To Nail a Mockingbird

**This story was written for a very special lady. A distance in miles and in years keeps me from knowing her in real life, but that hasn't diminished the respect I feel for her as a person. Suzanne, thanks for being flirty, intelligent, fun, and above all, for sharing your fantasies with me.**

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Suzanne McMillan's anger had given way to nervousness. The school board had been unbending; she was needed to teach the higher grades, due to the toll Covid-19 had taken on teachers there. That was the order. The only alternative was to leave the career she had grown to love. The first-graders were so cute and energetic! She loved being the first adult, other than their parents, most of them ever interacted with. That first impression was so important, growing up. Most of them only had one parent, anyway. Or only grandparents to raise them. It was sad, but being there for them gave her a sense of purpose.

For nineteen years she had fulfilled that purpose, and now she was being asked to teach teenagers in their last year of school! She had no idea how to act towards these students. They were young adults, fully formed both physically and emotionally; complete human beings, with different needs than the first-graders she had loved so much.

"You'll do fine. Just give them enough homework to respect you, not enough to hate you," her peer counselor had told her. Mike Broderick was a veteran of both middle school and high school. His view was mostly sardonic. "They're not going to listen to you anyway," he would say cynically. "Let them know who the boss is, try to impart a little good judgement into them and send them on their way."

Now, on what was to be her first day of class, Suzanne found her hands trembling as she pulled on her thong panties and studied the skirt and blouse she had chosen. Were they too casual for class? Mike had instructed her to have fun and not to be too formal. The students, he said, would judge you on first impressions. Too serious, and you would lose them, he said. "Besides, you've got great legs. You should show them off!"

Suzanne noticed her nipples were hard. Was that nervousness, or knowing she was putting herself on display? At forty-eight years old, she knew she was still attractive. But was she trying too hard? She pulled on the skirt and zipped it up. It was a black A-line, and only came to mid-thigh. Too short? Sighing, she unzipped it and let it fall to the floor. She rifled through her closet. She couldn't find anything she wanted to wear on this first day, so she pulled the black skirt on again and studied her reflection in the full-length mirror.

"My legs do still look nice," she said aloud, but her gaze kept going to her breasts. Her nipples were standing out proudly atop her B-cup breasts. They showed little sag, and as she pushed her shoulders back she thought they looked pretty presentable for her age. She pulled on a beige bra with just a bit of lace atop the cups. Her mind drifted back to early last year as she worked the clasps.

She had been out with some friends, a girl's night out at a club just over the state line. A young black man had flirted with them, and it brought back memories of her college days. There had been an affair back then; another, older black man, who used her as he wished. She kept coming back, discovering she enjoyed being submissive to him. This man was much younger, but used to flirting with white ladies. His charm was not lost on Suzanne. She met him two weeks later at the same club; this time on her own. That night and the next day he fucked her roughly, the way she wanted him to. She loved it. Then the pandemic hit.

She sighed. She had a good marriage to a successful man. Why would she crave something like that? Her sex life was still good, if a little boring. Her husband treated her gently in bed; too gently. If he only knew what thoughts ran through her head!

She put on the blouse, a soft tan number, slightly tight. She liked to inhale and see the strain on the buttons. It made her feel sexy.

Class. The students entered in a rush, seated themselves as she waited. Seniors Lit was written on the chalkboard, but no one looked at the board. They conversed among themselves as Suzanne sat and watched, waiting for the time to get their attention. At last, the second bell rang, and she stood.

"Hello, class. I'm Mrs. McMillan. We'll be reading some classics and discussing them. Does anyone have any favorites they would like to recommend?"

Silence, for 10 seconds. Suzanne waited, until someone blurted out, "Fifty Shades of Grey?"

The class erupted in laughter. Suzanne smiled briefly and told them that 'Fifty Shades' might not be considered classic literature for a long time, if ever. The same voice said, "Yeah, but it's got some great scenes in it!"

The rest of the morning went pretty much like that, and during lunch break Suzanne sought out Mike to vent. "Not to worry, kid," he teased, "in my second period I intercepted a note going around that suggested there was a mass suicide going on in the Home Ec room, and anybody that wanted to join in was welcome."

