Trailer Trash Teen Hates Rules Ch. 04

Kate sighed. "I don't want to get involved. I didn't see her. I didn't see anything."

Samantha likewise did not want to get involved. "I didn't see anything either," she said, as she counted the notes and coins.

*

Breanna boarded the bus that led back to her own side of town, and soon she was back where she belonged; the wrong side of the tracks. She did not make for the trailer park; if her mom or dad or brother Dustin saw her, they would tell her aunt or uncle for sure and she would have to put up with even more shit.

Instead, Breanna disembarked the bus at the stop outside the housing project where Isabella lived and stood looking at the bleak, red-brick, three-floor apartment buildings. Breanna was unsure if Isabella's mother Maria, the mother's shithead loser boyfriend Carlos and Isabella's strict grandmother were there, so was careful not to be seen. Sneaking up the gray, concrete stairs to the second floor, Breanna pondered how she could gain Issy's attention without the others seeing her.

Any planning Breanna had done immediately went out of the window as she heard the sounds of a heated argument in Spanish from Isabella's mother's apartment. Violent and heated domestic arguments were hardly uncommon in the housing project, and the Ramirez family were known for screaming at each other at the tops of their voices.

The three yelling inside the apartment were all female, and the youngest-sounding voice - that of Isabella - came closer and closer as she approached the front door. Breanna quickly looked for a place to hide, and to her relief saw a mobile dumpster. This had been winched up the previous day to assist workmen with cleaning out a nearby apartment that the evicted tenants had absolutely trashed, leaving piles of rotting garbage everywhere. The workmen were away having a cigarette break, so Breanna hid behind the dumpster un-noticed.

The door to the Ramirez family burst open and the slim, swarthy figure of Isabella burst out. The teenager was dressed in a black tee-shirt and a black mini-skirt that was so short it was impossible for Breanna not to see Isabella's apricot-colored panties as she flounced along, cursing and swearing in Spanish.

From behind Isabella emerged the formidable figure of her grandmother Connie Ramirez. The evil old witch was appropriately dressed all in black, her gray hair in a tight bun and an angry, sour expression on her face. Last to emerge were Isabella's mother Maria and Maria's creep of a boyfriend Carlos. Maria, who at the age of 38 looked like an older version of her daughter, wore jeans as tight as those Breanna was wearing, and a skimpy white blouse that showed off her mid-riff, her tits hanging out and the straps of her bra visible. Carlos wore a filthy sleeveless shirt and shorts and smoked a cigarette.

Connie Ramirez barked an order in Spanish to her granddaughter. Isabella turned and stood facing her grandmother, arms folded, nostrils flaring in anger and yelled back at her, again in Spanish. What Breanna was witness to was something akin to a very bad Latin American soap opera, as the grandmother, mother and daughter screeched at each other at the tops of their voices, pointing and gesturing. Carlos stood back watching the shouting match in amusement, smoking his cigarette.

After Isabella screamed some insult directly into her grandmother's face, it was clear that the older woman's patience - limited at best - had expired. She grabbed Isabella and dragged the struggling teenager over to the concrete bench opposite their apartment. The grandmother then sat down, and pulling Isabella over her knee, lifted her granddaughter's skirt to expose her apricot-colored, bikini-style panties and delivered four hard smacks with her open hand to Isabella's panty-covered bottom, before releasing her from her grasp and pointing at the apartment.

Isabella, her face red from the fury and indignity of being spanked at the age of 18, stormed for the apartment cursing under her breath, shaking her head with rage, rubbing her sore buttocks through her mini-skirt. She slammed the door shut after storming back inside.

Breanna thought to herself from watching this scene that if anybody tried to spank her she would punch them in the face. While Breanna thought that the age of 18 was too old for corporal punishment, she soon found that in Connie Ramirez's book, no age was too old for a spanking.

Connie began yelling at Isabella's mother, Maria arguing back to her. To Breanna's utter amazement, Connie grabbed her 38-year-old daughter, turned her around and spanked Maria's bottom four times with her open hand hard and fast, the sounds echoing in the dismal concrete and red brick of the housing projects. Connie then pointed at the apartment door. Although Maria's punishment would have hurt less, given her bottom was spanked through jeans and panties while Isabella was spanked through her panties only, the woman clutched her painful buttocks as she walked back inside, like her teenage daughter trembling with rage and indignation.

