Lesson Plan

I'm staring at the brass doorknob. An exhilarating flush surges through my body. Never in my life have I felt so powerful, so consumed by my own virility.

Long, wispy clouds, stained a deep red, float just above the glowing western horizon. Even though the evening is still early, all the windows in the house are already dark. Hiding in the shadows of her front porch, I push my excitement to the back of my brain, quieting the internal noise so I can gather my thoughts and plan my next moves. A frisson races up my spine. Although I'm sure it wouldn't matter, my eyes scan the neighboring houses for anyone who might have noticed me. I pull the note out of my pocket again and check the address in the faint glow from the streetlight. A mistake right now could be tragic.

I'm not the sort of guy who would rape a woman, but she wants it. I know she does.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was the note from my son's fourth grade teacher that started it all.

Miss Caldwell was waiting at the front door of the school when I arrived at six thirty, as she had requested. That was terribly late for a teacher to be working, I thought. She was still young and quite attractive. I guessed that she was one of those dedicated teachers who put in the extra time to help her students succeed, often at the expense of her own social life.

This wasn't the first time we'd met, of course. There had been the obligatory orientation before the first day of school, then we'd had a few polite conversations at PTA meetings. She had never called me in for a private conference, however. Was my son in trouble?

After a simple, terse greeting, "Mr. Pierce," and a curt handshake, Miss Caldwell pulled the door shut and turned away without another word. She led me down the familiar hallways of my youth. The sharp click of her low heels reverberated against dimly lit, tiled corridors. Her knee-length skirt swished with each swing of her prim, feminine backside, which kept drawing my decadent eyes despite my efforts to control the ignoble urges.

I followed her into my old fourth-grade room, and fondly recalled Miss Whitaker, another of those special teachers. I hadn't made it easy on her, cutting up in class and concocting fantastic stories about why I didn't have my homework. In those days, corporal punishment was the norm, and her heavy-duty ruler left its signature on my backside at least once a week. Looking back, I think I actually enjoyed the special attention I got from her. She was probably my first real crush.

My son's teacher sat at her desk, and began entering scores into her gradebook. I waited, standing beside her desk. After several minutes had gone by and she was still ignoring me, I ventured tentatively, "Uh, Miss Caldwell?"

She looked up with an annoyed, "Yes, Mr. Pierce?"

"Um, did you want to see me about something?"

With a heavy, irritated sigh, she closed her gradebook. "Michael's performance has been going downhill the last few months —"

"Yes," I interjected. "His mother and I separated —"

"Please don't interrupt me, Mr. Pierce," she snapped with a stern look. "As I was saying, Michael is not meeting the school system's standards, and he is becoming increasingly disruptive."

I chuckled, recalling my own behavior when I was nine.

Eyeing me with a deep suspicion, she said, "I'm concerned that you find your son's failure so humorous, Mr. Pierce."

"I'm not laughing at him, Miss Caldwell —"

"Then I presume you are laughing at me?" she asked, growing even more leery.

"No! No, I apologize, Miss Caldwell. I just remember the way I acted at that age."

"Yes, well, I can see how well that turned out for you."

My jaw tightened at her snarky comment, but I held my tongue. As pleasing as she was to the eye, her personality was as cold and bitter as my wife's. I could understand why my son would have a hard time in her class.

Miss Caldwell opened her grade book. "If you would like to look here," she offered, "you can see the steady decline in his work."

I stood next to her, leaning on the desk, with one hand resting on the back of her chair. She pointed out the grades for the the first few months of the year, then the lower test scores and missing homework beginning around the time his mother left. My attention gradually drifted downward, admiring the pale pink curves of her impressive breasts, and the deep shadow between them. I didn't recall any of my elementary teachers dressing in such revealing clothing. I wondered what sort of bra she wore that looked like it wasn't even there.

Abruptly, she shifted her chair to the side, and my hand accidentally fell off the back of the seat and onto her shoulder. I jerked it away immediately, but she scolded, "Please don't touch me, Mr. Pierce."

"I'm sorry," I said, embarrassed by my lecherous thoughts. "I didn't mean to —"

"That sort of familiarity is inappropriate," she interrupted, still looking down at her grade book. "Everyone else in the building has gone home, and I'd hate to think that you would take advantage of this situation."

