The first time I woke up it was black night, my senses completely out of synch, with absolutely nothing to anchor me in reality. My body felt odd, almost numb, and in my face was a massive wave of hair that, in tickling my nose, had woken me up. The hair smelled like roses.
For the life of me I had no clue what was going on, but a wave of trouble was rising suddenly from my stomach; better to go back to sleep. I pushed the hair drowsily from my face and went comatose.
The second time was to the sound of a slamming door, unfamiliar; I was used to how my place sounded, and that door was the first clue I got that I was spending the night somewhere else. It was still dark at that point, my body still one massive achy bag of nausea, and the only thing that occurred to me was to just roll over and sink back into the cottony world of sleep.
So I did. It was just about dawn then, seemingly; wherever I was, there was a window.
The third time was to the loud, strident voice of a young woman in some other nearby room. From the way the sound rose and fell, it seemed she was walking around while chatting, and I heard no response: a phone call, then. The voice was quick, almost staccato, and pitched very pleasantly. There was something familiar about that voice, and as the sun just barely began struggling through the window, I rested in one of those half-awake stupors where nothing quite seems real. With nothing better to do, I listened to the loud woman's side of the phone call.
"I'm telling you, just get your ass over to Chloe's house. I've got a big surprise for you... What? No, I'm not kidding... Mm-hmm... I'm telling you, bitch, if you don't come over here you'll kill yourself when I tell you what you're missing. Swear to fucking God... Yeah... No, don't bother. But can you bring me a change of clothes? All I've got here is my Fling outfit, and it's all vomity, and there's no chance any of Chloe's shit will fit me... No, no need. Just, like, some yoga pants, and a sweatshirt or something..."
I bored of this sort of thing quickly. She talked like one of my students, and there was no way I was capable of handling that right now. My stomach was still sour, but at least the nausea seemed to be passing; I still felt like I'd been dragged through a mud puddle, though. By a horse which had shit on me. My head was starting to ache already. So I rolled over onto my back and shut my eyes again, willing that voice to get quieter or, better, willing myself back to sleep. Maybe I got there, maybe not; in any case I dozed, with random twisted bedsheets sheets locking my legs together, taking deep breaths as I drifted aimlessly behind my eyelids.
So the last time I woke up, then, was the fourth time, my eyes still shut even though the rest of my senses came very immediately to life. Especially the sense of touch.
Something had landed, with very great delicacy, on my left leg just above my knee. It was a light, dry touch, so gentle that I wasn't really even aware of when it began, but it moved then, slowly, right up the front of my leg. It didn't stop where it ought to have, but just continued on across the left side of my groin; ah. I was naked, obviously. In a matter-of-fact way, the trailing touch passed over my flat stomach, to my ribcage, and up to my left nipple, where it chiseled insistently into my chest hair.
I was aware of a presence right next to me, a standing shape that smelled of body wash and shampoo, with a hint of shaving cream. The touch must be a finger, because four more touches soon joined in, toying with my chest. The fingers were light, eager, and I could hear the person breathing.
A woman, hopefully. It would be very weird if this were a guy, say, my roommate Tim. But no; I remembered that I wasn't in my apartment. I was in someone else's place, in a strange bed... wait. Hadn't last night been the Senior Fling? What the... whose fingers could those be?
So it was with a little bit of healthy fear that I finally snapped my eyes open to the sight of a popcorn ceiling, a fan moving lazily up there; I blinked once, then glanced briefly downward. Yup. Naked as the proverbial jaybird, my cock flopped to the side like an abandoned Slinky, a scummy crust of dried fluids crossing my groin and gumming up my dark brown pubes. And then I slid my gaze slowly left to see who was stroking my chest so softly.
From the light through the window, it had been awhile since I'd heard the telephone call. It was still early, though, for the sun came straight in through the window and silhouetted the outline of the person playing with me.
"Hi!" It was the same voice I'd heard earlier. "How are you feeling? I brought you some coffee and aspirin." Angular, v-shaped face, long dark hair, generous lips...
That's when my hands went flashing straight over my dick, already moving there even before I'd fully processed who this woman was. "Shit! Alicia!" I croaked, my voice sounding like I'd vomited my vocal cords.
She smiled warmly, with a fond glance down my body to where my hands were inadequately covering my junk. "Oh, please," she scoffed, a lively note in her ringing voice. "Don't bother. I've seen it already." Her fingers continued to burrow. "Done more than see it, too. It's sad that you don't remember last night; it was a lot of fun." A wicked laugh at that, a laugh I remembered well from last year.
When I'd met Alicia.
As a student in my junior English class.
