A Letter from Lisa

Ever since I was a kid, I've had trouble falling to sleep on Sunday nights, which makes Mondays, by and large, endless days to be endured. That particular Monday, the first one that May, was no exception. I was sluggish and chasing a caffeine buzz that just wouldn't come. My senior English class mirrored my mood, offering mono-syllabic replies to the questions I tossed them.

Other than the Monday thing, I am a pretty great teacher. I care about the kids and I treat them all with respect no matter how difficult that proves in a given moment. When Tony Barrone turns in yet another failing exam and shows absolutely no interest in my attempts to help him, I still treat him with respect. When Suzie Ross "sneaks" roughly 350 peaks at her iPhone in a 50 minute class session, I still treat her with respect, even as I gently reprimand her afterwards. I like them and they like me - and I love what I do.

Also, and maybe most importantly for the purposes of this little confessional vent, I never, EVER, think inappropriately about any of my female students even though there have been many beautiful ones through the years, some of whom clearly had crushes on Mr. Campbell (me), their English teacher.

Before I became a High School English teacher, I was all-in on my dream to write and perform music for a living. Basically, I wanted to be a rock star. And I came closer than most. My band had a big regional hit that led to a record deal that led to years of touring and performing - which was all very fun and rewarding, in its way - but ultimately stopped making sense. So, finally, at my wife's gentle prompting, I bit the bullet and got the day gig - teaching here at Holy Angels High School.

Surprisingly, I found the buzz I got performing music could also be found in a classroom (though usually not on Mondays) - when an idea clicked, a lecture connected, a kid "got it." My approach was dialogue based with lots of give and take and plenty of laughter.

One last, little background note, I love my wife. We have been married 10 years (I am 39) and each one has been better than the last. She gets me. She knows I like cereal for dinner sometimes; can't watch TV in bed or I'll toss and turn all night; really love listening to audio mysteries on long drives. We sync up sexually, as well - both gravitating to natural earth tones, enjoying dirty talk, fucking as opposed to "making love." We cum well and often together and her warm, curvy, intuitive body always leaves me very satisfied. I am content.

Or so I thought until the seismic shift occurred, a shift which emanated from an unlikely source. Her name is Lisa and she is a soon-to-be-graduating model student. Model is not exactly the right word, because it does not adequately describe what Lisa brings to a given class. While doing all the normal exceptional student things (acing tests, delivering incredibly well-written and insightful papers) she is also my go-to when a class discussion is faltering. I save her for emergencies but know that whatever question I throw her she will magically convert into discussion gold. We never discuss our unique chemistry, but I am confident she is aware of it in the same way that I am. I will genuinely miss her when she graduates.

Which brings me back to that first Monday in May...the seismic shift. After a sluggish class, Lisa stopped by my desk and shyly placed a sealed envelope upon it. Our eyes met very briefly but then she hurried away. There was the usual end of class motion and murmuring all around so I did not pay it much attention. I just put the envelope in my briefcase as I packed up then hurried to my office to enjoy one of my few free periods of the week.

Time slows a bit in the memory of all that came next: me taking my steaming cup of coffee into my cluttered little office that morning, sitting down, sipping, clicking my computer to life, looking at the scattered papers littering the desk to see if I'd left any to-do clues the previous Friday. Finding none, I reached into my briefcase where, of course, I found the letter. Lisa's letter. Suddenly what had seemed inconsequential, gained mass, weight, force in my hand. Lisa had clearly been nervous, and she was certainly not frivolous, so a letter from her was significant. I was suddenly eager to read it.

Here is the text, quoted verbatim:

Dear Mr. Cambell,

My hands are shaking as I type this. I am trusting that you will be kind to me if what I am about to say is offensive or upsetting to you. If you choose to ignore this I will understand completely and pretend I never wrote it. I promise.

Here goes.

For my 18th birthday (last Thursday!) Sadie Willis gave me a copy of one your band's old CDs. It was the one with the house on the front. Sadie knows I have a total crush on you (embarrassing statement #1). I have pretty much listened to it non-stop since the moment she left me that night. It's amazing. You're amazing.

