Magna Cum Laude

Chapter 1: Self-Sacrifice

"Kyle! Kyle, You're failing AP Human Geo?! Put the controller down and get up here, come on!"

What you'd hoped would be a gloriously perfect winter Sunday with the family had been thrice-tarnished; a single flaw was inevitable. Two changed the character of the day, but three? Three was the number of completion, such that there was a whole Rule of Three - three strikes and you're out, three essential daily items (wallet, keys, cellphone), sex

at least

three times a week.

First, the toilet was clogged

again

, and by no fault of your well-fibered family. You'd called the plumbing service twice to fix it now, and each time they'd charged you that post-inflation price that made your bank account creak with complaint.

Second, you'd had sex this morning with Drake and while it'd been

nice

, ultimately the experience left you feeling unsatisfied and desperate for more; you hadn't had a moment where you could bring yourself to climax either. Lately he'd been neglecting that particular facet of your sex life, and

you

needed to lead meetings.

Kyle's unacceptable grade was that third flaw.

"Mom I'm not

failing

, I'm getting a B," he called. Whatever grindcore metal soundtrack playing on his game paused as he dutifully came up the stairs; your anger waned everytime you laid eyes on your kid, but you

had

to maintain a certain level of discipline to compensate for your husband's laxness.

Unable to help yourself you thumb his cheeks, maintaining your hard facade as you gaze into his Aegean-green eyes...eyes just like yours. "What does 'B' stand for?"

"Below my potential," he drones with resignation...his voice has gotten so deep. You remember back when it was reedy and thin like a little boy's only a few months ago. His hands hang limply by his sides, leaning into your touch.

You pat his cheeks and show him your cellphone screen. The glinting flat square of light, a lens into your boy's academic performance denied your own parents (thankfully), showed his grade just edging along at 88%. "You've turned in all your work; it's just this test that's got you by the nose sweetheart. Can you retake it?"

With long-suffering patience Kyle shakes his head, running his fingers through blonde, feathery hair...a tell for when he was nervous. "I already did mom."

What. "You retook it and got a C?"

"Yeah, I got a D before so..."

Outrageous. Unacceptable. "Honey do you need help?" Wait...what if he needed

help?

"Is there something going on you're letting me in on?" This

was

the age that boys kept secrets from their parents - their mothers in particular! - and he

had

been acting a bit more...sleepy lately. What if he's doing drugs? What if he's sneaking out at night and partying like

you

used to?

You resolve to search his drawers when he and his dad go off to see the horses; certainly not what you'd been

wanting

to do during your increasingly spare alone-time.

"Mooom," he groans, shifting heavily from one foot to the other. "Nothing's wrong, I just suck at this class - "

"It's that girl isn't it, Sequoia or something - "

"

Sidereal

, and no Sid isn't someone I'd get all worked up over."

Phew. Good. You liked Sid plenty, fun girl just...at age 17 she had a lot more maturity and adultness than your boy at 16, and you could tell she was interested. Hopefully Kyle either couldn't see it, or just wasn't interested himself, somehow, in the leggy swimmer he'd been hanging out with.

"Okay, so did you talk to..." you glance at the name once more, "Mister Avrahamov about getting that grade fixed?"

He has that look, like your dog Lucy when she is just rearing to bolt out the door and into the yard to chase a squirrel. "Yes mom," he answers patiently. "He said there isn't anything I can do about the low formative scores cuz the closing date has passed, I did all the retakes I could and I never missed class so...this is just the best I can do."

No it's not.

"No it's not," you slap your cellphone into your palm for emphasis, fierce emerald eyes flashing like a jungle cat's. "You've got A's in everything else, I

know

you can get that 4-point if you just spend a bit less time on the nintendo - "

"Mom

god

it's a computer like the one you have - "

" - and a bit more time with those books open. Try that for me, okay?" The implication was pretty obvious:

don't try, do,

but you weren't exactly allowed to say that.

"Yeah. I will mom, I promise." He turns to go back downstairs but you halt him with an 'ahem!'. He is a wonderful young man, so he turns around and kisses your proffered cheek.

Such a great kid...your heart swells with motherly pride and warm tinglies, but you just cannot help but worry.

