Sam & Teach Ch. 03

Note: All characters engaging in sexual activities are 18 years or older.

This is part 3 of 3.

*******

I make my way past the ushers, immune to the daggers in their eyes, out the lobby, and into the street. Sam is gone, vanished into city and the night. I fish out my phone, scroll down to her entry "Sam <3" and dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. Shit. I pick a direction at random and begin to search. Cars and taxis drive past, their sounds whirring by like echoes chasing each other around a giant drum. Lights paint shadowy landscapes on the brick walls of old apartment complexes.

Through sheer coincidence - the same coincidence, I suppose, that guided me past Sam's drug deal at Greenstone Academy - I pass a dark alleyway from which I hear unrestrained sobbing.

"Sam?" I ask, stepping inside. I find her sitting on a trash can, one of those metal cylinders with metal lids, an old school trashcan beside a steaming vent. The only thing missing is a pack of turtles led by an old rat with a fine set of whiskers.

Sam looks up. Her lips are pressed together into a thin angry line. "What fucking echolocation is this?"

"Er," I say. "What?"

"Just leave me alone, alright?" she says. "Leave me alone."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." A pause. "I can't do this anymore."

A stranger walks past, his shadow momentarily magnified down the alleyway.

"Can't do what?" I say after he walks past.

"This!"

"Sam," I say and kneel before her. "I don't know what you mean."

"This," she says gesturing to herself. "And this." She gestures at me. "And this." She gestures at the trash can. "And this." She gestures at the stars. "Y'know, this! I can't do THIS!" she concludes with a grand gesture, like a magician revealing that the woman sawed in half was not, in fact, sawed in half.

"I'm sorry, Sam," I say. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, don't I know it. Just fucking leave me alone."

I lean back against the wall and fold my arms. A young beautiful girl in a fancy dress in the middle of a dark city? A dark city which has become one big rough-part-of-town ever since all the wealthy folks - like Sam's parents - fled to the suburbs? Leave her there? Right.

"No. My mother used to say that if you have to cry, at least cry somewhere nice," I say. "Let's go."

"You're stupid," Sam informs me but she doesn't resist as I guide her to nearby Eastwing Park, probably the safest place in town and for no other reason than that everyone - gangs and criminals included - seemed to have tacitly agreed to make it so. An oasis, you might say, for even the worst of the worst need a place to kick back their heels and toss a saucer with ol' Kujo. We find a bench. Sam curls up on it, her back to me. I sit down next to her. The wind ruffles through the trees in an eerie manner. The moon shines down on us, bright and sober, heavy like a fishing lure bobbing on the lake of space. I don't much know what to say and instead awkwardly pat Sam's back. My touch sets off a fresh wave of tears.

"Jesus, Sam," I say. "What's the matter?"

She won't answer. She cries and cries, and I sit there listening to her crying, cycling through the two stages of feeling like shit, being annoyed she won't tell me what's wrong, and then feeling like shit about being annoyed. I knew this was going to happen, I tell myself. I had known it from the get-go. I mean, I was her teacher, and she my student. But I allowed myself to be fooled into optimism, I had allowed myself to think that maybe what I was doing wasn't wrong. "Talk to me Sam."

She doesn't answer. I wait another couple of minutes before asking again, "What's wrong?"

Eventually she manages in the most miserable, abject tones. "I can't do this anymore. I just - I can't. I thought I could, but I can't."

"I'm sorry," I say. "You're right. I shouldn't have let this go on."

That only sets off new tears. Irritation, sympathy, depression, hope, lust, anger, defiance, and sorrow form a complex stew inside me, threatening to bubble up. At a lull in her sobs, I try again, "You need to tell me what's going on. What can't you do anymore?"

"I can't love you!" she says.

Oh. My heart skips a beat, and in that second, the trees grow taller, the sky grows rounder, the world grows larger. It's one of those moments, one of those pauses between the clock-ticks of reality, when the universe's inexorable expansion is made manifest.

"I didn't—" Sam continues. "I don't mean to. But I do. I love you and it's so fucking irritating and, yeah."

"That's it? That's all?" I say. "Jesus, Sam, you had me worried."

"What?"

"I love you too."

The momentum of her sadness carries her on past my words, and she looks up at me, new tears further transforming her make-up into a mess resembling the camouflage of a jungle guerilla fighter. "Huh?"

"I said I love you too." I pause and exhale with relief. "Duh."

"But," she sniffs and wipes the mascara out from under her eyes. "I thought—"

"Thought what?"

