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Swing Time Ch. 01

By: l8bloom



All characters in this story are 18 years of age or older.

*

Eighteen-year-old Allison Katz closed her eyes and blew the last run of Artie Shaw's Etude No. 3. The hard tip of the clarinet curved warmly in her mouth. She sucked off a drop of saliva and pulled the instrument away from her lips. Ah! It was her senior year in high school. Only music had brought her moments of bliss.

The final bell had rung forty-five minutes ago. Mr. Olaffsen didn't mind if Allison stayed late in the music room to practice. He was pleased as hell that any student gave a damn. Besides, in this case extra practice was especially important: he and Allison were half of a quartet that would soon perform in a concert. Along with Allison's father, Jacob Olaffsen had been encouraging the girl's musical development for several years.

Now the young clarinetist carefully disjointed and cleaned her instrument. Allison never rushed this step; the stick had been her mother's. Allison's mother had died in a car accident over a decade ago. Memories of the woman were few, and fuzzy, but they were happy ones.

Her thoughts continued to wander as she applied a tiny amount of grease to the cork. Her mother probably wouldn't have approved of what she had done with the clarinet last night. But after quite a bit of pondering, the clarinet seemed like the best choice. The mouthpiece was hard, approximately the right shape (minus the ligature, of course), and carried no social consequences.

Was this what sex would be like? Allison probed the tip of the mouthpiece between her thighs. She would have been mortified to buy condoms, but of course she wanted to protect the instrument from moisture, so she used a small plastic bag. The sensations were interesting and faintly suggestive of pleasure. Undoubtedly a boy would be different. After a few minutes of gentle prodding, she made a fist and curled her bicep in the mirror. With her other hand she felt the muscle. Would a man's hard muscle feel about like this?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices drifting in through the open windows. The music room was on the second floor; whoever it was, was standing directly below.

The words made her hands go still and her eyes go wide.

"This meeting of the Cherry Poppers Club will officially come to order."

The voice belonged to Craig Stewart, football star and heart's desire of pretty much every female in school. Craig was possessed of sexy blue eyes and wavy hair the color of a tortoiseshell kitten's fur. His square-cut jaw was perpetually peppered with stubble and his broad shoulders were balanced by narrow hips. Once, Allison had seen him playing volleyball with his shirt off. Her cheeks had flamed a 70's retro hot pink. What a god!

But in the space of an instant, the heart throb illusion collapsed. Allison felt nauseous as the conversation continued:

"Jeff, how'd you do with Raven?" Craig was addressing Jeff Mullins, South Carolina farm boy and new kid in school.

"Gave it up on the thi'd date," drawled Mullins. "They always fall for Southe'n cha'm."

Poor Raven! True, the girl had always been an unbearable snob to Allison. Raven often bragged about her (alleged) Cherokee blood, and was one of the most popular girls in school, along with—

"Hillary Fairchild." Craig was apparently asking the next man to report in.

"I'm making her wait." Hank Jones, the third boy, exhaled cigarette smoke. The stink wafted up through the window. "Two weeks from now, I guarantee she'll be on her knees and begging for it."

Allison nearly wept. There was no love lost between her and Hillary, either, but it sickened her to hear these women degraded. Then Allison had a selfish moment: at least she, unpopular Allison Katz, was not the subject of this sordid conversation. She wasn't overly beautiful, and playing the clarinet did not exactly generate the buzz of athletic accomplishment. She was safe.

Hank continued: "What about you, Craig-o?"

"Hm, I'm in the mood for someone different. Someone who won't give it up too easy."

The boys swatted around names of their female classmates. Then Hank snapped his fingers. "I know. Allison Katz."

"The band kid?? Don't make me laugh."

"She's kind of cute, really," pondered Jeff.

"What's the matter? Think you can't take her?" Hank sneered at Craig.

Craig snorted. "She'd give it up for me in a heartbeat. No challenge there."

"Don't be so shu' about that. I'd peg huh as one of the good gi'ls." Jeff sounded thoughtful. Then he said: "Race ya."

"You're on." There was a slapping sound as the two clasped hands.

Allison's disgust turned to rage. How dare they! As if she were some, some thing available for purchase, — some whore with no will of her own! Her fingers shook as she put away her clarinet.

As she pulled on her jacket and reached for the light, she stopped. Would they notice the light flicking off, and realize someone might have overheard? Then her lips flinched back in an angry smile. Let them! She gave the switch a sharp smack.

"Hey. Did that light just go off?" Jeff pointed up toward the music room.

"Probably just old man Olaffsen. What's he gonna do?"

It was true that the music teacher's face was lined and his crew cut was iron grey. But his posture was ramrod straight; he never hunched or slouched, even when seated behind his drums. Despite the years, his demeanor still held a devildog snap. The boys would never dare to jeer to his face.

* * *

Allison jumped on her bike and sped toward the warm yellow lights of home. Her dad would be cooking, and after that, her friend David Hemingway was coming over and the three of them would practice for the fall concert. The normal events sounded rushingly good right now.

She clattered into the kitchen and was instantly greeted by the rich scent of beef stroganoff.

"Hiya, Punkin." Her dad looked up with his lopsided grin. He doused the bubbling sauce with red wine straight from the bottle. As he stirred, he added, "Go wash your hands. Dinner's about ready."

"Thanks, Dad." Allison put her backpack on the sofa and was headed toward the little half-bath when someone knocked on the front door. It was David.

"Sorry I'm early," he began, then saw the plates on the table. The scent of the food socked him in the nose. He shifted on his feet. 

"Oh. I can come back later."

"That's all right, Dave, come on in," called Stan Katz. "There's plenty for everybody." The high school senior's face relaxed into a smile. "Great."

David and Allison had known each other since grade school. She was ignorant of his crush. Allison's dad looked on with faint amusement, even as he felt sorry for the boy. A young girl like his daughter could break a young man's heart without even knowing what she was doing.

It was David who had suggested a concert of swing music to coincide with homecoming. Stan knew exactly why: numerous rehearsals would be necessary. Allison had recently become fascinated with the genre. David thus contrived to spend several hours with the young lady, without the risk of asking her out and possibly being turned down.

The only problem was that, to Allison, David was an ordinary feature in the landscape. They had suffered through music lessons in grade school, and as their skills improved, enjoyed orchestra in middle school and high school together.

Their advanced study had been due to luck and property taxes: program cuts had left the musical instruments programs intact. The choir had not been so lucky, despite Mr. Olaffsen's argument that "the voice is also an instrument!" He had not been successful in keeping all of the programs alive.

But David's world did not include administrative politics. Of greater concern was his failure to resemble Mr. Universe. His frame was wiry rather than jock-like, and his hands were more like those of a pianist, which he was, than a boxer, which he certainly was not.

And now time was running out. David figured he had to get next to Allison before they picked their respective colleges, or they'd go their separate ways and he'd never see her again. Music was the only weapon in his arsenal. He meant to use it to full advantage.

"You okay, Allie?"

"Sure, Dad." Her tone sounded forced. "Pass the green beans?"

David was just as near, so he handed over the dish. He, too, thought Allison had been acting a little weird. He could see she didn't want to talk about it, so he changed the subject: "Great dinner, Mr. K."

"Thanks." Stan beamed and David joked in return, "No, thank you."

"Oh, no; oh, no; thank you."

Allison made a goofy grin and thanked her dad. Pretty soon they were all thanking each other with the familial ease of a lame joke. Allison felt better. Somehow she knew right then that no one could hurt her.

Then she remembered someone who could be hurt: Hillary Fairchild. Quickly she finished her dinner and excused herself, saying she would be right back. She pounded up the stairs, two at a time, leaving Dave and Stan sharing a puzzled look.

As fast as she could, Allison fired up her computer and opened a new email account. Hillary, Hillary, where are you? She had to scroll through some old messages to find her classmate's address. There was no time for eloquence, so her warning was crude. Hell, it was probably none of her damn business. A better course of action would be to butt out. Regardless, Allison felt compelled to try.

Grabbing a hairclip, Allison rushed back down and made a bee line for the kitchen. David was almost done loading the dishwasher. "I see my timing is perfect!" she joked.

"As always. Hey, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Come on, let's get started."

* * *

Hillary slid into the booth across from her date. She stared at him, wondering how well she really knew him, and whether having sex with this guy was such a good idea.

"What's wrong?" asked Hank.

"Just have a question for you."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" He smiled and sipped at his ice water. The waitress appeared, notepad in hand.

Hillary looked at the woman coolly. "Could we have another minute, please."

The waitress dipped her chin once and left as silently as she came.

"So what's on your mind?"

Brightly Hillary asked, "How are things going with the Cherry Poppers Club?"

Hank choked on his drink, splattering cold water in awkward places. A line of red crept up his face. "I don't, I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do." In a cold fury the young woman dug a piece of paper out of her purse and flung it across the table at him. Hank's mouth dropped open as he read the email printout:

Hillary, Stay away from Hank Jones, he means you harm! He is a member of the Cherry Poppers Club along with Jeff Mullins and Craig Stewart. They already got Raven! Sincerely,

A friend.

"Where did you get this?!" Hank gawped at the paper. His glance fell upon the return address. "Who's Black1?"

"Why don't you just tell me the truth?" Hillary's anger was palpable. Her blonde ringlets were shivering.

"Look, look wait! It was, it was a gag, all right, it was a joke—"

"Then how come you said you didn't know anything about it? It doesn't matter, you're a liar," she spat. Eyes blazing, she picked up her purse and flounced out of the restaurant, pausing only long enough to grab the piece of paper off the table. 

Her date called after her, but she ignored him.

* * *

David stretched his fingers and shook out his hands. He'd been playing the piano for nearly ninety minutes. That was the nice thing about rehearsing with Allie and her dad — they actually practiced. Most of his peers devoted practice time to horsing around, which was frustrating for anyone who actually wanted to play.

"Nice pickin'." He grinned at Stan. 

The older man smiled in return and leaned the string bass into its stand. "Not so bad yourself."

"When do we meet next with Mr. Olaffsen?"

"I talked with him today, he can do either Thursday or Friday night," Stan answered. They'd meet at the high school, where Jake Olaffsen's drum kit was already set up. It was a pain in the ass to tear down, move it, and set up elsewhere.

Dave looked at Allison, who shrugged. "Makes no difference to me."

"How about Friday, then?" It would almost be like having a date with Allison on Friday night.

"Great!" Stan looked happy. It really knocked his socks off that his kid would enjoy jamming with him on a Friday night. So many parents never got the chance. He felt sorry for them.

"There's one more thing we need to settle, guys."

"Oh, yeah, what's that?" asked Allison.

Dave knew the answer. "What to call our band. I've been thinking about that," he said with a sly look. He twinkled a big flourish on the keys. "Swing Time!"

"Cool!" exclaimed Allie and Stan said, "I like it!"

They shared a look of universal yes. Heads nodded all around. "Swing Time."

* * *

"Get outta here!"

Craig Stewart jumped, then realized Allison Katz was singing, not yelling. He was hiding behind the costume rack in her dressing room.

"Get me some money, too..." Allison sang. This would be the trickiest number. She'd be alternating between singing and blowing her horn. But ever since she had seen that old Peggy Lee and Benny Goodman video on YouTube, she simply had to perform it. Benny's enthusiasm was infectious, even across time and through the crackly old black and white media.

Allison wished her voice was better than passable. She would have loved to find a torch singer like Peggy Lee, but hadn't had any luck. The lack of a school choir made it impossible to pinpoint local talent. So she braved the notes herself: "Why don't you do right ... like some other men do...?" And technically it should have been a big band production. But the spare quartet sounded fine in rehearsal, and besides, David would really have a chance to shine on this one.

Still humming, Allison peeled off her jeans and sweatshirt. She shimmied in front of the big dressing room mirror, unaware that a member of the Cherry Poppers Club was getting an eyeful.

Craig studied his target critically. Her breasts were small, but perky. He thought of how sweet her tits would taste. Oh, yeah, she was a bit on the skinny side, but if she could move like that, she'd be a nice ride. And he'd show her a good time as well. This was going to be fun. His cock remained at true north while he watched her prance around.

Then he almost made a sound. Allison was taking off her bra. Yes!! She was fondling herself in the mirror. The young woman turned sideways, eying her profile. It wasn't hard to tell what she was thinking. Plainly she was wondering if she was attractive, probably comparing herself to other girls. She held up her breasts and squashed them a little, trying out the look of a tight bustier.

