Irresistible Buzz Pt. 01

I asked her if she had any questions, and then I wrote "A-" on the front at the top. I told her if she wanted to, she could revise it for an A. She shook her head.

When she asked if I would come back to the Aperture on Thursday night, I didn't even ask what film was showing; I just said, "Sure."

Shit.

It was some documentary about a Cuban kid, Elian. I wasn't interested. There were three other people in the theater, and no one anywhere near me or my row.

When Aryn came in, she took the Coke out of the cup holder on the arm rest between our seats and put it in the one on the other side of her. Then she pushed the arm rest between us up and out of the way. The only barrier was gone.

Aryn asked me about the film, and I answered what I could. I wasn't really watching it, even though my eyes were on the screen. Every sense of mine was keenly attuned to Aryn.

She took a sip of the drink, seemed to take a deep breath, and then she put her hand on my arm. My arm rested on my leg, and I peeked down to see Aryn's little fingers sliding, slowly, back and forth through the hair. In seconds, I was buzzed again, warm again, hard again.

I was not in control of myself at that point. I knew what I ought to say and do. I comprehended the ethical and moral implications. I understood the stakes and the risks. Yet, I was no longer driving a car, able to slow down, turn around, and head back. I was a passenger on a train. The train was on the tracks, and the tracks had a destination.

I turned to Aryn. Half of her face flickered in light from the screen. I leaned over to her and whispered, "You have no idea how good that feels."

My lips were fractions of an inch from her ear. I leaned closer and put them on her neck, kissing her as softly as I could. Aryn drew in a breath. I kissed her neck again and smelled her hair. Then, I latched onto the soft skin where her shoulder meets her neck, and I gently sucked there, tasting her skin. The little hairs of my face grazed her, and my breath, like the puffs of an old steam engine, blew against the back of her neck.

When I pulled away, Aryn turned toward me. That was all the signal I needed.

I kissed her once, twice, and then our mouths opened. Our tongues twisted together. I caressed the smooth, velvet skin of her neck, cheek, and jaw.

With some kisses, I know it's staged, it's acted. With others, it's real. This was real.

With some kisses, I know it's just a preface, an author's note before the real story begins. With others, the kiss is part of the tale. This one was integral.

In the past, I've had kisses that actually detracted from—actually lessened—how hard I was. But, I felt this kiss in my balls and up the shaft to the very head of my cock.

The kiss conjured images of her lips around my dick. The silky wetness of her mouth triggered dreams of putting my tongue inside Aryn's pussy.

When I pulled back, her eyes blinked open, her eyebrows lifted, and she whispered, "Holy shit."

I caught in my throat the burst of laughter her reaction inspired, and Aryn covered her mouth while her shoulders shook with amusement.

When we regained control, I asked, "Was that as good for you as for me?"

She glared at me with those brown eyes and whispered, "Yeeeeees."

I smiled, and then I quietly said, "I'd do it again, but I really don't want to get you in trouble at your new job."

She sighed and nodded. "Someone might see us."

We turned back to the film and held hands. During the kiss, that buzzing warmth I always felt near Aryn had blossomed. It had been stronger. Now, it ebbed, and it's vanishing left behind a raging, reckless desire.

I let go of her hand and put mine on her black uniform slacks, high on her thigh. I fully extended my fingers, and then drew them together, gently, but firmly. I rubbed so as to feel the flesh and muscles of her leg. It was skinny and taut, and it felt smooth through her pants.

I moved my hand up to the crease where her upper leg joined her hip, and I came to a decision point. My hand remained there, poised; my fingers gently grasped and released, grasped and released. The side of my hand along my pinky finger was wedged in the warmth of the crevasse.

Stop now and this burgeoning relationship can probably be ended without too much trouble. I can tell Aryn how wonderful she is, but that I'm her teacher, and I'd made a mistake. She deserved someone her own age.

Continue and I complicate this situation to the point where I risked an unpredictable level of potential ugliness.

I wasn't thinking about my career—I already knew I'd fatally jeopardized it. I was thinking about the inevitable end of my relationship with Aryn and whether or not this moment would make a difference in how amicable that closure might be.

Then my hand moved, but not because I moved it. It was because Aryn adjusted herself—scooted her ass slightly forward in the chair and opened her legs a fraction. She gave me access.

