The Morning After

The first time I woke up it was black night, my senses completely out of synch, with absolutely nothing to anchor me in reality. My body felt odd, almost numb, and in my face was a massive wave of hair that, in tickling my nose, had woken me up. The hair smelled like roses.

For the life of me I had no clue what was going on, but a wave of trouble was rising suddenly from my stomach; better to go back to sleep. I pushed the hair drowsily from my face and went comatose.

The second time was to the sound of a slamming door, unfamiliar; I was used to how my place sounded, and that door was the first clue I got that I was spending the night somewhere else. It was still dark at that point, my body still one massive achy bag of nausea, and the only thing that occurred to me was to just roll over and sink back into the cottony world of sleep.

So I did. It was just about dawn then, seemingly; wherever I was, there was a window.

The third time was to the loud, strident voice of a young woman in some other nearby room. From the way the sound rose and fell, it seemed she was walking around while chatting, and I heard no response: a phone call, then. The voice was quick, almost staccato, and pitched very pleasantly. There was something familiar about that voice, and as the sun just barely began struggling through the window, I rested in one of those half-awake stupors where nothing quite seems real. With nothing better to do, I listened to the loud woman's side of the phone call.

"I'm telling you, just get your ass over to Chloe's house. I've got a big surprise for you... What? No, I'm not kidding... Mm-hmm... I'm telling you, bitch, if you don't come over here you'll kill yourself when I tell you what you're missing. Swear to fucking God... Yeah... No, don't bother. But can you bring me a change of clothes? All I've got here is my Fling outfit, and it's all vomity, and there's no chance any of Chloe's shit will fit me... No, no need. Just, like, some yoga pants, and a sweatshirt or something..."

I bored of this sort of thing quickly. She talked like one of my students, and there was no way I was capable of handling that right now. My stomach was still sour, but at least the nausea seemed to be passing; I still felt like I'd been dragged through a mud puddle, though. By a horse which had shit on me. My head was starting to ache already. So I rolled over onto my back and shut my eyes again, willing that voice to get quieter or, better, willing myself back to sleep. Maybe I got there, maybe not; in any case I dozed, with random twisted bedsheets sheets locking my legs together, taking deep breaths as I drifted aimlessly behind my eyelids.

So the last time I woke up, then, was the fourth time, my eyes still shut even though the rest of my senses came very immediately to life. Especially the sense of touch.

Something had landed, with very great delicacy, on my left leg just above my knee. It was a light, dry touch, so gentle that I wasn't really even aware of when it began, but it moved then, slowly, right up the front of my leg. It didn't stop where it ought to have, but just continued on across the left side of my groin; ah. I was naked, obviously. In a matter-of-fact way, the trailing touch passed over my flat stomach, to my ribcage, and up to my left nipple, where it chiseled insistently into my chest hair.

I was aware of a presence right next to me, a standing shape that smelled of body wash and shampoo, with a hint of shaving cream. The touch must be a finger, because four more touches soon joined in, toying with my chest. The fingers were light, eager, and I could hear the person breathing.

A woman, hopefully. It would be very weird if this were a guy, say, my roommate Tim. But no; I remembered that I wasn't in my apartment. I was in someone else's place, in a strange bed... wait. Hadn't last night been the Senior Fling? What the... whose fingers could those be?

So it was with a little bit of healthy fear that I finally snapped my eyes open to the sight of a popcorn ceiling, a fan moving lazily up there; I blinked once, then glanced briefly downward. Yup. Naked as the proverbial jaybird, my cock flopped to the side like an abandoned Slinky, a scummy crust of dried fluids crossing my groin and gumming up my dark brown pubes. And then I slid my gaze slowly left to see who was stroking my chest so softly.

From the light through the window, it had been awhile since I'd heard the telephone call. It was still early, though, for the sun came straight in through the window and silhouetted the outline of the person playing with me.

"Hi!" It was the same voice I'd heard earlier. "How are you feeling? I brought you some coffee and aspirin." Angular, v-shaped face, long dark hair, generous lips...

That's when my hands went flashing straight over my dick, already moving there even before I'd fully processed who this woman was. "Shit! Alicia!" I croaked, my voice sounding like I'd vomited my vocal cords.

