The Accidental Gigolo Pt. 01

Chapter 2: The Accidental Blackmailer, Part One

"Bonjour, Monsieur Martin," said Ms. Lee as she opened the door of her apartment one Friday evening. "Avez vous les papiers legaux?"

"Oui, Madame," I answered. Barely a month into the semester, Ms. Lee had no intention of letting up on her rule that her students could address her only in French, even if they met out of class. My father had prepared some document or other for her as a favor, and my mother had asked me — told me — to take it over to Ms. Lee's house to have her sign it. A four-mile trip by bike that had taken me the better part of a half-hour.

"Etes-vous prêt pour l'examen?" Ms. Lee asked as she closed the door behind me and sat down at her dining room table with her pen.

"Oui, Madame," I answered. We had an examen coming up on Monday, and while I wasn't really ready for it, I figured I'd get in less trouble this way than if I said I intended to spend Sunday night cramming for it.

I fished the papers out of my backpack and put them in front of her. Standing beside her, I couldn't help but notice once again the way that her hair had been pulled back into a bun, which had made her look more severe during today's French class but which, from this angle, exposed her long, supple neck when she bent over to look at the papers. I couldn't help but inhale the subtle fragrance that her body gave off, whether natural or not I had no way of knowing. I couldn't help but peek down her blouse, which hadn't appeared to have any buttons when I'd tried not to stare at it under the jacket she'd worn during school. Now, with the jacket thrown over one of the other chairs, it was obvious that the two sides of the blouse connected somewhere near the little bow on the white mesh bra that she wore —

"Voilá," she concluded as she signed the last of the indicated pages and prepared to hand the documents back to me.

As a result of all my earlier helplessness, I also couldn't help spilling the contents of my backpack onto her table when I went to replace the papers. Smirking at my clumsiness, she helped me pick up a couple of notebooks, and then reached for my phone, which had flipped open on its skid across the table top.

"Where did you find this?" she hissed.

"Madame?" I asked. At that point, I was on my hands and knees fishing for my pen, and I popped my head up over the table to find out what she was talking about. "Le — le téléphone?"

I was racking my brain. It was a pretty standard Motorola, I thought, from that store in the mall. What the hell was the French word for shopping mall?

"This picture, Terry," she said, turning white and starting to tremble. "Where did you get this picture?"

I was about to offer to get her some water, because she looked like she was about to faint, when I realized what she was talking about. Oh, shit.

I sat down at the table.

"The, uh, the Internet?" I said softly, more of a question than a statement.

"This picture is on the Internet?" she was clearly horrified, and was starting to shake.

I took the phone from her. It was actually a cropped version of the full picture, just showing her head and her right tit, because the full picture would have been too small on the little screen.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "This magazine? College Spread? They have a —"

"Oh, God," she started to gasp for air. "It's going to be all over school."

"Well, no," I said, trying to calm her. "It's a kind of obscure site. You know, you could probably hack into it and change it so your name wouldn't come up on the search engines."

"Search engines?" she cried. "You can just goggle this?"

"Google," I told her. "It's called googling it."

That didn't help.

"Terry, I don't know anything about the Internet," she wailed. "I don't even own my own computer. I can't do anything like what you're describing."

"I could do it," I volunteered. Maybe. "But not from my computer."

That's all I'd need, to have Mom find out I did that.

I could see her eyes light up as she grasped at the admittedly slender straw. Then she slammed her palm on the table. "Damn, that stupid science fair has the school computers tied up all weekend long. I could sneak you in there next weekend. But shit, it'll be all over the school by then."

"It's pretty hard to find," I said. "So it's not very likely that anyone else will find it."

"Anyone else?" she asked coldly. "You mean unless you tell them?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"And what is the price of your silence, Mister Martin," her voice was growing hard. "An "A" in French?"

"I thought I already had an "A" in French," I was puzzled. I'd aced both the quizzes so far, and I wasn't any worse in conversation than anyone else.

"What, then?" she was screaming at me. "Do you know how much trouble you could get me in, you little prick, when you show this to your fucking little jock buddies in your French class?"

That pissed me off a little. I mean, there weren't any other swimmers in her class. The other jocks were soccer guys, with a few football players scattered around because they enjoyed the scenery. It's not like we had a club or anything, and I didn't appreciate being lumped in with the rest of them.