I slid my hand down into the crotch of her pants, squeezed until my fingers pressed against the flesh underneath, and the drew my fingers up.

Aryn's eyes closed, and her lips opened. I rubbed for a few seconds, and then my fingers crept up towards her tummy, feeling their way to where her pants fastened.

I unhooked them and found the zipper. I pinched it and drew it down. I slid my fingers along the warm, supple skin of her tummy and underneath her panties. My fingers glided across a shorn area. Every inch lower, the heat rose.

I heard Aryn draw in a breath and hold it. I slid my fingers across her slit, my middle finger rode along the crease. I curled it into the gap, and Aryn's pussy coated the tip in lubrication.

Facing the screen, I glanced over and saw her close her eyes and exhale. I wriggled my middle finger inside her slit, letting her lips clasp it. I added my ring finger. Then, I slid the fingertips into her vagina, and then the top knuckles, and the middle ones. When I couldn't push further, I slowly pulled them out, pushing my fingertips against her upper vaginal wall and wiggling them, side to side. As they emerged, her clit slipped between them.

Aryn moaned softly. Her pussy was like soft butter—slippery and velvety smooth. But, it was hot like there was an oven inside her.

I pushed into her again and again, listening to her building pleasure and relishing in the sensation of her wet pussy on my fingers.

Before long, I became aware of a faint aroma, and I knew it was Aryn's scent.

I withdrew my hand and she turned to me, watching as I brought my fingers to my lips and caught the smell. It was feminine and earthy, and I put my fingers in my mouth. Aryn tasted sharp and metallic, but there was a fruity undertone, almost like honeydew melon. Whatever it was, the effect was instantaneously addictive.

I pulled my fingers out of my mouth and I slid them back into her pussy.

Once I established a rhythm, Aryn began to move with me, grinding herself into my fingers. Her strongest response came when, fingers fully inside her, the calloused finger pads on my palm mashed against and dragged over her clit.

Aryn brought her hand to her mouth, covering it to muffle her gasps. I quit watching the film. Her show was transfixing.

A tiny squeak emerged from behind her hand, and her chest heaved. She brought her other hand up and her head rolled back.

My fingers felt a muscle contract inside her, and Aryn's hands shot down and covered mine, holding me in place.

She panted, "Stop. Stop. Stop."

I looked at her expectantly.

She took three huge breaths and let me go. I pulled my hand out from her panties and she whispered, "I was going to scream. I couldn't have stopped it."

I looked back at the screen, and minute or so later, people were getting up. The credits had begun to roll.

Aryn quickly fastened her trousers. We waited until everyone left, and then she kissed me.

Before she got up, I said, "I don't want to scare you, but my career is kind of in your hands. Anyone finds out, and I'll never teach again."

She nodded. "I know."

I said, "I'll see you in class, Aryn."

She smiled, and we left separately.

***

I was nervous going in to work on Friday. The secret could already be out. I might be met at the door by the principal and told to pack up my shit. Even worse, the rumor might have first spread through the student body, but not yet have made it to the staff. The looks from students I might get as I taught, they would haunt me until the office finally learned, called me down, and sent up a long term substitute.

As each minute of the day elapsed no differently from any other Friday, I got more comfortable around the students. Aryn had been discreet—so far, at least. Still, when I had moments of quiet, I was wracked with guilt and fear.

I did a nice job in English-12C. Students were engaged. They asked questions, and I answered them well. My little jokes had greater success than usual. The kids worked hard on their persona projects for the next paper, and I patrolled the classroom and helped most of them.

Aryn and I had a secret, and it was terrifying and exciting. The few looks we exchanged were charged. One time, I had the class rolling after a brief story about the angelic persona I adopted as a kid when I visited my grandparents. I glanced at Aryn, and she wasn't laughing. She was smiling and there was something like pride in that grin. I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

During my plan period, I weighed the consequences. I knew how kids talked. There are no secrets in high school. Or, if there are, they're very rare. Students talk. A secret like this—a teacher and a student—would be so incendiary, so juicy, that it would have to be shared.

Fuck that. I needed to end this thing.

Seconds later, Aryn walked in, alone, and sat across from me at my desk.

"When can we be together again?" she asked with a sly smile.

I smiled. Fuck, she was tempting. "You want to?"

"Uh-hmm," she said, nodding.

Staring down at my desk, I took a deep breath and nodded. Then, I glanced up at her and said, "We can't do this. It's wrong, and it's way too big of a risk."

