2 comments/ 36181 views/ 10 favorites Prison School Ch. 01 By: bawidgetcoms The first day I went to school, I wasn't gonna go. A guard came, a fat black woman with no ass (it ain't true all black bitches got back) and yelled at me to get my ass up. I wasn't budging. I lay there like a brick, like a dead man, on my bottom bunk. Every other man in the dorm was gone on work detail somewhere or in GED classes. I wasn't going to GED class. I wanted work detail. I'd told them I'd do anything but go to some damn class where I probably knew more than the bitch teacher. If I'd wanted to finish school, I'd have fucking finished school when I was 18 like everyone else. The warden was adamant every man who didn't have his GED WOULD TAKE CLASSES. He'd sat me down with a group of 15 other men the day before and told us we were starting, and we would get our GEDs or we wouldn't get out, pretty much. I thought, I'm a grown man. I make my rules. I ain't going to no damn school. Well, he was determined I was, and these two big, line-backer built bitches came and drug me out of that bunk. Okay, fine. I went, but I wasn't going to do anything. I wasn't going to like it. Somebody like me didn't need school. I quit because it was boring. I knew I was fucking smart. Sure some of these dumb fucks needed school, but I wasn't one of 'em. I quit when I was 17, and I made more money dealing in a year than most people make in ten. I drove a nice, brand new, red Camaro. I had a big, brick house on a long, country road. I wasn't your average drug dealer. At least, I didn't think so. I'd made something of myself. And I had scruples. I didn't deal to kids. I didn't deal anything addictive. I thought of myself as making the world a better place. Mostly pot and hallucinogenic stuff -- LSD, PCP. Anyone tells you that shit is addictive, they're just spouting crap they learned in some drug awareness class. Anybody can pick it up and put it back down if they want to, but people do what makes them feel good, feel right. So I was getting my ass drug down a gray hallway toward these big rooms with the whole back walls nothing but windows. I felt like I was about to be shoved in a storefront display. I hadn't brushed my hair, hadn't brushed my teeth. Normally I groom myself pretty good, but, I admit, I was pitching a fit like a kid, but I felt like I had every right to. Maybe I messed up and got caught with some illegal shit, but I was a grown ass man, and I wasn't about to let no puffed up warden tell me how to live my life, even in prison. The guards had to turn sideways to walk me down the aisle between the desks because we wouldn't all fit. Every eye in that classroom was on me. They pulled me to the front of the room, let me go, and the biggest, ugliest one of them (she looked like she had meth-teeth, but it was probably just bad genetics), pointed at a desk right in front of the teacher's and said, "Sit your ass down." I grunted and plopped down in the desk, stared at the board at the front of the room. The teacher was up there, but I didn't even see her. I was so mad my vision was blurry, like I was seeing red. I just stared. The guards left, and the chick at the front of the room brought me a book, sat it down on my desk and opened it to a page, held her finger in it. "This is where we are, Mr. ...." She looked at my name tag, "Watson." She stood there for a second. She tapped her foot on the floor. She pushed the book further toward me on the desktop. She cleared her throat. Ugh. The chick really wasn't going to leave me the fuck alone until I grabbed that book, and I just wanted her to go the hell away so I could go to sleep, so I reached for it. I grabbed it. She walked away, and I lay my head down on top of that fucker and closed my eyes. I woke up because I snored. Some younger guy, short and skinny like a rail, snickered beside me. I turned on him and glared hard. He shut up. I like to think I have an intimidating presence. I'm 6'3", 220 lbs, hard muscle, scars and tattoos -- a tiger on my left bicep and a tribal band around my right bicep, and I used to have this girl Tiffany's name on my left forearm, but I got it covered over in some badass flames that went all the way around my arm in red, orange, black and yellow. Scars were from all kinds of things. I got in fights in school, lots of them. I'd been in a car wreck or five, only one my fault because I was drinking, but I don't do that DUI shit no more. A kid in the other car had to go to the ER; I was afraid the little fella was gonna die. Don't want to be responsible for nothing like that, ever. I love kids. So I look pretty fucking badass, right. I've got jet black hair, keep it cut pretty short, put a little gel in the top and spike it slightly. I got blue eyes, deep blue like you wish the ocean would look, but you get there and it's all brown and disappointing, at least around here. I don't smile much. I got two faces I make, no maybe three. One is just normal, just neutral or bored. One I grimace, which is as close as I come to a smile most of the time. And the other one is when I'm fucking pissed off. That one I lower my brows, wrinkle my forehead, I curl my lip a little on the right side, and I fucking stare daggers through the eyes of whoever's made me that angry. This snickering kid backed down real quick like. He turned his head around to the front of the room and started watching the teacher. I turned and watched with him. She was writing something on the board, her back to the class. Nothing about her immediately impressed me with her back to me except her ass, which was significantly large in comparison with the rest of her. She wasn't small by any means, but that ass was gargantuan next to her waist, and the pants she had on were stretchy and clingy and held onto the junk in her trunk like they were painted on there, but then they got flowy at the bottom. She had on a black sweater, and when she did turn around, my eyes were about level with her chest. She had kinda small tits, and she was wearing a black shirt with some black sequins around the top. She had on flats with little bows on the toes. The outfit was cute, but she looked like she was on her way to her grandma's funeral. I felt her looking at me and looked up. She caught me staring, and at that moment, I'd happened to be staring at her boobs. It didn't faze me none, but when my eyes met hers, the woman blushed and turned to look at the guy next to me. "Mr. Hodges, would you like to, um, ... would you like to read these instructions I've written on the board out loud for us." Hodges obliged and stammered over them, blushing as she watched him struggle and urged him on. She wanted us to finish the rest of the dialy reading, from Huckleberry Finn, quietly and then write about our impression of the chapter. I hadn't read Huck Finn since I was 12, but I knew my impression. It was a damn good story. Good ol' Mark Twain. I closed the book and pushed it to the edge of my desk. She handed a stack of notebook paper to the guy sitting at the front of every row, which meant she dropped some on my desk too. She didn't wait for me to take it from her hand. She had short, slender fingers, kind of long nails, and she didn't wear a wedding ring, but that didn't mean anything really in here. She might just be afraid we'd steal it. That's how most of the people working in the prison treated us. It didn't matter if you were a child molester, a drug dealer, or some petty criminal who stole fifty bucks from a convenience store. It didn't matter what I'd done -- to all of them I was a child molester, a murderer. We were all trash and none of them wanted to touch us; at least it seemed that way to me. My eyes followed