Story Time with Miss Z

Finishing with the presents, a disturbing thought snaked through my mind--that our relationship was cursed. It started with my betrayal; what if it were destined to end with one?

Putting that aside, I showered and left for Miss Z's at 4:30, avoiding the main rush hour traffic. I parked in her driveway, grabbed my gifts, and went straight to her door. It was open; I went right inside.

And stopped cold. A woman stood in the kitchen staring at me.

"Uh--hi. Is Miss--is Ashley here?" I asked. The woman turned her body toward me, still staring and apparently a bit speechless. Then, I recognized her. "Hey, you're Allison, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, Ashley's told me about you."

"You're Ben," she replied, walking slowly toward the foyer.

"Yeah. Is--uh--is she here?"

Allison shook her head. The family resemblance was clear. The blonde hair, for sure, but also the shape of her face and the dark blue eyes. Allison looked to be in her mid or late twenties. "She ran some errands," Allison explained, still approaching me with something like wariness. "Did she know you were coming?"

"I think so. I mean, I thought we talked about it yesterday." Then I held up the gifts. "Brought some things."

"Oh," Allison said, "yeah, you can set them--why don't you put them on the kitchen counter."

"Sure thing," I said, and as I passed, she stepped back from me, watching me closely. I set down the items, turned, and asked when Miss Z would return.

"Pretty soon, I think."

I nodded.

She stared.

A silence followed before I asked if she lived in town or was visiting.

"Visiting," she replied. Then she said, "So, she told you about me?"

I nodded. "Yeah, showed me that picture," I replied, pointing to the framed beach photo, "and she told me some stuff."

"Okay. So, oh-my-gosh," Allison said, "I just want to scream at you, you know?"

I must not have heard her correctly. I shook my head. "Sorry?"

"I mean," she explained, "you really do look exactly like him. Spitting image."

I shifted my weight, baffled by her words. "I look like who now?"

"My father," she said almost with awe. "You look exactly like him."

Pointing to myself, I said, "I look like your dad--your Mom's husband."

Guffawing, Allison said, "They were never married! He just--!" Allison's eyes saw my confusion, and she covered her mouth. "Oh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Pay no attention to anything I just said. Forget everything. I didn't say a word."

I looked around the room, wondering if I had stepped into the wrong house. "Look," I said, "I have no clue what you're talking about. I just wanted to visit Miss--to visit Ashley and bring her a few gifts. I don't know anything about--."

Allison was coming at me, hands cutting the air as if to erase the space in front of her. "No-no-no-no-no. It isn't your fault. It's mine. You're fine. I--I thought you were someone else."

That made zero sense. She'd known my name. I stepped back from her. "I--uh--I think I'm going to roll."

"Wait. No. At least--but don't worry about anything I said. Totally meant for another person. Forget it all." She forced her face into a smile. "My fault. Totally my fault. I didn't mean to freak you out. I'm not usually a crazy person."

Reaching for the door handle, I said, "Yeah, well, nice to meet you, Allison. Say--uh--say hi to Ashley for me and--and show her the gifts or whatever." Then, I opened the door and left.

Sitting in my car, I whispered, "What in the fuck?"

Then, I drove home.

*****

Part Two

Among students, the running theory for years alleged that Miss Z was asexual. While there was some disagreement about how attractive she was, all understood that there was nothing physically about her that would be objectionable. Most also agreed that, once you got past the rigor of her class, Miss Z was a sweetheart of a person.

Other proposals abounded--there was a "closet lesbian" theory, a "jilted by a lover" theory, and even a "black widow" theory on the notion that, hey, no one can be that kind and caring without some lurking evil. What stuck was the asexual theory. I think people liked the irony; her body radiated abundant sexuality, and yet, tragically for men and lesbians, she had no interest.

One of the smaller details that helped cement people's belief in her asexuality was how invested she was in her job and the school. Miss Z was never unprepared for class. Every day she had a clear learning objective, simple plan, and flawless execution. Also, our previous English teachers returned graded papers in weeks; Miss Z had them back to us in days. She worked hard.

As I mentioned before, she went to just about every home sporting event or activity the public was allowed to attend. She was there in the bleachers wearing her long skirt, watching every home football game, seeing me wrestle at every meet or dual we hosted. Always. When I went to watch friends at home basketball or volleyball games--track meets, you name it. Yes. Miss Z, present. My ex-girlfriend was in chorus. Those concerts? Yes, she was there.

