Anthony's Detention

Anthony finds himself in detention with the teacher of his dreams.

All characters are over 18.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for editing.

Enjoy.

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Ms. Buell bent over the pile of papers that adorned her desk, her head resting in the palm of her left hand. Her right holds a red marking pencil that she taps, unknowingly, against her teeth. Very white teeth, teeth that glisten and stand out against the red of her lips. Anthony notices how white her teeth are. He notices her luscious lips. He imagines they would taste as sweet as ripe strawberries. He notices the way the sun changes the color of her hair as she shifts in her chair. He notices everything but what really fires his imagination, among other things, is the soft swell of her breast.

She leans over the desk. Her silk blouse gaps. He can see the lacy top of her bra. He can see the way the golden flesh of her breast fills the cup. He imagines the nipple, so close yet as distant as the nearest star. He has nothing to distract himself. No books. No paper. No pen. His desk is bare. Detention is for contemplation of one's errors, not for homework, not for reading. If they wanted him to contemplate his alleged crimes, they damn well shouldn't have had Ms. Buell cover detention.

Discretely, he draws in a long quiet breath. Can he smell her perfume? He's not sure. There's no doubt the room smells less rank than normal but that could be attributed to the fact the room wasn't filled with the normal crowd of stoners and jocks who'd fucked up badly enough that not even being a jock could get them out of detention. No, he decided, he'd give Ms. Buell the benefit of the doubt. The room smelled better because of her. And he had her to himself.

He was alone in the classroom. School ended last week. He'd graduated, almost, last week. He wondered if he was the only graduating senior ever forced to sit through ten days of detention after graduation. Probably. It'd been worth it, even before he discovered he'd be supervised by Ms. Buell and not coach Murray. He hated Murray. The feeling was mutual. Murray had been Rostanelli's protector and Anthony had, after twelve years of patience and planning, settled Rostanelli's hash publicly. He'd do it again, even if doing so would've meant ten days trapped with Murray. Anthony had turned eighteen in May. He'd told his parents he didn't want a party. He already had a present for himself, a present he'd shared the day before graduation, hacking into every Smartboard in the high school. He played the school his compilation video. A video of every stupid thing he'd caught Rostanelli doing over the years. God, how he loved his cellphone. Rostanelli, a senior not a kindergartener, picking his nose and eating what he found there, was Anthony's personal favorite.

Anthony's cock is trapped. He desperately needs to shift it, either down his pant leg or straight up behind the zipper. Either maneuver would require him to move. Moving is something he wishes to avoid. If he moves, if he attracts Ms. Buell's attention, she's likely to move. What if she sits up? What if she realizes her top is lower than she thinks? Better to endure the discomfort and glory in the vision.

She raises her head. His eyes quickly dart to the wall of "inspirational" posters at the end of the whiteboard behind the desk. He scans each one careful, as if seeing the true beauty of the D.A.R.E posture for the first time. He forces himself to read every line, look at every graphic, every photo of every one of the posters but he risks looking back at Ms. Buell.

She's grading papers. The only difference is now the red pencil bounces back in forth between her thumb and forefinger.

Damn he was cute. What's more, he doesn't seem to realize it. He's been typecast as a 'brain' all his life. Brainy kids aren't cute. They're nerds, geeks, spazs. Brains don't date cheerleaders. They may be allowed to help a cheerleader do her homework, in exchange for a whiff of perfume or, rarely, the briefest touch of thigh on thigh. Cheerleaders are reserved for the jocks. Jocks like Rostanelli. She hates Rostanelli as much, if not more, than Anthony, though as a teacher she tries to never let it show. She had to resist the urge to jump up and clap when he got his comeuppance. Truthfully, it had been a thing of beauty. It would have been a perfect moment, if only Anthony had been content to remain anonymous. That wasn't his style. He introduced and narrated the damn thing. Brave but foolish, she thought. She looks up from the paper she is grading.

His eyes darted off to the right. He's flushed. How odd, she thinks. Is he embarrassed about being in detention? She'd tried to set his mind at ease this morning. He's staring so intently at the bulletin board her own eyes are drawn to. Same silly shit as always. Was he feeling okay? His face was bright red. She almost asks him but the thought dies before the words could form.

