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Chapter 4:
I roll over and stare at the patterns in the popcorn ceiling — delicate, creepy shadows slither across the textured surface. I'm so tired it aches in my bones. It's the kind of tired that grips you at the edge of sleep and holds you there mercilessly. Teetering on the edge, sounds and voices from the day echo through my brain. I hear the grumblings of one of my laziest, most entitled pupils as I hand his paper back to him. I hear several administrators politely admonishing me, suggesting I be more aware of how certain decisions I make can have a larger impact on St. Anthony's sustainability. I hear shockingly large numbers that reflect enormous donations made by parents and grandparents of this one particular miserably insufferable child. I hear my own words futilely echoing something about intellectual integrity, accountability, responsibility, yada yada yada. I hear the Headmaster's very direct instructions — consider the school's future...child's potential...admission to a top university. I'm livid. But I also hear the reminder that I'm still within my two year probationary period, and if I cannot fit in with the St. Anthony "family" I may not be asked to return for fall semester. The sounds rattling in my brain build to a crescendo, echoing through my skull. My rage builds, partially at the situation which has now been repeated several times, but mostly at myself for allowing this nonsense to keep me awake at night.
I need a distraction and my wife's cold rebuff has left me to my own devices. I pick up my phone, the glow shifting the sinuous shadows on the ceiling. I load up some of my favorite bookmarked pages. Mostly pretty soft core stuff, young girls partially clothed, most appearing of similar age to many of my students. One of my favorite models reminds me so much of one student in particular, Lara. Breasts fully filled out, legs so long that whatever length skirt she wears always appears to be seductively too short. I look at my phone, the girl laid back on a couch, her legs splayed out wide, hands coyly tucked over her crotch, knee length striped tube socks and sexy sneakers, from one of which dangles a pair of bunched up panties. In another she's on the floor on her knees, backside pointed up in the air staring back at me with a timid look. The same panties now on the floor, shoes slipping off her heels. A hand tucked underneath with a middle finger covering her slit to leave enough to the imagination, but ruddy swelling labia spreading out on both sides of her long finger. Her small breasts hang down like seductive low hanging fruit. I'm always startled by how perfectly her face and tits resemble Lana's. Of course I don't know about her other parts, although I fantasize often. I do daydream about bending her over, not feeling too guilty since she's a senior and of age. Besides, I could never bring myself to go through with something like that, even if the opportunity presented itself.
I'm so painfully engorged thinking of Lana, one of my prized pupils for so many reasons. Her intuition, her sense of humor, her intelligence. Her smile, her lips, her cleavage. Her interminable legs, the way she sits down next to me at after-school tutorial. The way her bottom rounds out when she bends over the desk right next to mine, the way her nipples bulge when I pinch them, the way she coos quietly when I slide her panties down and brush her velvety mons with my finger. How her moan reverberates when my engorged member begins to slide its way past two shimmering, welcoming folds of — I feel my wife shift in the bed and quickly snuff out my phone. She's still asleep. I turn it back on and hold myself, squeezing the blood further up into my shaft and feeing my glans swell like a balloon, picturing the purplish color it's turning, the pain building as my sexual animus seizes control. I don't even have to stroke myself. I stifle my gasping breaths as streams of hot fluid burst forth, thoroughly soiling my boxers and the 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Trying to catch my breath I lay there spent in darkness. It's completely silent except for the whirling of the ceiling fan. And one word that echoes not through my head, but through the space of our room. She growls, "Pervert."
