The English Teacher
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The English Teacher -- Part Three free porn video
The English Teacher - Part Three
By Katherine Day
(Copyright 2008, by Katherine Day)
Chapter Five
My affair with Paul had to end. Yes, it was an "affair," and it was so
wrong. As a teacher, I had no right to seduce a student, even though it
was Paul who had come on to me. Yet, I had dressed for class in a way
that I knew would excite the young man. I had grown to accept the fact
that my beauty as a woman was quite remarkable, and it was such a
contrast to the shame and humiliation I felt as a boy and young man for
having such a pathetically unmasculine body.
Was it his youth that excited me so? Was it his unspoiled, smooth and
hard body that made him so marvelous?
I so loved running my hands across his chest, his firm breasts with their
cute nipples and the lovely curves of his upper arms. And, what
magnificent shoulders!
Yet, with all this manliness, this sculptured body, came a sweet softness
and gentleness. His eyes, pale and blue, exuded a warmth and openness
that welcomed me.
"I had never felt so wanted, so needed by another individual in my life,"
I wrote in my diary. (Yes, I was keeping a diary, an old-fashioned one
in which I painstakingly wrote in a pretty blue ink my thoughts each day.
I loved doing it and felt like Jo March in "Little Women," who so loved
to write. It was something I had begun doing at about age 10, when I
first began dreaming about being a girl. I had found a diary for the
year 1988 at a sale for 50 cents in the month of February and bought it
for some unknown reason. It was a little girl's diary with a pink cover
and each page had a picture of a little girl, wearing pastel colored
outfits, dancing or carrying flowers or doing something very dainty and
girl-like. And, best of all, it had a lock on it. In it, I could write
my sweetest dreams about being Katie, a dainty, very feminine little
girl.)
I had to get this young man out of my mind, and that meant I had to get
out of the house; sadly in our town, there are not many places to go,
other than the Wal-Mart which came to town 15 years ago and all but dried
up the other businesses; there was a four-plex movie house, but the fare
there was all violent action films. I needed a sweet romantic movie
where I could cry and use up a box of tissues.
Over in Marion, there was Cindy, a tranny friend. She was living as a
girl fulltime, but still had not had her sexual reassignment surgery.
She was a chubby girl, fairly short and cute as a button, and I called
her, asking if she wanted to go to supper tonight. "I'll drive over if
you're free, hon," I said.
The drive to Marion took about 45 minutes, and gave me time to think as a
drove along the fairly empty two-lane Illinois highway, flanked by farm
fields and modern farms. I had purposely dressed in a most casual manner
for the trip, a pair of low-cut jeans which had floral designs on the
rear pockets, and a short-sleeved pink high-neck sweater, topped off by a
light blue scarf around my neck. I wore my Northern Illinois Huskies
pink baseball cap, tucking my hair out the back.
"Wow, you look great," Cindy said as she answered the door in her tiny
ranch home in a subdivision outside of Marion.
"Thank you, Cindy, but I didn't really dress up today. Hope that's OK?"
Cindy was wearing a short floral skirt that flared out, ending just above
the knees, exposing just a hint of pink thigh. She wore a sleeveless
low-cut blouse allowing her fleshy arms and bosom to show her natural
feminine softness; Cindy said that even before she began hormones she had
developed feminine breasts.
Cindy smiled: "Katie, I think you can dress in anything and look hot.
Bet you got those men in Mt. Vernon drooling already."
I smiled, realizing there was at least one boy who seemed to be drooling.
There were other men, to be sure, who desired me, but they were either
married or totally boring.
"Cindy, I'm sure there's no lack of interest out at the VA Hospital over
you," I said.
Cindy had graduated in medical technology from Northern Illinois and had
been able to get herself into a skilled, key position in the VA before
going into transition. She had faced terrible harassment from other
workers and even some of the patients at the VA Center, but she was so
valued for her work that her superiors protected her.
"There's one man, anyway," she said, coyly.