With a sigh, she gave up and reached for another flimsy undergarment. This one was white, too. Craig watch with extra interest as his peer fiddled with the straps, twining them into some kind of X shape across her lower back. Women did the strangest things for the sake of fashion.

Whoooo, there went the ordinary cotton panties. After a flash of bare bottom, they were replaced by a lacy scrap that he yearned to touch, to tug at. Maybe he could even sweet-talk her tonight, on the pretext of congratulations. No doubt roses would sweep her off her feet. He'd miss part of the concert while he went out to buy them, but so what? Craig hadn't the faintest interest in Allison's passion ... only his own.

Allie wiggled into a strapless white fifties-style dress. She was limber enough to zip up the back by herself, though Craig had a fleeting urge to help her with it — almost as if he were her friend, or boyfriend, and they were going out somewhere together. He drew himself up short. They would never be friends. Oh, he might charm her, spend some coin to feed or amuse her, but he'd never lose sight of his sole objective. He was the hunter and she, the prey. Once he fucked her, their relationship would end. It was that simple, and he'd do well to keep things clear in his mind.

Now she was fussing with her makeup, and Craig found himself wishing he could leave. Suddenly there was something pathetic about this young lady trying so hard to look nice. He was starting to feel bad about invading her privacy, and that pissed him off. He told himself he'd be doing her a favor by making her big night even bigger. He was still trying to convince himself when she left for the stage.

* * *

Stan: And, every time it rains, it rains, pennies from heaven.

Jake and Dave: Shoo-be-doo-be!

Stan: Don't you know each cloud contains, pennies from heaven. 

Jake and Dave: Shoo-be-doo-be!

Stan: You'll find your fortune falling, all over town. Be sure that your umbrella is up-up-up-up-upside down.... Trade them for a package of sunshine and ravioli.

Jake and Dave: Macaroni!

Lacy and Frank Mullins looked at each other with delight. These guys were great! As one, they got up and danced. Other couples quickly followed their lead. The musicians were ecstatic; the teenage offspring of the moms and dads were horrified.

Jeff Mullins looked on, appalled and embarrassed, as his parents swung with abandon. He smacked his hand over his eyes. He would absolutely never live this down.

Stan: Now come over here, girl! Allie! And every time it rains, it rains!

Allison: Bop bop, bop-ba-bah!

Stan: And don't you know each cloud contains!

Allison: Bop bop, bop-ba-BAH!

Stan: Every time it rains, it rains!

Allison: Bop bop, bop-ba-bah!

Stan: And don't you know each cloud contains— 

Allison: Bop-ah-dop-ah, bop-ah-dah!

Jeff sank low in his chair, trying to disappear. He scowled at the performers, even as he noticed again how pretty Allison looked. The black clarinet stood out against her white dress.

Suddenly he leaned forward in his chair, staring hard at the instrument. Black1. The black stick resembled a number one. His mouth fell open slightly as another memory clicked into place. A memory of a light turning off in a music room, as he and his cronies discussed ... their private business ... 

Jeff leapt from his chair and scuttled from the room that was now in full swing with dancers and happy music. He had to find Craig and Hank.

* * *

Craig knocked on Allison's dressing room door. She answered quickly, breathlessly, but her eager face fell as she saw who it was. "Oh."

The young man bulled ahead. He showed her the dozen red roses he'd been hiding behind his back. "Congratulations on a fabulous performance!" He settled the flowers into her arms.

Automatically she received them. Her caller took the opportunity to nudge his way into the room and close the door behind him. He would have locked it, but the high school was not crazy enough to install locks on student dressing room doors.

"Thanks!" Allison's voice piped out like the clumsy efforts of a first-grade clarinet player. She looked around, still feeling off-balance by the unexpected visit. "I, uh, don't seem to have a vase. I'll just go find one," and she made for the door.

Craig blocked her path. He put his arms around her and did the look-deep-in-my-eyes thing. "Why fight it, Allie? I've seen how you look at me. Let's make your big night even more special."

"No!" Allison came to her senses. She placed a firm hand against the football player's chest, trying to push him away. It was like pushing against a wall.

Her would-be lover pushed his lips against hers. The result of his caress was not swooning, but panic.

"Ow!" Craig pulled away and felt at his mouth. "You bit me!" Blood decorated his fingertips. "You bitch! I tried to play nice with you!"

Everything happened at once. Allison shrieked. Craig put his hand over her mouth and began to demonstrate wrestling maneuvers that were far beyond her ken. David heard the noise and burst in without knocking. Jeff and Hank, who had been hiding behind the costume rack, jumped out and all hell broke loose.


Swing Time Ch. 01



Jeff pinned Allison's hands behind her back. Hank threw a punch at David, who gladly returned the favor.

"NO! David! Your hands!!"

It was too late. David lay curled on his side, cradling his right hand and emitting little noises of pain.

Craig pushed up Allison's skirt and told her to shut up. When she didn't, he slapped her.

This made her holler even louder. Craig turned over his shoulder: "Hank, get over here and shut this girl up—"

He never finished his sentence. Stan Katz and Jacob Olaffsen appeared in the doorway, and they both looked pissed as hell. Hank lowered his head like a ram and ran toward them. Jake even had time to roll his eyes before he flipped the boy neatly, causing the hapless attacker to land on his back with a solid thud.

"Nice pickin'," Stan approved.

The older man shrugged. "Semper fi."

Jeff and Craig dropped Allison like the proverbial hot rock. More adults crowded into the room. The Cherry Poppers Club was finished.

Several hours later, Jake bid Stan, Allison and David good night. He left the Katz home in fairly good spirits. The concert had been a rousing success, and his two protégées had not been seriously harmed. He knew Allison well enough to believe she would bounce back, as children raised with love were wont to do; and the ER doctor had confirmed that David's hand was no more than bruised. It would heal fairly quickly.

Stan added his good night wishes. "I've had enough excitement for one night," he told the young people. In automatic dad-mode he added, "Lights out at midnight, Allie." Then he realized it was already well past that hour. "Aw, hell, stay up as long as you want. Just keep it quiet, please."

Father and daughter hugged one another. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too, Punkin." He dropped a kiss to her crown and traced a finger down her nose. "Be good."

She smiled. "I will." Her dad trudged up the stairs.

David and Allison sat alone on the sofa. He shifted uncomfortably.

"You want a fresh ice pack?"

"No, uh..." David's throat dried up. Allie looked at him, waiting for his words.

"I guess I wasn't much of a hero for you tonight."

Allison was incredulous. "Yes, you were. Who are you kidding? You took a punch for me, didn't you?"

"That I did." David nodded. Then he looked her full in the face. "There's something else I've been wanting to tell you, Allie..."

"What." Their eyes met, each barely able to breathe.

Her friend held out his good hand. Wordlessly she put her hand in his and followed as he led the way to the piano bench.

"I've always been better with music than I am with words," he said. As he spoke, he opened a book of sheet music and began leafing through it, hunting for the right page. "I can't play for you now, but — this is the best I can do. I know you'll know."

Using just his index finger, he started at the top left of the page. Note by note, he tapped out the romantic rhythm. It was a tender swing jazz tune; the music spoke how she made him feel.

A lump formed in Allison's throat. Her voice was hoarse and squeaky as she trembled out the lyrics: "L -- is for the way you look at me ... O -- is for the only one I see..." David put his arm around her and kept following the notes. His own eyes were wet. But he managed to get out the words: "Two in love can make it, take my heart and please don't break it. Love was made for me and you."

* * *

Three blocks away, Hillary Fairchild drifted toward sleep. Her blonde ringlets rose and fell with her slowing breathing. She had one last thought as her conscious mind slipped into darkness:

"I'll get my chance."

* * *

Pennies from Heaven by Arthur Johnston and Johnny Burke. Quoted here as recorded by Louis Prima.

L-O-V-E by Milt Gabler and Bert Kaempfert.

Thanks to rgraham666 for editing this chapter. Please vote! Thanks. ~~~L8.



Swing Time Ch. 02



All characters in this story are age 18 or older.

*

Craig Stewart was having a bad day. It was January second, the first day of spring semester of his senior year in high school. Everybody else had enjoyed vacation for two weeks. Craig, along with Hank Jones and Jeff Mullins, had been out for ten.

The three of them had been expelled for fighting and attempted sexual assault of a classmate. They had not been permitted to contact one another during their time of probation. Craig was not eager to talk with them now, either. All morning long it had been the same. Conversations in low tones would stop when he came into a classroom. His peers gave him a wide berth.

Now it was lunch time, the most dreaded time of day for outcast students across the nation. Craig swept the room uncertainly. The stares brought a flush to his cheeks, and the sense of his own hot face made him angry. As quickly as he could, he moved toward the emptiest looking table.

Hank and Jeff entered the cafeteria just as Craig sat down. Their attitudes were cocky. They laughed and talked a bit too loudly and looked around as if daring anyone to speak to them. Everyone could smell the negative emotions emanating from the pair: anger, bitterness, embarrassment.

They gravitated toward Craig, who started wolfing down his sandwich as fast as he could.

Hank started bitching right away. "Fuckers. I threw one punch and they act like I'm a fuckin' leper."

Craig eyed his compatriot coolly, thinking of his own fall from grace: getting kicked off the football team, which meant losing every chance he had for an athletic scholarship to college. He tore another huge bite out of his sandwich and didn't reply.

Jeff grumbled, "I didn't even hit anybody. All I tried to do was shut that bitch's mouth."

That was a particular sore spot for Craig. In an instant he remembered the feel of Allison's floaty white skirt in his hands. How pretty she was, even when her eyes were full of terror. Craig was repulsed by what he had done. He and Jeff had been in a race to see who would bed her first. As he looked back on his actions, all he could think was stupid, stupid, stupid.

"I'll see you guys later." Craig nearly ran toward the door, stopping long enough to drop his tray on the conveyor belt. As he whirled toward the exit, of all people, he bumped directly into Allison Katz. This time his face burned red as a Bud sign.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped, and bolted down the hall.

The rest of the afternoon went pretty much the same way. Craig had one study hall with Allison, in the library. He didn't dare approach her, and she ignored him thoroughly. He couldn't blame her for the ice.

He wondered whether, he fervently hoped, one day soon there might be a thaw.

The last bell couldn't ring soon enough. At the same time, Craig fussed in his locker, wondering exactly how to go about it. Maybe it was too soon. He eyed the black oblong shape that took up most of the skinny rectangular space and chewed at his lower lip.

Finally he decided against it and slung on his backpack. He wandered the halls as if he had somewhere to go, thanking the little star of fortune that helped him avoid his two former friends. For fifteen minutes he drifted, settling for a time in the library, where he pretended to read the day's paper and in truth stared a hole in the clock.

They had to be started by now. Of course, it was just a guess, but it was an educated one. Craig dreaded his destination, and hungered for it at the same time.

He slunk down the now-empty halls and found he was right. Piano and clarinet splayed their notes down the hall like marbles flung from a child's hand. Craig shut his eyes and stepped closer. He was right outside the door of the music room now.

The music broke off in a spurt of laughter. Bitterness welled in the outcast's throat. The desire for acceptance carved a great hollow shell in his gut. The laughter got in there and bounced inside him, cartwheeling gleefully, yet failing to invite him into the dance.

The young man took a deep breath and risked a look through the tiny window. He knew if they saw him they wouldn't be happy about it. He couldn't stand there and stare, either, because sooner or later one of them would look up, and then he'd be toast. This one glance would have to conclude his eavesdropping.

He peered in just as Allison bent to plant a kiss on David Hemingway's upturned face. The look of love on David's face was so obvious, it hurt. Jealousy tasered through Craig at 50,000 volts. He could not escape the feeling that, had he not been such an ass, had he treated this girl like a human being, she might at this moment be kissing him.

* * *

Next morning before the first bell, music teacher Jacob Olaffsen was penciling an arrangement of "My Funny Valentine" when a hesitant knock sounded on his door. Without looking up, he sounded his usual command: "Come!"

The drill-sergeant bark intimidated the former football star, but he straightened his back and pretended it didn't. The young man glanced around the room; he'd never been in here. Shelves full of thin-spined books took up most of the wall space. A fax/copy machine squatted on a credenza adjacent to an old wooden desk. A plaque on the wall read, "Here And Now." There were several old pictures of men in uniform, and Olaffsen surrounded by alumni, but Craig didn't have time to inspect these too closely.

"Mr. Olaffsen, good morning."