"I don't fucking know."

"Yes," I say. "Of course I love you. How could I not?"

"But... with all the sex. You just—you just like the pleasure. And you're so smart and scientifical and all universe-is-a-clock and electron-ballets and operas, and I feel so dumb. I just thought... and tonight with this date, I figured you were only priming me for some especially fantastic fuck-a-thon. Which don't get me wrong, you make me feel like a queen, teach, a queen of lust and electricity. I like how that feels. But sometimes, you get this look in your eye, like you're afraid I'm going to disappear. And it makes me feel... treasured. And that scares me. And tonight maybe, y'know, maybe tonight was a real date, like a normal date between a guy and a girl, and suddenly as we were watching, I understood how I felt and—"

I lean over and kiss her. She lets me have exactly three seconds of her lips before she pulls away. "Sorry," she says. "I'm such a fucking idiot. Stupid girl. I hate this. I hate—sorry. I'm so fucking stupid."

"You're not stupid," I say.

"Shut up. I can be stupid if I want to."

"Okay," I say, "You're stupid," and move in to kiss her.

But she turns away. "Sorry. I'm just... something. Can we go back to your place, and have like a cup of tea and talk about, I don't know, favorite cartoons or something?"

"Yeah," I say. "Of course."

I put my arm around her shoulders as we walk back to my car. She's silent the whole drive home, her brow wrinkled in what I hope is the good sort of brooding. I feel buoyant. Bouncy. A weight's been removed from my chest, and I'm secretly glad she was the one who broke down instead of me. A cowardly feeling. I should have just told her, but if I'm honest, I was afraid she would say no. So yeah. A cowardly feeling.

It's only 9:30 when we pull in to my house and enter.

"Do you have something I can change into?" she asks, gesturing to her formal Chinese dress.

"Yeah," I say. "If you can find something that fits, you're welcome to it."

She heads up the stairs, as I begin to fill the kettle with water. It's just about boiling when she comes back down, dressed in a too-large pair of basketball shorts and a too-large t-shirt featuring a bright superman logo. She's washed her face, scrubbed the tear-streaked make-up. Her skin is bright red, squeaky clean, new, refreshed.

"Hey," she says. "Sorry about tonight. Sorry for ruining it."

"You didn't ruin it," I say.

I lean back against my kitchen counter and look at her, and she's about to say something more when the tea kettle begins whistling. I put an Oolong tea bag in two mugs, fill them with hot water, and carry them to my rough oak table.

"So," I say. "You wanted to talk about your favorite cartoon? Hopefully it's none of that yo-gabba-gabba nonsense. That stuff is frightening."

"Nope," says Sam. "I'm an old-fashioned gal, yo. Gimme some Scooby Doo. Velma is a sexy Goddess."

"Velma?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "Not Fred?"

"Really? I can't believe you. Fred sexy? Fred's a douchebag," says Sam. "Frat boy douchebag. Thelma's hot. She's different. Mousy, smart."

I take a sip of my tea, which tastes like burnt popcorn, but in a good way. "I would have thought—"

"That I liked Daphne? Because she's sexy and fashionable? 'We always love that which we are not.'"

"I don't know," I say. "I think you're pretty smart."

"That's because you're in love with me," she says, her words sharp and challenging.

I shrug. "Or maybe I'm in love with you because it's true."

She peers at me, and I can see a sarcastic retort bubbling up from inside her. But she doesn't give it voice. Instead, she sips her tea.

I go on. "I'm not sure what this means, me being in love with you, Sam, my student. But I do know that I couldn't fall in love with someone who wasn't bright, no matter how beautiful she was. Does a stupid person say, 'We always love the things we're not'? No. I don't think so. You've been told that you must be a certain way and you've been treated a certain way and so you think that's the only way you can be. That's the tyranny of beauty. You can get away with doing less. But you can be both brilliant and beautiful, Sam. Or not. You can be whatever you want to be. Or, at least, you can try, and I think that's basically the same thing."

Again she peers at me, and I can almost see those little golden-green flecks of stars in her eyes beginning to glow with a different sort of fire. I can see that the story inside her own head is changing, that her self-narrative has begun to take a different path. No matter the pleasure we've given each other, the intimacy we've shared, the exchanging of I love you's like rings between bride and groom, this moment, when she's opened the door into her own internal fairy tale and allowed me, the big bad wolf, inside, that's how I know she has truly come to love me. I try not to let that frighten me.

"Alright?" I say.

