Trust me, please, when I tell you there is absolutely no way at all for a teacher to survive unscathed after being defied by a student. At the least, if the teacher is a calm and generally light-hearted person, their relationship will take a turn for the worse; the student will become more arrogant and demanding, more impertinent and disrespectful as the days go by. The teacher, meanwhile, having lost all authority over that student, is in extreme danger from that student's friends.
I've found over many years that this sad state of affairs grows twice as bad if the teacher is a man and the student is a young woman. There is always going to be tension there, especially if the teacher and the student are reasonably fit and relatively attractive; even if not, there will be more tension than there needs to be.
And I've also found, very recently now, that it all gets around twenty or thirty times as bad if the female student has sucked the male teacher's dick. And maybe about another hundred times as bad if he knows she has any part of that encounter filmed or recorded. Especially if he knows she does not care about his reputation.
That's why I was such a wreck in the days after my intense and very confusing encounter with Natalie Cross, the Ice Bitch of Glen Avery High School. Fit and beautiful and superior in every way, Natalie was an eighteen-year-old of surprising self-confidence and very assertive manners. And, as I'd recently discovered, she was a supernaturally talented giver of oral sex and, apparently, a completely uninhibited exhibitionist who thought nothing of stripping her clothes from her lithe body, sitting in a teacher's chair, and calmly masturbating herself to orgasm without any kind of embarrassment.
I'd seen all this last week, the day after she'd challenged me after a morning Student Council meeting; she'd responded by completely dominating my thoughts for the next 24 hours, then followed up by completely dominating my body after her AP Euro class. She'd left me totally intimidated, empty, and sore; she'd humiliated me with her every gesture, and it was immediately obvious to me that our relationship, never particularly ideal, was about to crash-dive.
I'd taken to eating lunch in my room, feeling obscurely as though avoiding the entire school could help me avoid Natalie, but of course she was a senior in charge of many clubs and organizations, so there wasn't an adult in the building who would stop her from going pretty much wherever she wanted. It was the Tuesday after our twisted meeting that she appeared at my door, surprising me in the middle of my turkey sandwich.
In tow was one of her entourage, a girl I'd never taught: short, slight, blue-eyed, nondescript, a girl named Hemmings. I'd had her brother a few years before; the whole family was more in the math/science mold, so she spent her time in all the STEM APs and avoided ours. Margaret or Marianne, I thought, was her first name, or something like that; she'd gained fame last year for missing a perfect SAT score by just two points. I smiled a little vaguely at her.
"Busy?" Natalie asked casually, moving boldly in; she was, as always, well put together, a pair of tight designer jeans showing off her toned legs and tucked into soft leather boots. Her top today was a bright green shirt, scoop-necked, with a small knit cardigan over the top. Perfect makeup, not overdone, with that same scarlet lipstick she'd left smeared across my penis the week before. "Student Council meeting again tomorrow, Mr Herrick, in case you forgot." The Hemmings girl took a few uncertain steps into the room, drinking a Diet Coke.
"Nah, I remember. Thanks though."
"Did you get my email?" she asked. "I might have forgotten to send it." Her manner said she didn't believe her own story; Natalie never forgot to do anything. This was some sort of show she was putting on for her friend. "I wanted to send you a thing about the car wash, too, if you've got your phone handy."
"Of course," I said, putting my sandwich down. I found myself oddly grateful that she didn't seem to want to come too close to my desk today; my mind was troubled when I associated her with it, given our extracurricular activity last week. I tensed myself, testing; good. I was somehow not getting hard. I rolled my office chair over and checked my computer. "Nope. No email from you. Try sending it again; must have gone to spam."
She was already busy at her phone, nodding absently. "Right. And make sure your phone is on." A few clicks, and it was done; my email chimed and my phone vibrated twice, and she stood there with a mocking little smile on her lips.
"Let me know what you think," she said quietly; moving over to Hemmings, she wordlessly took the soda out of her hand and drank a precise sip.
"Sure." I opened up her email and read. It was short.
INTERESTING DISCOVERY, said the subject line; the text was one brutal sentence. 'I'm sure you know your chest hair is starting to go grey, but the hair behind your balls is grey also.' I looked up, rattled, to see her eyes crinkling in one of her real smiles.
