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"Aha, so you're the lucky one," I heard coming from above me.
"Lucky?" I asked, looking up at a smiling thirty something year old woman standing at my elbow.
"Hi, I'm Jill, Jill Cliburn," the woman announced, "English Department... you must be Mrs. Fisher."
"Sarah," I offered.
"Sorry I missed you the other day, I couldn't make the staff meeting," Jill answered.
It was the first day of classes at Hillary Clinton High in Daytona Beach, Florida and I, and many of my new colleagues, were sitting in the staff common room having a coffee after second period.
"Sit, please," I invited.
"Thanks," and then after settling down next to me asked, "Is this your first year teaching?"
"No, Bruno and I, Bruno's my husband... we lived in Syracuse... that's where I went to university. Anyway, I taught the last two years up there."
"Tired of the snow?" Jill asked as another two teachers I'd met earlier sat down at the table.
"No... well, yes of course... but the real reason was Bruno got transferred and..." The four of us continued to talk about the school and the city for minutes before I remembered Jill's original question.
"Why am I lucky anyway?"
"I hear you've got 'The Angel' in your homeroom."
"She does?" the other two asked, clearly interested.
I knew immediately who she meant but still asked, "Angel?" He'd been sitting in the second row next to the window when I'd entered my class at eight forty-five that morning. He was a young god.
"Tall... Long curly blond hair... Beautiful blue eyes... muscles... looks like a prince," Jill enthused. "You get wet about two seconds after seeing him."
"The gorgeous hunk?" I asked. Seeing the three teachers nod I added, "I thought when he introduced himself he was pulling my leg. About his name. He's..."
"He's perfect," Jill finished as the other two nodded their agreement. "And he's finally eighteen now. The thoughts we all have about him are now perfectly legal," she said with a laugh, looking at the other two at the table knowingly.
Months later I wondered whether, if Jill hadn't said what she said next, things wouldn't have turned out differently. But she did say those words.
"Apparently he's hung like a horse too," Jill said with a grin and immediately the image burned itself into my brain — this extraordinarily handsome god-like boy-man walking toward me naked, his thick, long appendage waving proudly in front of him, eager to fill me.
"He's also the smartest guy in math in the school, right up your alley," one of the other two added.
"Math?" I asked as I tried to clear the erotic image from my brain.
"He wrote his math SAT's last year, aced them all," the one called Abbey said.
"In his junior year?"
"Your predecessor, Bob Williams, couldn't keep up with him," the other, Nancy added. "He's like a genius or something. Computers too. Our young god apparently ignored poor Bob all year."
"And what about his..." I started shyly.
"His penis? It's famous," Abbey said laughing.
"The biggest in the school," Jill added, "at least according to our sources. Has been since he was a freshman."
Many people might think that school teachers only talk about academics and other serious topics, but I'd learned in my previous two years that the reality was that we were the biggest gossips in the world.
The goings on of their teenage charges seemed to provide the average high school teacher with a continuing vicarious entertainment that they couldn't stop talking and speculating about. The latest romances, who was sleeping with whom, drug usage, who was cute, who a slut, who they'd like to try, all that and more were the main topics of conversation when we met.
So I wasn't surprised at the gossip my tablemates continued to provide. Over the next ten minutes I got the condensed life story of the student everyone called simply 'The Angel'.
'Best math and science student in school'
'Biggest prick'
'Computer genius'
'Lives in the trailer park across the tracks (the one poor area in our affluent district)'
'Mother dead, an ex-prostitute or crack-head or both'
'Best dressed'
"A loner'
'Father in and out of jail, a gang biker'
'All the cheerleaders wanted him (but none had him?)'
'Worked as a male prostitute'
'Has a motorcycle'
'No one can figure where his money comes from — sells his body?'
"You three are terrible," I finally said as I interrupted the litany of information coming from the three.
"Some of it must be true," Jill said laughing. "But he is a mystery and it's going to be up to you to help resolve some of our questions."
There were only eight students in my introductory calculus class the last period of the day; it was an elective that all but the most serious math student avoided like the plague. My 'angel' of course was there!