from her hand up her arm as she walked to the next row, and I noticed her hair reached nearly to her ass. It was chestnut colored and wavy. As she turned around, I noticed she had green eyes, as green as mine were blue. She had this upturned, cheerleader kind of nose, but it wasn't too small. I caught a glint of something under her hair and noticed her ears were pierced. She had full, almost pouty lips. I could see how someone would think she was pretty, but I wasn't interested. I was interested in getting the hell out of that classroom and back on some work detail like a normal, adult inmate who didn't deserve to be in class with all these dumb fucks who couldn't hack it in high school. I hadn't failed high school. High school had bored the shit out of me. I loved to read. I was good at math. I liked learning about history, and science was my thing, but... it was fucking boring listening to some dope sit at the front of the room spouting formulas and shit all day long. I'd rather teach myself, and after I quit, I did. I learned all kinds of shit most people probably didn't even think about. Dealing I could get into. It was a challenge... you had to be a salesman, customer service agent, accountant... you did your own marketing, made new business contacts, kept records and collected on bills. I ran a tight ship. I was my own boss and a damn good businessman by the time I was 25. By thirty I was living a dream life. Then got set-up. I got caught. I got here. My book was just sitting on my desk with the stack of papers. I knew she wanted me to pass them back, but I didn't want to cooperate. I didn't want to be there. She came over and grabbed the top four of them, leaving one sheet on my desk for me. She handed them to the guy behind me. I could tell by the abruptness of her motions that I was getting under her skin a little. She didn't know how to get me to participate. The guy to my left, Hodges, followed her every move. He acted like he was in love, and I found it funny. He should know she couldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole without losing her job. She didn't seem stupid to me, even though I didn't like her and didn't want to be there. I doubted she'd even fantasized about fucking Hodges when she touched herself in the shower once. But the way he blushed when she caught his eye... he was jacking off to her into his spare socks every night of the week. She tapped on my desk lightly. "Mr. Watson... I need you to get on the same page with the rest of us please." I hated sitting at the front already. Behind me to my right, in my peripheral vision, it looked like this guy from my dorm, Dukes, had his hand down his pants, and he wasn't just adjusting. Hell, she had guys fucking jerking off to her while she walked around the room, and she was riding my ass about opening my book and participating just because I was at the front and she could fucking see what I was doing. She pushed the book toward me slightly. "Page 68." She held a pencil out to me, and I grabbed it. I wrote on that paper, It's a fucking great book. as she walked away, her soft shoes patting the floor as she went. When she came back up the aisle on my other side, I could feel her eyes glancing down at my desk. "How do you know?" she asked. "Have you read it?" The bitch thought I was stupid like every other dumb fuck in this classroom. I almost growled back at her, "I've read that book ten fucking times. I don't need to read it again." I was so angry, not at her really, but I could have bashed her fucking face in just for being the one shoving school in my face right then. I closed my fists and tightened them, digging my fingernails into my palms. I knew I was acting like a stupid kid. I knew it, but I didn't care right then. I was seeing red all over again. She walked over to a shelf along the wall to my right, a low bookshelf that ran almost the whole length of the classroom. When her back was turned, I watched her, actually curious about what she was doing. She squatted in front of the shelves, which pulled her spandex-like pants tight against her round ass, and I saw Dukes behind me going to town. It was like the man had no shame, but then I figured it had nothing to do with shame. The man seemed like he liked to dominate, and I bet he was thinking about pushing her up against the wall the whole time. He couldn't do it, so he forced her to stand at the front of the room while he thought about it. He was probably in here for rape. She grabbed a couple of books and walked back over to me, nonchalant. She placed them all on my desk. One was the first book in the Dresden Files series. I'd read that. I pushed it off to the side. The second was Moby Dick. Read it, hated it. Who cares if it was a "classic?" The third one peaked my interest a little. Hunger Games. A kids' book, I thought, but the cover looked interesting. I couldn't let myself act too interested, but I didn't push it away. She walked off. A bell rang. It was time for lunch. I tucked the last book under my arm and took it with me. ................................................................................... That night I lay in bed reading by my little book light. The book wasn't half-bad. It read fast, and it kept me wanting to read. I stayed awake until I'd finished the whole damn thing. I slept only a couple of hours. When it was time to get up, I tucked the book in my locker at the end of my bunk. I don't know why. I liked it, and she was dumb enough to give it to me... sort of. So why not? In class that day, I came in, sat down with everyone else. Still didn't want to be there, but I figured, What the hell? The teacher... what was her name? Ms. Rogers or something like that... She was sitting at her desk rifling through everyone's papers from the day before. She had mine where I'd written It's a fucking great book in dark chicken-scratch, bearing down so hard on the paper I nearly tore through it. She wrote something in green ink on the top of the paper and shoved it back under the stack. When we all settled down, she looked around the room and asked a guy in the back, "Mr. Francis, what's your favorite thing about Huck so far? What's his best quality?" Francis spoke up, "Hell, the kid's brilliant." She nodded in agreement. She asked some more questions, and people answered. The class got into a pretty deep discussion, and I was a little caught up in it myself, remembering what I'd read all those years ago. Then her eyes settled on my desk for a moment, and I realized she was looking for the book she'd given me the day before. I met her eyes and glared at her, the way I glared at everyone. She broke away from our shared look and marched over to the shelf. She picked up a book, the next book in the Hunger Games series, dropped it on my desk, and kept circulating around the room. It irked me. It was like she thought she had me pegged, like she could just drop books in my lap and get me to read and feel like she'd done the world some big favor by educating another helpless inmate. I lay my head down to sleep. When I woke up, there was a pile of drool on my desk. I wiped it away with my sleeve. I looked around and noticed only a few people were still in the room, most of them reading, none of them reading Huck. I guess I wasn't the only one who got special books. Ms. Rogers was sitting at her desk, her head bent over some more papers, probably from that day. I hadn't turned one in because I'd been asleep. She heard my desk squeak when I sat up and looked up from her work. "Mr. Watson. I see you decided to rejoin the world of the living..." She sounded so fucking smug. I stood up and turned around, asked the guy behind me, "Is it lunch or