The Norwegian Made Me Do It

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Hopelessly horny Shannon goes too far with a student...
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Voboy
Voboy
1,777 Followers

Though not a direct sequel to "Chats in the Stairwell," this one uses the same character. Feel free to read that one first, though you don't really need to.

Enjoy!

* * *

I've never had a wet dream, probably since I'm not a guy. But maybe women can have them too; I don't know. I'll have to ask Gina. Anyway, I've never had one. But last night, I came close.

I woke up tired, cranky, and nervous, my bedsheets soggy with sweat, my head heavy like I'd had too much wine. It had been an unpleasant evening in a major way: I'd been doing FaceTime sex with Leon, my legs cranked wide and my pussy shoved toward the webcam. He'd been gone nearly two months by this time, so my pubic hair had mostly all grown back, and I'd seen the blank lust in his eyes as he'd stared at my image. Leon was never good at keeping his own webcam on his dick, but that was okay; more often than not, it was his mouth that did more for me than his penis, and as I masturbated feverishly that evening it had been thoughts of his mouth that were moving me closer.

I'd been digging steadily through my own soupy vag, two fingers inside and the other hand pressing down on my mons, my face propped up on some pillows so that he could see me gape sexily. I'll admit, I was hamming it up for the camera; I'd had nothing but my hands for seven weeks now, and that's difficult for a woman like me. But that evening, everything had been clear sailing; he and I had been moving steadily toward our respective orgasms, his webcam starting to blur as his rapidly moving arm jarred the deck beneath his chair, when all of a sudden I heard a tinny voice coming from Leon's screen.

Someone else's tinny voice, high-pitched and vaguely mechanical in that way that Europeans get when they're speaking English.

"Uff da! Is that your girlfriend's pussy? Shit! Look at her!" I'd been in total confusion as Leon, his eyes wide and his skinny dick bobbing, sprang up and out of the screen; I lay there, realization slowly dawning, as I heard him cuss out the random Scandinavian crewman who had just walked in on his cam-sex session with his girlfriend and, no doubt, gotten himself a good look at my weeping snatch and my busy fingers.

By the time I'd figured all that out and hidden my goods behind the towel I'd laid under my ass, Leon was back with a haggard look on his face. "Baby, I'm so sorry..."

So I think it was the interrupted masturbation session that gave me such intense dreams last night. But in any case, I was all out of sorts when I dragged myself out of bed for another day at school, uncharacteristically listless and unable to function; dragging myself down to make my coffee was a chore, and much to my shock I was seriously considering not doing a workout today. I sat there with a half-toasted bagel and some overripe cantaloupe, pondering the irony that some unknown oil worker in the North Sea was undoubtedly going to be erect all week because he had seen my vagina on my boyfriend's computer screen last night.

Dude should send me a check. I felt obscurely ashamed, even though I'd never see him and shouldn't have cared.

But I'd certainly need to shake myself out of this. I was known as a high-energy, vivacious teacher; if I went in front of my first-period class looking like I felt, they'd know something was up. And no way was I comfortable being the subject of hallway gossip, however benign.

And I'd need to hurry: first period was Intro to World Religions, a humanities elective for which I and the students all shared a healthy dislike. I'd inherited it when its former teacher had gotten fired over the summer for child porn; they'd thrown me in with a half-baked curriculum and a bunch of seniors and told me to get to work. If I let it, that class would eat me alive. I always needed my A-game in there, especially first thing in the morning.

And somehow I got through it, putting on my best acting performance since I'd killed as the Caterpillar during a third-grade production of Alice in Wonderland. The topic of the day was the Sunni-Shi'a split, which was at least history instead of philosophy; I did my best, but suburban American kids aren't usually any more captivated by that topic than the rest of America is, regardless of its importance.

Four kids were absent that morning, another two tardy; could be worse. One of the tardies was Dylan, as was often the case; I frowned as he came in, but he only arched an eyebrow and held out his late slip. Dylan was a solid C student with the brains of a straight-A whiz kid, a highly frustrating boy I'd last seen two years ago during sophomore history. He was a senior now, eighteen and very ready for his diploma; he was one of those kids who, mentally, was already out there doing roofing or landscaping, not even knowing that ten years would pass before the regret of not trying harder crashed into him.

I sighed, mid-lesson, my mind elsewhere. I'd tried with Dylan back in history, staying late with him to coax out his ideas and theories, working on his critical thinking. It had worked for awhile, but ultimately there'd been a minor drug arrest, a parental divorce, and I'd lost him completely. I mean, we all had. He was quiet around me now, knowing he'd disappointed me then; I knew he never would have taken this class if he'd known I'd be teaching it. He'd always been an enigma, a strange mix of self-confidence and shyness.

