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The Student - Chapter 1 free porn video
The Student
by Boredsitting
Chapter 1 - How it all went down
The news drones through the television in my dark apartment flashing
light on the walls. Newscasters, who very seldom leave the safety of
their desk to fill our airwaves with half-truths and agendas, weave
salacious tales of a poor, innocent student being accosted some mean,
arrogant authoritarian. The story is captivating, surely, but it is
also untrue. The student was not innocent. She was very far from
innocent. She knew what she was doing, and spent quite a bit of time
preparing for her "accosting" by the mean, old teacher. Does that sound
innocent? She was angry that her grades dropped. Instead of taking the
low grades for what they were, her poor excuse of a work ethic, she
chose to attack the source of the grading - me. Her friends performed
their roles well as false witnesses and rumor mills. I didn't do
anything with her, I swear. She came onto me. She's the one who came
to me and suggested that we do things together. I refused. No! You
need to stay away from me.
But that wasn't enough. The plan was already put into place. Her naive
parents and anxious school administrators soon came looking for blood
the moment that she told them what I "did". Her witnesses corroborated
with the police an amazing story so well put-together that even the
slickest defense attorney would slight. It didn't matter that I was the
victim. The teacher is always the predator. Always! I had no defense.
There was no one who would vouch for me or my whereabouts. I was a
nobody. I was a nobody with the target on my back, and the vicious
little bitch had her finger on the trigger.
They take my entire life savings, property, and soul to pay for whatever
the expenses the judge made up. My wife takes the children to her
parents out of state to lay low until the drama fades. She doesn't
believe me. She looks at me with those piercing, judgmental eyes. This
evisceration is too much for her to stand, and she escapes with my most
valued possessions- our two children.
So, I sit alone on my couch listening to the talking heads trying to
piece together the stories of teachers abusing their powers with
children. My right hand falls off of the whiskey bottle and slams onto
the arm table to my right. Intoxication is of little relief from the
massacre my reputation is suffering from on the television. The only
light in the room, the television, flickers its light to a soulless,
shell of a man alone in his living room. My eyes drift down from the
haze to see my loaded pistol on the coffee table ahead. I gave these
children twenty years of my life so that they could reach their dreams.
Seventy hours a week. Meetings. Conferences. Endless bloodletting at
the hands of disassociated parents and clueless administrators. Twenty
years I served my town. Half of my life! Twenty years is nothing, I
guess. I donated half of my life only to be tarred and feathered on
television for demanding that a child work to her fullest potential.
Tough break. The reality is that she will probably do well in life.
She only needed me as a ritual sacrifice. No doubt there were others
before me. No doubt that there will be more. The pistol lays still
begging me to put it to use. The bottle harkens louder, so I paw at it
first. Two attempts to grab the dancing target were unsuccessful, but
the third. Oh, the third attempt worked. Without any grace I throw the
bottle upended over my head and let the glorious amber poison burn away
my pain. The spinning room signals my defeat while I slip into
oblivion.
Rrrring!
Rrrring!
Turn that blasted noisemaker off, I scream in my head then grimace at
the loud screaming I did in my head. It was much too loud. Good, now
back to blessed sleep.
Rrrring!
Rrrring!
Like an angry lion roused from his sleep, I stumble out of the couch
knocking bottles and a lamp onto the floor with a cacophony of clinks
and smashes. Blinding sunlight illuminates everything in the room into
a white glowing mess. My eyes reflexively force themselves shut to
avoid blindness. Where is it?
Rrrring!
Rrrring!
The incessant ringing sends convulses of pain and spasms throughout my
body and head. My vision dims from the headache it prompts. Where is
it? Where is that noise maker? I search around the room trying to find
the source of the ringing. There, on the wall! I spy it as if I've
never seen in this house before. The delirium of the alcohol and
restless sleep has made me a stranger in my own living room. The phone
has been on this office wall for decades, but my mind acts as if it has
just landed from a three-year migration onto my wall. Charging at it, I
snatch the receiver up and bark into it, "What do ya want?" I verbally
attack the caller with all the anger and vitriol my slurred voice can
sling.
"Mr. White, I presume," an articulate, mannered voice on the other end
calmly replies. I repeat myself with slurred contempt. "I assume you
are not busy at the moment," he says as if asking a question. "I'm not
talking to the media. You bastards have ruined me. I..." "Mr. White,
I'm not the media, nor am I anyone who cares about your current crisis,"
he interrupts. "I am calling you with a proposition. Would you care to
hear it?"
Proposition? This bastard is trolling me in the middle of the worst
week of my life. All of my pent-up anger and delirium explodes into the
mouthpiece of the telephone as I curse him out. I rant belligerently
about how little I think of him and his proposal. I know that he hasn't
given it to me, but that's no reason to come to me in my current state
of affairs and try to offer me anything. "Bring me back my life!" I
tearfully scream. "Bring me back my family! Make this all go away."
By now I'm sobbing. I hold the receiver just inches from my face with
white knuckles and strained tears as I crouch down into the corner of
the room.