something?" He grunted and nodded, and I left the room. I ate my barbecue sandwich, drank some water, came back into the classroom and deliberately sat at the very back of the room in a desk I didn't remember anyone being in earlier. I sat there the entire rest of the week. I finished that book that night, and then she had the next one on my desk at the back of the room when I came in the next day. It really pissed me off that she thought she had me pegged. I could tell. She was so smug 'cause she thought she'd figured out how to "motivate me to read," like I was the poster child on some damn literacy billboard on the interstate. I read the books because I liked to read, and they were pretty good books. ........................................................................................... The next Monday we had a test over Huckleberry Finn before lunch. It was always English before lunch and History after lunch. I didn't pay much attention to either. She had the test on our desks when we came in and the desks arranged differently so we couldn't cheat. They were spread apart and all facing different directions. I sat down at the desk I thought was my usual, and I turned the test over. To take it or not to take it? Damn... tough decision. I wanted to show the smug bitch I was just as smart as she was. At the same time, I didn't want her having the power to just shove a test down my throat and make me take it. Finally, I decided I'd do half of it... a question or two... just to show her I wasn't stupid. Then I'd take a nap like usual. So I answered the first two questions, wrote whole paragraphs explaining my views, and then I flipped that test back over, lay my head down, and I was snoring softly in two minutes. I woke up when I felt someone jerking on the paper underneath my right arm. I sat up, unfolding my arms sleepily. Ms. Rogers cleared her throat and said, "Mr. Watson... I see from this that you are very capable of both reading and writing. Now, I've been very lenient with you since it was your first week, but really I'm supposed to write you up every time you sleep in class." Really?! Who the hell did she think she was? "And what happens it I get wrote up? I don't get to come to school no more? Because, bitch, I don't want to be here anyway." "Watch your language with me, please." Wow... smug little twat. I was mad. "I know more about language than you're little college educated ass, and there ain't nothing you can teach me I don't already know, alright?" She looked like she wanted to smirk, like she was holding it back, and that irked me even more. I stared daggers through those bright green eyes; they looked a different color green depending on the color she wore I'd noticed. The harder I stared, the more her gaze started to falter, and soon she broke away and looked at the floor. "If there ain't nothing I can teach you, Mr. Watson, then by all means... keep sleeping." The bitch was mocking me, like I didn't know "ain't nothing" was common vernacular and a double negative. Self-righteous whore. I thought she was through, but then she said, "You know what, though? If you're so smart, don't you think you might be able to help someone else by participating? Think of it as a humanitarian effort." She smiled this smile that came off somewhere directly between condescending and admiring, I couldn't be sure which. Then she walked away. So maybe she didn't think I was so dumb after all. So what? That night I was out of books to read, so I pulled my sketchpad and pencils out of my locker, and I started to draw. A scene popped into my head, and I put it on the paper carefully. Ms. Rogers was wearing a business-style suit, like I'd never seen her wear before, but it looked teacher-like and professional. It had little white cuffs at the sleeves and a white lapel, contrasting the black of the suit. It came about to her knees, and the jacket was fitted nicely. Her long hair was up in a bun, very teacher-like as well. As the scene formed in my mind, I sketched her left arm bent behind her back. She was leaning forward slightly, toward her desk, and her thighs were pressed hard against the wood. You could see the indentation in her skirt where they met the edge of her desk. She arched her back slightly and had her head turned toward the board, looking over her right shoulder at her aggressor. I drew my left hand, strong and rough, wrapped around her little wrist. I drew my right secured firmly at the back of her neck, pulling her toward me, forcing her back to arch even further. Prison School Ch. 01 I had my hips thrust forward, pressing my rock-hard, mammoth cock roughly against her generous ass. It wasn't enough. The fantasy in my head continued, but on the paper I was still filling in colors and smoothing lines. In my mind, I let go of her neck and bent to force her skirt up above her hips with my right hand. I thought about what kind of panties I might find under there. Would she wear a thong, letting those fleshy ass cheeks free, or would she wear granny panties, thin cotton covering every inch of her meat? I decided on bikinis, red with black stripes. She seemed to like black, so I let her have her black. It didn't matter much what they looked like because my next move was to rip them off. I forced her forward until her sweet little tits were pressed against the desk, and I backed away just enough from her ass to rip the panties from it, dropping them to the floor. Then I forced her legs apart, nudging between them with my right knee. With my left arm, I pushed under her cute little jacket, dug under her silky shirt underneath, found her bra and pushed beneath the fabric to grab a nice big hand full of her right tit, which was just the right size to fit in my palm. I squeezed as I rubbed my erection against her ass cheeks. I wasn't wearing my prison garb. I had on jeans and a tight muscle shirt, showing off my tattoos. The material of my jeans made her ass cheeks red, and it gave me an idea. I let go of her boob and used my right palm to smack her ass. I watched it jiggle, and she moaned in pain. I slapped it again and laughed. Finally she'd had enough. "Please stop," she begged me. "Please just let me go." "You want this, bitch," I spit at her. "You know you want me." She moaned, and I wasn't sure if it was from pleasure or from fright. It didn't matter. I unbuttoned and unzipped, and I freed my huge cock. (I'm not exaggerating. It's like a fucking donkey. Ask any woman whose been impaled on it.) I let it's hardened length slap against her ass, and then I spread her legs wider, pushing them apart with my knee again. "Spread 'em, slut," I snarled at her. "Yes, Sir." She whimpered when she said it, but she'd called me "Sir." My cock got even harder. In bed while I played this out in my mind, I finally stopped drawing. I put the stuff back in my locker, and I finished my fantasy, fucking Ms. Rogers bent over the desk. "Did you call me "Sir?" I like it, slut. Tell me you're my whore, and call me that again." I jerked her arm, pulling her back toward me. She grasped for the desk with her right hand, trying to steady herself. "I won't let you fall, bitch. Now say it." I grabbed her right arm too and held both of her small wrists securely with my left hand. "Uhh..." she stammered. "I.... I'm your whore..." She sounded like she was trying to remember lines to recite for an elementary school play. "Say it like you MEAN it." I was being mean now, just playing with her because she was at my mercy. "I'm your whore," she spouted with more determination. "Is that all?" I asked. "I'm your whore, Sir," she spat the last word like she was going to gag and choke on it. I wondered if she was wet. I reached