Late for Class Ch. 01

All characters mentioned in the story are over 18 years of age.

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I jog down the corridor, my heavy backpack banging painfully against my hipbone. It's eight fifteen. Late. Again. Why am I always late? I ask myself as I approach the door to the classroom and hastily swing it open. Still out of breath, I am greeted by the calm face of my English teacher Mr. Madson, and the vaguely spiteful silent mass of students curious of the late newcomer.

"Ah, good morning Sara. I see you still do not think it necessary to be on time to my class. If I didn't know better, I'd start taking it rather personally." He says, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, sir, my alarm was-"

"No, that's fine. Just sit down. I've been teaching high school students for twenty years now. I've heard it all. However, I am giving you detention this afternoon to give you a chance to make up for the time you lost."

"But-"

He turned back to the class and continued with his lecture, completely ignoring me.

"As I was saying, the Elizabethan age was arguably..."

No chance. I sigh inwardly and try to make myself as small as possible while taking my seat.

For the first two weeks of the new school year, I had always been late to this class. Every tuesday, I'd hear my alarm (surprise surprise: it's not the problem), look at my schedule and remember.

English class.

And I would try, I would really try not to, but I just had to think about those eyes, piercing me with their intelligent gaze, those sharp cheekbones, and god, that voice...

And I'd think:

I'm going to be late to class if I masturbate.

And then I'd think:

What if I was leaning against my locker and he suddenly pressed his chest against my chest and I could smell his cologne and feel his warmth through his starched shirt and then, what if he kissed me and I would tilt my head upwards to meet his urgent lips and run my hands through his hair...

And then, well, I would be late.

Right now I am in my seat, feeling the lingering moisture in my underwear. I get out my schoolbooks, one by one. My pen. Notebook. I concentrate on placing each item quietly and neatly on my desk. I try to occupy my entire consciousness with that task. Otherwise, I would be left to wonder.

Detention?This afternoon?

I keep my eyes glued to my desk. Eye contact at this stage would be fatal.

I've never seen him wear a wedding ring.

At the front of the class, Mr. Madson going on and on about Shakespeare.

"...has proved to be one of the most significant literary influences to this very day. So significant, in fact..."

I'd shake your spear, sir.

Wow, I need to stop.

Another problem about my morning routine on tuesdays was getting dressed. I would take ages to pick out the most basic outfit. I'd also half-subconsciously started wearing more and more revealing clothing. One week into the new school year I'd gone shopping. Mini-skirts, tight button down blouses, tank tops, skin-tight everything. Hey, these boobs had to be good for something, right?

One day even my friend Kate had widened her eyes in a "I'm-not-going-to-say-anything-but-you-look-like-a-slut-dear" kind of look when I'd met up with her in font of the school building.

"You trying to impress someone?" She had asked me.

"Just you." I'd said with a wink.

"Well then drop the blouses, they definitely don't live up to my buff-kickboxing-lesbian-fantasy."

She'd laughed.

I'd jokingly half kick-boxed a passing kid in my mini-skirt, which, if this were a cheesy manga, would have given the group of freshmen standing him behind a massive collective nosebleed.

Kate and I high-fived.

I smile at the memory, scribbling circles into my notebook. This is notably something Mr. Madson hates but which I can get away with due to my strategic positioning of my arm and the fact that my seat is in the last row. All that dressing up, and for what? Not a glance had ever betrayed even the most miniscule bit of interest from him. But now there was the detention. The more I think about it, the more the minutes seem to drag. It is, unfortunately, perfect fantasy material. Him, me, an empty classroom, and so many desks. Mmm...

About three millenia later, the bell rings. With the ever-surprising sudden speed and energy similar to a herd of gazelles being startled into a stampede my classmates grab their stuff and and scramble out of the room. Me, I'm in the last row, and daydreaming, of course. Books back into bag. Get up. Mr. Madson is busy packing up as well. Okay, he doesn't see me. I imitate a sports commentator's voice in my head. Sara Friedman, making her way past the last desk between her and the door, Marcus Madson not looking, she takes one more step, and another, she's almost out, and-

"Sara, could you wait a moment?"

fail.

