Pretending To Make Out

I'd love to meet any of my Seaborne girls, but here's a new-ish one. Heidi was a very, very small player in a story I did a little bit ago, but she's based on a very, very real person with exactly the same personality. This story happens, oh, maybe three months before my "Schadenfreude." I'm entering this story in the 2018 April Fool's Contest; please read all the entries and vote on your favorites!

* * *

I swear, I didn't mean to turn him on.

The last thing I needed was yet another guy who wanted to fuck me. I was already dating Chip by that time, having met him at a college party at the end of September, the week after I turned eighteen; he was tall and skinny and very self-confident, and he was already making noises about wanting to slide that narrow dick of his into my ass. And then I was also giving Dave an occasional spare few hours, intrigued by the blunt girth of the big black cock he had swinging between his legs. It was awkward, since he worked for my dad, but whatever; he felt great inside me, especially once I'd gone on the pill and he'd started fucking me bare. Chip was still gloving up, but since he was probably also giving it to college girls, I didn't mind.

That's one of the benefits of having a hair-trigger sex drive like mine: you tend to tolerate it in others, even respect it. I was capable of going from thinking about dinner to having an orgasm in about three to four minutes, with or without a penis nearby. I've always been like that; sex is never, ever far from my frontal lobe.

It's a gift.

So, yeah. I was busy by late March. And I'll say it again: I wasn't trying to give Mr Norlin an erection, really. Truly. I wasn't looking to fuck around at my school at all, especially not with a teacher. He and I had sort of a past, anyway; we'd had a weird vibe ever since last year, since that thing in the back stairwell. That had given me license to flirt with him, but I didn't care; I flirted with everyone anyway. And he'd obviously been receptive, especially once I'd landed in his class this year.

But to give him a hard-on? Hell no! Teacher-sex was the last thing I needed.

Leave that shit for the real sluts, like Lucy Marsh or Jenn Choi, the ones who were rumored to have a thing for teachers. Not that anyone had any proof, mind you; these were just the things people gossiped about in the halls of Seaborne Memorial High School, like the time people said Ms Torrey had hooked up with that Paul Sanchez kid after Prom. I didn't believe it; I'd had Torrey for math as a sophomore, and that chick seemed way too petite to take a guy as big as Paul Sanchez.

My sister Amy gave Paul a blowjob once. She'd told me all about it. Nice and fat.

But I wasn't looking to get into Mr Norlin's pants, is the thing. Flirting was one thing, and I'd been doing that steadily with every man, of every age, since I'd grown tits. It's a hobby of mine, totally harmless. Last year he'd been nobody, just a new Spanish teacher who all the kids said couldn't speak Spanish for shit. Or, you know,

mierda

.

This was true enough, as I'd discovered as soon as I'd found myself in his class this year, for the low-level Spanish III class. He had the accent of a fucking caveman; even mine was better. He knew the grammar well, but he was always looking up the vocab. The kids were merciless, especially Juana in the front row. Bitch was a native speaker; she was taking Spanish III? I think not,

hermana

. Should have been teaching it.

"Senor Norlin," she'd sighed at last during the first week of school, winding her gorgeous Colombian curls around a long finger, "bro, you don't know Spanish, do you?"

Most teachers, especially second-years like Norlin, would have flushed, gotten pissed, and kicked her straight out of class. But no, Norlin was pretty chill. He just looked at her and shrugged. "Chica," he began easily, in that flat monotone he liked to use, "you know I don't." And then he'd gone on to explain to the class that he was really a German teacher, that he'd been hired last year to replace ancient Herr Bachmann, and that the wily old bastard was refusing to retire. "So, yeah.

Yo no hablo. Alles gut?

"

Juana had looked over at her friend Ana, the two of them nodding. "I feel that," she admitted. "Props for honesty, Senor Norlin."

"I'm going to call you Norlito," Ana put in decisively. I think she's from Honduras? Chile? Somewhere around there.

"

Si!"

The two of them had gabbled on for a few moments in Spanish, the rest of us (including our teacher) smiling vaguely at them, and then Juana had looked lazily back up at Mr Norlin with her bold green eyes. "Don't worry, Senor Norlito. Me and Ana, we'll help you out."

"Gracias,

chica

," the teacher had replied with his rare, stubble-cheeked smile. He was sort of interesting, at least, a little bit chunky in the middle maybe, but he had a carefree confidence that I'd found myself responding to from the moment I'd met him, back last year after the stairwell thing. "You can help me out. But, you know, only if you... Juana."