We figured her life was her job. There was no time for romantic relationships.

Finally, the theory was given a tad more traction by the irony that, occasionally during class, she spoke fondly of her family. Miss Z had a brother and a sister; they weren't asexual. There were nieces and nephews. She liked her family and was proud enough of them to have pictures on and around her desk. Clearly, Miss Z didn't object to marriage and liked kids. Heck, she was a schoolteacher! How was it she didn't have any kids of her own?--unless she simply didn't care about sex.

As teenagers with worries and aspirations of our own, I heard Miss Z speak of her nieces and nephews during class as one hears background music in a nice restaurant. It was there, but I don't remember what the hell I heard.

The framed picture of Allison that Miss Z showed me at her home on Sunday hadn't jogged any memories, but meeting Allison in person did. On my drive home from Miss Z's, my mind conjured snippets of Miss Z during class, talking about someone named Allison, her eldest niece and sister's daughter. Allison was clearly special in Miss Z's life. There was a closeness and pride there that exceeded the other nieces and nephews.

The remembrance added to my confusion because the woman I met? She was a psycho.

"'I just want to scream at you,'" I quoted to myself as I drove home. "The fuck was that? Who the fuck says that to someone they just met?"

I bent my thoughts on Allison, the person. She told me to ignore her words, and I did. But that was an excuse. There lingered in me a disquiet about what she'd said that I chose to ignore. It felt better to direct my confused anger at her behavior.

A phone call interrupted these ruminations. "Miss Z" the screen read. I wasn't ready for that, yet. I told myself it was unsafe to answer a phone call while driving, though I'd done it scores of times before. The call went to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, I had a voice message. A minute after that, a text message pinged.

"Nope," I muttered.

When I got home, I went straight to my room and listened to Miss Z's voicemail: "Ben, it's me. Please call me right away, dear."

The text message read, "Call me please!"

Drawing a deep breath, I called her. She answered on the first ring.

"Ben! Thank you for calling."

"Yeah? What's up?"

"First, thank you very much for the gifts--the book and the plant. I'll cherish them because they're from you."

"Just wanted to do something nice."

"I know and you did," she said. Then, sighing, she went on. "I didn't expect you today, and I understand you met Allison and had a short conversation."

"I guess."

"Ben, we need to talk in person. It's important that you understand."

"Look, you've got company, and I--I'm not ready. That was weird. That was--excuse me, but it was fuckin' weird. So, why don't you enjoy your time with your niece, and we can maybe talk when she's gone."

Miss Z sniffled.

"I'm sorry I cursed," I muttered.

Her voice cracked when she spoke. "It was a misunderstanding, you see? Oh, Ben, are you sure this can wait?"

"Be with your niece. I promise we'll talk--when does she head home?"

"Friday."

"We'll talk on Friday. In person."

"Okay," she whimpered. "I'm sorry to ask this of you, but--but will you promise me not to say anything about your conversation with Allison?"

"Yeah."

"And--and will you promise not to tell anyone about the things that have happened between us since Friday?"

"Yes," I said curtly. "I already swore I wouldn't."

"I know you did. I'm sorry. I just--oh, I don't know what to say."

"Yeah."

"Okay," she whimpered.

"Bye."

"Goodbye, Ben."

I pushed the button and roared, "Fuck!"

From downstairs, I heard my mom shout, "Benjamin!"

"Sorry!" I hollered.

I sat on my bed. Thinking of Allison, I muttered, "Fuckin' stupid-ass weirdo bitch." I knew I shouldn't be too angry with her, but I was. From the moment I saw her, it felt like my thing with Miss Z was in jeopardy, and there in my bedroom, I was almost convinced it was over.

I didn't want it to be. I rose and found my shirt from the previous night. I smelled it and found Miss Z there. Flopping on my bed, I held the shirt to my nose, searching for her again.

The rapture of fucking her tits filled my memory. "Oh, my gosh," I whispered. But, it wasn't just the sex. It was her smile, her enthusiasm, and her happiness that I already missed. "I want to fuck her," I murmured, alone in my bedroom. "I want to fuck you, Ashley."

Yeah, her body would be a wonderland, but it was her joy. I wondered if by fucking her, I could share in a little bit of it. Find out where she keeps it all, where it comes from. Maybe feel it flow into my body from its very source, like drinking from a natural spring where it bubbles out over the rocks.

