The Wrong Treatment Pt. 04

The Wrong Treatment Part IV

In the days since High School starting wide receiver Richie Armstrong passed out on the football field during what should have been a routine practice, the rumor-mongering among the class body had yet to die down. All I knew for sure was that the asshole was in a coma. The hospital had thankfully been unable to determine a root cause for the incident, with the potential culprits of heat stroke, concussion, and cardiac disease ruled out after exhaustive testing.

Yesterday's announcements offered counseling to anyone feeling depressed by the situation. I immediately thought of Misty, Richie's twin sister, the innocent girl I essentially bimbofied with my irresponsible use of a love potion. The teenage brunette had been excused for the week, and I was beyond anxious to find out if taking her brother out of the picture had done anything to stop her descent into complete sluthood.

Even if it had only halted the progression of the trance she was in, that would buy me more time to find a cure. At least, I hoped it was a trance. If the sinister potion was a permanent alteration... My heart sank just thinking about it.

I flagged the timestamp on the video I was watching. The blonde vixen on the screen stroked her son's cock and kissed the boy's forehead as they snuggled together in the master bed. Mrs. Young's otherworldly figure had only improved over the course of their affair, no doubt a benefit of the tremendous energy she was now expending, fucking her son whenever she could get her hands on him. The days of having to skirt around Mr. Young seemed to be in the past after a massive blowout that included lots of histrionic hand expressions and angry finger-pointing. I couldn't make out the details, but I assumed he had grown suspicious of his wife's strange behavior. The tubby, red-faced doctor had packed up his things two days ago and slammed the bedroom door loud enough for it to resonate outside into the microphone.

Brent moved in less than an hour later. The incestuous couple had ordered a pizza and dessert that first night. As the sun set, Mrs. Young collapsed onto her son's chest, panting. Light beamed from the window and reflected off the ceiling onto her glistening, golden skin as she melted like butter into the brawny framed youth. The flesh of her cheek radiated as it pressed against his ribcage, and she listened to the sturdy heartbeat of her lover. She sighed wistfully as if trying to imagine a world where they could be forever together.

A little white dabble of whipped cream still clung to her plump breasts. Brent seemed satiated, however. I had video of him smothering his face and lapping his tongue around his mom's puffy nipples for a solid ten minutes. The pure, unbridled display of lust and devotion was mesmerizing. Eating, drinking, fucking, watching tv, fucking some more... The pair had been mating like bunnies. They hardly ever left the room.

I opened another file with the blonde in her pink lingerie, stroking her young lover's cock, while grinding her groin against his leg. Her insatiable appetite for his boy-cum was unparalleled. My own erection stiffened in my jeans. It wasn't the first time I felt jealous. Not that I would want to fuck my mom... And not that my mom wasn't attractive in her own right... Just Mrs. Young, and the way her perfect fluttering tresses draped in waves over her shoulders, the way her tanned skin glowed with the sheen of a fashion model... I had saved the recording in Brent's folder of blackmail, which was starting to use up a lot of space on my hard drive.

My mouse double-clicked on a new folder marked History: Extra Credit. After witnessing Andre and Mrs. Watson's scandalous rendezvous in the girls' restroom, and with Brent's $1000 burning a hole in my pocket, I had bought and placed minicameras in the pencil-marked ceiling tiles of Mrs. Watson's classroom. The dividends were already paying off, and with audio, I was finally able to gain some more insight into how those afflicted with the potion were seducing their victims. Mrs. Watson was one stubborn woman. Even though she was clearly drawn to Andre, she kept trying to call off the affair. The story played out the same nearly every day. At least lately she hasn't seemed as rattled. I tuned into today's 'Afterschool Special'. The timestamp was 40 minutes past the final bell, and Mrs. Watson looked fretfully as Andre walked into her classroom, sliding the interior door lock with a click.

"What's wrong?" Andre said, saddling up to the subject of his new fascination. His hands slid down the waist of the history teacher.

The demure woman with slightly curly tawny hair that was pulled back in a tight bun hesitated, her composure slipping as she gazed into the eyes of the athletic black teenager.

"This has to stop," she said, voice catching in her throat.

Andre leaned closer. He dwarfed the thirty-something-year-old woman by almost a foot. "You need to relax." He slowly removed her librarian glasses and placed them on the desk behind her.