The desk were not standard school desks. They had the same heavy metal frames, the same laminated seats but the tops were not full-sized. They were the small, half-size types, used for taking notes.

Luckily, Anthony is doing his very best to ignore her, otherwise he would have seen her eyes widen when they landed atop the bulge in his jeans. He sits with his legs crossed at the ankles. His knees are only slightly apart but, even so, the bulge in his jeans is obvious.

It looks uncomfortable. It looks as if his penis is bent in half. The way it presses against the fabric is, well, extraordinary. She feels she can see the tension in the cotton threads, feel them strain to contain and control what lies beneath. She feels her own flush flare at the base of her throat. She'd left college, just a little more than a year ago, with a brand new diploma but no boyfriend. After five years, they had, essentially just walk away from each other. She had been surprised at how little it bothered her, which in turn convinced her they'd done the right thing. But she does miss the sex.

Her first year of teaching has shocked her. She thought she was ready, imagine her lesson plans were completed, her lecture notes all in order, then...wham! Welcome to the real world of teaching. She'd felt like she was playing catch up the entire year. She had no time to think about dating, much less actually date. A hook-up over spring break was the last time she had real sex, almost three months ago. Damn. She realizes she is still staring at the bulge in Anthony's jeans and jerks her eyes back to the paper she's grading.

The words on the page make no sense. She recognizes the words but they float off the page, melting and twirling into the image of a turgid penis. Is he cut or uncut she wonders? She flips the pencil back and forth, struggling to tear her mind away from the images and ideas that blossom in her mind.

Anthony tears his eyes away from the bouncing pencil. He sees a single drop of sweat on Ms. Buell's hairline. She looks hot, temperature hot. Her cheeks are red. He would swear her lips are redder. Jesus, he needs to adjust his cock. It's killing him but she's sitting right there. He nearly groans when she licks her upper lip.

Good God, this room is hot she thinks to herself. She licks the perspiration off her upper lip. She needs to turn the thermostat down. She stands. Black and white shooting stars fizzle across her vision. She puts a hand out to steady herself but misses the desk. She almost falls.

Jesus, she's going to faint. Anthony springs from the deck and grabs her elbow. He helps her drop back into the chair. He tells her to lean back, put her feet up on the desk, get her head lower to improve the blood supply. She looks at him blankly. He bends, lifts her feet. Her legs are covered in a cold sweat. He settles her back in the chair, feet up, and ensures she's not about to slide off onto the floor and bolts for the door. In the bathroom, he wets a wadded handful of paper towels under the cold water and rushes back to the room. Ms. Buell has recovered enough to try to tell him she's fine. He ignores her. He puts one of the damp towels on her forehead. He uses the other to dab at the cold sweat on her arms and neck.

She is vaguely aware that Anthony hands are on her bare ankles. She shouldn't allow a student to touch her like that. He tugs at her legs, pulling her down in the seat until her head rests on the back of the chair. He leaves the room. She tells herself to remember to give him another day of attention...oops, she giggles to herself...I mean detention. He's back and she tries to pull herself together. She tries to pull her legs off the desk but stops when he puts the damp paper towel on her forehead. It feels like a touch of the Divine, so cool, so soothing. She settles back, concentrates on quieting her stomach, letting Anthony blot the sickly sweat from her arms.

He notices she has scooted down in the chair. Her skirt is pulled up. He can just see her panties. They're soft yellow. That's all he can see. That and the dark wet line. Fuck. His cock, which has only partly deflated in the excitement, roars back to life. Dammit, he should have pull it free and tucked it up in the bathroom. He starts to call himself a moron but realizes he had other priorities at the time and, for once, gives himself a break. He continues to dab at her arms but his eyes are on her panties. He tells himself it's just his imagination, but he thinks the wet spot is growing. Oh Jesus, he can see the outline of her labia beneath the more transparent wet fabric.

He's looking at my pussy. My skirt is way too high. I should sit up. She keeps her eyes closed, peeking out through her lashes, taking her time to get a nice long look at the bulge in his jeans. She feels her nipples harden. She feels her pussy purr. She's wet. She can tell without moving. Her pussy is wet. She imagines sitting up, jerking Anthony to her, unzipping his jeans, and engulfing his cock in her mouth. She reaches for the buttons of her blouse.