"What?"

"Aryn, you're amazing. I can't even describe how attracted I am to you, but I'm your teacher. And, compared to you, I'm an old man. This can't work."

"Why not? What's wrong?"

"The reasons I just said, and, look, I've had a fat ball of fear inside me all day. I can't teach when I'm living in fear of being found out and fired.

"No one is going to find out."

"Someone will, it's only a matter of...hey, it's Mrs. Radisson!"

The principal was standing in the doorway of my room.

She said, "I don't mean to interrupt." Then, she glanced at Aryn and said, "Good afternoon, Ms. McGrath."

Aryn responded, "Hey, Mrs. Radisson."

The principal squinted a little bit and asked, "Aren't you done for the day, Aryn?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to get some help on an assignment."

Mrs. Radisson looked back at me. "I'll come back later. Or, better still, swing by my office when you two are finished."

"Will do, Mrs. Radisson."

She nodded and left.

I sighed and turned to Aryn. "This is what I'm talking about: living in fear, feeling like there a ticking bomb somewhere near me, and I can't do anything about it."

She said, "Radisson, you mean? She doesn't know anything."

"Aryn, please. It has to be over. You're amazing, but this cannot continue."

She stood up and said, "Okay, I guess." She turned away, stopped, and turned back to me. "I've never been so turned on as when I was with you last night. I didn't think I could ever feel that way with a guy." She knocked on my desk twice, and then she walked out.

Radisson wanted to talk to me about a proposal to put an English teacher in a special new study hall for failing kids.

I left her office with a sigh, but my nerves still felt like exposed live wires.

***

We had an away game that night and practice early Saturday morning. In the afternoon, I broke down game film, but I had time to think.

I had ended the budding relationship, but the sense of approaching devastation hadn't gone away.

Breaking up with her—if that's what to call it—was like calling in an apology after leaving the scene of an accident. Maybe Aryn forgave me, maybe not, but nothing erased the original crime. I had to gut that shit.

***

I opened my eyes and the glowing red lights of my alarm clock stared at me. 1:21 a.m.

What the fuck?

Then, I heard what woke me up. My phone—the land line—was ringing.

The caller ID announced, "Vitech, John."

A neighbor up the street. I answered it.

He said, "Sorry to call so late, buddy, but there's someone snooping around in your yard."

"Huh?"

"Somebody all dressed in black. He's in your yard. I haven't called the police, yet."

I was waking up. "One guy?" I asked.

"One little guy," he responded.

This had happened to me before, and the neighbors were sort of used to it. Cheerleaders would decorate the yard late at night before a big game. Pissed off students or jokester ones would TP my house.

"Do you see him now?"

"Just went into your back yard."

"I'm on it. Talk to you tomorrow."

"Yep."

We hung up, and I got out of bed and walked over to the back window.

I saw him.

Her. It was Aryn.

I went downstairs and turned on the kitchen light. Then, I slid open the patio door and said, "Come on in, if you like."

I closed it and sat down at the kitchen table. A few seconds later, a black figure walked up the steps onto my back deck and came to the door.

She opened it and came in, stripping off her hood. "Hey! You're up."

"Aryn, this is crazy. Someone saw you and called me."

"Oh, shit. They call the cops?"

I shook my head. "Where are you parked?"

"Next street over," she said, unzipping her hoodie and sitting down across from me.

"What the hell were you going to do?"

"I sneaked out. Just wanted to see if you were up."

I shook my head. "You're crazy."

She asked for a drink—something with liquor in it. I poured two whiskey and cokes. Not giving her one would have felt like refusing to jaywalk after robbing a bank.

We sat on stools around the kitchen counter, and I began. "You know, since you're here, can I ask you a couple questions?"

She nodded and took a sip.

"Okay, so first question: you have a girlfriend. By rumor and by what I've seen with my own eyes, you're interested in girls. Am I wrong?"

"I'm a lesbian. No, you're right."

"And, I mean, your girlfriend—what's her name?"

"Naida."

"Naida. She's your age?

"She's 18."

"So, she's a young, skinny little thing and very feminine. A girly girl. And, I mean, look at me. I couldn't be more different. So, why me?"

She scanned back and forth along the countertop, saw her drink, and took a big sip. She looked at me and said, "Don't be mad."