Suzanne shook her head. "Holy crap," she exclaimed, "what happened?"

"Dunno. I decided I'd rather eat lunch," he said dryly. Then he laughed, a huge gale of laughter that had the other teachers giving him disdainful looks.

"Look, I know it's a lot different than teaching five- and six-year-olds," he told her. "You just have to know when to react and when not to. These kids will try to get under your skin, or with a pretty thing like you, under your skirt, maybe. Just remember, we all have to be here, but at least we're the ones getting paid." With that he left, chewing on a cold piece of chicken he'd filched from someone else's lunch bag.

The afternoon classes brought at least one surprise. One of the kids had been one of her first-graders, years before. James Robinson came up to her just before class and said, "You probly don't remember me, Mrs. McMillan, but you was my teacher back at Melville Elementary," he said.

Suzanne looked closely at the boy. "Oh my god, yes!" she said, "I remember you, James. Your mother..." She stopped. The boy's mother was a drug addict, and his father was not around. Social services had become involved, and the boy was shuttled around from relative to relative. He left school for a while, then returned when his grandmother took him in.

James looked down, frowning at the memory. "Yeah, momma passed on," he said. "That monster gonna eat you eventually, you know?"

Suzanne nodded, then put her hand on James's shoulder. "Well, I'm glad to see you now," she told the boy. "You grew up big and strong, and you've always been a handsome boy."

James grinned. "I never thought I'd see eighteen, but here I am." He looked at the attractive teacher. "And here you are, too!" he said. "You always were the prettiest teacher in the school, and you ain't changed none."

Now Suzanne was blushing. The other students were almost all in their seats, and the bell would be ringing soon. "Better take your seat," she told him.

During class, she was distracted. James sat in the back of class, but she focused on him when talking to the class. He really had turned out to be handsome, she thought. His physical presence was...remarkable.

As the last-period class was filing out, he approached her desk again.

"I just wanted to say..." he began, "...you look really nice in that blouse and skirt." He paused as she thanked him. His eyes seemed to rake up and down her body, and Suzanne was just beginning to feel uncomfortable when he said, "You're just the same as you were then. Like, you haven't even aged."

She thanked him again, profusely, and hugged him briefly before walking out of the room with him. "I'll see you tomorrow," she told him. She was in a good mood; relieved that this first day was over. She was also somewhat conflicted about her former student. She felt the imprint of his body against hers, and scolded herself for hugging him. He was a grown-up, for all intents and purposes, and not that little first-grader with the searching eyes she remembered.

'Well, he certainly did grow up,' she told herself, then blushed inwardly at the connotations of that. She saw his eyes when she shut hers. They still seemed to be searching. But for what?

The rest of the first week went by in a blur. Three of her classes would be reading "Moby Dick" (with the title discussed longer than she would have liked) and the other two classes her favorite, "To Kill a Mockingbird." The racial overtones of the latter were of course very familiar to her, but she found herself somewhat nervous discussing these with her classes. She equated, in particular, James with Tom Robinson, the young black man accused of raping a white woman in the novel. Besides having the same last name, James's eyes bore much the same expression as those of Brock Peters, the actor who played Tom in the movie. It was a combination of sadness and strength, that Suzanne found intriguing.

Each day after class, James stopped to talk briefly with Suzanne. They became more comfortable with each other, and though she didn't touch him again, she found herself wanting to, strangely. She wondered if he thought about that, too.

Friday afternoon came, and James asked her what she liked to do on the weekend.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Phil and I sometimes take in a movie, but he's out of town right now, so I'll probably just stay in and read."

"Out of town? Where'd he go?" James seemed alarmed for her, as if fearing for her safety.

She explained that he was a construction advisor, and that there was a problem with one of his projects in Philadelphia. He'd been there for a few days, and was probably going to be there for at least another week.

James seemed to consider this for a moment. "Then you don't have anyone to talk to. Don't you get lonely?"

Suzanne rolled her eyes. "I get lonely when he's there," she stated flatly. She had been reminded of a longing that was beginning to rekindle inside her. 'Maybe I ought to get out,' she thought, 'and see what feels right. I'm bored from sitting at home.'

