Prison School Ch. 02

The next day in class was different. Now that I'd let myself really let go and fantasize about Ms. Rogers, I couldn't help thinking about what she'd look and sound like actually calling me "daddy." Somehow imagining myself dominating her made her self-satisfied little comments much easier to swallow.

I didn't sleep in class as much after that. I had plenty to think about awake. One day I decided to get my drawing out of my locker and take it to class with me. I was sitting at the back of the class now, so it wasn't like she could really see what I was doing. I'd probably even look like I was paying attention. And if I could actually watch her while I drew her, my drawing would be much more accurate.

What I didn't think about was other guys back there trying to SEE what I was drawing. Pretty quickly Jones to my left lost interest in Ms. Rogers going on about writing haikus and started focusing on my paper.

This time I wasn't dominating her; I was taking her. She was on her back on the desk. Not much of me was drawn yet, but she had her legs up in the air, a billowy skirt pushed up around her hips, her silk shirt and lacy bra ripped open, a button dangling by a thread and her right breast fully exposed and falling gently to the side.

Jones cocked his eyebrow and whistled as I detailed a pert, hardened little nub of a nipple on her sweet tit. I gave him a sidelong glance and mumbled, "Mind your own fucking business."

He cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. When he thought I wasn't paying attention, he kicked the basket on the chair of the guy in front of him, some oily, fat punk in his late teens I didn't really know, didn't even know his name. I'd noticed him trying to be a bully to some smaller guys, but then if they bowed up at him, he got whiny. Definitely a punk. But I could tell he thought he was a force to be reckoned with... until someone reckoned.

Punk looked at Jones, Jones glanced at me, Punk checked out my drawing. Punk smirked and snickered. I thought about trying to hide my work so I wouldn't get attention drawn to me, but then I thought, Hell no... I can do whatever the fuck I want, and it ain't none of their fucking business.

When Punk started snickering, Jones started snickering, and neither of them looked over in time to see the daggers I was staring. When Ms. Rogers started walking to the back of the room, I flipped my drawing over, and I stood up and started walking across the aisle toward them.

I smacked Jones in the back of the head with the inside of my left hand. "Show some respect, moron," I hissed at him and looked toward Ms. Rogers.

He jumped up out of his desk. I had a good half a foot on him, and I was way more bulky. I looked like a dually Dodge if he was a Ford Ranger. He didn't try to hit me or anything. He balled his little hands into fists beside his hips and spat, "I'm not the one back here showing disrespect. You the one..."

I wasn't letting him say any more about what I was doing. Before he could finish that sentence, I clamped my huge hand over his thin little mouth and shoved him back down in his seat. I know he wanted to kill me, but it wasn't really an option unless he was armed, and he wasn't. Ms. Rogers stopped where she was. She stared at me so hard I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd caught on fire right there. She said, "Let. Go. Of. Him. And SIT. Your. Ass. Back. Down. In. That. Desk. RIGHT NOW!"

It had been a long, long time since any woman anywhere talked to me in that tone of voice. I was reminded of my Mama sending me outside for a switch when I was eight. I backed away from Jones, and I sat down. Jones didn't say a word. I left my drawing turned over on my desk.

She walked back to where we were sitting and looked back and forth between all three of us. "I don't know what the HELL is going on back here, but if any of you EVER raise a hand to someone else in this classroom, it will be the last time. I'll have you put in solitary confinement so fast your head spins off your shoulders."

She turned on her heel and marched back to the front of the room. I turned a little in my seat so Jones couldn't see what I was drawing as well and returned to my drawing. I watched her at the front of the room, carefully so she wouldn't notice. She was beautiful angry. He face turned red below her cheekbones, and her nostrils flared. I decided to make her face flushed in my drawing like it was now at the front of the classroom.

As I watched her I noticed she was trembling slightly. I focused all of my attention on observing her then. She wasn't just shaking. She kept glancing up from writing on the board. She'd glance at Jones and me, and then she'd glance at the door like she was making sure she could get there before us if we decided to come after her. I realized then that the whole incident had scared her shitless. She seemed like she was tough as nails, but she was about to shit her pretty little panties.

