Wrong Place at the Right Time Pt. 01

This is a work of lesbian fantasy, and should in no way be misconstrued as a realistic or plausible scenario. But, girls will be girls.

*****

My name is Lisa Denton, I'm 28 years old, single, lesbian for those who need to know, black for those who for some reason care, and newly employed by the Kensington School for Girls, a private high school for teens of privilege in a middle-sized town in Middle America. That's probably a lot to digest, so I'll break it down a little for you.

Three years ago I earned my teaching certificate after bouncing around for the three years prior to that after graduating from Vassar with a degree in primary education. I'm from a relatively wealthy family, the third child of a mixed race mother and black father. He is a very successful economics professor turned consultant who, somewhat to my embarrassment is a staunch Republican, but then I've only reaped the benefits of his worldviews and the bank account they've created, so I don't really complain. Like in most things, I generally keep my mind active and my mouth reserved.

My mother, equally intelligent and similarly conservative as her husband, is by almost all standards beautiful, born of a black father and Asian mother. She met my father just after college while he was doing an internship in New York, working as an administrative assistant, as they were called in those days, at the firm where he was getting some real life experience before going back for his second and third degrees. Their subsequent marriage of forty-two years has been loving and picture perfect, as has the arc of their life together, raising two sons and myself, all of whom have gone on to lead comfortable lives.

I am told I look a lot like my mother. My eyes are not quite as almond as hers, and my lips are more full, but it's from her side of the family that I get my athletic frame and modest bust. I also several shades darker than her, which is about the extent of my father's contribution to my appearance. There's never been any question of my race, and I've endured the usual tribulations thereof, albeit softened by moving in somewhat wealthy circles throughout my life. We've only lived in very upper middle class neighborhoods, and I've always been a gifted and intelligent girl, so my peer group has not exactly been the picture of what one might assume. I never really gave much thought to my race growing up, and when I got to my teenage years I was far more preoccupied by my other major difference, my attraction to women.

As a black woman, there are secrets you keep that your white friends will never know, even if they could understand them. As a closet lesbian, those secrets are ten fold. I walked a tightrope of lust and secrecy all through high school, and even in college I felt like I needed to be cautious. When all the girls were "experimenting" with their orientation, I was calling it the same thing even though I knew I'd found my true self. Since then I've been careful about who knows what about me, including my family, and since I hold three trump cards of political correctness - female, black, lesbian - everyone is so busy not stepping on one of those eggshells that they tend to forget about the others. With my battlefields thus divided, I rarely have to address more than one front at a time, and I've gotten very good at playing one against another to keep that field shifting.

This sounds like I'm constantly in a state of conflict, or forever at odds with my surroundings. I'm not. In a lot of ways, most ways, I'm just a normal young woman starting out into adulthood. Mommy and Daddy have taken care of me, and I know they always will as I move forward, so really I just go about my days trying to be happy.

My current girlfriend, whom I love very much but not overwhelmingly so, is a terrific young butch named Ronni. She's white, bleached blonde, vibrant, attentive, and thrilled to death to call her very own what she likes to refer to and I permit, my sweet chocolate pussy. We get along well, party a lot, and have a fun social network together. I'm not exactly out, so I'm careful when and where we get together, but we do so quite a lot, mostly at her apartment, and then mostly on weekends after going out. I'm not obsessed with her, but I do cherish and anticipate any moments we can share. She respects my boundaries as I respect her enthusiasm, and above all we both respect every last, dripping morsel of each other's bodies. It doesn't hurt that we make a striking yin-yang pair with our crisp pixie haircuts and perfectly tight bodies.

As for my job, I'm a newly hired English instructor to tenth and eleventh grade girls, and yes it's a dream job. I am of course happy to be among the lucky few who've managed to find employment in their chosen field, but am absolutely ecstatic that I get to eyeball the young girls every day in their darling skirts and tidy blouses. I am doing my very, very best to keep untoward thoughts as far from my mind as possible, but with a roomful of endless possibilities five times a day, there's only so much distance I can create. Poor, poor pitiful me. As it turns out, and more to the point of this story, I am not the only one. Not by a long shot.