And then I saw it: a sideward glance, barely a flicker of her eyes lasting only a fraction of a second. What was that? Fear? Not exactly, I thought. It almost looked...flirtatious. It had happened so fast, I couldn't really say. Maybe it was just my imagination.

"No, ma'am," I insisted, declaring my innocence. "I would never think of causing any trouble for you."

"Yes. I didn't think so," she said under her breath. She told me, "Michael's behavior is becoming more aggressive, especially toward the girls in the class."

"What is he doing?" I asked.

"He shoves them occasionally, and I've caught him hitting them."

"He's hitting girls?" I exclaimed.

She quickly corrected herself. "He's not hurting them. No punching in the face or the stomach, or any place serious."

Curious, I asked, "Where is he hitting them?"

"On their behinds."

"Oh." I said, stifling another laugh. "I'll talk to him, and explain —"

Again she interrupted, though with a softer voice. "Every teacher meets with each student once a month, partially to build verbal skills. We start off with a few specific questions to help us understand the child's home life, such as 'what did you have for dinner last night', and 'who usually helps you with your homework'."

"I check on him frequently, to see if he needs help."

"Yes, that's what he said. It's easy to see that he loves you, and he appreciates your attention, Mr. Pierce."

I felt myself puff up a little at her compliment.

She went on, "Sometimes, if they're inclined, we just let the children talk. At our discussion last week, he wanted to talk about you and your wife."

"W-what did he say?" I asked nervously.

"Like all children caught between their parents, he was worried that the breakup was his fault. He said he had asked his mother why she was leaving."

"Oh, jeez," I groaned.

"She assured him that it wasn't his fault. When he asked if you had hurt her, he said that she laughed and told him, 'No, your father didn't hurt me. That's why I have to leave. Your father is too nice'."

Fucking bitch! I could feel my face growing red hot. She runs off with some other guy and blames me for being 'too fucking nice'?

Miss Caldwell said, "I'm not a psychologist, Mr. Pierce, but I have to wonder if Michael's aggression toward girls might originate as some desire to be a man whose wife wouldn't leave him because he was too nice."

What the fuck? What business was it of hers? The bile was building in my stomach.

She noted, "I gather from some of Michael's comments that his mother is not a particularly warm person."

"She can be a little chilly sometimes," I answered.

Just like you, Miss Caldwell

, I thought to myself.

She opened another binder. "If you will look here, these are some of the other things Michael said at our monthly meetings. He told me that you are home every night with him, and you give him lots of hugs..."

I stood over her again, leaning on her desk and trying to pay attention as she described my son's description of our home life. The floral scent of her hair and her pretty face with those sky-blue eyes and plump, pink lips kept distracting me. My eyes were especially drawn to the sight of those gorgeous boobs jutting out from her chest. I noticed thicker peaks poking at her cardigan than those I'd seen before. Was she really wearing a bra? I began to fantasize that the large buttons of her sweater were popping off, one by one.

She was telling me something - what, I don't know - when she moved her arm to the side, brushing over the back of my hand.

"Mr. Pierce," she snapped. "I asked you before. Please don't touch me." Then I saw that brief, sideways flash of her eyes, just like she did earlier.

What the hell was going on? I didn't touch her - she touched me! And what was she saying with that teasing glance?

So what would she do if I really...?

Still standing over her, I laid my hand gently on her back, just below the curls of her shoulder-length blonde hair.

"Mr. Pierce," she said. "I told you before, that sort of touching is not appropriate." But she kept looking down at her book. She didn't move away or try to shake my hand off.

My fingers began drawing small, delicate circles at the top of her spine. She shivered, and her breaths quickened noticeably.

"Please, Mr. Pierce. You shouldn't do that." Her voice was weak and shaky. There was still no attempt to stop me.

What sort of game was she playing? How far would she let this go? 'Too nice', huh?

Sliding my hand up under her hair, I lightly pressed my fingers into either side of her nape. She bolted upright, thrusting her breasts out. She still stared straight forward, avoiding eye contact. Those little bumps on her pink sweater were now erect, each of them as thick as a piece of chalk.

"What are you doing, Mr. Pierce?" Her voice was worried, or was it - excited? Her hands remained in her lap, bunching the fabric of her skirt. She gave no sign of wanting to resist me.

My fingers tightened on the back of her neck, and her breath drew in sharply.

In a calm voice, I told her, "I'd like your opinion, Miss Caldwell. Do you think I'm 'too nice'?"