His real name was Johnny Angel, and it turned out Mr. Angel didn't think he needed much help from a new and young teacher, especially a female one. He basicly spent his Calculus class and my seminars on advanced math and computer programming in the days that followed reading while ignoring everything that was going on around him.
"Mr. Angel," I finally shouted out at the end of my late day class the second week of the term as he trudged out the door.
"Miss?" he asked as he turned and looked at me as he hovered at the door.
"My name is Mrs. Fisher," I said somewhat crossly as I signaled him to return inside.
"Yes ma'am?" he said as he stood bouncing from foot to foot halfway to my desk.
"Please... sit," I instructed.
"Something wrong?" he asked when he'd finally sat, his eyes darting every two seconds to his watch.
"You don't seem to be willing to contribute to the class," I started, beginning to get pissed off at this little prima donna, even if he was the most handsome boy in school and had the biggest prick.
"I'm too advanced for this Miss... they told me... Mr. Williams, last year... he told me just to sit in class and do my own work. Not to bother the others. You probably wouldn't understand this..." he said, his voice trailing off as he noticed the anger growing behind my eyes.
"Let me see your book," I ordered as I pulled the text from his hands.
"But Miss, you won't understand."
"Do this problem for me," I said after opening the book near the back and finding a page of problems. "On the board."
"It's not like adding two and two," he almost whined when I handed him the chalk. "I haven't really got this far, its..."
"Do your best, everyone says you're the genius," I ordered.
For an hour and a half he worked, at first sullenly, but then as he got engrossed, as he started to recognize I understood what was going on, he became visibly happy, almost voluble as we discussed possible solutions back and forth.
"You're not like Mr. Williams ma'am," he said happily after we'd combined to find a somewhat acceptable approach to solving the problem.
"Can we do this again," he asked eagerly.
"Yes," I said smiling, elated I'd found a student with as much ability and interest as I in math. "But."
"But what?" he said interrupting.
"But I want you to be a more positive influence in class, contribute, help, teach... just because you're smarter than everyone doesn't mean you can't..."
"Okay, okay... now when can we get together again... tomorrow?"
"No, tomorrows Friday... Bruno and I, he's my husband, we have a dinner party"
"You're married?"
"That's why I'm called Mrs. Fisher," I said grinning at this handsome, excited teen in front of me.
"Oh... Well, can't you cancel this dinner?"
God, I was so tempted to say yes but simply nodded no.
"Saturday then?"
"It's the weekend. Don't you have things to do?"
"No."
"Well, maybe Saturday afternoon... I think Bruno's going fishing."
"Noon? What's your address?"
I gave it without even thinking, swept off my feet by his exuberant energy. Then he kissed me when I went to hand him the slip of paper, simply stepped into me and quickly brought his lips to mine, let me feel his moist tongue before he stepped back.
"Thanks ma'am," he said with a cocky little grin on his face.
"You're not supposed to kiss your teacher," I finally sputtered out seconds later, trying to sound officious even as I tried to recover from my surprise.
"Mr. Williams liked it," he answered back sassily, his teenage male arrogance all of a sudden in full view.
"So you're gay," I teased, not willing to let him walk all over me even if I was still shaking.
"Sure... that's why I find you so cute," he teased back. "Yeah, you're built sooo like a boy," he added as he pulled me against him, crushing my full, firm breasts against his hard chest.
"Johnnnnnny!" I cried as my eyes rushed to check the door.
"What's your name?"
"Sarahhh," I whispered as I felt him harden against my stomach. God, the girls hadn't lied about that. It was huge.
He kissed me again quickly on the lips, then released me, then as he moved towards the door, turned and simply said, "Thanks, I'll see you Saturday."
I trembled all the way home.
"Where've you been hon?" Bruno asked when I finally stumbled through the door at six fifteen.
"I had some work after school. I..."
"What's for dinner?"
I had met Bruno early in my senior year at Syracuse. He, fifteen years my senior, had lived next door to me in my off campus apartment that year, a bank manager who'd been rotated into a position as second-in-command for the Syracuse-Buffalo region.