The zeitgeist demands you be okay with your child's 'limitations', but he didn't have any excuse for limitations with the lifestyle you and Drake had given him. The Zeitgeist could eat shit; Kyle was graduating with a 4.0, he was going to MIT like you had and he was going to have a good life, dammit. You saw what your friends' older kids had gone through trying to make it out there in that

brutal

world, even with their hands held and their mothers still wiping practically wiping them.

For the next couple of hours until Drake comes home you stew on this. Much of your existence has been painstakingly constructed like a crystalline tower raised by a wizard both magnificent and shameful. Perfectly wrought, the edifice of your public facing was hung with banners that fluttered with your higher ed credentials, stood tall and stable like your perfect (looking) family. The stained-glass windows of your life were scenes of churchgoing, community participation, and a two-story home with a grassy yard and bumbling dog.

AbsolutAmericana

, if your life was a Swedish vodka.

It's a rare moment alone with no housework to complete. Your boy is absorbed with his gaming and your husband is playing cards with his friends, so you allow the pall of despair to settle over your shoulders. It's a brief moment of weakness as you juggle your responsibilities with the futility of it all. In your desperation to fulfill everyone else's needs you'd been hollowed out into a you-shaped hole, and little was truly satisfying anymore.

"It isn't about you," you tell yourself, staring your reflection down in the full-length mirror your mother-in-law had given you four Christmases ago. It stands near the coat closet so you can simultaneously admire yourself before you go out, and watch yourself experience existential crisis.

Why?

After four decades of demanding work and (mostly) unrelenting propriety, you've retained the glow of youth. You recently cut your hair to just under your chin, a deep gold that glinters beneath the lukewarm afternoon sun. Your eyes are

green

- the beryl of a virgin lake, the emerald of tender new leaves...verdant as lovemaking on the first day of Spring.

When was the last time you made love?

When was the last time you were

fucked

without mercy,

pounded

until you ached for more,

filled

with your lover's seed one load after the other? There was that time in Peru when you took the trip alone, a rebound from your late college relationship...you'd met a pair of guys on the road, ridden with them to a few exotic places and had sex with them, sometimes both at the same time.

You're still hot, right? The wide-strap, green tank top draped over your slender body is properly chaste for the home, though it hints at your cleavage...your breasts are firm handfuls that your husband particularly enjoys, and the Venusian flare of your hips is accentuated both by the roundness of your ass and the columns of your legs. You've always taken pride in your long stride and remember when those boys in Lima had kissed and licked their way up your inner thighs.

You rub them together, the pressure on your clit causing it to pulse against your panties...you'd had sex only hours ago and you were simply

hungry

for more, but of a specific kind you just weren't getting. Your hands drift up from your stomach underneath the swell of your bust, closing your eyes and, just for this moment of semi-solitude, imagine -

- his rough fingers running through your hair, gripping those golden strands and gyrating his hips before your mouth...you imagine the heft and girth of his cock, sliding down the back of your tongue and into your throat, gazing up at his muscular torso through a veil of tears -

Surely...while Kyle was busy, while you had this tender little gift of time, nobody would miss you while you retreat into your bedroom. You close the door and start a bath so Kyle thinks you're getting clean and relaxing. Rifling around in your little jewel box filled with your battery-powered boyfriends, you select a fat pink vibrator - Jeff, as you called him. Rather than slipping into the bath after stripping, you instead settle back against your cabinet on a fuzzy rug, positioning a mirror between your thighs...you enjoy watching yourself. Twisting Jeff's bottom to humming life, you lower him -

- and his juicy glans, easily the size of a golf ball, strokes over the shining pink of your little pearl. You groan your appreciation and run your fingers through your mystery lover's chest hair, slicking your pussy juices over his shaft with a roll of your hips. His lips find your nipple, sucking that sensitive flesh into his mouth and biting down, tugging roughly enough that it hurts

so fucking good

while his fingers descend down, drawing circles over your node -

The sight is enchanting; beneath the golden-thatch crown of your trimmed pubic hair, the nubbin of your clitoris shines pink and hard. You make a low sound of need in your throat as Jeff's pink head purrs against it, sending tingling lightning-pleasure from your groin through your pelvis. You drag him lower, then back up again, the rhythm stimulating you toward the lower-ends of climax. Your other hand slides down to spread the diaphanous petals of your labia, exposing your shining vulva. You close your eyes, head leaning back against the cabinet as you press Jeff's head against -