Olaffsen's face showed only a mild hint of the surprise that he was feeling. It was he, along with Allison's father, who had stopped Craig from sexually assaulting the young clarinetist right after the fall concert. Jacob could not imagine what Craig wanted, but the familiar shape on the young man's back gave him an idea.

"Have a seat, Mr. Stewart. What can I do for you?"

Craig worked to meet the older man's eyes. He swallowed. "I'd like permission to try out, sir."

Olaffsen tipped his chin back slightly. He would make the boy work for it. "Proceed."

The senior drew in a sharp breath. He pulled the guitar case off of his back and laid it in his lap, unsure if Olaffsen would consent to hearing him play.

"As you know, I was expelled after the — after what I did last semester. I'd like a chance to make amends and I, I've been studying hard for ten weeks now."

Olaffsen nodded, knowing the kid needed some affirmation to go on. "Continue," he granted.

Encouraged, Craig unzipped the case. "I know I'm not as good as your other students, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd hear me play."

Olaffsen looked at his watch. "I can give you twelve minutes, Mr. Stewart. You may begin when ready."

Craig smiled broadly and Jake could see why the girls used to fall for the young man. Somber, he was a handsome sonofabitch, but when he looked happy, his smile was dazzling. The Stewart family wealth probably didn't hurt, either.

Craig was off-book on only two pieces, and he played both of them: "Walk, Don't Run," and an advanced piece from a lesson book. Olaffsen tapped a pencil in his teeth as he studied the young man's hands from a professional standpoint. The kid was not bad. But no high school student deserved a Les Paul like that. Parents!

Craig concentrated for all he was worth. A hundred hours of practice paid off. His fingers stumbled once, but he righted himself quickly. When he was done, he looked up. The longing was plain on his face.

The weight of the moment was not lost on Olaffsen. "Uh-huh..." The teacher considered, then asked: "Who taught you?"

Craig named a local guitarist, one of the few musicians of Olaffsen's acquaintance who made a living playing gigs full-time. Olaffsen nodded and stood.

"So?"

"So tell me exactly what you want to audition for. Do you want to play in the jazz band?"

"I'd like to play in the spring swing concert."

As the teacher shook his head, Craig added, "Please! Even if it's just one number. I just want a chance."

Jake sighed. "You'll have to ask Allison and David, you know, not to mention her father."

"Do you think you could talk to them for me first?"

The teacher leaned back and decided to give the kid a break. "Okay, I'll intervene once. After that," he jabbed an index finger, "it's on you."

He picked a book from his shelf and photocopied a few pages. "Learn this, and see me at this time next week."

Craig grabbed Jake's hand and shook it. "Thank you, thank you for this chance," he gabbled. Olaffsen permitted a smile at last. "Don't get your hopes up too high, Mr. Stewart. It's not a done deal."

After the hopeful one left, Olaffsen made a copy of his own. Then he pulled out a clean sheet of lined paper, and started writing out symbols. Just the root positions, he thought. That would make it easy.

* * *

At the same time, David yelled, "No way!" and Allison shrieked, "What?!" Only Stan Katz, Allison's father, remained silent. He looked to Jake to see if there was any more information.

When the outburst died down, the music teacher continued. "Obviously a lot of conversations need to take place, but I hope you won't dismiss this notion out of hand. Consider that the school as a community would find some healing. Consider the musical benefit to our group — we sound great but our sound could be much fuller. And finally —" he looked into the teenagers' faces to underscore his next words "— consider how you have felt, when you made a dumb mistake and you wished you had a second chance." Olaffsen thought to himself that his last point might be somewhat tenuous. It had been decades since he'd experienced high school as a student. In his observation, today's young people weren't typically seasoned enough to develop a strong sense of empathy.

He stood up to go. "Please think about it."

As he left, he thought to himself, Why am I making such a pitch for this kid? The clear cold night offered no answer. But the response was in his soul, solid and steadfast, as it had been for many years. He'd become a teacher in hopes of helping kids blossom into their fullest possible selves. And though he hadn't said so, he thought it rather brave of young Mr. Stewart to try to make amends. The boy's family money, and resultant political connections, could have smoothed an easier path. It would be interesting to witness his students' choices.

The desire to make amends, he thought. To be given a second chance. He walked on alone.

After the teacher left, Stan told his daughter and her boyfriend, "I expect you two have some talking you want to do. I'll be upstairs if you need me." He disappeared up the steps. He had his own thinking to work through.

David was flatly against the idea of Craig Stewart joining their band, and said so, but Allison wavered.

"How can you even consider the idea! Allison, he was going to rape you."

"I know, I hear what you're saying. It's just—"

"What?" David was angry. "Don't tell me you have some kind of sick crush on this guy."

"No!" Her own temper was starting to heat up. "Listen, it's what Mr. Olaffsen said. Haven't you ever done something really stupid, and wished you could push the Undo button?"

"I guess so," the pianist grumbled. "I'm still against it."

"I feel like there's some other reason, something you're not telling me."

"Okay. Okay. Allie, I—" He stopped. The piano could not help him now. A few months ago, when he had longed so badly to tell her of his deepest feelings, music had enabled him to do so. But he could not think of a song that went, "I saw the way you used to look at that guy and I'm terrified you'll do it again, even though you said you love me."

David lifted a hand in a gesture of helplessness. "I just don't want to lose you."

Allison's brow furrowed. Then she relaxed into a smile and hugged him. "Love of mine, you can't lose me. I'm right here."

He turned his face to find hers; their kiss deepened. They had first made love at Thanksgiving, staying indoors while everyone else went for a walk to shake off Turkey Coma. The memory was fresh in David's mind...

* * *

After twenty minutes of increasingly passionate kissing, she pulled back and gently framed his face with her fingers. He saw desire in her eyes, and a question: "Do you want to?"

"God, yes. I love you, Allie, I want you."

"Okay," her voice just above a whisper, "let's go to my room."

She took him by the hand and led him upstairs. David's heart was beating so hard he thought it would fly out of his chest. He followed her swaying bottom up the steps.

They settled on the twin bed with low voices and the occasional giggle.

"Have you done this before?"

"No. Have you?"

She shook her head. "Uh-uh."

"And you're sure?"

Her voice dropped. "Yes. I want you to be my lover." The word felt strange on her tongue, but somehow right.

They kissed some more and were soon horizontal on the fluffy goose down. David slid his hand up her thigh. One negative image popped into his mind: Craig Stewart, pushing Allison's white formal dress up her legs while she yelled at him to stop, Jeff Mullins pinning the girl's arms behind her back...

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm here now." He gestured with his head. "Roll sideways a little." 

This enabled him to get at the zipper of her velvet party dress. He pulled at it, marveling at her consent. She lifted her arms, and he raised the hem of the full skirt, helping her toward nudity; and he fell speechless.

Underneath, the burgundy lace of her bra and boy-short panties perfectly matched the shade of her dress. He murmured his awe at the beauty of her creamy skin and did his best to touch her everywhere at once.

"That tickles. And you're wearing too many clothes." She giggled and tugged at his shirt.

David needed no further encouragement. In less than sixty seconds he stripped to his underwear.

"Can I touch you?"

"Sure, yeah." He laughed a little. "Go ahead."

Allison's touch was shy at first. She looked in her boyfriend's eyes for guidance. "Like this?" She practiced the downward strokes she'd seen online. Then, boldly, she slipped her hand inside his pants. He felt hot and alive, firm, and yet the skin was so soft. She made the OK gesture with her thumb and forefinger, moving the circle up and down. The monster springing between his thighs was fascinating, a little frightening, yet hypnotically alluring.

"Yessss..." David threw back his head, moaning with pleasure. Then he grabbed her hand. "Stop."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, no," he laughed. "I just don't want to come too soon." He blushed. "Let me touch you for a while."

In answer she guided his hands to her breasts. He peeled aside the lace cups and her nipples peeked back at him. They were lovely, a muted coral pink, exactly the same as the skin of her lips. He fell to kissing the twins, first one and then the other. 

Allison writhed and grabbed the back of his head. "Harder," she moaned. "Oh god yes. Don't stop. Don't stop." The new sensation sparkled through her body like magic.

David grunted. Instinct was thundering to the fore. He kept his mouth on her breast and put one hand between her legs. She was wet, and getting wetter. Impatiently he pushed aside the satin crotch and slid his middle finger into juicy virgin territory.

Allison gave a soft scream of pleasure. This was nothing like the mouthpiece of her clarinet. True, her lover's finger was not big, but she had not counted on the sheer eroticism of the intimate touch. David moved inside her in different ways, feeling around, and Allison squirmed and begged breathlessly for more.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes-yes-yes! Oh god, yes." Then a thought occurred to her: "Do you have any protection?"

He nodded solemnly, hunting around for his wallet, and produced a condom. "Do you want to put it on me?"

"Okay... show me how."

It was easier than she expected. David got the thing started, and together they rolled it down. Their hands together on his cock nearly got the best of him. Then they figured she might bleed, so she grabbed an old band t-shirt and spread it under her hips.

The moment was upon them. Allison lay back on the bed, somewhat carefully, keeping her eyes on his. David settled himself between her open legs and rested on one forearm. He took his cock in hand and guided it to her naked curvature, feeling, feeling...

"Here." She wiggled, planting herself more squarely beneath him, and reached down to help steer him home. As the head of his cock sank in, she gasped and bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, does it hurt?" He looked concerned.

"Yes, but ... it feels so good, too ... don't stop. I don't want you to stop." Somehow the pain heightened the pleasure. The intense combination burned through her senses, a fuse hissing toward a stick of dynamite.

"I won't stop." Even through the latex, she felt so damn good. Her body enveloped his tightly in an all-around hot embrace.

Together they watched his cock glide inside her. Allison felt her heart rate pick up. Despite the pain, or perhaps in part because of it, some coiling knot of pleasure in her was threatening to spring. Her nipples were swollen and hot, the tiny peaks straining upward in full erection. She flexed her back and lifted her pelvis — a whimper fell from her mouth — and then it happened. David tore through, and they were virgins no more.

Pleasure and pain lanced through her body. She writhed hard, her entire being a fireball of agony and ecstasy. David galloped toward his own release. She looked into his eyes with a lust she had never experienced, laced with a bit of shock. He pounded into her at a frantic pace, until joy overtook him as well.

* * *

Now as he sat on the sofa where they had first started making out, David wanted more than ever to make love to Allison. He wanted to affirm their love, to somehow make sure that he was the one she would always want, not some good-looking bastard like Craig Stewart. David hated Craig, hated him for even thinking about laying hands on his girlfriend. The notion of that asshole playing in their band pissed him off no end. Swing Time had been his idea, and that idea had revolved solely around his effort to win Allie. Another man crashing the party, especially that goddamned sonofabitch who would have fucked her given thirty more seconds, galled him fiercely.

Yett here she was, talking about doing the right thing, and furthermore pushing him away when he slipped his hands under her sweatshirt. The feel of her smooth skin was a blessing to him. He could use a blessing right about now.

"Not now. My dad is right upstairs!" she hissed.

Dejected, David sat back. "And you want to do this thing, you want to let jerkwad play with us."

Her frown matched his. "I just feel like it's the right thing to do. I think he acted stupidly in the heat of the moment."

He stood to go home. "Okay, Allie, but please. Please don't be alone with him."

"I won't," she shook her head gently. "You have nothing to worry about."

* * *

Upstairs, Stan Katz was looking at an old photo album and trying not to cry. If only Emma were here, she'd know what to do, what to say.

What should he tell his daughter? How could he best protect her? The first emotion that speared his chest was anger. He seriously considered telling Allie to shut this Stewart kid down. The bastard had nearly raped her for Christ's sake!

On the other hand, he felt the true test of his faith. The boy was trying to atone. And you never, ever, cut someone off when they were seriously trying to make amends. What kind of example would that set?

That didn't mean you had to buddy up with them, though... Stan closed his eyes and sighed. Emma, Emma. Tell me how to be a good father to our girl!

He heard the front door close and figured David had just left. It was time for a father-daughter talk, and Stan hoped he didn't screw it up.




Swing Time Ch. 02



Allie looked up as her father descended the stairs. Her face was surprisingly peaceful.

Thanks to rgraham666 for editing this chapter.



Swing Time Ch. 03



All characters in this story are age 18 or older.

*

The knock on Olaffsen's door was soft, almost timid. His invitation was the same: "Come!"

Hillary Fairchild slinked in, doing her best to make a catwalk out of her two steps in the door.