"Look, ma'am," I said, my peevishness starting to show. "I don't have any fucking jock buddies, little or otherwise, in your French class. But hey, yeah, maybe they would like to see their teacher spreading herself all over the back of a chair."

"You have the whole picture?" her eyes grew wide as she dropped to her knees. "Oh, God, Terry."

"You're upset," I nodded, thinking that a restatement of the obvious would help as I stood up and started to back away slowly. "I can understand that. I'm just gonna go home now."

I turned and ran for the door.

"Terry!" she called after me.

"Keep the phone!" I yelled as I slammed the door behind me and raced for my bike.

She was already at the house when I got there, her hot-looking Trans Am parked in front of the closed garage doors. She was pounding on the front door as I cycled up the drive.

"You wanna see the site?" I asked.

"Terry!" she jumped and clutched at her chest. Apparently she hadn't heard me coming up the walk. "Where's your mother?"

"Bar convention," I told her. "So, the website? With the pictures?"

"Pictures?" she gripped my arm. "I thought it was just one."

"Uh, no," I admitted. "I think there are two of 'em."

"Oh God, Terry," she wrapped her arms around me and I could feel her trembling. I unlocked the door and kind of pushed her into the house. Fortunately, it was fairly dark by then, and I didn't think that anyone had seen us. Ms. Lee appeared to be sort of numb at this point, and she just kind of followed me upstairs to my room.

"Look," I said, pulling out the chair at my desk for her and firing up the computer and its internet connection. "I'll show you how hard it is to find."

My home screen, the Google search page, popped up.

"What do I do?" she asked helplessly.

"Okay," I said, "First of all, I want you to type in your name there."

She typed "Pam Lee," and, again at my instruction, pressed "search."

"What does it mean?" she stared helplessly at the screen. Honestly, how could you be 30 years old and know this little about computers?

"It means that you'd have to look through 45,000 websites before you found the one with your pictures on them," I told her. "You're fortunate you have the same name as Pam Anderson. In fact, try Pamela Lee.

"See, three hundred thirty thousand hits," I said. "So the chances of somebody running across the site between now and then are like, infinitesimal."

Her breathing was a little less ragged now, a little calmer. Her chest was going up and down in regular, measured intervals, almost hypnotically —

"All right," she said, "show it to me."

"Oh, yeah, the site," I said. "Okay, type in, um, Pam Lee and, uh, coed."

"Nine results," she read the screen, "meaning only nine sites?"

"Yeah," I told her, pointing to the screen. "This first one leads to the second so let's go there first. Put the cursor on the title and click. Here, with the mouse."

I thought she was tense when I took her hand to guide the mouse. But when the site finally appeared, she was board-stiff. It was entitled "College Spread," the same as the title of the magazine in which her picture had appeared. I placed my hand over my teacher's and scrolled down to "Back Issues."

"Oh, God," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. There it was, Volume 3, Issue Number 5, May 1997. Her name jumped out at her: "Coed of the Month: Pam Lee."

"Why is my name in blue?" she asked.

"The highlighted names are links to other pages on the web," I explained. "With this magazine, you can preview a couple of the pictures in each of the issues. Click on it."

Pam numbly put the cursor over her name and clicked.

It was the full version of the picture I had on my phone, with her kneeling on a chair, her perfect butt in full view. She was smiling back at the camera over her shoulder, turned just enough so that her right breast came into the picture. Pretty tame stuff. The caption was relatively mild, too: Maybe a quick trip to the library will help her calm down.

Unfortunately, that was only one of the pictures. I put my hand over hers on the mouse and put the cursor over the "Pic 2" at the bottom and clicked it.

She gasped as the picture appeared. It was perhaps the most obscene of the whole photo shoot. Lying on her back, her eyes half-closed and her lips parted, Pam's left hand was under her left thigh, pulling her legs wide open. Her right hand was cupping her pubic mound, her index and ring fingers prying apart her labial lips while her middle finger was knuckle-deep inside her pussy. Her arousal was evident from the thin glaze covering her right thigh and her erect nipples.

