Teacher

Note:

All characters are over 18.

Heads up! This story will eventually read like a horror movie that Hollywood releases every Valentine's Day. I don't plan on getting graphic, but it'll still have elements of non-consent and a body count.

Feedback and advice on how to describe a beautiful person without putting the reader to sleep would be a great help

.John watched Andrew speed-walk through the European History classroom, weave past a few students still milling about before the bell, and drop himself into the next seat over. Something happened. Something funny, he thought, seeing his friend struggle to contain a grin.

He was about to ask, when Andrew whirled to face him, his friend's hands snapping out to grab John by the cheeks and squishing them together. Finally mastering his expression, Andrew donned a look of feigned alarm. "John," he said, with the sober tone of an oncologist delivering bad news to a patient, "I need you to brace yourself."

"Is that what you're doing with your hands?" John slurred out, his lips bulging out like a fish out of water, "helping me brace myself?"

Andrew's hand disengaged and slapped John's left cheek lightly. "This isn't a game, John! I'm trying to save you from having an accident! In a moment..."Another slap, for good measure.

"In a moment, this woman - our substitute teacher - will walk through that door. She's a shocking amount of hot, John! She's..." he trailed off, searching for the right word.

"A very handsome lady?" John asked, and got another slap, for his trouble.

"Obscenely so!" Andrew tilted John's face toward the light as if to scrutinize it. "Look at you. Look at your dumb face. You think this is all a joke. How little you know what's about to happen. I'm preemptively embarrassed for you, already. I hope you can keep it in your pants, buddy," he replied and pinched John's cheeks painfully before finally releasing him.

The bell rang a few moments later, but students continued to pour into the class, knowing that there would be little repercussion, if any, for being late. Mr. Brown, the actual teacher for the class, has been missing for almost two weeks. Since then, the class has been watched over by a rotating carousel of substitutes who saw no reason to tighten discipline for a group of kids they would likely never have to substitute for again.

John felt his heart quicken with excitement and anticipation as he heard, what he assumed to be, the substitute's heels clacking on the hallway floor.

"Also, I forgot to tell you," Andrew hissed, "I love her and I'm going to ask her to marry me after I graduate, and we're going to make lots of babies, and live happily ever-after. So, keep your filthy degenerate eyes, hands, and thoughts away from her!"

"What a strange and eventful trip down the hall it must've been for you," John wondered aloud.

Finally, by the door, John spotted a glimpse of red hair he wasn't familiar with, as the last two student stragglers hurried inside, revealing her.

His eyebrows shot up at the sight. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw several guys take on the pained expressions not unlike the ones men assume as they cringe in sympathy at the sight of another man getting kicked in the balls, as if this woman's beauty was painful to behold.

From his seat, John saw her in profile, as she made her way up to the podium at the front. Her hair was an auburn waterfall of reflected light cascading down from root to tip like some sort of hair product commercial. His eyes traveled down past a sort of mini-jacket, to the knee-length pencil skirt, the calves of her long, long legs, and finally to her heels.

Dimly, some part of him questioned whether those shoes were dress-code-appropriate. He doubted they were, but that, he realized, had somehow made her wearing them even more appealing.

She turned to face the class for a moment, and John got a brief look at her face. Freckles, he thought. They stood out stronger on her cheeks and faded out around her eyes. The pattern blended with the rest of the flawless features of her face, accenting it, drawing attention to it. John thought of magnets, and moths drawn to a flame, and whether or not she would like it if he composed and terrible poetry on the subject and read it to her and perhaps she has a balcony upon which she could perch and hear him do so. It would have to be a full moon. For that, he'd need a lunar calendar!

Forcing himself away from the tangent, he focused, once again, on the teacher's face. Her eyes were cast down to the cellphone she had in her palm and, when she was done with it, she looked up, before turning her back to the class and busying herself with the white-board. In the space of that moment, John thought he saw her vivid green eyes catch the light and shimmer in the same manner her hair did earlier.