I try to calm myself and turn around.

"Yes?" I ask shakily.

"Your detention will be held here this afternoon. You will be analyzing "A Midsummer night's dream. And please," he looks me in the eye.

"Don't be late."

I nod.

"I won't."

When my classes are finally over I make my way the english classroom with shaking legs and some underwear which is decidedly not dry. I have no illusions about my current capability to analyze shakespearean drama.

In front of the door, I hesitate. Should I knock? For some reason it seems appropriate. I wonder what he's doing in there all alone. I mean, he could be touching himself...

I imagine my teacher unzipping his pants to take out his hard member, and gently closing his hand around it to stroke it. His eyes drifting shut to imagine he's thrusting into me while moving his hand faster and faster, until he comes with a shudder, releasing his glistening semen onto his desk.

I shake my head free of the mental image and knock on the door.

"Come in."

His low voice sends shivers down my spine.

I enter the room and see him sitting behind his desk, his back straight, a mild smile on his lips.

"Ah, Sara. Do sit down."

I close the door behind me softly, hearing it click into place heavily.

I instinctively head for my regular desk at the back of the room, but when Mr. Madson sees me head that way, he stops me.

"No need to sit all the way back there. After all, it's just the two of us."

The words echo in my head. Just the two of us.

And I turn around to sit at the desk directly opposite his own.

I take out my battered school-issued copy of "A midsummer night's dream" and cast a furtive glance at the man sitting in front of me. In the late afternoon sun, his tousled hair has a golden touch. He sits leaning on one elbow over some papers, concentration furrowing his brow slightly. His white shirt is wrinkled around his elbows but apart from that precisely ironed. A row of buttons traces a line down his broad chest. I can see the sunlight emphasize his square jawline, the stern turn of his lips. I keep looking at him until he looks up from his work, completely unfazed by my obvious staring.

"Oh, why haven't you started Sara? I already told you what your exercise is, didn't I?"

I feel the blood rush to my face.

"Uh yeah, yes you did, sir. I'm sorry. I'm just a bit tired after trying to concentrate in my classes all day. I'll get started."

"Good."

I clumsily get out the rest of my things and start paging absent-mindedly through my book.

Oh my god I AM SUCH AN IDIOT.

I want to hit myself in the face with the book.

I scrawl a couple of sentences and stare at the clock over the blackboard.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The longer I sit there, not working, just sitting there alone with him, the more I can feel the heat and the wetness in my underwear.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I can feel myself pulsating with need. I check to see if he is looking. He seems to be completely absorbed in his work. I slip one of my hands under the desk. Another glance. No change. I slowly press my two forefingers down between my thighs to touch myself through my skirt. I am terrified of what will happen if he were to look up right now. I would die. Or worse, be expelled. I think and then suppress a sigh of pleasure as I start slowly moving my fingers over my clit. I bite my lip and spread my legs apart a little so I can reach under my skirt. I realize now. I want him to see. If he would only look up...

I rub my hand back and forth over my mound and use my other hand to lightly rub my nipple through my shirt. The thrill of knowing I could be caught at any second, and, what's more, half wanting to be caught is enormously arousing. I shudder slightly at the feelings I'm causing myself with my hands. I rock my abdomen backwards and forwards slightly, increasing the friction. With my other hand, I pinch my nipple lightly and continue to rub my fingers back and forth over it quickly. I have to bite my lip hard not to let out a moan right then and there.

Just then I realize my eyes have drifted shut. I open then, alarmed, only to be staring directly into the eyes of my teacher.

I freeze, stunned, terrified of his reaction. I can only imagine what I must have looked like to him at that moment. A young girl, flushed with arousal, one hand shoved between her legs and the other fingering her nipple. There was no doubt he could see exactly what was going on under the desk. My soaked underwear, he could probably even smell the scent of my vagina where he was sitting.

"Sara...what are you doing?" he asks with apparent difficulty.

My mind seems to race yet is blank at the same time.

"I...I can't help it...sir." I manage to say hoarsely.

"I want you."