I was torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to push her and see if I could make her jump. When it was time for lunch, I stayed a minute behind everyone else. She was erasing something on the board. I stood up from my desk and walked so quietly to the front of the room that I didn't make a sound. I stood behind her. It took a minute for her to sense me there, or maybe she didn't sense me at all, but she turned around.

She turned around right into my chest, instinctively jerked her arms up to shield herself and turned her head to the side. She stepped on my boot with her right foot. Then she kind of bounced backwards away from me, and I thought she might fall. I reached out for her and caught her by both arms. She opened her mouth, and I knew she was about to start screaming.

"No... no no no. I'm just making sure you don't fall, ma'am." I pulled my arms away when I was sure she was steady on her feet. "You're okay," I whispered. It seemed like I should reassure her somehow.

It was crazy because I was right beside her desk, standing next to her, and no one was around anywhere. I could have thrown her down on that desk right then and acted out every picture I'd ever drawn of her, but something stopped me from doing anything except walking away.

What had I planned to do? Something like what happened. Only I'd envisioned grabbing her and not letting go, whispering everything I said into her ear in a gruff voice with my stubble rough against her cheek. I'd leaving marks on her arms, red from my fingerprints, that I hoped would still be there when everyone else got back from lunch. I didn't want to hurt her, but I really wanted to see her react to me.

She had reacted, but why couldn't I push harder? I walked out of the room through her escape route and went to lunch, reaching down my pants to make a little adjustment on the way.

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I got brave and sat at the front of the room in my old seat the next day, and I brought my drawing with me. If I kept it tilted toward me, she couldn't see it. Maybe it was stupid, but I wanted to try pushing her buttons some more. It gave me something to do.

We were learning about poetry still, and she wanted us all to write a haiku about something personal, something about our own lives. In my drawing I was holding her ankles and had my cock buried balls-deep in her pussy so all you could see was her ass meeting my hips. I flipped my drawing over.

Hell, I could write a haiku as well as the next guy. I actually kind of liked poetry, but I doubted she'd ever believe it. I'd read Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, some Rudyard Kipling. Classic stuff.

I am watching you

Noting every move you make

To draw you at night

She said we didn't have to sign them; she'd just check off our names when we turned them in. I wondered if she knew my handwriting. I wondered if I should just own up and put my name on it like a man, but I also knew that could get me in trouble. I wanted to scare her, make her breath catch in her throat. I wanted her to wonder who was watching. I wanted her to notice it was me. I wondered what she'd do. It was becoming a game for me – cat and mouse – I was looking for a way to get to her, somehow.

I watched her while I folded the paper to see if she was paying attention. It didn't matter, but I almost wanted her to see me fold the paper so she'd know it was mine. She'd have no way to prove it. But she didn't look at me once. In fact, it almost seemed like, since our little encounter, she was avoiding me altogether, purposely not calling on me, not looking at me.

I dropped my haiku in the basket on her desk with everyone else's on the way to lunch.

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When I got back from lunch, the haikus were all unfolded and stacked neatly on her desk. It looked like she'd read all of them. I came back first on purpose, five minutes early. I wasn't really supposed to without permission, but I didn't care. I sat in my desk, facing her.

She hadn't reacted at all to my entrance. She was writing furiously fast in this little blue book with a green and brown paisley pattern on the cover. I wanted to know what was in that book.

She really didn't realize I was there. I grabbed my notebook off my desk and slid my drawing out quietly. I picked up my pencil. When everyone else finally came in the door minutes later, I'd had enough time to add one more touch to it – her right hand, desperately grasping for me, trying to drive me even deeper into her hot cunt.

The guys who walked into the room first were talking loudly, cussing and slapping each other on the shoulders. She was startled. She almost dropped her little book, but then she slammed it shut, looked around nervously and shoved it into her desk drawer. Then she looked up again and noticed me. Recognition entered her eyes and I knew she knew that I'd been there watching her the entire time.

