Teacher's Pet

byCal Y. Pygia©

I never responded to a personal ad before I responded to Manuel’s ad, and I never will again. I wish I’d never answered his, but, of course, it’s too late to worry about that now. I was an idiot, no doubt about it, but self-recriminations won’t change anything. The best I can do is to resolve not to repeat my mistake, and, believe me, I have no intention of ever responding to another such ad, even if it means I die a lonely old maid.

I knew better, or course. I’m not a stupid woman. In fact, I’m not only fairly intelligent, but I am also reasonably well educated, with a master’s in fine arts degree from an impressive university back east. It’s just that, between teaching American literature and freshmen composition classes and grading student’s papers, an English teacher can get awfully lonely. There’s not much gratification in marking the sentence fragments, comma splices, and shift in tense in students’ papers. At the time I saw Manuel’s ad, I was feeling blue, mostly as a result of the periodic self-pity parties I throw for myself, and, quite frankly, his ad sounded refreshing, if a little naïve, and sincere. I’ve pitched it, but it wasn’t long, and I have a good memory, so I can quote it to you verbatim:

I am not only passionate in myself, but the cause of passion in others as well. --Manuel

It didn’t bother me that he was paraphrasing Prince Hal, who, concerning Falstaff, had remarked that the fleshly knight was “not only amusing” in himself “but the cause of amusement in others as well.” Indeed, the covert allusion intrigued me. Manuel’s familiarity with the bard caused me to hope that he might have more to offer than just a stiff, warm body on a cold, dark night. Silly girl that I’d been, I’d dared to hope that Manuel might have a brain as well as a cock. It’s not difficult for a lonely woman to believe a dozen impossible things about a man, all before breakfast, to paraphrase another man of letters.

It didn’t take long for me to become disillusioned on that score. As soon as he answered my knock at his door, I saw that he was a hopeless dimwit.

Although Manuel was a magnificent physical specimen, as muscular as he was handsome, with broad shoulders, a deep chest, a firm belly, a strong back, powerful arms and legs, a tight, compact ass, and a long, thick, manly cock, there was nothing between his ears. To call him as dense as a post would be to insult the post.

Naturally, I was curious as to how someone as obviously intellectually challenged as Manuel was could have conceived the idea of paraphrasing one of the best writers in the world. I wouldn’t have asked jut anyone. Some men would be offended by such a question, and some men, when their egos are bruised, are not opposed to venting their wounded sense of themselves by loosening a few teeth or breaking a couple of bones. Manuel seemed quite capable of accomplishing either of these tasks, but I had no fear of him--not initially, at least. He was too stupid to understand the implication of my questioning him as to how he had managed to come up with such a witty line as the one that had appeared in his personal ad.

When I asked him, he’d said, “Huh? What line?”

“You know, the one in your ad--‘I am not only passionate in myself, but the cause of passion in others as well.’”

“Oh!” His face reddened as he recalled the words. “I paid some college asshole to write that for me.”

“Whatever for?”

His blush deepened. “I wanted something that sounded, you know--” he faltered, seeking his next word.

“Sophisticated?” I prompted him.

“Yeah, that’s it--suffocated. I wanted to sound, like, suffocated.”

I’ll admit that I should have cancelled our date, right then and there. I wish I had. However, as I’ve mentioned, I was lonely at the time--all right, lonely and horny. I hadn’t been with a man in months, and, stupid or not, Manuel was a magnificent specimen of the male sex. I figured, What the hell? Why not? All I wanted was a quickie; it didn‘t even have to be a one-night stand. Judging by the size of him, he ought to be able to satisfy me in that department, at least, I reasoned. Afterward, I’d just be on my way, sexually sated, never to see Manuel again.

Was I using Manuel? Okay, maybe I was. I was lonely. I was horny. Besides, he was using me, too, wasn’t he? We were two adults, consenting to use one another.

Of course, I made sure he understood that I have a cock and a pair of balls of my own as well as firm, full tits and a round, feminine ass. Most guys don’t like surprises--not in the bedroom, at least--and stupid men like Manuel seem to like such surprises least of all. I didn’t want a split lip, a bloody nose, a concussion, or worse, so I told him I’m a transsexual.

His reaction was as I’d expected. “Huh?” he grunted. “What’s that?”

I knew I had to put it in the simplest terms for him, so I said, “It’s a chick with a dick.”

He frowned, clearly puzzled. “Huh? Is that possible?”