I eyed him as he went to his seat, captivated as I'd always been by his ass. High school teachers who claim not to notice their more attractive students are liars, all of them: we all look, we all talk about them, and most of us fantasize while we lie in bed at night. A few of us take things a step further and do a little flirting; even fewer go beyond that into furtive touching and kissing, and a handful go all the way. It's never, ever a good idea: even when teachers get away with those kinds of things officially, the rest of the kids always know. Always.

Occasionally, when I'd been a younger teacher eight or nine years ago, I'd indulged in harmless flirting. Once or twice, or perhaps more, I'd even gone in for a hug or two, always camouflaged as congratulations for a test performance or some other achievement; hugs at graduation are one thing, the quick and chaste shoulder clasps of proud teachers and happy students, but these had been full-body grapples of the sort you'd see at the end of a particularly satisfying first date.

And once, just once, there'd been a kiss on young Paul Sanchez' cheek, temptingly close to his mouth; we'd both been shocked and I'd felt him go hard instantaneously, and that had pretty much ended those kinds of things. I'd felt embarrassed, but God! the ass on Paul, too!

I well knew, from lunchroom conversation, that many of my colleagues had done quite a bit more than that (Gina especially), but I'd been a good girl for many years now. Though I did still like to flirt, but only with seniors. And only with seniors I knew could handle it.

But Dylan's ass was special even among a school full of compact, athletic adolescent bodies. It curved gently out, full and muscled, narrow where it ought to be; a perfect, perfect ass for gripping. Most of the rest of him, sadly, was decidedly par: he was a tall boy with a slender torso, unremarkable arms, and a forgettable but not unpleasant face with the floppy black hair so common at that age. As a sophomore he'd been bleached, but the black went better with his dark eyes and his sardonic mouth. His legs, as befit the ass topping them, were a little better: Dylan ran cross-country, and he had those stringy quads and sturdy calves I liked.

He slunk toward his seat and I went on chatting about the Battle of Karbala. I kept looking back at him, not sure quite why; sometimes, for fun, I liked to daydream that he or another of his attractive classmates looked at me and wondered what I'd be like in bed. I'd look back at them with my usual lively boldness, my eyes answering:

Best you'll ever have.

But of course none of that was ever going to happen: they looked at me and saw a youngish-oldish woman, still in outstanding shape, but certainly far from sexy when compared with the copious female eye candy any public high school offers. I was petite and athletic where most of them were tight and luscious, my B-cupped breasts safe underneath a simple, professional scoop-neck top, rather than the massive, cleavage-squashed mountains so proudly displayed by the modern American adolescent young lady.

I did have a nice ass, though, and I was still sure I looked great naked. But that didn't matter at school. Nor, indeed, unless I was with Leon or, now, his crazy Norwegian shipmates.

Gina and Audrey couldn't contain themselves when I told them the story at lunch. "Jesus!" Audrey mumbled around her tuna sandwich. "Do you even know who it was?"

"Who? The Scandinavian?" I shook my head; Leon was a third of the way around the world. "Hell no. Leon's a troubleshooter; he just comes aboard for a few weeks or months or whatever to do his geological shit, then leaves as soon as he can. He's not even really a part of the crew. And it's not like I'd ever meet them, even if he was."

"Exactly," Gina said, her green eyes flashing with merriment. "Why are you worried? You probably gave that guy the thrill of his life." Her eyes flickered vaginaward for a moment. "You're not shaving anymore, right? With him gone?"

"No. Well, of course I've trimmed."

"Good. Those Euro guys like a little grass on the field." She shrugged. "Karma. I'll bet you made him a very, very happy man. And you'll never see him, anyway."

"And he's probably, like, some fat-ass," Audrey observed diplomatically. "All hairy, with a small dick."

"Or not." Gina grinned evilly. "And isn't that what makes it fun? It's like a virtual gloryhole." I wasn't 100% sure what a gloryhole was; I'd take her word for it. "Besides, I doubt it. I've never seen a Scandinavian sailor who looked like anything but a male stripper."

"You've seen so many Scnadinavian sailors, bitch." Audrey was amused.

"More than you'll ever know, bitch," Gina replied solemnly. "I don't fuck and tell." I blushed; that was an outright lie. Gina had fucked Audrey's husband recently, and had certainly told me. "How about it, Lucas?" she went on, roping in our male coworker. "Ever seen a fat, hairy, small-dicked Scandinavian sailor?"

