How To Be a Good Mentor

"No, not as stupid as she is. Like, he was always more subtle. You had to watch your back with Paul. And here, I'd just given him an opening by swearing at him. He looks up at me, all sly-like, and says, 'You're not supposed to call me that, Ms Boyle. I might just have to tell Mr Oliver.' And there I was, looking at him like a fucking dumbass." She shook her head, still mortified by the memory. "He threatened to tell his parents, too."

I raised both eyebrows. I'd never heard about any of this, and I'd been in college just down the road. "Minor scandal," I observed. Shannon made a face.

"Well..." she looked around the room and then leaned across the table. I caught a brief glimpse of the lace edges of her bra inside her shirt before I reminded myself I was a gentleman. "Very minor. I, well, I made the problem go away."

My heart sank. "What did he want? An A?"

"No, actually. He couldn't give two shits about his grades. No." She fidgeted, looked away, and then took a quick sip of her tea before she smiled guiltily. "I kissed him."

I sat back. "Nasty," I said quietly.

She looked at me for a long moment. "So, see? Been there." She looked squarely over at me. "Not that I'm recommending that you kiss Lucy, you understand. Far from it." She shuddered. "You'd probably get syphilis or something just from touching her."

I forced a laugh. The image of Shannon kissing a student was squarely in my mind now, dominated by a tortured question from my younger self: if goddamn Paul was good enough to steal a kiss from Shannon Boyle, why hadn't I? I struggled to get back into what she was saying. "She'll stop once she realizes it's not going anywhere. Just make sure you don't lead her on." She arched her brows meaningfully. "No flirting."

"Me?" I sat back in the spindly chair. "I would never."

"Sure." She took another sip. "Quit bullshitting. Young teachers flirt with older students all the time. It usually means nothing." And then she was staring right at me. "I used to flirt with you a little, Dave. Remember?"

God, but hadn't she flirted with everyone? I'd never really thought of it that way before, though. "You weren't flirty," I protested. "Just informal."

Shannon barked out a laugh. "Informal. Right. And, of course, you never flirted back." She winked. "You were a little charmer, Dave. You and your friend Robbie." I blushed; Robbie was nothing like me, but I could see Shannon didn't know that. No, he'd always had plans. He'd closed the deal, too, just after graduation as he'd taken his calculus teacher into the bathroom and fucked her. She gazed at me levelly. "I noticed."

I just stared back and tried to smile. This wasn't the kind of witty repartee I was any good at. Funny she should think I'd been flirting back then: staying quiet and trying to smile enigmatically was my usual routine with women I was smitten by. It never really occurred to me it might have worked. "Well," I added, mostly because it seemed like it was my turn to speak, "it's not like I ever crossed any lines."

"Me neither," she replied quietly. "Except that once, with Paul." She winked then, grinning suddenly. "And, of course, Craigie Metcalfe." She giggled at the dumb look that crossed my face. "The Valentine's dick pic. He certainly crossed a line." She tossed her hair back as she killed her coffee. "Don't worry about that slut Lucy," she finished scornfully. "She's just a little pop-tart who doesn't understand the power of her own boobs. But," she winked, holding up an admonitory finger, "at least if you get a secret Valentine's Day pussy shot, you'll know whose it is."

"Gee." I stood hastily to get the door for her. "That's reassuring."

"Cheer up," Shannon ordered, patting me on the back as she passed. "Nothing will happen. I've got your back."

"Ah yes," I managed. "The essence of mentorship." She chuckled again.

"Exactly."

* * *

I felt a weird sense of unease on the 12^th, with just two days to go before Valentine's Day. It was the last day Lucy's class would meet before the 14^th, so I knew I'd have the next day to recover before she did whatever she was planning on doing to me. I was giving them an exam, so most of the period involved me sitting quietly as they worked, my feet up on the desk. She made no effort to notice me, nibbling calmly at her pencil as she finished up her test.

It wasn't until the end of the period that she at last looked up to my desk, frowning until she caught sight of my Kleenex. She gave an ostentatious sniff, then got up and came my way with her usual nonchalantly swaying hips. I tried not to look, but it was difficult: her jeans looked like they'd been steamed before she put them on, so tightly did they fit. They essentially hid nothing; her top was no better, a short jacket gaping open to show a shirt at least two sizes too small. Her breasts pulled hard at the neckline.

