Sam & Teach Ch. 02

Her eyes flutter open.

"You alright?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah I'm... good. I think that's the word. Good. And fuck The Holy Grail."

Relieved, I laugh. "Sorry."

"It's okay. But teach," she says. "I think I'm all studied out." I undo her ropes, and notice the indentations in her wrists and legs where the rope bit into her.

"Jesus, Sam," I say. "Why didn't you tell me they were too tight?"

"Uh? It's nothing. They were fine up until the end there. And I was a little, um, pre-occupied." She smiles shyly, almost embarrassed, and reaches down between her legs. "You didn't come? Seriously?"

I scratch my head. "You came enough for the both of us."

She gives a pointed glance at my still-hard cock. "Um, right. I'd offer my pussy, but I'm afraid it's going to be out of commission for at least a week. Would you like one of my other holes?"

"It's alright, seriously."

She shrugs. "Mind taking that thing out of my butt anyway?" I do, pulling the anal plug gently, gently, until it pops out of her. I put it aside. She climbs from the bed and stands up slowly, leaning on me. "Help me with my clothes?" she says. Together, we manage to get her underwear back between her legs. No small task, with how much they are shaking. I hold her up while she puts one leg and then the other in her jeans. It takes her a good minute to get them back up her legs and over her ass. She manages the shirt on her own.

"I better head home," she says.

"You sure you're okay?"

She glares at me. "Teach, stop being annoying. I'm not a fucking glass ballerina. That was great. I mean superb. I'm still feeling orgasmic aftershocks. I'm just tired and I have some more studying to do obviously. But, uh, do you mind if I borrow those?" she gestures toward the dildos and anal plug.

"Sure," I say. "Be my guest." I put them in the non-descript bag and help her down the stairs and, glass ballerina or not, make her drink a glass of water before she leaves. I give her a bottle for the road, as well.

I spend the rest of the day in a delightful fugue, an extended day-dream. I vacuum my house and finish grading my papers. When I'm making dinner - a penne pasta in cream sauce - I turn on the radio to some old 90s and sing along to the likes of Ace of Base (All That She Wants) and Nirvana (Teen Spirit). I pay my bills and reply to some e-mails. All in all, the daily routine that on some days is mind-numbingly dull and on other days is relaxing and peaceful. At 10:12 pm, just as I lie down in bed and pull out a book, my phone vibrates. "Sam <3" is on the caller ID; I guess at some point she must have programmed herself in. Had I not spent the day pleasuring and punishing her, it might have annoyed me. As it is, I find it a little flattering.

"Hello, Sam?"

"Hey teach," she says in a husky voice. "It's your 'favorite student.' How are you?"

"Good. How are you?"

"Good." She pauses. "So... weird question: you cum today yet?"

"No," I say.

"Good. Take your cock out."

"Sam," I say. "I'm really tired..."

"I've got that third-of-a-meter monster dildo in my ass right now."

My fatigue melts like a tree struck by lightning. "Right now? How much?"

"Well..." she says and I can hear her heavy breathing over the phone. "I'm moving it in and out. But let's say half of it. It's not easy to fuck my bum and rub my clit at the same time, but I've had a lot of practice lately."

I drop my pants and underwear, and stroke myself to a rapid hardness.

"Did you take your cock out?" she breathes.

"Yeah."

"Are you, um, stroking it?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Tell me something naughty."

I hesitate, but then say. "You remember your underwear, the pink ones with rainbows?"

"Mmm, yeah."

"Those were really hot."

"Mmm, that is naughty. You like to think I'm some young, innocent girl, don't you? Naughty teacher, fucking your young student in all her holes. Making her cum all over your cock today."

Hearing her talk like that, I almost shoot my load right then and there. But I want to do it with her so I stroke myself steadily, focusing on the base, trying not to touch the sensitive tip.

"Now you tell me something naughty," I say, my inhibitions liberated by her sexy little moans, the little ooh's and ah's that coincide with the thrusts of her dildo. "What's the favorite time I fucked you?"

Her answer is immediate. "The second time you assfucked me, in your office. The look on your face. You were mad with desire, for me. No one's ever looked at me like that before. And then your hands were everywhere. It was like you were trying to absorb me, to touch every part of me. You couldn't get enough of me." I can hear the moan in her voice, and I can just imagine the hard strokes of her dildo in and out of her asshole, her fingers flying up and down against her clit. "Mmm, we need to do that again."

"Yes," I say. "Tomorrow, wear that underwear. Put your hair in pigtails. And leave the anal plug in your ass all day. I want to see you in class, looking all innocent, but knowing you've got your ass stuffed."

"Mmm," she says, and I can tell she's close. "And after class? Can I come to your office?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Will you make me cum?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"I'm going to push you against the wall, pull your underwear to your knees, grab hold of your tits, and fill your asshole with—"

It sets her off. "I'm cumming, teach," she moans. "I'm cumming now!"

My own orgasm, primed by our earlier sexathon and set to the symphony of her orgasm, is huge. I cum all over myself.

"Fuck, teach," she says when she finally stops moaning. "Oh fuck. Mmmm. That was good. Did you come too?"

"Yeah," I say. "Bucket loads."

"Are you serious about tomorrow?"

"Well," I say as I remember the test and the study session. "Only if it won't distract you."

"No way. You learned me good today."

"Okay."

"Okay. Well..." she pauses, as if waiting for me to say something more. When I don't, she says, "See you then."

"See you." I hang up.

The next day, I'm eager to see how well Sam scores on the test, whose questions I chose with some bias toward the topics we 'studied' but not as much as I could have. I think she'll do well, and I'm also eager for what will come after.