She looked at the caption: The young romance language student knows exactly what she wants: "A nice young stud with his big, fat, hard cock deep inside me. Yours looks perfect."

"Oh, God. Oh, God," my trembling teacher repeated. "Anybody could find this."

She slumped forward in a faint, and I barely managed to keep her head from hitting the computer screen. I pulled her back and tried shaking her, and then tapping her lightly on the cheek. She was dead to the world, although her breathing — there was that chest again — suggested to me that she was probably just sleeping. At this point I figured that's what she needed anyway. So I very gently lifted her in my arms and carried her to my parents' bedroom. They were away all weekend, and this was the most comfortable bed in the place. Covering her with a comforter, I turned off the lights and returned to my room. I watched a movie on television, watched another movie that I hadn't realized had even made it to HBO yet, and finally went to bed myself.

Having gone to bed at around two, I was pretty tired the next morning, burrowed beneath my sheet and blanket and bedspread. But did that prevent someone from putting their hand on my shoulder and shaking it? It did not.

"Terry," a voice was hissing. "Terry, there's somebody at the door."

"Uh-huh," I pulled the covers up further.

"Terry," the voice said, "get the fuck up and answer the door."

I felt the covers being yanked out of my hands and then the much cooler air of the room.

"Do you mind?" I asked Ms. Lee as I started to wake up. Normally I slept naked, but last night, in deference to the fact that I had a guest in the house, I'd kept my gym shorts on when I finally turned in. I'd also had the sense not to jerk off last night, on the theory that she might have woken up and heard me, although it had never actually occurred to me that she'd come barging in my room like this. I sat there for a minute, yawning. She was dressed in a robe of my mom's, and just stood there staring at me.

"The door," she finally said. "There's someone at the door."

"Okay," I told her. "So when you leave, I'll get dressed and go answer it. Okay?"

That seemed to be a plan to her, so she retreated. I pulled on a pair of sweats and a size XXL T-shirt. I heard the insistent knocking as I descended the stairs, and I pulled open the front door to reveal Mrs. Patty Parsons, all 200-plus pounds of her, and behind her as large a crowd of people as I'd ever seen on our street milling around like they were at some sort of fair. I scratched my head and stared at her.

"Is your mom home?" she gushed.

"Uh, no," I said, "she and Dad are at some lawyer convention thing. What's, uh, what's goin' on?"

"The neighborhood block party," Patty enthused. "We've been planning it for a year. You must have heard about it. We've had fliers all over!"

"Oh, yeah," I said. I had heard something about it, but who pays attention to crap like that?

"Anyway," Patty just bowled over my lack of matching energy, "your mom said she was going to do a cake for the bake sale. Do you think she might have left it in the kitchen?"

"I can check," I shrugged. "Come on in."

I left her standing in the hallway while I shambled off to the kitchen to see if Mom had actually remembered having made that sort of commitment. I was very, very doubtful. I found Ms. Lee in the kitchen, hiding behind the door. She had changed as well, putting on a pair of my mother's shorts — those long shorts that end just above the knee — and a long-sleeved flannel shirt.

"What the fuck is happening out there?" she demanded.

"Block party," I said. "Excuse me, I've gotta look for something. And you might want to keep it down a little. I left Mrs. Parsons in the foyer."

She gave me a horrified look and her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Inside the house?" she hissed.

"That's where we keep the foyer," I agreed. "Well, I'll be damned. There is a cake in here."

I smiled at Ms. Lee and brought it out to Patty. She seemed equally surprised, but also curious.

"Do you have a guest here this weekend?" she asked, trying to peer around me into the rest of the house.

"A guest?" I asked.

"I thought I heard another voice," she said.

Patty Parsons was the biggest gossip in the neighborhood, behind my mother anyway, and it was obvious to me that Ms. Lee had been a little troubled by the idea that someone might think that she was here in the house. This morning. With me. Without my parents. I could see she might have a point there.

"Nope," I gave Patty a lascivious grin. "How'm I supposed to take advantage of my folks being gone when the whole neighborhood is watching out there?"

"Oh, you," Patty slapped me on the arm. "We'll be closed down by tomorrow noon. Depends on how fast you are."

