Sam & Teach Ch. 03

"Yeah," I say. "I guess I did."

After she drags me with her into the shower to 'clean up my mess,' I make her a breakfast of pancakes (and grapefruit, but she doesn't much care for it and trades it for an orange), and we talk about what to do for the rest of the day. She asks if she can stay over for a bit to complete her HW and study.

I wait for the hesitation, that little angel on my shoulder telling me to say no. But it seems he's gone on vacation. "Sure," I say. "No problem."

She retrieves her backpack from her car and transforms my kitchen table into Sam Pierce HW HQ. She has a ton, mine included. Greenstone Academy is very serious about homework; the notion that idle hands are the devil's playground might as well be codified in the school handbook. She starts on an English essay, while I retreat to my office to do lesson plans and grade old work. By the time I'm finished with that, she's moved on to US History, writing 1-2 paragraphs each on keypoints regarding the American Civil War. At noon, I force her to take a break and eat a toasted pesto chicken Panini, an oldie goldie recipe of mine that I've perfected through countless trial and error. Then it's back to homework.

By one o' clock, I've pretty much exhausted all the errands I can do and instead lean on the wall and watch Sam study. She's infuriatingly cute. I watch her adjust her butt on the chair, sitting on one leg for a bit, before deciding it's uncomfortable and curling up into a ball, both knees pressing against the table. Occasionally a strand of golden hair will slip loose and she'll blow it out of the way a time or two before grabbing hold of it, inspecting it for who knows what, and slipping it back behind her ear. After enough of this, she searches through her backpack, pulls out a hairband, and puts her hair into a quick ponytail.

I've noticed the beautiful girls in my class before, of course. I'm not blind. But the fact that I know - that I've experienced - all of Sam's sexual exuberance, that I know her body in intimate detail, makes her unconscious girlish antsiness all the more adorable. That my loose-fitting shirt has slipped over her shoulder to reveal a red bra strap doesn't help either. I let desire fill me and walk toward her.

She doesn't even notice me until I reach out and begin to rub her shoulders. "This is in the way," I mumble and slip one and then both bra straps off her shoulders.

She ignores me for a minute or two before sighing. "You're distracting me, teach."

"Sorry," I say, but I don't stop. I move her hair out of the way and kiss her neck. She pretends to focus on her work, but her pencil doesn't move, the sharpened tip resting, waiting for her to finish a sentence about some general or other. Eventually, she surrenders entirely and looks back, offering her lips to me. I kiss her them. As I force my tongue into her mouth, I slide my hand over her throat.

"Come with me to the bedroom," I say.

She nods.

I take her hand and lead her to the stairs and then up them.

When we enter my bedroom, I say, "Put on your dress, from last night."

"Make-up too?"

"Yes."

"I can't do it as well. I don't have everything. I need to get my back-up makeup from downstairs."

"Go," I say, "and be quick about it."

She's down then up in a flash, carrying with her a small bag. She shows it to me, and I nod my acceptance. While she's putting on her clothes and make-up, I retrieve two chairs from downstairs and place them couple feet apart from each other. I sit and watch. From my angle, I can see partially into my bathroom. I can see one bare leg, some of her butt and some of her back, naked but for the red bra. More than enough to stoke the fires of my lust to a very fine edge.

After ten minutes, she slips herself into her dress. I hear it zipping up and then she turns and strolls out. She is just as pretty and exotic and womanly as she was last night. Metallic green eye-shadow, crimson lips, two hair-sticks crossed through a casually elegant coiling of her hair. It takes all of my willpower not to throw her down on the bed and have my way with her at once. Instead I gesture to the chair opposite me. "Take a seat," I say.

She does, and I feast upon the image of her as if she were a living statue. I appreciate the tightness of her dress, flowing over her body, curving slightly over breasts. Her right leg is thrust out of the slit. I notice her red toe-nails for the first time.

"If I didn't know better," I say. "I'd say you were a royal lady. But I do know better. Your underwear. What color?"

"Black."

"Describe it."

"They're mesh, with a diamond pattern, and frills on the edge. They're transparent, sorta."

"Why did you wear them?"

She blushes, playing her role well. "I thought you'd like how my butt looked in them."

"Of course you did," I say. "Show me."

