She's so wet, it slips in easily, but after I push half of it in, she tells me in a pained voice. "Stop." "Yes. You got the question half-right, so it only goes half-way in." For the next question, I begin to slowly pull the long object out of her. "Tell me the forces acting on the dildo." Despite a tremble that extends outward from her cunt and into her limbs, she answers. "Oh god. Gravity. You said there's always gravity. My, uh, my normal force, I mean my vagina's normal forces. And you pulling it of course. And uhm, uh, friction, kinetic friction." "Which isn't much, since you're so wet," I add. "Correct. Good." I pull the dildo all the way out, and she takes a deep breath. "That thing is a monster," she says. "Is it?" I say. "Better get the next one right then: can the coefficient of friction ever be greater than one?" She bites her lip. "No, I don't think so." "What if two objects are glued together? Wrong," I say as I pick the dildo back up and show it to her. "Fully wrong." She shakes her head in denial, but I ignore it. I push the dildo back inside her and when it's half way, she again says, "Stop." "Is it snowing already?" When she doesn't respond, I push another inch inside her. She's at seven total inches. I can only imagine how far stuffed she must feel. She mumbles something, but I only catch 'split me in half.' I add another inch. She strains against the ropes trying to escape the monster penetrating her tiny teenage pussy. But she has nowhere to go. I add another inch, making nine total. She mumbles something, "...flake?" "Snowflake?" But she merely grunts. The dildo is already a tight fit, and I have to rotate it back and forth to get another inch inside her. Her cunt is stretched around the dildo's girth, sucking on it as she inhales and exhales. I wait for some response but when she doesn't react, I say, "Sam?" "Yeah?" she says in a strained voice. "Is it all in?" "No," I admit. "Two more inches left." "I - uh - I can't..." "You can," I say. "Your failure must be punished." "I can't..." she whines pitifully. Tears of effort leak from the corners of her eyes. I ignore them and push the dildo further in until it reaches an obstruction at the other end. Her womb. "I can..." she whispers, "...in my belly." I reach over and touch her flat, naked stomach. It's ticklish and she tries to recoil but is held firmly in place. The massive dildo is almost entirely stuffed inside her. "Does it hurt?" I ask. "Yes. No. I feel... replete." "Are you ready for the next question?" "Yeah, I—" she takes a series of deep breathes. "Yeah." "Is the coefficient of static or kinetic friction greater?" "Kinetic," she says confidently. "Wrong." "Ah, God. Yeah, I knew that. Yeah, I just— I—Whew," she inhales and exhales slowly and deliberately. "Just there's a huge dildo in your pussy, and it's hard to concentrate?" "Yeah..." "Well, you still got it wrong. So..." I return to the bag on the night-stand and retrieve the last two objects: a butt plug, which is shaped like a large strawberry, and some lube. I bring them over and show them to Sam. She nods as best she's able. "Okay." I cover one of her bound hands in lube and place the anal plug in her hands, letting her spread the slippery substance to her liking. While she's doing that, I lube up her asshole, which appears so small and tight next to her pussy stretched wide with the monster dildo. After everything's good and wet, I take the plug out of her hands and press it against her crinkly hole. I slowly slide it in, her asshole stretching to accommodate the increasing girth. She gently moans when it's at its widest. I push past that and the whole thing pops in, the wide base coming to rest flat against her butt. "Alright," I say. "Next question." I reach over her and begin to move my finger in a circle around her right breast. "Suppose an object is travelling in a circle like this. At this point," I stop with my finger above her nipple. It's pink and puffy and wonderful. I'm not sure I've ever seen Sam this aroused. "What is the direction of its acceleration? I'll take pity on you and make it multiple choice. Is it this—" I move my finger down and over her nipple. "This—" I move my finger off in a line away from her breast and down the sides of her chest. "Or just along the circle," I say, as I resume my teasing around her breast. I resist, just barely, the temptation to take them in my mouth and suck them. My cock is hard, a long thick rod trapped in its underwear. "I know this one. I remember it's not in a circle." "Is it?" "No. It's the second one, the line." "Wrong," I say. "That's instantaneous velocity. Acceleration - and centripetal force - are always toward the center, in this case towards your nipple." I reach down and twist the little pink nub hard, causing her to gasp. "That's three wrong in a row." I step aside and begin to take my shirt off. She watches me through veiled eyes. When I unbuckle my pants and pull them down to reveal my hard cock, she snorts. "You taking off your clothes isn't much of a punishment." I slide myself up her body until my cock is at her lips. They're pink and a little glossy and slightly open. "Didn't I say you would be punished doubly if you purposefully got them wrong?" "I'm not—mffgh -" I slip inside her mouth. I start slow - only about half of my length rubbing in and out of her lips - to give her time to 'work up to it.' But before long, I'm fucking her mouth, the head of my cock hitting the back of her throat with each thrust. It doesn't feel as good as fucking her cunt or her ass, but those are both stuffed at the moment. The thought that every hole in her body is full sends thrills of pleasure up my skin, and I can only manage a minute of fucking Sam's mouth before I have to stop for fear of cumming. When I pull out, she gasps. "Fuck teach, I'm not a fish, I don't have gills. I need my mouth to breath." "Safeword?" "Please," she says. "After loch ness monster in my pussy. this is nothing. Just— gfmh—" I push myself back into her mouth. There's nothing she can do to stop me, and I repeat the same process, slowly building up to fucking her mouth. I have this almost perverse desire to make her say the safe-word. But even after three such cycles, she has refused to give in. "Enough," I say. I kiss her lips, and taste myself on them, and begin to kiss and lick my way down her chin, her neck, to the valley between her breasts. I detour to suck and bite her nipples and then move down, until my tongue is at her belly button. Ticklish, she inhales sharply and I move lower. But before I get to her pussy, I pull away. "Figures," she says. "Earn it," I retort. "My tongue generates a force of 2 newtons and the area of the tip is .01 meters squared. What pressure does it apply to your skin?" With her pussy split wide by the thick dildo, her engorged clit is easily found above her slit. I lean down and lick it, to show her what I mean. She bites her lip. "Ummm... uh..." Math and cunnilingus, it seems, don't mix. "Two," she manages." Zero zero two." She's missing something, but I give her time, concentrating on pleasing her, using my tongue to make the rapid strokes I know she likes. After a moan, she adds "Pascals. The units." I pull up from her clit. "The units are right. Everything else is wrong. Pressure equals force over area. Two divided by 0.01. Two hundred pascals. A much better force for making my favorite student moan." I shake my head in disappointment. "Two right, five wrong. You're failing," I say. I pull the dildo out of her in one fluid motion, and she half-gasps, half-moans in shock. I kneel between her two spread, tied legs and guide my cock between the lips of her cunt, folded aside like petals of a flower. The dildo has stretched her normally tight pussy into a lewdly gasping cavern. In one swift motion I shove my cock fully inside of her. I can actually feel how she's been loosened, but it's still like heaven to be inside her. Warm, and wet, and we're so closely connected that I can feel her rapid, aroused heartbeat. I begin to move in and out of her in long, slow, deep thrusts. Fully in - until my balls press against the base of the butt plug - and then fully out, until just the thick engorged head is inside. "Not... much... punishment," she gasps. Out of habit, she tries to move her arms to touch me but she's held fast. All she can do is look up into my face as she takes my plunging manhood inside her. She likes it. She's getting off on the powerlessness and her moans quickly increase in intensity. After only a few strokes, she says, "Ah fuck, I'm gonna—" I immediately pull out of her. Her eyes snap open. "No," she says. I say nothing. "No," she says again. I reach down and grab hold of the butt plug and pull it in and out of her ass a few times, using the thickest part to give her ass a good reaming. After a minute or two of this cool-down, I line up my cock and find my way inside her hole again. "No," she says. "No. You're not—" she moans when I bottom out in her. "Not gonna fuck—" a moan as I slide out "—me unless you let me—" a third moan when I plunge back in "—cum." I do exactly that. She tries to be sneaky, hold back her characteristic moans. But I know her body too well. She tenses up when she's close to orgasm. And when she does I pull out. "Fuck your mother," she says. "Fuck your whole family." She strains against the ropes, trying to move her hand toward her clit, but they hold fast. "C'mon, ask me another one." I'm having too much fun. I ask her a tough one I don't think she has any hope of answering. "A 100kg man is in an elevator. It accelerates up at 2 meters per second per second. What's the normal force on the man from the elevator? Let's say gravity is 10 meters per second per second, to make it easy." "I can do this," she says. "Sure you can," I say, as my fingers trace invisible pathways up her inner thighs. She closes her eyes in concentration, and her fingers tap out mental