Ms. Buell stirs and Anthony forces his eyes to leave her damp beautiful yellow panties. Yellow will be his favorite color henceforth and forever. She croaks something. He turns. Her eyes are closed but the lids flutter. She repeats her request for the towel. He hands it to her and watches as she unbuttons the top two buttons of her blouse and begins to pat her exposed chest with the damp towel. Her bra is yellow. She has smallish breasts. It's a soft cotton bra, unpadded, very simple and unbelievably stunning to his eyes. He realizes he can see her nipples. They're hard, pushing upward, sharply outlined beneath the silk of her blouse and the soft cotton of her bra. She asks for a glass of water, pointing with one hand at the empty coffee mug on her desk. Her voice is husky but clearer. He snatches up the mug and hurries to fulfill her request.

She's lost her fucking mind. She'll get fired. She moves the paper towel over her right breast. Her fingers clenching. Water drips from her closed fist, dampening the silk of the blouse, the cotton of the bra. Her nipple hardens. She checks the door, ignoring the alarm bells in her head, making sure Anthony hasn't returned. She reaches beneath her skirt and tugs at the top her panties, pulling the damp fabric between her pussy lips. She moves her hand back to her forehead just as Anthony sails around the door frame and into the room.

He skids to a stop. He can see her tit, most of it. Her shirt got damp and he can see through it. His eyes are fixed. Ms. Buell wiggles in the chair, asks if he has the water. He can't answer. He's seen the way her panties have been pulled up into her twat. One the right side, part of her pussy is exposed. He can see a few dark curls at the top of the damp fabric. He stops staring when she reaches for the water. Sonofabitch, again he forgot to adjust his cock. His situation is becoming desperate.

The shake in her hand is not pretense, it's completely real. She tries to calm herself. His cock looks huge beneath the bulging jeans. He's staring at her pussy. She squirms some more, trying to expose more of herself. He finally tears his eyes away long enough to hold the mug out to her. She takes it. Her hand is shaking but not enough to explain spilling so much of the cold water over her left breast.

She spills the water! The left side of her top is soaked. He can see her whole tit. Did she do that on purpose? She's no longer pale. She's flushed. She drinks what is left of the water. She tells him she is feeling better but she must be a mess, would he mind closing the door so she can get herself together? Maybe even lock it? She really doesn't want anyone to see her like this.

Anthony croaks out an okay, tells her he'll wait outside until she's feeling better.

Her eyes get wide. She asks him to stay. What if she feels faint again? Stay. For her. Please. She lets her feet fall from the desk and sits up. She leans forward. Her hands go to the bulge in his pants. Jesus Christ! She's touching his dick! Ms. Buell, a teacher, is touching his dick! He hears her say something about how he must be uncomfortable. Her fingers pull and prod. He pulls his hips back. Suddenly, his cock is able to straighten itself, pushing into the left leg of his jeans. He sighs in relief. She whispers, reminding him about the door. He walks to it in a daze, limping due to the stiff cock in his pant leg. He pulls the door closed. The small window in it is still covered with black construction paper. The room was used for finals and the paper has yet to be removed. His fingers are trembling as he turns the lock. The noise startles him and he jumps. He takes a deep breath, considers unlocking the door and running. He doesn't want to get Ms. Buell in trouble. He loves her.

He turns and stares.

Ms. Buell puts one leg back on the desk as Anthony walks stiffly toward the door. All the alarms in her head have been drowned out by her desire. She is, quite literally, not in her right mind. She pulls her skirt up above her ass. It's bunched around her waist now. She pulls her panties to one side, not wishing to take the time to pull them off. Unceremoniously, she shoves two fingers into her pussy and begins to move them in and out, using a spiral motion. Her other hand pulls her right breast from the cup of her bra and begins to pinch and twist her nipple. This is the vision that greets Anthony when he turns from the door.

She nods at him, beckons with her chin. He moves toward her. He stands next to her leg, watching her shining wet fingers moving in her pussy. He's never seen a real pussy before. His parents keep close tabs on his internet usage. He hasn't seen much pussy at all. He can smell her. He smells her pussy. He groans low in her throat. She whispers to him that it's okay, that he needn't be afraid, as he reaches for the waist of his pants. He's not wearing a belt. He thumbs open the button of his jeans and pulls down the zipper. Ms. Buell is licking her lips. Her fingers move faster. Unzipped, his jeans fall off his thin hips. His cock tents the front of his boxers. He has to touch it. It's not an option. He has to. He hooks his fingers in the top of his boxers, and bending slightly, tugs them down. His cock catches on the band and then springs free.