She stands up, turns around, and slowly, hesitantly hikes her skirt up. She's right. Her knickers are pretty, with a fine black mesh texture that is half transparent and stretched tight across her bottom. In the warm afternoon light, the two globes of her ass are clearly visible.

"Now your front."

She sits back down and slides her dress up to her waist again, flashing me her long beautiful legs in the process. Without my even asking, she spreads her legs apart and lets me look before closing them once more.

"Very good," I say. "And your bra? What color is it?"

"Red."

"Show me."

Her dress unzips from her neck to the corner of her shoulder, allowing her to pull the top half down to show her bra. White leaf-patterns on a pink background. Sam is breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling.

"Show me your nipples," I say.

She slips the straps of her bra off her left shoulder and then pulls down the cup so I can see her small pink stub, stiff proud saluting soldier.

"Your nipples are hard," I say. "Is it cold in here?" I look around, as if I can see the temperature.

"No," she says.

"No. Does it turn you on to strip off your clothes in front of your teacher?"

"Yes," she says.

"I guess that makes you something of a slut, doesn't it?"

"Your slut, maybe."

"Oh you are. That's how I know when I tell you to slide your panties aside and stick a finger in your cunt, you'll do it, won't you?"

She pulls her black panties aside to reveal her pussy lips and sticks her left index finger inside. I realize for the first time how strange that is, her preference for her left hand to masturbate. She writes with her right hand. "Good," I say. "Are you wet?"

"Yes, teach."

"Finger yourself hard until I tell you to stop."

She does as I say, penetrating herself up to her knuckle. I slip off my clothes, until I'm wearing nothing. "Two fingers," I say and she adds her middle finger. In response, I begin to pull on my stiff rod in slow, luxurious strokes, as deliberate as her finger fucking is frantic. "Play with your nipple," I say and she does, gently kneading her breast. "No," I say. "Harder." She squeezes her right nipple between thumb and forefinger, twisting until she gasps. "Yes, good," I say. "Stop fingering yourself and rub your clit." She makes the switch, staring at me the whole time, her gaze alternating between my cock and my face.

"Have you masturbated thinking of me?" I ask.

"Every night," she says.

"Every night," I say. "That's a lot. I don't believe you."

"Every night we're not together," she amends.

"What do you think about?"

"You fuck me."

"Where?"

"In my pussy and my ass."

"Yes," I say, eyeing her body, enjoying her half-clothed state, one breast visible, the other covered by her bra, her underwear pulled aside, her dress shadowing her waist. Her fingers fly up and down her clit. "But where?"

"Everywhere. Here. I like to imagine sometimes you wake me up with your cock in my ass. You can't wait, and I'm pulled from my dreams by your groin smashing against my ass. Or that, mid-class, you stop your lecture and walk over and have me, in front of all the other students. They watch silently as you force me over my desk and thrust into my pussy. You grab my hair and make me cum in front of everyone. When you've had your fill of that hole, you give me a good mouth fucking. You cum down my throat, but I can't swallow it all and it drips down my chin."

Christ, I think, appreciating Sam's capacity for dirty talk, but I don't let my appreciation touch my voice. "Your mouth, you say?"

"Yes."

"That's a good idea," I say and stand up. "A waste if we didn't put such fine red lips to good use." I walk toward her, until my cock is dangling in front of her. She reaches out to grab hold of it and I slap her hand away. "Did I tell you to stop masturbating? Switch back to fingering yourself. Your mouth and no other part will touch me."

She turns her head sideways and slides her lips over me. Her freshly applied lipstick leaves a smear of crimson on my cock. Despite the uncomfortable angle, she does a good job of keeping up a steady forward and back motion. I appreciate the sight, those delightful red lips pleasuring my stiff mast. But then she gets distracted and forgets to pleasure herself.

"Didn't I tell you not to stop?" I say. "I'll help you then."

I thread my fingers into her fancy hair coils and steadily begin to pump myself in and out of her mouth, not going deep, not near as deep as I've been before, simply enjoying the sensation of her moist lips, her talented tongue. As if to make up for her lapse, she fingerbangs herself furiously and pulls on her nipple, looking up at me the whole time, the green in her eyes accented by metallic jade shading and thick, black eyelashes. I feel like I'm despoiling something precious and I suppose that's not untrue.

"Is this about what you imagined when you masturbated?"

With my cock in her mouth, she can only nod.

"Did you cum, fantasizing about this?"

She nods.