I rose and grabbed my phone. Pulling up her message, I replied, writing, "I don't care about any of it. I love you, Ashley." I re-read the message twice, and then I deleted the first part and her name. It read, "I love you."

Then, remembering how everything between us started with a betrayal, I wondered if our short story was doomed to end in heartbreak. I deleted the entire message and went downstairs.

***

The march to Friday was a funeral procession--long and painfully slow. I suppose funeral processions are a time to grieve and think, too. I grieved in a way. I grew convinced that Miss Z, with several days to reconsider our relationship, would choose to end it. Why not? She wanted the fling, the story; she got it. Why deal with some kid-boyfriend? Here was her perfect opportunity to end it.

I didn't do much clear thinking. Looking back, I know that if I had been able to separate myself from the turmoil in my mind, I might have answered several important questions about what happened late Tuesday afternoon with Allison. I could have recalled with some clarity her words and actions. The pieces might have come together.

But, I didn't want to think about Tuesday.

During lunch break at work on Friday, I texted Miss Z, asking if she still wanted me to come over that night.

"Please do. We need to talk in person. When?"

In my agitated state of mind, 'in person' suggested a break-up. So, I wasn't going to have dinner with her, that was for darn sure. In and out quickly. I wrote back, "7:30."

"See you then and thank you," she replied.

After cleaning up, I drove to her home, and she waited for me at the door. Opening it as I mounted the stairs, she said, "Hello, Ben. Won't you come in?"

It seemed formal. Break-up for sure. Glancing at her, the smile was strained. Her eyes held tension. I stepped into the foyer, and she showed me into the kitchen. "I do hope you're well," she said, offering me a seat at her little table.

I nodded. My heart pounded in my chest. She sat and folded her hands together, watching me, reading me. I remembered, right then, something Allison had said, and before she could begin, I blurted, "Who am I supposed to look like?"

Miss Z's face showed acceptance; she expected this, but not yet, it seemed. My outburst must have thrown her off a pre-set discussion plan. She cleared her throat and responded, "You look like Allison's father."

"So? Why should it matter that I look like your--your brother-in-law?"

"My brother-in-law is Allison's adoptive father. You look like her biological father."

I stared at Miss Z. Shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head, I said, "I repeat: so? Why should I even care who--?"

"I am Allison's biological mother."

I couldn't speak for several seconds. When I found my voice, I said, "What?"

Miss Z swallowed and said, "When I was very young--far too young--an older boy and I made a rash decision. He was your age now when it happened. When I informed him what happened, he darted off, terrified. My parents pulled me out of school for the year. The child--Allison--was adopted by my older sister and her new husband. I never saw or heard from the boy again. He must have gone off to college, and his family moved away. My sister, Anne, told the truth to Allison, and for many years now, I have been more than an aunt to her. She thinks of me as her second mother, and I am."

"So, when she said she wanted to scream at me--," I began.

"She assumed I had told you about my special relationship with her, and Allison was simply recognizing that, given your striking resemblance to that boy, she naturally felt the urge to vent some long-simmering anger at you."

"She's never met him?"

Miss Z shook her head. "There is a picture in a yearbook, and that's it."

"And you don't--you never--?"

"No."

"He just left you?"

She nodded.

I felt really bad for Miss Z, terrible. And I had misjudged Allison. In retrospect, had I known the truth, her words would have made perfect sense. But--.

Miss Z must have read the question in my expression. She said, "Ben, I did not choose you because of who you look like; I chose you because of who you are." Then, she drew a deep breath, and growing pink in the face and teary-eyed, she added, "But I have to admit I always saw him in you. I never judged you for it, and yet, after what happened at the end of the school year--what you did to me that day--the betrayal I felt churned up those old memories. In my mind, I linked the two of you together, you see?"

I swallowed hard.

Miss Z wiped her eyes, and I fetched her a tissue from the kitchen counter. "Thank you, Ben." When I resumed my seat across from her, she said, "Your letter of apology meant more to me than you can know, and then your speech! Oh, Ben, I didn't know who or where I was anymore, it so moved me. It was like he was apologizing to me using your beautiful words, and when you spoke of your attraction to me, I--," she couldn't finish. She sobbed for a moment, and then she said, "All the dots just kind of connected together. It was like--here was that boy again, reborn and reforged into a bright and caring young man named Benjamin Childs."