She smiled warmly, with a fond glance down my body to where my hands were inadequately covering my junk. "Oh, please," she scoffed, a lively note in her ringing voice. "Don't bother. I've seen it already." Her fingers continued to burrow. "Done more than see it, too. It's sad that you don't remember last night; it was a lot of fun." A wicked laugh at that, a laugh I remembered well from last year.

When I'd met Alicia.

As a student in my junior English class.

Now she was a senior, and even though she was eighteen and almost ready to graduate and not even in any of my classes... well, she certainly shouldn't be fondling my chest hair while grinning down at my sticky penis. 'Come on; relax, Mr D. There's nothing to worry about; I took good care of you. Now drink some water; you need to hydrate." She was pressing a chilled plastic bottle of water toward me, and the temptation was too great; my dick once again flopped free to the world as I sat up and grabbed for the bottle.

Oh, the relief! My torn throat welcomed the cold water gratefully, some of it dribbling over my chin and across her hand. Alicia laughed again. "Now the aspirin," she went on, like most canny adolescents very experienced at dealing with hangovers. "If you don't need it yet, you will soon; it was a lot of tequila we had." She had her hand on my back now, patting it, and took a seat on the bed next to me. My wandering senses gradually focused on a big white fluffy bathrobe, tightly fastened, that long graceful neck of hers rising from the clean terrycloth and covered faintly with hickeys down the right side.

The aspirin went lurching down, the aroma of coffee now starting to dominate over Alicia's shower smells, and I shuddered as I tried desperately to piece together what had brought me here, naked in a strange bed, with a nubile young student fixing me up after what had apparently been a pretty damaging night. My first tentative thought was that there was absolutely no possible explanation of any of this that wouldn't result in my being fired, maybe prosecuted. Whatever had happened, it had to have been awful.

* * *

Last night had, indeed, been the Senior Fling, a winter dance at the Grand Hotel, and I'd been bullied into chaperoning. In fairness, it didn't take much bullying; I was only a second-year teacher, so it's not like I had a lot of latitude to turn down "suggestions" from the principal, Jeff Bourne. "You should chaperone the Fling," he'd said casually one day last week; in my mind's eye, I could almost see him fingering my employment contract. It would be another two years before I had tenure.

I'd started at Bennett-Sanderson High just out of grad school, a boyish and enthusiastic guy with a recognized cynical streak and a sarcastic sense of humor that made me popular with juniors and seniors. I'm sure it didn't hurt that I almost looked like I could be one of them: at just 24, I still looked almost like a high schooler. So I made sure to wear ties and nice pants, and for a couple weeks I even tried to grow a beard. Didn't take, though.

Still, I'd found my feet in Year Two, being more comfortable with the material and getting a better handle on classroom management. I was still a little bit sassy toward the students, but I balanced it with a self-deprecating manner that they seemed to respond well to.

Some more than others: like many young male teachers, I did occasionally have to put up with some of my female students vamping it up for a higher grade. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit that kind of thing was enjoyable sometimes: what guy doesn't like female attention? Especially from smoking-hot senior girls who could even make sweatpants look dead-sexy, especially when they rolled down the waistbands and wore short, ratty t-shirts...

No, definitely enjoyable. But it never, ever occurred to me to cross any kind of line with any of the students. I was single and relatively attractive, and I was having little trouble meeting women in this town, so even though I didn't have a steady girlfriend, I was getting laid often enough to keep myself loose and relaxed.

But still, the Senior Fling had been a sore trial for me. A sort of dress-rehearsal for their Prom in the spring, the Fling was the senior class' first stab at going to a formal dance dressed to the nines, or in many cases the tens. Fashions that year dictated zoot suits for the guys and plunging, sequined gowns for the girls, and I'd stood there in the corner in my shabby interview suit, smiling queasily at the kids and pretending not to see the twerking on the dance floor.

As best I remembered from the jumbled events of the night before, it had been about 7:30 when I'd felt a confident touch on my arm and caught a whiff of roses in my nose. "Excuse me, Mr Davis," the calm voice had intruded, "but I need some help from you outside."