math against her palms. "1200 Newtons," she says after a moment. I don't do anything. She grins. "I got it right didn't I?" "Yep." She stares at me, deadly serious, desperate. "Teach, make me scream." I intend to: I slide two spare pillows under her ass, moving her hips up to an angle that lets me hit her g-spot. And then I shove the full length of my manhood inside her. I fuck her hard and full, holding onto her hips, and after only five thrusts, she comes. "Yeah, teach, yeah," she gasps. I keep up my steady thrusts, her soaked cunt squelching lewdly. "Oh god. Keep fucking me, I'm going to keep - I'm cumming, I'm cumming, I'm—oh god—I'm cumming again. Fuck fuck fuck your fucking perfect cock. Fuck me fuck me fuck me." I don't stop. Her body is wracked with a continuous orgasm. Her toes curl and uncurl. Her small breasts bounce up and down with the force of my groin slamming into hers. She keeps up her mantra of 'fuck me fuck me fuck me' until she turns her head to bite the pillow, trying to stifle the pleasure. After a couple minutes of this, she begs me, "Stop. Stop, I need a break." Her body is shaking. "Yes," I say, as I pull out of her, leaving just the tip inside. "If you get this right: what is the average speed of an unladen swallow?" She laughs. "What? I don't know. No—!" I thrust back into her. After this short rest, she comes again quickly. Her pussy feels incredible, orgasmic convulsions milking my length, but I'm so focused on her facial expression, on the noises of her pleasure, that I barely notice it, grunting as much with the effort as with the pleasure. "Stop," she begs. "Stop—" An almost feral look slowly finds its way onto Sam's face and her next orgasm arrives with the force of a derailed train. "Oh!" she says and her eyes grow wide and she holds her breath as her arms and legs strain against their ropes, her back arcs up. I ram myself in and out of her with short, hard, rapid strokes. She maintains this position for ten, fifteen seconds, not breathing, paralyzed it seems, unable to do anything but receive the pounding from my cock. But after one big convulsion, she gasps out her exhalation and collapses, my still hard manhood slipping out of her. I fall back, utterly exhausted. "Sam?" I say after a moment. When she doesn't respond, I climb up by her side. Her body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Her chin is slick with saliva from the throat-fucking I gave her. Her bound hands are covered in lube, and the anal plug is still in her ass. Her blonde hair is tousled, individual strands stuck to her face. Her body is flushed, her hips especially from where I held onto her. She looks completely and utterly fucked. I touch her cheek. "Sam?" Sam & Teach Ch. 02 Her eyes flutter open. "You alright?" I ask. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah I'm... good. I think that's the word. Good. And fuck The Holy Grail." Relieved, I laugh. "Sorry." "It's okay. But teach," she says. "I think I'm all studied out." I undo her ropes, and notice the indentations in her wrists and legs where the rope bit into her. "Jesus, Sam," I say. "Why didn't you tell me they were too tight?" "Uh? It's nothing. They were fine up until the end there. And I was a little, um, pre-occupied." She smiles shyly, almost embarrassed, and reaches down between her legs. "You didn't come? Seriously?" I scratch my head. "You came enough for the both of us." She gives a pointed glance at my still-hard cock. "Um, right. I'd offer my pussy, but I'm afraid it's going to be out of commission for at least a week. Would you like one of my other holes?" "It's alright, seriously." She shrugs. "Mind taking that thing out of my butt anyway?" I do, pulling the anal plug gently, gently, until it pops out of her. I put it aside. She climbs from the bed and stands up slowly, leaning on me. "Help me with my clothes?" she says. Together, we manage to get her underwear back between her legs. No small task, with how much they are shaking. I hold her up while she puts one leg and then the other in her jeans. It takes her a good minute to get them back up her legs and over her ass. She manages the shirt on her own. "I better head home," she says. "You sure you're okay?" She glares at me. "Teach, stop being annoying. I'm not a fucking glass ballerina. That was great. I mean superb. I'm still feeling orgasmic aftershocks. I'm just tired and I have some more studying to do obviously. But, uh, do you mind if I borrow those?" she gestures toward the dildos and anal plug. "Sure," I say. "Be my guest." I put them in the non-descript bag and help her down the stairs and, glass ballerina or not, make her drink a glass of water before she leaves. I give her a bottle for the road, as well. I spend the rest of the day in a delightful fugue, an extended day-dream. I vacuum my house and finish grading my papers. When I'm making dinner - a penne pasta in cream sauce - I turn on the radio to some old 90s and sing along to the likes of Ace of Base (All That She Wants) and Nirvana (Teen Spirit). I pay my bills and reply to some e-mails. All in all, the daily routine that on some days is mind-numbingly dull and on other days is relaxing and peaceful. At 10:12 pm, just as I lie down in bed and pull out a book, my phone vibrates. "Sam <3" is on the caller ID; I guess at some point she must have programmed herself in. Had I not spent the day pleasuring and punishing her, it might have annoyed me. As it is, I find it a little flattering. "Hello, Sam?" "Hey teach," she says in a husky voice. "It's your 'favorite student.' How are you?" "Good. How are you?" "Good." She pauses. "So... weird question: you cum today yet?" "No," I say. "Good. Take your cock out." "Sam," I say. "I'm really tired..." "I've got that third-of-a-meter monster dildo in my ass right now." My fatigue melts like a tree struck by lightning. "Right now? How much?" "Well..." she says and I can hear her heavy breathing over the phone. "I'm moving it in and out. But let's say half of it. It's not easy to fuck my bum and rub my clit at the same time, but I've had a lot of practice lately." I drop my pants and underwear, and stroke myself to a rapid hardness. "Did you take your cock out?" she breathes. "Yeah." "Are you, um, stroking it?" "Yeah." "Good. Tell me something naughty." I hesitate, but then say. "You remember your underwear, the pink ones with rainbows?" "Mmm, yeah." "Those were really hot." "Mmm, that is naughty. You like to think I'm some young, innocent girl, don't you? Naughty teacher, fucking your young student in all her holes. Making her cum all over your cock today." Hearing her talk like that, I almost shoot my load right then and there. But I want to do it with her so I stroke myself steadily, focusing on the base, trying not to touch the sensitive tip. "Now you tell me something naughty," I say, my inhibitions liberated by her sexy little moans, the little ooh's and ah's that coincide with the thrusts of her dildo. "What's the favorite time I fucked you?" Her answer is immediate. "The second time you assfucked me, in your office. The look on your face. You were mad with desire, for me. No one's ever looked at me like that before. And then your hands were everywhere. It was like you were trying to absorb me, to touch every part of me. You couldn't get enough of me." I can hear the moan in her voice, and I can just imagine the hard strokes of her dildo in and out of her asshole, her fingers flying up and down against her clit. "Mmm, we need to do that again." "Yes," I say. "Tomorrow, wear that underwear. Put your hair in pigtails. And leave the anal plug in your ass all day. I want to see you in class, looking all innocent, but knowing you've got your ass stuffed." "Mmm," she says, and I can tell she's close. "And after class? Can I come to your office?" "Yeah," I say. "Will you make me cum?" "Yeah." "How?" "I'm going to push you against the wall, pull your underwear to your knees, grab hold of your tits, and fill your asshole with—" It sets her off. "I'm cumming, teach," she moans. "I'm cumming now!" My own orgasm, primed by our earlier sexathon and set to the symphony of her orgasm, is huge. I cum all over myself. "Fuck, teach," she says when she finally stops moaning. "Oh fuck. Mmmm. That was good. Did you come too?" "Yeah," I say. "Bucket loads." "Are you serious about tomorrow?" "Well," I say as I remember the test and the study session. "Only if it won't distract you." "No way. You learned me good today." "Okay." "Okay. Well..." she pauses, as if waiting for me to say something more. When I don't, she says, "See you then." "See you." I hang up. The next day, I'm eager to see how well Sam scores on the test, whose questions I chose with some bias toward the topics we 'studied' but not as much as I could have. I think she'll do well, and I'm also eager for what will come after. But when she walks in, her hair isn't in pigtails. She's done it up in a functional but boring ponytail. Instead of the innocent-but-sexy clothing I imagined, she's donned a sweatshirt and sweatpants. I assume that she isn't wearing the underwear and that she's not got the anal plug in her ass. And she looks upset. But with the other students filing in, I can't risk talking to her about it. "Hello class," I say as I begin to pass out the tests. "Same rules as always. No calculator. Don't cheat. Good luck and god-speed." I make eye contact with Sam as I hand her test, and I can almost feel an electricity pass through the test, from her hand to mine, for the second we're both touching it. But I can't interpret her enigmatic look. I return to my desk at the front and mentally bite my nails for the next 90 minutes. She - and all the other students - finish on time and hand in their tests. She gives me hers and exits the class without a word or even a backward glance. Is it that she didn't study, that she's afraid she is going to fail? Or is it something I've done? I wrack