For a twenty-one year old, fourth year university student in 2002 America I was curiously naïve, a serious math major who'd been a computer nerd in high school and had missed the sexual awakening most of my classmates had experienced.
If anyone had bothered to ask me during my high school years I'd have probably described myself as plain or average looking. I dressed accordingly, in black mostly and definitely not sexy. My pert girls breasts might have been considered sexy but they'd lain hidden for years under layers of bulky clothes.
Then suddenly my lanky, or thin, 5'8" body grew hips and high, full breasts during the summer between high school and college. Boys discovered me during my first year in Syracuse, my suddenly mature body all of a sudden a magnet for what seemed like half the males on campus.
My red hair and green eyes, combined with my milky white smooth skin, all the product of my gran's Irish genes, seemed to ignite the male libido in a way that only frightened a still shy virgin.
I dated some that first year, got kissed in lust for the first time, even let an engineering student from Pittsburgh touch my breasts, through my sweater of course, but...
... but I maintained my virginity for two more years, always unsure of this sudden change in my status, this almost magical metamorphosis from awkward teen to desirable woman. For the most part I hid in hard work and my love of math.
Late in third year I finally slept with a boy, a boy chosen less for his sex appeal than the fact he was available as third year was winding down. I was continually horny, and this increasing horniness had started to take a toll on my work. So I just went out and got laid.
Bobby Carson of Utica, New York was the lucky boy, a freshman I'd been assigned to tutor, part of my duties associated with my fellowship grant. He was as surprised as I, and then stunned when I bled my virgin blood on his thrusting prick.
He peppered me with questions when we lay panting after we'd done, "You were a virgin?" and "Why me?" and "Was I okay?" and "Did you like it?" and "Do you want to do it again?"
He wasn't very big, nor a great lover, but those few minutes writhing under him convinced me I'd been a fool to have waited so long. I simply loved the feel of a penis inside of me. I slept with him every night for the last month of term, might have even continued on with him the next year if he hadn't failed out, the victim of too many nights in my bed.
Bruno didn't exactly sweep me off my feet during my senior year but our first tentative hallway meetings slowly evolved into dinners, and then movies, museum visits, football games until one morning I woke up in his bed.
Finally cocked again! We got engaged. Then we married three days after my graduation ceremony the following spring.
I'd sorta drifted into it, impressed I think by the clean cut, serious, well dressed, nice guy who was willing to spend a hundred dollars on a good meal for he and his date. A banker who didn't seem intimidated by a woman who understood math and computers.
Was he good looking? At thirty-six when we met, with his 5'9", 200 pound body and his neat, clean cut appearance, he'd looked younger than he was and compared favorably with my less mature classmates. Now, four years later, having added another twenty-five pounds, mostly around his waist, and with his hairline rapidly receding, he was beginning to look more like my father than my husband.
The sex had seemed fine at first; I really didn't have much to compare it with and I think I'd been so happy to finally have a sex life that I wasn't about to complain.
I found I loved having a penis in me and as our years together had passed my biggest complaint was that we didn't make love often enough. It was only when I started to hang out with the female teachers I worked with that I was finally exposed to sex gossip, something I'd totally missed in my high school years.
Horny wives, swinging, threesomes, gays and lesbians, huge penises, teacher-student sexcapades, all manner of fetishes, these were all worlds I'd somehow missed but was quickly educated about in the common room of Syracuse High.
All that this endless talk and speculation really did to me was to produce a slight dissatisfaction with my sex life, to create a curiosity, a small desire to explore something new. The move to Florida was perhaps the final catalyst I'd needed to finally break out and discover my true sexual identity.
I knew then that Bruno wasn't particularly well endowed, my recent explorations on the internet had exposed me to male genitalia that had made me gasp. His five thin inches increasingly had seemed inadequate to my needs.
Then just this past summer I'd found he had a 'low sperm count', a horrible term that just seemed to underscore his small size. Bruno hadn't ever admitted this diagnosis to me, in fact still maintained my inability to get pregnant must be due to some problem with me.
Our doctor had finally told me after I'd insisted on another battery of tests.
