Forbidden Fruit Ch. 01

He thought about all this even as he began to teach them on Wednesday. When he stood up in front of his class of twenty-eight and told them he was taking a week off work next week, he was thinking: What will I do with it? What do I even have anymore?

When one of them asked him if there would be any homework assigned, he thought: Who cares? What about what I think? What about me? Me me me. Why can't I be selfish for once? Why can't I take that leap? What have I got to lose, other than everything? Is that so bad?

He glanced at Phoebe only once. Today she was wearing her black knit school jumper but her skirt was high above her knees and she was spreading her legs just a little too wide to be comfortable and she smiled at him until he looked away. After that there was no more eye contact. He sat eating by his lonesome at dinnertime and it took a great deal effort not to masturbate.

* * * * * *

Thursday was the breaking point.

The final-year timetable lined up in a way that he only saw them every other Thursday and this was their off-week, which meant no history, no Victorian Britain, no Phoebe. He was glad to be rid of her but her absence was no reprieve at all. Nor in truth was it really an absence. She was there all the same, stalking him from the corner of his eye, a fleeting, chimerical vision in her unbuttoned shirt and her miniskirt and her tomboyish charm. He could not make her disappear. Even at lunch, alone again behind his desk -- a place he had come to cherish, away from the prying eyes of his colleagues, his cock always painfully stiff -- he could feel her presence. Only this time it was no illusion at all.

She didn't even knock. When Tom turned Phoebe had already closed the door behind her and now even the length of the classroom was an uncomfortably short distance. For a while she just stood there, just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall. It was here Tom realised just how tiny she was, barely five feet and the south side of a hundred pounds, so small it made his head race with shameful thoughts he knew he should not be thinking. But he thought them anyway. The way she stood leaning with her legs out in front had her skirt riding up above her knees and she was milky white even in the knife of sunlight from the windows and the way it framed her slender form had his heart jumping and his cock aching.

He did not know what she was going to do. For what seemed like forever, she did nothing. Just stood there, a single button of her polo shirt undone, the soft sculpt of her porcelain chest a delicate tease he had to fight the urge not to stare at. She seemed to be plotting something. The glint in her eyes spoke of wicked machinations in that head of hers and it was this cunning far beyond her years that unnerved him. Like a woman with a lifetime of seduction behind her, of knowing glances and teasing looks, of deliberate, careful innocence when necessary, of driving men to their limits, locked away inside the wiry, sparse body of an eighteen-year-old schoolgirl.

'Mr Lisowksi,' she said, her voice airy and faint and deliberately so. In the cast of the sun her hair looked like molten gold. She took a step closer and then another. There was a saunter to her movement that he didn't like one bit, a rehearsed sort of charm that had him thankful his desk sat between the two of them. When she was close enough that he could reach out and touch her she shifted back a slight and leant on one of the school desks. Oddly she smelt of cherries and faintly of sandalwood, a dim and intoxicating scent that he wanted more of, wanted to smell forever, wanted to taste on his lips and on his skin and everywhere else.

'I didn't know if you'd be in here,' she said quietly. 'I thought maybe you'd gone to lunch like all the other teachers do.'

'I have some things to mark,' Tom replied, trying as best he could -- and failing -- to sound prompt and forthright and proper.

'Boring.'

'Phoebe, with all due respect, do you want something? I'm very busy.'

'Want something?' said Phoebe. She seemed to weigh this up for a minute, head tilting and eyes going to somewhere on the ceiling beside him. He was staring at her legs again. They seemed to run on and on, so much mileage on such a tiny frame. Then she turned to him again and said, 'What about what I need? What about that?'

'Phoebe.'

'Thomas.'

'No,' he said. 'It's Mr Lisowski.'

Phoebe shrugged. There was an effortlessness to her that was dangerous and he knew it and knew where this was heading. 'Are you marking my work?' she asked.

'I will be doing, yes.'

She hummed in acknowledgment. The way she carried herself was maddening. He had never been attracted to girls like her before -- not as far as he knew -- and she was nothing like his wife even when his wife had been thirty years younger, but there was something about her, something there he couldn't quite explain away. And any more staring and he would do something he would quickly regret. Without a word he put his head down and began scribbling in the back of a workbook, pretending in vain to mark something, to pull his attention away from her, to cut her out of his head like a tumour.