I'd turned to take in the amazing sight of Alicia Romano, standing like a lithe piece of candy in a dress made of some kind of emerald-green lame. A star field-hockey player in the spring, Alicia was tall and tanned and athletic and altogether captivating, radiating that air of freshness and innocent, effortless attractiveness that many senior girls found in their last semester. She'd been smiling then, her teeth white and even between full lips, her hazel eyes looking just a bit troubled. I smiled. "What's the problem, Alicia?"

Her hand hadn't left my arm. She was standing very close to me, almost close enough for her boobs to make contact. And she wasn't very big up top, either. "It's Chloe Bishop, actually, from your American Lit class," she admitted, gnawing cutely on her lower lip. "She's... well, she needs some help."

"No problem." It was stuffy inside the function room, and I followed Alicia willingly just to get some fresh air. But as soon as I fell in behind her I found a new reason to be happy while trailing her: that green dress had no back at all, revealing sleek muscles and the bold points of her shoulder blades, the bottom of the dress crossing just below the dimples at the base of her spine. There couldn't possibly be more than a centimeter of shiny green cloth above her asscrack.

We passed through the hotel lobby, then she turned with a smile over her shoulder to lead me out a side door. There was a lawn out there with some trees and bushes, the kind of place where employees would go to smoke. As she reached the glass door, Alicia stopped and half-turned, her arm resting on the bar. "Um, before we go out," she began carefully, "can I ask you to keep an open mind? I mean, you know Chloe's repeating her senior year, right? That she's new to the school and that she gets in trouble sometimes?" Those hazel eyes pinned me.

"Uh..." This was starting to sound odd. "Open mind?" I repeated weakly. Alicia nodded gravely.

"It's just that she can't really afford to get into any trouble with the administration. So, like, even though you're a teacher, I don't think it would help her for you to tell Dr Bourne about this."

"Is she in trouble?" There was nothing but blackness outside the door, the glass reflecting Alicia's firm body, her nicely rounded ass.

"Sort of." She smiled at me, arching an eyebrow. "Promise not to make any hasty decisions about school discipline, Mr D?"

I wondered what she was getting me into here. "Just open the door, Alicia," I sighed, hoping I sounded firm and teacher-ish. "You came to me for help, remember?"

"Yes, I did," she replied with an enigmatic tone in her voice. "And I could have picked a different chaperone. So don't let me down, Mr D."

Whatever. "Ready when you are, Alicia." I swallowed, then waited while she pushed to door open and motioned me outside.

* * *

And now, sitting on a strange bed, stark naked with that same girl sitting squashed up next to me with her hand making sensual trails down my back, a cup of excellent coffee she'd made me now grasped in my hand, I shook my head as my spotty memory stopped supplying details; my headache was growing. I tried not to look at her. "Tequila, you said?" I knew better than to drink that shit; it had killed me one night in college. Alicia giggled.

"Sorry, but yeah," she shrugged. "You said you didn't want any, but it was the only thing they had that was already open. Besides," she added, her hand drooping lower toward my ass, "you said you didn't mind, after I told you it was my favorite drink." She was very deliberately stroking my ass now. "Come to think of it, there was a lot of stuff I said last night that you told me you didn't mind."

Jesus Christ. I should reach back, fling her hand aside, and stomp out; this was already an impossible situation. I didn't make a habit of sitting nude in beds with students, and despite the situation I was already in I didn't want to start now. "Right. Look, Alicia..."

A slamming door from elsewhere in the house shut me up. I whipped my head around to look at Alicia's pretty face, her eyes drifting sideways as she tried to figure out what was going on. "Sounds like the front door," she mused, then "I'm back here in the guest room!" she shouted, my aching brain nearly jumping out of my skull with the change in volume.

"Fuck you," a cheerful female voice replied, getting slowly louder as it navigated through the house. "Calling me at seven am the night after the Fling. This better be fucking good, bitch!"

"You have no idea." Alicia's eyes showed excitement now, a daring smile playing at her lips as she saw me scowl. "What?" she feigned surprise. "This is what you told me you wanted last night," she giggled.

"Better be good..." the new voice repeated, now from much, much closer, and as soon as I turned to face the doorway, another girl appeared there. Tall and beautiful, more solid than Alicia, this was another young lady I recognized from that junior English class last year. As usual, even in ratty weekend clothing she looked sexy, her curves more exaggerated than Alicia's; she had dark red hair, now piled into a messy heap from the dance last night, and light blue eyes, with that luminous pale skin you so often see on gingers. And now those eyes were going wide, flickering up and down my body, back and forth between me and Alicia. Then they crinkled at the corners into the biggest grin I'd ever seen from her. "Well! Helllooo, Mr Davis!" she purred. Her eyes were fastened straight to my dick.

