The Incentive Listbywabbit_season©
Many thanks to M Duchess for her editing skills and useful comments.
South East England
April 4th 1995
James could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for his fellow classmates to file out of the room. Was he really going to go through with this? What would be the worst case scenario? Detention? Expulsion? The police getting involved? Following the final perplexed glance over the shoulder from one of James' friends, the room was clear and he got to his feet and shuffled over to Mrs Parson's desk.
"Bear with me James, I'll be with you in two minutes," she said in her honey sweet voice without looking up from the paper she was scribbling on.
After 5 years he still got a tingling feeling when she used his name. All the other teachers at his school -- predominantly male -- favoured the old-fashioned use of the surname to address their pupils, but Mrs Parsons preferred the personal touch, and combined with her soft vocal tones and sweet candy perfume it inexplicably made James feel gooey inside whenever she spoke directly to him.
He had only just turned 18 and was in the final year of his studies before university, but from the first form right on through to the upper sixth, Mrs Parsons had formed an integral part of his education. They both joined the school at the same time -- he was aged 12 and she was probably in her late twenties, although none of the pupils had ever been able to confidently ascertain her exact age. The school was a private one for academically advanced pupils, situated in an affluent suburb of south east England and both he and she were fish out of water, but for very different reasons. He was a brainy kid from a poor background who was accepted on a scholarship, meaning he could compete with his classmates in terms of brainpower, but not in terms of social class or financial support. She was a modern young French teacher coming into an old-fashioned male-dominated staff room, and the arrival of a pretty young female teacher at an all-boys school sent the hormones of her young charges into overdrive, making her classes far more excitable than she was probably used to. James had notice her evolve her teaching style over the years to focus and redirect that energy into getting the class to respond to her and work hard for her. Something he only really appreciated as he himself matured.
The one thing he always appreciated though, from the moment he laid eyes on her all those years ago, was just how incredibly adorable she was. Aged 12, he fell in love with her pretty porcelain face and soulful brown eyes. She was petite, little more than 5'4", which made her less imposing than the other teachers, but she was also uncommonly kind. Her speaking voice was so soft and comforting that it made it all the more shocking when she had to let rip with her 'telling off' voice -- a sharp and cutting tone that seemed to sonically stun the room into silence. Through coincidence and luck, James had classes with Mrs Parsons in every school year. She was his form teacher in the first two years, and since he started French, she had always led his classes, right through to his GCSE exams. And in that time, the way he thought of Mrs Parsons gradually shifted from 'smitten' to 'unrequited love' through to 'object of burgeoning sexual desire'.
That last stage was inevitable. Puberty happened. Voices dropped along with balls and the sensual charms displayed by Mrs Parsons no longer went unnoticed. No doubt even a vaguely attractive young woman would have earned James' interest at an all-boys school featuring a predominantly male staff. The only other female members of staff were either butch, menopausal or both. But Mrs Parsons was much much more than vaguely attractive -- at least in James' eyes. Bobbed dirty blonde hair; full pink lips; smooth, pale skin with rosy cheeks; and a slim but curvy body with those breasts. God, did James have a thing for those boobs.
Mrs Parsons' chest formed the cornerstone of all of James' masturbatory fantasies. In whichever way they were modestly presented -- and they were always modestly presented -- James found it almost impossible to divert his attention away from them. Whether as firm mounds jutting proudly beneath a tight thick jumper or as subtly swaying globes encased in lace glimpsed through the thin material of a delicate blouse, they were nothing short of spectacular. Her small frame only succeeded in making them look even more generous, and if you placed all the minutes spent fantasising end-to-end, James had probably spent days imagining what they looked like unencumbered by garments.
James, of course, wasn't alone in how he felt about Mrs Parsons -- most pupils at some point would state their dishonourable intentions with regard to her in the privacy of the common room, but they kept it to themselves in her presence -- especially after hearing how she dealt with inappropriate behaviour. James was privy to one such occasion that reinforced the ground rules with regard to how far pupils could push things in her presence. She was usually so careful in avoiding accidental innuendo or any scenario that may give the bolder members of her class the opportunity to be suggestive with her in any way. However, during a lesson that touched upon constructing a past participle, Mrs Parsons was looking for an example from her class, and in a rare lapse of judgement asked Kevin Milton if he "would give her one." The blood drained from her face as she immediately realised her error, and Kevin, odious specimen that he was, pounced on it with relish.