Olaffsen did not crumble before her feminine wiles. "What can I do for you, Miss Fairchild?"

Hillary got right to the point: "I'd like to audition."

"I must be dreaming," muttered the teacher.

"What?"

"Nothing. Sit down. For what would you like to audition?"

The beauty queen took a deep breath. "The spring swing concert."

Olaffsen peered at the backpack slouched at the girl's feet. It didn't look like a guitar case, but that was okay. He already knew he was dreaming. It was undoubtedly one of those dreams that takes a cryogenic flash of memory and mixes in a heavy dose of fantasy. Voilà! The music teacher dreams that every day, a student will appear at his door, wanting to make music.

"Uh-huh," he nodded politely. "What role do you expect to fill?"

"I can sing better than Allison Katz. In eighth grade I was really good."

"I did not hear you in eighth grade." The words were evenly spaced, almost cold. It was Olaffsen's habit to make his students prove their desires, even as he had his Marines. His unshakable viewpoint was that nothing worth having came easy.

For the first time, Hillary faltered. Her beauty had opened so many doors for her; she was a tad bit overconfident. But she plunged ahead.

"Will you hear me now?"

Inside, Olaffsen danced a jig. Wait until the school board heard about this! He kept his composure, however, and gave the young lady her due. She pulled a CD player from her pack and asked his permission to shut the door.

This he declined. "I'm sorry, Miss Fairchild. If you can sing in front of me, you must be prepared to sing in front of an auditorium full of people."

He didn't add that the last thing he could professionally afford was to fall into a potential trap set by a little blonde tart. But as he spoke, he kicked a block to the doorjamb and pushed the door against it. The world would get a four-inch tweeter.

"Satisfied?"

Hillary nodded. Suddenly she looked as if her stomach was dropping. But she responded when he told her to proceed, pressing the button and making her way through "Georgia On My Mind."

That was when Olaffsen closed his eyes. The girl's alto was unschooled, but strong. Hillary saw the effect she had on him and pressed her advantage. Her voice rose to a climax and trailed to a tender whisper. A muscle moved in Jake's cheek. He'd be a liar if he said her wail didn't inspire him to other thoughts.

He called on his old friend, discipline, to try to push away the fantastic image of holding this student on his lap. His pants would be unzipped, just enough to impale her as she straddled him on his office chair. She would tilt back, her low voice rising in crescendo as he teased the sweet young nipples with little flicks of his hand. She would squirm, begging for something she didn't fully know about yet... he would teach her ... 

"Well? How was I?" Hillary's voice interrupted Jake's thoughts.

Olaffsen cleared his throat. "Very good. However..." He shook his head, trying desperately to clear his thoughts.

"But what? Do I get to sing, or don't I?"

Hilary's immature whine was the cold bucket of water he needed.

"Miss Fairchild, I'm very sorry I'm out of time. But I promise I'll be in touch." He stood in a gesture of dismissal, thankful again he hadn't shut the door. He clamped down on the impulse to shake her hand.

Hillary swallowed and looked upset. She was not used to being denied, or even told to wait. Her pouting lower lip haunted him for the rest of the day, and far into the night.

* * *

The first meeting of the little group, now swollen to a sextet, was understandably tense. Hillary had been revolted to discover Craig's participation, and David wasn't trying very hard to disguise his loathing of the latter, either.

Allison was amazed and delighted to have Hillary on board. The lack of competition took some of the wind out of Hillary's sails.

"You mean you don't mind?"

"No! I'm so glad to find you."

The two women chatted amiably by the upright. Allie explained that she would have loved to find a torch singer on "Do Right" in the fall. Hillary had a moment of genuine wonder that someone might have been after her for more than her boobs.

In a way, her competitive nature was disappointed. After the concert, Hillary had seethed for the spotlight. "I'll get my chance," she promised herself. Now, discovering that the queen didn't want the throne, Hill was a bit disconcerted.

David twisted to focus on the erstwhile rivals. He found himself thinking, maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all: making music, flanked by two beautiful females. Automatically his fingers started weaving his thoughts. A higher melody for Hillary, with her bright blonde hair ... a darker counterpoint for Allison ... the notes pulsed out of him. The more he developed the lines, the more they made sense. It pleased him. He improvised, drifting his fingertips in between their voices.

Craig watched the three of them with envy. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt inadequate. He could see the way the women were charmed by this, this geek. They were smiling at the young piano player as he conjured pretty sounds. Goddamn his scrawny ass. Craig's visions of being a rock star evaporated. David had talent born of years of practice; there was no way to compete with that. He could almost hear his father reciting, "You can't cheat the farm."

Stan saw the unhappiness in the would-be guitarist's face.

"Hey, you want to go over this?"

Craig's attention snapped to Allison's dad. "Uh, sure," he agreed quietly. Had they been alone, he might have said: "You mean you don't hate me?" But he decided to stay the course of his intentions, and show by his actions that he meant well. Studiously he turned his attention to the tablature.

Stan walked him through it. Craig worried aloud about doubling Stan and making a mistake. The bassist gave his trademark crooked grin. "Don't worry, I can work around you."

The kindness reassured and emboldened the former athlete. He looked into the eyes of the man whose daughter he had badly frightened, and breathed out, "Thank you."

Stan simply nodded. The forgiven one nodded back. A tiny breath choked the wrong way in the young man's throat. He didn't cry, but he knew that he would practice now harder than ever.

Jake hit a cymbal to get the group's attention.

"Okay, people, let's get started."

Allison looked guilty and hastily stuck a reed in her mouth. Craig saw her suck on the wood and could not help thinking about what it would feel like to have her suck on his. He was glad the guitar was shielding him below the waist.

Unbeknownst to Craig, the music teacher was having similar problems, albeit not due to the same woman. Jake Olaffsen hitched himself closer behind the kickdrum and started issuing orders.

"We're in C minor." This was for the benefit of the newcomers. He pointed to them in turn as he continued directing: "Hillary, look over David's shoulder. Craig, follow Stan. Okay, Dave, cut time, from the edge."

This arrangement succeeded in getting the beauty queen to stop staring at him and pay attention to the business at hand. It also gave the new guitarist guidance on his first excursion with the group. In thoughts deeper than words, Jake knew again that younger people needed direction, more than they would ever admit. He'd been an outstanding DI, and those same skills served him well in teaching and directing.

David moved his fingers at the slow pace Jake established. It was a ballad to begin with, so there was ample opportunity for the beginners to keep up. Things started out a bit rocky, but improved under Jake's practiced hand. He made them repeat the problematic measures. He coached them aloud, one by one and two by two.

By the end of the evening, they were beginning to gel as a group. Olaffsen was tired, but satisfied. He thought of a horse he'd once ridden. The skittish animal hadn't been easy to manage. But he'd broken her, gently but firmly, consistently repeating commands until the mare was an obedient and graceful mount. Once trust was established, as well as who was in control, they'd gotten along beautifully.

Bang on the dot at eight o'clock, he called the rehearsal to a halt and told them they'd done a good job.

"I could use a ride home," said Hillary. She looked at the music teacher, her sly smile about as subtle as a hand grenade, and Jake immediately looked at Stan.

"Got room for one more? You're taking David home, right?"

"Sure!" Stan's voice was hearty and welcoming. Inwardly he rolled his eyes. What a tramp.

"Sorry, I have another promise to keep," Jake told Hillary.

Craig somberly packed up his axe. He could have given her a ride, but somehow he doubted she'd accept, especially since it would be just the two of them in his car. He sighed. It was a painful lesson to learn that not all screwups magically went away. Time could not race forward. Neither could he turn back the clock.

Alone at last in his bachelor pad, Jacob permitted himself to think of the blonde high school senior who was either developing a crush on him, or simply playing with fire to see what would happen. He reminded himself of who he was: a teacher who honestly cared about the welfare of his students.

At the same time, her faint perfume curled its cachet in his brain. He wondered if she shaved her pubic hair and rather hoped not. How sweet it would be to bury his face in that golden down, the pale skin of her adolescent thighs rubbing against his weathered cheek.

Fifty-five. She probably thinks I'm an old man. He set aside the internal voice that warned of folly, even disaster, and let his mind wander down the path. Was she a virgin? He could feel her firm, round ass in his palms as he teased her. In fantasy he lipped at the edges of her golden triangle, pulling lightly at the curling hairs.

"Don't tease me!"

He didn't answer her cry. He merely demonstrated that he would satisfy her when he was good and ready. The feminine odor grew stronger as he breathed a warm current of air over her mons. Her labia swelled as he watched, the fat pink folds beginning to shine. Ever so lightly he ran a finger up one outer lip.

He glanced up at his pupil. A sheen of sweat coated her velvety skin. Her breasts bounced as she writhed, breathlessly panting out want and need. Soon he would take her beautiful young tits in his mouth, but first ... 

One hard finger pressed halfway into her saturated folds. The sharp involuntary flex of her back brought her shoulders up. The spasm of quivering female muscle around his digit, the accompanying gush, left no doubt in his mind that she'd jumped the first hurdle.

"That was good, Hillary. Very good," he praised her.

"Fuck me, please fuck me ... "

"Not yet, little one. You still have much to learn." And he spread her pink petals and went to work with his tongue...

He fell asleep dreaming of forbidden fruit.

* * *

Allison was pleased that she got to the music room first. She didn't want to be caught flat like last time. Hurriedly she stuck a reed in her mouth and assembled her stick. By the time the others arrived, she'd be warmed up and ready to go.

Five minutes later, the prickle at the back of her neck told her she was being watched. She looked up to see Craig Stewart through the tiny window of the classroom door.

The doorknob turned in slow motion. Nausea threatened; her hands grew slippery. Craig walked into the room. They were alone.

He lifted his palms and stayed far away from her. "I just came to practice. I didn't think anyone would be here yet."

Warily she nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."

"Allison, I'm really sorry," he blurted. "I was an ass, I wouldn't blame you if you hated me forever, I can't believe how I acted, I'm really sorry."

His humility was clearly authentic. Allison burst into tears. Craig panicked and turned toward the door.

"You don't have to go! I was just scared, that's all."

He hesitated. The last thing he needed was for someone, anyone, to walk in and find the two of them alone with her crying. He stood still with one hand on the doorknob, ready to make a break for it.

Allie's weeping was short-lived. She put down the clarinet and used both hands to wipe her face.

"Are you sure?" he asked. For he was sure of nothing, least of all his welcome in this room.

"Yes. Yes." She pushed the backs of her fingers across her face and sniffled. Craig wanted to hug her but he did not dare. He looked around the room for help and found it in the form of a box of tissues. Cautiously he held out the box and got his reward: however weakly, however watery, Allison smiled at him.

"Thank you." She accepted the white flag and blew her nose on it.

"You're welcome." Hang onto this, Craig, don't screw it up. He kept a safe distance, and after she trumpeted again, repeated himself. "I'm sorry for what I did."

"I know. I know you are. Thank you," and two more tears slid down her face. She pushed them away and whispered, "I forgive you."

Craig bowed his head. It suddenly seemed too heavy to carry. He thought he might cry himself.

Allison picked up her clarinet and took the next step toward healing: "How about that practice?"

"Yeah." His smile was tangible as he opened his guitar case and unrolled the strap. "You lead."

By the time Jake Olaffsen stepped in, the two were side by side with their eyes on the music. He thought the girl's eyes were the least bit red; but clearly there was peace between them. A prayer of thanks infused his mind. Thank god; the worst was over.

Soon thereafter, however, it became clear that their little society was far from working out its difficulties. Allison again arrived early for practice, and this time, Craig was hoping to get a little further.

It started out innocently. The pair was still on shaky ground, and consciously at least, looking to build on their common venture of musical study. Craig ducked his neck under the strap and adjusted his instrument in front of his body.

Allison stood nearby. Their music stands were side by side. She wrapped her hands around the pole and made ready to put the tip in her mouth.

"Let's take it from bar fourteen, here." She pointed at the page.

"Uh, bar...?"

"Measure." She smiled gently at him, remembering he was new to the language.

"Gotcha." Craig stepped back half a pace, angling his hips a few degrees toward her. Allison counted off and they began to play.

He watched her fingers moving up and down the dark hardwood and his concentration trembled a little. Then his eyes traveled up to her mouth. Her lips were firm around the shaft as she blew. The comparison was unavoidable.

Allison was nearly as guilty; her eyes were riveted to Craig's left hand. It crossed her mind that the way he handled the neck of his guitar might resemble the way he took care of his needs on a lonely night. He changed chords. The strumming mixed with her own aural vibrations. The tremor was faint on her Richter, and rising.