I hung my head, realizing already that covering myself would solve absolutely nothing. My clothes seemed to have disappeared into the ether. When I spoke, my voice sounded weak even to me. Listless. "Hi, Kaylen."

"You weren't lying, Alicia," she whistled, striking an unconscious pose. She was always doing that, standing like there was always a camera pointed at her; her smooth leg, shooting out from a pair of cut-off sweats, moved forward as her hip cocked up. One hand went to that hip, the other unceremoniously dropped a pile of clothes onto the floor in the doorway. "Here's a change of clothes."

"Thank you." Alicia's hand was still lightly cupping my ass, her entire posture now automatically possessive in the presence of the other girl. The whole situation had long since taken on an air of complete unreality to me, and I was already resigned to whatever was going to happen. My head split, my muscles ached, my belly twisted queasily, and of course my dick twitched. No way at all to stop that: at the end of the day, I was a healthy young man being stared at by two beautiful young women. An erection was absolutely guaranteed; it was just a question of time. I turned to Alicia, at least trying to get a little dignity.

"Where are my clothes?" I demanded. She looked back at me.

"You don't remember? We had to take them off; they had puke all over them." She narrowed her eyes. "Don't you remember anything at all?"

* * *

She was right about the vomiting, at least; Chloe Bishop had been sprawled on the ground, a puddle of red and gold sequins, sniffling in a pool of it, the half-digested chunks of the banquet-style dinner still recognizable. "Jesus Christ," I said in disgust, glaring over at Alicia as she followed me outside. "What did you guys do, pregame?" She looked back at me with feigned shock.

"No way! You mean, high schoolers drink?" She rolled her eyes as she came past me. "Calm down, Mr D. You were in high school, what, a few years ago? You know how it is. Remember," she said, pausing to lay a severe finger on my chest, "you said you'd keep an open mind about discipline. Right?" Then she was gone, crouching beside her friend, taking great care to keep her hem out of the puddled vomit. "Besides, no. She pregamed, I didn't. Come down here and help me."

She had to be kidding. The girl in the grass needed help, but not from me. She needed an ambulance, probably. "What do you want me to do? What's your plan here, Alicia?"

She craned her long neck around to look impatiently up at me. "I need you to pick her up, Mr Davis."

"And bring her inside? Fine." I eyed Chloe, judging: she probably weighed around 115, 120 pounds. I should be able to handle that; the challenge would be staying out of all the puke. "Not sure what you're planning to do from there, though. You should have gotten a couple of football players and Dr Bourne."

"Did you not listen to me?" The mischievous smile she used made that come out a lot less impertinently than it should have; Alicia had always been a firecracker. "If Dr Bourne sees her like this, she'll get suspended. Maybe expelled, even. Poor thing; do you know what she went through at her old school? Why she came to Bennett-Sanderson?" Alicia's pretty face took on a tragic cast. "A bully at her old school put her in the hospital. The hospital! She did, like, two months in traction or whatever."

"Two months?" I was curious, despite the situation. "What happened to her?"

"Broken leg, and other things. Like, dark and nasty things." Alicia shuddered for effect, a tendril of her dark hair drifting artfully in front of her ear. "Whatever. Just pick her up. I want to get her home so she can sleep it off."

I sighed. No way was this a good idea, but the sooner I was rid of Alicia, Chloe, and their problems, the better. I moved up from behind the comatose girl; she was curled around the vomit, and I hoped I could scoop her up with minimal further leakage. Alicia moved aside, out of my way, and even in her current condition I thought absently about what a fine specimen the stricken Chloe was: compact, tightly muscled, an altogether sexy girl even if she was far too short. I bent down.

"Wait. Give me your jacket," Alicia said suddenly. "Then you can roll up your sleeves and keep your clothes clean." I glanced over at her.

"Good idea," I replied grudgingly, handing my charcoal suit jacket to the girl. After a moment's thought, I undid my tie also, Alicia grinning as she took it.