"I'd love to give you one, Mrs Parsons."
The nervous smatter of laughter that immediately followed from some of the braver boys was immediately cut short by the almost supernatural shift in voice tone and poise that Mrs Parsons suddenly assumed.
"Kevin. Headmaster's office now. Saturday detention minimum, and you're lucky if I don't push for suspension. If I ever hear that kind of tone taken with me again, I'll have you expelled."
The whole room was frozen in shock for at least five seconds. Saturday detentions were held in reserve for the most serious of offences, and usually after several warnings. Kevin attempted a feeble defence:
"I... I... I didn't mean it like that. I..."
"Yes you did, and if you didn't then you deserve the detention for utter stupidity. Now go!"
And he did. And anyone who tried anything similar over the years got similar treatment. But James felt there was something special in the teacher/student relationship he had with Mrs Parsons, and it was a relationship that had convinced him over the years that perhaps he had her favour in a way that the other boys could only dream of. And he was sure he wasn't imagining it.
Firstly, she simply knew him better than probably all the other pupils in the building; he had, after all, been taught by her every year for over 5 years. While most boys, especially once they hit a certain age, acted bullish and confidently around her, James had maintained his awkward humility -- originally out of his inability to be any other way, but eventually because he realised how well Mrs Parsons responded to it. Although she acted tough, James knew that deep down she must have felt intimidated by the hormonally-corrupted teenage hulks she had to deal with every day. She may have hidden it perfectly, but James felt her relax and appear more laid back when engaging with his benign geniality. And then there was... well, there's no way it could in any way be defined as 'flirting', but there was an ease with which she carried herself around James that made him feel as if he was special somehow. She smiled at his silly stories with genuine warmth, laughed at his jokes (when they were funny) in a way that a friend would rather than a teacher, and talked to him outside of lessons in a way that even his class mates had commented seemed overly familiar. And then there was the unspoken bit -- the bit that fuelled James' solo sexual activities to no end. With him, and seemingly him alone, Mrs Parsons appeared to acknowledge the effect her body had on her students in a way that made James feel special, and incredibly, achingly horny.
The first time James can recall it happening was in a 4th year French lesson. A written test had been set and pupils were allowed to leave for lunch when they had completed it. Four students, James among them, were still struggling to complete the task. Mrs Parsons was going from desk to desk helping the stragglers with clues and advice, and eventually got to James, who was separated somewhat from his fellow classmates on the other side of the room.
"Are you nearly there James?" she said in her maple syrup voice.
"Vocab's letting me down. As always," came the reply.
James looked up from his page to engage his teacher in eye contact, but his gaze got stuck halfway. She was bending over his desk and her loose fitting blouse was doing a lousy job of blocking his line of sight to her magnificent cleavage. Her breasts were fully covered by the pretty white lace of her bra, but the shape and outline of her round, generous boobs was being presented just inches from James' face -- and he was unable to look anywhere else for what seemed like an eternity.
"I'm up here young man," she whispered, barely loud enough to break James' stupor.
He immediately flicked his eyes up to meet her gaze, the blood rushing to his cheeks through sheer embarrassment.
"I... I... I'm sorry, I..."
She stood up straight and readjusted the neckline of her garment to cover her cleavage completely. At first her gaze was admonishing him, but her expression quickly changed with a half smile and a shake of the head; she was clearly taking some amusement from his awkwardness. She took up a different position behind him and lent in to speak into his ear with almost a whisper.
"You're too easily distracted. And the word you're looking for is 'parapluie'."
It took about six seconds for James to realise that she was giving him the French for 'umbrella' so that he could complete his final sentence in his written scrawl. He finished with a hasty scribble, shot up from his desk and engaged his gorgeous teacher with a final sheepish look.
"Go to lunch," she said with a cheeky smile.
Kevin Milton got a Saturday detention. James got an eyeful. And that memory was recalled many times in the privacy of his bedroom.