my brain to come up with anything, but our conversation seemed to have ended pretty well last night. I go through the rest of the day, anxiety gnawing at me like a rat trying to escape a cardboard maze. At 2:40 pm, twenty minutes after school let out, I find myself in my office, pacing up and down, both hoping and dreading Sam's knock. When it comes, I practically fling the door open and usher her in. She gives me a flat, but not unhappy or hostile look. "What's wrong?" I say. "Nothing." She flops into one of my chairs and curls up, tucking her knees under her. "My parents gave me a lecture this morning. They asked where I was yesterday and when I didn't answer, they did their screaming thing, disgrace to the family, making their lives so miserable, and so on. They offered an ultimatum and a curfew, and put a lock on my modeling shoots. Already spoke to the agency, without my consent, before they even asked me. What kind of bullshit is that? I'm eighteen but my dad's my dad. You don't say no to him." "Oh," I say. "Sorry." "Not your fault," she says, rubbing her temples. "Just, y'know, tired." "Well," I say. "This should cheer you up." I show her the test, an 88 circled in red. "Congrats." "Yay," she says with as much joy as she can muster. "And—" I show her a pair of tickets, black with gold writing. "Okay?" "They're opera tickets. Carmen. By some French guy." She is completely dumbfounded. "The fuck am I gonna do with two opera tickets?" I feel embarrassed, suddenly realizing this could be a bad idea. "Go with me?" She shrugs. "Sure, teach. Whatever gets your rocks off." I place the tickets on my desk and sit down next to her, in the opposite chair. "I mean, as a date. I thought you might like it." "Do I look like a girl who goes to operas?" "Do I look like a guy who goes to operas?" She cracks a smile. "Yeah, you kinda do." "Well I'm not. I just thought..." I don't know what I thought. "Wait, hold on. Did you just grade my test?" "Well, not just. Thirty minutes ago." She uncurls from the chair. "Then how..." "I bought the tickets a week ago," I say. "I knew you'd do well." She gives me a suspicious, half-annoyed look. "Eugh, you can be so infuriating sometimes. Okay, I'll go. When is it?" "Friday night at 7." "I'll be at your place by 6." She's as good as her word, and when I open the door at 6 o' clock sharp, my jaw hits the floor. She's dressed in a stunning black Chinese dress, red and gold dragons intertwining in a minimalist pattern. A long slit down one side flashes her legs when she walks, and high heels make her as tall as I. Her blonde hair is done up and held in place by a pair of glossy, dark hair sticks. Her lips are a deep red, the color of blood. Her eye shadow is a metallic jade. I barely recognize her. Gone is the girl I knew, replaced by this fantastical woman. "What?" I say. "How?" Her smile tells me she's read my mind. "One of the perks of modeling: sometimes they let me keep the clothes. This one's called a cheongsam. You can thank Big Ohk's chain of crappy Chinese restaurants. Shall we?" She takes my arm and hooks it in hers and steers me out. When we enter the opera house, a grand bronze structure with a massive glass dome covering the lobby area, I wonder if any of my students' parents will be there. I wonder if they'll recognize Samantha. But then I barely do. She hasn't lost any of her youth, not exactly, it's just been... transformed. Not like a caterpillar into a butterfly, more like a butterfly into a hawk. But then, metamorphosis or not, I don't think I care if they recognize us. I lead her into the opera-house itself, and an usher guides us up to our box-seat, a prime location to the right of the stage, three floors up. "Is this going to be boring?" she says as we take our seat. "If it is, we can leave," I say. "I don't know. I'm excited." I reach out and take her hand as the lights dim. In the dark, I can't read the look she gives me. In truth, I have seen this particular opera before: the tragic love story of Carmen, the bright and exuberant singing seductress, and Jose, who is enthralled by her lust for life. Rather, it is my own exuberant lady sitting next to me who draws my attention. I try to divine, from the pressure in her hand, from her breathing, from the reflection in her eyes, what she is thinking and feeling. Despite the depth of our physical intimacy, I realize our emotional relationship is a complete unknown. I know very little about how she feels. And I know very little about anything else in her life, other than her sexual desires. At one point that was enough. Somewhere, somewhen along the way, that had changed. When Act 3 opens - when Carmen grows bored of Jose and entreats him to return to his first lover, to his family - Sam begins to get noticeably upset. I lean over and whisper, "What's wrong?" She shakes her head minutely. Unsatisfied, I lean over and begin to kiss her. She responds, but chastely and unenthusiastically. And then she pulls away. "What?" I ask to the panicked look in her eyes. "Snowflake," she says. In a flash she's gone, fleeing out of the box. After a moment of dumbfounded hesitation, I chase after her. "Sam!" I shout. She's running, heels in hand, down the dimly lit corridor back toward the lobby. "Sam, stop!" Just as she opens the door out into the rest of the world, an usher practically tackles me to the ground. "Sir! You must be quiet!" "Yeah, yeah," I say, and move past him. But when I get into the lobby, Sam's gone. Sam & Teach Ch. 03 Note: All characters engaging in sexual activities are 18 years or older. This is part 3 of 3. ******* I make my way past the ushers, immune to the daggers in their eyes, out the lobby, and into the street. Sam is gone, vanished into city and the night. I fish out my phone, scroll down to her entry "Sam Through sheer coincidence - the same coincidence, I suppose, that guided me past Sam's drug deal at Greenstone Academy - I pass a dark alleyway from which I hear unrestrained sobbing. "Sam?" I ask, stepping inside. I find her sitting on a trash can, one of those metal cylinders with metal lids, an old school trashcan beside a steaming vent. The only thing missing is a pack of turtles led by an old rat with a fine set of whiskers. Sam looks up. Her lips are pressed together into a thin angry line. "What fucking echolocation is this?" "Er," I say. "What?" "Just leave me alone, alright?" she says. "Leave me alone." "What's the matter?" "Nothing." A pause. "I can't do this anymore." A stranger walks past, his shadow momentarily magnified down the alleyway. "Can't do what?" I say after he walks past. "This!" "Sam," I say and kneel before her. "I don't know what you mean." "This," she says gesturing to herself. "And this." She gestures at me. "And this." She gestures at the trash can. "And this." She gestures at the stars. "Y'know, this! I can't do THIS!" she concludes with a grand gesture, like a magician revealing that the woman sawed in half was not, in fact, sawed in half. "I'm sorry, Sam," I say. "I don't know what you mean." "Yeah, don't I know it. Just fucking leave me alone." I lean back against the wall and fold my arms. A young beautiful girl in a fancy dress in the middle of a dark city? A dark city which has become one big rough-part-of-town ever since all the wealthy folks - like Sam's parents - fled to the suburbs? Leave her there? Right. "No. My mother used to say that if you have to cry, at least cry somewhere nice," I say. "Let's go." "You're stupid," Sam informs me but she doesn't resist as I guide her to nearby Eastwing Park, probably the safest place in town and for no other reason than that everyone - gangs and criminals included - seemed to have tacitly agreed to make it so. An oasis, you might say, for even the worst of the worst need a place to kick back their heels and toss a saucer with ol' Kujo. We find a bench. Sam curls up on it, her back to me. I sit down next to her. The wind ruffles through the trees in an eerie manner. The moon shines down on us, bright and sober, heavy like a fishing lure bobbing on the lake of space. I don't much know what to say and instead awkwardly pat Sam's back. My touch sets off a fresh wave of tears. "Jesus, Sam," I say. "What's the matter?" She won't answer. She cries and cries, and I sit there listening to her crying, cycling through the two stages of feeling like shit, being annoyed she won't tell me what's wrong, and then feeling like shit about being annoyed. I knew this was going to happen, I tell myself. I had known it from the get-go. I mean, I was her teacher, and she my student. But I allowed myself to be fooled into optimism, I had allowed myself to think that maybe what I was doing wasn't wrong. "Talk to me Sam." She doesn't answer. I wait another couple of minutes before asking again, "What's wrong?" Eventually she manages in the most miserable, abject tones. "I can't do this anymore. I just - I can't. I thought I could, but I can't." "I'm sorry," I say. "You're right. I shouldn't have let this go on." That only sets off new tears. Irritation, sympathy, depression, hope, lust, anger, defiance, and sorrow form a complex stew inside me, threatening to bubble up. At a lull in her sobs, I try again, "You need to tell me what's going on. What can't you do anymore?" "I can't love you!" she says. Oh. My heart skips a beat, and in that second, the trees grow taller, the sky grows rounder, the world grows larger. It's one of those moments, one of those pauses between the clock-ticks of reality, when the universe's inexorable expansion is made manifest. "I didn't—" Sam continues. "I don't mean to. But I do. I love you and it's so fucking irritating and, yeah." "That's it? That's all?" I say. "Jesus, Sam, you had me worried." "What?" "I love you too." The momentum of her sadness carries her on past my words, and she looks up at me, new tears further transforming her make-up into a mess resembling the camouflage of a jungle