between her thighs with my right hand, spread her fat little pussy lips apart with my thick fingers, pressed two fingers between them. She was fucking soaking. Ahhhh.... just right. I shoved my cock into my cum sock as I shoved it into her wet pussy. She squealed in pain. She couldn't help it. My giant shaft split her in two, and she pushed back against it, as if seeking more of me would ease the pain. "'You like that, don't you, bitch? You love daddy's big, thick cock spreading that pussy wide open. Tell me how much you love it. Call my daddy." She coughed as I grabbed her bun and pulled her head back. "Say it...." I wasn't gruff this time. I wanted to hear her say it. I hoped she would. She hesitated for a second and then said softly, "Daddy, I love your big, thick cock in my little, tight, wet pussy. You fill me up so good. You're splitting me wide open. Oh, I love it so much, daddy." So she liked being dominated. Hmm. Wow. Even if I was only imagining, that was hot. As I filled the sock with my spunk and put it away, wiping everything clean, I wondered if the real Ms. Rogers was anything like the one I'd just filled with my sperm. Prison School Ch. 02 The next day in class was different. Now that I'd let myself really let go and fantasize about Ms. Rogers, I couldn't help thinking about what she'd look and sound like actually calling me "daddy." Somehow imagining myself dominating her made her self-satisfied little comments much easier to swallow. I didn't sleep in class as much after that. I had plenty to think about awake. One day I decided to get my drawing out of my locker and take it to class with me. I was sitting at the back of the class now, so it wasn't like she could really see what I was doing. I'd probably even look like I was paying attention. And if I could actually watch her while I drew her, my drawing would be much more accurate. What I didn't think about was other guys back there trying to SEE what I was drawing. Pretty quickly Jones to my left lost interest in Ms. Rogers going on about writing haikus and started focusing on my paper. This time I wasn't dominating her; I was taking her. She was on her back on the desk. Not much of me was drawn yet, but she had her legs up in the air, a billowy skirt pushed up around her hips, her silk shirt and lacy bra ripped open, a button dangling by a thread and her right breast fully exposed and falling gently to the side. Jones cocked his eyebrow and whistled as I detailed a pert, hardened little nub of a nipple on her sweet tit. I gave him a sidelong glance and mumbled, "Mind your own fucking business." He cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. When he thought I wasn't paying attention, he kicked the basket on the chair of the guy in front of him, some oily, fat punk in his late teens I didn't really know, didn't even know his name. I'd noticed him trying to be a bully to some smaller guys, but then if they bowed up at him, he got whiny. Definitely a punk. But I could tell he thought he was a force to be reckoned with... until someone reckoned. Punk looked at Jones, Jones glanced at me, Punk checked out my drawing. Punk smirked and snickered. I thought about trying to hide my work so I wouldn't get attention drawn to me, but then I thought, Hell no... I can do whatever the fuck I want, and it ain't none of their fucking business. When Punk started snickering, Jones started snickering, and neither of them looked over in time to see the daggers I was staring. When Ms. Rogers started walking to the back of the room, I flipped my drawing over, and I stood up and started walking across the aisle toward them. I smacked Jones in the back of the head with the inside of my left hand. "Show some respect, moron," I hissed at him and looked toward Ms. Rogers. He jumped up out of his desk. I had a good half a foot on him, and I was way more bulky. I looked like a dually Dodge if he was a Ford Ranger. He didn't try to hit me or anything. He balled his little hands into fists beside his hips and spat, "I'm not the one back here showing disrespect. You the one..." I wasn't letting him say any more about what I was doing. Before he could finish that sentence, I clamped my huge hand over his thin little mouth and shoved him back down in his seat. I know he wanted to kill me, but it wasn't really an option unless he was armed, and he wasn't. Ms. Rogers stopped where she was. She stared at me so hard I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd caught on fire right there. She said, "Let. Go. Of. Him. And SIT. Your. Ass. Back. Down. In. That. Desk. RIGHT NOW!" It had been a long, long time since any woman anywhere talked to me in that tone of voice. I was reminded of my Mama sending me outside for a switch when I was eight. I backed away from Jones, and I sat down. Jones didn't say a word. I left my drawing turned over on my desk. She walked back to where we were sitting and looked back and forth between all three of us. "I don't know what the HELL is going on back here, but if any of you EVER raise a hand to someone else in this classroom, it will be the last time. I'll have you put in solitary confinement so fast your head spins off your shoulders." She turned on her heel and marched back to the front of the room. I turned a little in my seat so Jones couldn't see what I was drawing as well and returned to my drawing. I watched her at the front of the room, carefully so she wouldn't notice. She was beautiful angry. He face turned red below her cheekbones, and her nostrils flared. I decided to make her face flushed in my drawing like it was now at the front of the classroom. As I watched her I noticed she was trembling slightly. I focused all of my attention on observing her then. She wasn't just shaking. She kept glancing up from writing on the board. She'd glance at Jones and me, and then she'd glance at the door like she was making sure she could get there before us if we decided to come after her. I realized then that the whole incident had scared her shitless. She seemed like she was tough as nails, but she was about to shit her pretty little panties. I was torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to push her and see if I could make her jump. When it was time for lunch, I stayed a minute behind everyone else. She was erasing something on the board. I stood up from my desk and walked so quietly to the front of the room that I didn't make a sound. I stood behind her. It took a minute for her to sense me there, or maybe she didn't sense me at all, but she turned around. She turned around right into my chest, instinctively jerked her arms up to shield herself and turned her head to the side. She stepped on my boot with her right foot. Then she kind of bounced backwards away from me, and I thought she might fall. I reached out for her and caught her by both arms. She opened her mouth, and I knew she was about to start screaming. "No... no no no. I'm just making sure you don't fall, ma'am." I pulled my arms away when I was sure she was steady on her feet. "You're okay," I whispered. It seemed like I should reassure her somehow. It was crazy because I was right beside her desk, standing next to her, and no one was around anywhere. I could have thrown her down on that desk right then and acted out every picture I'd ever drawn of her, but something stopped me from doing anything except walking away. What had I planned to do? Something like what happened. Only I'd envisioned grabbing her and not letting go, whispering everything I said into her ear in a gruff voice with my stubble rough against her cheek. I'd leaving marks on her arms, red from my fingerprints, that I hoped would still be there when everyone