And it wasn't an isolated incident. There were several moments that any reasonable person would dismiss as harmless or accidental, but James was so desperate to believe that his teacher felt some kind of attraction to him, that he let himself believe that his French teacher might, just might, be gently teasing him.
For example, there were the infrequent but fondly-remembered moments when she would squeeze her body past the back of his chair in class, brushing her breasts against the back of his head as she did so; the way she once spoke freely about her need for a decent sports bra when engaged in an out-of-class conversation about their mutual love of running; and the way she then jokingly held her bust in pain as he later observed her running around the school field. Did these things mean anything? Considering how hard she came down on anyone else taking an over-familiar tone with her, surely this was a sign that James had a unique kind of relationship with the most desirable woman in the premises? If only it approached even a fraction of the kind of relationship he imagined with her at night.
James was a virgin, but in his fantasies he had had sex a good several thousand times. And almost every single scenario had featured the beautiful Mrs Parsons. James couldn't recall anyone else outside of the odd Hollywood starlet that he had imagined making love to. She was perfect. And now he had concocted a ridiculous plan to try to make at least some of his fantasy a reality.
James was a science geek, and for his A-Levels he had chosen Biology, Chemistry and Maths. However, his school had high standards and pushed its attendees, forcing their sixth form students to do an extra 'half' A-level or AS-level course. Boys were encouraged to do something a little different from their core subjects, but James needed no encouragement to decide that French was the AS for him -- since Mrs Parsons was the only member of staff that taught at AS-level. His GCSE French result wasn't particularly great though -- a 'B' may sound OK, but at AS level only A-grade students tended to excel. And James' recent results were proving that theory correct. In his recent mock exam, just six months prior to the real thing, his effort had been so poor it had been scored a 'U' -- 'ungraded'. It was obvious why; his place at university was dependent only on the grades of his A-levels and though he excelled in the sciences, he wasn't particularly gifted when it came to languages. His private study and revision time was devoted almost solely to his main subjects because he found it easier and saw little reason to focus on his French. After all, he'd have to work incredibly hard just to get a semi-decent result. He had no incentive.
Mrs Parsons finally looked up from her writing and fired James a warm and friendly smile.
"Right," she said. "Is this about the mock results?"
"Kind of," James cryptically answered. "I've been thinking a bit about why it was so disastrous."
"Well I really don't think it's a problem with your ability. There was nothing in there you hadn't done before in class, and done very well. I'm convinced you are capable of getting a really good grade in the real thing, but you just need to put in the revision and the practice. I know it's hard with an AS to find the motivation, but it'd be a real shame for you not to get a clean sweep of wonderful grades in June, you really deserve it."
Oh, she was just too wonderful. James wanted to lean over and kiss her there and then. She was so kind, so supportive. So fucking hot.
"You're right, you're absolutely right. I was basically going to say the same thing. So I was thinking... You know Giles Mason?"
She narrowed her eyes with curiosity. "Yes."
"Have you heard about the deal his dad made with him?"
"Something involving a Jaguar, isn't it?"
"His dad has promised him a brand new Jag if he manages to get all A's in his exams. Do you know where he is right now? In the library. Studying. He lives there essentially, because, funnily enough, he really wants a Jag."
Mrs Parsons shook her head gently. "But that shouldn't be the reason for someone to excel; they should want to do it."
"In principle, I agree with you. In practice? I want to do well in French. Really, I do. But I've just got no incentive to work for it."
Mrs Parsons lent forward and clasped James' hand in mock sympathy. "James? I'm not going to buy you a car."
James smirked, then realised that the object of his affection was squeezing his palm, albeit for a joke. The electricity he felt seemed to power him to do what he never thought he'd have the guts to do. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"This is going to look bad. But please don't freak and please hear me out."
Mrs Parsons now looked perplexed. She took the paper from him, unfolded it and started to read. James' heart was now nearly smashing through his rib cage. He had done it. There was no turning back now. This could go horribly, horribly wrong. After apparently reading only one line, Mrs Parsons audibly gasped, her jaw almost hitting the floor. She quickly slammed the paper face down on the table and fixed James with a look of incredulity and, James thought, barely contained hysteria. It could have been a lot worse.