As she turned, whatever spell the woman had over him faded. John realized that he was half-way out of his seat, and quickly forced himself back down. Andrew, he knew, was being purposely dramatic earlier, but he also had to admit that his friend wasn't exaggerating nearly as much as it appeared.

His mind spun, raced, and halted in patternless loops. He felt giddy.

She was so damn beautiful! He couldn't think of a single person he had been equally attracted to. How much of it, he thought, was the fact that she is so completely unavailable, so far out of his league, so utterly out of bounds as a teacher. Impossibly unattainable and therefore infinitely desirable.

What is she doing here? The more he thought about it, the harder he found it to reconcile the fact that a woman who looks like that was here to babysit an orphaned history class.

There has to be some sort of upper-limit, he reasoned, to how hot a teacher had any right to be. And this teacher - this woman - wasn't supposed to be here. There is some sort of law being broken, a crime in progress. In a moment, some assistant principal would realize what they've done and call the police to restore law and order. They would burst in here, and take this lady away to whatever jail or BDSM sex dungeon is closest, locking her up for good.

The substitute walked back over to the podium, revealing the words "Grace Amherst" written on the white-board. She took off her mini-jacket, revealing a tight business-like white button-top tucked into a pencil skirt. Her skirt flared out around her hips, making all kinds of promises about the lovely figure it covered. There was nothing about her professional attire that could in any way be construed as promiscuous, and yet...John watched on as she leaned in to place the marker she wrote with, back into her bag and he felt himself sitting up and mirroring the motion in hopes of getting a better look at her cleavage. As he did so, he noticed others doing the same thing. He blushed, as he caught the slack-jawed and eyebrow-raised faces of his classmates, realizing that he probably looked just like them.

He heard Andrew chuckle beside him. "What'd I tell you?! Keep your eyes off my fiancé, bro!" he whispered.

John's eyes roamed, now on her freckles, now on the green of her eyes, unto the fullness and curve of her lips, down her neck and delicate lines of her collarbone, and ultimately the swell of her breasts.

This is a letter to Penthouse, he thought. This is just like the shit I found in a box in grandpa's attic. There was a pause as Ms. Amherst scanned the faces looking back at her, during which John half-expected her to whip her hair out and suck on a pencil, as cheesy porn music began playing from the intercom speakers.

There was no pencil, but, when she thought she was ready, her mouth parted slightly and her tongue darted out wetting her lips.

There was a long pause in which a cat's grin slowly expanded on her face.

Dead silence.

Then, "Good morning, class!"

John thought he heard a bit of mockery in her tone, like she had eyes in the back of her head and saw everybody staring at her when they thought she wasn't looking. Her melodic voice was a bit deeper than expected, but beautiful just like everything else about her. He honed in on it and his mind raced on, marveling at how sexy he found it to be, which made him wonder if phone sex was still something people did, except she was way too hot to be a phone sex operator, which made him think about how phone sex was yet another job she couldn't do, which made him think about how hard it was to find the poor Ms. Amherst a job which befits her beauty. And-..."Lady. you are beautiful!" Andrew blurted.

John snapped back to reality. He shot Andrew an outraged look, laughing inwardly at the lack of filter between his friend's thoughts and mouth and secretly thanking his lucky stars that his was still on and functional. The class erupted in nervous laughter and scattered affirmations.

"What happened there, buddy?" he whispered out of the side of his mouth. "What happened to keep-it-in-your-pants-speech Andy from half a minute ago?"

"Mind your own pants! That speech was for your benefit. A man can talk to his woman as he likes!"Ms. Amherst's grin did not falter. Her gaze briefly paused on Andrew, before continuing to roam through the faces of the rest of the class. She swung her arm in a gentle arc, pointing vaguely towards the white-board behind her. "My name is Grace Amherst and I will be filling in for Mr. Brown for the foreseeable future."

The fact that the school was looking for a more permanent fill-in for Mr. Brown was no surprise to anyone, the fact that Ms. Amherst was that fill-in, was.