The school itself is somewhat large, enough so that there are distinct areas of campus I don't have reason to visit with any regularity. The campus is laid out in eight or ten buildings that I've yet to take the time to memorize, housing the various departments, a dormitory for the non-local students, and a small faculty building that doubles as a hotel for visiting parents and academics. My building sits in a group of three containing performing arts, letters, and sciences, the latter being between the administration offices and mine. I've really only seen the inside of my own and a portion of admin, having only been here a semester and a half, and I haven't really met many of the faculty outside the English and Languages departments.

I had been working a little later than usual the Friday after midterms my second semester, trying to get all the grading done before the three day weekend the school gives at the end of the marking period. I had finished my stack of essays, and looked up see it was nearly 5pm. I'd almost forgotten to swing by my mailbox in the main office, knowing I had two more papers delivered by two students who were already on break with their families and whom I'd given permission to drop off in lieu of taking the exam in class. I'd been sitting at my desk for two and a half solid hours, alternately sipping water and tea to stay alert, and at the conclusion of my grading I realized I had to pee quite urgently. But with less than five minutes before they shut down the admin building, I had to run straight over without stopping. Which unfortunately was not fast enough, and I found the building locked, with my essays inside, but more critically, denying me the chance to relieve myself. But I couldn't take it any longer and ducked into the Sciences building on the way back to use the facilities.

When I walked in to what was a nearly identical floor plan of my own department, I took the first left and second right to the faculty ladies room, which of course when I needed it most was being attended to by custodial. Knowing the other one would be on the third floor, I hurried up the stairs, running now as fast as I dared as I was reaching critical mass in my bladder. I ran down the hall and burst into the thankfully empty room, whipping down my pants and panties at the last possible second, the stall door swinging wildly as I landed on the seat. Quickly relieved and reassembled, I washed my hands and headed back down the hall. It was then that in the silence of the deserted building that I heard a faint but distinctive sound: the slap of a hand on skin.

At first I thought I must have been mistaken. I reasoned through it and figured it must be some sort of physics experiment, or someone dropping an odd sack of something or other on accident. But I heard it again. Then again. And then again, followed by a soft whimper. Now I knew I wasn't hearing things, and I followed the direction of the sound down a back corridor among the lab rooms to a closed door behind which these sounds were coming.

The room placard said Ms. Lindqvist - Physical Sciences, and I remembered the name from my interview committee. She was the stark, beautiful woman in her late fifties, perhaps older, well-preserved as some Scandinavian women tend to be. She was firm yet fair with her questions, but never once showed emotion of any kind either positive or negative, and was in a way simultaneously terrifying and calming. I would only later find out she was instrumental in my eventual hiring.

The door to her room was not entirely closed. It appeared shut, but hadn't completely latched. I put my hand to the handle, and even though it was locked and didn't turn, I was able to carefully push inward to ease the door open, making sure the latch didn't click against the plate as it passed. I opened it just a crack and peered in, and was greeted with a most amazing and arousing sight: the soft, round alabaster cheeks of chubby young girl, reddened in two perfect ovals.

Up at the front of the room, atop the black laboratory table directly opposite the teacher's desk laid a prone girl, her skirt up over her waist, panties down around her ankles as she stood on her tiptoes so her hips could reach the top edge. This was all I could see through the half-inch gap, but every few seconds a slim hand swung in from the left, smacking the girl's cheeks in double succession with a resounding clap, setting them to jiggling as they tightened and relaxed while the girl moaned. Her sounds were not un-pleasurable, and I instinctively knew this was a consensual arrangement, although entirely illicit.

I watched for several minutes, praying I hadn't been noticed, and seemingly hadn't as the spankings continued. I couldn't see the girl's face, just her long dark tresses lying across the desk, and from this angle she looked like any number of pudgy girls who walk the halls. But then Ms. Lindqvist spoke, and I instantly knew who it was.