She had a cherubic face, with high cheekbones and full lips; she was so
fortunate to have naturally feminine facial features that she couldn't
help but be cute. Her childhood years, she had told me, had been a
collection of personal horrors as she tried to exist as a boy. She had
been constantly teased and beat up well into high school, largely due to
her short stature, girlish nature, her physical weakness and the fact
that by age ten she already was developing breasts.
"Tell me about your man," I said as we sat down in a dark booth in the
only bar and grill in town, a place with a faux western motif where the
waitresses dressed as cowgirls. They all knew Cindy, since she had
worked there when she first moved to town.
"Oh Katie, you'd love him, he's so sweet," she gushed.
"What's his name? What's he do?"
She giggled; Cindy had the cutest laugh; her eyes danced when she was
happy and her joy was so infectious. She has confessed to me that she
had never found joy in life until she began living as a girl.
"Well, first of all, you can't have him," she laughed. "Any way, you're
too tall for him."
She continued: "Well, he's a doctor, and he's cute, and his name is
Chandresh."
"Chandresh?"
"Yes, he's Indian. You know, from India. And Chandresh means moon.
He's so sweet."
I smiled. I was so happy for her; I'm sure he's a sweetie, but wondered
about him. I had nothing against Indians, except that they came from a
very patriarchal society in which the woman's role was always to be
submissive.
"And, Katie, he knows all about me and he's so understanding."
We were there only about ten minutes, both drinking cosmopolitans, when
Chandresh showed up.
"I hope you don't mind, Katie, but I thought I would ask Chandy to join
us. He's off tonight."
"Not at all, Cindy."
Chandresh was not much taller than Cindy; he was a round-faced man with a
dark complexion. Immediately, I pegged him as a jolly gentleman, at
least outwardly.
He bowed, yes, actually bowed to me as Cindy introduced him. "Pleased to
meet you," he said in a lilting tone with a clipped English accent. Then
he kissed Cindy, lightly on the lips and set down next to her in the
booth.
You could see the joy emanating from both of them as they sat opposite to
me, wanting me to feel their happiness. As it turned out, we had a
perfectly delightful supper, aided of course by some wine that followed
the cosmopolitans. We giggled a lot, and Chandresh laughed along with a
ready chirping of his own.
"Oh, Katie," Cindy said, suddenly taking on a serious tone as we were
declining dessert and settling in for coffee. "Chandy knows all about
me."
"Oh?" I asked, puzzled for a moment.
"Yes, silly, that I still have some plumbing work that needs to be done."
"Oh my god, what's the matter with me. Of course," I said.
Chandresh smiled broadly. "I think Cindy is just about the prettiest
girl around. Even though she's not quite all girl yet."
"And, Katie. I told him about you, too."
Chandresh nodded. "I bet everyone's envying me here, being with two such
lovely ladies."
I smiled. I wasn't happy that Cindy had spilled the beans about me,
since the School District still knew me only as a genetic woman. I
didn't mind that Chandresh knew, but just worried he might let it slip
sometime to the wrong person. I warned him that most people still knew
me only as Katie, and urged him to keep it that way.
On my drive home, I felt content. The visit with Cindy and Chandresh was
just the interlude I needed to get my mind off of Paul. Someday, I told
myself, I'd find a man who would love me just as Chandresh seems to love
Cindy. Then I reflected upon Paul: certainly he seemed to love me with
unbridled passion. How could I be sure, though? He was only 17 and I
was 30. How could a 17-year-old be truly in love since a true love is to
last a lifetime?
No, Katie, I told myself. You've got to break off this foolish escapade
with Paul, my lovely, handsome, masculine Paul. I had to end it, but
could I? And would Paul let me alone and stay away?
*****
On Monday, as I dressed for school, I debated what do wear? Actually,
since I began living fulltime as a woman, I argued with myself every
morning as to how to dress. It's something I rarely did as a guy, but
now with so many lovely clothes to wear, I was charmed to be able to pick
and choose.
"No, that's too sexy," I said out loud as I pulled out a floral skirt
that ended in mid-thigh. I knew that most of the boys, and Paul in
particular, would get excited to look again at my legs and lower thighs.