Her face went from giggly to serious in a few swift seconds as she considered more fully what was in her mouth. She looked at his left hand where it gripped the wood; then she looked in his eyes. The only dick she'd ever had in her mouth was David's. What would Craig's be like? Hardly believing what she was doing, she pushed the clarinet in a bit further, then pulled it out. She kept her eyes on his.

Craig was hard. Never in his young life had a woman teased him so directly and graphically. His right hand crashed at the strings.

Just as the discordant noise tumbled haplessly into the room, the door swung open. For the second time within a four-month span, David walked in on Craig and Allison. This time, however, it was clear that she wasn't putting up a fight. He exploded immediately. 

"You slut!" —he turned to Craig— "You bastard!" Livid, he charged the other man. His punch nearly connected when an incredibly powerful hand gripped David's forearm and twisted it up behind the boy's shoulder blades.

David stumbled and winced. Only the old leatherneck's grip kept him from falling on his face. Jake drew him up steady, then let him go. The whole thing took less than three seconds.

"There -- is -- no -- fighting -- in -- this -- room." Jake Olaffsen's voice nearly caused all three kids to wet their pants. He took in their shocked expressions.

"What's going on here?"

Allie and Craig babbled that they were just practicing. At the same time, David talked over them. "I saw you! ... I saw them!!" He looked to the music teacher for support, who didn't give any.

"One at a time." Again the older man's voice cut the crap like a South American machete. He stabbed a finger at Allison.

"We were just practicing," she insisted.

Olaffsen's gaze swung to Craig. "I didn't lay a hand on her!" His voice squeaked.

David was next. He wilted under his mentor's stare. "I saw them and they were... they were..."

"What!"

Dave swallowed. He'd never known anything but caring and support from Mr. Olaffsen. The cold snap cut him to the quick.

"...looking at each other," he mumbled.

"Looking," repeated the elder. "Have you ever heard the expression, 'Looking's free, touching costs'? Because if any of you 'touch' each other in this room, Swing Time is over." He gestured to make it clear that touching included a slam in the jaw with a fist. David burned with shame.

"Now, I hope, that the reason we are here is to make beautiful music together. And I do not mean sexually!" His eyes flashed at Craig and Allison, who had started to look like they thought David was the only one in trouble. All three teenagers' mouths fell open at the explicit statement.

"So if you have problems among yourselves, please clean it up on your own time."

"Yes, sir." 

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

The cowed musicians took their places, and Hillary and Stan came in. The mood of the room was palpable. Hillary scuttled over to the piano without a word while Stan unpacked his bass.

Jake was angry with himself. He'd been too hard on his charges because he felt just as guilty. "Looking's free, touching costs." Is that so, Olaffsen? he chided himself. How many times had he jerked off lately, fantasizing about a student with whose care he was entrusted? He couldn't even count. He had to shut it down, now. If he didn't, it could destroy him.

Grimly he directed his troops. Eventually the music brought them together, but the tension never really went away. By eight o'clock, he was more tired than usual. Maybe he was getting old.

As Allison, her father, and David were walking down the hall, footsteps dashed up behind them. They turned toward the squeaking sneakers.

"Hey, wait up." It was Craig. He indicated David. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"We'll meet you in the car." Stan led Allie through the double glass doors.

"What do you want?" hissed David. He was acutely aware that his classmate was two inches taller.

Craig pulled a face. "I feel like I spend half my life apologizing."

His effort was met with a stony silence. He tried again.

"Look, nothing happened between Allie and me—"

"What do you want to prove! That you're a jock? Your family has money? I get it. Everyone gets it." David's rage morphed into bitterness and back into anger. "Just keep away from her, goddamn it."

Craig yelled shrilly, "I'm trying to tell you I don't have a chance with her! Don't you get it! Shit. You think being a jock is the answer to everything? Money?? Fuck. How would you like to be the school leper?"




Swing Time Ch. 03



David was taken aback by this. He hadn't put himself in Craig's shoes.

"That's true," he said slowly. "Everybody thinks of you as a criminal."

"And I'm damn lucky Allison didn't press charges. I just — shit, it's fucking useless."

"So what did you want to say?" David was still not tracking. Of all the things he might have expected from his rival, humility was not one of them.

"You're very talented. She loves you. I wish you all the best." Craig's voice rang hollowly off the painted cinderblock walls. He stuck out his hand. "I like being part of this group. I don't want to fuck things up."

David extended his hand. He wasn't entirely convinced, but what else could he do? They shook hands and nodded at one another, and left the school.

It was a long ride home. Allie and David barely spoke. Stan finally turned on the radio.



Swing Time Ch. 04



All characters in this story are age 18 or older.

*

Olaffsen figured out how to kill two birds with one stone. He called Christa Jackson, the choir director who'd gotten the axe in the wake of the school's program cuts. She was delighted to hear from him, even more so when he told her the reason he was calling.

"Listen, Christa ... I've got a student who needs voice coaching. Yes. Yes, you'll never believe it, she knocked on my door and said she wanted to sing. You'll just love her, she's very enthusiastic."

He rolled his eyes a little at his own inside joke. Hillary's most recent attempt to corner him had been that very morning. "I think I need voice lessons," she purred. "Maybe you could spend some time with me?"

Yeah, right! He yanked himself back to what his colleague was asking. "Hillary Fairchild," he answered. " ... Really! So she was telling the truth. Well, you two should have a lot of catching up to do. Uh-huh. ... I realize that's a delicate issue, Christa. I'll pay you out of my own pocket ... please don't argue with me, just let me do this. If students are falling out of the sky wanting to make music, don't you think the Board will come around?"

They kicked around the politics of it for a few minutes and Jake hung up. He was pretty pleased with himself. Now he would have a better singer, and he wouldn't have to stand behind her and point at the sheet music.

He put his face in his hands for a moment, remembering the most recent rehearsal. He had tried, really tried, to resist the temptation to get up from his drum kit and go to her side. And he had failed.

David sat to one side of the piano bench while Jake tapped out single notes. "You need to be heeeeeeeeeeere..." he sang a monotone to Hillary a half-step lower than her current effort.

She mimicked his tone so exactly that he suspected she could do it all along. Then the little bitch stepped closer and pointed to a different place on the page.

"Could you help me with this one, please?" Her cashmere sweater lingered over his shirtsleeve.

Across the room, Allison and Craig rolled their eyes at each other. Who was touching now! They saw their teacher step out of range as Hillary swung her trailer, aiming her hip at his. Clearly Olaffsen had his hands full, trying to get this girl to back down. His struggle, his weakness, was painfully obvious.

Now Jacob rubbed the heels of his hands against the bones just under his eyes. He looked at the calendar. The spring concert was not far away, and graduation was not long after that. Soon, his troubles would be over.

His glance fell on the sign that glowered down from his wall: "Here and Now." Typically he believed these were words to live by. These days, he wasn't so sure.

* * *

At last it was the night of the concert. Jake had to turn away from Hillary. Her long blonde curls draped over the black velvet halter of her body-tight dress. The neckline plunged and the hemline was well above the knee. Very little was left to the imagination.

Allison wore her customary white, to make the black of her instrument stand out. The boys opted for tuxes instead of the skinny black ties of autumn. Altogether, Swing Time looked hot. The crowd told them so, hand over noisy hand, as they took the stage.

Hillary belted it out:

"My funny valentine...

Sweet, comic valentine

You make me smile ... with my heart.

Your looks are laughable—

Unphotographable—

Yet you're my favourite ... work of art..."

Couples were slinking across the floor before the first verse was over. Hillary loved the spotlight and made the most of it. She cradled the cordless mike in her hands and crooned.

"Is your figure — less than Greek?

Is your mouth ... a little weak?

When you open it to speak

Are you smart?

But don't change a hair for me

Not if you care for me

Stay, little valentine, stay-y-y-y-y-y-y-yy!"

Her voice tolled through the auditorium like an Austrian church bell. She could have been onstage at the Blue Note. Christa Jackson, sitting in the front row, wept. Hillary trailed to a sulky whisper.

"Each day is Valentine's day."

Impulsively, David played, "Jingle bells, ...jingle bells, ...jingle all the ... way-ee-ay..." Stan followed with the ease of a thirty-year musician. Jake coaxed the cymbals a little higher and Allison didn't know what to do, so she held the last wail like a woman in the throes of passion, which she was. Craig just stood there with a smile plastered on his face. Air guitar!

There was no longer any question that music had won the hearts of parents and students alike. Olaffsen smiled openly at the school superintendent in the audience, who met his eyes and applauded. Maybe those funding cuts would be reversed, after all.

By the time Hillary asked her teacher for a ride home, he was feeling so good he didn't care. Stan, however, looked seriously concerned. Lines furrowed his brow. He pulled his friend aside.

"Listen, Jake, do you really think that's a good idea?"

"I'm a big boy, Stan. No worries."

Hillary was waiting down the hall, out of earshot. She was a picture in her tight black velvet dress, sheer black stockings and three-inch fuck-me heels. Her tits and ass looked made for a lover to play with. She gave a little wave to the two men and flashed her white teeth. Her smile looked like the grin of a hunting wolf. She'd soon find out a bit more about herself.

Jake gave his friend a reassuring smile and walked his date to the parking lot.

"Oooh, what kind of car is this?" Hillary knew it was a Porsche, but that was the extent of her knowledge. She had fantasized several times about this moment: Jake Olaffsen in a tux, herself dressed to kill, as the two of them tore down the road in his black sports car. Now that it was happening (although not literally at 90 mph), she didn't quite know how to handle it.

"This," he shifted, "is a Porsche nine-eleven Targa 4."

Hillary giggled and babbled something lame. All the witty lines she had dreamed up ahead of time left her. She couldn't think of a damn thing to say, which vexed her; this was her big chance to seduce Jacob Olaffsen, and she didn't want to blow it.

"Looks like you already know the way to my house."

"I know it will shock you, but I have been known to use Google."

The ride to the Fairchild home took less than ten minutes. Jake pulled up in front of the upper middle class house. He turned to Hillary to speak, but did not get out a single word.

He was not especially surprised when she attacked him. She pressed her lips to his and stuck her tongue in his mouth. What she lacked in technique she made up for in passion.

"Miss Fairchild." His hands on her biceps were strong, though his protest was mild.

"Call me Hillary," she whispered fiercely, but Jake shook his head.

"Why not? I know you want me." With that she put his hands on her breasts.

Instinctively Jake squeezed the soft velvet hills, eliciting a little squeal from the young lady. She pushed her chest further into his grip. His irregular breathing encouraged her to put her hand in his lap.

With surprising speed he whipped his hands in twin circles and captured both of her wrists. He folded her arms in an X across her chest and admonished, "Not until I tell you to."

"But you want me, I know you do." Her lower lip stuck out. "The day I auditioned, I saw you."

He still held her hands in place. The velvet snuggled under his thumbs. He moved them over her nipples, just enough to emphasize his presence. Her chest rose and fell in response.

"What did you see, exactly?" His tone was faintly amused.

"You had a hard-on," she whispered. "You tried to cover it up, but I saw."

Jacob nodded gravely in response. "And what, Miss Fairchild, do you think you want from me?"

"I—I want you to take my virginity."

He laughed out loud and let go of her. "You expect me to believe you're a virgin."

"I am!" The indignant look on her face made him laugh some more.

"Very well, Miss Fairchild. But I tell you this, and you must agree, or I'll drag your pretty ass to your door and dump you there."

"Yes?" Her eyes were wide with hope.

Olaffsen brought his face to within a few inches of hers. He put his hands on her naked shoulders, taking care not to bruise. "Nothing ever happened this evening. I gave you a ride home. That's it. If you ever say otherwise, I assure you, there will be consequences. Do -- you -- understand."

"I had a headache. You gave me a ride home. That's all that happened."

"Good." He kissed the corner of her mouth. Hillary twisted, trying to kiss him, but he wouldn't let her. She pouted some more. He did what he'd been aching to do: sucked her lower lip into his mouth and chewed on it. She moaned and stirred, learning more deeply what it meant to want.

Jacob pulled away from her and started to put the car in gear.

"Just one more thing, please!"

He looked over at her. "Yes?"

"I want you to look at my legs." She lifted the hem of her dress to reveal the tops of her stockings. Lace garters made a path leading under her dress. The trail beckoned.