"Aryn, I can't control how I feel. You can't ask me that. I can control what I do, but not how I feel."

She sighed and said, "It was a dare."

Oh, fuck.

Before I could respond, she interjected, "Let me explain!"

I raised my eyebrows.

She went on. "My friends, it was—see, I hang out sometimes with some people, some gay guys, at the park. Some of them go to our school. Some of them graduated. They all know you. Some of them even had you for class, and they—I don't know—they found out I had you. They talked about you like you were the best teacher ever, I mean, their favorite. But, we were just talking one day, you know, and they all—the ones who know you—they, like, said you would be the first teacher they wanted to fuck. They all wanted to suck your dick, they said. And they were like 'I'd totally..."

I held up my hand. "I get it," I said, "I'm flattered, but what about this dare?"

"I told them you were coming to the theater—when Godfather was showing—and they dared me to try to make out with you, but I was too nervous."

"Do they know? Did you tell them anything?"

"No. They asked, and I said I couldn't do it."

I blew out a huge sigh. "Okay. Good. And, you're not going to, right?"

She shook her head.

"Okay, cool." Then, I asked, "But, if it's not about a dare anymore, then why do you like me?"

Without hesitation, she said, "Because you are as male as it comes. You're big and hairy and muscular. You've got a jaw like a truck and shoulders like boulders, and I may try to be a butch lesbian, but next to you, I'm a Disney princess. That's why. I feel like a girl with you. I want to be a girl with you."

It was a pretty nice compliment, and I smiled and shrugged. "Thanks, Aryn."

"Okay, my turn. Why do you like some nineteen year old butch lesbian who happens to be your student?"

I probably looked a little sheepish when she asked, but I answered honestly. "It was how I felt when you were close to me. I can't understand it, but being near you was like taking about three shots of liquor, but not ever feeling the burn of the taste, just the good, warm feeling. When you came by to talk about Heat, that's when I first felt it. Then, when you touched me in the movie theater, the feeling was so much stronger. I'm no 16 year-old anymore, and your touch made me hard as steel, just your touch."

"Really? I made you hard?"

I nodded. "And, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I caught a glimpse of the pictures in your binder one time, and I sneaked a look at them. They were incredibly sexy."

Her eyes lit up. "You looked in my binder? When?"

"Library day. Once I dropped off the class, I came back to my room."

"Oh, my gosh! You're a big sneak!"

"Sorry. Anyways, I always thought you were interesting, but I began to see you as beautiful and sexy and fun loving. And that buzz feeling. Woah."

She laughed. We finished our drinks, and she asked for another.

"So, you sneaked out?" I asked, pouring our drinks.

"Yeah, no. Well, sort of. I told my Mom that I was going to spend the night at Naida's after work."

The mention of her Mom reminded me—in a painful way—of our age difference: she's still a fucking kid.

"I haven't changed my mind, Aryn. We can't do this."

She waved her palms at me. "I know, I know. Geez."

We both took sips, and a loaded silence filled the room until Aryn asked, "Wanna show me your house?"

"Sure."

I took her around. It was a male school teacher's house: small, not well decorated or furnished, but comfortable. Aryn walked into the master bedroom like she owned the place. She strolled into it in front of me, finishing off her drink and setting the glass on the nightstand.

I stood in the doorway and watched her look around, push on the mattress, open the closets, and tour the bath.

"How long have you been divorced?" she asked.

"Nine years."

"Ever been close to marrying again?"

"No."

"Do you want to? Get married again?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

She stood in front of the bed, looking at me and asked why I got divorced.

I told her the story. She nodded. I asked about her parents.

"It's just my Mom and I."

"That cool by you?"

"Totally cool, yeah. My Mom rules," she said, and then she slipped off her shoes and sat on the bed. She yanked off her socks.

She pulled the hoodie over her head and tossed it on the floor.

She unbuttoned her black jeans and slid them off.

She reached underneath the back of her shirt. She drew her arms inside the sleeves of the black tee-shirt she was wearing. A second later, her bra fell on the carpet.

"Aryn," I began.

"I'm tired and there's plenty of room, if you're worried. This is a king, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"Turn off the light, whatever you decide."

I saw her legs fan up onto the bed and slip under the sheets. She snuggled on her side and closed her eyes.

I shut off the lights and went back down to the kitchen. I poured myself another whiskey coke and drank it at the counter.