I ended up selecting full length, dark blue slacks with a light blue
blouse and a dark maroon cardigan sweater. I also chose to wear flats,
which I felt would take away any excitement felt by the boys in the
class.
It didn't work to extinguish my young lover's masculine stirrings, as I
was to learn during the lunch hour. I had cafeteria duty that day, one
of the chores most of us teachers abhorred since it usually meant trying
to calm the teenage juices that stirred among the healthy children of
downstate Illinois.
As I was trying to separate two girls who were arguing about some boy,
Paul came by to watch me in action. My instincts were to pull both girls
by their ponytails and separate them, but of course that would be
'corporal punishment' and that would mean serious discipline for me. I
was trying to reason with them, and it wasn't working at all. The girls
were screaming and threatening to tear each other apart, when Paul walked
between them to say: "Hey, Thomas isn't worth it. He's nothing but a
wuss." It was obvious Paul knew the boy involved, and his words stopped
them dead in their tracks.
"He's no 'wuss,'" said the chunkier girl, turning her anger to Paul.
"No, he's not," echoed the other.
Suddenly their anger was directed at Paul; soon, with my feeble
intervention and threats of detentions and calling their mothers, the
fight was ended. As the girls walked away, Paul came to my side.
"Thank you, Paul, but you really shouldn't have gotten involved. If
there'd been more of a fight, I might have to discipline you too."
"I could see you were having trouble, Miss Enright. You're too nice and
kids take advantage of you," he said.
"Well, I hate to be an old hag of a teacher and be nasty to the kids," I
said, with a smile.
Paul's eyes widened. "You're no hag, Miss Enright. Even in those pants
today, you look hot."
"That's enough, Paul," I said, forcing a bit of unnatural firmness into
my voice. "We can't talk about my looks in school."
The bell rang to end the lunch hour and I turned to leave. He said in a
whisper: "I can't get you out of my mind."
I must have blushed. I said nothing, but walked away, flush-faced, and
feeling more and more tingly and disconnected and spacey. And, my
panties seemed to grow wet. I was dreading the last class of the day, my
English Literature class where Paul would be seated in the front row, so
close that I could almost smell him. And, I knew he'd be looking to see
my panty lines in the tight fit of the pants I was wearing; I also knew
my bra lines which show through my blouse.
Of course, I knew I would be trying to avoid looking at Paul, in fear
that I would be imagining that hard body of his looming over me as I
anticipated his affection. I would also be seeing in my mind's eye his
lovely stick of manhood, no doubt pushing an erection inside his pants.
Fortunately, I had assigned scheduled poetry recitations for the day;
various students were to stand up in front of the class and recite their
favorite poems. I would sit in the back, and then we'd discuss each
presentation. Each student would explain why he or she chose a certain
poem, and what it meant.
"What is important about poetry," I told the class as it opened that day,
"is the meter of the poem, the rhythm. It must not be sing-songy, but
rather given a beat, like a song, but most importantly, you must say it
as if you understand the words and you want to make the listener feel
them deeply."
By sitting in the back, I knew, I'd be spared the challenge of looking
directly at Paul and having my mind go all screwy. God, I loved that
boy.
It turned out to be a great class that day. The students got into the
spirit of the exercise and they truly seemed to enjoy the poetry. Even
the shy students seemed to rise to the occasion, since I had told each of
them to choose a piece of poetry that they understood and that they
liked. Bill Simpson chose to read "Casey at the Bat," a hackneyed choice
that might have caused some teachers to grade him down for the use of
such a popular poem.
Bill was embarrassed, I could tell, at having to recite poetry, which I
am sure he thought to be "girly." Thus the choice of "Casey" seemed to
satisfy his sense of masculinity. Bill was a wannabe athlete, I could
tell, since he was a beefy youngster who was not on any of the sports
teams. He was embarrassed by that, I'm sure, and tried always to exhibit
a machismo which was probably not natural for him. I recognized the
behavior; had I not been in the same position in high school, a slender,
unathletic boy who tried to cover up his own feminine tendencies with
this phony bravado?