As I listened to your voice and your words and your stories I started having this really strong feeling about you, about us. I know this will sound totally crazy, but its like I am getting a message from the universe to tell you all my secret, hidden, innermost thoughts and urges and reassuring me that you will accept them and like them even.

So here comes embarrassing statement #2. I can't stop picturing us, like, together. I know its insane, but as I hear you sing I can literally feel you inside me. I can't stop touching myself and can't seem to fight the urge to tell you this...to tell you that if you want me, I am yours. You can use me however you wish. My pussy, my tits, my ass, my mouth, my mind - are all yours. I will never tell your wife. I will never tell a soul.

I swear I am about to faint. I am sopping wet and have cum twice just from writing this. Again, if you think I am crazy, please just ignore this. But if you want me to be your personal little fuck toy, let me know.

Yours,

Lisa

In hindsight, I see the dozen or so options a sane, ethical man could have pursued right then. I ignored all of them and closed my eyes, summoning her image. Her 5'5" frame, I suddenly realized, was perfectly proportioned if ever so slightly top heavy which, of course, was fine by me. Her brown hair was thick and curly and fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were wise and kind and, I now knew, hiding a dirty river of passion. She was a beautiful young woman and she wanted to be my fuck toy.

I am surprised to report that there was no wrestling of demons or prolonged build-up filled with moral angst and long-winded internal debate. There was, instead, instant surrender to animal instinct and immediate, decisive, irreversible action.

I called the office and asked them to track her down and have her leave whatever class she was in and report instantly to my office. Within 2 minutes, I heard the knock, called her in. I fell, with alarming ease, into the role of nasty commander.

"Shut the door."

She did.

"Lock it."

She did.

"Turn and press your hands against it."

She did.

"Holy fucking God," I thought, "why had this sort of thing not occurred to me before."

She was exquisite. Her ass was fuller than I'd realized and jutted back roundly, proudly, beneath her Catholic schoolgirl skirt. I eye-raped her as I stood and approached slowly, finally standing just behind her.

"I read your letter," I whispered. I pressed my trousered hard-on against the side of her thigh. "See what it did to me, dirty girl?"

She nodded, almost whimpering as she forced her breaths.

I leaned closer to her ear.

"Are you ready to be my little fuck toy?" I asked.

I knelt behind her and pushed the skirt up. Her cunt-scent assaulted my senses as I used both hands to pull her panties down along her shapely legs. I licked along the crack of her ass before spreading her cheeks and tonguing her pretty little asshole. I then forced her legs farther apart and reached my right hand up between them. My thumb sunk easily into her sopping box as the middle and index fingers found her clit. Within moments she was somehow managing to scream without sound behind pursed lips as she squirted clear blasts of fluid onto the wooden door and linoleum floor before clamping and cumming all over my lucky hand.

She leaned against the door for a moment as I stood.

"I don't want to fuck you yet," I said, still savoring the bitter taste of her ass on my tongue. "Not today. Get on your knees and show me your tits."

She slid down to a kneel and, with trembling hands, undid the buttons of her white blouse. Her glazed eyes never wavered from my crotch as I unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped and released my straining dick.

She laid her shirt and bra aside and awaited my instruction.

"Do you want to taste my cock?" I asked and she nodded enthusiastically in the affirmative. "Say it " I added, my dripping cockhead wagging an inch from her parted lips. "Always use your words, dirty girl."

"I want to taste your cock," she said breathlessly.

"Open your mouth."

She did.

"Work your clit for me."

She reached a hand up to stroke her slobbering twat.

"Stick out your tongue."

She did. I squeezed a thin line of precum into her mouth.

"Do you like that?"

"I fucking love it," she whimpered, her fingers leading her cunt quickly to its next climax.

"I want to coat those fucking tits," I said, impulsively stroking my cock tight and fast, pointing the tip at her hard left nipple. As she moaned her orgasm my cream shot hard and thick onto her soft, pale skin. More and then more and then more of my spunk hid her perfect young chest.

I broke our pleasure-drunk silence by saying, "Are you ready for your final instruction?"

"Yes, Mr. Campbell," she offered weakly.

"Don't wear panties to your graduation."

"Yes, sir," she replied happily.