"Mm-No. I've thought about this, and I cannot be caught having relations with a student," she stammered, "I'm ma-married."

"To a chump." Andre took her hand and studied the tiny wedding band.

"Don't!" She bristled, pulling it away before he could twist it off.

"What's gotten into you, Mrs. W? Yesterday you was begging for a slice."

"That's not..." She shook her head. The memory of getting fucked against the whiteboard had resurfaced. The shrewd woman couldn't make sense of what was happening to her.

"That was a mistake. I didn't realize. I mean, I realized, I just hadn't thought about it."

"Thought about what? I already told you, ain't no one gonna know. And your man clearly hasn't been taking care of you right."

The normally unfazed teacher tried to regain control. "I saw you talking to Niki after class," she blurted.

"Niki Turner?" Andre looked confused. "She invited me to her birthday party next Saturday."

"Yeah, well it looked like more than that." Mrs. Watson sidestepped away from Andre and turned her back so she wouldn't have to look at him. "Besides, you should be with someone your own age. We shouldn't even be talking right now. It's beyond inappropriate."

"Ahh," Andre nodded slowly. "You're jealous."

"Oh, please..." Mrs. Watson scrunched up her face.

"Yo, Niki's hot, but she's just some girl, not like you. You're different. You're a real woman. I've always had a thing for older ladies." He moved in front of her and lifted her chin, forcing eye contact. "Just like you have a thing for younger guys."

"I refuse to allow this to go any further," Mrs. Watson stated shakily. She hugged herself and blinked nervously.

Andre towered over her. "You be runnin' in my head rent-free for days now. You think playing hard-to-get will help? You see what it's doing to me?" His pants tented out with a defiant bulge, as his eyes wandered down her body.

Mrs. Watson bit her bottom lip, in fear or lust, I couldn't tell.

"Are you really going to leave me hanging?" he leaned close and whispered in her ear.

She dropped her arms and clasped her hands tight, defiantly spitting out the word, "Disgusting!"

She looked ready to slap the boy across the face, but Andre was quick, swooping in and pushing his lips to hers.

"Umph!" Mrs. Watson squealed into his mouth. Andre spared no ceremony, grabbing the tan-colored collar of the loose blouse with both hands and giving it a powerful tug. The fabric gave way, tearing open and causing the buttons to spill off and bounce onto the carpet. Her buxom bosom, normally camouflaged by some plaid checkered jacket that acted like a bad optical illusion meant to deemphasize her femininity, jutted forward to show off her overstuffed bra. It bulged to its limits, and Andre gleefully freed the pale globes from their prison.

"Oh, my lord," Mrs. Watson broke the kiss and gasped, looking down. She was exposed. The contrast of Andre's dark hands fondling the exquisite slope of her exposed chest, as two succulent, protruding cherry nipples peeked out from between his fingers, left the prudish teacher slack-jawed. Motherhood looked good on the woman. I had no way of knowing if her boobs had always been so corpulent, but something told me that her two recently nursing toddlers probably hadn't hurt their alluring plumpness.

Andre's lips trailed along his teacher's jawline and then up to her ear. "You're too smart not to see how your students look at you."

"I don't know what you mean," Mrs. Watson's voice was trembling. She seemed too flustered by the hands on her tits to pay attention to his words.

"You know exactly what I mean. You're a MILF. A hot momma everyone wants to fuck. Say it."

"I am not!" she protested. The desk behind her pressed into her ass, blocking any means of escape.

"You are. You're a MILF. And I'm gonna fuck you like one."

"No!" She shook her head wildly. "I don't wan-"

Andre kissed her again, and this time he didn't relent until she began moaning into his mouth.

"Mmm..." The lip lock lingered as her hands tried to push the boy away, but he was too strong. As their tongues wrestled, she eventually cocked her head to make it easier to swap saliva.

"Tell me you want me to fuck you," Andre whispered as he moved his mouth back to her ear.

"I, uh, I don't-" She heaved in a breath, pushing out her magnificent breasts.

"Say it, bitch. Say it. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

She couldn't deny it. "I, uh, I want you to fuck me," she panted.

Andre had his hands on her hips. He spun her around and grabbed the waistband of her jeans, sliding them down her hips, then under the full curve of her luscious bubble-shaped bottom and along the outsides of her shapely thighs. As she parted her legs, I could see the crotch of her light violet panties was dark purple from wetness. Andre yanked them down to reveal Mrs. Watson's trimmed brunette mound of womanhood as she hung her head in shame.