He started the poem so tentatively and shyly that I stopped him after the
second line. "What's this all about, Bill?" I asked.
He hesitated, finally answering, "A baseball game."
"Right. You like baseball?"
"Yes, Miss Enright."
"You don't sound like you like it. Say this poem like your telling a
story to your friends," I urged.
"Yes, Miss Enright."
"You know the crowd roars at a game, so speak up," I said.
Bill blushed, and soon got in the spirit of the story, finishing to
applause from the class with the final line: "But there is no joy in
Mudville ? mighty Casey has struck out."
One of the girls questioned whether such a prosaic subject made for a
good poem. And the argument was on. Even Paul thought it was a dumb
idea to include "Casey at the Bat" as a subject for a poetry class.
"Paul," I answered quickly, and almost too harshly. "Think about it.
What makes poetry?"
"Not that stuff," he said defensively.
With that, I shamelessly dumped on him, telling him that any words that
had a sense of rhythm, that had feeling, that painted a picture and that
caused listeners to react made for "poetry." I even accused him of being
a snob, right in front of the whole class.
Paul stood in front of the class, about to respond, but he reddened and
sat down abruptly, no doubt shocked at my mean, nasty response. I was
shocked at my own actions; I had no right to do that. I had let my own
personal sensual, even erotic feelings for Paul and my realization that I
had to somehow reject them get the better of me.
I quickly sought to change the mood. "Now I was a little tough of Paul,"
I told the class. "I feel that we need to consider poetry as a living
being, and that poetry need not be foreign to us. Paul's right, of
course, about this being not a particularly good example of poetry, since
it is so literal and easy to understand. There is no mystery, but I
think still that 'Casey at the Bat' is an example of poetry that has
become popular."
"You mean like 'T'was the Night Before Christmas,' Miss Enright?" asked
Wanda Phelps.
The class laughed, and I thought the tension had been lifted.
It was now Paul's turn to recite. He stood in front of class, and he
glared at me, pausing before he started.
"I was going to do Elizabeth Barrett Browning's sonnet, 'How do I love
thee,' and dedicate it to my special friend. But, now, I think I'll do
Lord Alfred Tennyson's 'Charge of the Light Brigade,' and dedicate it to
the Old Lady in the Shoe."
The class snickered uneasily; several of them looked back at me,
wondering what reaction I might have. I found myself glaring back at
Paul. What was he doing? I knew the class was aware that he currently
had no girl friend; did some of them know his "girl friend" was me? Did
they know that in his humiliation at my nasty response he was getting
back at me, calling me the "old lady in the shoe?"
He read the poem with an exaggerated emphasis that was almost hilarious;
yet, I knew he was doing this in spite.
The bell rang before the class could discuss Paul's reading. I was
thankful for that, but was almost in tears as I saw him angrily grab his
books and charge out of the class, not bothering to look at me.
I was horrified. I had reacted in class to a student over a personal
matter; that was so wrong and unprofessional. Suddenly, I realized, I
may have lost Paul, that he may no longer be a part of my life, no longer
be in my bed, no longer be my lover. I didn't cry then; I did cry once I
got home. It was the worst night of my life: my lover was mad and he had
every right to be. I had shamed him. I cried myself to sleep that
night. I had done what I had to do: put an end to our relationship that
was so wrong for a teacher and a student. But, I wanted him to be here
now, holding me in his arms, caressing me, kissing me and finding joy in
my vagina.
What was to happen to me, now?
*****
I even considered calling in sick the next morning. I didn't know how I
could continue through the day after the humiliating way I had handled
Paul. I was hateful to him and right in front of the whole class.
I had always tried to show the students what an understanding and
friendly teacher I could be; now they had seen a side of me that I never
knew existed: a mean streak. Yet, I wasn't mean and I didn't mean to be
mean: I just knew Paul and I had to separate, to no longer see each
other, and unconsciously this was the way I chose to do it.