"Can I borrow a tissue?" she whispered as she came within range; the whisper was for show, of course, a transparent flirtation on her part. I had a rule about making noise while other people were taking tests, but Lucy Marsh was not a rule-follower. She just felt like whispering.

Wordlessly, I nodded over toward the box of tissues and went to take my feet off the desk; before I got the chance, though, she swooped in and leaned right over my legs, stretching far over me to grab for the Kleenex. It was a long reach for such a short girl, and I was very aware of her crotch as she ground it against my leg, her ass as her body arched across, the gaping neck of her shirt just inches from my dropped mouth, the sweet jiggle of the eighteen-year-old breasts within; she was quick with her reach, but all these images smashed into my brain and stayed there while she straightened slowly up, wiping at her nose as she kept her body pressed firmly against my knee.

She stood there, I thought, for quite a bit longer than she needed to, her eyes sparkling with lazy triumph over my slouched form as she kept her pussy right against my leg. I couldn't see her mouth as she wiped at her nose, but I could see the crinkle of a smirk in the corners of those glittering eyes.

I'm sure I swallowed; I'm just as sure I gazed up at her with a helpless expression of dumb mulishness as she regarded me. At last she finished up, dabbing gently, her right hand steadying herself against the back of my chair as she leaned back across to toss the tissue into my wastebasket. Her thumb over the back of my seat was warm against my shoulder, her left arm extended toward the trash can, and now her tits were staring right at my face, close enough for me to feel her body heat. Her left hand flicked the Kleenex toward the wastebasket, and her breasts jiggled again as she giggled. "Whoops," she said softly; she'd missed her shot, and now the tissue lay on the floor.

"You missed," I muttered unnecessarily, my throat dry. Her jacket framed those boobs of hers so nicely...

"I know." She moved with lithe, feline speed behind my chair, scrambling to pick up the Kleenex, her warm body now pressing against the chair behind my shoulderblades, her solid flat belly rubbing across the back of my head before I could get it out of the way. And then she was crouching down, groping for the trash can, and as she leaned down the short jacket was no match for her posture, rising up with her shirt to reveal a broad, firm stretch of her lower back, the dimples above her butt flexing, the pants drooping low over her hips to reveal a bright red thong rising from her asscrack. "I'll get it."

Again, it all took longer than it needed to; she was displaying herself for me, letting me see what she wanted to show me. At least a third of her ass was in view, the pants gripping tightly at the rest, and I had a sudden overwhelming urge to reach down and grab the smooth skin she was showing me underneath her ribcage, to pick her up and throw her over the desk.

My dick was very, very hard.

* * *

You might say I know a lot about masturbation. I'm something of an expert; since early puberty, I doubt more than three days have gone by without a nice, healthy jerk-off, even when I have a girlfriend. And with practice has come expectation: I know which fantasies work, I know where to put my hands, and I know about how long it's going to take before the excitement ends and the wiping begins.

Which was why that evening surprised me so much: I got home to piles of mail and dirty dishes, and a hard-on that hadn't really quit since I'd found myself gazing on the perfection of Lucy's overdeveloped ass. So I ignored the piles and retreated to my sofa, assuming I'd need to spend my usual few minutes thinking of a fantasy, getting it into my mind, and then settling down to a nice, even wank.

But no. Not that day. That day, I came almost before I had a chance to get ready. As I shoved my fly open and reached in, my dick pulsed like a severed power line, throbbing through the hole in my boxers. It spewed out a massive load the moment I wrapped my fingers around it, spraying cum all over the shirt I hadn't even been able to pull out of the way. And, gasping, I was left with a ruined tie and a sharp, solid mental image of Lucy Marsh bent over with my cock inside her.

* * *

She came in early for Valentine's Day dressed, as she usually was, in an outfit that left very little to the imagination: a tight pink t-shirt, the dark bra straps clearly visible under the thin material; over each nipple was a shiny red heart. The shirt ended about two inches above where it should, and she was showing the entire world her flat abs over a pleated red skirt that fell, if I'm being charitable, to the bottom of her ass. Beneath that were a pair of red fishnets, the kind with the smaller holes; down below, a pair of shiny white high heels gave her a height boost. Her face between a pair of bouncing ponytails was its usual saucy, pushy self, the smirk flashing across her bright red lips as she caught me staring at her legs. "Hi, Mr Dole," she sang. "Happy Valentine's Day!"