Carlos, who had now finished his cigarette seemed to have enjoyed the scene, this both amusing and entertaining him as well as him seeing his girlfriend's teenage daughter's panties as her bottom got spanked. However, Connie Ramirez now rounded upon him, and Breanna could only assume it had something to do with the state of his clothes. The older woman won the argument by delivering a slap to Carlos's forehead, then he too like Maria and Isabella was ordered back inside. As he reached the door, Connie delivered him a hard kick to his buttocks, before pushing him inside, then Connie closed the door behind herself to bring the curtain down on this interesting play about how to resolve conflict in families.

Getting out from behind the dumpster, it was obvious that Breanna and Isabella were going to have no fun together today. Breanna walked down the concrete stairs, passing the workmen on the way, who with a lack of discretion observed the shape of her breasts through her tee-shirt, and the curves of Breanna's bottom in her tight jeans.

Breanna walked down the road, hoping she could get a chance to sneak away with Isabella soon. Not only did she miss her friend's company, she missed the Sapphic fun they could get up to, either alone or with a guy. Breanna also pondered what had happened to Rocky, who had fucked both her and Isabella so well the other night. He seemed to have vanished from the face of the Earth after the rave, and he lived too far away for her to walk there.

On her way to the main street in her part of town, intending to visit the joke store to buy fake toilet paper to prank Kate, Breanna had to pass the local motel. This was a cheap, run-down establishment populated by some odd types and where strange things happened day and night, things that people observed but never spoke of.

Looking into the motel car park, Breanna's interest was roused by a very worried and stressed man aged in his early forties. The slim, unassuming man, with his thinning light brown hair, glasses and drab beige shirt and matching trousers and shoes was fumbling around for something in the trunk of his car, his anxiety clear. He was not the type of man to normally attract Breanna's interest, but she knew this man well, and he knew her very well too. With a smile on her face, Breanna lit up a cigarette, turned and walked into the motel car park.

*

The man who Breanna was approaching was named Keith Cockburn, a former high school teacher of both Breanna and Isabella, as well as their friends and relatives. Mr. Cockburn's name, although obviously pronounced 'Co-burn' rather than 'Cock-burn', by spelling alone attracted much hilarity and ridicule by his students. The problem might not have been as bad had Mr. Cockburn been a cool teacher who taught a cool subject, or if he was a teacher at a good school where students took their studies seriously.

Unfortunately, Mr. Cockburn was not cool. The subject that he taught - mathematics - was not cool. And he most definitely did not teach at a good school. Anarchy reigned supreme at the combined junior high and high school that he taught at in the bad side of town, and Mr. Cockburn bore the full brunt of it. Even in the summer there was no escape, he had to teach summer school classes. Mr. Cockburn had long aspired to transferring to the good high school on the good side of town, or teaching at the local community college. But every time he applied, the response letter was always the same, 'Dear Mr. Cockburn, we regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful on this occasion ...'

So much did the desire for a transfer burn with the man that on weekends he would drive out to the good high school and the community college and stare at them, wishing he was going to work there instead of the awful school that was his place of employment and it seemed would always be. This very morning, Mr. Cockburn had learned that a vacant math teacher position at the good school had been filled by a young, hot-shot male graduate teacher just out of college.

Fumbling with a box, Mr. Cockburn dropped the contents - a number of text books - onto the ground. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down to pick up the books. As he did so, a shadow loomed over his shoulder. A young female figure, long hair with a nice body, smoking a cigarette.

Startled, Mr. Cockburn turned around. The man's eyes went wide and his face filled with horror at the young blonde female casting the shadow. Of the many current and former students who caused him the frequent nightmares that plagued his dreams, this girl - Breanna Wilson - topped the list. With her side-kick, that nasty and promiscuous young Latina girl Isabella she was one of the worst pupils he had ever taught. The only consolation in his miserable life in recent times was that the girl and her bitch of a friend had both turned 18 and finally left high school at the end of the school year. While both often played truant, they seemed to make a point of always turning up for math, just to cause trouble along with the other awful kids who populated the class. On a good day, his math class would throw paper and text books at each other; on a bad day, they would throw desks and chairs at each other.