When Brown didn't show up and didn't call on that first day, John wagered nobody thought anything of it and the district sent a substitute to handle his class, the first of many. When Brown didn't show up the next day, John recalled, some faculty folks started talking, but everybody still expected him to check in. But no such thing ever happened. When the cops showed up a week later and interviewed the principal and teachers, rumors and conjectures about the history teacher's disappearance spread through the entire student body, then the parents, and ultimately the entire town. It was a big deal and, up until approximately the time the bell rang earlier, he thought it was a big deal too.

John felt himself harden at the prospect of Ms. Amherst staying on. She was talking now, telling the class about her childhood in Rhode Island, but he barely heard her. His imagination drowned out the introductory speech with a procession of fantasies of what he would do to her, if he had the chance.

He pictured himself talking to her one day after class. Her - radiant, in a low-cut top. Him - suave, with 20% extra muscle mass. He would make her laugh again and again, until she was in stitches, until she placed her hand on his chest and begged him to stop. Her hand would linger, as she felt him. She would become flustered and break off, but he would come back the next day.

Then, he would invite her to lunch, and at first, she would decline, but he wouldn't ever let off the gas. Finally, sufficiently charmed, she would agree to it and they would sit in class together, eating sandwiches and generally building up the sexual tension, until, one day, he would ask her to go eat off-campus. Her eyes would widen for a moment, as she considered the proposition, then she would nod in agreement.

The next day, she would climb into his car. She would look guilt-stricken, her mood subdued. She would wonder what she was doing here, in her student's car. She would be caught up like this, in her own thoughts, until John started the car and she heard cheesy porn music coming out of the door speakers. She would ask him about it and that's when he would lean in for a kiss. A kiss she would break off almost immediately, stammering her denial.

"Oh, no," she would protest, "John, we can't..."But he would lean in, again. Once more, their lips would lock. Her breast would heave with great gasping inhalations, as she responded to his advances. Their tongue would explore and spar with each other. She would suddenly find herself in the back seat and he would slip his hand around to unzip her skirt, as she let go of the last throes of her reluctance and began to grind on him.

He would kiss her neck and she would whimper and pant softly and look anxious and worried, eyes glittering, every time he withdrew to take in the sight of her beautiful face. Her hands would quest down, feeling his abs, trailing along them until her hand slipped inside his pants, gripping his cock, other hand.

He would lift her then, and place her on top of him, as he sat back in the seat. He would tear off her shirt and slip his hands underneath her bra and caress her breasts. His fingers would play with her nipples as she ground into him with increasing urgency, hands alternating between clasping his cock and undoing her bra.

He would slip her thong off to the side, sending his hand caressing downward, his mouth kissing and licking every part of her that it had access to. His fingers would strain out until they reach her soaked slit. She would moan as he kissed and suckled on her breasts and worked his middle finger in and out of her. His thumb would slip back up to her rear entrance and massage it, pressing down, but not penetrating. He would work her like that, until her skin flushed all over, and her anticipation turned to agony. He would work her until she could stand it no longer. Then, he would let her guide his cock in and take over.

She would sigh as she slipped him in and began to grind and ride him in earnest, her body and his already soaked in each other's sweat. She would prop herself up by placing her hands against his chest, and she would work her ass up and down, skin slapping against skin, while the rest of her body remained more-or-less motionless.

He would place his hands on her hips and begin thrusting up. Just a little, at first, but the depth and pace would increase. The windows would fog over and the car would sway in sympathy with their movement. She would moan and whimper even louder, until her thighs shook. He would keep speeding up the pace for a minute and then stop to let her breathe, cock almost completely out. Then he would thrust suddenly and she would respond with gasping ah. He would take it out and thrust deep as she gasped like that, breasts jerking up to follow the body. His pace would quicken.

Little pleas would rush out.

"Please," she would whimper, as his cock would slip on its way out of her. A moan would follow as he thrust it back in. The pace would soon turn frantic.

"Please. Oh. Please. Please, please," she would repeat until she would weaken and collapse unto him, lips brushing lightly against his, her entire body shaking as the orgasm took her.