guerilla fighter. "Huh?" "I said I love you too." I pause and exhale with relief. "Duh." "But," she sniffs and wipes the mascara out from under her eyes. "I thought—" "Thought what?" "I don't fucking know." "Yes," I say. "Of course I love you. How could I not?" "But... with all the sex. You just—you just like the pleasure. And you're so smart and scientifical and all universe-is-a-clock and electron-ballets and operas, and I feel so dumb. I just thought... and tonight with this date, I figured you were only priming me for some especially fantastic fuck-a-thon. Which don't get me wrong, you make me feel like a queen, teach, a queen of lust and electricity. I like how that feels. But sometimes, you get this look in your eye, like you're afraid I'm going to disappear. And it makes me feel... treasured. And that scares me. And tonight maybe, y'know, maybe tonight was a real date, like a normal date between a guy and a girl, and suddenly as we were watching, I understood how I felt and—" I lean over and kiss her. She lets me have exactly three seconds of her lips before she pulls away. "Sorry," she says. "I'm such a fucking idiot. Stupid girl. I hate this. I hate—sorry. I'm so fucking stupid." "You're not stupid," I say. "Shut up. I can be stupid if I want to." "Okay," I say, "You're stupid," and move in to kiss her. But she turns away. "Sorry. I'm just... something. Can we go back to your place, and have like a cup of tea and talk about, I don't know, favorite cartoons or something?" "Yeah," I say. "Of course." I put my arm around her shoulders as we walk back to my car. She's silent the whole drive home, her brow wrinkled in what I hope is the good sort of brooding. I feel buoyant. Bouncy. A weight's been removed from my chest, and I'm secretly glad she was the one who broke down instead of me. A cowardly feeling. I should have just told her, but if I'm honest, I was afraid she would say no. So yeah. A cowardly feeling. It's only 9:30 when we pull in to my house and enter. "Do you have something I can change into?" she asks, gesturing to her formal Chinese dress. "Yeah," I say. "If you can find something that fits, you're welcome to it." She heads up the stairs, as I begin to fill the kettle with water. It's just about boiling when she comes back down, dressed in a too-large pair of basketball shorts and a too-large t-shirt featuring a bright superman logo. She's washed her face, scrubbed the tear-streaked make-up. Her skin is bright red, squeaky clean, new, refreshed. "Hey," she says. "Sorry about tonight. Sorry for ruining it." "You didn't ruin it," I say. I lean back against my kitchen counter and look at her, and she's about to say something more when the tea kettle begins whistling. I put an Oolong tea bag in two mugs, fill them with hot water, and carry them to my rough oak table. "So," I say. "You wanted to talk about your favorite cartoon? Hopefully it's none of that yo-gabba-gabba nonsense. That stuff is frightening." "Nope," says Sam. "I'm an old-fashioned gal, yo. Gimme some Scooby Doo. Velma is a sexy Goddess." "Velma?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "Not Fred?" "Really? I can't believe you. Fred sexy? Fred's a douchebag," says Sam. "Frat boy douchebag. Thelma's hot. She's different. Mousy, smart." I take a sip of my tea, which tastes like burnt popcorn, but in a good way. "I would have thought—" "That I liked Daphne? Because she's sexy and fashionable? 'We always love that which we are not.'" "I don't know," I say. "I think you're pretty smart." "That's because you're in love with me," she says, her words sharp and challenging. I shrug. "Or maybe I'm in love with you because it's true." She peers at me, and I can see a sarcastic retort bubbling up from inside her. But she doesn't give it voice. Instead, she sips her tea. I go on. "I'm not sure what this means, me being in love with you, Sam, my student. But I do know that I couldn't fall in love with someone who wasn't bright, no matter how beautiful she was. Does a stupid person say, 'We always love the things we're not'? No. I don't think so. You've been told that you must be a certain way and you've been treated a certain way and so you think that's the only way you can be. That's the tyranny of beauty. You can get away with doing less. But you can be both brilliant and beautiful, Sam. Or not. You can be whatever you want to be. Or, at least, you can try, and I think that's basically the same thing." Again she peers at me, and I can almost see those little golden-green flecks of stars in her eyes beginning to glow with a different sort of fire. I can see that the story inside her own head is changing, that her self-narrative has begun to take a different path. No matter the pleasure we've given each other, the intimacy we've shared, the exchanging of I love you's like rings between bride and groom, this moment, when she's opened the door into her own internal fairy tale and allowed me, the big bad wolf, inside, that's how I know she has truly come to love me. I try not to let that frighten me. "Alright?" I say. "Yeah, okay," she says. "Sure. Makes sense. Beautiful and brilliant, what's not to like? So what about your favorite cartoon?" "Heh," I say. "Kid, in my day, we had real cartoons..." About fifteen minutes after He-man but before we get to Thunder Cats, Sam interrupts me with a huge yawn. "Er, sorry," I say. I check the clock. 1:14 is blinking a baleful red. We've been chatting for a good three hours, arguing over pretty much the whole history of cartoons, a history with which Sam is even more conversant than I. Sam doesn't just like cartoons, she loves them. "Time for bed?" "Yeah. I'm kinda peached. My first opera. Then the crying. Me, crying over a boy? Eugh. Then the lovey dovey stuff. Scout's honor, teach, I'm a little fucked up inside." I nod. "Yeah. Do you..." I glance toward the stairs. "What's it you old geezers say?" she asks. "Can I take a raincheck?" "Of course," I say. "Good. I need to think. I'll take the couch this time." I show her the closet with extra pillows and make her a little pallet on the couch. After a very chaste good night kiss, I head up to my own bedroom. I take off my clothes and collapse in my bed. I'm asleep in moments. # My mind snaps awake as soon as Sam steps inside my room. She approaches the bed, and the moonlight glinting from her naked body peels the shadows back like dark curtains. She joins me on the bed, searches out my manhood, and wraps her hand around me. She strokes me until I'm hard. Without a word, she straddles me, guides my cock into her wet snatch, and drops down on top of me, filling herself with a hiss of satisfaction. She begins to ride me. She moves neither slowly nor quickly. She doesn't moan or bite her lip or play with her nipples. Instead she takes my hands, places them on her hips and holds them there while she moves up and down at the steady pace of a priestess climbing to her mountain temple. Shadows and pale light form strange patterns on the walls, the bed, her skin; her eyes burn a lively green. Her stare transfixes me to the bed. I can't move or speak, and Sam is silent. She speaks to me only in the steady rhythm of her hips and the gentle pressure of her hands on mine. I find our bodies melding in a new way. We become one. I can feel everything she feels. The coldness against her skin, her stiff nipples sensitive and ready to be sucked. I can feel every heartbeat, every breath, every jolt of pleasure that travels through her. I can feel her being filled with my cock, the joy of being stretched, the delicious grinding of her clit against my flesh. I can feel my rough, strong hands on her hips. She too can feel what I feel, her warmth and wetness surrounding my straining cock, the incredible pleasure when the head of my cock rubs against her tight opening. She knows how I feel about holding her, the wonder of her soft feminine skin beneath my fingertips, the rhythm of her weight on top of me. I am not sure how long she rides me. Ten minutes or a hundred, I do not know. It feels like hours. My orgasm arrives from a far off place, in no hurry. I can see it coming like the distant swell of a tremendous wave. She can see it too - a lonely girl standing on the beach, feet planted in the sands of our pleasure. But she makes no attempt to avoid it. She holds my hands to her hips. She doesn't change her pace. She rides me. My orgasm is intense, breaking my paralysis. I grit my teeth. My hands clutch at her waist forcing her down on me while I push my hips upward, desperately trying to bridge those last millimeters of space between us. She doesn't fight me. When I begin to come, she stops moving and waits silently and patiently as I grunt and fill her with my hot seed. Once I'm finished, she slides off me, curls up with her back against my chest, moves my arm around her, and falls asleep. # The next morning, I wake up first, as I did those weeks ago that first time we made love, but this time I have no intention of sneaking out like a guilty bandit. For better or worse, I am done with guilt and hesitation. Instead I look at Sam's back, and her hair, the dizzying array of individual golden strands aglow with the morning light. Half aglow, anyway - her darker roots are beginning to show. I try to restrain myself to just looking, to simply appreciating her as long as I'm able. I last seven seconds before the temptation is too great. I touch her shoulder. Why shouldn't I kiss it while I'm at it? I do. Every inch of her is important, divine, and I kiss the spot next to that one and next to that one and next to that one. Each kiss is different, the texture different, the taste different. I want to map out the infinite topography of her skin. I walk my fingers along her pale, slender arm. I - "Teach...?" she says sleepily. "Good morning, Samantha," I say delicately and very lightly kiss her ear. "How are you feeling?" She turns around in bed and stares at