"Umm." Lucas suffered gamely, largely because he was a nice guy. And he didn't have tenure, so he didn't want to offend anyone. "Can't say I have, Gina."

"There you go." She finished her bubble tea. "He'll be telling all his friends about you for weeks. In Polish, or German, or whatever." She cackled. Gina, I knew, was crazy enough to get off on showing her cooze to half the North Sea.

Over by the window, Lucas sighed. He was fitfully grading papers. "What's the deal, Lucas?" I asked.

"Oh, it's that kid Dylan. He's bombed another essay." He scrawled in frustration on the top of the first page. "Did a fantastic intro, a textbook body paragraph, and then... nothing. He just stopped."

"So annoying." Dylan was one of Audrey's cases down in the Guidance office. "He's got more potential than half the class."

"He was late today," I observed. "I wonder if he's going to graduate."

"Huh." Gina flashed her usual crafty smile. "I wouldn't mind if he stayed back another year, if you know what I'm saying. Am I right ladies? Eh?" She guffawed.

"Oh, he's a definite hottie," I put in quickly.

"Well, I mean, he's cute in that brooding, goth kind of way," Gina said slowly, "but I'm not sure I'd call him a 'hottie.'" She grinned. "I should know."

My heart sank. "Gina! You didn't!"

She shrugged. "I might have had a couple of... well, I guess I'd call them 'run-ins' with our young Dylan." She shrugged. "Nothing too unprofessional."

Audrey looked over her glasses at Gina. "Details," she commanded. Gina smiled indulgently.

"Well," she said, already savoring the tale, "we were all done with class. Bell was going to ring in like four minutes. This was about three weeks ago, and Haley King was talking about getting a tattoo. She's about to turn 18, she says. So I ask for a show of hands of kids who are 18. A bunch of them go up. Then I ask them to keep their hands up if they plan on getting a tat." She looked from Audrey to me. "And just guess whose hand stayed up."

"Dylan Rotolo." I clapped my hands

"Right-o," she beamed. "Kept that skinny little arm high in the air. So I asked him what kind of tat he was planning on getting. Not all flirty or anything; just a conversation." She paused.

"And?" I was holding my breath; surprising.

"He says he wants his father's initials on his shoulderblade." She shrugged. "I guess something happened to his dad or something."

"Divorce," Audrey muttered, "followed by overdose. Just last April."

"Holy shit." Gina blinked. "The poor, vulnerable boy. I'd love to comfort him in his hour of grief."

There was a silence. Lucas broke it from off to the side. "Not cool, Gina."

"Whatever. So the bell rang, and he hung on for a sec after class, hanging back. It was lunch, so it's not like I had to kick him out right away or anything, but he came sauntering up to me with that floppy little smile." She looked at me. "He's got a little swag, that Dylan."

"Mm-hmm."

"So I said, 'What can I help you with, Dylan?' And he goes, 'Do you have a tattoo, Ms Torrey?' And, of course, I'm not going to lie; I told him I did. And then he looked me up and down, real slow-like, with those lazy pothead eyes of his, and he stares me in the eye and he asks to see my ink."

"The nerve!" Audrey was trying to act shocked, but the nipples topping her fine Cs were starting to bubble up. Apparently I wasn't the only one thinking occasional impure thoughts about Dylan.

"Right?" Gina shrugged again and finished off her sandwich. She chewed and swallowed deliberately, letting us marinate in the suspense. "So," she said at length, sweeping her tongue across her teeth, "of course I said yes." I giggled, not at all surprised. Audrey blushed. "I was wearing a dress that day, and the tat's a tramp stamp over my butt." Another shrug. "I figured since I wasn't wearing a thong, there was no harm in just pulling up my dress in the back. It's no different from him seeing me in a swimsuit bottom, and it's not like my ass is anything special anyway."

"To your eighteen-year-old student," I pointed out, "it's very, very special."

Gina grinned very slowly. "Well, whatever," she sang. "I did my duty to assist in Dylan's education by letting him get a sense of the permanence of a properly-done tattoo. I hauled up my dress in the back, bent over a tad, and let him have a nice long look."

"I'll bet you did," Audrey snorted. Gina arched an eyebrow; as I often did when I watched the two of them interact, I now wished she'd never told me about her and Audrey's husband. But that was the kind of friendship Gina and I had: we were the ones we told about our sexual conquests. The truth, unedited for the rest of the group. Neither of us told Audrey about all of that; she was there for moral support and gossip. She was, as we'd quickly discovered, a bit of a prude. No doubt that's why her perfect husband, who always did the dishes and changed the diapers without complaint, had boned Crazy Gina.