"Am I still him to you?"

"No! Ben, it came, and it went away again. I wasn't attracted to him at the Carnival; it was you I desired. You."

"But you still see him in me?"

"Yes, but no more than--," she looked around. Her eyes found the framed picture of her and Allison on the beach. "No more than you might see Allison's face in mine. That doesn't make her me or me her, do you see?"

"And when I screw up? Will I be him to you?"

"No, Ben. Of course not."

"And when we did things together in bed?"

"You, Ben. Always. And believe me when I say the two of you are very different in that department." She didn't smile when she said those words, but when she saw my triumphant reaction, she couldn't resist. Her mournful expression faltered, and she burst into laughter. I joined her.

"So, you're not breaking up with me?" I asked.

"No, my sweet! I thought you were going to break up with me!"

I guffawed. "Fuck, no!"

Hearing the decisiveness of my answer, Miss Z hooted with fresh fits of joy. I rose, stepped around the table, and swept her into my arms. I carried her to the foot of the stairs and looked at her, my eyes asking the question.

"Take me to bed, Ben. Please," she murmured, grinning.

On the way, I asked her if I could curse.

"I like it when you use swears, Ben," she said, "and I hope you don't mind that I just can't."

I shook my head and told her she was perfect.

At the top landing, I told her I wanted her pussy and asked if she would let me touch and kiss it this time.

She smiled, nodding.

Then I stopped and told her I'd never done it before. She said, "I'm an excellent teacher."

I laid her on the bed and stripped off my clothes. She told me she wanted me to undress her, and I did, taking it slow and relishing in all of the revelations I found. I liked the small wedge of hair--so blonde as to be nearly transparent--that I found under her silky green bikini-style panties.

After much kissing and touching, Miss Z asked me if I wanted to give her pleasure with my mouth, and I nodded. She didn't smile; she licked her lips and swallowed as if rapt with anticipation. Then, she guided my head down, and she told me to wander and make discoveries.

I did. The first was that Miss Z needed this. Her thighs trembled beside my ears, and her body responded instantly to my every kiss, lick, and suck. Her voice grew in airy tenderness. When I had satisfied my curiosity and rose from her with a question, she told me what to do. She whispered to me all the things she liked. She moaned when I listened well. She cried out when I aced the exam.

I wanted more, and when she found her breath again and saw me waiting down there, she murmured, "Oh, my sweet, truly?"

"Again," I said.

"Yes! Please do!"

The second time, she had me add a finger at the end, and her cries were like rich nourishment to me. Afterward, I laid on her beautiful thigh, enjoying the sight of her glistening pussy. She stroked my hair and thanked me.

"I love your pussy, Ashley."

"I know you do, and I'm so grateful for it."

"I want it again."

"Ben!" she began in protest, and then she saw my earnestness. I could almost read the debate on her face. She wanted to give pleasure and was unused to being the recipient, but the prospect of another orgasm was too tantalizing to resist. "Yes, my sweet. Please again."

Two fingers and a tongue, from beginning to end. Making Miss Z climax was like making her laugh hard, I realized. It made my world perfect.

When it ended and I could see how blissful she was, I told her that having my face between her legs was one of my fantasies.

"Was it?"

"Yes," I said, kissing the inside of her thigh.

"Will you tell it to me?"

"It starts with you giving me detention for talking in class."

She laughed. "I won't deny I thought about it a few times."

"And when I come in after school, you have me sit at a desk and read. You're standing at your whiteboard, writing out a bunch of instructions, and I can't keep my eyes on the book."

"Tell me why."

"Because as you write on the board, your butt shakes a little, and I'm watching it move."

"Naughty-naughty," she cooed. "Does watching my buttocks give you an erection?"

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

I rolled Miss Z onto her tummy; she gasped. I drew back and the sight of her big ass before me was so good I ached. "I crawl toward you," I said.

"On the floor?"

"Yes, on my hands and knees, I come up right behind you, and I get on my knees and I reach out."

"And you touch my buttocks? You grope me?"

"Yes," I said, sliding my hands over the two thick crests and back again, squeezing firmly at the end.

"Do I stop you?"

"You never even turn around. I clutch it and knead it, and squeeze it, and you let me, still writing on the board."