"JAMES! Do you know how much trouble this could get you in?!"
"Hear me out, please. You are the most amazing teacher I've ever had, and more than that I think you're one of the nicest people I've ever met too. I think you're incredible."
That particular compliment was expertly timed. The hysterical look melted into one of flattered affection. The incredulity was still there, mind.
"Now you haven't read it yet, and I'll warn you, it gets a lot worse, but I don't want you to think that I've turned into a pervert or that my opinion of you is low because I honestly hold you in absolutely the highest esteem. But more than that I also think you are an amazingly attractive woman and, quite frankly, stunning."
Mrs Parsons was trying to look impartial and understanding, but her blush belied the effect of the flattery.
"James, that's lovely of you to say, but you can't..."
"Please, let me finish, then you can expel me, or call the police or, whatever..."
"You're not going to get expelled," she reassured, warmly.
"Here's the thing. I know there is probably not a chance in hell that you will agree to anything on that list. I'm not stupid -- it's all incredibly inappropriate, and probably illegal and all sorts of wrong. I get that. But if I leave this room thinking that there's a chance -- just a chance, no matter how remote -- that any of that might come true, then I would have the biggest incentive in the world to work my arse off for this exam."
James mentally commended himself. He was good with words anyway, but this speech had been rehearsed over a hundred times, and he was delivering it perfectly, with just the right amount of awkward humility. And it seemed to be working, because Mrs Parsons actually appeared to be considering what he was saying. She puffed out a sharp breath and picked the paper back up to carry on reading.
"The only thing that would remove the incentive for me to crack this exam would be if you looked me in the eye and said 'James, there is no way on Earth that any of this will ever happen'. Or reported me. Both those things would kind of be definitive."
As Mrs Parson continued to read her eyes widened more and more and more, until James was worried her eyeballs would pop out. He knew why. The contents of the list were burned on his brain:
Incentives for achieving the following grades:
E = Play with breasts through clothes
D = Play with exposed breasts -- hands only
C = Play with exposed breasts -- hands and mouth
B = As per C but with climax on breasts
A = Tit wank to climax
Mrs Parsons threw herself back in her chair with exasperation and then, much to James' encouragement and amusement, burst into laughter.
"James," she cackled, "You can't hand a female member of staff a piece of paper with the phrase 'tit wank' on it."
This made James start to laugh too. It was the emotional release he needed, relaxing him into the final stages of negotiation.
"Like I said, this is pie in the sky, I know it is, and I'm glad you haven't completely freaked out..."
"Oh I'm freaked out," she interrupted.
"Fine, be freaked out, but I guarantee if you let me leave this room thinking that that list could really be what those grades represent, I will nail this exam. And if I do, if I get a decent grade, you can come up to me on results day and say 'Well done James, but of course I'm not going to do a single bloody thing on that list'. Just don't say it now."
James raised an enquiring eyebrow at his teacher. She had stopped laughing and was actually thinking through everything he had just said. After what seemed like an age, she spoke.
"Right. I think, we forget that this conversation happened, and that you go and catch your bus home."
She folded the piece of paper as you would a letter. James held out a hand to accept its receipt.
"I'm really sorry," James offered.
She fixed him with an ambiguous stare then fired the cheeky smile that made the whole ordeal worth it. "I think I'll keep hold of this."
She didn't say "No." He gave her every opportunity to state categorically that this was not going to happen, and she didn't do so. She had left the possibility open. Of course this may have been to provide the false hope that James had implored he needed -- and indeed this was obviously the most likely scenario -- but another equally feasible scenario was that Mrs Parsons would have gone ballistic and had him expelled. And that didn't happen. The chance, microscopic as it was, that Mrs Parsons would reward a good grade by indulging James' tit-based sexual fantasies was still alive. And the incentive worked. Over the next few months James practiced and rehearsed his French with a determination and aptitude that had thus far deserted him. And whenever he felt his concentration lapse, whenever he had finished revision for his core subjects and considered skipping the language skills, he would picture Mrs Parsons topless, letting him touch her in all sorts of ways, and it would give him all the reason he needed.