me, blinking the sleep from her eyes slowly and deliberately. "Correct me" - she says and yawns - "if I'm wrong. But did you just call me Samantha?" "Maybe?" "Oh no." She groans and slides deeper under the covers and hides for a moment before sliding back up. "Do not Samanatha me. You've had your cock down my throat, up my ass, and right now I can feel your dried cum on my thighs. I think we are safely past the Samantha stage. There is no Samantha here. Samantha is out. Here there is only Sam." "Er? I was just—" She stops me with an upraised hand. "I know what you were doing. You were being sweet. I hate sweet. Sweet is ugh. I don't love you for your sweetness. I love you for your desperation. So don't be a dumbo. I'm not some delicate flower. Well I am - but I'm a complex woman, yo. Sometimes I'm a flower. Last night I was a flower. But sometimes I'm a well-oiled sex engine, ready for your piston. Right now I'm revvin'. How long has it been since you ass-fucked me?" "Uh..." She rests her head on the pillow, staring at me, her smile as mysterious as the sphinx's. "Well?" I think back. The last time was in this very bed, in circumstances not all that different. I remember her words: My other hole is jealous. "Three weeks," I say. "Three weeks? Three weeks? Are you fucking kidding me? Way too long," she says. "Way way too long. Lean back." I do, and she tosses aside the covers and climbs on top of me until her knees are on either side of my head. She grabs hold of the headboard and leans forward, aligning her asshole with my mouth. "It's gonna need to be nice and wet," she says. "Considering how hard it'll be riding your cock in about five seconds." I stick the tip of my tongue in her nether hole and begin rimming her. She helps me, rotating the angle of her hips so I can lick her at different angles and eventually just rubbing herself over my tongue. After she exhorts me to make her even wetter, I spit on her little star and use my tongue to spread it around. "Nice," she says and slides down and kisses me. "Hm, interesting." She grabs two pillows from her side of the bed, places them against the footboard opposite of me, and leans back against them. She spreads her legs, revealing herself to me. She notices my grin. "You like me being lewd don't you? You like looking at my pink pussy? My tight asshole?" I nod. "Good. Then watch me frig my ass." She gets one finger into her backdoor without any problem. My tongue made her nice and slick. She reams her asshole easily, her finger disappearing up to the knuckle. The second finger makes things more difficult. At three fingers, she makes what I consider to a very good decision to use her other hand to finger both her cunt and her asshole simultaneously. It's lewd and bestial and I love it. When I begin to stroke myself, she says, "No. Wait your fucking turn." I stop stroking but keep my hand around my shaft, gently squeezing it. She looks at me, annoyed. "Okay, Mr. Impatience. But your cock is dry and I don't really feel like sucking you now. Where's your lube? Nightstand?" I nod. She retrieves it and squirts a big dollop on my cock. She roughly and impatiently strokes me with one hand, covering me with the slick gel. With that done, she climbs back on top of me, grabs hold of my cock, aims it toward her little brown asterisk, and slowly lowers herself down. "Yessssss," she says as inch after inch of my manhood disappears inside her. "No Loch Ness," she grunts when she's managed my full length. "But it'll do." She begins riding me, and I do mean riding me, like a giddy cowgirl at her first rodeo. It's everything the previous night was not. She leans back lewdly, so I can watch her asshole swallowing my thick cock as she bucks up and down. The tightness is incredible. "Don't. Be. So. Fucking. Lazy," she says between bounces. "Rub. My. Clit." As fast and hard as she's moving, it's difficult to keep my fingers on her little pleasure button and I end up rubbing her whole pussy as much as her clit. My cock pops out of her a couple times, but every time, she stuffs me back in and keeps at it. Her orgasm is heralded with loud growling moans, but she powers through it, intent on working my cock, trying to get me to cum. I've been on a sustained almost-climax for five minutes but her weight on top of me and the tightness of her ass is preventing it from happening. Finally she gives up, "My fucking legs are fucking killing me." She leans back against the pillows and places her legs against chest, her knees bent back against her breasts. I waste no time in climbing on top of her, and ramming myself inside her gaping asshole. "Nice," she says. "Finish yourself off." I fuck her ass like that, her body bent backwards like a bow. It doesn't take but a handful of strokes to reach my orgasm. I pull out of her and stroke my cock. I try out one of her load groans, a good solid throaty grunt of pleasure equivalent to one of her banshee screams, just as I shoot out ropes of my spunk all over her asshole and cunt. When I finally emerge from my orgasmic haze, I find her silently laughing, humor tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "Damn teach," she says when she manages to master her laughter. "I guess you really liked that?" Sam & Teach Ch. 03 "Yeah," I say. "I guess I did." After she drags me with her into the shower to 'clean up my mess,' I make her a breakfast of pancakes (and grapefruit, but she doesn't much care for it and trades it for an orange), and we talk about what to do for the rest of the day. She asks if she can stay over for a bit to complete her HW and study. I wait for the hesitation, that little angel on my shoulder telling me to say no. But it seems he's gone on vacation. "Sure," I say. "No problem." She retrieves her backpack from her car and transforms my kitchen table into Sam Pierce HW HQ. She has a ton, mine included. Greenstone Academy is very serious about homework; the notion that idle hands are the devil's playground might as well be codified in the school handbook. She starts on an English essay, while I retreat to my office to do lesson plans and grade old work. By the time I'm finished with that, she's moved on to US History, writing 1-2 paragraphs each on keypoints regarding the American Civil War. At noon, I force her to take a break and eat a toasted pesto chicken Panini, an oldie goldie recipe of mine that I've perfected through countless trial and error. Then it's back to homework. By one o' clock, I've pretty much exhausted all the errands I can do and instead lean on the wall and watch Sam study. She's infuriatingly cute. I watch her adjust her butt on the chair, sitting on one leg for a bit, before deciding it's uncomfortable and curling up into a ball, both knees pressing against the table. Occasionally a strand of golden hair will slip loose and she'll blow it out of the way a time or two before grabbing hold of it, inspecting it for who knows what, and slipping it back behind her ear. After enough of this, she searches through her backpack, pulls out a hairband, and puts her hair into a quick ponytail. I've noticed the beautiful girls in my class before, of course. I'm not blind. But the fact that I know - that I've experienced - all of Sam's sexual exuberance, that I know her body in intimate detail, makes her unconscious girlish antsiness all the more adorable. That my loose-fitting shirt has slipped over her shoulder to reveal a red bra strap doesn't help either. I let desire fill me and walk toward her. She doesn't even notice me until I reach out and begin to rub her shoulders. "This is in the way," I mumble and slip one and then both bra straps off her shoulders. She ignores me for a minute or two before sighing. "You're distracting me, teach." "Sorry," I say, but I don't stop. I move her hair out of the way and kiss her neck. She pretends to focus on her work, but her pencil doesn't move, the sharpened tip resting, waiting for her to finish a sentence about some general or other. Eventually, she surrenders entirely and looks back, offering her lips to me. I kiss her them. As I force my tongue into her mouth, I slide my hand over her throat. "Come with me to the bedroom," I say. She nods. I take her hand and lead her to the stairs and then up them. When we enter my bedroom, I say, "Put on your dress, from last night." "Make-up too?" "Yes." "I can't do it as well. I don't have everything. I need to get my back-up makeup from downstairs." "Go," I say, "and be quick about it." She's down then up in a flash, carrying with her a small bag. She shows it to me, and I nod my acceptance. While she's putting on her clothes and make-up, I retrieve two chairs from downstairs and place them couple feet apart from each other. I sit and watch. From my angle, I can see partially into my bathroom. I can see one bare leg, some of her butt and some of her back, naked but for the red bra. More than enough to stoke the fires of my lust to a very fine edge. After ten minutes, she slips herself into her dress. I hear it zipping up and then she turns and strolls out. She is just as pretty and exotic and womanly as she was last night. Metallic green eye-shadow, crimson lips, two hair-sticks crossed through a casually elegant coiling of her hair. It takes all of my willpower not to throw her down on the bed and have my way with her at once. Instead I gesture to the chair opposite me. "Take a seat," I say. She does, and I feast upon the image of her as if she were a living statue. I appreciate the tightness of her dress, flowing over her body, curving slightly over breasts. Her right leg is thrust out of the slit. I notice her red toe-nails for the first time. "If I didn't know better," I say. "I'd say you were a royal lady. But I do know better. Your underwear. What color?" "Black." "Describe it." "They're mesh, with a diamond pattern, and frills on the edge. They're transparent, sorta." "Why did you wear them?" She blushes, playing