WMD Ch. 02

"Taliyah, you are the second hottest girl in school. I'm back here because I like seeing you naked as well as in various forms of undress. You are smoking," I chuckled. "It is nothing more complicated than that."

"Oh," said Taliyah. She was both embarrassed about missing the obvious as well as loving a helping handful of padding for her ego.

"Oh," pouted Brandy. "Second?"

"Yeah. I've got this thing for Amy Hutchinson," I nodded seriously. Amy was a nice, sweet-mannered girl. She was also a sophomore, a late bloomer and flat as a board.

"Oh!" Brandy unleashed her faux-fury, ran up and slapped both my triceps. I was mesmerized by mammaries straining to break free of her frilly beige bra. Her beige panties were doing a good job of being transparent as well. She spun around like a ballerina and attempted a getaway. I was having none of that.

I tackled her to the bed, press her chest down on the rumpled bed. She struggled sensually. I began nuzzling the back and left side of her neck. Then I began tickling her. She was helpless before my adroit fingers.

"Please," she begged. "Please stop. I'm about to pee on myself."

"Fine," I withheld my torture, "but you owe me a two minute make-out session at your front door when I drop you off."

"No," she declared. Butt thump. "Never." Hip shimmy. "Not happening," she giggled while rapidly rubbing her panties over my unprotected cock.

"Let her up, Vlad," Taliyah cooed softly as she ran a manicured hand from my right shoulder to my right buttock. She gave my butt a light pat to 'enforce' her command.

"God damn it," I grumbled as I rolled off Brandy.

I stared up forlornly at the ceiling fan. Brandy 'harrumphed', shot Taliyah a poisonous glance then went to all-fours next to me.

"One minute is all you're going to get, Mister," she compromised. I leapt off the bed.

"Hurrah!" I fist pumped. The rest of the redressing went off quickly enough. I stripped the bed, rounded up the sheets and hung the comforter on the back veranda to let it air-out. It smelled like pussy juice and sweat, after all. I would put fresh sheets on the bed later. On the trail, I took point since I was the most familiar with the path. Brandy followed then Taliyah with Mikhail taking up the rear.

Once we broke out into the bottom land, Taliyah moved up side by side with Brandy and began a sneaky conversation behind my back. According to my brother, they studied me a great deal while whispering. Occasionally, Taliyah shot vile looks back at him. He responded by sticking out his tongue and licking the tip of his nose.

We Samsonov men have long, strong, agile tongues. I wasn't sure what genetic malformation was behind that. Upon our return to the stables, Brandy and Taliyah made to leave, but Mikhail stopped them.

"First rule of horse-riding: tend to your mount before tending to yourself."

"Vlad," Brandy looked my way. She nibbled on her thumb. "Is that a rule you follow ... tending to your 'mount' first?"

"Only if I plan to ride her later," I winked to her. "Then I know I'd better pet her, comb her flanks, feed and water her and make sure she is well refreshed before the next ride."

"Give it a rest!" Mikhail scoffed. "She's already fucking you silly. You don't have to sell it."

"Neanderthal," Taliyah sneered at him as she shoved past him and back to her mount. Brandy sashayed back into the stables as well. If I wasn't careful, I was going to be picking straw out of my underwear.

"Brandy - what the idiot said - you don't need to convince him," she teased her blonde friend. Taliyah and Mikhail waged a relentless skirmish resplendent with verbal barbs and rough, handless shoving. Before Brandy and I could get similarly distracted, her phone rang. A fearful flash of her eyes gave away the ID of the caller.

"Hey Darius," she sounded upbeat. "What's up, Baby?" Darius wasn't screaming, so I couldn't make out what he said. I went back to putting away our tack and bridles. "I'm ..." I mouthed 'tell the truth'. "I'm at the Fonteneau House (Mom's family's last name) with Taliyah. Mr. Baxter wanted me to help Alexander and Vladimir with our first Civics project." Not a total lie.

"What? Isn't what you think ... of course, Baby ... hold on ..." she handed the phone to Taliyah.

"Get us out of here," Taliyah preempted Darius - almost. "We've been ... listen Darius ... no," she grew sulky, then, "Don't be a Jerk!" she spat. Brandy gasped. Mikhail looked impressed and I was torn between the two reactions.

"I'm not your property ... and I'm not your bitch either," Taliyah grew more belligerent. "I don't give a fuck ... if Rashaan gives a fuck, he can ... fuck you," she blasted Darius before she killed the connection.