But, no, I'd "tough it out" and go to school, trying to figure out what
I'd do when Paul showed up in last hour English class. The school was
not large and it was very likely I'd see him in the hallway or the
cafeteria. What would I do? I'd have to ignore him, and maybe I could
assign him to a rear seat in my class.
"God you're a wreck," I told myself as I wiped the fog off the bathroom
mirror. My eyes were puffy from a night of crying. My face seemed to
even look fatter. My hair was scraggly after the shower.
I put on little makeup, brushed my hair straight back, tying it in a pony
tail. Even so, some of the strands of hair stuck out awkwardly. I wore
loose slacks, and a full, oversized sweater over a long sleeved blouse,
with an old-fashioned sculpted collar. Again, I would wear flats and
knee-high stockings. I didn't feel like being a fashion statement.
"You're quiet today," Stan Grojewski, the phy ed teacher, commented in
the teachers' lounge during a morning free hour.
It was an innocent comment; Stan was a sweet man, one of the few phy ed
teachers I knew who seemed to care about all the boys, not merely those
with muscles. My experience as a teenaged boy without any athletic
talents was one of constant humiliating hassling from my gym teachers.
When I couldn't climb the rope in gym due to my weak arms, Mr. Grouper
said: "Girl, you must do this. Maybe we should send you to girl's gym."
"Oh, had trouble sleeping last night, I guess," I said, showing annoyance
with his question. Then I added with a snap: "What's it to you,
anyway?"
Stan was astounded; we had always had friendly talks. He was one of the
sweetest men I knew, and here I was snapping at him. I was ashamed.
"Oh Stan, I'm sorry. Please don't take offense. I've got things on my
mind. I'm sorry."
"That's OK, Katie. It happens to all of us. Anything you'd like to talk
about? Can I help?"
I smiled at him. "No Stan, but thanks, this is something I have to deal
with."
Several other teachers overheard the exchange, and I could hear them
whispering about it. My quick popularity after coming to teach at the
school, and, frankly, my trim figure and almost beauty-queen looks had
won me some jealousy among some of the older teachers. I had not been
able to break through the jealousy in some cases, but now I could sense
some of them chortling at my own present state of mind. And, all this
because of my infatuation with a 17-year-old boy.
"But, what a boy!" I thought to myself.
Paul, the dear boy, resolved the seating situation for me that afternoon.
He marched into class and came to me very directly, and asked: "Mind if I
sit in the empty seat in the back, Miss Enright? I get a crick in my
neck sitting so close."
"Go right ahead. That'll be your permanent seat now." My sentences were
crisp and firm. He said nothing and proceeded to his seat.
I asked Amy Smithson to sit up front in Paul's old seat. I knew she had
bad eyes and she would benefit from the change.
Somehow, I got through the class avoiding looking at Paul, though I was
tempted. The few times I glanced in his direction, I could see his head
was down. For perhaps the first class period in the semester, he didn't
raise his hand, and I didn't call on him.
That's the way the week went: I continued dressing informally, and even a
bit dowdy by my earlier standards. On my way home from school Monday
night, in a flight of rebellion against the healthy life style I had been
living since my transition, I bought a half gallon of butter pecan ice
cream, my favorite, and topped it off with maple syrup, eating two-thirds
of it while watching "Deal or No Deal," a practice of watching prime time
TV that I normally avoided. As a young teen boy, I had grown soft and
pudgy while gorging myself on ice cream sundaes, malts and peanut butter
while avoiding any physical activity. As a female, my body had become
slender, almost firm, but with a sweet softness that helped make me feel
so feminine.
Paul never once raised his hand in class that week, and I never called
upon him. I avoided looking at him, but in truth he was never out of my
mind. By Thursday, I felt I had gained 100 pounds (actually, it was only
5) and seemed to take a perverse pleasure in how soft my tummy seemed to
become.
"Would Paul love me if I got fat?" I asked myself aloud one night, posing
in front of the mirror in the nude. I extended my stomach a bit, just to
see how I'd look. There truly wasn't much of a tummy there, yet.