else got back from lunch. I didn't want to hurt her, but I really wanted to see her react to me. She had reacted, but why couldn't I push harder? I walked out of the room through her escape route and went to lunch, reaching down my pants to make a little adjustment on the way. ........................................................................................... I got brave and sat at the front of the room in my old seat the next day, and I brought my drawing with me. If I kept it tilted toward me, she couldn't see it. Maybe it was stupid, but I wanted to try pushing her buttons some more. It gave me something to do. We were learning about poetry still, and she wanted us all to write a haiku about something personal, something about our own lives. In my drawing I was holding her ankles and had my cock buried balls-deep in her pussy so all you could see was her ass meeting my hips. I flipped my drawing over. Hell, I could write a haiku as well as the next guy. I actually kind of liked poetry, but I doubted she'd ever believe it. I'd read Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, some Rudyard Kipling. Classic stuff. I am watching you Noting every move you make To draw you at night She said we didn't have to sign them; she'd just check off our names when we turned them in. I wondered if she knew my handwriting. I wondered if I should just own up and put my name on it like a man, but I also knew that could get me in trouble. I wanted to scare her, make her breath catch in her throat. I wanted her to wonder who was watching. I wanted her to notice it was me. I wondered what she'd do. It was becoming a game for me – cat and mouse – I was looking for a way to get to her, somehow. I watched her while I folded the paper to see if she was paying attention. It didn't matter, but I almost wanted her to see me fold the paper so she'd know it was mine. She'd have no way to prove it. But she didn't look at me once. In fact, it almost seemed like, since our little encounter, she was avoiding me altogether, purposely not calling on me, not looking at me. I dropped my haiku in the basket on her desk with everyone else's on the way to lunch. ........................................................................................... When I got back from lunch, the haikus were all unfolded and stacked neatly on her desk. It looked like she'd read all of them. I came back first on purpose, five minutes early. I wasn't really supposed to without permission, but I didn't care. I sat in my desk, facing her. She hadn't reacted at all to my entrance. She was writing furiously fast in this little blue book with a green and brown paisley pattern on the cover. I wanted to know what was in that book. She really didn't realize I was there. I grabbed my notebook off my desk and slid my drawing out quietly. I picked up my pencil. When everyone else finally came in the door minutes later, I'd had enough time to add one more touch to it – her right hand, desperately grasping for me, trying to drive me even deeper into her hot cunt. The guys who walked into the room first were talking loudly, cussing and slapping each other on the shoulders. She was startled. She almost dropped her little book, but then she slammed it shut, looked around nervously and shoved it into her desk drawer. Then she looked up again and noticed me. Recognition entered her eyes and I knew she knew that I'd been there watching her the entire time. I don't know what made me do it, but I didn't put my drawing away. I tucked it under my notebook and left just enough of it showing for anyone to wonder what it was. My legs, hips, and torso showed, as well as her right hand, her supple ass and her long legs extending upward. We were learning about the Constitution, re-writing the Bill of Rights in our own words. Everyone had a number so that two people were re-writing the same amendment, and then we had to group together with the people who matched us and then regroup in groups of ten. There were twenty people in the class, so that was going to work out pretty good if everyone participated. I got the Second Amendment. Easy. I wrote, Any law-abiding citizen can own any firearm they want without government interference. It was kind of funny because it didn't apply to over half the people in the room, including me. I'd had over 100 grams on me when I got caught. You could guess who I got paired with. There were at least four people in the room I didn't want to be with – Hodges, Jones, Punk, or Dukes. Pretty much anyone I'd ever sat next too. Most of the guys in these classes were absolute punk-ass losers. So I got paired with Punk. I found out his name was Jamie Lleva, nice greasy punk name. His rendition: Every man deserves guns. How was I supposed to even respond to that? I shoved my paper toward him. He grunted, read it, and said, "You smart, huh?" I shrugged, glanced up at the teacher, down at the corner of my drawing, up at the clock. This was going to be a long five minutes "discussing" with this guy. He started biting his right pinky fingernail. I sighed, slumped down in my desk, then for the first time in awhile, I lay my head down and snoozed. I woke up when I felt my notebook begin tugged out from under my arms. I quickly grabbed for it, but then I realized the tug was on the paper underneath it. I saw her long, hot pink fingernails trying to pry it away, and I slammed my fist down on the corner of the paper, almost catching her fingers. She'd pulled it out enough to see everything except her breasts and face. I wondered if she realized what it was. She couldn't prove it was me and her. I opened my hand and held it firmly down on the paper, clamping it to the desktop. She released her fingers and backed away saying, "Mr. Watson, you shouldn't be drawing in class, much less sleeping. You've been doing so well lately. I'm surprised at you." She couldn't meet my eyes; she was looking everywhere on my face except into my eyes. And when she glanced down at the drawing one last time as I pushed it back under my notebook, I got to see a bright red blush creep from the lace-trimmed collar of her shirt up her chest and neck to her high cheekbones. Did she suspect it was her in that drawing? She'd read my haiku. I couldn't even let myself get too mad at her for trying to tell me what to do again. Sure she was bitching, but it was worth putting up with her whining just to see that pretty blush creep up her lily white neck. ........................................................................................... Ms. Rogers avoided me the rest of that day and the next day of class. She didn't talk to me, didn't look at me directly. She did occasionally glance at my desk, and I was sure she was checking to see if I was drawing. I thought maybe I'd ruffled her feathers a little too much. There was no better way to find out than to ask. I walked up to her desk while we were supposed to be working on an assignment. She was grading some essays and had her head bent over them. A thin curl escaped from behind he ear and fell in front of her eyes as she looked up at me. I almost reached to tuck it back behind her ear, but she beat me to it. I didn't feel like myself around her lately. Some other, more refined and conscientious side of me was coming through. I wasn't sure I liked it. I pressed both hands against the top of her desk, my palms on either side of her stack of papers. I knew this brought the more muscular aspects of my arms to her attention, and I wondered if she'd look long enough to notice. I was rewarded with her gaze as her eyes traveled up my right arm to my bicep, where she seemed to linger slightly before continuing to my shoulder, neck, face, and