To prove to him that such a transformation is possible, I hiked up my skirt, lowered my panties, and showed him my genitals.

His eyes widened, and his mouth gaped. “What the hell?” he cried, amazed.

“Do you want to fuck me or not?” I asked. I was horny, but I was damned if I was going to be gawked at by some retarded muscleman. As far as I was concerned, I’d shown him the package. He could take it or leave it.

He clapped his hands together, grinning like an idiot. “Hot damn!” he cried. Picking me up, he carried me through his living room, into the bedroom, and set me upon his king-size bed, as carefully as if I were a china doll. “I ain’t never fucked no chick with a dick before. I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

In bed, Manuel was every bit as magnificent as I’d anticipated. He wasted no time. Stripping off my clothes and then his own, he lubricated my asshole with his saliva, pointed his erection between my buttocks, and shoved his monster cock through my tight sphincter. The long, thick column of flesh plunged into my rectum, and my anus fluttered frantically about his invading organ. He slapped my ass hard, they way, I imagine, he might have slapped a mare’s flank (or the backside of his favorite ewe), and rode me hard and fast, pounding his enormous manhood into my impaled bottom with a fury bordering upon violence.

There was no tenderness or affection in his actions; I felt more as if I were being raped than being made love to. I was just an ass to him, just a hole into which he could drive and plunge. It felt as if he were splitting me apart. I gasped and cried and moaned, but my discomfort and pain merely excited him further, and he ravished me with greater urgency, his long, thick, hard prick working like a piston within my bowels. He would withdraw until only the enormous glans remained lodged within my ass, and then plunge back into me, to the very hilt, so that his balls slapped against me.

I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut against the tears that welled within them, telling myself that I could endure this ravishment. As fierce as it was, it would end soon.

I was wrong.

Manuel was a stallion. The harder he pounded me, the more excited he seemed to become. I had the feeling that he was watching his prick sliding back and forth between my wide-stretched anus, getting off psychologically as well as sexually on the assault he was committing against my impaled buttocks. It seemed clear to me that he was as enamored of his own strength, virility, and machismo as he was of my naked helplessness. He rammed his cock into me as if it were a battering ram. For Manuel, it appeared, sex was a means of dominating another person. For him, women were but weaker vessels of his own strength and stamina, to be occupied and conquered, possessed and subjugated by the power of his manhood and the strength of his masculinity, a chick with a dick even more so, perhaps, than a genetic female.

He was strong, and he had stamina such as I’d never imagined, but, of course, eventually, he climaxed. He shuddered violently, crying out as if he were an enraged bull, as he shoved his huge cock as deeply into my rectum as possible, and his thick, warm semen flooded my bowels, gushing into me in long, copious spurts, as if he were emptying not only his balls but also his very heart and mind and soul into the depths of my being.

He collapsed atop me, his prick still deep inside my ass, and I felt his wild heart beating against my back, as frantically as my asshole had fluttered when he’d first impaled me, and I thought how ironic it was that the line he’d paid a student to write for him, plagiarizing Shakespeare, was true, for, I must confess, his passion, though doubtlessly born of a sadistic need to punish and to conquer, did awaken within me an even deeper, corresponding passion--a lust to be hurt and used and humiliated, the passion of the masochist.

He lay atop me for some time, sweating and gasping, his lungs heaving and his heart pounding, his thick cock slowly dwindling within me. I felt worse than ashamed at the thought, but I wanted him to remain inside me, stiff and swollen, panting and heaving and sweating, forever. I wanted his cock to fill me. I wanted his prick to hammer my ass. I wanted his thick, warm semen to flood my bowels again and again, erupting like molten lava inside me for eternity.

Finally, his penis, soft and limp, plopped from my gaping asshole, trailing a last tendril of semen down my cleavage, and he rolled off me. Now that the act of violence had been completed, he was the same naïve, stupid fool he’d been before he’d ravished me. With anyone else, I would have attributed the question that he was next to ask to audacity, but, in Manuel’s case, I attributed it to his pronounced lack of intellect.

Looking at me with this dark eyes, he smiled. “When can we see each other again?”

Inwardly, I said “never,” but to his face, I said, “We’ll see.” I started to get out of bed, but he put his hand on my arm. It was a heavy hand, with powerful fingers, attached to a strong, muscular arm.

“Wait,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Can we talk a while?”

I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to put my clothes on, go home, soak in a hot bubble bath, and forget I’d ever met Manuel. “Talk? About what?”

“Us.”