I gave her a polite chuckle, and she turned around to leave. With her hand on the door, she stopped and looked back at me over her shoulder.

"Oh," she said with all the nonchalance of a bloodhound, "whose car is that in the driveway, Terry? It looks like Pam Lee's."

She didn't really have that kind of Columbo subtlety down.

"Uh, yeah," I agreed. "I guess she must have gone to that convention, too. I think her boyfriend's a lawyer in Sausalito, so she probably hitched a ride with Mom and Dad. Between you and me, I don't know how much conventioning they actually do at these things, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, you," Patty tittered as she slapped me again and left.

"So now that busybody bitch thinks I have a boyfriend in Sausalito?" Ms. Lee demanded as I reentered the kitchen.

I stared at her for a few seconds before responding.

"You're right," I deadpanned. "I'll go tell her you spent the night in here with me."

I pretended to turn and head for the front door. Apparently I have to work on my deadpanning.

"Terry, no, I'm sorry," Ms. Lee spun me around and flattened me against the door. "I'm sorry, please don't tell her that."

"I was kidding," I told her.

"Yeah that was really funny, you little prick," she spat at me.

This French bitch was really getting on my nerves at this point with her yo-yo pleading and screaming. The worse thing was that I was going to be stuck with her all day now. There was no way she was getting that car down the driveway without killing scores of people. And what was probably worse from her point of view, she'd also be alerting Patty Parsons that she'd spent the night. In fact, since this party actually did go all the way around the block, I didn't even think we could sneak her out the back. I couldn't hold myself back.

"You know," I said, "some time soon you're gonna have to decide whether I'm worth being nice to. Guys you're nice to might say, yeah, I'll go ahead and break a couple of laws, and try to hack your name off the internet. Guys you're a bitch to might say, fuck, why don't I just make things easier on myself now and e-mail your site to everyone at school."

I turned on my heel and left her staring at me as I walked back to my room. It was only once I got there that I remembered that I was starving, and that the reason I'd walked back into the kitchen in the first place was to get myself a bowl of cereal. I decided to wait a bit; once you've taken the moral high road you don't want to have to pull off at the next exit and head the other way. If I showed up in the kitchen now, she'd think I was willing to apologize.

I waited about fifteen minutes or so, until my stomach started to growl. And I was about to stand up when she suddenly appeared in my doorway, her arms folded in front of her chest. She had on a shorter pair of shorts now, also my mother's, and she'd tied the flannel shirt under her chest. She had an odd expression on her face, as if she was there against her will. Which, in a manner of speaking, she probably was.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Oh. Well, that was actually a nice surprise. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had been sorry to me.

"Okay," I said. "Thank you."

"See, I'm not a garce française after all, am I?" she asked, her face softening just a little bit.

"Well, yeah, you are," I said.

"I'm not," she protested.

"Oh, come on," I said. "At least once a week, you wear one of those tight little dresses just because you wanna look at hard-ons."

"I do not," she said, although her face said she was clearly surprised that I'd caught on.

"You do so," I insisted.

"You boys just can't keep your minds off of sex, can you, you little prick?" she hissed. "Everything's always our fault."

"It is when it is your fault," I argued with impeccable logic. "You know, that's that the third time you've called me a little prick. Once last night and twice today. What is your problem?"

Her eyes flashed down to my crotch.

"So is that the deal?" she said coldly.

"What?" I asked.

"I blow your teeny weenie, and you do your magic computer shit," she sneered.

I was actually speechless. Not for long, no.

"Yeah," I said. "That's it. But a nice one."

She raised her eyebrows.

"I mean, not that it wouldn't be nice," I stammered. "With you and well, you know. But I want it from someone being nice, not some French bitch.

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off the door jamb.

Shit, I was actually gonna get a blow job. My incredibly hot French teacher slowly sauntered over toward me. I was hypnotized by the way her hips approached me in those shorts, first the right one swinging forward and then the left. I knew she had beautiful legs — attached to the hips if I remembered the song right — and then there was that bare midriff underneath her knotted shirt. But my eyes were glued to those two hipbones, to the point that she had to physically push my legs apart in order kneel down between them.

Her warm fingers slid up my pants to the elastic waistband of my sweatpants, and I sat there in stunned silence as she tugged at them.