Her rosy cheeks burned with embarrassment as Andre grasped the base of his thick, bulbous-headed prick and slapped the bare backside of her shapely derriere. She spread her legs as he dragged his cock down her ass and up between her sopping, moist labia lips. Mrs. Watson hunched over her desk, sweat beading from her forehead and a few strands of hair already slipping from her tight bun. She closed her eyes at Andre's touch and whimpered like a schoolgirl as he eased in half his length.

The black teen savored his conquest, feeling his teacher's pussy walls eagerly stretch to accept his girth like a velvet loveglove.

"Fuck," he moaned, driving in the rest of his cock in one forceful thrust.

"Mmmm-yesss!" Mrs. Watson found her voice, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh as her hands clamped to the desk while she shuddered.

"I can't believe you're doing this," she whined, her voice quivering. "It's so wrong..."

Andre had had it with his partner's hesitancy. He pulled back his hips and then began ramming into the woman's tight slit. Mrs. Watson looked like a ragdoll as she shook, breasts wobbling freely like two water balloons as she was taken doggystyle. After a minute her knees began to buckle from the pleasurable assault. Andre grabbed her hair by the bun and jerked her head back to issue a command.

"You love this. It's all you've been craving. My cock in your hole. It's the only thing that can get you off. It's the only thing you can think about. Your pissy hubby is nothing to you. He and your kids are an inconvenience you'd be better off without. You're happier with me. You love me. You understand?"

I'd never heard Andre speak so viciously. He obviously felt protective. I understood that. But what concerned me most was Mrs. Watson's reaction. The vein in her forehead was practically pulsing. Her eyelids fluttered, eyes crossed, and rolled around as if she was in some sort of REM sleep. She remained paralyzed for half a minute as Andre fucked her, muscles tensed as if the youth had fried her processor.

She howled, shaking her head, trying to force Andre's fingers from her hair, but only managing to undo the bun. "No-no-no..." She clasped her eyes shut, but Andre was back at her ear."

"You are mine."

With the suddenness of a flame to a gas stove, Mrs. Watson's eyes flew open, fully dilated, with a manic energy. Her pussy clenched. She grabbed her right tit, squeezed hard, and started convulsing on the desk, arm shooting out to snap down the standing picture frame of her toddlers.

"I want you. I want this. I am yours. My pussy is yours." She gulped for air. "I lo-... I love you. I LOVE YOU. Fuck me, Andre!"

Whatever reservations were in her mind had been erased. Andre's hand pinned her head to the desk as they went at it, her cheek pressed into her own drool. She moaned and spread her legs wider until the 18-year-old stuffed her one final time and deposited his load straight into her waiting womb. I made sure the file was saved and pushed back from my laptop.

Wow, what a mess.

****************************************************************************

"You talked to Misty?" Jada and Brent's ex, Jordan, gabbed in the corner of the classroom. The two cheerleaders were always blathering on about their ever-important social lives. It was hard to keep track of which jock either was dating, they seemed to cycle through relationships faster than Pete Davidson.

"Mhmm, I saw her. She looked like a hot mess. I guess that's why she wouldn't let me drop off the snickerdoodles I baked for him. It's a shame, really, because they are delicious."

Misty was probably in the hospital room with her comatose brother, stuck to his bedside like a sad Labrador Retriever. I imagined her physically and emotionally drained form, hair disheveled, eyes red from crying, her hand fighting the impulse to slip under his medical gown and squeeze her lover's pecker.

What if she didn't come back to school? What if I never saw her again?

****************************************************************************

What am I doing? I chastised myself as I walked through the automatic sliding doors and entered the main building of the county hospital. It had taken the better part of 30 minutes to drive here after school and find a parking spot. It was strange, having spent so much time learning about my family's history and the mystery of Eastern Medicine, I couldn't remember the last time I'd ever been in an actual hospital. The place seemed big, intimidating, and bright. I found my way into a little line stringing out from an information desk. Two elderly volunteers manned the desk, one was clicking fervently at the keyboard in front of her.

"I'm here to see Richie Armstrong," I said as politely as I could.

The silver-haired woman responded curtly, "Are you family?"

I shook my head.

"Only direct family has visitation privileges at the moment."