"And to you, Lucy." I was careful to keep my feet off my desk this time, the chair pushed way back against the whiteboard. Her smirk widened.

"Like my outfit today? I wore it just for my valentine," she crooned, and I had no clue at all what to say as she twirled. We were alone, though my door was open to a hallway beginning to fill with sleepy teachers. The wispy skirt flared out a little as she spun, showing me just enough of the base of her ass to convince me she was wearing a thong. Or less. I looked desperately away.

"Looks great, Lucy." God, but it did; a thin mist of watermelon whisked around me. She stared, her head cocked, and I felt the intense pressure of the awkward silence. Jesus. Did this kid have me so intimidated I couldn't even figure out anything to say to her? "Um." Naturally, I picked the wrong question. "Who's the lucky fella?"

Goddamn, I thought savagely as her grin widened. I was flirting despite myself. "Well," she said in a playful, drawn-out squeal, "maybe there's more than one. Or maybe not. But either way," she winked, "I made you a card." From the depths of her expensive pocketbook came a small white envelope with a slight bulge in the middle of it. "You should wait until after I leave to open it, though."

"Of course." The bulge was a hard lump, small like a piece of candy. "I, uh, don't have a card for you. I'd have to bring one for everyone else, you know." I managed half a smile, willing myself to stay flaccid as Lucy leaned down close to put a hand on my shoulder.

"I understand, Mr Dole," she went on, her voice hovering just above a whisper. I caught the scent of her toothpaste; my God. "I know I'm your favorite student." It was exactly the sort of thing that charming, winsome kids jokingly say to teachers all the time.

I got the definite sense that Lucy didn't mean it as a joke, though. Worse, I could tell she knew I knew it. She squeezed once, convulsively, then winked again. Savagely I forced my eyes to stay on hers, and not to drift down to where her black bra was so plainly visible through the neck of her overstressed t-shirt. "Well," she drawled after a pause, "you have a nice day now. See you later, Mr Dole!" And then she was off, the skirt flouncing back up as she swept around, and her shoes made a loud and abrupt clopping noise as she strode off toward her first class.

My dick was, by that time, wedged painfully down my leg, hardening awkwardly in the least comfortable position I could imagine. The adjustment took both hands, my chair swiveled all the way around as I dug at myself. Luckily, nobody came in while I was clawing; the little white envelope waited ominously on my desk.

To My Favorite Teacher, it proclaimed in obnoxious pink ink; the dot over the I was, predictably, a tiny heart. I slashed my thumb underneath the flap, part of it coming away still damp with her saliva; out fell one of those chalky hearts you can find at drugstores, the kind with the red messages written on them that sold by the dozen. It skittered across my lap as I snapped the card open, and for some obscure reason I felt a twinge of irritation at how banal the message was.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Mr Dole!" A happy face trailed off the page, and that was it. A red marker had been Lucy's weapon of choice, but other than a bright glossy orange heart and a fuzzy cartoon puppy on the front, that was all there was. So, frowning, I reached out to toy absently with the little candy heart.

Unusually, it was wrapped; looking closely, I saw printing on the wrapper. Ah. So this hadn't come from a drugstore; the printing advertised one of those websites where you order your own customized hearts, with your own messages. The heart was the large size, about the size of a quarter, and pastel green. I glanced curiously down at the red block print and had to look twice. The inscription, marred by a little gouge in the corner where the heart had chipped as it hit my desk, stared back at me.

BE MINE.

AND EAT MY PUSSY.

That was all it said, in two faded red lines of text.

Instinctively I glanced up to make sure nobody was looking through my door at me; hell, who was I fooling? I was making sure Lucy wasn't out there gloating as she watched my reaction. For a split second I tried to convince myself that this message had ended up in my envelope randomly, just one in a large pile of hearts she'd laughingly dared herself to order from the website, but I knew it wasn't. And the implication stunned me.

Lucy Marsh, one of the hottest girls in the school, a girl with a formidable sexual reputation, a girl assumed to have callused knees from all the times she'd sucked dick, wanted to feel me licking her clit.

At once, with no ability to stop it, my mind went over the nuts and bolts: as short as she was, she'd need to be sitting on a table or something with me in a chair before her. She didn't have enough leg to wrap around my neck if I knelt before her, and somehow I just couldn't picture her as the kind of female who enjoyed lying in bed. A daring girl like her would want it fast and hard, in a closet or someplace where there was a risk of discovery to heighten the mood.