"Taliyah ..." Brandy mumbled fearfully. The magnitude of her rebellion began dawning on the Black Cheerleading co-captain.

"Shit Taliyah, if you wanted to sit at our lunch table so bad, I could have told you a half dozen safer ways to do it," Mikhail chuckled. She backhanded my brother in the chest which only made him laugh harder. Six blows later, he raised his hands in surrender. "Fine ... you can sit on Alexander's lap next time."

"Bastard," Taliyah muttered. Her phone rang. It was Rashaan. "Hey Sugah, how's ... yeah ... with Vlad and his shithead brother Michael." Mikhail took the opening to grab a breast and squeeze it. "Mother-fucker!" she yowled. Mikhail was already running around the horse to escape her.

"What ... no ... he grabbed my tit ... what do you mean?" she dove under the mare and kicked my rambunctious kinsman. "Mikhail! No, the other one!" she screamed because Mikhail was starting to wheeze he was laughing so hard. "No, that's Vlad ... yes, the one with Brandy. Damn Rashaan, you are as dumb as a stump. The Mean ONE!" she meant Mikhail.

"Triplets means three," she sounded exasperated. "No, that's twins." Swing and a miss. "I'll call you back. I'm making Vlad and Alex twins ... NO! They are not ... BOY!! I'll call you back." Mikhail was howling so loud he fell over on his side, gasping for air. She leapt on him, legs straddling his hips and began wailing on his head and shoulders.

"Shut up you ..." Taliyah berated him.

"Excuse me," Mom's voice snuff out hilarity with all the force of a glacier dropping on a candle wick. Even Taliyah's fury was quelled.

"Ah ..." Taliyah stammered, taking in their awkward situation.

"I heard it all ..." Mom glared. "Mikhail had it coming. Continue if you so desire." Four sets of eyes blinked in surprise.

"Mom!" Mikhail protested. Taliyah tested these uncharted waters by smacking Mikhail's left arm - the one he was using to shield his head. Mom didn't protest, oh no.

"Bebe, let's get the horses taken care of," she called over her shoulder. Bebe had been hiding just out of sight. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, Vlad. Take your guests home and hurry back." Bebe and Mom took our places while Brandy and I retreated hand in hand. Taliyah stood up without moving away. Mikhail extended a hand up, expecting her to help him out. Why? I wasn't sure.

"You fell down. Get yourself back up," she mocked him. Mikhail chuckled, rolled onto his stomach then launched himself into a standing position. She was out the door and striding away when Mom spoke.

"Taliyah, if you want to fuck Mikhail, you'll have to stop being a whore to the football team - non-negotiable."

"I don't want to fuck your son, Mrs. Samsonov," Taliyah retorted as she spun around. "I hate him." Mom's responding laughter was cavalier and of a remarkable caliber.

"We all hate the best men for us at some point and time," she chortled. "You'll learn. All of us Samsonov women figure that out eventually." Taliyah was rendered speechless.

"Now Bebe, get me that curry comb," Mom truncated the conversation. We'd been dismissed and even the strangers knew it.

Back in the house, "I hate you," Taliyah reiterated.

"Thank God," Mikhail guffawed. "I don't think I could survive you being affectionate." She swung and missed. The chase was on again, except this time they were both laughing.

{Meanwhile, back at school}

Alexander opened the door and walked into Ms. Blanchard's room. Five disinterested black faces and a nervous Ms. Blanchard looked his way.

"Whatchya doing here, Boy?" the leader of the male class sneered.

"Ms. Blanchard," Alex handed her a note on official school stationary, "I've been assigned to your Augmented Benchmark Examinations Retest Group."

The Augmented Benchmark Examinations (ABE) Retest Group was for second-year seniors with special circumstances [read: athletes] who had failed to pass the exam last year thus didn't graduate. If the school failed to pass a certain percentage of student-athletes, the Arkansas Department of Education would suspend all school athletic programs until the school's graduation rate exceeded 85% (of incoming freshmen).

For years the big fast bastard of an ex-principal had falsified records, but in 2008, Davis County took over the administration of the tests. After that, Davis County Consolidated High School had been barely limping along academically. Oh, our school had the best 10 year football record in Arkansas and two All-State Championships, but we'd been under academic warning for five of those years and for the past three years we'd been avoiding suspension by the skin of their teeth.

How had that Black Fucktard handled the issue? He handed out incentives. In this case, the incentive was Ms. Blanchard. Andrea Blanchard had been fired from her first teaching job out of college in just two months and she took the job here out of desperation. When she arrived, she was given the worst of the worst students both grade- and discipline-wise.