Ms. Buell gasps. She nearly cums at the sight of his cock. She thinks to herself that Rostanelli would really hate his rival if he had any idea of what Anthony carried between his legs. She has no idea how big it really is. He's a rail thin kid, maybe his dick isn't as big as it looks. She takes her foot off the desk.

Anthony nearly shoots his load when Ms. Buell puts her mouth on his cock. His whole body shudders. Her hair brushes against his belly and goose bumps explode over his abdomen and thighs. He hears her gag and then sit back.

It's not an optical illusion. Her pupil is hung like a goddamn horse. She barely got the head into her mouth. He's certainly bigger than any of her previous lovers. She catches her breath, realizing she's already put Anthony in the category of "lover". She's done enough to be fired a dozen times over already. Why not, finish? She stands, holds her skirt up with her elbows and slowly shimmies out of her panties. She sits down on the desk, puts on foot on the chair and leans forward. She tugs him to her by his cock.

He follows her hand. She leans back. The fingers of her left hand spread her pussy. Her right hand guides the head of his cock to the pink wet opening of her sex. She rubs his cock up and down her slit. He shudders again. She whispers for him to push, slowly. He does. There's pressure on the head of his cock and then her pussy envelops the crown. He feels faint. The mouth of her cunt is like hot velvet. She clenches muscles that haven't been used enough lately and he feels his cock sucked into her. It's too much, he shoves his cock into Ms. Buell. His pubic bone hits her. She gasps. He asks if he's hurt her. She tells him no, quite the opposite. He's more shocked to hear her say the word "fuck", as in "fuck me, Anthony" than he is by the fact that he's fucking her.

He cringes in embarrassment as he explodes the second time he thrusts into her. He begins to stammer apologies. She tells him to hush, it's fine, it's always that way the first time. Just stay there. She tells him how much she loves the feel of his cock in her pussy, how big his cock is. She rubs her clit, rubs the part of his cock that isn't inside her. She holds out her fingers. He stares, confused. She tells him to suck her fingers. He does. She asks him if he likes the way her pussy taste. He says he does. Has he ever eaten a girl's pussy? She wonders. He shakes his head. Would he like to? She wonders. He nods. Anthony has almost no experience with sex. The idea that most men would not go down on a woman after cumming inside their pussy never even occurs to him. Isn't this the way sex goes?

Does he have second thoughts when he pulls his cock from her and watches his seed run out to fall to the floor? Not that Ms. Buell can tell. He drops to his knees. He asks what it is he is supposed to do. She puts a finger atop her clit, tells him what it is, tells him that's what will make her cum, he can kiss it, lick it, suck it, not too hard. He can lick and suck and put his tongue in her pussy if he wants but it's the clit that will make her cum.

He's not sure if he's tasting her or his cum. He's been forced to clean up by eating his own jizz before. It's not something he does routinely but he doesn't have a problem with it, either. He moves his lips from the hard nub of her clit and lowers his mouth. He kisses one side of her pussy. It's bare. She only has a little bit of hair above her clit. He opens his lips, sucks her labia into his mouth. She moans and clutches at his hair. He sucks on the other side. He pushes his tongue into her pussy. That's his cum he's tasting. He knows the taste. He pulls back. Ms. Buell said that playing with her clit would make her cum. Turns out she was mistaken.

As he pulls back, the hand in his hair urges him forward. His tongue, still extended, still firm, penetrates her cunt even deeper. She pulls his head back, pushes it forward. He gets the idea. His nose bumps and grinds against her clit, so maybe she wasn't totally wrong.

Her legs clamp over his head and she almost bucks herself off the table as her orgasm shreds her body. She pulls him up, pushes her throbbing cunt around his still half-hard cock and kisses him deeply before collapsing against her pupil's hairless chest. His arms go around her shoulders.

He feels her tense when he tells her he loves her. He wonders if that was a mistake.