Camilla had had a crush on Mr. Grisham, her grade 12 English teacher, ever since she saw him walk into the classroom on the first day of the second semester. That he was about forty, and she'd just turned eighteen, didn't bother her at all: she'd always had a thing for older, distinguished, intelligent men. He was tall, blond-haired and blue-eyed; she found him devastatingly handsome, even though he had a slight gut. She had a burning curiosity bordering on obsession: to find out what he had hanging behind the zipper of his pants.
She could also sense that he lusted after her, not that she needed her impressively accurate intuition to tell her. During class time, when he had all the girls discussing a novel or poem in class (theirs was an all-girls Catholic school), he would walk about the groups ostensibly to make sure they weren't talking about anything else; but whenever he came by Camilla, he always felt this boldness, not at all knowing where he got his nerve from. He'd come into physical contact with her, tactfully enough to make it seem accidental. On one occasion, she felt his hands caress her thighs: it gave her a thrill of pleasure; she breathed heavily and closed her eyes; she then quickly pretended to sneeze so the other girls wouldn't suspect anything. Her panties absorbed some moisture, too.
However objectionable his desire for her may have been on moral grounds, he had every reason to want her from a visual standpoint:
she was lovely
. She had long, curly blonde hair, expressive blue eyes, a large, firm bust, and sinuous curves. She was a short, sexy little pixie in her schoolgirl uniform, her plaid miniskirt draped over a pair of buttocks that would make callipygian Venus envious. Though she had never viewed her own nether regions in a mirror, she had been reliably told by previous lovers that her vulva and anus were as delectable as her sensuous lips. These compliments encouraged her to become a lap-dancer at
Luvlee's
, the local strip-joint, as soon as she turned eighteen. She was also encouraged by these compliments to consider initiating some passion with Mr. Grisham.
'Considering' initiating that passion would soon swell into a determination to satisfy her curiosity about his trousers' inner secrets. Again, as with Mr. Grisham's boldness, she had no idea where she'd got hers from.
On the day that she finally made a move on him, she had been in a terrible fight with her mother. It was during lunchtime that her mother discovered Camilla had become a lap-dancer, and naturally her mother's reaction to this lurid news was one of shock and disapproval. At home, her conservative mother had shouted the most abusive language at her, and returning to school thirty minutes before afternoon classes were to start, Camila went into her English classroom in tears, tears to rival the downpour of rain outside.
Except for her and Mr. Grisham, no one was in the classroom. She locked the door so no one could get in and see what they were doing.
"Camilla, what's wrong?" he asked as she walked up to him and held him tight. He was just getting up from his chair when she forced him down by sitting on his lap, facing him. She put her face on his shoulder and sobbed.
"I had a fight with my mommy," she wept. "She was so mean to me. She said the meanest things."
"What did she say, sweetie?" he asked, embarrassed by his growing erection.
"I don't wanna talk about it. Just hold me, sir. Please. Hold me." She started rubbing her bra-less breasts against his chest.
"OK, baby. Please don't cry." He put his arms around her. The softness of her rubbing bosom was offset by the hardness of his phallus. She felt it poking out in a big bulge from his pants. The tip of it was massaging her clitoris: only her panties, his pants and boxer shorts were separating their genitals, and the material of each of those three articles of clothing was very thin. "No more tears from that pretty face," he sighed, pulling his right hand back to wipe a tear off her face. She shifted her chest to the left, when his hand had come back past her arm, and he 'accidentally' caressed her left breast...oh, how delightfully soft it was! Blushing, he said, "Oh, sorry, Camilla."
Not even batting an eye, she said, "That's OK, sir." He wiped a tear off her cheek, then put his arm back around her. "I must look so silly, eighteen years old and crying like a baby," she giggled between sobs. She was rubbing aggressively against his pointy phallus. Paradoxically, she was in emotional agony and sexual ecstasy at the same time. Paradoxically, he was being a kind, avuncular comforter and a lecher at the same time. Gyrating their crotches in rhythm to each other, they were practically having intercourse right there, except for the sheer screen of their clothing.
"It's OK to cry," he moaned and panted, moving his hands in circles around her back. If she had been wearing a bra, he would have found it irresistible to pull on the strap and snap it against her back. She vaguely sensed his desire to do so.
