Forbidden Fruit Ch. 02

'Sir,' she said, again and again. He knew she was teasing him. Seeing how far she could push him until he would snap. The last question came five minutes before the end. 'Sir,' she said again. 'Sir.'

When he glanced at her his breath hitched. She had spread her legs under the desk, spread them so wide that had he been bending down he would have seen the outline of her cunt through her panties. Whatever she said was unintelligible, a vague sensory input of noise that went in one ear and out the other. He could not provide her with a satisfying answer. All he could think was: I have to fuck you. I need to feel you wrapped around me. I can't live without it. I can't.

'Sir?' she said again.

Tom shook his head. 'No,' he said. Whatever the question had been, Phoebe seemed satisfied by this. She set to writing again and soon after the bell rang. Slowly the classroom began to empty. He had forgotten to tell them there was no homework this week because Monday was mock exam day and they would all suffer for it but what did it matter in a state like this? Phoebe's ass drove him over the edge. He said, 'Phoebe, can you stay behind for a minute, please?'

'Sir?' she said, all innocence and gleaming green eyes.

'Just for a minute, please.'

His hand went to massage his aching cock. She stood there in the doorway, lithe and tiny and so incredibly sexy, and then she said, 'I can't, sir. Sorry. I've got drama class.'

'Right,' he said.

'It ends at four. We're rehearsing in the hall.'

'I see.'

'I'll be done just after then, though. See you on Monday?'

'Yeah,' he said. When he was alone he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. His knuckles had gone white. What had been a vague sort of amusement underpinning his savage lust had turned to anger. Anger at her, this thin, boyish schoolgirl so willing to string him along, to wrap him around her finger and keep him on a tight leash, and anger at himself for having fallen for it so easily, for having thrown away his perfect middle-class British life for the semblance of a fling with an eighteen-year-old. He could not keep himself calm. The rational part of him had died two weeks ago on his living room couch. Pale imitations remained.

It was ten minutes later he realised something. She had told him for a reason. Why else would he need to know about drama class in the hall, ending at four? Was this another one of her childish games, or was it something more?

He could barely wait the full hour to find out. Each minute brought with it another flurry of overthinking. And the thoughts became fantasies, became lust, became anger. A feral, animalistic sort of anger, begging to be let out. He knew she would afford him this if nothing else. At exactly four PM he shuttered the blinds and closed the windows and walked on out and down the corridor to the main hall. She was there, just off to the side, alone, reading something from a sheet. For a minute he just studied her -- the slenderness of her, the way that short bob of hair framed her gorgeous face, the gleam of her eyes. Two buttons undone, no bra, and that skirt.

'Phoebe,' he said, clearing his throat. She glanced up at him. Maybe the janitor was around. Some of the other teachers would surely be hanging about upstairs. He didn't much care anymore. Quieter, but loud enough for her to hear, he said, 'Come with me, please.'

Phoebe never said a word. His heart was pounding now. His cock was so stiff it hurt to walk and no doubt there was a wet spot about the size of a golf ball on his briefs. He didn't look back but he knew Phoebe was following him. The first sound he heard her make was when the door clicked as she locked it behind her and pulled the blind down so that nobody could see in and fuck did she look so good in that tiny little skirt and that white polo and now she had that look in her eyes again that wanted to eat him whole.

'All week you've been teasing me,' he said, trying to sound as firm as he could.

'What are you gonna do about it?'

He stepped closer to her. Her eyes never left his.

'Sir,' she said. 'It's okay. I know you need this. You can be rough if you want.'

That did it. The dam burst. Two weeks of excruciating foreplay came spilling forth. He fucked her with a vengeance. A deeper, primal sort of fury, the chains of his already fraying restraint uncoupling, as if punishing her for making him do this, as if he were not a man with his own free will and free desires and thoughts and actions but merely a vessel she controlled with a dangerous, wanton necessity.

There was no build-up and no time wasted and he was not gentle with her. Every motion deliberate and full of purpose, every movement of his hand and every lustful kiss. The way he loomed over her tiny frame made him feel like some all-conquering god and maybe in truth for a short while he was just such a thing.