He'd waited for the laughter, and he hadn't been disappointed, and I'd melted calmly into my seat and known I was heading for an easy B-minus, no matter what the hell I did or didn't do in here. I could show up half-baked, with whiskey in my coffee every morning, and a B-minus would be what I'd get, just like every other kid in here. Mr Norlin would play the game. A lot of younger teachers did. He'd subsititute a lack of classroom management skills for a series of inflated grades, and everyone would leave happy. Except the waiters of Madrid one day, when any of us tried to use our shitty Spanish to order lunch. But who cared about that? They speak English there anyway.

His eyes had found mine then, quickly, just one of those roving glances teachers send around the classroom during the first week of school. Nice eyes, very pale blue, and I'd rewarded him with my usual lopsided grin and the same saucy wink I always gave him. He definitely liked my attention.

A lot of men did. Men, not boys. I took after my sister, and both of us took after our mom Kim: short, curvy, spunky, confident, we were all made to flirt. My dad had never gotten that, but it's not like he hadn't had warning: he was my mom's third husband, of five so far. Hell, she'd first fucked him while she was still married to Number Two. He'd stayed long enough to pop out Amy and I, but then the twins had come along and he'd freaked, so Kim had sent him packing.

I'd first seen Mr Norlin the year before, when I'd come out of Mrs Pesci's class next door. He'd been one of the two or three teachers who bothered to stand out in the hallways between classes, which every teacher was supposed to do. I'd been walking out, as always, with my best friend Beth Sheely, the two of us in the normal uniform of black tights and loose t-shirts, and I'd caught his eye at once.

He'd gotten my easy, smirky smile, the one where I bite my lower lip, the one where my eye squints up so that it might be a wink, might not. It's a testing smile, a recon, a lead move in the chess game I was always playing with men. And he'd given the usual response, a vague and tepid nod with a quickly darting glance at my tits.

That was expected. The next step was to watch him and see how long those eyes stayed there, and whether they'd go lower. And whether they'd slide over toward Beth, which would mean I'd stop flirting with him from this moment forward. I love Beth, but the kind of men who notice her aren't the kind I'm into. The hall, congested, slowed us down long enough for me to get a good read on this new guy: nope, his eyes stayed riveted to my chest.

No problem.

After that day I added him to my usual playlist, giving him strong eye contact and an increasing series of ass-wiggles. His smiles grew, and after awhile the two of us began exchanging eye-rolls, headshakes, even winks. Beth and I call it The Flirt, always capitalized: the mode I got into with men, where I set my sexual thermostat on low and let myself have fun with them. Older guys only, of course; The Flirt didn't work on guys my age. They responded to simpler methods, like just walking up to them and grabbing their dicks. Men, though... well, The Flirt was fun.

Fun for me, anyway. Usually for them, too.

From my older friends I found out his name, and that he didn't know mine. No problem; he'd start stalking me eventually, once he learned how to use the attendance software. Once winter came I wore my cheer outfit on Fridays, for the hockey games, and his eyes went lower to catch my bare legs. Again, none of this was important to me; none of it was special. Men did this to me always, and I reciprocated, and this was just what life was like. Nothing unusual.

Not until the thing with the back stairwell. Which wasn't really a thing at all, and that was the funny part.

But now, in March of a carefree senior year, I'd given Mr Norlin a hard-on. I didn't mean to, but let's face it: when you flirt as much as I do, it's sort of an occupational hazard. It all started in the bathroom, while I was taking a moment to freshen up my eyeliner after a good, vigorous piss. A chick at the sink next to me was eyeing me through the mirror, a junior, the kind of little bitch I'd just as soon shit on. I'd finished with my makeup, and then I'd glanced over. "Looking at something?" I tried for a casual tone; I'd had a reputation as a fighter in junior high, but I had no wish to get into trouble now that I was a senior.

She made a face. "Your shirt," she blurted out. "What's up with it?"

I blinked back at her, confused, and then peered at myself in the mirror. The truth was that I didn't have the faintest fucking idea what was up with my shirt, which didn't belong to me. I'd spent last night with Chip, so it was his shirt. I squinted, trying to read the text backwards in the mirror, and I saw what she was talking about. "Oh." Chip, apparently, had gone to school in East Adams, and I was wearing one of their shirts.

East Adams is Seaborne's rival.

