Teachers Pet 89

Back in high school, I was a pretty good baseball player, not great, but pretty good. Mostly short stop, but sometimes catcher just to help warm up pitchers. I was clean cut, did well academically and was popular enough to date pretty cheerleaders and pompom girls. I was eighteen that September of my senior year and secretly had aspirations of going to art school. At least at my high school, the typical art student was not in the same class, no pun intended, clique or league if you prefer, as my fellow teammates and cheerleaders.

Oh, and I played soccer too, but wasn't very good.

It was one of my secrets because the aspiring art students were sort of grungy, greasy, goth types with arms sleeved in tats and piercings and blue hair or green or pink and their leader... their mentor was the art teacher, Mrs. Janice Rolnick. She represented all those qualities quite well except for the goth part. She was more like a Woodstock hippee. She dressed sort of dumpy and frumpy most of the time in baggy jeans and clogs and baggy sweaters which seemed perfect to show off her shoulder length greasy, scraggly straight hair which hung in thick greasy, brown clumps.

I wondered what her greasy locks felt like... what they smelled like... what they tasted like.

I wondered a lot about her, in fact.

More of my secrets I suppose.

She had her favorites... her little pets... and I was not one of them, though I was at least as good as any of them in terms of artistic abilities. And I was always well behaved in her class. Unlike my jock buddies, my so-called buddies.

I approached her one day after school early in autumn; she was at her desk and completely focused on a somewhat disturbing, but definitely intriguing drawing.

"Mrs. Rolnick?"

She didn't look up from her desk; she definitely was ignoring me. I guess that she had her suspicions... a lot of my friends had given a lot of her pets grief and acted like complete assholes in her class.

"Excuse me... Mrs. Rolnick?" said I again, as polite as I could possibly be.

Success!

She acknowledged me, though cautiously. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Rolnick, I'm sorry to bother you... but but but, I was wondering if you could give me s-s-s-some advice about applying for art school..."

I began to stutter.

I did that when I was nervous.

It seemed as if she were studying me to determine if I was serious or if I was playing some sort of joke on her. And to be honest, I couldn't blame her.

My so-called friends had done things, mean things, in the past, though I never took part in these pranks. Just earlier this past week, two of my baseball buddies sneaked into her classroom when she had lunch duty and had drawn crude penises on all the sketches done by her favorites.

She was so upset. She sat at her desk with her hands covering her face for the entire double period. She didn't say a word. She didn't look up even once.

I didn't have any idea that they were seriously going to pull this stunt. I mean, I knew about it, but it wasn't my fault that they did it. Still, I supposed that I was considered guilty by association with the impetus on me to prove otherwise.

And then there were all the times that my baseball buddies bullied her little pets in the locker room.

I never bullied them.

The thing is, that despite appearances, we were not really friends at all. That is, we did have sports in common and I did dress like they did and hung out with them sometimes after games or practice, but the truth of the matter was I wasn't really one of them.

We never hung out on weekends.

I was more of a loner.

I lived by myself in a boarding house, helped out by the state. Just a one room with a tiny bathroom on the third floor of an old house owned by the state.

"You want to apply to art school?"

"Yes, Mrs. Rolnick, I... I... I can show you some of my drawings that I've been working on." I quickly spread out a few of them on the desk for her to review lest she lose even the slight interest that she was showing me.

I could tell from her tone and facial expression that she at least knew that I was serious. And now that she knew, she was much more at ease and it seemed to me, that she knew she was in the driver's seat now.

There was a slight smile on her face that hadn't been there before.

And though I had worked for hours and hours on these drawings that I thought would make a good portfolio for an art school application, she glanced at them for a total of eight seconds... total.

"Applying for art school will require many, many hours of hard work."

"Yes, I know that..."

"What about sports?" She was fully aware that I was one of them.

"Baseball doesn't start till spring and I'm not playing fall soccer this year."

"What hours are you prepared to put in?"

"Whatever it takes... just let me know what I have to do and I'll do my best..."

Did I have any other sketches for my portfolio?