But when she walks in, her hair isn't in pigtails. She's done it up in a functional but boring ponytail. Instead of the innocent-but-sexy clothing I imagined, she's donned a sweatshirt and sweatpants. I assume that she isn't wearing the underwear and that she's not got the anal plug in her ass. And she looks upset. But with the other students filing in, I can't risk talking to her about it.

"Hello class," I say as I begin to pass out the tests. "Same rules as always. No calculator. Don't cheat. Good luck and god-speed."

I make eye contact with Sam as I hand her test, and I can almost feel an electricity pass through the test, from her hand to mine, for the second we're both touching it. But I can't interpret her enigmatic look. I return to my desk at the front and mentally bite my nails for the next 90 minutes.

She - and all the other students - finish on time and hand in their tests. She gives me hers and exits the class without a word or even a backward glance. Is it that she didn't study, that she's afraid she is going to fail? Or is it something I've done? I wrack my brain to come up with anything, but our conversation seemed to have ended pretty well last night. I go through the rest of the day, anxiety gnawing at me like a rat trying to escape a cardboard maze.

At 2:40 pm, twenty minutes after school let out, I find myself in my office, pacing up and down, both hoping and dreading Sam's knock. When it comes, I practically fling the door open and usher her in. She gives me a flat, but not unhappy or hostile look.

"What's wrong?" I say.

"Nothing." She flops into one of my chairs and curls up, tucking her knees under her. "My parents gave me a lecture this morning. They asked where I was yesterday and when I didn't answer, they did their screaming thing, disgrace to the family, making their lives so miserable, and so on. They offered an ultimatum and a curfew, and put a lock on my modeling shoots. Already spoke to the agency, without my consent, before they even asked me. What kind of bullshit is that? I'm eighteen but my dad's my dad. You don't say no to him."

"Oh," I say. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," she says, rubbing her temples. "Just, y'know, tired."

"Well," I say. "This should cheer you up." I show her the test, an 88 circled in red. "Congrats."

"Yay," she says with as much joy as she can muster.

"And—" I show her a pair of tickets, black with gold writing.

"Okay?"

"They're opera tickets. Carmen. By some French guy."

She is completely dumbfounded. "The fuck am I gonna do with two opera tickets?"

I feel embarrassed, suddenly realizing this could be a bad idea. "Go with me?"

She shrugs. "Sure, teach. Whatever gets your rocks off."

I place the tickets on my desk and sit down next to her, in the opposite chair. "I mean, as a date. I thought you might like it."

"Do I look like a girl who goes to operas?"

"Do I look like a guy who goes to operas?"

She cracks a smile. "Yeah, you kinda do."

"Well I'm not. I just thought..." I don't know what I thought.

"Wait, hold on. Did you just grade my test?"

"Well, not just. Thirty minutes ago."

She uncurls from the chair. "Then how..."

"I bought the tickets a week ago," I say. "I knew you'd do well."

She gives me a suspicious, half-annoyed look. "Eugh, you can be so infuriating sometimes. Okay, I'll go. When is it?"

"Friday night at 7."

"I'll be at your place by 6."

She's as good as her word, and when I open the door at 6 o' clock sharp, my jaw hits the floor. She's dressed in a stunning black Chinese dress, red and gold dragons intertwining in a minimalist pattern. A long slit down one side flashes her legs when she walks, and high heels make her as tall as I. Her blonde hair is done up and held in place by a pair of glossy, dark hair sticks. Her lips are a deep red, the color of blood. Her eye shadow is a metallic jade. I barely recognize her. Gone is the girl I knew, replaced by this fantastical woman.

"What?" I say. "How?"

Her smile tells me she's read my mind. "One of the perks of modeling: sometimes they let me keep the clothes. This one's called a cheongsam. You can thank Big Ohk's chain of crappy Chinese restaurants. Shall we?" She takes my arm and hooks it in hers and steers me out.

When we enter the opera house, a grand bronze structure with a massive glass dome covering the lobby area, I wonder if any of my students' parents will be there. I wonder if they'll recognize Samantha. But then I barely do. She hasn't lost any of her youth, not exactly, it's just been... transformed. Not like a caterpillar into a butterfly, more like a butterfly into a hawk.

But then, metamorphosis or not, I don't think I care if they recognize us.

I lead her into the opera-house itself, and an usher guides us up to our box-seat, a prime location to the right of the stage, three floors up.

"Is this going to be boring?" she says as we take our seat.

"If it is, we can leave," I say.

"I don't know. I'm excited."

I reach out and take her hand as the lights dim. In the dark, I can't read the look she gives me.

In truth, I have seen this particular opera before: the tragic love story of Carmen, the bright and exuberant singing seductress, and Jose, who is enthralled by her lust for life. Rather, it is my own exuberant lady sitting next to me who draws my attention. I try to divine, from the pressure in her hand, from her breathing, from the reflection in her eyes, what she is thinking and feeling. Despite the depth of our physical intimacy, I realize our emotional relationship is a complete unknown. I know very little about how she feels. And I know very little about anything else in her life, other than her sexual desires.

At one point that was enough. Somewhere, somewhen along the way, that had changed.

When Act 3 opens - when Carmen grows bored of Jose and entreats him to return to his first lover, to his family - Sam begins to get noticeably upset.

I lean over and whisper, "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head minutely. Unsatisfied, I lean over and begin to kiss her. She responds, but chastely and unenthusiastically. And then she pulls away.

"What?" I ask to the panicked look in her eyes.

"Snowflake," she says.

In a flash she's gone, fleeing out of the box. After a moment of dumbfounded hesitation, I chase after her.

"Sam!" I shout. She's running, heels in hand, down the dimly lit corridor back toward the lobby. "Sam, stop!" Just as she opens the door out into the rest of the world, an usher practically tackles me to the ground.

"Sir! You must be quiet!"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, and move past him. But when I get into the lobby, Sam's gone.