Then the principal put the screws to her. She'd been dodging the BBC's for her first year. At the end of the spring semester, her English and Social Studies classes were scoring at the bottom of the rankings. She was given an (unpaid) special assignment. She had to help the team's star player (the QB that year) pass his ABE's, or she would be fired 'for cause'.

That would have ended her hopes of a teaching career. The jerk she was teaching had scored in the bottom ten percentile because he didn't give a shit because he thought he had a scholarship to some school in California. Now he needed summer school to graduate. Did he knuckle down and hit the books? Nah. He was smart enough to pass without much effort.

What he did do was dial up the pressure on Ms. Blanchard. Bit by bit, she sold her soul to the super-star until she was a confirmed alcoholic and surrendered up her pussy (and a bit more) when he finally did pass the final exam. He went off to college out west and she got handed off to the next group of hideous under-achievers. Her abuse went on and on.

Her retention was continuously based on her ability to motivate raising and repeat seniors to get off their asses and fill out the circles on a 'my IQ is at least 85' test. From the founder of this noxious fraternity, the BBC's developed an interesting ritual to confirm their dominant status.

Anal and vaginal sex was forbidden on school grounds, during school hours. The 'students' settled for taking pictures of her sucking their cocks, their cum pooled up in her mouth and her masturbating. Every graduate was allowed to witness her having a gold star tattooed on her buttocks as a constant reminder of her degradation plus all her holes were fair game. How civilized was that?

Had she not been half in the bottle most of the time, she might have been able to salvage some sort of academic career. Instead, she was coasting down toward a bitter end with her liver and sanity racing to see which one gave out first. Then Alexander Samsonov stepped into her life. He'd overheard two jocks joking about it when he first took Ms. Blanchard's English class the first day of classes.

Since then he'd been slowly getting her to open up a tiny bit. She didn't know the full scope of what he knew about her fate, but my brother's sense of chivalry couldn't let this humiliation continue. His problem was how could he separate her from her tormentors? Neither the Principal nor the Vice-Principal would assign him the class. Not only were his grades far too high, those two knew the deal about Ms. Blanchard's servitude and disability.

Exit the Fat Bastard Cocksucker and enter the Nutty-nutjob, Dr. Pierre. One impassioned speech about how Alex wanted to enter one of the doc's alma maters and eldest Samsonov triplet had his new, after-hours class assignment. Classes met from 4:30 to 6:00 pm every Monday and Wednesday with a prep test from 4:15 to 5:15 pm on Fridays.

The schedule was built to work around sports training and game days ~ even away games. Alexander didn't meet the (low) requirements to be in the class, but then Dr. Pierre wasn't qualified to be an educator, so it all even out in the end.

"Oh," Ms. Blanchard subconsciously pouted. "I wasn't aware you needed the help. You are ..." she looked over the sea of hostile Black faces, "welcome to ... join us," she petered out feebly.

"I will do my best to see all of us get through the ABE together," he smiled at her, then met the hateful glares of his fellow academic refugees. "I want everyone to know the idiocy is going to stop ... right here, right now."

"What was that?" Ms. Blanchard shook away some of her post/after-school vodka haze as she tried to remember what was going on.

"Nothing, Ms. Blanchard," he smiled at the educator. "I'll just take a seat."

Ms. Blanchard returned to her lesson plan for the day and after a few minutes, the boys got boisterous. Alexander had a pre-planned response for that. He took out a blue racket ball from his backpack and a leather-bound addition of 'War and Peace' in its native Russian.

The moment Ms. Blanchard seemed truly distracted, with her back turned, he threw the ball at the farthest troublemaker. He let the guy know it was coming too. What happened next was the normal human reaction. The other four momentarily looked over to see if the fifth guy caught the ball. He did. Alex was being obvious about it.

That also meant only the ball-catcher saw Alex smash W&P into the back of the closest moron's head. He blasted his fellow student out of his chair. The book's follow-through placed it back into Alex's backpack before anyone else was the wiser. The victim crashed violently into the Black guy next to him and the both went to the floor.

"What's going on?" Andrea asked when she turned around. She found two of her students on the floor (one cradling his cranium) one with a blue ball, two staring at Alexander with a 'wtf?' expression on their faces and an angelic Alexander staring at her.

"He hit Darnell with a book," Devonte (aka the ball guy) exclaimed.

"This book?" Alexander motioned to the open ABE paperback book he had open in front of him, on the desk.