"You've got balls, wearing that." The junior was pinch-faced and surly. Vaguely I recognized her at last, one of our lacrosse players. Those chicks were hard. She frowned. "Aren't you, like, a cheerleader? For hockey?"

For boys' lacrosse too, actually,

I thought of telling her. That meant we'd sucked some of the same dicks, she and I. At Seaborne, the cheerleaders were expected to provide below-the-belt motivation on game nights, but it was common knowledge that lacrosse girls sucked lacrosse boys after practice.

High school locker rooms have more in common with brothels than any adult wants to realize. I raised my head, careful not to glare; this bitch looked like she wanted to fight me, and I didn't really blame her. Fucking Chip. I sighed. "Sorry, honey," I soothed, "I just wasn't paying attention this morning. This belongs to some guy I'm fucking, and I was in a hurry to leave." I shrugged. It was the truth; if this little wolverine didn't buy it, well, I guessed I was in for it. She'd kick my ass, I realized, looking at her thick legs. I wished I hadn't cut my nails the other night. "Sorry," I said again.

She scowled, but my explanation seemed to shut her up. "Huh." She reached up under her arms to adjust her bra. "Well, you shouldn't date guys from East Adams," she ended with spiteful impotence. I eyed her as she left, shaking my head, knowing that with an ass like that she wouldn't be dating any guys at all. Probably a lesbian. I rinsed off my hands, then paused when a voice floated out of one of the closed stalls.

"Who's there?"

I ripped a paper towel from the roll. The voice was high and nasal. "It's Heidi Longstadt."

"Longstadt? That's a weird way to pronounce 'bitch.'"

I sighed. "Good morning to you too, Becca." I shook my head at myself in the mirror. Why did I even bother? Becca was a football cheerleader. I'd sucked her boyfriend's penis last week out of a dangerous mix of alcohol, curiosity, and boredom. "Nice chatting with you," I said brightly, letting loose with a silent but very potent fart right outside her stall. I headed out, shaping a leisurely and very roundabout course back to Mr Bacon's trig class. I'd already been gone for like ten minutes; the old bastard barely even expected me to show up anymore.

My return trip took me past Mr Norlin's classroom, and I decided to stop in and say hi. He had his free period while I was in trig, I knew, and he'd be happy to see me. He always was. I tossed my hair forward over half my face as I got close to his room, going for a mysteriously whorish vibe, and as I swung through his doorway I put on my broad, wide smile. The Flirt was on.

He sat at his desk with his feet up and his laptop open beside him. He shut the lid the moment he saw me, which probably meant he was looking at porn or something. I was toothy and confident as I walked in and tossed Mr Bacon's bathroom pass onto Mr Norlin's desk. "Hey, Mr N!" I bubbled. "How's it going?"

He looked me up and down, like always, and put on that pinched and irritated expression he always used with me. It was supposed to drive me away, but I saw through it; he wasn't like that with most of the girls who flirted with him.

He wanted me around, and was afraid to show it.

"Going great, Heidi," he said evenly. Mr Norlin is famous for his sarcasm. "I'm so, so busy, is the thing."

"Liar." I scratched absently at my hip, where my underwear was chafing. It had been a messy night, and I'd had no time to shower. "I just stopped in to shoot the shit."

"Watch your mouth, Heidi." He said it because he had to, not because he really thought I'd clean up my language. I'd been swearing in front of him since last year. "Where are you supposed to be?"

"Oh, y'know." I shrugged. He was in his usual khakis, Doc Martens, and one of those island shirts you're supposed to wear untucked. "Here and there. Oh, do you want to know what just happened to me?" I blinked down at him, my eyes fucking massive. I was standing too close to him, of course.

I wondered if he could smell me.

"Would it matter if I said no?"

"No," I giggled. "I'd tell you anyway." This poor guy, I had him eating out of my hand. Screw a B-minus; an A was in the cards if I kept him interested. "Dude," I went on, "some little junior in the bathroom just tried to fight me."

He cocked his head, doubtful. I noticed his foot was twitching rhythmically next to my thigh. "Why do I doubt that?"

"Seriously! She was pissed about my shirt." I let my mouth fall open, incredulous, inviting him to share my fake outrage. "Can you believe it?"

He was looking straight at my tits all of a sudden, the naughty man. He frowned. "What's wrong with your shirt?"