"Is that alright, Naomi? Or do you need more?" her hand gently caressing the angry round flesh of her supplicant.

Oh my goodness, I thought, Naomi Sylvan! I had taught her last semester, and couldn't really believe it was actually her. She was as quiet and demure as they come, a junior who'd moved from France not too many years back, who still spoke with at thick accent and not entirely perfect English. She was a model student in all ways, and honestly I would frequently over look her because she never drew attention of any kind to herself. She was a year older than her grade-mates, a result of her initial placement in the American system when she first arrived, so she was an eighteen-year-old junior, though she hardly looked it. Her physical stature and appearance was as diminutive and unassuming as her personality; slightly overweight which leant to her more juvenile look, neither attractive nor unpleasant, with wavy dull brown hair kempt but not stylishly, simple make up if any, and a face that was almost entirely forgettable. If not for the uniqueness of her first name, I'd have never guessed in a million years those were her blushing cheeks I was watching be willingly punished.

"I need more please, Miss Katja," her tiny voice said, somewhere between a sigh and a sob. As I peered more carefully, my awareness heightened by greater familiarity, I discerned a thin, glistening trail down her thigh. She was enjoying herself no end, it seemed. And the stern, slender hand came down again.

The sight of this made my own pussy begin to grow wet and my nipples achingly stiff beneath my chiffon blouse. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I'd been trying to control it along with my breathing, until I noticed I'd stopped exhaling altogether. It wasn't until I let it resume that I realized my hand was pressing against the dark fabric of my pants, sending pleasure of my own up my spine and through my body. The girl's tender body continued to quiver and sigh, even as she remained mostly motionless, her hands beneath her head on the dark table. She only moved a little just once, raising her head for a moment when there was a pause in the delivery to her buttocks. Just before the door flew open in my face.

I was staring, aghast, at one of the most beautifully aged women I had ever seen as attraction and fear coursed through me with equal speed. Her delicate face was thin, more chiseled than gaunt, while still remaining entirely feminine. Her blond hair, only starting to gray, was pulled back in a taut ponytail, and her white blouse hung loosely over her full breasts, before tapering to her slim waist and shapely hips beneath a tight skirt. Her piercing blue eyes bore through me, assessing. She neither smiled nor scowled as she held me paralyzed, her lips pursed inward only slightly. When she glanced down at my hand, frozen in place between my legs, her assessment was complete, and she took a step back, opening the door. Naomi was looking up now, over her shoulder, but adding to the surreal nature of the scene, did not otherwise move. Finally the woman spoke.

"You're the new English teacher; Miss Denton is it?" Her words were a statement, and carried and undeniable authority in them. "Well come in, Miss Lisa Denton, lest the world be let in as well."

I walked in zombie-like, helpless to her bidding, as she shut the door behind me, this time making sure the latch caught.

"We have an added guest, Naomi," she said, staring me straight in the eyes with an almost complete lack of expression. "You're familiar with our fledgling black instructor, are you not? Or is it African-American, Miss Denton, which is it you prefer?"

"I prefer Lisa," I said coolly, the ignorant incivility of the question shaking me from my trance. Ms. Lindqvist didn't miss a beat.

"I assure you, Lisa, my mention of the color of your skin is done entirely with praise, not disdain of any sort. You are as beautiful as you are exotic in this all too homogenous institution," she said, taking a step toward me and raising her hand to just touch my chin. "And the intrigue of your other, less obvious, predilection makes you all the more alluring." She placed her fingertip lightly to my lips, and I was back in her trance, even as my heart skipped a beat at what she'd just implied. How could she possibly know about my sexual preference?

"This is a smaller community than you may realized, Miss Denton," she said, reading my thoughts. "We know things." The blood drained from my face, and again this elegant, crafty sorceress put me at ease.

"Relax, child. Can't you see you're safe here?" she motioned over to Naomi, still motionless on the desk as she watch our conversation. "We're all in this together, Miss Denton." The way she shifted from authority to confidant and back again was dizzying. All I knew for sure is that she must be correct: the situation must be safe. But I found myself questioning her anyway.