"Yeah, okay," she says. "Sure. Makes sense. Beautiful and brilliant, what's not to like? So what about your favorite cartoon?"

"Heh," I say. "Kid, in my day, we had real cartoons..."

About fifteen minutes after He-man but before we get to Thunder Cats, Sam interrupts me with a huge yawn.

"Er, sorry," I say. I check the clock. 1:14 is blinking a baleful red. We've been chatting for a good three hours, arguing over pretty much the whole history of cartoons, a history with which Sam is even more conversant than I. Sam doesn't just like cartoons, she loves them. "Time for bed?"

"Yeah. I'm kinda peached. My first opera. Then the crying. Me, crying over a boy? Eugh. Then the lovey dovey stuff. Scout's honor, teach, I'm a little fucked up inside."

I nod. "Yeah. Do you..." I glance toward the stairs.

"What's it you old geezers say?" she asks. "Can I take a raincheck?"

"Of course," I say.

"Good. I need to think. I'll take the couch this time."

I show her the closet with extra pillows and make her a little pallet on the couch. After a very chaste good night kiss, I head up to my own bedroom. I take off my clothes and collapse in my bed. I'm asleep in moments.

#

My mind snaps awake as soon as Sam steps inside my room. She approaches the bed, and the moonlight glinting from her naked body peels the shadows back like dark curtains. She joins me on the bed, searches out my manhood, and wraps her hand around me. She strokes me until I'm hard. Without a word, she straddles me, guides my cock into her wet snatch, and drops down on top of me, filling herself with a hiss of satisfaction. She begins to ride me. She moves neither slowly nor quickly. She doesn't moan or bite her lip or play with her nipples. Instead she takes my hands, places them on her hips and holds them there while she moves up and down at the steady pace of a priestess climbing to her mountain temple. Shadows and pale light form strange patterns on the walls, the bed, her skin; her eyes burn a lively green. Her stare transfixes me to the bed. I can't move or speak, and Sam is silent. She speaks to me only in the steady rhythm of her hips and the gentle pressure of her hands on mine. I find our bodies melding in a new way. We become one. I can feel everything she feels. The coldness against her skin, her stiff nipples sensitive and ready to be sucked. I can feel every heartbeat, every breath, every jolt of pleasure that travels through her. I can feel her being filled with my cock, the joy of being stretched, the delicious grinding of her clit against my flesh. I can feel my rough, strong hands on her hips. She too can feel what I feel, her warmth and wetness surrounding my straining cock, the incredible pleasure when the head of my cock rubs against her tight opening. She knows how I feel about holding her, the wonder of her soft feminine skin beneath my fingertips, the rhythm of her weight on top of me.

I am not sure how long she rides me. Ten minutes or a hundred, I do not know. It feels like hours. My orgasm arrives from a far off place, in no hurry. I can see it coming like the distant swell of a tremendous wave. She can see it too - a lonely girl standing on the beach, feet planted in the sands of our pleasure. But she makes no attempt to avoid it. She holds my hands to her hips. She doesn't change her pace. She rides me. My orgasm is intense, breaking my paralysis. I grit my teeth. My hands clutch at her waist forcing her down on me while I push my hips upward, desperately trying to bridge those last millimeters of space between us. She doesn't fight me. When I begin to come, she stops moving and waits silently and patiently as I grunt and fill her with my hot seed. Once I'm finished, she slides off me, curls up with her back against my chest, moves my arm around her, and falls asleep.

#

The next morning, I wake up first, as I did those weeks ago that first time we made love, but this time I have no intention of sneaking out like a guilty bandit. For better or worse, I am done with guilt and hesitation.

Instead I look at Sam's back, and her hair, the dizzying array of individual golden strands aglow with the morning light. Half aglow, anyway - her darker roots are beginning to show. I try to restrain myself to just looking, to simply appreciating her as long as I'm able. I last seven seconds before the temptation is too great. I touch her shoulder. Why shouldn't I kiss it while I'm at it? I do. Every inch of her is important, divine, and I kiss the spot next to that one and next to that one and next to that one. Each kiss is different, the texture different, the taste different. I want to map out the infinite topography of her skin. I walk my fingers along her pale, slender arm. I -

"Teach...?" she says sleepily.

"Good morning, Samantha," I say delicately and very lightly kiss her ear. "How are you feeling?"

She turns around in bed and stares at me, blinking the sleep from her eyes slowly and deliberately. "Correct me" - she says and yawns - "if I'm wrong. But did you just call me Samantha?"

"Maybe?"

