A Gift for Her Teacher

Carrie pulled the hood of her sweatshirt forward over her eyes, even though it did no good. She peered down the street through the raindrops on her glasses. Where was the damn bus? It should have been there 15 minutes ago, and it was dark and getting colder. And now it was raining, too. She fished the crumpled bus schedule out of her pocket and her heart sank -- there in bold print at the bottom, it read, "Due to street repairs December 8-31, the #16 Cross-Town will be re-routed..."

Well, shit. She sighed and tried to figure out if she had enough cash for a cab. As she stood there mentally counting her pocket change, a car pulled up to the curb and the passenger window slid down slowly. Carrie could barely make out a male driver, no passengers, non-descript blue sedan...oh, not good, not good at all. Heart pounding, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and began walking away, quickly.

"Hey!" the driver called. Carrie ignored him, walking even faster down the empty street. The car followed her, slowly. "Hey wait -- Caroline!" She stopped in her tracks and spun around. "It's me, Dave Simpson."

Still keeping a wary distance, she squinted into the dark interior of the car, and was pretty certain the driver was the man who had taught her 12th grade English. "Mr. Simpson?"

He laughed, "It's been -- what? Two years since graduation? I think you can call me Dave now." He leaned over to open the passenger door. "Sheesh, girl, it's pouring -- hop in!"

Carrie hesitated for only a moment, before sliding gratefully into the warm, dry car. "Oh, man, my clothes are soaked, I'm sorry, your upholstery..."

"Quit apologizing," he said, "I saw you looking like a drowned rat out there, so I knew what I was in for." He grinned at her, and she couldn't help but grin back. He didn't look like he'd changed at all since she was in his class -- same tousled brown hair, same easy smile, same kind blue eyes behind studious wire-rimmed glasses. She felt a quick rush of warmth to her face as she remembered what a huge crush she'd had on him. He pulled back out on to the street. "So, where are we headed?"

"Well...I live quite a way from here..." she gave him directions to her apartment.

He gave a low whistle. "And you always take the bus, this late at night?" He glanced over quickly, concern on his face. "I mean, not that you can't take care of yourself, but it's dark out there, and kind of deserted."

"I know, I know," Carrie replied. "But my car is in the shop, and I was working on a paper at the library -- it's due on Friday, before Winter Break, and I'm kind of struggling with it."

"Really? What's your topic?"

Carrie rolled her eyes. "Huxley's Brave New World and Orwell's 1984, comparing their visions of the future."

"Wow," Dave said, nodding thoughtfully. "Ambitious undertaking."

"Yeah, but I may have bit off more than I could chew this time." She polished the water drops off of her glasses with the edge of her t-shirt, which was slightly drier than her hoodie. "I have the outline, all of my note cards, the bones written down -- I'm just having a hard time pulling it all together, you know, making it gel." She sighed, her mood suddenly as dismal as the weather.

"Hmm..." Dave mused, while they idled at a stop light. "You know, my house isn't far. We could go there, I could look at what you've got, see if I can offer any suggestions. We could even throw your sweatshirt in the dryer for a few minutes." He grinned again. "What do you say?"

"Would you?" Carrie's eyes lit up. "Oh, that would be so great...I mean, I'd really appreciate any help you could give me!"

"Absolutely," he said. "I remember you being a very good student, Carrie, an excellent writer. I'm looking forward to reading what you have done so far."

Carrie blushed, and looked out the window, "Thanks Mr. Simpson."

He glanced at her again, quickly, then turned right, on to a suburban street. "No problem -- always glad to help out a former student. And please, call me Dave."

Carrie bit her lower lip, shyly. "Okay...Dave. Thanks."

Dave drove through an older neighborhood, with small, well-kept yards and huge trees lining the street. His house was fairly small, with a huge wrap-around porch. They dashed from the car to the front door, laughing and dodging raindrops. He tossed Carrie's hoodie in the dryer and gave her some towels to dry off and spread out on the couch so she could sit down. He introduced her to his Jack Russell terrier, Oscar -- Oscar Wilde, named by a friend, Dave explained, rolling his eyes -- who was excited and delighted to have company visiting, but finally settled down, curling up on a cushion on the floor.

"Do you need to call anyone to let them know you'll be late?"

Carrie shook her head. "Nope...my Gran couldn't take the cold and the damp anymore, so my parents moved with her to Arizona a couple of months ago. Since I'm in school, I decided to stay and get an apartment."

