For an A (M/F teens) By Rzrsej Ok, let’s start with a dose of reality. Teachers - ALL teachers - think about their students in sexual terms. Well, ok, so maybe not elementary teachers, though even then you never know just what spins someone’s bottle. Certainly from high school on up, teachers fantasize about their students, imagine them naked, go home and masturbate about the. Of course, it’s only the odd instance of a teacher that actually acts on such thoughts. And only the real sick ones that use their power and position to force themselves on to students because they have the power and position to do so. Sure, you sit in class and notice the girl who forgets to cross her legs when she’s wearing that skirt that is technically too short to even have on at school but which you haven’t the heart to send her home to change out of. But that’s as far as it goes. You’re careful to look when no one will notice, you don’t stare, and you go home at night with it burned into your retina, but that’s where it ends. Probably the only real downside for anyone, is in that you spend a lot of your time hornier than hell with nothing really you can do about it. I guess that’s how this all got started. I teach college, freshman composition specifically, and there must be some unspoken rule that being away from home, loosed from the restrictive environment of high school, means wearing as little as socially acceptable to classes. And often, maybe less than what is socially acceptable. Maybe it’s something about saving money on laundry. Or an unwillingness to go to the trouble of actually dressing for the 8 am class. Whatever it is, I stood in front of my class on Friday afternoon, and how could I help but have a stiff cock. Ranged before me on the front row, as I sat on the edge of my desk and tried to talk about symbolism in Trifles: Katrina, the hypervocal airhead, missing the top two buttons of the blue dress shirt she was wearing, which showed plenty of cleavage, and the fourth button as well, allowing for a good view of her white belly. Rachel, a dark, tan girl, struggling to be beautiful, but stuck with average, wearing low slung jeans that when she stands up to pass up her paper reveals the curve of her abdomen and suggests what lies below. Jenna, a perky dishwater blonde who, when she leans up to talk to the rest of her group members reveals a good deal of black lacy panties and just the barest curve of her ass. And all of that is beside the less obvious temptations: the leg crossed with bare foot dangling it’s flip flop carelessly by one polished toe; the cute smiles at your jokes; the sleepy eyes that you know only just minutes before opened in a warm, cozy bed. As always, though, I was under control, all non-chalant charm and academically focused facade. The truth was, that about the only girl in the class who never really let me get my motor running was a girl named Casey, who usually sat against the right wall, about midway between the front and back of the room. Not to say Casey wasn’t a looker. Quite the opposite. She was by far the most stunning girl I’d ever taught. Beautiful blonde hair falling down her back, gorgeous big eyes, and clearly a shapely body, for all she ever let me see it. No, Casey was always buttoned up, together, classy looking. Never a sandal. Never a t-shirt, with the lines of her bra outlined beneath. Never anything but the most studious look of concentration on her face. She was the picture of virginity, conservativeness, and reserve. I might not have noticed her at all. Except that, despite what you may think from what I’ve said so far, I take teaching seriously. Sure, I’m letting you in on my little secret fantasy world, the same fantasy world we all have, and we all hide from those around us. The business man who is secretly a cross-dresser, the Sunday school teacher who secretly pines for one of the boys she teaches about chastity each week, the art historian who each night jerks off to classic paintings of plump Reubenesque angels. We all have these secret yearnings, but for most of us they don’t dominate our existences. They are just there, making life that much more exciting, that much more mysterious. And I’m no different. I work hard at what I do, spending hours preparing lesson plans, thinking about how to reach this or that student, obsessing over just what comment will best help someone improve their paper. Which is how I came to notice Casey in particular. In class, she was generally the first to speak, and the one who had most obviously read and fully understood the assignments. But we were four papers into the semester, and so far she had done nothing but fail. The content was never all that terrible. Typically, in fact, she had some very insightful comments to make. It was her grammar that was nothing short of hideous. With each and every paper, things seemed to get worse. I had made appointments for her at the writing center to work on one major error after another, but nothing seemed to take. Honestly, I had considered simply overlooking the grammar and grading her strictly on her content, which would have assured her of at least B’s. But every time I went to do it, somehow I just couldn’t. I had done everything I could to help. She knew that I was available right after class for office hours, I’d sent her to the writing center, I’d recommended exercises in the book: I had done my part. And so when it came down to it, with each paper, I would consider looking the other way, and in the end would be forced to edit fail her work. Four edit failures out of four. I was disappointed that I hadn’t been able to reach her, but still, sometimes you just have to recognize that some get away. I was realizing that this would be one of those. And