"Open the photo album," she said helpfully, nodding toward my phone. "It'll explain everything. In case you accidentally delete it or something, I can always send it again," she reminded me. "The vid's a little different. Let's go, Meredith," she nodded over at Hemmings, who moved out like an icebreaker to make sure Natalie could get easily through the halls; Natalie met my eyes briefly before she spun from the room, her rounded ass moving fluidly in the jeans.
Chewing anxiously, I downloaded the photos and started flipping through them. My heart sank; a dozen shots, all at very close and graphic range, of every possible view of my cock and balls. It was the series she'd shot as she knelt on my pants, her "homework." On the screen my junk looked surreal, looming in extreme closeup; it almost looked unfamiliar that way, like someone else's. But no, there was the little mark on the bottom that had always been there; the birthmark on my head that my wife always kidded me about. My balls swelled huge and angry on the phone screen, and she was right: there was a bit of hair behind my scrotum, and it was a bit grey. I felt my mouth go dry as I remembered: she'd mentioned a video...
Quickly I opened the download, started the vid, and it took me a moment to realize what was up. It was a screen-in-screen shot, the smaller window dominated by a close-range view of my hairy ass. Beside it, foreshortened by the perspective, bobbed the head of my dick, while facing the camera was Natalie Cross, glancing coolly over to make sure her phone was recording. "Got it," she said on the screen, scooting back in front of me as she had on that day; now the screen showed her tits, swaying firmly as she settled in. I saw her look up at me, say "Okay; just relax," and position her hands. The camera did not show her left hand masturbating, but you could see her arm working rhythmically, and I found myself getting hard just knowing what was happening. "You've been very patient..."
But now I turned my attention to the other window, the larger part of the screen, and I frowned for a few seconds before I figured it out: Natalie had sent me a reaction video, showing her friend Chloe watching the action. I was not pleased; Chloe Bishop would have been my last choice of kids to watch me get blown, a cruel and vindictive minx with a bellydancer's body and a bully's mind. She'd been my student twice, and I was counting the days until she graduated. "What the fuck, Nat?" she asked as she leaned toward the glowing light of an offscreen computer monitor. I saw her eyes widen suddenly, in synch with the beginning of Natalie's blowjob in the smaller window, and her hand went to her mouth as her face took on a look of absolute glee. "You're fucking blowing him right there!" She squinted. "Are you getting off, too?"
"Of course," came Natalie's detached voice from somewhere offscreen. "A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do, especially when her man can't. If I'd fucked him, he wouldn't have lasted three strokes." I blushed, watching the video and knowing it was true.
Chloe laughed merrily. "Looks like, what seven inches?" she said with professional interest. "Pretty thick, too." Offscreen, Natalie made some vague affirmative sound. I could see now that Chloe was sitting crosslegged on a bed, a tight pair of boyshorts outlining her own vagina; it looked like she was wearing nothing but a cropped, worn tanktop; no bra restrained her massive breasts. Chloe had no makeup and frizzy hair. Unusually, her glasses were on. It seemed they'd done this at a slumber party.
In the small window, Natalie solemnly swallowed my dick; she had her eyes closed now, a serious expression on her face as she worked. The muted sound reflected my groans and the loud, smacking wetness of her mouth on me. Chloe was completely entranced, biting her knuckles. Things went on that way before, though I hadn't been aware of it at the time, Natalie erupted in my chair; I saw her breasts jiggle again as her body spasmed, the motion of her left arm becoming more and more leisurely until it stopped. "I just came," said her tinny voice from offscreen, doing play-by-play; Chloe nodded absently. In the small window, her shiny fingers came suddenly around to grip my ass.
"Okay, now watch; it's coming up." Chloe leaned forward, her cleavage gaping on the screen, studying intently as Natalie's fingers found my asshole. You could hear my gasp, her clinical reassurance, then the finale as she went back to work. Chloe's face looked now a little like mine must have looked then, straining forward in suspense, her breath held. Her nipples were hard in the tanktop; then, in the smaller window, Natalie ducked sideways, still in control, and the camera showed my cum flying away like a rocket heading for the moon.