"It's your husband, Mrs. Fisher," he'd confided, unwilling to have me submit to unneeded tests, "he'll probably never be able to father your child."
I suppose it was all the above factors that had made me so susceptible to having an affair, to making poor Bruno the cuckold.
"So how was your day," Bruno asked pleasantly as we ate the pasta and salad I'd thrown together.
"I finally got to talk to the boy genius." I'd already told Bruno about the strange boy who'd already received acceptances for next fall from Princeton and Stanford.
"He's that tall blond kid isn't he? I think I saw him yesterday when I was leaving football practice."
Bruno had two loves in life, fishing and football, and he had always tried to help coach whatever local team would have him. The Clinton High head coach had welcomed him and Bruno spent a couple of hours two or three afternoons a week helping coach our 'Special Teams' units.
"I thought you said he was poor, lived in a trailer park or something?" he added.
"That's what the common room gossip says."
"Shit, he had a pretty fancy new motorcycle for some trailer trash kid. Nice clothes too, dressed like a fag."
"Bruno!"
"Well, how do you explain it?"
"I don't know," I answered; Johnnie's apparent access to money had also intrigued me. "He's also got a three thousand dollar laptop."
"Well he's either selling drugs or sucking cock," Bruno said smugly, "and he looks too much like a fancy boy to be selling drugs."
"He seems so big and strong... he's got a big... I mean he seems very muscular."
"Why doesn't he play ball then? He's got those fag gym pretty-boy muscles, probably can't run a lick."
One thing I knew for certain was that Johnnie was not a homosexual. He exuded a maleness that every female teacher at school recognized and responded to. "The girls... you know, my coworkers, seem pretty sure he likes girls."
"Probably in the closet... I'd still bet he's sucking cock on the side," he said with confidence.
"He's coming over tomorrow afternoon; I promised I'd help him with some problems."
"Ask him, he might admit it to his favorite teacher," he said, closing our discussion of Johnnie for that night.
But it was Johnnie's face I saw later that night as Bruno urgently pushed his little penis into me, his premature ejaculation again preventing me from any chance at having the orgasm I yearned for.
We didn't make love that first Saturday afternoon. Looking back I'm still not sure how I stopped myself from simply jumping him. I had dressed in a simple summer dress for his visit, a thin, ivory colored dress with a relatively conservative, square cut scoop above my breasts.
But although it looked conservative, it was loose enough that as soon as I hunched my shoulders in even a little bit, someone sitting next to me could see most of my breasts, breasts that afternoon that were held up and exposed in a white, lacy demi-bra.
Why didn't he simply take me as we sat with legs touching in front of my desk top computer? He must have felt the trembling in my thighs. I know he repeatedly looked down my top, know he was as sexually excited as I. I could see the huge bulge threatening to explode from his shorts.
I think in retrospect it was just the delight he felt in having finally found somebody who understood and could communicate in the language of mathematics. That he didn't want to jeopardize this for something he could get anywhere. In a way, to him, the math was more important than my body.
Our legs, our arms touched that afternoon, but we never kissed.
"So, is he gay?"
"What?"
"Didn't you ask him?" Bruno demanded.
"No. But he did tell me he had a girlfriend... apparently she's older, she goes to the Community College," I lied.
"Where does he get his money then?"
"He was pretty tightlipped, didn't say."
"I'll bet," Bruno growled as he popped a can of Bud.
On both Tuesday and Thursday afternoon the following week we stayed together after class, working til close to six, one day on calculus problems, the second on a programming problem.
As we worked, our heads just inches apart, the sexual attraction we both felt threatened at any minute to explode. I could smell my need in the air; he, a sexual predator, must have known I was ready, that I was open, that I could be simply taken... he waited.
Johnnie didn't show up for school the next Monday, apparently an extraordinarily strange occurrence. I overheard one of his classmates say it was the first time he'd missed a day in three years, a comment echoed by Jill and a couple of other teachers at lunch.