her role well. "I thought you'd like how my butt looked in them." "Of course you did," I say. "Show me." She stands up, turns around, and slowly, hesitantly hikes her skirt up. She's right. Her knickers are pretty, with a fine black mesh texture that is half transparent and stretched tight across her bottom. In the warm afternoon light, the two globes of her ass are clearly visible. "Now your front." She sits back down and slides her dress up to her waist again, flashing me her long beautiful legs in the process. Without my even asking, she spreads her legs apart and lets me look before closing them once more. "Very good," I say. "And your bra? What color is it?" "Red." "Show me." Her dress unzips from her neck to the corner of her shoulder, allowing her to pull the top half down to show her bra. White leaf-patterns on a pink background. Sam is breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling. "Show me your nipples," I say. She slips the straps of her bra off her left shoulder and then pulls down the cup so I can see her small pink stub, stiff proud saluting soldier. "Your nipples are hard," I say. "Is it cold in here?" I look around, as if I can see the temperature. "No," she says. "No. Does it turn you on to strip off your clothes in front of your teacher?" "Yes," she says. "I guess that makes you something of a slut, doesn't it?" "Your slut, maybe." "Oh you are. That's how I know when I tell you to slide your panties aside and stick a finger in your cunt, you'll do it, won't you?" She pulls her black panties aside to reveal her pussy lips and sticks her left index finger inside. I realize for the first time how strange that is, her preference for her left hand to masturbate. She writes with her right hand. "Good," I say. "Are you wet?" "Yes, teach." "Finger yourself hard until I tell you to stop." She does as I say, penetrating herself up to her knuckle. I slip off my clothes, until I'm wearing nothing. "Two fingers," I say and she adds her middle finger. In response, I begin to pull on my stiff rod in slow, luxurious strokes, as deliberate as her finger fucking is frantic. "Play with your nipple," I say and she does, gently kneading her breast. "No," I say. "Harder." She squeezes her right nipple between thumb and forefinger, twisting until she gasps. "Yes, good," I say. "Stop fingering yourself and rub your clit." She makes the switch, staring at me the whole time, her gaze alternating between my cock and my face. "Have you masturbated thinking of me?" I ask. "Every night," she says. "Every night," I say. "That's a lot. I don't believe you." "Every night we're not together," she amends. "What do you think about?" "You fuck me." "Where?" "In my pussy and my ass." "Yes," I say, eyeing her body, enjoying her half-clothed state, one breast visible, the other covered by her bra, her underwear pulled aside, her dress shadowing her waist. Her fingers fly up and down her clit. "But where?" "Everywhere. Here. I like to imagine sometimes you wake me up with your cock in my ass. You can't wait, and I'm pulled from my dreams by your groin smashing against my ass. Or that, mid-class, you stop your lecture and walk over and have me, in front of all the other students. They watch silently as you force me over my desk and thrust into my pussy. You grab my hair and make me cum in front of everyone. When you've had your fill of that hole, you give me a good mouth fucking. You cum down my throat, but I can't swallow it all and it drips down my chin." Christ, I think, appreciating Sam's capacity for dirty talk, but I don't let my appreciation touch my voice. "Your mouth, you say?" "Yes." "That's a good idea," I say and stand up. "A waste if we didn't put such fine red lips to good use." I walk toward her, until my cock is dangling in front of her. She reaches out to grab hold of it and I slap her hand away. "Did I tell you to stop masturbating? Switch back to fingering yourself. Your mouth and no other part will touch me." She turns her head sideways and slides her lips over me. Her freshly applied lipstick leaves a smear of crimson on my cock. Despite the uncomfortable angle, she does a good job of keeping up a steady forward and back motion. I appreciate the sight, those delightful red lips pleasuring my stiff mast. But then she gets distracted and forgets to pleasure herself. "Didn't I tell you not to stop?" I say. "I'll help you then." I thread my fingers into her fancy hair coils and steadily begin to pump myself in and out of her mouth, not going deep, not near as deep as I've been before, simply enjoying the sensation of her moist lips, her talented tongue. As if to make up for her lapse, she fingerbangs herself furiously and pulls on her nipple, looking up at me the whole time, the green in her eyes accented by metallic jade shading and thick, black eyelashes. I feel like I'm despoiling something precious and I suppose that's not untrue. "Is this about what you imagined when you masturbated?" With my cock in her mouth, she can only nod. "Did you cum, fantasizing about this?" She nods. "Good, show me what it feels like when you cum with a cock in your mouth." She moves her hand down from her nipple to her clit and combines a good clit mashing to her finger-fucking. Concentrated as she is on her own pleasure, she barely seems to notice my cock sliding in and out between her own lips. She closes her eyes and comes, moaning around my cock as she does. When her eyes open, I say, "Good. Good. You know, I think a little competition is in order. While you suck my cock, I'd like to taste my slut's little pussy. Maybe we see who can make the other come first, huh?" She stands up from the chair and pulls her dress down over her body and onto the floor, leaving her in just her black mesh panties and red bra. When she walks to the bed, she sashays her hips, her ass clearly visible through the mesh. After she climbs on the bed, she hooks her thumbs into her underwear and asks, "Panties on or off?" "On," I say and join her on the bed, sliding underneath her. I move the crotch of her panties still further aside. She sits on my face and we begin. I explore her cunt, determined to win. I eat her with gusto, tasting the dripping arousal of her recent orgasm. I stick my tongue inside her pussy as far as it can go. I place my mouth over her clit and tease it with my tongue, soft circular motions spiced with stronger flicks. When my tongue grows tired, I finger her, two fingers hooked inside, rubbing her g-spot. Despite the awkward angle, I return my mouth to her clit and do both at once, fingers thrusting, and tongue writing its love letter against her pearl. It seems to work, and she stops her own oral ministrations to rub herself against my face. But the truth is, I never had a chance. After playing with me, grinding herself on my face without cumming, she counter-attacks. Work up to it, hah. She inhales my cock. Her gag-reflex mastered, she uses her mouth, her lips, and her throat. The pleasure is intense. I can hear the gurgling sounds of her incredible blowjob and I can sure as hell feel it, a tight wet suctioning over my cock's ridged head. It practically rips the orgasm right out of me, and I come within a few seconds. Some of my juice she swallows, the rest spurts into her mouth, spilling from the sides of her lips. But she doesn't stop as she normally does after my orgasm. She keeps her motion, slurping my manhood. It's excruciating, against my now sensitive cock. "Fuck!" I say. "Stop. Too sensitive!" I try to move but she locks her thighs around my head, holding me in place. As she continues to take me down her throat, I have for the first time in my life two orgasms in a row. This second one is a dry orgasm, but not less in pleasure for it. "Ah fuck!" I say, thrusting my hips wildly into her warm, receptive lips. After my second orgasm, she releases me from her mouth and leans back on top of me, rubbing her cunt over my mouth now, preventing me from speaking. She looks back at me over her shoulder, mischief dancing her green eyes. "I think I won, teach. I'll take my sweet time now." She does, gently riding my face, letting me enjoy the taste of her cunt at my leisure. She has a nice, gentle orgasm maybe twenty minutes later. Afterward, she lies down in bed beside me, slides underneath my arms, and sighs happily. "I could stay like this forever," she says. "Mmhmm," I say. "But I can't! Things to do!" She wiggles her way out from underneath my arms and climbs out of bed. After a quick shower, she packs up her stuff and heads home. I wave goodbye from my door, and she stops, rolls down the window, and blows me a kiss. It is now true what I said after that first day we fucked. I have taken responsibility for her. Responsibility for making her happy. And now the reverse is true as well, now she holds the keys to my happiness. She's gone less than sixty seconds and I miss her already. # I don't see or talk with Sam on Sunday and when Monday rolls around, she doesn't show. She misses my lecture on magnetic flux. I consider calling her, but don't. Maybe she needs time or space. She's gone the next day. And the next. Immediately after class on Wednesday, I dial her number, but it cuts straight to voicemail: Hey, this is Sam Pierce. If you're calling about a modeling or acting job, leave a message. Everyone else, join the 21st century and text me. I think about texting her, but don't. Just in case someone else has her phone. Instead, I head to the front desk, which is manned by the tough, rotund principal's assistant Mrs. Gertrude Gothro, who looks like she wrestles bulls in her spare time. "Hey, Ginny," I say. "You're looking very fine today." "Busy, very busy, and everything in triplicate," she replies, glancing up from a pile of red, yellow, and white sheets. "What do you need?" "One of my students has been gone for three days. I was wondering—" She holds up one finger. "Name?" "Samantha Pierce." She