"Uhmmm... just the things that I've drawn in class..."

There was silence for almost a minute and then she finally she spoke.

"Hands and feet."

"Hands and feet?" I didn't know what she meant.

"Hands and feet," she repeated and then explained with a genuine smile this time, though still slight, on her face. "You will put together a portfolio for your art school admissions package of sketches of hands and feet."

"Oh, okay..."

We agreed that on Tuesdays and Fridays after school, when she stayed late to do her administrative work, I could work on my portfolio and she would tutor me.

Since today was Tuesday, would I like to get started?

I had this sinking feeling that I had to answer yes, otherwise she'd say something like, 'I thought you said that you were serious?'

"Yes, please, sure... I... I really appreciate it, Mrs. Rolnick. I can get started right now if that is okay with you."

She had me place her chair atop of one of the sturdy wooden tables that we students sat at and which accommodated four. She then took her place on her chair and I took my place at the stool in front of her... at her feet.

Her tutelage consisted of modeling her feet for me and I no longer had to wonder what her feet smelled like anymore.

The smell of her feet was putrid - cornchippy - the same level of personal hygiene that she applied to her hair was equally applied to her feet.

It was all that I could do to keep from gagging.

It was difficult to sit there at her feet, studying them, smelling them, sketching them, wondering what sort of particles were stuck to them.

Wondering how long ago she had painted her toenails.

Her red toenail polish was definitely in need of a new coat, much of it flaked off.

She had me feel them... for anatomical purposes of course.

Artists should know about human anatomy.

I was so frightened that someone would see me. But, at the same time, with my secret foot fetish and penchant for humiliation and domination, it was like I had stepped into one of the sissy fantasies into which I write myself.

What made this particularly enticing was that I didn't have to willingly expose my secret sissy tendencies which tended to cheapen the situation as with calling a professional dominatrix for a femdom session, which I never did.

I was too shy and definitely unable to afford one.

I had a part time job at the "Soccer Locker" which was a good place to work at in terms of hours and that I could do homework there, but it didn't pay too much.

And despite my admitted desire to be dominated, I began not to want to go to any more sessions.

It was one thing to pleasure oneself while fantasizing of being dominated in the comfort of your own private room and in fresh air.

It was quite another to be smelling dirty feet and at the same time being frightened out of my wits by the idea of being discovered.

The smell of her feet was horrible and made me feel sick... not just physically, but mentally. After the second session, I began to feel less sure of myself and was now very shy even with friends.

I began to be more of a loner.

Each successive tutorial session that we had was more humiliating than the last and I came to dread them much in the same manner in which people who don't study for an exam would feel if they hadn't adequately prepared, though she put a professional façade on each session.

For an extra assignment, as if smelling her feet for five hours a week wasn't enough, fortunately the late bus left at 5pm each school day, she gave me a few pair of used ballet slippers tied together to sketch outside of school. When I got them back to my small room, I found that there was even a surprise hidden inside... a pair of toe pads well blackened with floor grime.

As it turned out, no one ever discovered my secret training, the art classroom was in an obscure part of the school not even close to the gym or locker rooms that abounded with people even after school. But one Friday evening late in the autumn, the door opened unexpectedly and in walked the janitor.

Though somewhat embarrassed, I still was able to reason that my best course of action was to simply ignore him, not even look up. After all, he was just the janitor and regardless of what he thought, he would keep it to himself, finish up whatever mopping or cleaning he had to do, probably nothing more than taking out the trash, and then just leave.

Eeeeeeeewwwwww! He smelled!

I smelled him from across the room!

Only he didn't just leave and as I would soon discover, this man wasn't just the janitor.

He was big, definitely over six feet and probably weighed over two hundred pounds and at five foot eight inches and one hundred and fifty something pounds soaking wet, I felt especially small and intimidated especially after he gave Mrs. Rolnick a loud, sloppy wet sounding kiss, and then he turned his attention to me.

He positioned himself next to me, effectively trapping me in place, and leaned in to examine my sketch. He leaned in so close beside me so that I felt the heat coming off of him, off of his massive bulk, so close beside me that I smelled his awful heat. He studied in silence for several seconds, my charcoal drawing of his wife's feet for this man was my art teacher's husband.