'Have I been a good girl?'

'Excuse me?'

'I said, have I been a good student?'

He glanced up at her again. There was that wicked glimmer in her eye again, tempting him to do something, urging him to make a move, to take a bite of the proverbial apple. There he stood on the very edge of sanity and Phoebe was right alongside him, saying: Jump. Jump. Jump.

'Phoebe,' he muttered, 'this is very inappropriate behaviour.'

'I just asked you a question, sir. I don't see what's wrong with that.'

'You should leave.'

'What was that?'

'I said--'

'No, I heard you, sir. I just thought maybe you didn't mean it. Maybe you meant to say something else.'

He could not look at her much longer without losing control and he was ashamed of himself for it. Ashamed that so many years of goodness, of doing things by the book, of being the loving husband, the doting father, the caring neighbour, the filial son, the exemplary academic, the heroic athlete, the mythical Thomas Lisowski, could come so unceremoniously to an end, so abruptly undone at the seams by one eighteen-year-old history student. The power that she held. What could ever be scarier?

'I'll come back later,' she said quietly, and he swore he could see her smirking. 'Maybe you can help me after school? I still have a few questions I need to ask. Just to clear things up. Or maybe tomorrow.'

She turned to leave before he could say anything but there was nothing really to say. From the back she looked even better. The thin and slender curve of her hips, the way her polo shirt clung to her waifish body, the sculpt of her little ass under the skirt that by now was riding up far too high to be anything other than a deliberate act of provocation on her part, an all-too-knowing taunt, nudging him closer to that precipice. Jump, jump, jump.

He didn't see her for the rest of the day. And when he went home that evening and made love to Janet, for the first time since 1995 he thought of someone other than her. He closed his eyes and thought of Phoebe. What did she look like under that shirt of hers? Those small, perfect tits. The shape of her body, not quite hourglass but bony and narrow at the hips and almost willowy, the faintest outline of abs on her toned stomach. Was she as pale as she looked with her clothes on? Was she just as beautiful? And what about her ass? And her legs wrapped around his waist, and her rocking gently in his lap, and the feeling of her cunt so warm and inviting and soaking wet for him, and her delicate little trembles in that high-pitched voice of hers that drove him insane.

It was Janet on top of him and Phoebe in his head. Janet underneath him and his cock deep inside Phoebe, holding her close, her arms around his neck. Janet kissing him and Phoebe's lips so soft against his own and the smell of peppermint on her breath and that cherry perfume and then Janet making him climax and Phoebe taking his cum inside her, squeezing it all out of him, draining him of every drop, laughing while he filled her, while he lay on top of her and fucked her into a moaning, panting wreck.

When he and Janet were finished he went to the bathroom and washed his face and then went on back to bed and turned away from her and refused to say a word.

* * * * * *

Like some hallucinatory spirit she evaded him on Friday. With no history class there was no way to have her in front of him lest he seek her out and while he did indeed do this it was at a safe distance, so that if somebody asked it would draw the least amount of suspicion possible. He stood by the doors of the diner scanning rows of heads and backs and small shapes that might be her, but none were.

Then the same in the playground, the common room, the library, the halls and corridors that comprised a school he had come to know as well as his own home. Up the stairs, back down. The IT suite, the common room again. The gym. He could not find her anywhere and with that haircut of hers she was very hard to miss. He could pick her out from a crowd of millions. He could draw the shape of her with his eyes closed, such was the hold her delicate femininity had over him.

The truth of his was embarrassing. He could not escape her. His enemy in this was a transitory one, though her memory remained, burned into his head like a stencil, inescapably strong and wickedly tempting. As far as he could discern there were two solutions to this problem -- ignore it until it disappeared or succumb. One sounded impossible and the other inevitable. By the end of lunch he had run out of time to search for her and places to find her. Final period passed with no real focus at all. His mind kept wandering. As if she might suddenly materialise in that chair to the left front of the classroom, might be sat there in such a way to tempt him all over again, to draw him back in. But she wasn't and still he could not focus.