He would keep on going and she would alternate between sitting up and arching her back in a semi-circle and melting into him as her muscles gave out. Her breasts would sway and bounce with her movement, little droplets of sweat accumulating on the bottom of each globe. Her hair would cling to her face and whip around as she alternated between sitting up and laying on top of him. He would watch her eyes blaze as she looked at him, watch them as they rolled back as she came. Over and over. Her orgasms would go on and on, until they were both at their limit. Only then, would he let himself come. He would come inside of her, and she would kiss him.

They would lay like that for only a few moments.

The windows would clear, revealing the entire faculty and student body standing around the car, faces - some shocked, some angered, some entertained, all aroused - peering into the car. It would be a scandal. There would be a trial which would make the national news, accompanied by a dozen first-hand accounts of the incident printed in euphemism-ridden newspaper articles. He would be a legend.

John was completely oblivious to the class going on around him. His eyes fixed on Ms. Amherst, picturing her now yet another scenario. Her - tidying up and getting ready to leave after grading papers for hours after the last bell. He would stroll in after track and field practice. She would be so absorbed in her work, that she wouldn't even hear his approach, until it was too late.

He would force her to the desk, and slam her into it, face down, pinning her with his weight.

He would force her to the desk, and slam her into it, pinning her with his weight. He would take his time, as she lay there on her back - crying soundlessly - as he ripped the buttons off her shirt, unwrapping her slowly, exposing her bra. His hands would roam along the lines of her figure. Up and down they would go, occasionally slipping a strap off, which she would promptly set back in place. When that last piece of modesty was taken from her, she would bring her shaking hands to cover herself and he would slap it away.

"Please! Please don't!" she would beg, as she struggled to break free.

He would confront her, then, demanding to know if she was attracted to him. She would resist, but admit to it eventually, adding that this relationship could never be. He would twist her arm with one hand and rip off her skirt and panties. Leaning in and placing his head right next to her, telling her how naughty she was, for toying with the boys like she did.

She would beg him, as he freed his erection from his pants, slicking his cock with his saliva. Turning her unto her stomach, he would line up with her slit and pause at her entrance, as her begging and struggles intensified. Then, he would slip the head of his cock upwards. Slowly. He would rub it over her slit and nestle it against her rear entrance.

When the dots connected, she would buck and scream harder.

He would watch as his cock made slow progress against and past her entrance. She would gasp and her pleas would turn to strained grunts and yelps, veins standing out in relief against the straining muscles of her neck. Still, he would push on. Until she was breathless and her back arched inwards and outwards as she struggled to relieve the pressure.

He would pull out all the way then, to give her a breather and flip her unto her back. He would walk around the desk, kiss her tear-streaked face, gently gathering her hair away and pulling it to get her head off the desk's ledge, telling her how they would need more lube, if they were to try that again.

Too late, she would realize what was about to happen. She would let another pained plea, cut off as his cock slipped into her mouth and bottoming out half-way down her throat.

He would thrust in and out of her mouth then, one hand holding her head down by her hair, the other peeling her shirt off and feeling her perfect breasts. His cock would never leave her mouth, as he fucked it at steady, fast pace. She would choke and gurgle, torn between gasping for breath and expelling the spit which would build up around his shaft, leaking out of her mouth and running down her face. On and on, he would make love to her throat, until he released, kneeling down to take in her face as she spluttered and spat the cum out and off of it.

Once he had hardened again, he would flip her back unto her stomach. She would struggle weakly, exhausted from the ordeal thus far, and he would watch himself enter her from the back one more time. He would quicken pace and tear into her. The pain would give her struggle second-wind. She would fight him, but he wouldn't relent.

He would bring his cock all the way out, slipping past her entrance, obsessed with watching the ring of flesh around her entrance expand to allow for his head's passage. Then he would carry on with the quick pace for a few seconds. She would moan and shake, and he would, once again, slip himself out of her. He would watch her stretched entrance contract back down to original size and slip himself back in, as she stammered out half-spoken pleas.