"Ah, I see." Dave reached in a drawer and pulled out a stack of rainbow colored paper. He fanned it out in front of her like a magician doing a card trick and said, "Pick a card, any card -- I can't cook worth a damn, but I have take-out menus for every place in town that delivers." Carrie selected a pizza menu; later, they munched on deep dish slices of pepperoni, mushroom, and olive while Dave proofed and critiqued her work. Carrie nodded, asked questions, and took notes...and remembered why Mr. Simpson had been her favorite teacher in high school. She wasn't the only girl in her class who had had a crush on him. He was handsome, in a nerdy sort of way -- tall and lean, with that wonderful smile. He was young, right out of college two years ago...friendly, kind, great sense of humor -- but also intense and passionate about literature, and he imparted that excitement and enthusiasm to his students.

Finally, yawning, Carrie asked him to please drive her home. He helped her slip on her sweatshirt, now warm and drier than the rest of her clothes. As he pulled up to her apartment building, he said, "You know, I could help you polish that paper a little more, if' you'd like to come over again, maybe tomorrow?"

Carrie felt her heart pounding, her breathing shallow. "Yes, yes, I'd really like that...I'd appreciate it...um, I get my car out of the shop in the afternoon...what time would you like me to come over?"

They agreed about 6:00 would be good. They exchanged phone numbers, and Carrie programmed his number into her cell. Just before she left the car, Dave slid his arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick little squeeze. "Great, see you then.."

OK, this is really weird, Carrie thought, as she let herself in to her apartment. Why do I feel like I just made a date with my teacher? She stripped off her damp clothes, tossing them in the hamper, and stepped into a hot, steamy shower. She lathered the soap luxuriously over her soft skin. She closed her eyes, leaning back against the tile wall, feeling her nipples grow taut, imagining how Dave's hands would feel sliding down her sides, over her curvy hips, then behind her to cup her bottom, pulling her closer as he...

Carrie snapped back to reality. Jeez, get a grip. What would a guy like Dave see in a shy, plain, inexperienced girl like her? As she dried off, she appraised her reflection in the mirror critically. Wavy brown hair...that was okay, she guessed. Ivy green eyes -- probably her best feature, but always behind her ever-present glasses. A scattering of freckles -- not every guy likes those. And there's just too much of me, she thought, frowning at her full breasts and smacking her ample ass in irritation. She towel dried her hair, pulled on a nightshirt, and climbed into bed.

Carrie lay awake in the dark, tossing and turning, thinking about the little squeeze Dave had given her shoulders, wondering if it meant anything at all. Her nipples felt super sensitive, rubbing against the soft cotton, and she brought her hands up under the covers to tweak them and pull on them, teasing them into aching little peaks. Still tugging on her nipples with her left hand, she slid her right hand into her panties, her two fingers sliding wetly over and over her throbbing clitoris as she brought herself to a quick, intense orgasm and soothed herself to sleep.

The next morning, she woke up late -- her hair tangled, the sheets in disarray, and her panties pushed halfway down her thighs. She'd evidently had some wild dreams. And she could hardly concentrate in class.

At 6:05, Oscar ran to the door, barking, and Dave opened it to a shivering Carrie on his front porch. "Come in, come in," he said, ushering her out of the cold. They worked on the finishing touches of her paper over take-out chow mein.

"Well, that was fun," Dave said, clearing the table. "How do you feel about it?"

"Pretty good, actually." Carrie admitted. "And really relieved -- I didn't think I'd ever finish it...wow, and it's only 7:30!" She looked amazed.

"Yep, you worked hard. I'd give you an A." She smiled shyly at his praise. "So..big plans for the holidays?"

"No, not really. Since my folks and Gran moved away, it's just me," she sighed.

"I can relate," Dave said, nodding. "Doesn't feel much like Christmas this year."

Carrie looked around at his tidy, almost Spartan, living room. "You know what? You need a tree."

An hour later, they were back with a tree...a stand...a couple of boxes of ornaments...a string of lights...all the things Carrie insisted Dave needed, and he had obliged because her bubbly enthusiasm was contagious. While he filled the stand with water and worked on getting the tree as straight as possible, Carrie ran out to her car and came back in with a couple of CD's. She popped one in his stereo, and then Bing was dreaming of a White Christmas. Dave laughed and shook his head, but after a couple of songs, the tree was decorated, the house smelled like pine, and he had to admit, it really felt more like Christmas. He scrounged up a couple of packets of hot cocoa mix, spiked them with peppermint Schnapps, and handed a mug to Carrie. "Not as good as real cocoa," he apologized, "but the Schnapps helps a bit."

