Though not a direct sequel to "Chats in the Stairwell," this one uses the same character. Feel free to read that one first, though you don't really need to.
Enjoy!
* * *
I've never had a wet dream, probably since I'm not a guy. But maybe women can have them too; I don't know. I'll have to ask Gina. Anyway, I've never had one. But last night, I came close.
I woke up tired, cranky, and nervous, my bedsheets soggy with sweat, my head heavy like I'd had too much wine. It had been an unpleasant evening in a major way: I'd been doing FaceTime sex with Leon, my legs cranked wide and my pussy shoved toward the webcam. He'd been gone nearly two months by this time, so my pubic hair had mostly all grown back, and I'd seen the blank lust in his eyes as he'd stared at my image. Leon was never good at keeping his own webcam on his dick, but that was okay; more often than not, it was his mouth that did more for me than his penis, and as I masturbated feverishly that evening it had been thoughts of his mouth that were moving me closer.
I'd been digging steadily through my own soupy vag, two fingers inside and the other hand pressing down on my mons, my face propped up on some pillows so that he could see me gape sexily. I'll admit, I was hamming it up for the camera; I'd had nothing but my hands for seven weeks now, and that's difficult for a woman like me. But that evening, everything had been clear sailing; he and I had been moving steadily toward our respective orgasms, his webcam starting to blur as his rapidly moving arm jarred the deck beneath his chair, when all of a sudden I heard a tinny voice coming from Leon's screen.
Someone else's tinny voice, high-pitched and vaguely mechanical in that way that Europeans get when they're speaking English.
"
Uff da
! Is that your girlfriend's pussy? Shit! Look at her!" I'd been in total confusion as Leon, his eyes wide and his skinny dick bobbing, sprang up and out of the screen; I lay there, realization slowly dawning, as I heard him cuss out the random Scandinavian crewman who had just walked in on his cam-sex session with his girlfriend and, no doubt, gotten himself a good look at my weeping snatch and my busy fingers.
By the time I'd figured all that out and hidden my goods behind the towel I'd laid under my ass, Leon was back with a haggard look on his face. "Baby, I'm so sorry..."
So I think it was the interrupted masturbation session that gave me such intense dreams last night. But in any case, I was all out of sorts when I dragged myself out of bed for another day at school, uncharacteristically listless and unable to function; dragging myself down to make my coffee was a chore, and much to my shock I was seriously considering not doing a workout today. I sat there with a half-toasted bagel and some overripe cantaloupe, pondering the irony that some unknown oil worker in the North Sea was undoubtedly going to be erect all week because he had seen my vagina on my boyfriend's computer screen last night.
Dude should send me a check. I felt obscurely ashamed, even though I'd never see him and shouldn't have cared.
But I'd certainly need to shake myself out of this. I was known as a high-energy, vivacious teacher; if I went in front of my first-period class looking like I felt, they'd know something was up. And no way was I comfortable being the subject of hallway gossip, however benign.
And I'd need to hurry: first period was Intro to World Religions, a humanities elective for which I and the students all shared a healthy dislike. I'd inherited it when its former teacher had gotten fired over the summer for child porn; they'd thrown me in with a half-baked curriculum and a bunch of seniors and told me to get to work. If I let it, that class would eat me alive. I always needed my A-game in there, especially first thing in the morning.
And somehow I got through it, putting on my best acting performance since I'd killed as the Caterpillar during a third-grade production of
Alice in Wonderland
. The topic of the day was the Sunni-Shi'a split, which was at least history instead of philosophy; I did my best, but suburban American kids aren't usually any more captivated by that topic than the rest of America is, regardless of its importance.
Four kids were absent that morning, another two tardy; could be worse. One of the tardies was Dylan, as was often the case; I frowned as he came in, but he only arched an eyebrow and held out his late slip. Dylan was a solid C student with the brains of a straight-A whiz kid, a highly frustrating boy I'd last seen two years ago during sophomore history. He was a senior now, eighteen and very ready for his diploma; he was one of those kids who, mentally, was already out there doing roofing or landscaping, not even knowing that ten years would pass before the regret of not trying harder crashed into him.
I sighed, mid-lesson, my mind elsewhere. I'd tried with Dylan back in history, staying late with him to coax out his ideas and theories, working on his critical thinking. It had worked for awhile, but ultimately there'd been a minor drug arrest, a parental divorce, and I'd lost him completely. I mean, we all had. He was quiet around me now, knowing he'd disappointed me then; I knew he never would have taken this class if he'd known I'd be teaching it. He'd always been an enigma, a strange mix of self-confidence and shyness.
I eyed him as he went to his seat, captivated as I'd always been by his ass. High school teachers who claim not to notice their more attractive students are liars, all of them: we all look, we all talk about them, and most of us fantasize while we lie in bed at night. A few of us take things a step further and do a little flirting; even fewer go beyond that into furtive touching and kissing, and a handful go all the way. It's never, ever a good idea: even when teachers get away with those kinds of things officially, the rest of the kids always know. Always.
Occasionally, when I'd been a younger teacher eight or nine years ago, I'd indulged in harmless flirting. Once or twice, or perhaps more, I'd even gone in for a hug or two, always camouflaged as congratulations for a test performance or some other achievement; hugs at graduation are one thing, the quick and chaste shoulder clasps of proud teachers and happy students, but these had been full-body grapples of the sort you'd see at the end of a particularly satisfying first date.
And once, just once, there'd been a kiss on young Paul Sanchez' cheek, temptingly close to his mouth; we'd both been shocked and I'd felt him go hard instantaneously, and that had pretty much ended those kinds of things. I'd felt embarrassed, but God! the ass on Paul, too!
I well knew, from lunchroom conversation, that many of my colleagues had done quite a bit more than that (Gina especially), but I'd been a good girl for many years now. Though I did still like to flirt, but only with seniors. And only with seniors I knew could handle it.
But Dylan's ass was special even among a school full of compact, athletic adolescent bodies. It curved gently out, full and muscled, narrow where it ought to be; a perfect, perfect ass for gripping. Most of the rest of him, sadly, was decidedly par: he was a tall boy with a slender torso, unremarkable arms, and a forgettable but not unpleasant face with the floppy black hair so common at that age. As a sophomore he'd been bleached, but the black went better with his dark eyes and his sardonic mouth. His legs, as befit the ass topping them, were a little better: Dylan ran cross-country, and he had those stringy quads and sturdy calves I liked.
He slunk toward his seat and I went on chatting about the Battle of Karbala. I kept looking back at him, not sure quite why; sometimes, for fun, I liked to daydream that he or another of his attractive classmates looked at me and wondered what I'd be like in bed. I'd look back at them with my usual lively boldness, my eyes answering:
Best you'll ever have.
But of course none of that was ever going to happen: they looked at me and saw a youngish-oldish woman, still in outstanding shape, but certainly far from sexy when compared with the copious female eye candy any public high school offers. I was petite and athletic where most of them were tight and luscious, my B-cupped breasts safe underneath a simple, professional scoop-neck top, rather than the massive, cleavage-squashed mountains so proudly displayed by the modern American adolescent young lady.
I did have a nice ass, though, and I was still sure I looked great naked. But that didn't matter at school. Nor, indeed, unless I was with Leon or, now, his crazy Norwegian shipmates.
Gina and Audrey couldn't contain themselves when I told them the story at lunch. "Jesus!" Audrey mumbled around her tuna sandwich. "Do you even know who it was?"
