I wrote this as a gift for a special person. All characters in this story are fictional.
Enjoy, xantu.
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
It was late. As usual she was the last teacher left in the building. Miss Smith looked at the last paper she had left to grade. She had deliberately saved it for last. Micky Britton's work was always marginal. English was not his strong suit, but this was atrocious.
She pursed her lips around the top of her red pen, sucking on the cap, always needing something to suck or nibble on when she was deep in thought. She hated to put an "F" on this, but she had little choice. Micky was a returning senior. He had dropped out last year, only a few credits short of graduating. The fact he had the courage and determination to come back was commendable, not many 19 year olds would have done it. It seemed a shame that after all this work; he would not be able to get the diploma he so obviously wanted.
But this was unacceptable. Incomplete sentences, misspelled words, poor paragraph structure; and only a half page when she had asked for two pages double spaced. It was a simple assignment. Write a letter to a friend or someone you cared about. Ninety percent of the class had turned in sappy love letters to real or imagined girl or boyfriends.
A soft knock at her class room door startled Miss Smith. She lifted her head with the pen still trapped between her lips. Micky stood leaning against the door jamb, looking at her with his stormy grey eyes and his habitual angry frown. "Got a minute?"
She pulled the pen out of her mouth and nodded, "Of course, Micky, what do you want to talk to me about?"
He pointed with his chin at the papers on her desk. "That."
Miss Smith looked down at the assignment. "Micky, this is clearly not your best effort. You are capable of much better work than this."
Micky sauntered up to the desk, his eyes on her. He was clearly angry. Miss Smith had always had a sense of the rage simmering just under the surface of this quiet young man. Now it seemed ready to explode. "Stupid fucking letters, nobody writes letters anymore! Why are you stuck in the olden days? You ain't that old."
Miss Smith flinched at his words. "I am old enough to be your mother and there is no reason to use that kind of language."
His statement about her age stirred up a cloud of feelings. It seemed like just a few days ago she had been young, energetic, care free. And now, when she looked in the mirror a matron was looking back at her, graying hair, soft skin just starting to sag. She couldn't figure out how this had happened to her.
Micky stepped around to her side of the desk. Miss Smith felt a pang of alarm. Students did not invade a teacher's space like that. He loomed over her. She realized how much bigger and older he seemed than the other students, older than his nineteen years. She pushed back her chair and tried to stand but he took her wrist in his hand and pushed her back down.
"Sit." His words held an authority she was unused to hearing.
She looked at his hand holding her wrist so firmly. His nails were black, and dark grease was ground into the skin of his knuckles. She had the fleeting thought. He had a job as a mechanic. "Micky let go of my wrist please." Her voice shook.
He abruptly dropped her wrist, but stayed standing over her. His expression enigmatic, he spoke again, "How old are you?"
She rubbed place he had held on her arm and tried to look up at him. He was standing too close and she found herself looking straight at his crotch. The bulge of his cock was obvious. Suddenly intensely aware of herself, the aching pangs of need that she had so carefully denied herself surged through her. Tearing her gaze away from him she tried to turn to the papers on the desk. "I am thirty eight."
"Not too old."
"What do you mean, not too old."
"Not too old for this."
He spun her chair to face him and lifted her to stand. As he pressed his lips to hers, she had a fleeting thought. "This can't be happening." For a moment, maybe two, her lips lay frozen and still under his, but he refused to be denied. He put a firm hand behind her neck and almost brutally forced her mouth open, his tongue slid across her lips and into her mouth.
With the softest of whimpers she surrendered, her hand creeping up his chest, her body sagging against his, her tongue timidly greeting his.
When he finally released her mouth she raised a shaky hand to her lips. "We can't do this. This is wrong. You are a student. I am a teacher."
"Not now. Not tonight."
"Micky..."
He put his hand over her mouth. "No, you listen. Tonight I am in charge. Not you. I am the teacher and you are the student. And you have a lot to learn Miss Smith. The first thing you are going to learn is to shut up and listen, and the second is to obey."