taps at her keyboard and looks down through her reading glasses resting on her nose. "How strange." "What?" "It appears she has been withdrawn from the rest of the school year, pending some final paperwork." My stomach drops to the center of the earth. "Strange? Why strange?" "Well, we don't offer any sort of refund. We find such changes disruptive to the student and to the class flow, so we attempt to discourage parents from removing their child in the middle of the school year. But here under the reason, it simply says, 'Changing school.' It's very irregular. The reason is almost always work-related." "I see," I say. "Thanks Ginny. Have a good hump day." She chortles. "Oh you know it. Now shoo." She waves me off. But I take one step and then turn on my heel. "One more thing. You said she's waiting on some final paperwork. What might that be?" "Well," says Ginny. "Samantha turned 18 just prior to the school year, so she is technically an adult and therefore needs to sign her withdrawal." "But she hasn't?" "No." "Alright," I say. "Thanks again." "Toodaloo." I hurry up to my office, my heels clicking on Greenstone's green marble floors. The school has always reminded me of a Greek temple, classical architecture with its columns and its arches, and its obsession with rigid symmetry. It occurs to me now that it could also pass for a mausoleum. In my office, I quickly search through my student contacts until I come across Sam's parents. I take a deep breath, calm my nerves, and dial up her mother's number. After one ring, her voice comes on, "Hello, this is Abigail Pierce." "Hello, Mrs. Pierce," I say in my teacher voice. "This is Samantha's physics teacher, Mr. -" "Yes, yes. Sam has been withdrawn, you know?" "Just now. I'm finalizing some of my paper work on her grades, which, I assume, will be transferred to her new school. But I was unable to find where exactly she transferred to, and I need..." "Unfortunately," says the tinny voice coming from my cellphone's speaker, "despite our best efforts and prayers and your timely warning, we were unable to rein in Sam's poor behavior and had no other choice but to send her to a facility where she could get the proper care." "Ah, yes," I say. "What facility is that?" "Brown Street Correctional Facility," she says. "Okay," I say. "I'll just scribble that in and everything will be good. Thank you." "Have a—" I hang up on her. Bitch. I grab my keys, my coat, and I'm out the door as soon as can be. Brown Street Correctional on the city outskirts, about an hour out. Once I'm on the road, I dial up a buddy of mine, my go-to for substitution, and call in a favor to have him cover my classes for the rest of the week. # Brown Street Correctional is well-known, made famous by a scandal a few years back. The head honcho there was using the inmates as free labor, making clothes and shoes and, at the end, even drugs, whatever he could to make a quick buck. When it was uncovered, a lot of people called for the thing being permanently shuttered. But not all. Some people can't feel safe unless others are locked up. I figure it's probably better now... but I still don't like the thought of Sam in there. I've had my freedom taken before. It isn't something I would wish on anyone, least of all Sam. The miles pass quickly, unnoticed by my overactive mind. Brown's Correctional Facility reminds me of a factory, a tall stout brick structure harkening back from the earliest days of industrial revolution, the days when functionality trumped all concerns for style. For all I know, maybe it actually had been one. It's the exact opposite of Greenstone: Brown Correctional is no place of learning. I pull in to the visitor's parking lot, leap out, and enter through the thick heavy-set doors. I'm pissed. I have no plan, no idea what I'm doing, but I'm ready. No matter what it takes, I am going to resc— "Teach? How?" says Sam. Startled, I practically fall over when she grabs hold of my arm. "Whatever. Time to go go go," she says and begins leading me out, but then the woman at the front desk clears her throat, a noise not unlike a dying elephant's roar. Sam and I wheel around to face a woman who is twin to Greenstone's own secretary, Ginny. That is, her evil twin. As huge and powerful, but with all sense of playfulness sucked out of her. Her face is like a melted candle, her eyes sunken, her jowls hanging from her face. A hatred blazes out of her eyes at me. "Where are you going?" she says in a deep, sonorous voice. "I am her guardian," I say. "Not anymore. She's an adult now. You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Pierce. I could bring you up on charges of kidnapping." She turns to Sam and her voice turns gentle. "Should I call the police?" "No Mrs. Hesse, it's alright. I think he's sorry, now, right?" A look in her eye tells me to play along. Sam & Teach Ch. 03 "Yeah," I say. "Definitely." Ginny's not-so-evil twin shakes her head in disgust at me and says, "You need to sign out." "Oh," says Sam. "Right." She rapidly scribbles her signature on the clipboard papers that the woman holds out, snags her offered belongings, and then drags me out. As soon as we're back in the car, I turn to Sam. "What?" "What are you, some fucking super-hero?" she asks. "Uh, no?" She retrieves my cellphone from where I'd left it in a cup-holder and shows me a missed call. "I just called you. Did you teleport here or time travel or what?" "Oh. I left as soon as I knew you were here - from your parents. What happened, Sam?" She shakes her head. "Just drive. Get me out of here." I do, speeding away, the brick-prison shrinking in my rear view and then, after we go over a hill, gone. I know Sam well enough to be silent. We drive in stillness and peace, my radio on but muted, little more than the murmuring of distant bards. When we pass back into the city limits, Sam begins crying. This is not at all like her crying after the opera. This is an angry cry, and she kicks the dash repeatedly, punctuating each with a vehement "Fuck!" After a few more angry kicks, she says, "Stop." I pull over. She climbs out of the car, dashes away from the highway and into a nearby field, and proceeds to scream obscenities at the clouds, which float on past, uncaring. I climb out and lean back against the car and watch her work out her rage. After an exhausting ten minutes, she stomps back toward me. "You alright?" I ask. "Not remotely. I will never speak to my asshole of a father or bitch of a mother again." I nod. "I'm going to ask you a question and I don't want any bullshit, teach." I hold my hands up in a peace gesture. "No bullshit." "Did you mean it when you said you love me too?" "Yes." She looks at me suspiciously and then smiles. "Yeah. You really mean it." "Yes, I really mean it. What happened?" She opens her car door. "Get back in. I'll tell you on the way home." "Home?" "Yeah. Your place. Didn't anyone ever tell you? Home is where the heart is." I start up the car engine. "How very sweet," I say. "Yeah, yeah." # Sam's story is simple enough. After spending Saturday with me, partaking in that timeless combination of sex and studying, she arrived home and was immediately ambushed by her parents and their 'intervention.' They had assumed that all her missing time was out spent dealing drugs, engaging in prostitution, thievery, and general debauchery. But their intervention was less about Sam and more about sweeping her under the rug: her father used his influence to get her whisked away, to Brown's Correctional. She was so stunned, she hadn't protested, but when she saw the sight of the building, she had raged and raged about being an adult, about being put in against her will, and that she had done nothing wrong. They'd drugged her and when she woke up, she was inside her room, locked from the outside. "But how'd you get out?" I ask. She shrugs. "Feminine wiles." She pauses. "And Mrs. Hesse." Sam ends her story there and we spend the last thirty minutes of the car ride in silence, my hand in hers. We pull into my place, and I unlock the door and enter. "You hungry?" I ask, heading into the kitchen. Sam follows me. "Yes." "What do you want?" I say and begin looking through the fridge, wishing I had stocked it recently. "Edmond," she says and there's something in her voice that causes me to turn around. She's staring at me with her piercing green eyes, eyes which are hungry, sure, but hungry for something else. The feeling, I realize, is mutual. All of my stress and fear and worry have transformed into happiness at being reunited with her and a hunger to be still more closer. "Sam," I say simply and then we step forward into each other's arms. Our lips meet. I kiss her over and over and she kisses me back. I kiss her neck. I want to kiss lower but her shirt is in the way. We remove it. I kiss down over her bra-clad breasts, down to her belly, until she jerks me back up. Our lips meet again and we taste each other's tongue and lips. Her hands reach out for my shirt and pull it out of my waistband. I raise my arms and then my shirt and undershirt are removed too. Sam runs her hands over my chest, and then they're down at my pants again, undoing the belt buckle. My pants are down around my ankles. I twirl Sam around, and I peel down her tight leggings, just far enough to reveal her bare ass and cunt. Standing up, in the middle of the kitchen, I bury myself in her. Our flesh is joined once more. I bend her back and push deeper, until her I can feel her butt against my groin. I hold myself there, simply enjoying being inside her, but she says, "Hurry. Make me feel good." One hand on her breast, another between her legs, I hold her against me and begin to move inside of her. "More," says Sam, and I give her more. We overbalance and tumble forward against the sink. Sam reaches out to stop her fall and inadvertently turns on the faucet. I'm back inside her quickly, fucking her against my sink. With each inward