Jake slipped a finger into the top of one stocking. Using only that finger, he felt along the underside of the garter, lifted it, and snapped it against her leg.

"Ow!"

"That didn't hurt, and you know it."

"I still want you to find out if I'm wearing panties."

Jake arched his brows and lightly teased her inner thigh with his fingertips. She spread her legs and leaned back. He gave her leg a little smack, rubbed the nylon stocking, and pulled the car away from the curb.

"You're a slut, Miss Fairchild."

"Not yet. But you could make me one."

"When do your parents expect you home?"

She laughed. "Like I care. They're out of town," she added at his stern look.

They drove on to his house. Hillary rested her hand lightly, possessively, on his inner thigh. He didn't push her away.

Once inside his home, he led her by the hand to his den. Hillary was surprised. She'd expected to see his bedroom.

The den was not lacking in romance. Jake had only himself to spend his money on, so despite being a public school teacher, he'd managed to outfit his quarters tastefully. The desk was a huge old thing from a by-gone era; the overstuffed leather armchair looked straight out of a nineteen-forties men's club. The lamps were heavy-looking brass. Old books lined one wall from floor to ceiling.

Hillary paused. The reality of what she was doing settled like a hawk on her arm: stunning in its close-up beauty, but weightier, more dangerous perhaps, than she had fully realized.

"Second thoughts, Miss Fairchild? I can still take you home."

"No. I want to be here."

"Very well. Have a seat." He gestured to a chair at the side of his desk, and took his place in the captain's chair.

Obediently Hillary sat and faced him. She crossed her ankles and leaned forward. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips.

Olaffsen cleared his throat. He opened a file that was lying on his desk. Hillary saw her high school mugshot clipped to the inside. "Miss ... Fairchild ..." he made his words ponderous, as if delivering a warning. He looked down the column of her grades. 

"Yes?"

"You've been a bad girl."

Hillary didn't know whether to laugh with delight or hang her head in shame. She hesitated.

"Answer me."

"I've been bad," she admitted. She licked her lips again and shifted in her chair.

Jake fixed her with his gaze. "You know what the punishment is for bad girls."

Hillary swallowed. "Uh, a spanking?"

"That is correct, Miss Fairchild."

For a few seconds the girl could barely breathe. Her nipples were hardening under her dress. Color bloomed in her face.

Jake held out a hand to her. She took it and stood up with him.

"Put your hands on the desk, Miss Fairchild."

She did so, trembling with fear and anticipation.

"Now step backwards. Lean forward. Stick out your ass."

Hillary nearly hyperventilated. She did as he asked. Her breasts swung down and nearly fell out of her décolletage. For the third time she licked her lips.

"Feet shoulder width apart."

The teenage girl obeyed. She had pictured passionate love-making in her teacher's bed. She had never thought of this.

Jake leaned close to her ear. "Last chance to go home, Miss Fairchild."

She shook her head.

"I didn't hear you."

"I don't want to go home." The trembling in her ribcage was beginning to ache.

"Tell me what you are."

"I'm a bad girl."

"What else?"

"I'm a, a slut." Hillary gasped out her freedom.

"What do you want, slut?" he hissed.

"Spank me, I've been bad..."

Olaffsen opened a desk drawer and withdrew a wooden paddle.

"Count aloud, Miss Fairchild."

Whack! The paddle met the velvet. Hillary groaned.

"What did you say?"

"One," she ground out.

Whack! Olaffsen spanked her a little harder.

"Two!" Sweat gathered under her breasts and armpits. 

Whack! Hillary staggered and gasped; she was breathing hard. "Three..."

Olaffsen judged she was ready for a short break. He put the paddle on the desk where she could see it.

"Do you know what you've done wrong, Miss Fairchild?" He rubbed his hands over her ass, soothing her skin beneath the velvet.

"Yes," she said in a tiny voice.

"Tell me."

"I've been, flirting with you, I've been, trying, to get you, to sleep with me..." Hill was nearly in tears from the mélange of passion, pain, and fresh hot desire.

He grasped the hem of her dress and lifted it halfway up her derrière. The creamy skin was rosy as a sunrise. Hillary swayed her rear, wanting more of his touch. He laid a hand on the back of her upper thigh. His thumb just tickled the base of her cheek.

"Is this what you want, Miss Fairchild?"

"Yes, I—!" The tickle broke her ability to speak. He stroked his other hand up and down her inner thigh, commuting the short distance from the top of her stocking to a point just below the base of her body. He avoided touching her sex.

"I want you to fuck me, oh god, please fuck me."

Olaffsen shoved her dress up to her waist. "No panties. Naughty girl." He admired the twin racing stripes of the black lace garters.

He swung his cupped hand down onto her naked ass. The slap surprised her and made her jump.

"Four!" she remembered.

"Very good, Miss Fairchild." He spanked her other cheek with equal care.

"Five!"

"Tell me again what you want."

"Please, please Mr. Olaffsen, fuck me."

"Let's see if you really mean it." He probed between her legs. Hillary groaned and backed against him, desperate as a mare in heat.

"Oh yes, oh, god yes," she panted.

Olaffsen pulled his finger from her radioactive core. He licked her juices from his fingertips.

"Are you really a virgin, Miss Fairchild? Remember, I'll know," he warned.

"Yes! Please, my arms are getting tired."

Immediately Jake moved to stand beside her. He saw her biceps were trembling with exhaustion as much as arousal.

"Here," he said kindly. He rearranged her limbs so her forearms rested on the desk. "Better?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just a little longer, Miss Fairchild."

He pulled a tube of ointment from the drawer and began soothing it over the red skin. Hillary groaned. A thick white drop of liquid slid down her inner thigh. Jake scooped it up with a fingertip and savored it. He fingered her a little more. "Oh, baby," he muttered.

Then he stood behind her and unzipped his pants. Hillary's head jerked up at the sound.

"Now?" she begged.

"You've been a good girl, Miss Fairchild. Yes, now. Spread your legs a little more." 

She did so. The next sound she heard was a rustling of plastic.

"Open yourself ... show me your virgin pussy, Hillary..."

Her heart raced. Fresh energy lanced through her system. With both hands she reached around to her backside and obeyed.

"Ohhhhh, ... god, you're pretty..." Olaffsen feasted on the sight of the pink flesh accented with tiny gold curls. He guided the head of his dick to her entrance.

Hillary groaned in abject pleasure. She had never been so aroused in her life. The head of her teacher's cock nudged its way in a little more.

"Touch me!" she pleaded.

Jake caressed her bare cheeks with both hands. Lightly he ran one fingertip over her anus. She jumped, and the motion caused him to penetrate her another inch.

Jake leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. He spoke in her ear. "Pretty Hillary, you're so pretty. Are you happy to be my little slut?"

"Yes, yes. I need you, I want you. Please make me yours."

"All right, then. Tell me if it hurts too much. I'll stop if you tell me to." He stood back up and thrust forward slowly, stroking into her a little at a time. He pulled back and pressed forward. Pulled back, and fucked her a little more deeply. The girl was dripping wet.

Hillary moved her body in time with his, fucking her teacher at last. It hurt with a tearing pain, but she felt as if she were floating. She never wanted to stop.

Just when she thought it couldn't get any better, Jake reached between her legs and found her clit. No man had ever touched her there.

"OH! Oh, Christ!" Hillary spasmed in orgasm. Her whole self felt like a firecracker exploding on the fourth of July: noisy, booming, colorful, and filling up the whole sky.

Her flailing was enough for Jake. He tightened his grip on her hips and rammed into her repeatedly. He swore and pulsed; his mind spun. The moment became the moment.

He fell forward over her and hugged her once more. He panted sweet words of affection in her ear. She turned her face to kiss his mouth, and he let her. Then she struggled. "Let me up."

Immediately Olaffsen backed away. He pulled his now-deflated dick from her body and threw the condom in the trash. It was streaked with blood and cum.

Quickly he looked at her inner thighs. They, too, were bloody. His breath caught in his throat.

She followed his gaze and then looked at him. Her eyes said, See? I told you I was a virgin.

A muscle twitched in Jake's cheek. He picked her up and sat her in the big leather chair.

"Spread your legs, sweetie." His tone was kind.

Hillary would have done anything he asked. She opened her limbs wide and draped them over the arms of the chair.

"Ohhhh..." breathed her teacher. He knelt before her. With one last glance at her beatific face, he reached around her buttocks and scooted her forward. She realized she was giving him a special treat, and smiled.

He licked the virgin blood from her thighs, carefully cleaning every smear. When he got to her pussy, he started by nibbling gently around the edges.

Hillary lolled her head back and fondled her breasts. She was floating on a cloud again. She applied her thumb and forefinger to the edges of her aureoles, grasping the coin-sized cones of flesh in a playful tweak. Her teacher's tongue advanced.

"Oh. Ohhhh, yesss-s-s-s-s..." She bucked forward against his face.

Jake licked and sucked with abandon. He could not contain himself. Drunk with power and lust, he ate her ferociously. Hillary's thighs closed around his ears.

He pushed his face harder against her to find her clit with his tongue. Languidly he tended the little pearl of her pleasure, circling it with his tongue tip. He was determined to make her cum again.

It worked. As he caught the hard little bud and sucked on it, Hillary squeaked and thrashed. She gushed in his face. He drank all he could catch, and finally, with a parting kiss, laid his head on her leg. A satisfied sigh eased from his sticky mouth.

Hillary stroked his hair. She was bereft of words. Very, very few girls had such a wonderful first experience, and she knew it. In a strange way, she finally knew she was good enough; she felt complete. What she did not yet know was that the self-confidence he had given her would grow, and flower, and last a lifetime.




Swing Time Ch. 04



At last Jake roused himself from his concubine's lap. "I suppose I should take you home."

"My parents really are out of town. Couldn't I stay?"

He cocked his head and looked at her sternly. "Are you telling me the truth?"

Hillary was not fazed. The act of giving herself to him had changed her more than physically. She met his eyes without flinching. "I've never lied to you."

Olaffsen nodded slowly. He thought of her virgin blood in his belly. "Just this one time, then."

He stood from the carpet and held out his hand to her. He showed her where the bathroom was, and the kitchen, in case she got hungry or thirsty.

They kissed at the bathroom door and he gently swatted her bum. "Take care of your needs. Towels are under the sink and you can use my robe."

Hillary luxuriated in the shower. It brought her glee to use his soap. There didn't appear to be a hair dryer, so she simply combed out her goldilocks and snuggled into the robe she found on the back of the door.

Her lover was already in bed, naked and falling asleep. Entirely delighted, she kissed him good night and spooned up against him, tucking her ass in his lap. He curved his arm around her and cupped her breast.

"I love you," she whispered.

Jake's eyes opened to face the dark. That could never be. He'd have to deal with it.

* * *

My Funny Valentine by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart. 



Swing Time Ch. 05



All characters in this story are age 18 or older.

*

Stan piled Craig, Allie and David into his SUV after the concert. "Where do you want to go?"

"Let's get pizza," Dave suggested.

Allie fussed about getting red sauce on her white dress until Craig offered, "How about Sgt. Pepper's? My treat."

Everyone knew the Stewart family could easily afford it.

Allison's face lit up. "Great!"

Stan agreed but insisted the tab would be his. "Come on, make an old man happy."

So they headed off to the venue in question. Sgt. Pepper's was, in some ways, merely an overpriced pizza joint. The menu was not extensive, but it took the notion of gourmet food seriously. The furnishings were classy, but comfortable. And the owner managed to pull off a family atmosphere. The restaurant was well-liked by teenagers, thirty-somethings, and first-date couples, as well as moms and dads.

The owner recognized Craig, and their party was seated quickly.

"What about Hillary and Mr. Olaffsen?" Allie wanted to know.

David chimed in. "Yeah, shouldn't we get a bigger table?"

Stan said smoothly, "Hillary had a headache. Jake took her home."

"Yeah, I bet she never has a headache for him." At her father's chastising look, Allison added, "Sorry." She turned her attention to the menu.

They chatted about what to order, interspersed with exclamations of how well their concert had gone. More than one patron recognized them and smiled. Craig excused himself to the washroom. On his way back to their table, he blanched. Seated in a booth near the cash register were his old cronies, Hank Jones and Jeff Mullins. Thank god they hadn't seen him. He wondered if they'd been at the show.

Craig wound his way around the bar and carefully cast another glance at the former members of the Cherry Poppers Club. Jeff was lifting a slice of pizza to his mouth. The teenager's leather jacket pulled open. A pistol was shoved casually into his waistband.