"I may not be able to solve your personal issues, but I can give you a
chance to continue teaching." The voice stops as if waiting for a
response. Teaching is why I'm here in the first place. Why would I
want to go back to that cursed profession? There's nothing there for me
anymore. They've taken my love for teaching when they threw me into the
sacrificial pyre of public discourse. Hell, no! I don't want to step
foot into another school for the rest of my life. Eyeing the gun on the
coffee table I admit that it may not be that much more.
"I have a child who needs your help. He has some special needs, so I
knew that you would be the best choice. You used to work with students
with special needs, did you not?" He was only half correct. I worked
with at-risk children who usually brought along a lot of emotional and
psychological baggage. They were children who needed an individual who
looked past their issues and problems to see who they were inside.
Children need love. Sometimes they don't know how to ask for it,
though. Teachers would find reasons to kick them out of their
homerooms. These children didn't fit into the normal scope of classroom
education, so I would be dispatched to serve the child in lieu of the
normal teacher. Honestly, I prefer the one-on-one relationships. They
were no different than any other kiddo. They had feelings, opinions,
crushes. They just were difficult to work with.
After a deep breath, I respond, "Yes."
"I will pay you what you would be making from the school to instruct a
child in my care. No one knows of your misfortunes here, so you are
safe from any...problems...that may come from it." The voice flows like
syrup through the earpiece. Its haughty, sophisticated accent teases
the possibility of working with some rich prep-school, drop-out brat. I
eye the gun on the table again. There's another way out, I say to
myself. Maybe it's the dire straits my life has led to, but at the
moment I need a break. I need some bone thrown my way, and if some
spoiled brat is a means to that end then so be it. I can always bring
the gun if it doesn't work out. "I see that you have come to your
senses, Mr. White. I will send for someone to pick you up in the
morning," and he hung up. This wall if comfortable. I'll just stay
here for a second to recover.
The doorbell startles me awake. I'm on the floor with the telephone
receiver in my hand. A muffled repeating alarm sounds from the phone
alerting me that I never hung the phone up. It'll go away, I tell
myself. Whoever it is will just go away. I slip off to sleep again.
Again, the doorbell wakes me up. "Mr. White?" a male voice calls from
the other side. "Mr. White? I've been sent to collect you." He rings
the doorbell again. On shaky legs I gather my strength to stand by
pulling up on the countertop. The phone falls with a clunk as I use all
of my strength to stand. A retched rot is eating away at my gut
signaling a warning to find a receptacle quickly. If my mind wasn't
being pounded on by a nasty hangover, then I would have thought to find
the toilet. However, the pain is clouding my judgment, so this sink
will do just fine. I vomit. Most of it splashes into the sink soaking
my front and surrounding countertop with yellowish bile. I huff as a
sprinter does after running a race. Both arms holding me to the counter
and my legs spread out to counter the waves of convulsions that
accompany the physical punishment for trying to remove last night's
emotional punishment. Finally, I gain control of my insides, and
realize that there's someone at the door and my phone is still off of
the hook. After reaching down to grab the phone, I hang it up. Another
door bell. "Mr. White?" the voice calls again. I've been retching up
my insides for some time now, and this man is still calling for me
calmly. I'm surprised that he is still there. "Mr. White? We called
last night. You said that you would come with me to a teaching
assignment. Remember? You spoke to Mr. Ordonne last night. Mr. White?
Do I need to help you, sir?"
I stumble to the doorway, undo the series of latches and locks, and open
it with a jerk. A proper young man in a blue suit stands in front of me
with a hand on the doorbell button. He jumps a little at my abrupt
opening of the door. "Please sir. May I help you to the car?" I
inquires with all of the professionalism a gentleman can muster. He's
tall and skinny. The suit makes him look like he's an intern or dressed
in his father's business suit. He looks proper, but much too young to
have really earned it. "Mr. White, sir? I've been told that you will
only need a suitcase with a week's change of clothes. Do you need
assistance as you acquire it?" He genuinely looks willing to help and I
vaguely remember a conversation on the phone last night, so I let him
in. From the doorway, the fresh air reminds me of last night's
alcoholic fit. It smells as if a fraternity held a kegger, and I'm
covered in fresh vomit and moist alcohol-laced clothes. Hell, I haven't
had the courtesy to wipe my mouth of the lingering vomit.
A flash from the corner of my eye quickly reminds me of the reason of my
alcoholic episode last night. A photographer across the courtyard is
making his week's pay by taking pictures of my visitor and me. No
doubt, this will show up on this morning's news.
We quickly put together a hodge-podge assortment of clothes and suits
for me to wear. The guy really didn't mention how long my assignment
was, so I just took this courier's word for gospel. As we left, I
stealthfully stashed the pistol from the coffee table into my bag. It
may come in useful if all of this assignment stuff doesn't pan out.
Chapter 2 - The stranger in a stranger place
Tammi
- 21.06.2021
- 20
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