- your tight little opening, working his way into you with rolling motions of his hips. He's so fucking strong, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other crawling down your body to take a hold of your ass. You urge him onward, to cast aside gentleness in favor of masculine force - your words evaporate with a gasp as he spreads you wide with that hand, pushing his big fucking cock in your pussy and it

aches so fucking good

-

Jeff pistons in and out of your pink warmth hypnotically in the mirror, breathy little moans escaping your lips that you

sincerely hoped

Kyle wouldn't hear...the bath was still running loud enough that he'd know to stay away. Strings of your arousal cling to the shaft of your pink toy, vibrating against your G-spot and all the way back against the mouth of your womb. There's a spot there that makes you fucking

melt

, and in your hot, wet fantasy you picture him -

- thrusting into you so hard it shakes the bed, it clatters the headboard against the wall in a lewd staccato. Your juices stain the sheets, the flower of orgasm blooming in your clit, your vagina, in your lower belly and threatening to explode forth. Serendipity is your sidepiece in this fantasy; you can feel the head of his cock swelling, the base of his manhood starting to thrum within you. He doesn't even ask permission to shoot his load inside of you and

that

sends explosions of color through your vision when he does. He's fucking

strong

, arching his back and gritting his teeth, manful growls and groans almost animalistic as you feel his sperm paint your throbbing, muscular walls; his volume is incredible, the force of his ejaculation awe-inspiring as it impacts your deep places and drips out of your pussy, all over your ass.

The aftershocks of orgasm ripple through you while you pull Jeff from your silken grasp with an audible sucking sound...that one had been particularly powerful today. A 'phew!' of relief escapes your lips like mauve steam. Quickly, efficiently, you wash your battery-powered boyfriend, clean the nectars from your thighs, and pull on a fresh pair of underwear that isn't sticky with your unmet need.

Masturbating was basically just self-maintenance over fulfillment at this point, but at the least it puts to sleep the demons of your lusts...you wish there was something you could do to communicate your needs to your man. Bless his ten-thousand other good qualities, he was just clueless. Unless you told him something with the same bluntness as a hammer to the skull he usually didn't pick up on what you were signaling, and after this many years of his inability to read you, this...black wall had grown. You still have sex, you still love him and his pretty dick but...

Something is missing.

That something isn't your concern however, not right now; your mind falls back upon the imperfections in the mighty castle you've built, and you return to the problem that is Kyle's B in AP Human Geography.

You chew on it. You nibble at its edges and lick its core, you taste it and smell it from all different angles, considering all the possibilities. It sounded, from Kyle's perspective, as if he'd exhausted any chance of changing his final marks but grades didn't go into the record for another week. That meant you had plentiful time to deal with the issue.

Kyle calls you from downstairs to let you know he's already diced the onions, minced the garlic, marinated the sirloin and added a dash of red wine to the marinade. The kid was shaping up to be something of a culinary wunderkind, though you envisioned a future as a chemistry researcher at one of the great American institutions. That isn't to say that you minded the help in the kitchen.

Your relationship with your son is one of life's great blessings. He is an empathic, gentle type. The sort of guy whose voice calms frightened animals, who considered the comfort and happiness of other people before his own.. You worry sometimes about his ability to see deeply into people's hearts; he's always been able to cut past bullshit and hear that which goes unspoken, and you have Drake to thank for that.

You wonder if Kyle notices your moments of weakness, if he sees the sorrow and desperation in your eyes that comes with the Killing of your Self.

Maybe he does, and he's just so aware that he knows not to say anything, and just be your sweet boy.

You get a text from your man; he's going to be out late with the boys, and that's fine, he's been busting ass at work and busily remodeling the basement so he deserves that time. That makes it a little easier for you to follow through on your Primary Mission - Kyle's

utter failure

need for a bit of help with his teacher. In the meantime...