James seemed to read her mind. "I could meet you somewhere, if you just wanted to chat," he said. "You know, have a sandwich or something, talk about this book."

"There's not many places open yet," she said, considering it without thinking. The idea of some company actually sounded nice. "This pandemic, I mean. The town is pretty much shut down."

He said immediately, "I know a place."

They agreed to meet the next day at noon. James had his own car; he told her he'd pick her up at her place, if that was alright. She hesitated, now wondering if this was a good idea after all. Teachers and students interacting outside of school, she thought now, might be considered wrong.

"This place. Is it private? I mean..."

James nodded. "Ain't no one gonna see us, I'm sure," he said. "At least not someone from the school." He put his hand on her arm. "We won't get in any trouble, Mrs. McMillan. I promise."

His hand was warm, and Suzanne could feel the strength in it, though he held her lightly. She took a deep breath. "Okay, James. But you can call me Suzanne when it's just you and I."

That night she took a hot steamy shower. She spent longer than usual washing herself, reveling in the feel of her loofah, soaked with a fragrant soap. It caressed her sensitive nipples like a hand; a warm, strong hand. She was breathing hard by the time she got to her lower body, and when she rubbed the loofah over her pubic mound, her knees went weak. 'Wow,' she thought, 'it's been longer than I thought.' She pulled her razor out and shaved herself smooth, then closed her eyes and indulged herself with her fingers for as long as she could stand. She left the shower with one purpose.

In bed, Suzanne rubbed herself slowly, building to a higher climax as she tried not to think of her student. 'You're hopeless,' she told herself. Finally, unable to stop, she buried two fingers deep inside as she imagined James's eyes looking down at her. When she climaxed, it was gut-wrenching.

She had two glasses of wine before going back to bed, trying to drink herself into forgetfulness, but when she lay down again he entered her thoughts as stealthily as before. Her last orgasm brought forth a cry of pleasure.

That morning she was rattled. 'I should have gotten a cell phone number' she told herself. 'Then I could call him and cancel; tell him I don't feel good.' But she knew she wouldn't have. A sense of forbidden pleasure had her in its grip and wasn't letting go. She had a glass of wine to calm her nerves, even though it was barely ten AM.

He was there at ten minutes past noon. Suzanne waited by the door in the sundress she had decided upon, checking her makeup repeatedly. 'This isn't a date,' she told herself, 'just lunch with an old friend.' But they weren't old friends, were they? She barely knew this boy, other than that he was eighteen and had earned good grades in school. She'd checked up on him, after that first class. He wasn't a model student, but she took pride in thinking that she'd helped form him in some ways, and he was making the best of a rough start.

"Hey! You look great," he told her as she opened the door. "Did I make you wait?"

"No," she lied. "Perfect timing!" She hesitated, looking at his pressed slacks and button shirt. "Not too casual, I hope? This old thing..."

"Are you kidding? You make anything look special!" He reached out and held her at arm's length, looking her up and down - her gorgeous green eyes, plump and perfectly shaped lips, the dress that accentuated her sleek body, and her long legs, complimented by a low pair of heels. Compared to her school attire, she looked completely different, and even more attractive.

Inside, Suzanne's butterflies were in full flight. Having him look at her like that was...arousing! There was no other word for it. It was like he was looking right through her clothing to the real her. His hands on her forearms had the same heat she'd felt before. It was like his body was on fire, in danger of burning her if he held her too long. She took a deep breath.

"You're making me blush," she told him. Her face, she knew, must be red, but it wasn't only from embarrassment. Those butterflies weren't only in her stomach. Below, she was stoking a fire of her own.

When he released her arms she stepped back. "Would you like to come in?" she asked. "Or should we just go? Yeah," she amended quickly, "we should get going. I guess?"

'Get hold of yourself,' she thought, 'you're never this indecisive!'

James didn't seem to notice. "Yeah, we probably should," he said. "I hope you like this place. Their pulled pork is so great! Are you hungry?"

"Famished!" The glass of wine was all she'd had this morning. She couldn't eat before, but she was hungry now, she realized. James made her feel good. If she could only keep her imagination under control!