despite all my attempts to help, she had never even come to my office to discuss her grade. Which is why I was so surprised when she knocked on my door after class that Friday. My horniness had begun to fade a bit, as I filed away the lesson that I had just given and the sign in sheet. I was typing up a worksheet for the following Monday, when I heard the soft knock and turned to see her. She wore a pair of jeans, loafers with thick wool socks, and a grey sweater. And she looked at me with a shy face, as though she was afraid she might be interrupting. “Hi, Casey,” I said, giving her my biggest smile, hoping that maybe she had come for help and that it wouldn’t be too late to try to salvage her semester. “Sit down.” I gestured to the chair beside my desk. “Hi, Mr. Adkins,” she said quietly, but with that same shy smile. “I came to talk about my last paper.” Saying this, she looked down at her lap. “Well, that’s fine. Do you have it with you? Why don’t we take a look at some of the specific things that you missed, see where that gets us?” Still looking down at her lap, she said, “Well, ok,” and bent down to open her backpack. She rummaged nervously through her bag, pulling out this and that folder, and flipping through papers until she finally found her essay. As she pulled it up though, she looked up at me with eyes a little pleading. “Mr. Adkins. Could we close the door? I’m just a little embarrassed. I mean, I know my grade’s so bad. And I just thought maybe this could be more . . . well . . . private.” I had never had a student ask me this before, but immediately I understood. Students can be sensitive about their grades, and from the way Casey dressed and acted, I had a sense that she wasn’t used to making these kinds of grades. It had to be tough on her. I closed the door. Sitting back down, I reached for my pen, gathering myself to give the best advice I could on correcting her problems, trying to organize in my own mind what I thought we might look at first, what would be most helpful. With the paper in front of her on my desk though, she held her hands still in her lap and looked down at her hands again. “I know my grade’s really bad.” “Well, I mean, yes, that’s true,” I fumbled. I always hate to tell a student straight out that they are in a hopeless situation. It only makes them less likely to true. “But,” I continued, “even if you aren’t able to pull things out this semester, I think that it would be a great help if you put as much effort as you can into these last couple of weeks, sort of build a foundation for next semester.” “Well, that’s just it, Mr. Adkins,” she returned after a moment, “I just can’t fail this class. I mean, you don’t understand. My parents would kill me. I mean, I’ve never made anything but A’s.” “Well, I can understand that,” I offered, “but college is a different environment, and sometimes it takes a semester or two to adjust to things. I have no doubt that you are smart. It’s just a matter of adjusting.” “But I just can’t get an F. I just can’t.” I didn’t know what to say. It’s a situation I’d been in before, and I never know what to say. There was silence for a moment. “Isn’t there something I could do? I mean, something to bring up my grade?” “Well, I’m sorry Casey, but you know my policy on extra credit. I feel like it’s important to work to improve your class work, not use extra credit to get around it.” “Well, I wasn’t really thinking about extra credit,” she said, and at this she looked up from her lap suddenly, her eyes looking directly into mine. I was thrown for a moment, confused by the turn things had taken, and unsure of her meaning. And I said so. “I’m not sure what you mean, exactly. I mean, I don’t think I can allow re-writes . . .” “What about this?” she said then, lifting her sweater suddenly to her neck and revealing first that she was not wearing a bra, and secondly a pair of the most beautiful breasts I had ever seen. They were light brown, full and round with quarter sized nipples that stood out hard and firm. When my eyes came up from looking at her tits, I could see her stare still fixed on me, her face a kind of mixture, the kind of look a little girl gives you when they want something, a pleading, though not so strong. She dropped her sweater than, and in an instant, I could feel myself flush, more confusion coming over me over what I might do, and a split second of relief that maybe this was a kind of joke, only in the next instant, she had taken the hem of the sweater which had fallen to her waist, and pulled the entire thing over her head and dropped it on the floor. She sat in the chair in front of me naked from the waist up, her neck sloping gently down to her books, her hair falling gently onto her shoulders. “I’ll do anything Mr. Adkins. Anything.” And her big eyes still fixed me. “Casey, I . . .” and I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. I was nervous in the extreme. My glance fell automatically on the door, and as though she read my thoughts, she got up from her chair and stood before the door, her hand behind her turning the lock. “I’m not just talking about a blowjob, Mr. Adkins. I mean,” and she said it a little nervously, and for a moment, I realized that even though she stood in front of me with her tits in my face, moving ever closer, within reach of my hands now, that she was genuinely nervous, scared, “I’ll fuck you. If you’ll give me a good grade.” And the way she said “fuck.” I could tell she hadn’t ever said it before. “But please. I’ve got to get a good grade.” She sat in my lap now, sideways, with her dangling to one side, her face to mine, and her hand went to my crotch, her palm pressing against my cock through the fabric of my pants. And then, bending down, she opened