"No harm done," Gina insisted. "He's 18, and like I said, he'd have seen more with a swimsuit. Besides," she added nonchalantly, "he and I already knew each other. You might say we'd had an encounter before that."

"Do tell," I murmured, looking up at the clock. Lunch was over in less than ten minutes.

She saw my look and rushed into her next tale. "Last year. Homecoming dance. I was chaperoning because I'm a class advisor. I'm sitting there separating the twerkers when, surprise! Up comes little Dylan Rotolo. He looked at me and asked me to dance. Just out of the blue, right there."

"Huh." I'd chaperoned dances before, though, and students often danced with teachers. Innocently, of course. But knowing Gina, that's not what had happened. "Ballsy."

"Not really," she said dismissively. "I'd been dancing with boys all night, but not to a slow song. He wanted a slow song. I think he was there with Aimee Lafleur, but she was probably in the bathroom giving some other guy a blowjob." We all nodded. Aimee's reputation was well known around the school. "Of course, I said yes; he's got that nice smile, and he looked great in a suit. Plus, of course, the ass."

"The ass," I agreed. Even Audrey was nodding.

"Right. So I let him lead me out onto the floor. It was 'Lady in Red' by Chris deBurgh, and of course I was wearing that short red dress I've got, with the sequins."

"Low cut," Audrey accused.

"Sure. But it's not like I'm showing much down there, anyway." Gina had a notably boyish chest. "We started dancing, and of course y'all know me: I'm not shy, whether I'm dancing with a boy or a man. I'm showing him my moves, dancing a proper slow dance, my hands all over his back, looking up at his face. It was weird because he's so tall. My face only came up to his nipples. Shit, I'd almost be able to blow him standing up."

Not for the first time, I wondered about Gina's copious sex life. She was so tiny that it had to be hard to wedge any decent-sized man into her, but to hear her tell it she could handle any size. I remembered her telling me Audrey's husband had taken her from behind, and now I wondered at the logistics there. He was pretty tall. Was she standing on a box or something? High heels?

"So, the next thing was predictable: before the third line of the song, he was already getting a boner." She giggled. "It was like a jack-in-the-box; that shit came shooting up like a bean plant on one of those time-lapse videos. I could feel it, obviously, right against my stomach. And he knew I could feel it."

I was sitting there openmouthed. Audrey cleared her throat. "What did he do?" she asked.

"Do?" Gina seemed perplexed. "He got hard, Audrey."

"No, bitch," Audrey explained patiently. "Did he back up, or hunch over or anything? Or, shit, did he apologize?"

"Oh! No, actually." She shook her head. "No, and that's almost the best part. I smiled at him, you know, because I couldn't help myself. He just smiled back and pressed even harder against me." She was grinning crazily with the memory. "Well, you know me: I like a confident man. Like I said, swag. So I gave him a little shimmy, sort of a wiggle, and leaned back so he could get a look down my dress." She patted her chest self-deprecatingly. "For what it was worth." She smiled mischievously and looked over toward the window. "Lucas," she called lustily, "would you get a boner from dancing with me?"

"You're going to get us all fired, Gina."

"No doubt, sweetie, but answer the question. Would dancing with me give you a hard-on?"

He thought about the answer, trying to decide which would be less offensive. "What's the song?" he said at last. I applauded loudly while Audrey laughed.

"Excellent question, Lucas!" she beamed. Gina's eyebrows went up.

"Clever boy. It's a slow dance. Say, 'Drive' by The Cars."

"Great song," I murmured, but Lucas just shook his head.

"I'm not as old as you guys," he said plaintively. Gina shrugged impatiently.

"Oh hell. Maybe 'You're Beautiful." James Blunt."

"Well then. I'd get hard, I think. If you dance like I think you do." Gina smirked at him and blew him a kiss.

"You've got no idea. Well, so like I was saying, Dylan was no match for me. He was staring at me, and I was staring at him, and we were grinning like idiots, and he was popping right up against me. And then came the best part." She looked back and forth between the three of us, her eyes shining. "We're halfway through the song, and I'm really getting my schwerve on with him, and he's not a bad dancer, and he lets go of me," she said breathlessly, "he backs up half a step, he calmly adjusts himself, points his dick upward, and he comes right back in and grabs me again."

Voboy
Voboy
1,777 Followers