"No, sir," she answered, quivering. "I don't think your behavior is very nice at all, Mr. Pierce."

Emboldened by her submissiveness, I felt strangely empowered. Acting on impulse, I cupped one of her lush breasts and squeezed it. She whimpered.

"Tell me 'no', Miss Caldwell," I said. "Let me hear the word 'no' and I'll stop." I expected that she would end this charade quickly.

"Please, Mr. Pierce. You shouldn't do this. It's wrong." She still stared rigidly straight ahead, but her eyes kept flicking upwards toward me, nervous, but titillating.

Her words said one thing. Her body said another. Still gripping her neck, I flipped open the first button of her cardigan. Under the bright fluorescent lights, spidery blue veins lined her ivory mounds.

"Tell me 'no', Miss Caldwell," I repeated in a low growl, rubbing my palm over a stiff peak that poked through her sweater. "Say the word, and all this will end."

"Please stop. I don't want you to —"

"Say the word!" I shouted. When I released the second button, her tits burst out of their cashmere prison, exposing her pink nipples and rosy aureoles. I filled my hand with her soft, abundant flesh, kneading one breast then the other, rolling her stout nipples with my fingers. "Just say, 'no', Miss Caldwell."

"Please," she begged, sounding as if she was nearly in tears. "Please don't hurt me, Mr Pierce." Her hands remained in her lap, except they were now balled into tight fists. She turned her pouting lower lip in between her teeth and closed her eyes. She seemed to be pushing her teats into my hand.

I'd given her every chance. She deliberately refused to stop me. I could assume only one thing.

"You want this, don't you, Miss Caldwell?"

There it was again. That quick glance. "Don't hurt me, Mr. Pierce. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything."

Hurt me? I'll do anything? Was she trying to tell me something?

When I swept the contents of her desktop onto the floor with my forearm, she shrieked. Lifting her by the neck, I bent her over the desk, pushing her face down and holding her there, her tits flattened on the hard wood. She immediately stretched her slender arms across the desk, hooking her fingers over the far edge. Wearing a gloating grin, I lifted the hem of her skirt.

Her ass was sublime. The small, pink bikinis couldn't contain the mass of her pale round globes. Gripping a handful of her perfect buns, I found them to be squeezably soft, but firm, just like a young woman should be.

"Pl-Please, Mr. Pierce. I don't want you to touch me back there," she said. Her voice was lower now, sultry. Belying her words, her sultry hips swayed gently, side to side.

Some wild and untamed part of my psyche made me raise my hand and slap her cheek. She yelped, though I suspect more in surprise than pain. It wasn't a hard hit, but I had never -

ever

- struck a woman before. I hadn't even spanked my own son. Yet I couldn't deny how satisfying it felt to watch my pink handprint blossom on her flawless backside.

"Don't hurt me, Mr. Pierce. I'm begging you. Please!"

I was beginning to understand her inverted language.

"You said my son was hitting the girls on their behinds. Was it like this?" I asked, and gave her bottom another light pop.

Miss Caldwell cried out again. Then she said, "It was harder."

"Like this?" My next slap stung my hand.

"Harder!" she insisted.

I reared back and poured all of my energy into a powerful swing that lifted her feet off the floor.

She screamed, "Yes!"

As if in a trance, I lashed out again and again, peppering her fanny with the flat of my hand. The pastel pink turned into a rosy color that covered nearly all of her exposed skin. I released my grip on her neck and pressed my hand into the center of her back, holding her in place. Grabbing the elastic of her bikinis, I jerked them down to her knees. The confirmation of her desire was puddled in the crotch of those panties.

My hand was stinging - I was sure her ass was in pain. I could see her shoulders shaking, and heard her sniffles.

Before I could ask if she'd had enough, with a shaky voice, she begged, "Please don't hurt me any more, Mr. Pierce. Please!"

"Do you have a hard wooden ruler?" I asked.

"Oh, God! You wouldn't dare hit me with that, would you?" she exclaimed, simultaneously bringing one hand down to point toward the top right drawer.

I opened the drawer and found it lying up against the side, a nice, quarter-inch thick maple stick, almost identical to the one that Miss Whitaker had used on me.

A shrill scream and a violent lurch accompanied the first strike. And the second one. By the third swat, she was uttering words no sweet little schoolteacher should say. I wasn't hitting quite as hard - I didn't need to. The ruler didn't have the same cushion as my palm, and it left the prettiest wide, red stripes across her ass.