"Oh no." She groans and slides deeper under the covers and hides for a moment before sliding back up. "Do not Samanatha me. You've had your cock down my throat, up my ass, and right now I can feel your dried cum on my thighs. I think we are safely past the Samantha stage. There is no Samantha here. Samantha is out. Here there is only Sam."

"Er? I was just—"

She stops me with an upraised hand. "I know what you were doing. You were being sweet. I hate sweet. Sweet is ugh. I don't love you for your sweetness. I love you for your desperation. So don't be a dumbo. I'm not some delicate flower. Well I am - but I'm a complex woman, yo. Sometimes I'm a flower. Last night I was a flower. But sometimes I'm a well-oiled sex engine, ready for your piston. Right now I'm revvin'. How long has it been since you ass-fucked me?"

"Uh..."

She rests her head on the pillow, staring at me, her smile as mysterious as the sphinx's. "Well?"

I think back. The last time was in this very bed, in circumstances not all that different. I remember her words: My other hole is jealous. "Three weeks," I say.

"Three weeks? Three weeks? Are you fucking kidding me? Way too long," she says. "Way way too long. Lean back."

I do, and she tosses aside the covers and climbs on top of me until her knees are on either side of my head. She grabs hold of the headboard and leans forward, aligning her asshole with my mouth.

"It's gonna need to be nice and wet," she says. "Considering how hard it'll be riding your cock in about five seconds."

I stick the tip of my tongue in her nether hole and begin rimming her. She helps me, rotating the angle of her hips so I can lick her at different angles and eventually just rubbing herself over my tongue. After she exhorts me to make her even wetter, I spit on her little star and use my tongue to spread it around.

"Nice," she says and slides down and kisses me. "Hm, interesting."

She grabs two pillows from her side of the bed, places them against the footboard opposite of me, and leans back against them. She spreads her legs, revealing herself to me. She notices my grin. "You like me being lewd don't you? You like looking at my pink pussy? My tight asshole?"

I nod.

"Good. Then watch me frig my ass."

She gets one finger into her backdoor without any problem. My tongue made her nice and slick. She reams her asshole easily, her finger disappearing up to the knuckle. The second finger makes things more difficult. At three fingers, she makes what I consider to a very good decision to use her other hand to finger both her cunt and her asshole simultaneously. It's lewd and bestial and I love it. When I begin to stroke myself, she says, "No. Wait your fucking turn." I stop stroking but keep my hand around my shaft, gently squeezing it.

She looks at me, annoyed. "Okay, Mr. Impatience. But your cock is dry and I don't really feel like sucking you now. Where's your lube? Nightstand?"

I nod.

She retrieves it and squirts a big dollop on my cock. She roughly and impatiently strokes me with one hand, covering me with the slick gel. With that done, she climbs back on top of me, grabs hold of my cock, aims it toward her little brown asterisk, and slowly lowers herself down. "Yessssss," she says as inch after inch of my manhood disappears inside her.

"No Loch Ness," she grunts when she's managed my full length. "But it'll do."

She begins riding me, and I do mean riding me, like a giddy cowgirl at her first rodeo. It's everything the previous night was not. She leans back lewdly, so I can watch her asshole swallowing my thick cock as she bucks up and down. The tightness is incredible. "Don't. Be. So. Fucking. Lazy," she says between bounces. "Rub. My. Clit." As fast and hard as she's moving, it's difficult to keep my fingers on her little pleasure button and I end up rubbing her whole pussy as much as her clit. My cock pops out of her a couple times, but every time, she stuffs me back in and keeps at it. Her orgasm is heralded with loud growling moans, but she powers through it, intent on working my cock, trying to get me to cum. I've been on a sustained almost-climax for five minutes but her weight on top of me and the tightness of her ass is preventing it from happening. Finally she gives up, "My fucking legs are fucking killing me." She leans back against the pillows and places her legs against chest, her knees bent back against her breasts. I waste no time in climbing on top of her, and ramming myself inside her gaping asshole.

"Nice," she says. "Finish yourself off."

I fuck her ass like that, her body bent backwards like a bow. It doesn't take but a handful of strokes to reach my orgasm. I pull out of her and stroke my cock. I try out one of her load groans, a good solid throaty grunt of pleasure equivalent to one of her banshee screams, just as I shoot out ropes of my spunk all over her asshole and cunt. When I finally emerge from my orgasmic haze, I find her silently laughing, humor tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "Damn teach," she says when she manages to master her laughter. "I guess you really liked that?"