"Helps a lot!" Carrie giggled. "Now all you need are some cookies."

"Well," he said softly, taking the mug from her hands and setting it down, "I think maybe I could use some mistletoe."

Dave took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. When she didn't protest, he wrapped his arms around her. His kiss deepened, tasting of chocolate and peppermint, and Carrie's knees felt weak. He pulled her close against his body, and Carrie felt a hardness in the front of his jeans, pressing against her belly. He shifted slightly against her, and she could feel it growing, getting stiffer. She broke the kiss, and came up for air, gasping slightly. Her cheeks felt so hot, and she stammered, feeling stupid, "Uh...w-well...thanks for the help...and the cocoa..." She gathered up her papers, stuffing them haphazardly into her backpack.

"Carrie, I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to..."

"No, no," she said, embarrassed, unable to look at him, "it's not you, it's me...believe me, it's me."

Dave touched her arm. "You don't have to leave...I'll behave, I promise."

"Yeah, I really do have to go...class in the morning. Listen, I'll call you and let you know my grade, ok?"

Carrie didn't call, but she sent him a text message, "I got an A -- thanks for all your help!"

He texted back, asking her over to celebrate, but got no response.

A week later, at 5:00 on Christmas Eve, Dave was flipping through the channels, telling Jimmy Stewart on TV that, no, it really WASN'T such a Wonderful Life. Oscar suddenly bounded toward the door, barking furiously, and then there was a knock. "Hey boy," Dave said, patting Oscar while nudging him away from the door, "someone's here, huh?"

Dave opened the door to Carrie, grinning, cheeks pink with the cold, holding a plate of assorted homemade cookies. "Wow, those look fantastic! So do you!" he laughed. "Come in, come in..."

"I just wanted to thank you for all your help, you saved my grade. I'm sorry I didn't call, I just --"

"Don't worry about it, you don't need to explain anything," he assured her.

They'd had enough of take out food, so Dave took her out for a real dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant. They drove around and looked at Christmas lights for a while, then finally pulled back into Dave's driveway. "Well," he said. "Want to come in for cookies? I happen to have some homemade ones. And I even have milk for real cocoa." He wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

"REAL cocoa this time? How could a girl resist?" Carrie laughed.

He dimmed the lights and plugged in the tree. They sat, munching cookies and sipping spiked hot chocolate, listening to Carrie's Christmas CD's and telling stories. Suddenly, Dave said, "Hey, I almost forgot -- I got a gift for you. Hang on, I'll be right back." He bounded down the hall, and returned quickly with a small package wrapped neatly in gold paper. "It's not much, but when I saw it, I immediately thought of you. And I was really hoping I'd see you again."

Carrie's eyes shone as she unwrapped a green leather-bound journal, the cover tooled in intricate leaf designs. "Wow, thank you so much," she said softly, "it's beautiful."

"I thought of you as soon as I saw it -- the color reminded me of your eyes." She looked at him, surprised, and he cleared his throat. "I just wanted you to know, you are a talented writer, Carrie, and I hope you keep writing." Cautiously he reached out and brushed her hair back from her face. "You know, I have to confess something. When you were in my class a couple of years ago, you were what -- eighteen?" She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, feeling like she could barely breathe.

"Well," he said quietly, "even when you were my student and I knew it was wrong, knew I couldn't have you, knew that I shouldn't even think about it," his hand slid from her shoulder, down to the small of her back, as he leaned in and kissed her forehead gently, "I wanted you. I wanted you so much. Do you know how hard that was for me?"

Carrie nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah, yeah, I do." She slipped her arms around his neck and whispered, "I have a present for you too...but you will need to unwrap it."

He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids; he nuzzled her neck and his mouth was so warm. "Carrie, baby..." he murmured, his hands slipping under her sweater, and then tracing up the smooth skin of her back. "It feels so good to finally be able to hold you...to touch you..." She didn't even realize he had unhooked her bra, and she was amazed to feel his hands cupping her bare breasts, his thumbs teasing her hardening nipples. She made a little sound of pleasure, deep in her throat, and he pulled her on top of him, straddling his lap. His hands were in her hair, and his kisses were more urgent, more insistent. She felt his hardness pressed up against her, but this time she didn't pull away. She circled her hips, experimentally, grinding her crotch against his. Dave grabbed her hips impatiently, and pushing himself up against her, feeling her heat through her jeans. She rubbed against him again, and he groaned against her neck, his arms tightening around her; she felt a shudder run through his body, and suddenly he pushed her away, not roughly, but firmly. "Stop, god, stop, you're going to make me come before I'm even inside you!"