her mouth and kissed me, warm and wet, her tongue slithering wetly into my mouth. And what could I do but return her kiss? What could I do be feel her hand moving forcefully over my cock? What could I do but feel her breasts bare against my arm. And then she said, quietly, and kind of pleadingly, “Will you give me a good grade? If I funk you?” And I looked at her dead in the eyes, and her head cocked to one side, waiting, and all I could say was, “yes.” She kissed me again, then, deeper, as if my assent had been all she was waiting for. I sat there, still a little stunned, as she took her hand and ran it through my hair, our tongues rubbing over one another, her tongue probing the roof of my mouth, my teeth, my cheek. Her hand came down from my hair then, and as we continued to kiss, our lips closing and opening again to one another’s breath, she reached down and took my hand in hers. Then, she placed my hand over her breast, her own hand on top of it, the two of us massaging, my fingers pinching the stiffness of her nipple, rolling it gently between my thumb and index finger. She broke the kiss then, and taking my head in both her hands, pressed my mouth to the base of her neck. I kissed her then, my tongue darting out, leaving a trail of my own spit from her neck to the place between her breasts, where I buried my head as she pressed her breasts together around my face. I breathed in the sweet smell of her flesh, my mouth open wide and pressed against her skin. My mouth moved to her right breast, going wide to take in the nipple and as much of her breast as it could, then closing, so just my lips gripped her nipple, no teeth, and then my tongue swirled about it and slid over to her left breast, where my teeth teased the nipple there, biting lightly as her fingers continued to stroke my hair. She stood up then, her eyes still locked on mine, never saying a word. Her feet slipped gently out of her shoes, and she unzipped her jeans. Using her feet, she pulled first one sock than the other from her foot in a girlish way, and then slowly wiggled her hips as her hands pushed her jeans over them and down to the floor. Stepping out of them, she stood there in front of me a black thong barely covering her pussy, the outline of her lips in fact pressing against the fabric. Her hands reached up, her back arched, and she pulled her hair up to the top of her head, teasing, her breasts pulling out from her body, her already erect nipples standing out further. Then, she turned, her back still arched, so that her back was to me, and then she placed her hands on the door, moved her feet slightly apart, and pressed her ass towards me, the cheeks displayed completely before me, a tiny black strip running between them, separating, moving from her waist down to her groin. Standing up, and putting her weight on a on one foot, cocking her waist to one side, she slowly slipped the scant fabric from where it had gripped her waist, until it slid to her thighs and feel easily to the floor. Turning then, I could see her pussy, completely hairless and bald, the lips pouting and meaty. Still looking me in the eye, her right hand moved down to her cunt, cupping it, and I could see her middle finger go just a tiny way inside. And then, she brought her hand back to up, placing her fingers in her mouth. She moved to me now, my eyes taking her all in, her cute feet, the curve of her legs, her firm thighs, her waist, her firm belly, her pendulous breasts and her soft luscious lips. She knelt then, her knees on her sweater where it lay discarded on the floor. Taking her eyes away from mine then, she reached out and unbuttoned and unzipped my own pants, where my penis clearly bulged. I lifted my hips to help her, and in one movement, she pulled down pants and underwear to where the rested at my thighs. Taking my cock in her hand then, she engulfed the whole thing without prelude, her mouth taking me in deeply, my entire cock disappearing. And just as quickly she brought her mouth back up, to where only the head was encircled by her lips, sucking lightly, and then immediately back down. She did this three times in quick succession, her hand holding the shaft firmly and going up and down as her mouth did the same. Then, her mouth was off of me, and her tongue flicked lightly around the shaft, working upwards and swirling itself around and into the whole at the top. With her hand holding me firmly, her mouth went to my balls, sucking gently, taking on and then the other into the warm wet of her mouth. Then, using the flat of her tongue, and starting at the very base of my balls, she licked slowly up, until her mouth again engulfed my cock. There she stayed for a time, working my cock as though her mouth were a pussy and I were fucking it. After a time, she looked up, a question on her face. “Do you want to do me? I mean, lick me?” and I was reminded again that this was something she had never done, this whole seduction. “I mean, you don’t have to. I’m wet. We can just fuck if you want.” I said nothing. But standing up, I lifted her lightly and laid her on my desk, her legs high in the air. Kneeling down myself, I buried my head in her pussy, drinking ever drop of moisture around her lips, and leaving the water from my own mouth about her. I bit lightly on her thighs, and then licked where I had bitten as though to sooth away the tiny pains. I put my tongue deep, deep inside her, pushing it as far as it would go into her pussy. My thumb moved to her clit, rubbing it, making it harder and stand out, and then, as my mouth continued to rove around her thighs, her belly, my thumb moved inside of her, pressing up, against the roof of her pussy, feeling the way it curved upwards, rubbing against the walls. Taking