He didn't show up Tuesday and finally Wednesday, with Johnnie still not there, I headed to the office. There, the secretary, Mrs. Brown, told me she hadn't received any word from Johnnie, but immediately happily furnished me his address when I told her I was willing to check on him during my lunch hour.
It was an ugly place that trailer park, a ten acre tract shoehorned between the highway to the west and the railway tracks to the east. A forlorn, littered place that you'd expect to see in the third world but never in America; a blemish among the beautiful houses of the rest of the area. The Angel residence was at the back, right next to the tracks, a broken down, single wide mobile home that seemed to list precariously on build up cement blocks that tentatively anchored it's four corners.
"Hello, anyone there," I called through the half open door after my repeated knocks had elicited no response from the dim interior.
I almost fell off the wobbling cement block that served as the step up to the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder and a belligerent demand in my ear, "Who the fuck are you lady?"
Turning I found myself facing a giant, a dirty, fat, scowling man who had to be at least 6'5" and three hundred pounds.
"I'm Mrs. Fisher, I'm here," I started before he cut me off.
"Leave me the fuck alone bitch," he hissed, "I don't have to report in til next week."
"I'm not... I'm not your... your whatever," I protested.
"What, you're one of those whores chasing Johnnie?" he then asked rudely as his eyes raked across my body. "Shit, you're a little classier than that little pricks usual fare. Maybe you'd like a man when you're finished with the boy," he said leering, his hand cupping his groin.
"I'M HIS TEACHER, his school teacher," I yelled indignantly at the slob.
"Didn't have teachers like you when I was there... he's in there," he said pointing into the trailer, his interest in me gone.
"Mrs. Fisher!" Johnnie said with a start when I barged through a thin plywood door and stumbled when my knees hit the end of his bed.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to..." I stammered as I took in the small room and Johnnie lying on the bed, obviously naked, only one leg and his genitals covered by the thin sheet. "We were worried at the school... I just wanted to be sure you were alright," I continued to mutter.
"I was sick... I'm okay now... food poisoning or something."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"No, I'm okay... really."
"It stinks in here."
"I've been sick... yesterday... last night... I couldn't get to the toilet," he said motioning to the small trash can in the corner.
"But what about your father?"
"Clem? He's my step-dad... he's been messed up the last couple of days... some bad meth..."
"Do you have clean sheets, a towel?" I demanded as I grabbed the can and started towards the door.
"It's okay Sarah... really, you don't have to."
"Have you eaten today?" When he shook his head no I simply scowled and asked "Do you have any running water in this..."
Clem was perched on a twenty-year old, torn and dirty sofa in the living room when I exited the bedroom, simply gave him the puke filled can as I passed towards the sink.
"What the fuck's this shit," he growled as he contemplated the smelly contents facing him.
"Your son's sick. Don't you care?" I demanded as I moved back to Johnnie's cubbyhole with a pot of hot water, a sponge, and a couple of less than white towels.
I slowly washed him, wiping first the flecks of puke from his face and neck, then the sweat and dirt from his chest and arms. "You're strong... muscled," I said softly as I cleaned the thick muscles of his chest. "And no stomach," I added as I ran the washcloth over his washboard abs.
"I work out some," he said shyly. "You don't have to," he started to add as my hand worked the sheet lower.
It was magnificent, huge and thick, sitting proudly half filled on his golden thigh, then it started to lift, to grow as I washed his thighs, his matted, blond pubic thatch.
"I'm sorry," he groaned as it sprang upward, "I can't stop it."
"Oh Jesus," I couldn't help spitting out as it bounced against my hand on its upward journey. Then regaining my composure, added with an insincere sounding giggle, "Well, I guess you can't be that sick."
He was grinning when I finally finished washing him and looked challengingly into my eyes, proud I'd seen it, doing nothing to cover himself, sensing my excitement, my hunger for him.
"Have you eaten?... no, well I'll go and get you something."
"You don't have to," he protested as I left.
He was still naked when I returned a half hour later, a large bowl of soup, a steaming pot of stew and a roll of French bread in hand. "You should cover yourself in front of me," I admonished as I sat on the edge of his bed and started to ladle the seaming soup into his mouth.