finally eyes. She raised her eyebrows. Maybe she was going for cocky or disinterested, but everything about the look she gave me said she was hot for me. I read in Cosmo magazine or one of those shit women's mags once that raised eyebrows means someone is turned on. I kept my voice low so as not to draw too much attention. "What is your issue with me?" She actually looked a little confused for a second, but I suspected she was more confused that I noticed than confused about what she was doing. The woman was pointedly and deliberately avoiding me! "I have no issue with you, Mr. Watson, except that I would prefer you to sit in your own desk and not manhandle mine." Why did she have to struggle so hard to exude icy bitch all the time with me? I thought she might be afraid, but I didn't know if she was afraid of me or afraid of how she felt about me. I knew I could make her blush. I decided to try to do it again. "My desk, Ms. Rogers, is awfully far away. I like the view from right here." I purposely stared directly into her eyes, which had turned cold in response to my words. Not what I was going for. "Mr. Watson, please sit down." "You see, Ms. Rogers," I purposely drew her name out long, "I can't sit down at this very moment because..." I thought fast. "Because I think I forgot my name on my essay." I was just going for something to get under her skin now, and the longer I could stay up there, the better chance I had. I'd make her pay for playing icy bitch with me again. I made a grab for the stack of papers, but she grabbed my hand and held it in mid-air. She held my hand like that for awhile because I didn't back away, and she wasn't about to let me push forward and taken the assignments from her desk. This had to be making the bitch blush. Sure enough, it was, and, to top it off, her hand was starting to shake as she held onto my fist. I relaxed my arm, but I didn't pull away. I lowered my hand to the stack of papers, but she didn't release her grip. I was letting her think she'd won because there was no way she could really have stopped me if I wanted those papers. "I don't want the papers. I just want you..." I deliberately hesitated after saying you to give the red hue of her fair skin a chance to deepen. "... to help me find mine." She let go of my hand and flipped through the last few papers. She knew exactly where mine was. "Yours is right here, Mr. Watson. Your name is on it." She turned her face back to the papers, like she was just going to pretend I wasn't even at the desk. I wouldn't sit back down, so she was pretending I had! "Ms. Rogers?" I crooned quietly. I hoped no one else was really paying attention to anything I said. They weren't if they knew what was good for them. "DEAR GOD!" she exclaimed in a harsh whisper with tinges of screeching around the edges. "I don't need this. Go. Sit. Down. Or I will see to it that someone either sits you down or removes you from this room. I am not playing with you." "More's the pity," I responded with a wink, and then I sat back down. ........................................................................................... That day I stayed behind at lunch. When she went to warm up her lunch in the teacher's lounge, I rose from my seat and closed the distance to her desk. I quickly wrenched open the sticky drawer where I saw her putting that blue book before. It was there! As much as I wanted to read it, I didn't want to get caught. I glanced over a few lines quickly, looked up, glanced back... ... what the hell is wrong with Watson. He's simultaneously hot as hell and mean as a snake, but sometimes he'll say something in class that absolutely blows me away. I wonder how a mind that intelligent and adaptable can exist inside the skull a man who is so hard-headed. I snorted. She hadn't seen hard-headed with me yet. ...I can feel him staring at me every single day. He doesn't make me feel like I'm in danger, but he looks so dangerous. His language register varies between trashy vernacular and well-read intellectual. I always wonder what's going on in his brain. Two things I'd read so far, both about me. Guess I did have her attention... ... he wrote that haiku. I know he's always drawing in my class, and I saw what he was drawing today. He covered it up, but I saw a man standing by a desk. The man had to be him – he had his tattoos, and the desk looked like mine. The man had his penis buried deep inside a woman lying on the desk with her legs in the air, but I couldn't be sure who the woman was because I couldn't see her face. Can I turn him in for that? Am I jumping to conclusions? The haiku has to be his; I think he's drawing me. So she was onto me... ... avoid him at all costs. The closer I get to him, the more I realize how much I need to get away! I find myself not wondering if he's drawing me so I can report him and get him out of my hair but HOPING he is because I want it. I want him to watch me... "noting every move I make." I heard a noise outside the door and dropped her journal back into the drawer, slammed it shut quickly. I felt a tightness in my chest, and I sat down in my desk instead of going to lunch. I let my mind wander about her, but I wanted so badly for it not to be fantasy. She came back after eating. She couldn't really ignore me because I didn't have permission to be there. I was supposed to be at lunch. "Mr. Watson... is everything alright?" "Just a.. headache," I mumbled. I wanted her to let me stay. Prison School Ch. 02 "Okay, well... you know I'm supposed to send you out, but there's only five minutes left. Why don't you lay your head down and rest your eyes?" This was the nicest she'd ever been to me. Honestly, I wasn't used to women treating me nice at all. I was taken aback. "I'll be okay," I assured her. I took out some paper to draw. She was grading papers again. I drew her hand holding her red color pencil. I watched her and tried to capture every intricate little detail of her delicate right hand – the way her fingers folded at the knuckles, the way they pinched to hold the pencil, the way the tendons in her hand tightened with her grip. I didn't care if she caught me watching because now I knew she wanted to be watched. I was obliging her. She looked up finally and caught me watching her. She glanced down at my paper and saw the drawing that was unmistakably her beautiful hand. She sucked in a deep breath. She yawned. She leaned her head back, stretching her neck. Then she returned to grading essays. For me a new door had opened, a whole new world. She wanted me... to notice her, to draw her. I was going to give her what she wanted. Before I left class that day, I folded the drawing of her hand into a tiny square. When she wasn't looking, I dropped it into her chair so she couldn't miss it. That night I drew her hand again, for me. I drew both of them this time, and they were very busy jacking off my throbbing cock. I wanted to dirty her purity so badly it was killing me. Prison School Ch. 03 After reading Ms. Rogers' little diary, I felt more bold. I wanted to keep her on her toes,but my reasons were changing. Knowing she wanted my attention, instead of lessening the appeal, fueled my fire. Because of shakedown we missed a few days of class. I thought I would lose my mind. It was like seeing a Coke billboard and getting a craving flung on you, but then you get to a machine... Cokes are a dollar, but you've only got ninety cents. Over those days for some reason I didn't really think about fucking her. Now... God did I ever still want to split that hot little pussy wide open, and something told me it would be oh so tight like her pouty mouth got when she disapproved of something we said or did. I