two fingers, I inserted them inside of her, the fingertips pointing upwards, and rubbed still more, rubbing against the walls. My hand held her then, my fingers pressing from within, my thumb pressing from outside, on her clit. Removing my hand, I moved my face back down to her cunt, my tongue lapping her, unable to get enough of her taste and smell. My tongue flicked around her clit. I moved my tongue down to her ass, putting just the tip in her crack and licking slowly all the way up, parting the pussy lips sideways as I licked, and coming back to the clit. It was standing out now, and I could feel her beginning to come, her body beginning to spasm and buck beneath my tongue. Putting a finger inside of her, and taking her clit in my mouth, I began to suck, holding it tightly between my lips as her body writhed. She lay there limp for a moment, on my desk. And I simply looked at her, at the gleaming wet spot of her pussy. She got up then, her feet cold on the bare tile and on tiptoe a bit. Taking hold of my cock in one hand, with her other hand, she lowered me gently back down onto my chair. Moving forward then, she sat astride me, her knees beside my hips, her feet upturned at the edge of the chair. She leaned forward and pressed her breasts against my shirt, her nipples soft protrusions against the buttons. Her mouth leaned forward and kissed me, and moving herself up ever so slightly, bending her knees so she was just a little higher, she took my cock and positioned it just at the entrance to her pussy. Then, easing down slowly, I was inside of her, her lips pressed around my cock. She moved slowly her hips up and down, the bare skin of her pussy tight and tighter against me. Her breasts moved up and down against my chest, and her mouth kissed and then moved away, kissed and then moved away. My hands roved at her waist, feeling just at the top of her ass, and then up her back, holding both her breasts, and pressing against her belly. She reached down and pulled apart the lips of her cunt even further, so that I could see my cock going in and out of her, my dark hair against her bare stomach. I could feel my spit on her cunt, wet on my balls, and her spit that had been on my cock no slicking the inside of her cunt, lubricating, mixing with her own juices. She moved faster now, bouncing almost, as I for my part pushed my cock, rocked my hips, trying to push every bit of myself into her. I could see that she wanted to scream, could hear her breath heavy, a kind of panting, and inside, could feel her pussy contracting against my cock. Reaching my hand down, I rubbed her clit with my thumb, hard and fast. She came then, an explosion that felt like it had put my cock in a vice grip, her legs clamping against my waist tight, and her body pressed hard against my chest, her mouth finding my neck. Her hold body was contracted. I moved then, ever so slightly, and the pressure, and the sheer exhilaration of it all was more than I could stand. I shot my sperm deep into her belly, my balls pressed up against her ass, my cock buried as deep as it would go, the sperm shooting up from deep in my groin to deep in her womb. We stayed like that for a few minutes more. Both of us feeling the waves of our orgasms. She stood up at last, and reaching down, pulled up my pants and fastened them back around my waist. The put on her own clothes then, not shy, not hurried, as though she were putting them on in the morning the same as she always did. I watched little by little as her beautiful body slowly disappeared with not a little bit of regret that it would be the last time I would see it. She had truly been the most stunning girl I had ever seen. Just as she pulled up her panties, though, I had seen a drop of my come drip slowly out of her pussy and onto the fabric of her thong, which she pulled back into place, her pussy lips again pressing the fabric. She gathered her things then, putting her paper back in her bag, and zipping it closed. Her hands ruffled her hair, putting it back into place. The she leaned down to me, and kissed me lightly on the cheek, whispering in my ear, “Thanks for the A.” All I could manage was, “You’re welcome,” and she was out the door and down the hall. It was the next afternoon, and I had been unable to get her out of my thoughts. She had been utterly intoxicating, and it was an experience I knew I would not soon forget. I wondered, indeed, how I would deal with seeing her again on class on Monday. I had been for a long run, trying to replace my the horny racing of my heart with an athletic racing of my heart. I stopped on the way in to check my mail. There was only one piece of mail in it. A plain envelope without return address. Curious, I carried it inside and sat at my desk to open it. Inside were several sheets of typing paper. Looking closer, I realized that it was Casey’s paper in fact. Even at a glance, I could tell, though, that it was different. This one was without the grammatical errors. In fact, there wasn’t a single error in the entire thing. It was a near perfect paper, and certainly worth an “A.” It was then I thought to look at the envelope. I sat there for several long moments, just thinking, trying to catch my breath and sort out my confused emotions. The postmark was clear and distinct and it was also very obviously a date BEFORE the papers had been due. The whole thing had been a setup. All the edit failures, all the trips to the writing center, all a game. I called her up that night, and she confessed it all. Too shy to approach me, she had come up with this plan to seduce me. I laughed and told her it had worked only too well. The next morning, and every morning since, I’ve been able to watch her dress, just as I did that day in my office.