"Good, show me what it feels like when you cum with a cock in your mouth."

She moves her hand down from her nipple to her clit and combines a good clit mashing to her finger-fucking. Concentrated as she is on her own pleasure, she barely seems to notice my cock sliding in and out between her own lips. She closes her eyes and comes, moaning around my cock as she does.

When her eyes open, I say, "Good. Good. You know, I think a little competition is in order. While you suck my cock, I'd like to taste my slut's little pussy. Maybe we see who can make the other come first, huh?"

She stands up from the chair and pulls her dress down over her body and onto the floor, leaving her in just her black mesh panties and red bra. When she walks to the bed, she sashays her hips, her ass clearly visible through the mesh. After she climbs on the bed, she hooks her thumbs into her underwear and asks, "Panties on or off?"

"On," I say and join her on the bed, sliding underneath her. I move the crotch of her panties still further aside. She sits on my face and we begin.

I explore her cunt, determined to win. I eat her with gusto, tasting the dripping arousal of her recent orgasm. I stick my tongue inside her pussy as far as it can go. I place my mouth over her clit and tease it with my tongue, soft circular motions spiced with stronger flicks. When my tongue grows tired, I finger her, two fingers hooked inside, rubbing her g-spot. Despite the awkward angle, I return my mouth to her clit and do both at once, fingers thrusting, and tongue writing its love letter against her pearl.

It seems to work, and she stops her own oral ministrations to rub herself against my face.

But the truth is, I never had a chance. After playing with me, grinding herself on my face without cumming, she counter-attacks. Work up to it, hah. She inhales my cock. Her gag-reflex mastered, she uses her mouth, her lips, and her throat. The pleasure is intense. I can hear the gurgling sounds of her incredible blowjob and I can sure as hell feel it, a tight wet suctioning over my cock's ridged head. It practically rips the orgasm right out of me, and I come within a few seconds. Some of my juice she swallows, the rest spurts into her mouth, spilling from the sides of her lips. But she doesn't stop as she normally does after my orgasm. She keeps her motion, slurping my manhood. It's excruciating, against my now sensitive cock.

"Fuck!" I say. "Stop. Too sensitive!"

I try to move but she locks her thighs around my head, holding me in place. As she continues to take me down her throat, I have for the first time in my life two orgasms in a row. This second one is a dry orgasm, but not less in pleasure for it.

"Ah fuck!" I say, thrusting my hips wildly into her warm, receptive lips.

After my second orgasm, she releases me from her mouth and leans back on top of me, rubbing her cunt over my mouth now, preventing me from speaking. She looks back at me over her shoulder, mischief dancing her green eyes. "I think I won, teach. I'll take my sweet time now." She does, gently riding my face, letting me enjoy the taste of her cunt at my leisure. She has a nice, gentle orgasm maybe twenty minutes later.

Afterward, she lies down in bed beside me, slides underneath my arms, and sighs happily.

"I could stay like this forever," she says.

"Mmhmm," I say.

"But I can't! Things to do!" She wiggles her way out from underneath my arms and climbs out of bed. After a quick shower, she packs up her stuff and heads home. I wave goodbye from my door, and she stops, rolls down the window, and blows me a kiss. It is now true what I said after that first day we fucked. I have taken responsibility for her. Responsibility for making her happy. And now the reverse is true as well, now she holds the keys to my happiness. She's gone less than sixty seconds and I miss her already.

#

I don't see or talk with Sam on Sunday and when Monday rolls around, she doesn't show. She misses my lecture on magnetic flux. I consider calling her, but don't. Maybe she needs time or space.

She's gone the next day.

And the next.

Immediately after class on Wednesday, I dial her number, but it cuts straight to voicemail: Hey, this is Sam Pierce. If you're calling about a modeling or acting job, leave a message. Everyone else, join the 21^st century and text me.

I think about texting her, but don't. Just in case someone else has her phone. Instead, I head to the front desk, which is manned by the tough, rotund principal's assistant Mrs. Gertrude Gothro, who looks like she wrestles bulls in her spare time.

"Hey, Ginny," I say. "You're looking very fine today."

"Busy, very busy, and everything in triplicate," she replies, glancing up from a pile of red, yellow, and white sheets. "What do you need?"

"One of my students has been gone for three days. I was wondering—"

She holds up one finger. "Name?"