He pushed her up against one of the tables, the table where hours earlier she'd sat with her legs far too wide, pretending to listen intently while he taught them the intricacies of Great Britain in the Victorian era. Colonial rule over a quarter of the Earth. The East India Company. The Crimean War. Wars in half-a-hundred other lands. Gladstone and Disraeli. The Age of Revolution, Age of Industrialisation, Age of Imperialist Bullheadedness. Had she listened to any of it over the past twelve weeks? Did he care if she failed? Did she care? When he felt her tongue search the inside of his mouth he realised he didn't much care at all.

This time she was as bold as the last. She kissed him with such vigour it made his head light, with passion he had not felt in years. Her dainty hands were desperate on his slacks, fumbling with his belt buckle while she pressed herself into him. He was so hard it hurt. So hard he could feel himself rub against the inside of his pants, aching and needy and urgent. His whole world became her and nothing but. The universe insofar as he knew it contained solely within the body of one eighteen-year-old girl. He pulled away for only a second and a string of spittle fell from her lower lip and then she was kissing him again, pushing herself into him, urging him to act, daring him to break every rule he deemed sensible, every moral coda he had ever set for himself.

Stronger men had failed. He put one arm around her waist and lifted her onto the tabletop as if she had no weight to her at all and then his mouth was on her jaw, her neck, her throat. Her white polo shirt came away with ease. One of the buttons went skittering to the floor when he pulled at it and she gasped and he could have sworn she was laughing too, a throaty giggle in the back of her throat when he ruined her uniform, almost as if mocking him, as if amused at his lack of restraint, his rapidly dwindling dignity. When she had shimmied out of her shirt he took a moment and only a moment to look at her.

Her five-foot frame looked even smaller there on the table, legs dangling off the sides, spread so wide it made him groan. Everything about her was so dangerously perfect. The sculpt of her alabaster collarbones. The tightness of her, so slender and pale and delicious in the narrow sunlight. The faintest outline of abs on her stomach. Her stiff nipples on the smallest pair of tits. It was thirty degrees outside and the heat made her sweat and it glimmered across her chest in a way that had him throbbing and he was about to lose control.

Somewhere in the haze between locking the door and grabbing at his belt she had removed her panties and now she sat with her skirt hiked up around her waist and her cunt bared to the world and there was a thin trail of girlcum on the tabletop where she'd marked it with her wetness.

'Fuck,' he muttered, and she giggled, and this time he knew it was not his imagination. She was laughing at him. Curse you, he thought. Curse you and your boyish pixie cut and your toned body and your perfect little tits. Curse your green eyes, your button nose, your wicked grin. Curse the confidence with which you wield your dangerous sexuality. Curse your pert little ass and your wet warm pussy and the tightness of you and curse you for using them against me and curse you for being you. For ruining my life. But what was done was already done and past and he was a new man now, with new sensibilities. Act like a whore and I'll treat you like a whore.

She spread her legs wider and he devoured her, mind and body and soul, moaning against her lips, sloppy and desperate and rougher than he had been before, and she moaned back, mewled when he palmed her tits and ran a hand across her taut stomach and back up again, every bit the horny teenager she was. His belt came undone and he was freed at last and the air was good and he could feel her warmth, and when she nudged closer to the table's edge he felt her against his cock and almost came right then and there. Her breath smelt like peppermint and her lips were soft and wet and he could feel her hot and immediate against him and without a word he entered her with such force she was almost lifted off the desk.

'Oh, shit,' she grunted, eyes closing momentarily. He buried himself in her, so warm and slick and inviting, her tightness gripping his cock like a vice. She whined again, this time higher and longer, and he buried himself in her a second time. Then again, and then a fourth time, and a fifth, until he was fucking her with reckless abandon.

He fucked her like he had never fucked his wife, like he never fucked Isabel or Sam or anyone, and -- most importantly -- like he had not fucked her before either. Their illicit encounter in his living room had been a fluke, a brief and embarrassing lapse of judgement in an otherwise spotless three-decade span of adulthood. Shit happens. He had made a mockery of his own ethical code and of his vows and of his wife's trust but what man hadn't, at one time, done something similar, if perhaps a little less extreme?

This time it was different. Once was a mistake and twice was a habit. He fucked Phoebe as if he had something to prove, as if she had betrayed him in her demureness, her faux innocence, her gentle, polite, deceitful smile. As if she owed him for stripping him of the dying embers of his normal, average life. He fucked her as if he hated her, hated everything she stood for, hated how she laid bare his imperfections, his misdeeds, his pathetic, limpid mortality. And to her credit, she took it.

