The earlier chapters give some background on our hero's situation, and how he found himself sitting beside a sexy teacher in a short skirt driving a sportscar at high speed. All characters are over 18, and any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
*****
The next afternoon found me driving in Miss Frobisher's little red sportscar on the way to my first rehearsal at Grimsley. The sky was a middling battleship gray when she picked me up, and as we drove it started looking more and more ominous, rain-wise. We went up, down and practically sideways along the little two-lane country roads. She maintained a fairly steady 50 miles per hour despite the speed limit of 30. It made me nervous, but I should have expected it. Everything about Miss Frobisher was fast. Her little sportster was a manual transmission, which a bit unusual for a woman to drive, at least back in that day and age. But there was much about Miss Frobisher that was unusual for a woman. Of course, I didn't know how to drive stickshift myself, so I wasn't about to say anything. I determined that I would learn to drive one. At least that was one inadequacy I could overcome.
She barely talked to me either. I wondered if she was angry with me for something. Though I'd had to rush like crazy, I'd been at her appointed pick-up spot a few minutes early, so it couldn't be that. I couldn't think of anything I'd done that she could find fault with.
"Looks like rain," I said, with hopes of breaking the silence. Stupid move. No response from her. She must have heard me, though. She was probably thinking, 'no shit, Sherlock,' or maybe 'gee, do yah think?'
Going that fast was scary, but I certainly didn't want to criticize or complain about her driving. Who knows what she'd have done in response, but whatever happened I was sure it would hurt. And from my experience with Miss Frobisher, I guessed the pain would start with my balls. God knows where it would end, though.
The first drop was yet to fall, but it was just a matter of time. Would she slow down for the rain? Or, Jesus H_, would she go faster just to moon Mother Nature? I could see the headlines in my mind: "Teacher and Student Killed in Stormy Accident." Or maybe, if we were lucky enough to have a few final minutes together: "Student & Teacher Found Killed, Hands in Each Other's Crotches." Would they even print something like that in a family newspaper? I guessed not. I had to get a grip and not let my negative imagination run my mind.
As I stared out the window wondering about who should or should not be on the guest list for my impending funeral, I could almost see the cloud cover go from battleship gray, to dark gray, to even nastier dark gray, and then to that final stage of booger green that presages a storm severe enough to win the praise of Dr. Frankenstein. Looking at that sky, I began to understand and forgive the ancient Greeks for thinking that there were gods who nursed grudges against mortals. Then almost on cue, a streak of lighting rent the sky. The woods on either side of the road were bathed in a blinding white light, making them look like they were coated with snow. A deafening roll of thunder sounded just a second later. "That's pretty close," I said. Still no response
The rain was slow at first. One drop hit the windshield, then another, then two or three at once, and then it was like going through a car wash while you stayed in the car. Water, water everywhere. The windshield wipers could barely keep up. I mentally kicked myself for not bringing my umbrella, or even a raincoat, and most of all for not even checking the weather report before leaving the dorm. But I had been rushing, nervous about following Miss Frobisher's directions and getting to her pick-up point on time. Instead of concentrating on sensible things like umbrellas and weather reports, my mind oscillated between the cold fear of her kicking my balls if I were late and the hot prospect of a good half hour watching her legs work the clutch and the brake in that short skirt. I was, to say the least, distracted.
That was to be a fateful mistake for me.
On the plus side, the bad weather enhanced her leg show beyond my horniest expectations. As she sped up and down all those country hills with no brakes to speak of, with rain coming down in sheets, she worked the clutch with her sexy left leg and the gas pedal with her sexy right. She was really a mistress of manual transmission engine braking. Her right arm went back and forth on the stick shift, as she steered with the other. This continuous series of leg and arm motions sent her skirt, already on the short side, riding higher and higher on her thighs. I kept my nose pointed at the front windshield, pretending that I was looking straight ahead at the road, but all the while I kept shifting my eyes down and to the left, straining my peripheral vision to check out her increasingly naked thighs. I thought I could just about see the tops of her stockings, and I couldn't resist it any longer. I had to confirm it, to see it clearly. I turned my head and started down at her thighs. Yes! Yes! She was wearing some kind of thigh-high jobs, and everything beyond that was naked skin! And it was Miss Frobisher's naked skin, no less. Some animal part of my brain must have taken over and opened the sluice gates for all the blood in my veins to flow straight to my cock. I think I felt stiffer than I'd ever been before, and I was tenting up the fly on my pants, to the meager extent I could do that.
"What the hell are you looking at?" she said.
I was busted. I blushed with embarrassment. She was Robo-mistress, cop, judge and jury all rolled into one, and the verdict was guilty. I was going to say "sorry," but I couldn't get my mouth to say anything.The evidence was trying to get out of my pants, the smoking gun. Well, in my case it would be more like a smoking snub-nosed revolver. Or maybe a puffing little derringer. In any event, she was looking right at my pants.
All of a sudden she slowed down and pulled off on what I hoped was a shoulder and stopped the car.
"Looks like someone's getting a little bit excited," she said. "I'll forgive you this time because we're just here in my car, but let's be really clear: I did not grant you permission to become erect. Apart from it being an offensive male trait, that kind of lewdness is absolutely forbidden inside Grimsley. Understand?
"Well, sometimes it just happens," I said. Holy crap. She was going to tell me when I could get hard? This was getting deeper.
"Nothing could be more crude and disgusting to the demure young ladies of Grimsley Hall than to suddenly be confronted with an unbidden male erection, whether in or out of your pants."
That last comment had me stumped. In or out of my pants? When would I be out of my pants at Grimsley. I guessed there would be some kind of costume I might have to wear for the play, but why would anyone be looking at me without my pants on? "No, Miss Frobisher," I said. But I had to know what she meant, and there was no way to know except to ask her. "But I'm not sure I follow about in or out of my pants."
"Well, there was something I forgot to mention yesterday when we were talking about the play. Actresses, and actors too, wear different costumes in different scenes, so they have to learn how to change quickly and efficiently. And Grimsley has always been an all-girls school. So, when the stage was added many years ago they didn't see the need for dressing rooms, since everyone involved was female."