"Some men like chubby women," I laughed, pinching a small roll of fat at
my waistline.
The truth was, I knew, that most women would die for my body; I had
slender shoulders and arms that were firm but soft looking. My back was
smooth without blemishes and I could wear bare-shouldered gowns or
backless gowns to great advantage. My body broadened at the hips, giving
way to thighs that narrowed as they reached knees, finding thin lower
legs and slim ankles and feet. My feminine figure was close to flawless,
and now in a fit of pique over a 17 year old boy I was planning to cover
it with layers of fat.
Friday, I was surprised to see Paul already in the classroom as I got
there for last hour; he sat quietly at his desk, pretending to read his
workbook. On my desk, I found a folded piece of notebook paper,
addressed: Miss Enright.
I opened it, and saw it was a hand-written copy of Elizabeth Barrett
Browning's sonnet: "How do I love thee?" Across the top, was written:
"This is dedicated to Miss Enright."
At the bottom was written: "I really wanted to read this to you in
class, but hope you will still enjoy this. I hope you go jogging on
Saturday. Your secret admirer."
Tears formed in my eyes. I dare not look at Paul, sitting there so
innocently in the back. I knew if I looked at him, I'd cry out loud. As
the classroom began to fill with students, my feelings overwhelmed me,
and I asked Amy Smithson, who was always an obedient student, to convene
the class. I asked her to tell them that I had to leave for a few
minutes, and that they should spend a few minutes reading Yeats' "Ode on
a Grecian Urn," which we'd discuss later.
I ran from the room, finding the small teacher's bathroom, just down the
hall, and entered it, bursting into tears. I locked the door and sobbed,
and sobbed and sobbed. It took me a full ten minutes to compose myself.
I was so happy. Yes, I would go jogging on Saturday.
I returned to the classroom, where Amy had successfully gotten the
students to quietly read the assigned poem. I had hoped my eyes were not
too red from my crying, but I braved standing in front of the class.
"Before we discuss the 'Ode' poem," I began, "I think we ought consider
one poem that was not read the other day when you all picked out your
favorite. I had a favorite and I was surprised no one picked it out. It
was my favorite when I was in high school."
"What was that Miss Enright?" Amy asked.
"Well it was a sonnet, and you know sonnets often are written by lovers
to express their feelings. I always wanted some boy to dedicate this
poem to me. But, alas, I never had that honor. This poem is so
beautiful I'm sure most girls would love to hear their boy friend read it
for them."
"That sounds kind of corny, Miss Enright," said Billy Simpson.
"I guess it is, Billy, but I think you'll find your girl friends like
such corny things."
I went to my desk, picking up the paper Paul had left, and said, "I've
got the words to that poem right here. Who'd like to read it?"
Amy raised her hand, and I cut her short: "No, Amy, let's have a boy
read this. He should read it like he's reading it to his girl. OK?
Anyone?"
At first there was no response: "Come, boys, if you read this, you don't
have to identify the girl."
I ignored Paul, who was now raising his hand. No other boys volunteered,
so I had no choice.
"Paul, you want to do this?" his face was red as a beet.
"Yes, Miss Enright."
I handed him the paper, although I bet he knew it by heart. I did, ever
since 11th grade when I was trying, unsuccessfully, to woo Cassie
Wendright.
He took, and I could see his hands trembling. I wondered why he
volunteered, but then realized that the paper showed his crush on me, and
knew he certainly would not want that going into strange hands.
He began, looking down, almost mumbling: "How do I love..."
I interrupted him. "Paul, I don't think your girl would find that very
romantic. Speak up."
He started over, reading:
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."
He finished, getting enthusiastic applause from his classmates. "Who is
she, Paul?" several yelled out.
He returned to his desk, flushed in the face, but smiling to himself. I
was tempted to hug and kiss him right there, but quickly came to Paul's
rescue, saying, "He's not supposed to tell us."
I knew he meant those words for me. I was never more in love in my life.
(To Be Continued)
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