When he dug his fingers into her narrow hips hard enough to mark, she moaned gently. When he grabbed wildly at her tits like an animal, she arched her back and pushed herself into him. When he wrapped a hand around her tiny throat she closed her eyes and giggled. And all with an unnerving quietness, content to make herself his fuckdoll, his lifeless receptacle.

There was power in submission and she knew it. Her willingness to surrender to him came with the unspoken understanding that she could retract it at any moment, could regain control in an instant, could have him scrambling to do whatever she wanted, no matter what he would have to do, no matter how outlandish her requests. How far was he willing to go for a chance at her again? Her sexuality was a weapon and she understood this fully and it was this intelligence he was frightened of.

Her cunt was wetter than it had been before and no less tight either. He pounded her again and again. Her warmth was incredible. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. Their encounter in the living room had been almost akin to lovemaking. If he closed his eyes he could imagine his wife on that same couch, albeit much younger and smaller, breathing in his ear and moving his hands to her breasts and rocking back and forth and murmuring in content when his warm cum filled her.

This was nothing of the sort. This was sweaty and hungry and yearning. This was everything he had ever needed and more. This was the frustration of thirty years of people holding him up as some model of a thing he did not want to be, saying, 'Look at Our Tom, look how he's turned out. Why can't you be more like Tom?' County sprint champion, national half-marathon champion. Top goal scorer three seasons running. The job, the car, Janet, Rose. His mum and dad, all they had sacrificed for him. All he had built from the ground up, carefully crafted such that he would have no holes, no flaws, nothing to be used against him. And he would give it all up for eighteen-year-old cunt.

Something outside the classroom made a noise -- a murmur of a voice down the hallway somewhere -- but he didn't care. He kept on going, pistoning into her violently, using her like he might use a fleshlight. Occasionally his cock would slip out and he would fuck up against her bared and soaking heat like some baser animal, grunting while he went, until he sank back inside and commenced to ruining her all over again.

She leant back on the desk, her bare skin grazing the cold tabletop, and whispered, 'Take it. It's yours.'

And he did. She was no longer eighteen or his history student or anyone he knew at all. She was just a whore. With one rough hand he flipped her over so that her stomach was against the desk and her bare ass facing him and he sank into her again with a primal snarl. Now that he could not see her face -- see that devilish grin of hers, see the reddening of her cheeks, the glint in her eyes, the way her mouth lolled open -- he fucked her even harder. He slapped her pale ass until it was red and he drove himself into her balls deep over and over and he grabbed a handful of blonde hair from that boyish bob of hers and pulled hard, yanking her head back while he slammed his hips into her, fucking her like she deserved, like he needed, until she came on his cock with a delicate little tremble.

Her cunt gripped him and he redoubled his efforts and was rewarded with a soft gasp when he hilted himself inside her, quiet enough he could hear the slapping of his skin against hers, the wetness of her, of both of them, so crude and vile and wrong, so against everything he stood for.

This time he did not relinquish control. His swollen cock begged for release and he fucked her harder still and slapped her ass and she arched her back like a trained porn star and rocked into him and that was all too much too quickly.

'Gonna cum,' he panted, and he swore he could feel her squeezing him, milking his cock inside her. When it hit he almost blacked out. With a violent grunt he emptied himself inside her, heaving and short of breath, leaning against her pale and sweaty form while he slowly came down from his orgasmic high. He could smell it on them. Smell her wetness and his cum and their sweat entangled and the stench of it made him want to vomit.

Her ass was sore and red where he'd slapped her and her throat almost as red and there would be a faint bruise on her left hip by tomorrow morning and the sight of her like that had his stomach turning. He pulled himself out of her and wiped his cock on her skirt and pulled up his slacks and buttoned himself away almost shamefully.

When she turned around the first thing she did was lie back on the desk and spread her legs. The sweat was pouring off her. It made her makeup streaky and her mascara was running down her face and she looked every bit a fucked-out whore. A single bead of his cum fell from her pussy and stained the table. She seemed far less out of breath than he did.

'Did you enjoy yourself, sir?' she said, with the same sheen of manufactured innocence that had made him fuck her in the first place. He could not bear to look at her any longer. To do so was to remind him of how young she was, how unrealised as a person, how opposite to his own neat little rules and regulations and codes and honours and values. She was younger than his own daughter.

'Clean yourself up,' he said. Then without another word he turned away from her and unlocked the door and disappeared.