"How-," I heard myself stutter, "How is this happening? Why is she here like this? What if you were caught? What if it wasn't me who heard the sound in the hallways and looked through the doorway??" She took my hand and slowly walked me across the room, and explained with a voice like butter.

"Miss Sylvan is here because she wants to be, aren't you dear?" The girl nodded, but did not smile. "She's both thanking me and receiving her reward for a job well done this semester, so far." The corner of her mouth curled just slightly in a wry grin. "As for being caught, well, I'm the head of the department, and have thirty years seniority here. Not that I'm entirely untouchable, but my colleagues understand me, and we all have our little peccadilloes now don't we? There's never coercion here at Kensington, only benevolent instruction and indulgent learning." She placed her hand against the fading red skin of Naomi's bottom, and gave it a good squeeze, parting her cheeks in a most indecent way. "Often the learning comes far outside the curricula. Come, have a touch, Lisa. She is a most exquisite and compliant young specimen."

I was staring at her hand as it fondled Naomi's soft, supple orb, and felt my panties flood when I caught the slightest glimpse of her tender anus and the seeping cleft below it. My mouth began to water and my lips parted as I felt myself being to pant. It was as if the world I'd been hoping for was suddenly there before me, beckoning me onward. Ms. Lindqvist followed my gaze, and using both hands separated the girl's cheeks entirely, laying her ripe young sex entirely bare.

"Miss Sylvan enjoys our corrective time together," she said, her long, crimson fingernails sinking into pliant flesh. "She and I have been meeting for several semesters now. I suspect her tastes are perhaps dissimilar to your own, but I happen to know she enjoys all manner of physical approval." The girl's hips rose slightly from the tabletop, impatient and eager after this lengthy delay of her ministrations. "You look hungry, Lisa," she continued with a voice of pure silk. "Eat."

I dropped to my knees and pressed my face directly in the succulent heat between Naomi's pried cheeks held apart by griping hands. I could tell she'd been incredibly wet for a very long time, tasting only of her pure internal wetness. My nose, nuzzling up to her tight ruby hole, was bathed in her delicate, fuzzy musk, but aside from that delightfully pungent tang, her young girl bouquet was as pure as the driven snow that her milky flesh resembled. I lapped greedily at the deep pink softness of her inner lips, plunging my tongue into the carnal readiness of her opening. I wanted to lick as far up into her as I could, to work my tongue impossibly deep against her vaginal walls. My hands, initially holding the back of her thighs, now shifted around to the front, pulling her back to me. She was moaning heavily, urging her body back to me, and Ms. Lindqvist gave her soft encouraging coos as she watched me devour her surrendered cunt. With her fingertips, she tickled Naomi's anus open with her blood red nails, inviting me to carry my overeager attentions to more forbidden fruit, knowing well her ingénue's deeper desires. Moving upwards I was happy to comply, sinking my tongue into her tight, clinging hole like a dart.

Still holding her against me with one hand, I moved my other up between her legs, slipping two fingers easily in where my tongue had vacated. With my palm towards the floor I could comfortably massage her g-spot without any strain on my wrist, and I was quickly able to bring her greater heights. In a very short period of time this unassuming little cherub was bucking under the double penetration of my hands and mouth, cumming loudly and feverishly onto my face. I was in absolute heaven, feeling her anus flex and squirm on my tongue, with her juices running down the back of my hand and up my arm.

All the while, Ms. Katja Lindqvist sat watching the show like the puppet mistress she no doubt was. For a moment, as I sat back a little onto my heels, allowing her young quarry the chance to catch her breath, I thought back through how I'd ended up here: working late, unable to get in to admin, randomly needing the third floor bathroom. It almost made no sense. Especially since the woman showed almost no surprise at my arrival, and readily welcomed me to join. And she even knew I was lesbian somehow. Not to mention the sheer insanity of having sexual contact with a student. There were strange goings on here, to be sure. But what was equally sure was that my pussy was aching for some of the action, and my panties were drenched in anticipation, even as I had no idea what would happen next.