drew picture after picture... I was trying to preserve my memories of her in case, for some crazy reason, I never saw her again. I drew her face then a drawing of just her green eyes then her full lips, parting slightly as if she had something important to say. I had to admit I missed her annoying voice a little and her quick comebacks. Then I heard her voice and it woke me out of my daydream. At least it sounded like her, and she was screaming. "No, I most certainly will not 'calm down!' I have never been anything but respectful to those bunch of ignorant fools in there, and there ain't no man in this WORLD I will stand by and let insult and degrade me like that without standing my ground. Fire me if you want, but I be damned if I will step another foot in there." I got up from my bunk and walked to the door. I could see her back from the window,but she was much farther down the hall than I'd expected. She was visibly shaken, so angry her entire body shivered. Somewhere between breaking down in tears and exploding with rage. She was standing with a guard, the principal and the warden. What an audience. I felt a knot form deep in my abdomen. Please, don't let her get canned over this, I almost prayed. I tried reading their lips. It looked like the warden told her to go home for the day. Not fired? I sure hoped I was right. When she turned to leave, for some reason I stayed where I was, looking at her through the glass. She walked past, and I thought she wouldn't see me. Part of me really wanted her to see me, just in case I'd never see her again. Then at the last moment, she glanced up; our eyes met. Hers were wet with tears. I grimaced and fucking waved at her like a damn fool. How... comforting and supportive. ... We did have school the next day, and she was there, but some of her usual spark was absent. I sat in the front and openly drew her but just her face. The corners of her mouth were pinched and turned downward. She didn't look at me once, even when I answered her questions. She taught like a robot. Her heart was not in it. She told us what words meant, wrote it on the board, and then she sat at her desk and told us to write one page using all the words. I did it even though it was the kind of thing I hated doing. She was putting me in a box. Use THESE words! I wrote something straightforward and boring, but I tagged on the end, "Where is your FIRE today, Ms. Rogers?" I wanted to know what had happened. I mean, I had an idea, but exactly what had happened the day before. I wasn't sure how, when or where to ask her, just knew I HAD to. As usual my best chance was as we turned in papers and left for lunch. I waited until last. She glanced at my paper. I'd underlined the question at the end three times. "I left it at home today, Mr. Watson. It seems I have too much fire in me for this place." She grimaced but never looked up. I puzzled for a second over what to do. I looked around. The principal was in the hallway chatting with another teacher, but she hadn't noticed I was still in the classroom yet. I thought fast, walked around the corner of Ms. Rogers' desk and squatted behind it where I was completely shielded from any prying eyes. NOW she looked at me, straight into my searing blue eyes, and she hissed through clenched teeth, "What the hell are you doing?!" My tongue quit working. Suddenly I was twelve and awkward. "Uh.." I stammered. "I was just checking on you is all." The right corner of her frown lifted a little. "Do you have to do that squatting behind my desk?" I raised up and peered toward the window at the back. "Well... Yeah..." "Right..." she responded slowly as realization set in. For a second I thought I'd get her to confide in me easily, but then she glanced at the windows, then back down at me and said, "Mr. Watson, please go to lunch." I didn't move a muscle. She had to stop looking at me to avoid arousing suspicion. She swiveled her old-fashioned, wooden chair so that she faced the wall. "What do you want, Mr. Watson?" She'd set herself up again, and I knew I should, but I couldn't resist. "I want you... I want you..." I paused less for dramatic effect and more this time because my brain stopped functioning. My God she turned so red! She was starting to really look angry... Not quite the fire I was trying to revive, but I'd take it. She tapped her nails impatiently on the arm of her chair and stared down at me. I thought I might blush. Where was my fucking brain?! "I want you to tell me what happened yesterday." I finally spit it out. She quit tapping. "Nothing you need to worry about... I'm fine. Everything is just peachy." Clearly nothing was peachy. "Unacceptable answer." I raised my brows and assaulted her green eyes with my best pleading look. I'll admit I am not naturally good at pleading. I realized quickly that it wasn't working. Fuck. I wasn't going to back away from this. "I want to fucking know why you went home and who the fuck in this fucking prison thinks he has any fucking right fucking with you." "Apparently a whole fucking lot of fucking people. But it's nothing you need to worry about. You're here to learn. I'm here to teach you." She met my gaze evenly. I tightened my lips. "Get the stick out of your ass... I'm already worried about it. Too late. Now what the FUCK happened?" She bristled. "Don't talk to me like that." She looked away from me as if to say she was done, but I was not done. I'd been worrying over this woman all day and night. I reached for her chair and spun her to face me. I reached up and grabbed her jaw between my rough fingers. Her skin felt like silk against mine. Damn it... I tilted her head down to force her to look at me. She closed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. It was like reasoning with a toddler. "One more time..." I squeezed her jaw, just a little. I was used to getting what I wanted much more easily. I opened my mouth to ask her one more time and the bitch (I didn't really think of her that way anymore, but it applies here) fucking BIT me. Right between my thumb and forefinger, bent down on that bit of skin in that sensitive spot. I wanted to backhand her. Common sense screamed for me to back off. Instead I put a palm on each side of her face, turned it back down toward me, and said, "You open your eyes or I open them for you." "And just how do you intend..." Before she could finish I had an index finger against each eyelid ready to pry those suckers open. Her eyes flew open. "You want to know what happened? Something kind of like this. I was threatened!" "I'm not threatening you..." I relinquished my hold on her face. Her eyes slammed back shut, and I groaned in protest but waited for her to continue. Why was I bothering with this woman when she just bit me? She turned her chair back toward the wall, opened her eyes, and then she began to tell me how one of the lesser gang leaders, an Asian/black kid no more than 5'-6" who was in this class before the incident the previous day, had masturbated openly while he threatened her - to rape her, to kill her family, to kill her and rape her corpse - in very graffic, disturbing terms, while she searched his locker and bed for contraband. He ruled by fear, and he'd attempted to use fear against her, in retaliation I guess. MANY of them had heckled her, but he was the only one who had taken it beyond insults to direct, personal threats. She'd snapped and yelled back at him, threatened him in return. She'd used up all her fire the day before telling him she'd bite off his balls and force them down his throat. Why was that scum allowed to get away with that? She said he was in SIG, but... he'd probably be back in here when he got out. That was how they did