Carrie blushed, delighting in this information, in her new-found sense of power. He chuckled, kissed her a few more times, and gently removed her glasses and put them on the end table, next to his. Then he grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. "Condoms, condoms are in the bedroom," he muttered, while he steered her down the hall.

"Um, I'm on the pill...for my cycle..." Carrie said shyly.

"Good, good," Dave said, between kisses, "real good." He left a trail of their clothing all the way to the bedroom: her sweater, his shirt, her bra, his belt, their shoes and socks...when they got to his bed, he tugged her jeans and panties down over her hips and tossed them on the floor, and his jeans followed in the heap. "Looks like we both lost a strip poker game," he joked, and Carrie giggled, a little nervously.

Dave lay next to Carrie, nuzzling her neck and kissing her shoulder. His skin was warm, and she could feel the length of his hard cock throbbing against her hip. His palm stroked down her belly to the soft curls between her thighs. Carrie parted her legs slightly as Dave stroked her pussy, easing her labia apart with his fingertips, and sliding one long, slim finger into her opening. He whispered in her ear, "You're so wet, so tight, I can't wait to be inside you." He rolled on top of her, pressed the head of his cock against her slick slit, and thrust forward with his hips. "Baby, you're so tight," he panted with effort, pushing a little more insistently...and met resistance...

His eyes searched her face. Carrie was biting her lip, breathing shallowly, but she had a look of almost grim determination on her face. "Please, Dave, please...don't stop."

"Carrie?" She wouldn't meet his eyes, and suddenly he understood and felt like a total bastard for not realizing sooner. "Oh, honey, you've never done this before?"

She looked at him pleadingly. "It's okay, I'm okay, just do it, please..."

Dave felt himself wilting just a little, the urgency gone. "No, baby, not hurried like this. You deserve better. I didn't know. You deserve something special."

"This IS special!" Carrie insisted. "Dave...you're the best teacher I've ever had. I know you can teach me how. I trust you." She buried her face against his chest, mumbling, "Besides, it's my Christmas present for you. I want you to be my first."

He circled his arms around her, holding her for a moment. He ran his hands up and down her arms soothingly, then kissed the top of her head. "Alright...but let's back up a few steps."

Carried looked at him, questioningly.

"Well," he said, "we were sort of skipping straight to dessert, without an appetizer or a main course."

Carrie nodded, swallowing hard, while Dave slowly began kissing down her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, her breasts...stopping to tease her nipples with his lips and tongue while Carrie sighed and ran her fingers through his hair. He continued his journey south-ward, dipping his tongue briefly into her navel, then settled himself between her legs, bending her legs at the knee and pushing her thighs apart. His breath was hot against her, and he opened her pussy with his thumbs, running his tongue from her untried opening to her tiny clit. Carrie gasped in shock -- no one had ever done this to her before. She'd made out with a few guys in school, a few uninspired gropes in the backseat, dry humping, a couple of quick hand jobs. But no man had ever taken the time to focus on her, to devote himself entirely to her pleasure. "Dave..." she managed to squeak.

"Yeah?" he said, grinning up at her from between her thighs.

"That's...wow...that's amazing...it feels..." Carrie found herself at a loss for further words.

"Nice?" he murmured, giving her a long lick.

"Ohhhh god," Carrie groaned, her knees trembling, and she felt like she was melting under his tongue like a scoop of strawberry ice cream. "It feels a lot more intense than when I...you know...masturbate," she finished, embarrassed.

"Well, sure...kind of like, you can't tickle yourself, you know...it's better when someone else makes you feel good." He licked her again, and she writhed under him, her pussy opening for him like a flower. "Just relax for me, Carrie, let me make you feel good..."

He lapped her gently, teasing her clitoris, feeling it swell under his tongue. He laved little circles around it, experimenting until he found the spot that made her pant, made her push her pussy against his mouth, her hands pulling a little at his hair. He smiled to himself, focusing on that sweet spot, feeling Carrie's thighs shaking under his hands, while she moaned, "Yes...yesss...oh Dave...right there...I'm so close..." He felt her clit throbbing, and sucked gently until he tasted a gush of her sweet juices as she came in his mouth.