"That's not too bad," he complemented me on my drawing and also on my baseball cap. He had been looking for one just like it and asked if he could try it on.

"... sure..."

He had to adjust it to the largest size to fit on his head.

"How does it look?"

"... good... it it it looks it looks good..."

"In fact, I'd say that you're a regular Van Gogh when it comes to my wife's feet." He had an idea for me. "Maybe you'd like to sketch my dick? What do you say?"

"HAWHAWHAWWWWWW!!"

My art teacher snickered, "I think that it would add a touch of versatility to your portfolio. Art schools are looking for that sort of thing in aspiring art students."

"I'm always willing to participate in higher learning!! HAW HAW! Let's give it a try!" With that said, and to my shock and horror and before I thought to take any action, he stepped in front of me so that my legs were squeezed in between his and then he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned the button of his very stained, although with what I dared not guess, pants and unzipped his zipper and pulled them and his pale blue bikini underwear down and exposed the largest, ugliest uncut penis that I had ever seen.

It looked like it should have been on Cro-Magnon man.

I mumbled something about having to go, but either my voice was not heard, my throat had seemed to dry up terribly, or was not understood, my ability to think seemed to dry up terribly, but in any event, I was ignored.

What was that smell???!!

I mean, there was the smell of his penis and testicles, but that other smell was pure evil.

It looked like it should have been on Cro-Magnon man.

It was uncut and that reminded me comically of someone wearing a too small turtleneck sweater with the collar upturned.

If I was taking one of those psychological association tests at that moment, I would have said, elephant trunk.

And it smelled and I, all of a sudden, felt lightheaded and was it not for an extraordinary effort on my part, I think I would have fainted.

As it was, I felt far too lightheaded and weak-kneed and frozen with fear like a deer in headlights to move.

"How should I pose? Should I hold my penis in my hand like this? Or like this? Can't decide? HAW HAW! This pose or this pose? This one or this one?"

I tried to look away, but he palmed the top of my head like a basketball and turned my face forwards so that I couldn't look away.

He was jerking himself off a bare six inches from my face under the guise of modeling his penis for me.

"This way or this way? This way or this way?"

He kept asking me faster and faster and faster and then, with a grunt, he erupted in my face. Three large blasts and then a smaller one.

I was too frozen to move even then, even when his cum began to mix with my tears and run down my cheeks.

Were it not for the fact that I wear glasses, my eyes would have been covered with thick cum and I would not have seen that Janice was no longer on the stool, but instead wrapped arms around her husband's thick bull neck in order to nibble at his ear lobe and whisper sweet nothings in his ear and apply loud kisses to his thick neck and cheeks and her legs wrapped around his thick bull waist so that I could once again smell her feet even over her husband's stench.

She was so turned on.

"HAW HAW HAWHAW HAW HAW!! I guess you can call that pop art! HAW HAW HAW HEEEEE HAW!" Then he turned his head towards me, "maybe you'd like me to model my ass for you next? HEEEE HAW HEEEE HAW!"

He turned his head to kiss his really aroused wife and still I sat there and the only rational thought that I could think was that my biology teacher was wrong. It wasn't just a fight or flight instinct, there was a third instinct... my instinct, a fright instinct. I was too frightened to move.

"That is a wonderful idea!! After all, art schools are looking for versatility! Heeheehee!"

"I'm willing to do anything for the sake of higher education! HAWWWWWWWWW!!"

And since Janice's arms and legs were wrapped so tightly around him, he didn't require any the use of his arms, so his hands were free to quickly pull his pants down all the way.

I was a deer watching the headlights of a mack truck approach and was still unable to move.

I watched him spread his ass cheeks full, "how 'bout you take a closer look! HAWWWWWWW!!" and then the announcement for the late buses came over the loudspeaker and my trance was broke.

Before he knew what was happening, before I knew what was happening, I had grabbed my back pack and was halfway towards the door at a full run.