Now she was a senior, and even though she was eighteen and almost ready to graduate and not even in any of my classes... well, she certainly shouldn't be fondling my chest hair while grinning down at my sticky penis. 'Come on; relax, Mr D. There's nothing to worry about; I took good care of you. Now drink some water; you need to hydrate." She was pressing a chilled plastic bottle of water toward me, and the temptation was too great; my dick once again flopped free to the world as I sat up and grabbed for the bottle.
Oh, the relief! My torn throat welcomed the cold water gratefully, some of it dribbling over my chin and across her hand. Alicia laughed again. "Now the aspirin," she went on, like most canny adolescents very experienced at dealing with hangovers. "If you don't need it yet, you will soon; it was a lot of tequila we had." She had her hand on my back now, patting it, and took a seat on the bed next to me. My wandering senses gradually focused on a big white fluffy bathrobe, tightly fastened, that long graceful neck of hers rising from the clean terrycloth and covered faintly with hickeys down the right side.
The aspirin went lurching down, the aroma of coffee now starting to dominate over Alicia's shower smells, and I shuddered as I tried desperately to piece together what had brought me here, naked in a strange bed, with a nubile young student fixing me up after what had apparently been a pretty damaging night. My first tentative thought was that there was absolutely no possible explanation of any of this that wouldn't result in my being fired, maybe prosecuted. Whatever had happened, it had to have been awful.
* * *
Last night had, indeed, been the Senior Fling, a winter dance at the Grand Hotel, and I'd been bullied into chaperoning. In fairness, it didn't take much bullying; I was only a second-year teacher, so it's not like I had a lot of latitude to turn down "suggestions" from the principal, Jeff Bourne. "You should chaperone the Fling," he'd said casually one day last week; in my mind's eye, I could almost see him fingering my employment contract. It would be another two years before I had tenure.
I'd started at Bennett-Sanderson High just out of grad school, a boyish and enthusiastic guy with a recognized cynical streak and a sarcastic sense of humor that made me popular with juniors and seniors. I'm sure it didn't hurt that I almost looked like I could be one of them: at just 24, I still looked almost like a high schooler. So I made sure to wear ties and nice pants, and for a couple weeks I even tried to grow a beard. Didn't take, though.
Still, I'd found my feet in Year Two, being more comfortable with the material and getting a better handle on classroom management. I was still a little bit sassy toward the students, but I balanced it with a self-deprecating manner that they seemed to respond well to.
Some more than others: like many young male teachers, I did occasionally have to put up with some of my female students vamping it up for a higher grade. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit that kind of thing was enjoyable sometimes: what guy doesn't like female attention? Especially from smoking-hot senior girls who could even make sweatpants look dead-sexy, especially when they rolled down the waistbands and wore short, ratty t-shirts...
No, definitely enjoyable. But it never, ever occurred to me to cross any kind of line with any of the students. I was single and relatively attractive, and I was having little trouble meeting women in this town, so even though I didn't have a steady girlfriend, I was getting laid often enough to keep myself loose and relaxed.
But still, the Senior Fling had been a sore trial for me. A sort of dress-rehearsal for their Prom in the spring, the Fling was the senior class' first stab at going to a formal dance dressed to the nines, or in many cases the tens. Fashions that year dictated zoot suits for the guys and plunging, sequined gowns for the girls, and I'd stood there in the corner in my shabby interview suit, smiling queasily at the kids and pretending not to see the twerking on the dance floor.
As best I remembered from the jumbled events of the night before, it had been about 7:30 when I'd felt a confident touch on my arm and caught a whiff of roses in my nose. "Excuse me, Mr Davis," the calm voice had intruded, "but I need some help from you outside."
I'd turned to take in the amazing sight of Alicia Romano, standing like a lithe piece of candy in a dress made of some kind of emerald-green lame. A star field-hockey player in the spring, Alicia was tall and tanned and athletic and altogether captivating, radiating that air of freshness and innocent, effortless attractiveness that many senior girls found in their last semester. She'd been smiling then, her teeth white and even between full lips, her hazel eyes looking just a bit troubled. I smiled. "What's the problem, Alicia?"
Her hand hadn't left my arm. She was standing very close to me, almost close enough for her boobs to make contact. And she wasn't very big up top, either. "It's Chloe Bishop, actually, from your American Lit class," she admitted, gnawing cutely on her lower lip. "She's... well, she needs some help."
"No problem." It was stuffy inside the function room, and I followed Alicia willingly just to get some fresh air. But as soon as I fell in behind her I found a new reason to be happy while trailing her: that green dress had no back at all, revealing sleek muscles and the bold points of her shoulder blades, the bottom of the dress crossing just below the dimples at the base of her spine. There couldn't possibly be more than a centimeter of shiny green cloth above her asscrack.