Ernie's was on a little side street; one she'd never been on before. The neighborhood was predominately black, she noticed. Lots of people lounging on porches, and hip-hop playing loudly from one of the houses nearby. She felt safe with James, and why shouldn't she? This was his world, but she had never been racist, so it all seemed perfectly natural to her.

Inside, though, conversation stopped as soon as they entered. The place was filled with people; not a one of them white. James put his hand on her arm again.

"Don't be nervous," he said to her. "They just not used to seein' beautiful ladies in here. 'Specially with me!" he said, and laughed. Conversation picked back up again by the time they got to the counter to order. They ordered, James introduced her to Ernie, and they sat near the front window to talk while waiting for their food. It was very low-key. You ordered, found a table, and took utensils from a basket on your table to eat with. Or you left, to eat elsewhere.

Suzanne liked Ernie immediately. He complimented her on her dress and made jokes about the food as they ordered.

"I hope you hungry!" he told the pretty brunette. "You look skinny enough, but I got a feelin' you can put it away! And," he said, shaking a finger at them both, "Don't you worry none. I got plenty of napkins, so you don't get nothin' on that pretty dress."

James was true to his word. When her pulled pork sandwich arrived, she couldn't get her hands around it, much less her mouth.

"Eat some with your fork first," James advised her. "Ain't nobody can eat Ernie's sandwich without whittlin' it down first!"

"Oh my gosh," she told him after the first bite, "this is absolutely the most amazing pork I've ever eaten!" She'd papered her lap with napkins, but she tore into the sandwich with gusto, making James grin.

"If you get through that I'll buy you dessert."

She laughed, with her mouth full of pork. "Uhm...yeah, right!" she mumbled. "If I get through this, you'll need a hand truck to get me out of here!"

She ate more than half, surprising herself. The rest, Ernie happily packaged up for her to take. James, she noted, had ordered chicken bites; a generous portion, but manageable for an eighteen-year-old appetite. She couldn't decide if she was more embarrassed, or happy. When they left, James paid, but she gave Ernie a five-dollar tip, and promised to come back again.

"Okay, so we didn't discuss much of TKAM," James joked as they left.

They hadn't. Eating had been a full-time occupation, but Suzanne had her copy in her purse, and was still eager to find out James's viewpoint on the treatment of Tom Robinson.

"Do you want to go back to my house and talk?" she asked.

There was a moment when she didn't feel at all nervous about that question; that passed quickly, and she suddenly regretted sounding like a MILF eager to get a young man into her clutches. "I mean...we can go anywhere you want to."

James smiled. "Your house is fine," he said. He had decided he more than liked his middle-aged teacher. Her body was trim, she was attractive, and he had a feeling she might be just wanting enough to be a tiger in bed. She'd already hinted that her husband didn't satisfy some of her needs. Now he wondered which ones those were. His dick stiffened as he held the door of his car for her, and her dress rode up enough to give him a good view of her thighs. Those lean thighs promised a treasure where they met.

At her house, Suzanne excused herself long enough to put her leftovers away and get them both glasses of iced tea. James situated himself on the sofa. When she returned, she sat opposite him, but while discussing certain passages of the book, she wanted to hear him read. She moved beside him and sat with one leg pulled under her, making herself comfortable.

James was not comfortable. His cock kept wanting to harden. He made every attempt to reposition it without being obvious, but Suzanne caught him pulling at the crotch of his slacks a couple of times. Her attention drawn to it, she began to notice it made for a rather large lump. 'Poor baby' she thought, 'he's certainly grown since the first time I knew him.'

For some reason, she didn't like thinking of him as a first-grader any more. The thoughts she had entertained the night before made her feel like a pervert when she imagined him as he was then. James was a man now; while still a teenager, he was obviously fully formed. 'Fully formed is right,' she mused, watching him pluck at his crotch again out of the corner of her eye. 'He must be bigger than Phil.'

Comparing him with her husband caused a sudden stirring in her groin, a not altogether unpleasant feeling. Her arousal ratcheted up another notch as she imagined the contrast of the two cocks. She wondered what this one would feel like inside her, then tried to push that thought away.