Logical thinking left Craig completely. The only word in his mind was Columbine. He hustled back to the table. The goat cheese pizza had just been delivered. Stan was handing out slices of the fabulous-smelling confection and everybody was swooning ooh, ah, yum.

Craig ground out the words under his breath: "We have to leave. Now."

"What? Why?" Allie protested. She was slow on the uptake.

David knew something was horribly wrong. He looked kind of sick and stood up, extending his hand to Allie.

Stan remained calm. He shepherded his daughter and her boyfriend out of the restaurant. In the parking lot, he asked Craig, "What's going on?"

"We have to call 911," Craig flipped open his phone. "They've got a—"

His sentence was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot, then another. A chorus of screams burst from the restaurant.

Stan swore. "SHIT!!" He shoved Allie into the car. David and Craig leapt into the backseat. Stan tore out of the parking lot. "Seat belts!" he snapped.

David twisted around, looking back toward the restaurant. He saw Hank and Jeff run out of the building. One of them fired a parting shot. The two men clambered into a beat-up sedan and took the same exit, right behind the Katz family SUV.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency?" said the operator in Craig's ear.

"I've just witnessed gunfire at Sgt. Pepper's restaurant."

"They're right behind us!" gasped David.

"Any injuries." The dispatcher's voice was calm.

"They're following us!"

The GPS data from Craig's phone streamed through the computers. The dispatcher repeated his question. Upon learning the negative, he directed them to stay calm. "Do not put yourself in danger in an attempt to learn more information."

The restaurant's alarm had gone off comparatively long ago. As soon as Jeff had waved his gun under the cashier's nose, she kneed the switch under the desk. The alarm company in turn notified the police, who shaped the information into an efficient response.

Stan was not stupid enough to lead the pursuers to his home. He made a beeline for the police station. He needn't have worried; within a minute, cop cars popped out of nowhere and seemed to surround him. He pulled over and told everyone to get down.

The four listened to squealing tires and slamming doors, barely breathing. They stayed that way, huddled on the floor mats, until a policeman rapped on the driver's side window and told them it was safe to come out.

Allie climbed out of the car and stared, horrified, at her classmates. A policeman put his hand on Jeff's head — the boy was already cuffed — and pushed him into the back seat of a cop car. As he went down, Jeff turned and saw Allison. The white ball gown shone like a halogen on the street. He leered at her, an ugly, frightening grimace that made her step behind her father.

Stan took his little girl's hand. "It's okay, baby. He won't hurt you." Even as he said it, he knew the way the world worked. In twenty years, who knew?

Stan looked around to see how Craig was taking it. His first thought was how nauseating it must be for the boy, to see his former friend in such a situation. Maybe the road not taken was crossing Craig's mind. The teenager was not in sight.

"Craig?" Katz was starting to worry, when he heard a sound. The young man was a few meters away, clutching a city garbage can. He was tossing his guts.

* * *

After they all made their statements — Craig's being the longest, and by far, the sweatiest — Stan made his rounds, stopping at the Stewart home first. He hopped out of the car and walked the young man a few steps toward the door.

They shook hands and pulled into an embrace.

"Why didn't you want your parents to come downtown?"

Craig shrugged. "I have to start handling my own problems. It's the story of my life these days." One side of his mouth twisted up.

"Well, you done good." Stan didn't want to get too corny, so he resisted his thought. Aw, what the hell. He went ahead and said it: "You might have saved our lives just now, you know."

Craig looked embarrassed. "What else could I do. Good night." He waved a hand and went inside. Through the sheers of the big bay window, Stan saw two shadows rise and hug their son.

While the two men were talking in the yard, David and Allison cuddled in the back seat. Lust was the last thing on their minds. Since he had caught her flirting with Craig, a distance had sprung up between them. Each had wanted to pick up the phone, but couldn't.

Now she clung to him and whispered her heart. "I love you so much." Tears stung her eyes. "I never want to lose you." She laid her face in his neck and wrapped her arms around him.

David stroked her hair. "I never want to lose you, either, Allie." He wished he had a ring in his pocket; or at least, that they were side by side on his piano bench.

Words would have to do. He pulled at her shoulders so he could see her eyes.

"Allison, will you marry me? Will you be my wife?"

"Yes! Oh, yes. David, I never want anyone else but you."

Their kisses tasted of salt.

* * *

About the same time, Hillary Fairchild was running her hands over Jacob Olaffsen's body. The scars she encountered were beyond her ken; her teenage fantasies utterly failed to consider events that had shaped her lover's personality. Had she had any idea, she might have been amazed at how mentally healthy he actually was.

Jake took her tender breast in his callused hand and laid his mouth to the sweet pink tip. Arousal burned its wildfire through her body. Wetness surged in her core and started to leak out.

Hillary wanted to bring him pleasure but was badly distracted by the firebrand of his tongue rolling around her nipple. Like a runner caught between two bases, she alternated between the two desires, chasing in one direction and then the other. She convexed her back to urge him on; then she wanted to touch him, but didn't know how, so she stroked his back and arms.

He settled this question by pinning her arms to the bed. The demonstration of control pushed a powerful ripple of pleasure through her system. "Oh god, oh god! Fuck me, Jacob, I want you to take me."

He kicked her ankles apart with his. "When I am good and ready, little girl."

She sidled under him and he commanded her to hold still. The willing captive obeyed as long as she could. Jake nibbled at her belly and hips. He established a wide perimeter. Hillary whimpered and tried to roll toward his mouth. He gave her a little smack, causing her to yelp.

"I told you to hold still!"

This time she did better, though she ached to so much as wipe the perspiration from her breasts. Jake circled closer. Eventually she could feel his hot breathing at her cleft. It was agony to wait for the kiss she craved, but the torment was sweet, and she held her breath.

Jake looked up from his vantage point. Between the hills of her lovely breasts, the beauty queen's face showed total submission. She would do anything he asked, and he knew it.

He used both thumbs to open her slippery entrance.

"When you feel my tongue, Miss Fairchild, I want you to cum in my mouth."

With satisfaction he saw her nipples harden in response to his words. Desire transformed her face so that she almost looked like a different person. She really was a slut.

He slid his hands under her ass to hold her fast, and stabbed his tongue as deeply as he could into her hot pink flesh. The acrid wash of her orgasm burst against his face. Her cry was nearly that of a woman in pain.

Jake retreated and petted her mound. "Very good, Miss Fairchild," he praised her. "Can you do it again?"

"I," she breathed in and out, "I think so."

Without warning he renewed his attack on her tender folds. Hillary bucked and groaned. Jake slid two fingers inside the girl and saw how desperately she was trying to hold the pose he'd given her.

He scooted up so they were face to face. "Are you sore? Do you want me inside you?"

"Yes, yes please, I want you," she begged.

"What do you call me."

"Please, Mr. Olaffsen, fuck me."

He rolled on top of her and did as she asked.

By morning they had made love twice more. In the early light the teacher saw that his pupil was smiling in her sleep. He kissed her very gently, so as not to wake her, and slipped off to the shower.

When he came out, she was in the kitchen chopping an onion. The fumes didn't seem to bother her.

He ghosted up behind her in a silence born of necessary practice. "Would you believe that always makes me cry?"

Hillary whirled and clutched at her collarbone. "Oh! I didn't hear you come in."

He hugged her, noting she had already grated cheese for their eggs. Lightly he dropped a kiss on her hair. "Thank you for cooking."

Her smile was shy for a young lady who'd spent the night with her legs wide open. "Least I could do."

Jake was wearing only a towel slung around his hips. Her admiring gaze made him feel good. She indicated the stylized "7" on his bicep. "Lucky number?" she asked.

He looked at it. The memories were too old to bother him any more. Well, at least not every day. "Seventh Regiment," he answered.

The blank look on her face made him sad and amused, all at the same time. I could say 'Son Thang' and she'd think it was a rapper, he thought. He shook his head at her innocence. Sex, big deal! By the time he was her age, he'd killed a man. More than one, actually.

Hillary furrowed her brow but didn't press. She went on chopping onion. Jake broke eggs in a bowl and took them to task with a wire whisk. Together they made breakfast. Their conversation was ordinary, as if they met every day to share a simple meal.

Jake was trying to figure out how to break things off with her, and hating the idea. He had no wish to hurt her; he really did care for her wellbeing. The latter made it especially important that he set her free as soon as possible. They'd had a great time, but their relationship could not continue.

He was trying to find an opening when the phone rang.

"Olaffsen."

"Where have you been? I tried to call you three times last night!" Stan sounded anxious, almost angry.

"Oh. I've been having trouble with my phone lately." Jake had plugged it back in shortly before he stepped into the shower.

Stan filled him in on the events of the night before.

"Shit!" Jake exclaimed. "Is everybody okay? Are those two little assholes in jail?"

Hillary watched her lover's face. His words calmed after that, but his face was set in a mask of wrath. Cautiously she sipped her coffee. This wasn't the stern expression he wore when they were playing. Something much darker shaped his features. Involuntarily, she found herself pulling back.

"Stupidest thing I ever heard of. ... In a busy restaurant on a Friday night, how dumb can you get. ... Yeah. They wanted attention, all right. I guess they got it. ...Uh-huh. Later."

Jake hung up the phone. His normally brown eyes were almost black.

"What happened?"

"Last night Stan took Dave and Allie and Craig out for pizza. There was a shooting at the restaurant. Everyone's alright!" he added when a little scream fell from her lips.

"They're safe," she whispered. She wanted to hear that part again.

Jake nodded. "They're safe. But I could have prevented it." His eyes were odd again, turned inward to look at something she could not see.

"How?" She shook her head and lifted one shoulder. "Nobody can prevent that." 

Jake envisioned Jeff Mullins, the same punk he'd easily defeated after the fall concert. As casually as drinking a glass of water, he could have squeezed the kid's wrist and slapped the weapon from his hand. But he hadn't been there.

He hadn't been there to stop it.

The old emotional wound shoved aside his intention to tell Hillary he was not in love with her.

"Finish your breakfast. I'll take you home."

* * *

Thanks to members of the Literotica Authors Hangout who helped edit part of this chapter.



Swing Time Ch. 06



All characters in this story are age 18 or older.

*

Allison dreamed hail fell from the sky. She could hear it against the glass like one person slowly applauding. Clap. Clap, clap. Good job. The weather didn't seem to be sarcastic.

She turned over and sniffled a sinus thing. The hail noise woke her up. It was real.

The pane was cool to her hand. Below on the lawn she could see a figure. She lifted the window. "David?"

"Come down," he called softly.

She waved her assent and turned away, not thinking to close the window. Her dad was sleeping (she hoped) in his room, across and down the hall. After a moment's hasty consideration, she picked up her sneakers and padded down the stairs in her bare feet. One step creaked. She held her breath and hastened on.

David was near the front door. The shape of his body was blurred by the evergreen bush.

"What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep. Come out." His bicycle made tick-tick-tick noises as the wheels reeled around.

"Uhm. Just a second."  Her hair -- she dragged her fingers through it and found a clip to pin it back.

She pressed a kiss of greeting to his mouth. "What's up?"

"Just hoping you would come for a walk with me." He parked his bike between the house and its hedges.

Under the whispering rush of maples, they walked down the quiet Midwestern street, holding hands.

"Are you okay? It's almost midnight, you know."

"Yeah ... I don't know. I've been thinking."

"What about?" Their voices were quiet, as if by unspoken agreement to avoid waking the neighbors. Or, maybe, the still of the night required no volume. Not even a single car rushed past their surreal stroll.

"A lot of things. Allie, something's bothering me." He paused and turned, laying his hands to her waist. She thought at first he was going to kiss her, but he spoke: "I think Mr. Olaffsen is sleeping with Hillary."

"No! No, no, no. He'd never give in to her. He's honourable. Remember when he came to the house, and told us about doing the right thing?"

"Yeah, and remember that time in the music room about looking's free, touching costs."

"We've been through that," she said impatiently.

"I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about them. I know it's none of my business, but it bugs me."

Her eyebrows lifted. She gestured at the park they were passing. "Let's sit down, you can tell me about it."

They dangled on the park swings. He described his observation: the way the couple looked at each other, or more precisely, studiously ignored one another. "I feel it. There's something between them."

"Well, if it is true, it's almost graduation. It won't count anymore after that."

"It still isn't right."

"Maybe so, but how does it hurt us? Or anybody? They're consenting adults."

