It was the last week of the last semester of my senior year. Final exams were finished and the students and staff alike were going through the motions of showing up to class and occupying desks. No one wanted to be there, but the school administration insisted on keeping their daily attendance numbers as high as possible. Something to do with school funding. Nevertheless, it felt like a punishment.
One class I didn't mind sitting through was Ms. Marshall's. She was my AP History teacher. I didn't enjoy learning about history, but I thoroughly enjoyed being near Ms. Marshall. She was a tall, elegant, yet timid brunette with long, wavy hair (often done in a ponytail) and large, brown, doe-like eyes. She always spoke as though she could break into tears at any moment. She also had tits the size of a pair of cantaloupes.
Most of her class was spent watching videos on history and filling out boring worksheets. Instead, I would draw pictures of Ms. Marshall in compromising scenarios (my favorite piece was one of her wearing a loose fitting shirt as she leaned over my desk). I spent so much time admiring Ms. Marshall that I had a comprehensive mental catalog of her wardrobe by the end of the year. It consisted mostly of snug turtlenecks, knee-high boots, and long skirts, my favorite of which was a black faux leather skirt that had a zipper up the backside. I often daydreamed about unzipping her skirt while she wrote notes on the whiteboard. In my more risque drawings, she wore a black lace thong.
One class I very much did mind sitting through was Mr. McIntosh's art class. Art stood between me and the end of my day. I thoroughly enjoyed art, however, I did not enjoy Mr. McIntosh. He was a stout, stocky, red-headed man who always seemed to be pissed off by the mere presence of his students. His face always looked like he was in the second hour of attempting to uncork a hard turd. He was an uncompromising man and he wardened a very rigid, tightly controlled classroom. He was a teacher - not an artist.
Mr. McIntosh always joked that he had a choice between teaching and prison (whether as an inmate or a guard, he would never clarify). I never really understood what message he intended by the joke, but I imagine he meant it as a way of scaring students from misbehaving in class. In practice, it prevented anyone from participating in class at all. Mr. McIntosh didn't seem to mind this -- he spent the majority of class behind his desk while I silently sketched things that, under the eyes of a more watchful teacher, would get me expelled from school.
One day after class had been dismissed, I realized I had forgotten my headphones in Mr. McIntosh's room. I doubled back and found the classroom to be unoccupied. I grabbed my headphones and started to make for the classroom door when I spotted Mr. McIntosh's sketchpad on his desk. He was hardly ever willing to share his drawings with his students. Curiosity got the better of me and I endeavored to investigate.
His personal art projects included scores of roughly drawn nudes, both men and women. The men were drawn from the shoulder down, and each and every one of them had a raging hard erection. All the women were drawn seated on a stool, at similar angles, with their legs parted so the viewer's imagination didn't have to do any heavy lifting. The details of the drawings were not fine, they lacked refinement and care - nothing more than crude erotica produced by a frustrated, horny mind in urgent need of arousal. They were perfect.
At the bottom of each page was the name of a teacher at the school. I thumbed through the pages in hopes of finding my favorite history teacher. In my search, I discovered a picture of the band teacher, Mr. Keen, drawn with a cock roughly the size and shape of a clarinet, and Mrs. Carlson, my old reading teacher, whose pubic hair was trimmed to a thin strip. Not a single picture of Ms. Marshall's cantaloupes could be found. I quickly snapped a few pictures from the sketchbook and began to head out the door, all the while pondering if Mr. McIntosh would be willing to take commissions.
On my way out of the classroom, the sound of conversation came from the art supply closet. I stood still for a moment and gave all my concentration to listening in. The bassy sound of a deep voice came first. Then silence. Then, a lighter, higher pitched voice. Then the deep voice again. The deep voice would speak for a few seconds, then the lighter voice would respond in one or two word answers. I slowly moved towards the door so that I could better eavesdrop.
"Tilt your head down," the deep voice instructed. The voice belonged to Mr. McIntosh.
"How's this?" There was no mistaking that timid voice.
I peeked in through a narrow gap between the doors. The closet was half the size of the classroom to which it was attached. The walls were lined with shelves of papers and paints. Inside, Mr. McIntosh's back was turned to me. He sat on a stool with a small easel set in front of him. To his right was another stool with a few pencils set on top. Just a few feet in front of him, Ms. Marshall was seated on a similar stool. Only her bare legs were visible from where I stood. Her clothes were neatly folded on a student desk to her right.
"Spread your legs wider."
There was a heavy pause before the legs obeyed the command.
"How's this?"
The artist nodded.
I couldn't see the sketchpad or its subject from my vantage point. I began to feel that, at any moment, he could turn around and open the door to the supply closet. I was in very real danger of being found.
The moment I began to turn around, however, I realized the sudden power I could hold over every teacher at the school. Stealthily, I crept to Mr. McIntosh's desk and began recording a video of his classroom. Then, I turned through each and every page making sure to capture each drawing and the name below it. Safe in the fact that I could blackmail the entire staff and more than a few members of the faculty, I skulked back to the supply closet door.
He had finished his drawing. He stood beside her now, holding the large pad in front of her. Ms. Marshall, now draped in a large maroon school spirit blanket, smiled pleasantly at the drawing. Mr. McIntosh was smiling as well - but his smile was less pleasant. It was an alien expression on his face - he didn't look comfortable expressing an emotion other than bilious hatred.
"I love it." Ms. Marshall squeaked.
"I'm glad. Truth be told, I've been wanting to draw you for a long time."
I felt a sudden kinship with Mr. McIntosh.
"How does it feel to be part of the club?" asked Mr. McIntosh.
"Honestly? Relieved. I was starting to feel like some of the others were judging me for being too uptight. Or somehow better than them." Ms. Marshall eyed Mr. McIntosh up and down. "Have you ever done a self-portrait?"