"Ahem," a lady behind me cleared her throat.

The information desk attendant looked from me to her. "Oh, is he with you, ma'am?"

I twisted around and found a tall, elegant woman with a perfectly coiffed brunette bob dressed in a navy blazer, paired with a pencil skirt and heels. Her fingers tapped impatiently on the strap of her designer handbag. Despite the woman's hurried restless energy, her face was strikingly beautiful with high cheekbones, sculpted eyebrows, and long black eyelashes that made her blue eyes pop.

"He's not, but it's okay if a few of his friends want to visit." There was a sharpness in her delivery that wasn't typical of a grieving suburban mom.

"I don't think we've met, I'm Saundra Armstrong, Richie's mother." She held out a hand.

"Oh-uh," I waffled, "Ryan. Ryan Hitomi. I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out.

"Um..." she paused, her eyes scanning me up and down. I could tell what she was thinking. I didn't fit the mold of Richie's usual crowd. I was a few inches shorter and definitely not as muscular as his bros. I pulled the race card before she could finish her thought.

"I'm Richie's tutor. I heard what happened and I wanted to see how he was doing."

"Of course, Ryan." She nodded, eating up the lie. "He's lucky to have such caring friends."

She stepped away from the line and motioned for me to follow. "I'll show you where Richie's room is, and then I'll swing back to talk to those folks. This place is a real maze if you don't know where you're going."

While we weaved through the sterile, white hallways, I couldn't help but feel like I was constantly fighting against the current of the hospital's chaos. Patients, nurses, doctors, and volunteers hustled about. I followed Saundra, or Mrs. Armstrong, who walked with practiced poise, through the wing. I felt a pang of sympathy for her, imagining the pain of seeing her son in such a condition.

"That's his room. You know Misty, my daughter? Tell her I'll be back in just a minute."

I swallowed and nodded, but Mrs. Armstrong had already tromped off. I walked through the doorway of the little room. The first thing I noticed was the feeding tube sticking out of Richie's mouth. Couldn't imagine that that was comfortable. Maybe if my ribs weren't still sore, I would feel worse. A few tubes and electrodes connected to an IV, a heart monitor, and a blocky gadget I assumed was very important but looked like a wonky old-time radio.

"What are you doing here?" I jumped as the voice surprised me. Misty had followed me in and was holding a bag of chips from the vending machine. Just like I feared, she looked like she hadn't seen a good night's sleep in days. Her hair was mussed, and she looked skinnier than I remembered. She had ditched the high pigtails, but judging by her outfit, a yellow halter top, and a pair of high-waisted jeans, two things that were definitely not her style before my boneheaded move, she was still a puppet of the love potion.

"Um, excuse me?" She lifted her hands in slight irritation, "Who let you in here? This isn't-"

"You're taking class online, right? Mr. Phelps asked me, in homeroom, if I wouldn't mind helping you catch up on some of the lecture material you're missing. I've got my notes..." I figured since the tutoring line worked before, I could dip back into that well.

Misty's nose crinkled in disgust. "What? I don't need help with class."

"Sure. It's just-"

"My brother is sick! Are you kidding me with this? I can't even. This is so not cool." She threw the bag of chips on the chair beside Richie's bed and fumed.

Hearing her speak was disconcerting. The Misty I'd gone to school with was sarcastic and clever as a whip, and could probably pass most exams stoned, while this... This girl sounded like she belonged on one of those social media platforms dedicated to the short-tempered celebrity influencers who hardly knew how to read. It just confirmed to me that I had to get her away from her brother.

I was so used to using blackmail on Brent, it was hard to think of another means to make someone do what you want. She didn't deserve to be coerced, and I didn't want her to hate me. Richie's heart monitor beeped like it was keeping tempo of the conversation.

I finally responded, "I already said I would help. I've got my notes in my car and it won't take more than an hour."

"I don't care. I'd rather do summer school," she dismissed.

"Millicent you will not forgo your education on account of your brother. This week has been enough of a hurdle for all of us, and this is not the time to throw your future away."

"Mom! He needs me."

Mrs. Armstrong had apparently caught the last bit of our conversation from the doorway.

Saundra sighed. "Honey, this isn't good for you. Richie wouldn't want this. Your brother will still be here when you get back."

"But-" Misty whined.

"Not another word, young lady. Now go do your homework."