things here. They'd figure they'd broken him and send him right back. By the end of her story, she was again visibly shaken, seething and worried. I wasn't sure what to do. I reached up and began stroking the soft skin of her left forearm, which rested on the chair arm beside me. I traced the veins on the back of her hand. She tensed and stopped breathing. "Hey," I said calmly. "I'm not trying to hurt you. Relax. I'm going to take care of this, okay? I'll figure something out." "I don't want to have to face that sack of shit again. I shouldn't have to!" She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists like that would make it go away. "I'm telling you... I'll take care of it. And if they put that 'sack of shit' back in here with you, if he looks at you wrong, if he looks at you at all, if he even thinks about laying one of his stubby fucking hands on you, I will FUCK. HIM. UP. Okay?" Honestly, how much I could fuck him up would depend on how many men jumped to his defense. I was big, I was strong, but I was not invincible. I just knew... if he came back, if he wanted to get to her in any way, he'd have to go through me. "Thanks," she mumbled. She stood up from her chair. It was time for people to start filing back in from lunch. She straightened her clothes, smoothed her hair. Then she surveyed the area and said, "Get up. It's safe." My eyes were level with her round, juicy ass, and for a second I felt less protective and more aggressive. It was all I could do not to press my palm against her flesh and squeeze. Her pants were so tight against it. I sucked in my breath and held it. I got up. I looked around. I cupped her right cheek in my left hand. "I'm sorry I was so rough with you... Just... you're so fucking stubborn, so proud!" I didn't say anything else, though I wanted to. I stroked my thumb against her cheek twice and let my hand fall away. It was a couple of minutes before anyone came back into the room. I sat in my desk and waited, saying nothing. Ms. Rogers tidied her desk. Apparently this was my reward for showing her kindness. Maybe she'd noticed my reaction to her pants stretched across that curvy, pretty ass. She straightened every single thing on her desk with her back to me. The desk was probably about 3' x 5', so the way she did this made NO sense unless she was doing it... for me. Her desk was parallel to the front wall, in front of the board, and the place she sat behind it faced the room. She leaned across her desk and straightened her calendar. She moved her coffee cup about five inches and turned the handle parallel with the front of her desk. She was purposely giving me a show, and it drove me up the wall. She LAY down on the desk and reached for her chair. She had to kick her feet up off the floor and really strain to reach it. Her ass wiggled and strained against the fabric of her pants. I thought the seam might split! I felt my dick start to stiffed and strain against my pants. I sucked in my breath, which was louder than I intended, and I held it while I watched. She pulled the chair under her desk and righted herself. She straightened her shirt, which had ridden up above her hips when she stretched across the desk. Do that one more time... I silently begged. I folded my hands in my lap because I knew my erection was prominent, and I tried to conceal it. It was important to me then, after what had happened the day before, not to make her feel threatened. Then again, she didn't seem to feel threatened at all. She seemed to be enjoying putting on a show. I thought she was done. I looked around to see if anyone was coming yet. I looked down at my hands folded in my lap. I wasn't sure what to do or if I should do anything. My thoughts were interrupted by a grunt followed by a groan. I looked up to find her stretched out across the desk again, her ass directly in front of my desk. She seemed to be trying to open a drawer at the front of the desk. The more she struggled to reach the drawer, the more her ass gyrated up and down. She was basically humping the edge of the desk. I wasn't sure she even had any interest in reaching that drawer. The paper clips she held in her hand fell to the desk, but she still strained toward the drawer and bobbed her supple ass up and down in my face. I decided, split-second, that she was asking for it. She was... asking for my help. I quietly rose from my seat. I looked around, checking to make sure I could get away with this. I positioned myself behind her, my throbbing cock perfectly aligned with the stressed seam running down her ass. One of her legs lifted and caught me in the shin. She stopped wiggling and stiffened, lay flat on the desk, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do when her show became up close and personal. Before she could stop me, I grabbed her hips, one hand firm on each side of her body, and I pressed my rock hard erection roughly against the crack of her ass. Her head turned slightly toward me. I think she could see me out of the corner of her eye. I saw her bite her lip. She moaned a little and so very subtly wiggled her warm ass against me. She wanted this. God, she really wanted this! I looked around once more. I couldn't believe no one was around to catch us, but I wasn't complaining. I might never get this opportunity again, so I took full advantage. "Do you need help with that?" I played her game - reached across her, grabbed the paper clips, opened the drawer and dropped them inside. I closed the drawer again. The whole time, my body pressed hers firmly against the wooden desk. When I'd finished "helping," I didn't pull away. Instead I moved both hands to her hips again and began to thrust against her ass. She groaned loudly this time. Her hips started keeping rhythm with mine. Her legs spread further apart like she was trying to find a way to rub her clit against the desk. I could only guess her reasoning, but the movement prompted me to 'help her' again. I reached around her and wedged my arm between her and the desk, lifted her up off of the desk and stood her upright in front of me. I kept grinding against her, but I moved my hands - one reached up her shirt and the other went down between her legs, searching for her clit through her pants. I kneaded her breasts through her bra. They were small but round, firm and, I'd wager, beautiful. I wanted to see those tits so badly, but there was no way... I couldn't believe I was getting away with this much! I rubbed two fingers against her erect little button, fast and firm but not too hard. Her breath came faster and faster. I looked around anxiously. God, don't let anybody interrupt this! She was going to cum against my hand. I could feel it building as her body tightened against me. It was more than I could take. The feel of the fabric sliding against my cock, the pressure from her ass pushing back against me, the smell of her hair so close to my face - like flowers and sunshine, everything from the experience combined and melted together until I exploded with her. She reached behind and grabbed for my ass, my thighs, pulling me closer to her as she came. I shot streams of hot cum inside my pants. I didn't care. I would happily sit through the rest of the day in my own sticky cum, remembering this. We straightened ourselves, sat down, didn't even look at each other the rest of the day. I drew her, just quick sketches. I drew her leaning across her desk. I drew her with my body pressing her down onto the desk. I drew her standing with her back to me, her body pressed against mine and my hand between her legs. I didn't take these drawings with me, and I knew she couldn't leave them behind in the room. She'd have to take them with her...