"Oh my God, it's you!" gasped Mr. Cockburn, his horrified expression still etched upon his face. "What are you doing here?"

Breanna took a drag on her cigarette. "Hi Mr. Cockburn, it's nice to see you."

"Do me a favor and stay the hell away from me," snapped Mr. Cockburn, grabbing the box, locking his car and making for his motel room.

The teenager took another puff on her cigarette, before discarding the butt onto the ground. She put a smile on her face as she followed him. "What, can't I say hello to one of my favorite teachers? I never cut one of your classes, remember?"

"I wish you had cut my classes," said Mr. Cockburn bitterly. "Math was one huge joke for you. If you hadn't been in the class, perhaps the others might actually have learned something."

"I made the class fun," smirked Breanna. "Math is boring and useless."

"Boring and useless?" demanded Mr. Cockburn.

"Yeah, when the fuck do you ever use algebra, trigonometry, Pythagoras and quadratic equations?" asked Breanna. "Like I said, all I did was make the class fun."

"Fun?" asked Mr. Cockburn, glaring at Breanna. "It wasn't fun the day you stole a hydrogen filled balloon from the science room, and exploded it in class."

Breanna's giggling indicated that she thought this was fun, and her former teacher's expression grew even more frustrated. "It also wasn't funny last semester when that woman came into my classroom to confront you after you slept with her husband, and it ended up in an all-in brawl!"

"That wasn't my fault, I didn't ask her to come to school to fight me," snapped Breanna.

"But you started it after what you did with her husband, didn't you?" snapped Mr. Cockburn. "Just 18-years-old, and already a home wrecker."

"You sound very bitter about it," said Breanna.

"I have good reason to be bitter," said Mr. Cockburn. "Look at where I live now!" Mr. Cockburn gestured at the motel. "And it's all your fault my marriage is over."

"All my fault?" demanded Breanna. "I didn't have an affair with you or your wife, did I?"

"Do you have any idea how much stress your antics put me under?" asked Mr. Cockburn. "Even simple things, like when you had a female emergency just before Christmas last year. All you had to do was ask for the lavatory pass. You didn't have to yell out across the class that your period was a day early, and blood was pouring out of your vagina and you needed to attach a pad to your panties!"

Mr. Cockburn shouted the last words, attracting the attention of a shady looking couple passing by, who regarded him like he was either insane or a pervert, or perhaps both. He blushed bright red and looked at the ground.

"I'm an 18-year-old girl, so newsflash, I get periods every month," said Breanna.

"But I didn't need to know that, and the class didn't need to know that," responded Mr. Cockburn peevishly. "Then there was the charming pornographic magazine left in my desk, what was it called? Oh yes, Sapphic Sweethearts. Do you know how bad that looked when the principal saw it?"

Breanna laughed, as she was indeed the one responsible for this prank. Mr. Cockburn continued. "Then there was the dog shit all over my car."

"Hey, that wasn't me," said Breanna defensively. "I never covered your car in dog shit."

"But you know who did do it, don't you?" demanded Mr. Cockburn.

Breanna suppressed laughter. This prank had occurred the year earlier, and was the work of her brother Dustin and his friends. They had collected as much dog shit as they could find over a two days, and smeared it all over Mr. Cockburn's car. Breanna's involvement in this was standing watch while her brother and his friends defaced the teacher's car, one of the few times she and Dustin had cooperated as sister and brother.

"And speaking of my car, I know you were behind the pair of panties that were put in there where my wife found them," said Mr. Cockburn.

"That wasn't me either," said Breanna. This was a half-truth. The panties were indeed not hers, but Isabella's, the girl absolutely creaming them in bed one night when having a rare female wet dream. The panties were getting worn, the elastic in the waistband flimsy and causing them to slide down when wearing them, so the devious 18-year-old had taken them to school with a prank in mind. Breanna had used a wire clothes hanger to break into Mr. Cockburn's car, and Isabella's dirty panties were placed in the front of the car.