I don't know what made me do it, but I didn't put my drawing away. I tucked it under my notebook and left just enough of it showing for anyone to wonder what it was. My legs, hips, and torso showed, as well as her right hand, her supple ass and her long legs extending upward.

We were learning about the Constitution, re-writing the Bill of Rights in our own words. Everyone had a number so that two people were re-writing the same amendment, and then we had to group together with the people who matched us and then regroup in groups of ten. There were twenty people in the class, so that was going to work out pretty good if everyone participated.

I got the Second Amendment. Easy. I wrote, Any law-abiding citizen can own any firearm they want without government interference. It was kind of funny because it didn't apply to over half the people in the room, including me. I'd had over 100 grams on me when I got caught.

You could guess who I got paired with. There were at least four people in the room I didn't want to be with – Hodges, Jones, Punk, or Dukes. Pretty much anyone I'd ever sat next too. Most of the guys in these classes were absolute punk-ass losers.

So I got paired with Punk. I found out his name was Jamie Lleva, nice greasy punk name. His rendition: Every man deserves guns. How was I supposed to even respond to that? I shoved my paper toward him. He grunted, read it, and said, "You smart, huh?"

I shrugged, glanced up at the teacher, down at the corner of my drawing, up at the clock. This was going to be a long five minutes "discussing" with this guy. He started biting his right pinky fingernail. I sighed, slumped down in my desk, then for the first time in awhile, I lay my head down and snoozed.

I woke up when I felt my notebook begin tugged out from under my arms. I quickly grabbed for it, but then I realized the tug was on the paper underneath it. I saw her long, hot pink fingernails trying to pry it away, and I slammed my fist down on the corner of the paper, almost catching her fingers.

She'd pulled it out enough to see everything except her breasts and face. I wondered if she realized what it was. She couldn't prove it was me and her. I opened my hand and held it firmly down on the paper, clamping it to the desktop. She released her fingers and backed away saying, "Mr. Watson, you shouldn't be drawing in class, much less sleeping. You've been doing so well lately. I'm surprised at you."

She couldn't meet my eyes; she was looking everywhere on my face except into my eyes. And when she glanced down at the drawing one last time as I pushed it back under my notebook, I got to see a bright red blush creep from the lace-trimmed collar of her shirt up her chest and neck to her high cheekbones.

Did she suspect it was her in that drawing? She'd read my haiku.

I couldn't even let myself get too mad at her for trying to tell me what to do again. Sure she was bitching, but it was worth putting up with her whining just to see that pretty blush creep up her lily white neck.

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Ms. Rogers avoided me the rest of that day and the next day of class. She didn't talk to me, didn't look at me directly. She did occasionally glance at my desk, and I was sure she was checking to see if I was drawing. I thought maybe I'd ruffled her feathers a little too much. There was no better way to find out than to ask.

I walked up to her desk while we were supposed to be working on an assignment. She was grading some essays and had her head bent over them. A thin curl escaped from behind he ear and fell in front of her eyes as she looked up at me. I almost reached to tuck it back behind her ear, but she beat me to it. I didn't feel like myself around her lately. Some other, more refined and conscientious side of me was coming through. I wasn't sure I liked it.

I pressed both hands against the top of her desk, my palms on either side of her stack of papers. I knew this brought the more muscular aspects of my arms to her attention, and I wondered if she'd look long enough to notice. I was rewarded with her gaze as her eyes traveled up my right arm to my bicep, where she seemed to linger slightly before continuing to my shoulder, neck, face, and finally eyes.

She raised her eyebrows. Maybe she was going for cocky or disinterested, but everything about the look she gave me said she was hot for me. I read in Cosmo magazine or one of those shit women's mags once that raised eyebrows means someone is turned on.

I kept my voice low so as not to draw too much attention. "What is your issue with me?"

She actually looked a little confused for a second, but I suspected she was more confused that I noticed than confused about what she was doing. The woman was pointedly and deliberately avoiding me!

"I have no issue with you, Mr. Watson, except that I would prefer you to sit in your own desk and not manhandle mine."