"No," he grumbled. "The one you just hid."

"Mother-fucker," Tucker, (aka the Collateral Damage guy) pulled himself up. "I'm going to kick your ..." he threatened.

"My head," the target moaned. "I think he dun broke ma head wide open."

"Everyone calm down," Andrea wavered.

"Of course, Ms. Blanchard," Alex remained civil. "I must point out that Darnell appears to have been hit in the back of his skull. He must have been facing forward, listening to your lecture, so his attacker had to be someone behind him and that means it certainly wasn't me."

"Bitch," Tucker balled up his fists.

"Are you implying you want to view my testicles," Alexander mocked him.

"Please everyone sit down," Andrea pleaded.

"Your brothers aren't here to back you up," Jase (the other guy closest to him) menaced. His buddy, Lamar, stood as well.

"I said 'please sit down'," Andrea turned shrill.

"Bitch," Jase turned on her. "Sit your ass down!" He emphasized that by driving his first and middle finger into her sternum. Threatening the teacher brought Alexander out of his chair. Until that point, he'd been in the wrong.

"Care to try that on me?" Alexander challenged him.

He had four ... three actually (Darnell still hadn't gotten off the floor) buddies backing him up and they were all football players. Jase rose to the bait.

"Bitch," he did the finger poke on Alex, "I told you - OW!" he screamed as my brother grabbed his two fingers, twisted his palm upwards then bent the fingers down toward the back of his hand.

The others looked ready to rush in.

"Do it and I'll pop two of his fingers off and feed them to the next in line," Alexander growled. He bent the two fingers farther down forcing Jase to rise up on his toes.

"Stop it," he pleaded in general. Alex stopped trying to rip the digits off and the other students stopped advancing.

Having made his point, Alex released Jase's fingers and shoved him away.

"Am I the only one who needs this course?" he stared down the Black kids. "If you don't want to listen to Ms. Blanchard's lesson, you can always leave and drop the class."

"Mutha-," Jase whined as he nursed his bruised digits.

"I said, 'PLEASE SIT DOWN'," Ms. Blanchard screamed. That got everyone's attention. "Sit down," she panted. "Now." For the moment, her students obeyed. That was it for the roughhousing that session. The next round of posturing and non-verbal threats came at the end of class. For a few seconds everyone was seized by a state of confusion.

"White boy," Lamar sneered. "Time for you to go."

"I'm walking Ms. Blanchard to her car," Alex met him hate for hate. "From this day forward, I'm always going to be walking her to her car when we are done here." Andrea paled, even trembling slightly.

"I ... ah ... Alexander, I'll be okay," she mumbled.

"Ms. Blanchard, that wasn't a request," my brother turned to her. "I'm going to see you safely to your car every night until the end of the school year. Please gather your material so we can both head to our respective homes."

"Don't be hoggin the whore," Devonte chortled. Andrea deflated.

"I wasn't planning to touch your mother, Devonte. Thanks for warning," Alex taunted him right back.

It was still five on one ~ good odds, or so they thought.

"By the way, gentlemen," the Russian voice of reason spoke forth, "if any of you don't pass the ABE this semester, my brothers and I are going to hunt you down and skin you alive. That should be your motivation for passing from here on out. Test me at your peril."

They mulled that over. There were ten (the seven who attacked Shaquille, the two in the darken hallway and the basketball teammate with the busted jaw) Black kids who had fought the Samsonov triplets and they were all in various states of recovery. Alexander's fear factor was backed up by the bloody facts.

"I'll catch up with you later, Ms. Blanchard," Devonte leered her way.

"No you won't," Alexander sighed in annoyance. "That shit stops now and that isn't a request either. It is the damn law. Violate the law and you will get to see what passes for civil justice in Alaska." That was a complete and utter fabrication. No Samsonov had ever been found committing summary justice, much less been involved with vigilantes. He didn't feel the need to share that family fact with Andrea's abusers.

They filed out leaving Alex with a stunned Ms. Blanchard. This was the time normally spent on her knees giving hand- and blow-jobs. Instead, she was leaving unmolested. The big, Russian-American and his desires had her worried.

"Thank you," she hesitantly spoke as she locked up her classroom. "I'm not sure what brought on this ..."

"Don't worry about it, Ms. Blanchard. I would like to formally ask you to eat at my family's home tonight. My Mother would like to meet you," Alexander invited her out. She flushed, then shot him a worried glance. Was she changing one group of tormentors for another?