"It doesn't matter now," said Mr. Cockburn. "It took me a week to convince Trisha that I knew nothing of the panties, and in the end it was all for nothing. Do you think that after what you and your friends put me through, that I could be a good husband and meet her needs when I got home? Trisha sure didn't think so, so I live here in this dump after Trisha kicked me out. Now, Trisha shares our marital bed with my 25-year-old cousin Todd in the house I pay the mortgage on. She has served divorce papers, and is working with her attorney to make sure I pay maximum alimony and child support, while losing every asset I worked hard to pay for and seeing my sons for access visits as little as possible. Thank you, thank you very much."

"I guess we really fucked you over," said Breanna, a rare feeling of guilt sweeping over her.

"Yes, you did," said Mr. Cockburn. He turned and headed towards the door of his motel unit. "Now do me a favor, get lost and don't ever bother me again. You've finished high school, so the one good thing is that I never have to put up with you anymore."

"So you're going to sit and stew in your own bitterness all afternoon instead of being a man and doing something about it?" Breanna challenged.

"What are you talking about now?" Mr. Cockburn asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Your ex-wife kicked you out of your house in the nice part of town so now you live in a shithole motel and pay for the house where your cousin fucks her in the bed you shared," said Breanna. "You hate your job, you don't get to see your sons, and your wife and her lawyer are going to fuck you up in the divorce court. I can't get you your marriage back or a better job, but I can help you feel better."

Mr. Cockburn laughed bitterly. "You make me feel better? That's a joke. How can you make me feel better?"

Breanna pointed at her female area through her jeans. "With my vagina."

Horror crossed Mr. Cockburn's face as a group of two male and two female junkies passed by and like the shady couple earlier, regarded the older man like he was a pervert who chased after teenage girls. Mr. Cockburn grabbed Breanna by her arm and dragged her into his motel room, slamming the door closed. "Don't ever say that," he gasped. "I am your teacher, you are my student. It is totally inappropriate." He went to open the door. "Now please leave."

Breanna stopped Mr. Cockburn from opening the door with a mischievous grin on her face. "Now, a few months ago that would have been correct. But I've left school now, I'm 18-years-old, you're getting a divorce and we're just two consenting adults. You can fuck me as much as you like, and there's not a goddamn fucking thing anybody can do about it." She stroked her breasts through her black tee-shirt, before turning so she was side-on to Mr. Cockburn. With her left hand, she stroked her crotch through her tight jeans, and with her right, caressed the cheeks of her bottom.

The girl could see by the older man's expression that he had taken the bait. Now it was time to reel him in. Sitting down on the bed, Breanna removed her sneakers and socks so she was barefoot, before lying back on the cover, opening her legs wide, wriggling her toes.

Mr. Cockburn watched this display while breathing heavily. Still nervous he stammered, "No, it would be better if you left."

"Come and sit with me," said Breanna, sitting barefoot on the bed, patting the cover and indicating for her former teacher to join her, which he did somewhat nervously and reluctantly.

Breanna put a coy expression on her pretty face, and looked directly at Mr. Cockburn. "Now let me explain what is going to happen at your house today. Trisha is going to go about her day without a care in the world, knowing that you're paying all her bills and that she'll get all your money when you divorce. You won't get to spend any time with your sons and when your cousin gets home, he is going to fuck the shit out of your wife. Now if I was you, and an easy blonde 18-year-old girl was going to let me have her pussy, I know what I would do, just to get some revenge."

The girl could see that she had nearly landed her catch, and to seal the deal, she climbed up onto his lap and sat on his knee, rubbing her bare feet up and down his legs through his beige trousers. The man offered no resistance to her advances, and when Breanna lightly brushed her hand against his groin, Mr. Cockburn's erection was obvious. Breanna giggled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I think you're getting excited now." She put her arm around him, and this time kissed him on the lips, pushing her tongue into his mouth. Mr. Cockburn disliked the taste of her cigarette smoking that lingered, but the fact that he was kissing a hot blonde girl soon overcame this. Even before the day he came home to find his things out in the rain and his wife ordering him to leave, he and Trisha had not been intimate as husband and wife for close to a year.

After making out for a minute, Breanna feeling the tingling between her legs as the light blue bikini panties she wore became damp on the saddle from her aroused vagina. She withdrew her mouth from his and purred, "Let me make this really good for you. Do you have any sexy fantasies or fetishes that you only did with your wife, or that you've never told anyone about, not even your wife? If you tell me, I'll do them with you."