"Sorry," he said between mouthfuls, then pulled his sheet up so it covered about half of his rampant cock, which seconds later grew some more and escaped the feeble attempt to hide it.
I finally stood and told him, "Call me tomorrow... here's my cell number... I want to hear how you are... understand?"
"Yes Sarah... thanks for coming... for everything... for..."
"Just get well. And you and I are going to sit down and talk... about all this," I warned as my hand indicated he whole trailer world around me. Then bent and meant to give him a light peck on his cheek but met his lips when he suddenly turned his head.
He held my head when I tried to jump back, pushed his wet tongue between my lips, held me as our tongues swirled together. I finally pulled myself free, mumbled, "Oh God," then rushed from the room, my nipples aching, my vagina tingling.
I delivered another meal the next day and found him ninety-nine per cent better, the color almost completely back in his tanned skin. But he was still proudly naked... hard... posing... I said nothing while I fed him, but he didn't miss the constant glances I stole of his sex. It made Bruno's look like a baby's.
He finally came back to school Friday.
"What are you doing tomorrow," he asked at the end of class.
"I'm busy."
"But I've missed a week's work. What about Sunday?"
"I can't. Not in the morning anyway."
"I'll come at noon then," he almost ordered and then turned and left the class.
"Why do you live there? What's going on?" I blurted out seconds after we'd sat down to lunch Sunday.
"What do you mean?"
"You have a fancy laptop, dress well, Bruno says your motorcycle's worth $10,000. You're living in a hovel. I don't understand."
"It's complicated," Johnnie said stalling.
"Bruno thinks you're sleeping with rich, gay men."
"WHAT! I'm not a homo... is he crazy?"
"I know you aren't," I answered looking right into his eyes. "You're a man."
"Well... that's okay then," he said, and then after moments of silence added, "I play the market."
"Huh?"
"The stock market. I trade. Its all mathematics... don't you invest?"
"Bruno handles our investments, he's the banker."
"I'll teach you," he laughed.
He went on to tell me an abbreviated story of his life. His mom had died when he was eight, leaving Johnnie in the care of his step-dad Clem. Clem had apparently had at least a couple of run-ins with the law, one which had produced a six month layover in jail, the other an eighteen month stretch upstate.
"He's okay really," Johnnie said.
"But who took care of you?"
"It was okay, I got by," he said shrugging. "Neighbors, women... they like me."
He'd been a runner for the drug boys when he was between ten and fifteen, seemingly a ritual every young boy in the area was expected to undergo. He'd lived with prostitutes who worked the trailer park.
"The cops can't do much to a fourteen year old," he explained. "Just pick you up and a couple of hours later they have to let you go."
Even at that age he was a prodigy at school and so apparently spent his days studying and running drugs, his nights often in the arms of well worn whores. They taught him.
"My god," I finally interrupted, "I never even had a date in high school, you were sleeping with whores."
"Bullshit!... You must have had boyfriends, men who wanted you."
"I was a late developer."
"You're beautiful... so sexy."
"Not then."
"If you had been in my class you wouldn't have lasted a week," he bragged.
"All the teachers say you don't even have a girlfriend, haven't slept with any of your pretty classmates," I countered.
"Like you said... I'm a man; they're just young girls, they don't interest me... I like women."
"Like me?"
"You're a teacher... married... you're classy, different," he stalled, his eyes trying to read me, seemingly unwilling to take the final step. Was I his mathematics equal or just another whore to fuck?
We were circling each other, my need obvious. "So, I guess we should just go and do some work... I thought maybe you were someone else... a man would just take," I challenged softly as I leaned my rear back against the dining room table, "a man who'd make me his slave, his plaything... his..."
I didn't finish as he crushed me against him, gasped as he tore the dress from my body.
"You're not wearing any underwear?" he questioned as he lifted me and then dropped me naked on the cool polished surface of the Cuban mahogany table.
"I was hoping," I murmured as I watched him as he pulled his shirt over his head, then tried to reach for his belt before he pushed me back, stared as he stood between my hanging legs and pulled his jeans off.
Latisha
- 01.04.2022
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