The bell rang and he was out of school before it had even stopped and past the gates a moment later. When he arrived home the house was empty. A morbid sort of quietude hung, like the bitter foretaste of some awful thing. Rose was at her arts club until four and then piano practice until six and then probably at her friends and Janet didn't finish work until just after six as well. It was times like this he had come to dislike the most. The solitude. Alone with his thoughts his mind would drift and always, ostensibly, to Phoebe. It occurred to him with a pathetic sort of condemnation that he was unsure how a week without seeing her would affect him. This flitting nymph of lust, infuriating in her maturity and tempestual in her sexuality. Had there ever been a more alluring person in his life?

Before he could answer his own question there was a knock at the door that startled him. Then it came again. When he answered he almost collapsed. The colour drained from his face like a sieve.

'Hello, Mr Lisowksi,' said Phoebe, standing just outside the door, a full foot-and-a-half shorter than him, staring up at him with the eyes of a siren, her hair softly aflutter in the wind. In her uniform she looked sinful. Tom felt his cock swell. One undone button had become two and now her skirt was so high he could see the pale flesh of her thighs and she was so thin and god did she look good like nobody had ever looked good before.

'What are you doing here?' he said.

'I needed some help with some questions and stuff. I told you.'

'How do you know where I live?'

'I followed you home,' she said nonchalantly, as if this were a normal thing to do. Before he could reply she nudged her way past him and into the hallway. By the time he had closed the door she was already in the living room, sat with her legs crossed one over the other on the left end of the big leather couch, hands rested in her lap, mouth slightly pouted.

'You need to leave,' Tom said. 'You can't be here.'

This time Phoebe pouted for real. 'Why not?' she said.

'You're a student. You're my student.'

'So? We're not doing anything wrong, are we?'

'This goes against teacher safeguarding rules. I can't be seen here with you.'

Phoebe laughed. It was a throaty giggle that had an air of mischief to it. 'Nobody's seeing you,' she said. 'Or me.'

'Excuse me?'

'You said you can't be seen here with me. But nobody's seeing us. Are they?'

She seemed so nonchalant he half believed she was some illusory thing he had imagined and not a real, breathing person. Eighteen years old. How was that possible?

'Phoebe,' he said, barely a whisper. Phoebe uncrossed her legs and stood up. There was barely enough room between them to move, Tom inside the living room and Phoebe glancing at him and encouraging him, pushing him closer and closer. Jump, Mr Lisowski. Jump. Jump. Jump.

'It's okay,' she whispered, taking a step closer to him. 'I know how you look at me in class. How you look up my skirt. How you look at my chest.'

'Phoebe, you need to leave.'

'I stopped wearing my jumper for you. Because of you.'

'This is ridiculous.'

'I knew you'd like it. I've seen you staring.'

He could not muster a reply. The assuredness with which she wielded her exploration of sexuality would, under different circumstances, be admirable. Here stood a man with sixteen inches and a hundred pounds and thirty years over her -- her teacher, her protector -- and she seemed to barely register it. Worse, in his estimation -- she seemed to relish in it. Phoebe took another step closer. She was so close he could smell her now, that strangely childish perfume of hers which -- along with her tiny figure -- reminded him of just how young she was. Jump, Thomas. Jump and leave it all behind you.

In a sense, he already had. His cock was so stiff it was painful and surely she could see that. The old grandfather clock ticktickticked in the corner of the room, whittling away the minutes. How long until Rose and Janet got home? How long did he have, realistically speaking? He wasn't sure it mattered anymore.

'I've wanted to do this all semester,' she said, and he could smell that familiar hint of peppermint on her breath again. Somewhere in the wild haze they now inhabited she had manoeuvred so that he was stood with the couch behind him and she in front, so close, so irresistible, so perfectly terrible.

'Phoebe, this is wrong. You shouldn't...we shouldn't be doing this.'

'Why not?'

'Because we shouldn't be. I'm your teacher. We could get in a lot of trouble.'

'Is that why?'

'If anybody found out about this--'

'I won't tell anybody,' she said. 'Will you?'

Then without waiting for him to reply she nudged him backwards onto the couch. Tom glanced up at her, hovering just beyond his reach, collar slightly ajar, her pale skin so beautiful, face a visage of untamed lust. So, he jumped. No second chances, no looking back.