My eyebrows rose. “Us?”

He nodded, his face somber. His hand seemed heavier.

I shrugged. “Okay.” He removed his hand from my arm. “What do you want to know?”

Now, he shrugged. “Where do you work?”

I’m a very private person. Normally, I would never answer such a question, especially since it came from a virtual stranger. But I wanted to go home. I wanted to soak my aching body--and my sore ass--and I wanted to forget all about Manuel. What would it hurt, anyway, I asked myself. The bastard was retarded or close to it. In the morning, he probably wouldn’t even remember my name, much less where I worked. I smiled. “I teach English,” I told him, “at the local community college. My next classes start tomorrow, in fact.”

“A teacher,” he repeated, stroking my hair with a sausage-size finger. I was reminded of Lenny, in John Steinbeck’s novel, “Of Mice and Men,” and how the big, slow-witted sharecropper accidentally breaks the neck of Candy’s wife while he’s petting her hair in the barn.

“That’s right.”

He continued to stroke my hair. “A English teacher, at the college.”

“Yes.” I refrained from correcting his grammar. I just wanted to leave. I just wanted to escape, to get home.

“You’re pretty,” he declared, watching his finger circle inside my hair. “You the first chick with a dick I ever fucked.”

“It’s late, Lenny,” I said. “I have to go now. I have to get up early tomorrow, to teach--”

“What did you call me?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You called me a name.”

“I did?”

“‘Lenny’! That’s what you called me. Why did you call me ‘Lenny’? My name’s Manuel. Manuel Sanchez.”

“I guess you remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

I looked at him, uneasily. “A man named Lenny.”

“Who was he, this man name Lenny?’

“Just a man.” I caught his twirling finger in my hand. “I have to go now, Manuel. Please.”

His finger stopped.

“Okay,” he said.

I climbed out of bed, and he watched me dress.

“You the first chick with a dick I ever fucked,” he repeated.

I didn’t know what to say. “I hope you enjoyed it,” I said.

He grinned. “I want to fuck you again,” he declared. “I want to fuck you all the time, every day.”

“Well, that’s sweet, Manuel. We’ll talk, but, right now, I have to go.”

He nodded solemnly. “I know. You got to teach tomorrow.”

“That’s right.”

“Call me.”

“I will.”

“You got my number, right?”

“Yes.”

“Call.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

I nodded. “I promise, Manuel.”

I didn’t call, of course. I had no intention of ever seeing Manuel again.

As it turned out, he didn’t leave me that option. On the third day of English composition, he showed up in my classroom, having just enrolled.

To say that I was shocked to see him would be a monumental understatement. I was horrified. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I enrolled,” he announced, looking pleased at himself for having said such a word. “Enrolled,” he repeated, smiling.

“This is a college class,” I reminded him.

He took a seat--the one right in front of my desk--and sat there, grinning at me, like a mindless simpleton, eyeing the cleavage of my breasts below the collar of my blouse. I wished I hadn’t left the top two buttons unbuttoned.

He looked huge. He seemed to fill the entire room. The other students, most of them just out of high school, gave him an odd look, part of wonder, part of fright. “That right,” he acknowledged my statement. “I’m getting a education, as a English teacher, like you.”

The imbecile probably thought he could win my heart--and maybe my hand--by entering the same profession as the one in which I was employed. Very well, I thought. I’d show him that he hadn’t a hope in hell of passing my class, let alone obtaining a degree. “Class,” I instructed, “take out your notebooks and write a brief account of why you are here and what you hope to gain.” I looked directly at Manuel as I spoke, a smug grin on my face.

As the class session ended, the students filed out, leaving their assignments on my desk. I was afraid that Manuel might lag behind, but he didn’t. He went out with the others, ogling my breasts, a stupid leer on his imbecilic face. Despite the assignment, it seemed he still believed that he could pass my class. A person can be so stupid that he isn’t aware of how truly ignorant he is, I thought. Consequently, he wouldn’t understand how hopeless his aspiration to earn a degree really is. Well, I thought, picking up his paper, Let’s see what he’s written. As I read the ragged scrawl, my eyes widened in shock, my pulse racing. Had I really read what I thought I’d read? As I scanned his jumbled scribble again, this is what I read:

“I xpeck a A in this curse, or evreebuddy will no yore liddle secret.”

There was no doubt that Manuel was illiterate, I thought, but maybe he wasn’t as stupid as I’d supposed. Maybe, in some ways, he was a whole lot more intelligent than I was.

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