Gradually the fight left her. Her frantic thrashing weakened to mere twitches, her body convulsing with sobs. I laid my hand on her bright pink tushie, and felt the blazing heat of her skin.

Her panties had worked their way to her ankles, and she had kicked off a shoe and slipped one foot free of her underwear. When I followed the curve of her bruised bottom downward, her legs spread reflexively. I could see the scarlet, dew-drenched inner lips, and the narrow crevice yearning to be filled.

My finger slid into her, and she bowed upward, muttering a breathy, "Fuck!" It took only a few swipes of my fingertip over her engorged clit before the breath caught in her throat and she clamped her thighs around my hand, arching her back. White knuckles clamped onto the edge of the desk. She remained suspended, then slowly, slowly floated back down with a weak, raspy moan.

My pants were on the floor in seconds. I pressed my raging cock to her sodden cunt.

"Oh, please, Mr. Pierce! Please don't rape me! It's wrong! I can't —" and she shrieked as I grabbed her hips and buried my cock to the hilt in one thrust.

I'd forgotten what good sex was like. She fucked me back, rolling her hips, her hungry pussy milking my cock like my wife hadn't done in years. I pounded her,ramming my hip bones into her tortured backside, and she squealed deliriously. All objections were brushed aside. She exhorted me with shouts of "Yes! Harder! Fuck me, you bastard! God damn you! Faster!"

With such a slutty, verbal onslaught, I couldn't hold out. My balls came to a full boil, and I yelled, "Here it comes, you fucking bitch!" and roared as the tingles shot straight up my spine.

There's no such thing as a bad orgasm, but that was undoubtedly one of the most satisfying that I'd ever known. My cock pulsed over and over, pumping jizz deep in her pussy while she intoned with tender, dulcet sighs, "Yes, yes, yes..."

When I was done, I hooked my arm underneath her belly and turned her over as I lifted, falling back into her chair with the dainty Miss Caldwell curled up in my lap, shivering. Somehow, I sensed her vulnerability. I held her close, stroked her hair, her arms, and ran the back of my fingertips over her plump breasts, rocking gently and kissing her head as if she were a little child. After a minute or so, she tilted her face up, and we shared a long, sweet lover's kiss.

"Are you okay?" I asked, wiping a tear from her cheek.

"Mm-hmm," she nodded with a pleasant smile. Then she shivered and her puffy, red eyes brightened. "I'm leaking," she whispered, with a sheepish grin.

I hugged her to me and rocked for a minute or two.

Abruptly, Miss Caldwell shot off of my lap and stood up, straightening her wrinkled dress and brushing her sweaty hair behind her ear. She started picking up the papers I'd thrown to the floor, her eyes avoiding mine.

"Well, Mr. Pierce," she said, morphing back into her professional persona. "I think we're both quite satisfied with the outcome. I can safely say that you are certainly not 'too nice'. If you will have a short talk with Michael and explain to him that girls don't like to be mistreated, then I think our business is done."

What the fuck? I almost laughed at the absurdity. This delightful young miss stood in front of me, stoutly spanked and fresh-fucked, wearing only one of her heels. Her pink, stained panties still lay on the floor. All the while, she was trying to maintain some semblance of strict self control, and telling me that girls don't like to be hurt. I pictured my semen dripping down her leg.

"May I please have my chair back, sir?" she asked, with a touch of snippy sarcasm.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," I said and got up, confused. The situation was so bizarre, I didn't know what else to do.

"I think these sort of meetings are quite productive, don't you? I presume you can find your way out," she said, taking her seat and turning her attention back to her grade book.

Anger started to boil in my gut. I felt used. Her sharp tongue reminded me of my wife. Before I lost control and did something that I would really regret, I turned and stomped out of the room and down the hall.

Back at home, I sat down with Michael and explained that girls are naturally insane, and their whole purpose in life is to torture men. Then I did something I'd never done before: I told him that if I got any more reports that he had hit a girl, that I would spank him. He gasped, his eyes wide with fear. When I saw tears welling, I pulled him to me and hugged him. I told him the truth, that he was a good boy, and that I loved him more than anything in the world.

After I got him in bed, I retired to my room. Stripping off my clothes as fast as I could, I grabbed my achingly hard cock and jerked it until I spurt all over my belly, while behind my closed eyes I remembered each second I spent with the incredible Miss Caldwell