The confidence she exerted was intoxicating. Whether it was true confidence or a carefully crafted façade he had no way of knowing nor did he know how long she had planned this, or if she had planned it at all, but he didn't care. He had not ever felt warmth like this in his life. She was so close to him he could smell her, the strange scent of cherries and sandalwood and faintly of an earthier note in that perfume, a bizarre and age-appropriate smell that made his head spin, so close he could reach out and touch her, could kiss her and hold her close and do whatever he wanted with her. And she would let him, too. He was sure of that now, sure as he had ever been about anything. She would do anything he asked if he asked nicely enough.

It was here that he relinquished control. In some not insignificant way he was deathly afraid that whatever he might do could hurt her, or upset her, or turn her away from him, and perhaps it was the empathy that stirred within him or the lust that swelled in his cock but he could not bear to see that happen. So he let her do as she pleased. Lines had already been crossed. Things set into motion that could be taken back. It was only right he see it to its logical conclusion, its untimely end, however that may come about. For a while he just sat there gazing into her eyes. They were so green they hardly seemed real. He had never seen eyes like hers before, a nymph's mischievous gleam, a teenager's delicate innocence, a succubus's alluring stare, all locked within her, all fighting for dominance.

He could smell peppermint on her breath from some gum or mints and now it took all his self-control not to reach out and pull her to him and do everything he wanted, everything his body yearned for. He had never been hard like this before. Not ever. Phoebe leant down so that her face was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his face and smiled and said softly, 'I can stop if you want.'

'What?'

'I can stop and go home. If that's what you want.'

She sank to her knees in front of him, a lone and diminutive figure on the carpet between his legs, face looking up at him expectantly, as if all she needed was his permission. 'I can stop,' she said again, and this time she smiled.

'Phoebe--'

'Is that a yes?'

He could not muster a reply, and this in itself she seemed to take as an answer. She lay her head against his left leg and with a gentle sort of grace began unbuttoning his slacks. Three buttons, then his belt. Tom just sat there. As if to move in any way would be to break whatever illusion he had succumbed to and just like that it would be gone, reduced into some atomic state he could not recover. She would be gone and he would be alone and that would be the end of it.

Instead he balled his fists tight enough that his knuckles went white. His belt came off with difficulty. He moved only to lift his hips so Phoebe could pull his slacks down and then his briefs too and suddenly the air was cold against him and he could feel her breath on his cock and that was a great deal warmer and he was so hard he could cut steel.

Phoebe laughed. It was a warm, modest giggle, throaty and high-pitched and quiet, and then she smiled at him and winked. He was not huge in length or girth but next to her tiny form he might as well have been. He looked like a giant next to her. With her right hand she traced a delicate line up the inside of his leg, from his knee upwards, circling around his balls, painfully teasing him, knowing exactly what she was doing. When she wrapped her hand around him he almost came. Her fingers so small and pale and careful on his cock. She pumped him from the tip to the balls slowly, languidly, savouring every throb in her hand, every pant when he exhaled to try and calm himself.

'Fuck,' he muttered, almost gibbering. She stroked him faster and she was not inexperienced and this much was obvious. With her other hand she played with his balls, softly fondling them while she pumped over and over. He bucked his hips, desperate for purchase, urgent and needy and embarrassing. Phoebe glanced at him again, smiling all the while. Then without a word she took his cock into her mouth and lowered herself until half of it was in her throat. The warmth made him groan, made him thrust into her and bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He could not think of much but what he could think of was how good she looked, how perfect there between his legs, the blonde of her boyish pixie cut bobbing up and down on his cock, the delicate sculpt of her collarbones where she had unbuttoned the top of her polo shirt, the way she so eagerly sucked him, her tongue on the underside of his shaft, playing with his balls, coating him in a thin film of spittle.

Fuck, he said again, and then a third time, and a fourth. Fuck fuck fuck. She took another inch of him in her throat. Then back out, and back down, and back out, the deftness of a pro, the eagerness of a whore. His cock ached, her mouth so warm and inviting and so absurdly good, as if his entire life had been leading up to this point, as if nothing else truly mattered.