Celia sat in her class that morning bleary-eyed and dreamy, fantasizing about her new stepfather Marcus. In her dream the night before, he had asserted his control over her. She played the scene over and over again in her head – the bottle she had retrieved for him on her hands and knees, the way she willingly fucked her own ass with the bottle for his voyeuristic pleasure, and the merciless ass fucking he gave her afterward – bringing himself to orgasm and then leaving her there after wiping his cock off on her asscheeks. He hadn't made her cum – nor did he seem concerned with pleasing her. He made it clear that she was there for his pleasure and convenience only – "little fuckhole" he called her. Her pussy was wet again, and she squirmed in her chair, wishing she could be alone to touch herself again – to find some relief from this sexual anxiousness her fantasies had aroused in her.
Mr. Crandall's class was usually hard to pay attention in anyway, but today it was impossible. She twirled her hair with one of her fingers as she fantasized about her new "daddy" and what he might do to her next time. Her fantasy was interrupted when Mr. Crandall's lecture took a turn. She wasn't sure how he had reached the subject, but…
"…I know you can't listen to me for the entire length of this class," he said. "No one can listen to someone lecturing for an hour and a half. You listen some, and then you drift, and then maybe you come back. And an interesting fact – researchers have found that 90% of the time, when people are daydreaming… guess what they are thinking about?" His eyes met Celia's when he said this. "Sex." He raised his eyebrows at Celia as he answered the question he had posed.
Celia lowered he eyes immediately – she wondered if she had somehow revealed to him what she was thinking about with her body language. She crossed her arms and legs then and sat back in her chair. The class laughed at this comment and Mr. Crandall smiled and continued his lecture. Celia kept her eyes on him the whole time – she wasn't taking any chances on giving away any more of her fantasy life with her body language.
At the end of the class, as Celia gathered her books, Mr. Crandall walked over to her desk. "Celia, do you have time to meet with me in my office? We need to talk." Celia agreed and followed Mr. Crandall to his office.
After they entered, Mr. Crandall closed the door behind them, and turned the lock. "Have a seat," he motioned to a chair in front of his desk.
Celia sat down in the chair and crossed her legs again. She hadn't been doing very well in Mr. Crandall's class and she knew he was a stern teacher who would gladly drop her from the role if she missed one more class. She was terrible with math and science and this Economics class was killing her. She knew she should be studying more, but her fantasy and social life were taking priority at the moment. She wondered how blistering of a lecture Mr. Crandall was about to give her.
Mr. Crandall walked over to his desk and sat down on top of it, facing Celia. His office was small, so sitting on the desk like that placed Mr. Crandall's knees only about two feet from her chest, and she shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with such closeness.
"Relax Celia," he said. "I just want to help you with your studies."
Mr. Crandall was a man of about 50, with graying black hair, and dark eyes that seemed to paralyze her when he peered at her sternly. He was an authoritative teacher – his square jaw would tighten when he was irked by something and his sharp comments could make the proudest person feel 2 feet tall. His words didn't relax her at all – in fact, his offer of help frightened her because she knew what his idea of help usually was: A tongue-lashing brand of tough love designed to scare a person into self-discipline.
"Yes, sir," she said. "What do you think I could do at this point to improve my grade?"
Mr. Crandall smiled devilishly then and said, "Well, I don't think Economics is your subject, Celia. It seems a little unfair sometimes that the college system forces people to take subjects they are neither interested in or are apt at – especially since they'll probably just forget it when they're through. I'd like to offer you a chance to choose something you are good at that you can study, and we may be able to use that to improve your grade. What are you good at, Celia?"
Celia's mouth fell open then. He always seemed so stern in class and she feared him. Now he was offering her an easy out to an obstacle she thought would haunt her for the rest of the semester. "Well… uh… I am very good at English."
Mr. Crandall laughed. He saw Celia's eyes lower again, unsure of what the laughter was about. "That's great – don't get me wrong. English is a fascinating subject and it takes talent to do well at it, but that's just not what I had in mind for you Celia."
"Well then – what did you have in mind, sir?" she asked.
The smile faded from his face now, and the sternness returned to his eyes. "I like that you call me ‘sir', Celia. Many young girls like you today don't have the respect they should for their teachers."
Celia was taken aback by the sudden change in his demeanor. "Thank… thank you, sir," she managed. She noticed the bulge in his pants now and began to put the pieces together in her mind.
"You sweet young girl…" he said, his eyes moving up and down her shapely frame. "You know what you can do to improve your grade in this class?" He started rub his crotch through his pants now.
"I think so, sir," she said as she pulled his hand away and replaced it with her own. As she rubbed his hardening organ, she could feel her clitoris hardening in her panties as well. "Is this the assignment you had in mind?"