David considered. "Yeah, maybe." Then he quirked a grin at her. "You know, I had an ulterior motive for asking you here tonight."

"Oh yeah, what was that?" She liked seeing his mood brighten.

David slipped off of his swing and faced her, grasping the vertical chains. He leaned forward, so his lips were next to her ear. "Something to do with fondly hoping you'd come out in your nightgown like this."

In the darkness, she smiled. "Ye-e-e-e-es. What about it?"

He walked forward, pushing her swing backwards. His hands teased the hem of the simple knit, lifting it to her thighs. "I think you know."

Allison parted her limbs a little. With her elbows crooked around the chains, she caressed his mildly sweaty t-shirt. The scent of him curled up into her nose, earthy and warm, like a happy cat curling in sunlight. "What if I also had on no underwear?"

"You're wicked, you know that?"

Allie wiggled her eyebrows at him and quoted Mr. Joel. "'I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.'" Her naked knees delighted in skimming around his jeans.

He threw back his head and laughed. "'The sinners are much more fun.'"

"Come here, baby."

They kissed and groped, each hoping the cops wouldn't drive by and tell them to go home. Yet it was an undeniable thrill, fooling around outdoors, in public, under the scant cover of darkness. David teased an index finger around her nipples, watching the bumps pop out through the blue knit of her nightdress.

Allison was wet. Her juices oozed around Dave's inquisitive fingers, sending him an unmistakable fuck-me-now signal. He made happy noises of lust, alternating between sounds like mmmmm and oh, baby, and telling her how hot and gorgeous she was. Her joy was luxurious as southern peach pie, all creamy and sweet.

"Don't stop, Gorgeous." Daring him with her eyes, she reached for his zipper.

His answer was just as sultry. "You think I won't? Scoot forward."

Allie grinned and shifted her pelvic bone. What a blast! She wrapped herself around him, slightly unsteady on the swing, letting him be the pole. His penetration was an easy glide, thanks to her sopping arousal. Dave planted his feet and grabbed the flat plastic seat. All he had to do was push the swing away and back. Neither of them could stop smiling. They tossed lust-words and groans back and forth, playing catch, playing pickle.

"Oh, god!" he choked out suddenly, and pushed back hard. His cum unfurled all over her dark blue dress. Involuntarily Allison arched her back, almost tumbling from her perch. They clung to one another as he pulsed, her heels digging into his butt, as much from passion as the need for stability.

Sighing, they held on, riding the ride to its complete stop. The warm glow in her eyes matched his. They held still for a moment, panting like a couple of steaming racehorses.

"That was great," she giggled. "You quiet band geek, you."

She hugged him and pressed her ear to his chest, hearing his increasingly familiar heartbeat. His embrace was toasty and snug. "It's late. We ought to be getting back." A gentle smile accompanied her admonishment.

"Yeah, let's go."

They straightened up their clothes and turned back toward her home. Their silence was comfortable. Tick-ticking the bicycle away from her door, he said, "Thanks for coming with me." Then he caught his own pun and laughed, "I mean, thanks for being with me." He sombered. "Thanks for listening."

"You're welcome. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow." Her smile was tender. She kissed him good-night, and they said their I-love-you's. Allison closed the door.

* * *

Jacob Olaffsen was engaged in the familiar ritual of cleaning out his office. He wasn't a religious man, but the methodical task brought him a certain peace. Every year it was the same: archive the records of graduating seniors, toss the oldest files he no longer had room for.

This year the task depressed him. One senior in particular would have to be let go. Mentally he cradled her in a warm embrace. Forgive me, Hillary. I'm only human. And a damned flawed one at that.

As if his thoughts conjured her up, the young lady bounced brightly into his office.

"Hillary." He blinked and remembered to be professional. "Miss Fairchild."

"Mr. Olaffsen." She shut the door and leaned to kiss his crewcut. The resulting cold confused her.

"Miss Fairchild, this is an office." He didn't even touch her to push her away.

"Yes, but — graduation is next week! It won't matter. We can be together, now." An undercurrent of fear tugged at her hope.

Olaffsen put down the files and looked her in the eye. "I'm sorry, Hill."

"NO!" Instantly she knew what he was saying. Big fat teardrops burst from her eyes. "No, Jacob, don't. I love you."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. His own throat constricted as he looked at the sobbing girl. "I'd love you if I could. Hillary, look at me."

She obeyed him. She never wanted anything more than to obey him. To her further confusion he pulled out a calculator.

"Hillary, will you pay attention, please?"

"You don't have to prove it to me. I know there's a difference in our ages." She hiccoughed and continued to weep.

"Please listen. Hillary, look. Where were you in 1970?"

"I wasn't born yet," she said dully. "I was born in 1989. You know that from my record. Is 1970 when you were born? That would make you nineteen years older than me, right?"

Olaffsen couldn't help a slight snort of laughter. Had this girl even taken arithmetic?

"Miss Fairchild, I turned fifty-five this year. I am thirty-seven years older than you are. With poor family planning, you could even be my granddaughter."

"But love conquers all." Even as she said it, she knew she had lost. Several more tears rolled down her pretty face.

Jake tried another tack. "Let's back up a second, okay?" Hearing no answer, he continued. "Do you remember what you wanted me to do?"

Hillary raised her head. "To sleep with me. To take my virginity." Her voice was so soft, he could barely hear her.

He nodded. "I did that." The urge to hold her, to comfort her, was powerful. Olaffsen called on every form of discipline he had ever known to stay exactly where he was.

Hillary's answering nod was more of a trembling of her chin. "I guess I should say thank you."

"No, I don't mean that. Hillary, there is no future for us. I'm telling you we had a wonderful time, and that's all we were entitled to. It's more than we were supposed to have."

She stood to go and struggled into her backpack. The gesture was a blatant reminder of her youth, a billboard she failed to notice.

Olaffsen looked at the defeat in her face. It killed him. Yet he refused to stand up for her; he could not take a chance on her running into his arms. It was better this way. He clenched his molars.

"I guess you don't want me to sue you," she said at last.

His only answer was in his eyes. He didn't speak; she was almost out the door.

"Just one thing," she turned back.

"Yes?"

"What's up with 1970? Does this have something to do with the 7 on your arm?"

He lied to her for the first and only time. "No. It was just an example."

Hillary Fairchild nodded, and shut the door behind her.

* * *

The last week of school was bittersweet for Hillary. She treasured the glimpses of her lover in the hall, and dreaded them at the same time. All of her classmates wondered about her red eyes. There was gossip and speculation. At one point she was even summoned to the guidance counselor's office. The lady demanded to know if Hillary was pregnant.

Hillary laughed out loud. "No! Not a chance." Jake had never failed to use a condom. She probably ought to thank him for that, too.

"What's wrong, then?"

The senior simply shook her head. The blonde curls rustled over her shoulders.

"Miss Fairchild, it's not only my job to look after your mental health. I really care about you. Did you break up with a boyfriend?"

"My grandmother died. She and I were very close."

The counselor could not force the truth; neither could she help a child who refused to talk. She wrote up the hall pass, a slip of increasingly meaningless paper, and handed it over.

* * *

It was a beautiful day for the exercises. The school set up a temporary stage at one end of the football field. The graduating seniors sat in rows of uncomfortable folding chairs, while their parents sat on the hard benches of the stadium.

The school board superintendent made the first speech. Most of the students had no idea who he was, and didn't particularly care. They thought of him as a droning old man, a pompous ass who stood up for no other reason than that he liked to hear himself talk.

They were not entirely correct.

True, he gave them the typical admonishments to which graduating seniors are subject: success in life is not measured in gold, or status. And the word "commencement" means "beginning."

The speech then took an uncommon turn.

"Students,... proud parents,... community. Four years ago in the wake of budget cuts we looked for ways to tighten our belts, and the music program suffered drastic cutbacks."

Jake Olaffsen did not smile, but his shoulders were exceptionally straight. The superintendent continued.

"This year our school experienced some unfortunate incidents. I cannot help but think, that perhaps a student engaged in musical practice, might avoid spending that time in criminal activity."

Craig Stewart inwardly rolled his eyes. The man made it sound as if Craig was some kind of thug, just waiting for a chance to commit mayhem. Don't shoot! Learn this chart first! He held still, only slightly pursing his lips.

"I am so proud of you, ladies and gentleman, for voting this spring, to reinstate, full funding, for the music program. I am moved, that two of our young people, missed the music, so much, that they requested, private auditions, in order to play.

"An old administrator, even older than myself, if you can believe it —" he paused in hopes of laughter, and the crowd gave him a little "— he told me, on occasions such as these, 'Be brief. They'll think you're a genius.' " This time the crowd did laugh. A few people cheered.

"I don't know if I'm a genius, but I do know, that showing you, something, is more important than telling you. And so, without further ado, to show you, the power of music, I give you, in their final performance: Swing Time."

Allie warmed up a tweedly-dee note and pointed at Hillary. The two women smiled at each other, and Hillary stepped in close to the mike.

"You're nobody 'til somebody loves you

You're nobody 'til somebody cares

You may be king, you may possess the world and its gold

But gold won't bring you happiness when you're growing old.

"The world still is the same, BUT WE CAN CHANGE IT!"

The seniors roared.

"...As sure as the stars shine above

You're nobody 'til somebody loves you

So find yourself somebody to love."

To her credit, Hillary didn't cry. She repeated the last verse, and didn't even glance at the man who had taught her so much. All of her energy funneled into the music. Her bearing was proud and passionate.

After the music, after the cheering and the noise and the speaking of each name, the crowd broke up fairly quickly. The high school principal and school board superintendent thanked the band members and wish them well, and at last, Swing Time stood on the stage by themselves.

Stan cleared his throat and addressed his fellows. "We will not pass this way again. I would like to offer a short preayer to bless our journey."

"Agreed," said Jake. He stood up from behind his drums and put one arm around Allison and the other around Craig. Stan put his arms around the shoulders of Craig and Hillary; the circle drew in.

Stan spoke a simplified version of the traditional blessing.

"Lord our God, God of our ancestors, lead us toward peace, guide our footsteps toward peace, and make us reach our desired destination for life, gladness, and peace. May You rescue us from every foe and ambush along the way, and may You bless the work of our hands. Lord grant us grace, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all who see us. May You hear the sound of our humble request, Adonai, Who hears all prayers."

"Amen," said everyone. Each hugged the other in turn. Their emotions were bittersweet, even those of Allison and David, whose futures were promised to one another. Swing Time would never be again.

Stan helped Dave roll away the piano, and Allison carried the bass and clarinet toward the car. Hillary had nothing to carry but her diploma and the day's program; she wandered toward the school to get the last of her things from her locker. Craig's guitar took but a moment to zip away.

Olaffsen was the last man in the theatre. Packing up a drum kit takes time. He went through the practiced movements with his customary care.

Stan Katz took his daughter and future son to a nice café. Allison made a big deal out of waving her left hand around. The diamond on her finger wasn't huge, but it was true. It twinkled and sparkled in every ray of light.

Craig Stewart drifted back to the music room. He thought maybe he'd intercept Mr. Olaffsen, and thank him in some final kind of way, for having taken a chance on him back in January. He wandered about the room.

Memories brushed a swirling fog in every corner. He really was glad he'd picked up a guitar, and offered up thanks for his parents, too.

For no special reason, he sat down at the upright piano and opened the lid. His ear was still so inexpert that he couldn't tell whether it was in tune or not. Clumsily he tapped at the keys. Plink, plink, plink. Plink, plink, plink. Jingle all the way. David Hemingway. Christ. Some people were so fucking lucky, and had no idea.

The door swung open, and in walked Hillary Fairchild. She sat down beside him on the bench.

"I wonder if I should apologize to you, too."

Hillary looked surprised. "What for?"

"You know. For fall semester. For all the stupid things I did."

"You never did anything to me."

"That's true...physically, anyway." Craig was so, so tired of being judged for his past. 

Hillary didn't really seem to be where he was. She, too, looked as if memories were pouring through her hands like hypnotic gems. A deep breath roused her and she seemed to shake it off.

"So are you here to see Mr. Olaffsen?"

"Yeah, I wanted to thank him."

"For the lesson."

"You mean lessons, don't you?"

"No." Hillary shook her head. "Don't you remember that plaque in his office? 'Here and Now.' You can't live in the future, or the past. I think that's the most important thing he taught us."

-FIN-

* * *

You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You by Russ Morgan, Larry Stock, and James Cavanaugh.