"Samantha Pierce."

She taps at her keyboard and looks down through her reading glasses resting on her nose. "How strange."

"What?"

"It appears she has been withdrawn from the rest of the school year, pending some final paperwork."

My stomach drops to the center of the earth. "Strange? Why strange?"

"Well, we don't offer any sort of refund. We find such changes disruptive to the student and to the class flow, so we attempt to discourage parents from removing their child in the middle of the school year. But here under the reason, it simply says, 'Changing school.' It's very irregular. The reason is almost always work-related."

"I see," I say. "Thanks Ginny. Have a good hump day."

She chortles. "Oh you know it. Now shoo." She waves me off.

But I take one step and then turn on my heel. "One more thing. You said she's waiting on some final paperwork. What might that be?"

"Well," says Ginny. "Samantha turned 18 just prior to the school year, so she is technically an adult and therefore needs to sign her withdrawal."

"But she hasn't?"

"No."

"Alright," I say. "Thanks again."

"Toodaloo."

I hurry up to my office, my heels clicking on Greenstone's green marble floors. The school has always reminded me of a Greek temple, classical architecture with its columns and its arches, and its obsession with rigid symmetry. It occurs to me now that it could also pass for a mausoleum. In my office, I quickly search through my student contacts until I come across Sam's parents. I take a deep breath, calm my nerves, and dial up her mother's number.

After one ring, her voice comes on, "Hello, this is Abigail Pierce."

"Hello, Mrs. Pierce," I say in my teacher voice. "This is Samantha's physics teacher, Mr. -"

"Yes, yes. Sam has been withdrawn, you know?"

"Just now. I'm finalizing some of my paper work on her grades, which, I assume, will be transferred to her new school. But I was unable to find where exactly she transferred to, and I need..."

"Unfortunately," says the tinny voice coming from my cellphone's speaker, "despite our best efforts and prayers and your timely warning, we were unable to rein in Sam's poor behavior and had no other choice but to send her to a facility where she could get the proper care."

"Ah, yes," I say. "What facility is that?"

"Brown Street Correctional Facility," she says.

"Okay," I say. "I'll just scribble that in and everything will be good. Thank you."

"Have a—" I hang up on her. Bitch.

I grab my keys, my coat, and I'm out the door as soon as can be. Brown Street Correctional on the city outskirts, about an hour out. Once I'm on the road, I dial up a buddy of mine, my go-to for substitution, and call in a favor to have him cover my classes for the rest of the week.

#

Brown Street Correctional is well-known, made famous by a scandal a few years back. The head honcho there was using the inmates as free labor, making clothes and shoes and, at the end, even drugs, whatever he could to make a quick buck. When it was uncovered, a lot of people called for the thing being permanently shuttered. But not all. Some people can't feel safe unless others are locked up.

I figure it's probably better now... but I still don't like the thought of Sam in there. I've had my freedom taken before. It isn't something I would wish on anyone, least of all Sam. The miles pass quickly, unnoticed by my overactive mind.

Brown's Correctional Facility reminds me of a factory, a tall stout brick structure harkening back from the earliest days of industrial revolution, the days when functionality trumped all concerns for style. For all I know, maybe it actually had been one. It's the exact opposite of Greenstone: Brown Correctional is no place of learning. I pull in to the visitor's parking lot, leap out, and enter through the thick heavy-set doors. I'm pissed. I have no plan, no idea what I'm doing, but I'm ready. No matter what it takes, I am going to resc—

"Teach? How?" says Sam.

Startled, I practically fall over when she grabs hold of my arm.

"Whatever. Time to go go go," she says and begins leading me out, but then the woman at the front desk clears her throat, a noise not unlike a dying elephant's roar.

Sam and I wheel around to face a woman who is twin to Greenstone's own secretary, Ginny. That is, her evil twin. As huge and powerful, but with all sense of playfulness sucked out of her. Her face is like a melted candle, her eyes sunken, her jowls hanging from her face. A hatred blazes out of her eyes at me. "Where are you going?" she says in a deep, sonorous voice.

"I am her guardian," I say.

"Not anymore. She's an adult now. You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Pierce. I could bring you up on charges of kidnapping." She turns to Sam and her voice turns gentle. "Should I call the police?"

"No Mrs. Hesse, it's alright. I think he's sorry, now, right?" A look in her eye tells me to play along.