Like, say, a classroom.

I'd need to help her up, even my cheap school desk too high for her; she'd sit there, legs swinging, and she'd lean carefully back on her elbows as she waited for me with her long lashes hooding her dark blue eyes. Her thong, I imagined, would offer no real obstacle at all; it'd be skinny enough that it barely covered anything anyway, and at the moment it would be no match for the red, puffy swelling of her turned-on labia, probably already pushed sideways by her own arousal.

By the time I got in there, fingers first, I doubted I'd even need to do more than nudge the thong aside, my hands brushing over her inner thighs on their way to the intense pink humidity underneath her skirt. She'd draw one of those shuddering feminine breaths as I got there, my fingertips grazing along her sodden inner lips and coming away sticky, trailing her juices. She'd sink lower on the desk, the skirt bunching up beneath that bubbled ass of hers, and I thought feverishly about what her skin would taste like if I ran my tongue up her sweaty leg.

She'd be moaning as I got closer, and then her breath would catch in her throat as, at last, my tongue made tentative, almost dainty contact with the dark red-brown flesh at the edges of her slit. There'd be a convulsive heave of her thighs, the muscles clamping my head as the sourly musky smell of her overwhelmed me, and then I'd dive the rest of the way in.

There'd be a long, whimpering sigh of relief as her body relaxed around me, her elbows surrendering as she carefully laid herself down across the desk; I'd have to get my hands up underneath her to hold her in place, clutching at the smooth skin of her hips, feeling her pelvis rock, and then we'd both ignore the logistics and focus on the way my tongue and lips were pleasuring her.

From the outset she'd be a daring and sexy lover, vocal, responsive as a Ferrarri. She'd move a lot, I felt, those fluid young muscles shoving her vagina in a smooth, insistent rhythm against my face; no doubt she'd be a woman who knew exactly what she wanted from me, and who wasn't shy about claiming it. For my part, I knew, I'd be turned on as I'd never been, the teacher-student taboo driving me wild, the surpassing excellence of Lucy's body reaching deep into the lizard recesses of my animal brain, my dick harder than I'd ever felt it.

So I'd give her my absolute best, being careful not to ignore any part of that delicious little pussy. I'd start out slow and deliberate, flickering at various pieces of her, learning what made her shudder while I visited every inch of her crotch, asshole to wax-trimmed pubic hair, on an unpredictable schedule that would leave her breathlessly wondering where I'd go next. And then, finally, once I had her trembling and cursing me, once her thighs flogged around me and her hands gripped at my hair, once her juices were running like Yosemite Falls, I'd go in for the kill.

I felt like I already knew right where her clit would pop out, how long it'd be: I'd curl my tongue tightly, clamp my mouth against her opening, and let her have it. She'd scream, tensing up, and I'd be relentless, my tongue driving around her pussy like a mini penis, my upper teeth scraping gently at a clit that, I was sure, would be poking out like a tiny missile. She'd be a fun woman to eat out, I knew, and the heavy smell of her would be everywhere; I imagined she'd be a copious leaker. I'd be smelling traces of her in my nasal passages for a week.

This would go on... well, five minutes? Ten? As long as I damn well wanted while her eager young body bucked and squirmed. She'd thrash through it all, tangy and sweet at the same time, her forgotten thong stretched alongside my face as I burrowed deeper.

By the end I'd be on by feet, bent way over her for better leverage, with her firm ass filling my hands, her body curled up in a heaving mass with me savagely eating her out. We'd both be groaning, her abs tense against my forehead, and it would be a simple matter to get my pants open, her body already perfectly positioned for the hot angry moment when my stiff dick flew out and trembled, marble-hard and sweaty, more than ready for me to simply straighten up and jam it into her. She'd shriek, but not in pain; no, she'd be so juiced up it would be like sliding my cock into a bowl of warm butter, all slick and messy and --

And Shannon Boyle was looking quizzically at me from the doorway.

What she saw was me, staring vacantly at a piece of candy with the biggest erection I'd ever had hidden imperfectly under my desk. "You okay?" There was concern there, but mostly hidden laughter; I had the disquieting notion she knew exactly what I'd been thinking about. "You look sort of flushed."