I shook my head in exaggerated disbelief, and that's when I made my mistake and got the poor guy's penis hard. I arched my back and pulled Chip's shirt tight over my body, stretching it down so he could see the East Adams logo. "What do you see?" I asked, and I swear to God I wasn't trying to start anything. I just wasn't thinking.

He didn't miss a beat, sardonic and neutral, his voice calm as he came right back. "I see your boobs, Heidi," and in the moment the phrase came out, I could see the horror dawn in those blue eyes as he realized what he'd said. I gasped. "No, Heidi, that's not what I meant," he stuttered at once, but it was done: he'd said it. Anything he said now would be like trying to reassemble a vase shattered into a million pieces. "I mean..."

I recovered quickly. He'd obviously spoken without thinking, but I'd been playing this game since puberty. He was doomed now. "Oh, that's okay," I drawled, still holding the shirt tight. He'd be able to make out the lace at the edge of my bra. "You're not wrong, Mr Norlin. They are, indeed, boobs."

He was shaking his head, wondering about harassment complaints, lawsuits, and joblessness. Poor little man. "Heidi," he began, swinging his legs off the desk and onto the floor, clawing for his dignity, "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't," I agreed softly, and now the hem of Chip's shirt was flickering in and out of my fingers as I toyed with it. "But you did. It's okay, Mr N. I'm aware I have breasts. You don't have to pretend you're not aware too." I had no idea where I'd go with this, but at times like that I tend to just babble, trusting that my reptilian brain will come up with something useful. That's how The Flirt works.

"She didn't want to fight me because of my boobs, though," and then I opened my fingers and felt my tits lurch as the shirt snapped up an inch or so. I wondered whether he could see my abs, but I'd flashed those to him before anyway. "It's about what's written on the shirt. Go ahead and look; might as well, now." I bent down slightly, thrusting out at him, and Jesus Christ would he be getting an eyeful! I've probably got the best tits in the senior class. "See?"

His eyes narrowed; he stared at my chest far longer than it would take to read what the shirt said. "Ah." He sat back. "East Adams," and he could have said East Buttfuck for all the attention I was paying, for all of a sudden there it was, clear and distinct: a nice, prominent lump in his khakis. For a second my mouth went dry; I know my eyes lit up as they went straight to his crotch. I figured he'd be able to see them go there, too, but it wasn't like he could object after he'd ogled my chest.

Such a fun game! And I was so good at it!

I licked my lips and allowed the uncomfortable pause to build and spread, staring at his pants the entire time, still bent over with my tits and ass pushed out. God, but there was no way this could have possibly gone better. The silence thickened until it got embarrassing, and then I finally let my big dark eyes trail up across his silly shirt to make contact with his, and it was like I could read his mind.

All he wanted to do was adjust himself.

I straightened slowly, the pretext of The Flirt forgotten, and smirked at him. "Well. Thank God she didn't throw down. You'd have had to come break up the fight." I winked. "In the girls' bathroom, too!"

He hadn't recovered, of course; he was totally humiliated. But he tried, at least. "I'd have just let you get your butt kicked." Aw! Such a nice guy, to get back in the saddle like that, sitting there with a hot girl and a guilty hard-on.

"Whatever," I snorted. I'd done enough. "See you later, Mr N!" I leaned over to pick up Mr Bacon's pass. "This has been fun," I added casually; I didn't even need to look at him to know he'd be staring at my legs, my ass. I straightened and pushed my heavy hair behind my ears. "We'll do it again sometime."

"Sure." It came out as a strangled croak. He cleared his throat at once. "Whatever, Heidi. Should I write you a pass, or are you just going to talk yourself out of trouble when you get back to class?"

I smiled again slowly, craftily. He was sitting there, trying desperately to ignore his erection, and no doubt convincing himself I hadn't noticed it. Fat chance. I'd have infinitely better luck talking myself out of being tardy to class than he would have talking himself out of a hard-on. "I'm good," I replied softly, and I could feel his eyes welded onto my ass as I slunk back into the hallway.

I was used to that, to guys staring at me there. But I really, really hadn't meant to turn him on. I swear.

* * *

Around that time, I started spending my lunches with Mr Norlin. This was a new experience for me. Every high school has them, the sad-sack little Goth bitches that are too sensitive and insecure to face the perils of a modern adolescent cafeteria, but I'd never been one of them. I was more the sort of chick that flits around from table to table, making nasty comments and smacking guys' asses while I collect nickels for the Senior Prom Committee or whatever.