"Honey this roast is amazing," you compliment him, slicing off a juicy piece that drips with marinade, crusted on top with pepper and garlic. He'd sauteed some Julian vegetables in olive oil; a little onion bulb and a bit of broccoli, speared on the end of your fork, add their salty tang to the hearty weight of the sirloin.

"I got the idea off the Fortnite subreddit," he proclaims with cool pride, his own style of humble-brag he's had since he was showing you his toddler drawings. "Dad's all about that wine-and-garlic thing. You know, cuz of his heart."

The two of you smile knowingly and roll your eyes. Drake made a particular fuss about his heart-health ever since his father's bypass surgery, and he's totally fine. The guy barely has an inch of fat on his body, swims like a swordfish and eats more healthily than God. He might as well be the suit-wearing man in that Soviet-era 'NYET' anti-alcohol poster...but here he is, stressing about his longevity. He'll probably live longer than you and won't even notice when you're gone.

You and Kyle shoot the shit for a while, poking fun at Addy Golgers'

ridiculous

sweet-sixteen celebration...you talk to him for a while about the concept of 'sets of infinities'. He mostly listens when you talk about math, but you can see the gears working behind the green of his gaze, expanding his consciousness concept by concept. Finally, when you're squirting a spiral of whip-cream atop his serving of Chocolate Shoppe Elephant Tracks, the conversation arrives where you'd been gently maneuvering it.

"So..." you sit next to him, sliding a spoon into his hand as you both pick at the dish of ice cream - he eats it the exact same way you do, it's so cute. "Tell me about Mr. Avrahamov."

The first spoonful is approaching his lips, but Kyle pauses and narrows his eyes at you -

there

he looks like his dad. "Whyyy?"

"I want to talk to him about your grade, and I thought if I knew a bit about him I could write a better email - "

"Bruh."

"Kyle I am not your 'bruh'."

"Okay, okay. Mom." He looks at you crossly, tapping his spoon against the edge of the dish with a quiet 'dnk dnk'. "You don't need to interfere, I have it covered."

"If you had it covered you'd have an A!" you exclaim, pushing the spoon gently to his mouth. "Jesus please eat that, it's melting on your spoon and driving me crazy." Kyle doesn't protest, but he never breaks his stare as he chews. "Come on. I'll find out somehow, just y'know. Spill the

tea

."

Kyle makes a show of cringing whenever you use Millennial slang but luckily it doesn't take much; he trusts you, more than you could ask from most teenage boys. He takes out his cellphone and navigates to his email, showing you a chain that was, indeed, evidence of his communication with Mr. Avrahamov in pursuit of the coveted A. "See, at the bottom of the email there's a link to his little intro-page...check it out."

You tap the blue link-text, waiting for his iPhone to load up the slide and -

Oh.

Oh wow. He's cute.

More

than cute. Not what you were expecting from a high school history teacher.

Mr. Nathaniel Avrahamov graduated from Tulane University with a BA in history and a Master's in

being a fucking hunk

. His sandy brown hair is short and bestrides the line between styled and a bit messy; there's a hint of mystique in those dark eyes with his long lashes, his slender lips with that knowing smile. Mr. Avrahamov is wearing a silver collared shirt, the top button undone - you see a hint of dark chest hair between the cut of pec-outlines. Holy hell...if this guy had been your teacher you'd have either aced the

hell

out of his class or more likely been intensely distracted by him, unable to turn in classwork.

You lubricate your dry mouth with some ice cream. "Mm. Looks nice! What's he like?" You feign almost too much disinterest.

Thankfully Kyle doesn't seem to notice, though you suspect he's not the kind of kid who'd shame someone for their attractions. "He's real chill, he lets us go get food from the vending machines when we're doing classwork and plays Battle Souls. He'd be better if he didn't grade so hard but he feeds us enchiladas."

You glance quizzically at your boy but inwardly you're charmed at the prospect of someone supplementing your child's furnace-like metabolism. "He's got great stories too, he told us how he got kidnapped in Indonesia - "

"What."

That

was a tale he encouraged you to get Nathaniel to tell you himself. You accept...having harvested enough information about the guy from your son to work with. Cute or not, you'd dealt with Kyle's teachers before and had politely strong-armed them into changing near-A's into actual-A's on more than one occasion; this wouldn't be any different.