stroke, she raises up on her tip-toes and, I watch myself disappear between the two globes of her ass. She bends over and her jostling hair gets wet and she moves the faucet out of the way. The stream of water flows onto the counter, creating a rapidly spreading pool dripping from the edge. "Mmmm," she humms as I plunder her tight pink pussy for pleasure. "Deep. So deep." She reaches back behind her and spreads her ass, showing me her asshole. I slide my hands up the smooth skin of her waist and over her back and then grab hold of her shoulders. With every thrust, I pull her back onto me, the collision sending ripples up her ass. She doesn't announce her orgasm, but I know it arrives when she goes still. We come together, after maybe three minutes of sex. I lean against her, over her, my cock still inside her, to turn the water off. After I do that, she grabs holds of my hands and brings them to her bra-clad breasts. They fit easily into my palm. "Don't pull out," she says. "Nope," I say. "Mmm," she says and I can feel her squeezing those muscles down there around me. "I have a question to ask." "Yeah?" I say, weakly. "So I don't have a place to stay anymore... can I maybe possibly stay with you while I finish high school?" Despite myself, I hesitate. "Think of it this way," she says, rubbing her smooth, soft ass against me. "There are 59 positions in the Kama Sutra we haven't done yet and 118 days of school left. Isn't that perfect? Twice each position, once with my pussy, once with my ass. Annnnd I'll give you head whenever you want me to. Good-morning blowjob, goodnight blowjob. A quickie between classes. Whatever. And you can tutor me in physics! And - hold on, will you play with my nipples?" She grabs hold of my hands and slides them up under her bra so I can get a hold of her nipples. "That's better. And when we're not busy fucking and learning, we can watch cartoons together. You can make your delicious sandwiches and breakfasts, and I can bake cookies. Pretty awesome huh?" As if in response, my half-erect cock begins to grow again inside of her. "Already?" she says. "Can I take that as a yes?" "My feelings for you are simple, Sam, but the society we live in is complex. So my answer is yes, as long as you promise to be careful." "I promise," she says and adds, "Now make me feel good again." Epilogue The biggest fight of our relationship - and we had a lot of them, about her friends visiting, about public displays of affection, about what cartoon to watch on Saturday mornings - arrives after she graduates, with straight A's (a hard-earned 93.4 in my class). She tells me she plans to go to the local community college, so she can stay close to me. I tell her no. She's been accepted to a very prestigious school, but it's six hours away, up in Washington. I tell her to go there. She accuses me of not loving her. She says that life is too short to spend it away from those we love. I tell her she'll find new people to love there. She says she doesn't want to find new people, she has me. I tell her that she can make whatever decision she wants but she's not staying here. She storms out in a rage. The next day, while I'm out doing errands, she comes back and packs up her stuff. I return to a house empty of Sam. Life's greatest cruelty: when you love a person so much that you have to let her go because she's better off without you. I spend the next six months in a solid depression, questioning the truth of that. I miss Sam. I miss the routine we built up. We got into this habit, waking the other up: her mouth over my cock, or my tongue in her pussy - and then a big breakfast, her manning the juicer, me manning the skillet. I miss the smell of her shampoo on my pillows, her perfume on my sheets. I miss finding her underwear, her cute little panties and bras, scattered on the floor of my bedroom. I miss the aura of eroticism, that cloud of sexuality upon which we floated: during those five months of school and a little way into the summer, we fucked on every surface in my house. In the shower, on my dinner table, on the floor when anywhere else felt like a million miles away and we couldn't wait that long. Even outside of my house. We went camping once, and close to the peak of the mountain, she rode me in a position known as Upavitika - the Sacred Thread. Our sounds of pleasure echoed from the mountain top. Once, in class, as we watched a video about Maxwell's laws of electricity & magnetism, she masturbated. She spread her legs, giving me a clear view up her skirt, a clear view of the anal plug in her ass. The boy next to her noticed, but she didn't even care. After the class let out, I locked the door and fucked her right then and there, bent over her desk, fulfilling her favorite fantasy. Somehow she even convinced me to fuck her in the girl's locker room, and as we were going at it in the shower, the entire girl's lacrosse team came in, showered, changed, and left, and I'm sure at least one girl noticed that there were two pairs of feet underneath the opaque rubber curtain in front of the shower. It wasn't the pleasure I missed. It was the sex, the joining, the being with her. I missed curling up on the couch at night to watch a movie. I missed making dinner for her, while she sat at the table and studied for homework: the conversations we had, not just about physics, but about English and civics and philosophy and psychology and fashion and feminism. Her mind unfolding like a steel flower, sharp and beautiful, and I got to watch it happen. I missed giving her sweet gifts, sweet gestures, never worrying they would be anything but appreciated, and I missed all of hers too, the little texts she sent, the little 'anonymous' notes she'd slip under my office door during school. But all that was now gone. Whenever I missed her most, my mood at its lowest, I would sit and stare at my phone, tempted to call her, but I never did. I knew I'd done the right thing. I had convinced myself of it, justified my unhappiness by it. She should have a chance to live her own life, I told myself, not anchored to an older man like me. That's what one part of me said. The other part... well, every day that part of me was disappointed. If she truly loved me, she would call, wouldn't she? And if I truly loved her, I would call, wouldn't I? But I didn't and what did that mean? In time my depression lessened, as of course it must. The color returned to the world. I even dated again, the longest of which lasted four months, but in the end, every other woman seemed less exuberant than Sam. I always felt like I was holding back in sex, and thus holding back in the relationship. # A couple months shy of two years after we said goodbye, as I am sitting at my table grading the latest round of physics tests, my phone buzzes. I casually pick it up and look at the caller ID and drop it like it's a snake: "Sam "Hello, Sam?" "Hey Edmond," she says. "How are you?" "I'm fine," I say. "How are you?" "Good." She pauses. "So. Weird question: Do you want to come visit me?" # It turns out, I learn in the rest of our three hour conversation, that she did decide to go to that school and that she even ended up dropping her fashion design major and instead picking up architecture. "Fashion for buildings," is how she describes it. Her spring break is coming up, and I take the week off to visit her, my mind carefully neutral. All expectations dampened, excised as soon as they occur. During the six-hour drive, I am filled with equal parts excitement and dread. I'd left as soon as I got off work and so I arrive late at about 10 pm. The campus is a ghost-town, all the students having departed for warmer climes, and I find myself milling around the old library ("the big town hall-looking building with columns" Sam called it), waiting for her to show. "Hey stranger," she says, coming from behind me. She looks different. She has glasses and her hair is cut shorter and done up in a more serious bob. She's put on a little weight, giving her a softer, more womanly look. But still I recognize her and I am swamped by the restoration of my old feelings, a wave that easily washes aside my carefully constructed dams and levees. What's two years? I want her. I love her still. "Hey Sam," I say and offer her my arm. She takes it and we go for a walk, talking of inconsequential things. Her speaking mostly, me just quietly listening to the rhythms of her voice. When we come across a Corinthian column, Sam stops and explains about how it's meant to represent the thin beauty of a girl, and I say, "Studying your Vitruvius, I see. We have those at Greenstone Academy, but I can't say they ever reminded me of you." "Mmhmm," says Sam and leans against the column. It's now 11:30pm and there is absolutely no one in sight. "So." "So," I say. "So," says Sam. "I heard there was a position in the physics department opening up here." "Uh huh," I say. "And?" "Aaaaand... I miss you? I was hoping I could convince you to take it." I chuckle. "I miss you too. If you don't mind my asking, how exactly do you plan on convincing me?" "Well. I was kinda hoping that I could first convince you to give me a good fuck. It's been awhile. All the boys out here, well, they just don't understand friction and forces like you do, Edmond." "I see you haven't changed much, Sam." "Nope. So?" "So I stand by what I did. You had to leave me here, had to come here, didn't you?" "Yeah," she says. "But I've missed you too." I'm silent, staring at her green eyes, which just now are sparkling and confident. I laugh. "Yes. Where are we going to do this?" "Right here," she says. "For the past two months, I've walked past this column every day and every day I've imagined you fucking me against it." "Two months?" I say. "I had to work up the courage. Now lift me up and do me already," she says and begins hiking up her skirt. "I'm not wearing any underwear." "Of course you're not, Sam, of course you're not."