Why did she have to struggle so hard to exude icy bitch all the time with me? I thought she might be afraid, but I didn't know if she was afraid of me or afraid of how she felt about me. I knew I could make her blush. I decided to try to do it again.

"My desk, Ms. Rogers, is awfully far away. I like the view from right here." I purposely stared directly into her eyes, which had turned cold in response to my words. Not what I was going for.

"Mr. Watson, please sit down."

"You see, Ms. Rogers," I purposely drew her name out long, "I can't sit down at this very moment because..." I thought fast. "Because I think I forgot my name on my essay." I was just going for something to get under her skin now, and the longer I could stay up there, the better chance I had. I'd make her pay for playing icy bitch with me again.

I made a grab for the stack of papers, but she grabbed my hand and held it in mid-air. She held my hand like that for awhile because I didn't back away, and she wasn't about to let me push forward and taken the assignments from her desk. This had to be making the bitch blush.

Sure enough, it was, and, to top it off, her hand was starting to shake as she held onto my fist. I relaxed my arm, but I didn't pull away. I lowered my hand to the stack of papers, but she didn't release her grip. I was letting her think she'd won because there was no way she could really have stopped me if I wanted those papers.

"I don't want the papers. I just want you..." I deliberately hesitated after saying you to give the red hue of her fair skin a chance to deepen. "... to help me find mine."

She let go of my hand and flipped through the last few papers. She knew exactly where mine was. "Yours is right here, Mr. Watson. Your name is on it."

She turned her face back to the papers, like she was just going to pretend I wasn't even at the desk. I wouldn't sit back down, so she was pretending I had!

"Ms. Rogers?" I crooned quietly. I hoped no one else was really paying attention to anything I said. They weren't if they knew what was good for them.

"DEAR GOD!" she exclaimed in a harsh whisper with tinges of screeching around the edges. "I don't need this. Go. Sit. Down. Or I will see to it that someone either sits you down or removes you from this room. I am not playing with you."

"More's the pity," I responded with a wink, and then I sat back down.

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That day I stayed behind at lunch. When she went to warm up her lunch in the teacher's lounge, I rose from my seat and closed the distance to her desk. I quickly wrenched open the sticky drawer where I saw her putting that blue book before. It was there! As much as I wanted to read it, I didn't want to get caught. I glanced over a few lines quickly, looked up, glanced back...

... what the hell is wrong with Watson. He's simultaneously hot as hell and mean as a snake, but sometimes he'll say something in class that absolutely blows me away. I wonder how a mind that intelligent and adaptable can exist inside the skull a man who is so hard-headed.

I snorted. She hadn't seen hard-headed with me yet.

...I can feel him staring at me every single day. He doesn't make me feel like I'm in danger, but he looks so dangerous. His language register varies between trashy vernacular and well-read intellectual. I always wonder what's going on in his brain.

Two things I'd read so far, both about me. Guess I did have her attention...

... he wrote that haiku. I know he's always drawing in my class, and I saw what he was drawing today. He covered it up, but I saw a man standing by a desk. The man had to be him – he had his tattoos, and the desk looked like mine. The man had his penis buried deep inside a woman lying on the desk with her legs in the air, but I couldn't be sure who the woman was because I couldn't see her face. Can I turn him in for that? Am I jumping to conclusions? The haiku has to be his; I think he's drawing me.

So she was onto me...

... avoid him at all costs. The closer I get to him, the more I realize how much I need to get away! I find myself not wondering if he's drawing me so I can report him and get him out of my hair but HOPING he is because I want it. I want him to watch me... "noting every move I make."

I heard a noise outside the door and dropped her journal back into the drawer, slammed it shut quickly.

I felt a tightness in my chest, and I sat down in my desk instead of going to lunch. I let my mind wander about her, but I wanted so badly for it not to be fantasy.

She came back after eating. She couldn't really ignore me because I didn't have permission to be there. I was supposed to be at lunch.

"Mr. Watson... is everything alright?"

"Just a.. headache," I mumbled. I wanted her to let me stay.