The following is shorter than any of my previous stories, except 
three, but it seems to me long enough. 




                           LESSONS

                             by

                         C. Lakewood



    It was a fine, sunny day in early March.  Winter's grip had 
loosened, and soon enough there'd be gentle rains, warm breezes, 
and greenery.  Eventually, the spring semester would be over.  

    But Sasha Cooper was conflicted.  Oh, spring could be charming 
in its way -- the scenery and the weather -- but, to her, the end 
of the school year signaled not a re-birth, but a three-month 
stagnation, until the autumn brought forth its promise once again.
    
    She sighed and gazed dreamily out the window of her university 
classroom, her mind drifting back nearly fifteen years, remembering 
her pivotal senior year in high school -- and her English teacher,
Julia Windom....

		******************************

    She and Ms. Windom met almost every day after school in the 
teacher's stylish apartment, where Sasha received special 
instruction in advanced composition.  At first it was only that, 
and she wrote sitting at a salvaged student desk in her school 
uniform.  But, within a few sessions, she was working at the desk 
naked, while Ms. Windom stalked back and forth, making editorial 
comments and punctuating them by swishing a punishment cane through 
the air -- or occasionally even caressing the girl's bare body here 
and there with the cane.  By the end of each "tutorial," Sasha 
would be sitting stiffly erect, her shoulders well back (presenting 
her prominent nipples) and her knees spread widely apart (exposing 
her eager, wet cunt).   

    These sessions were themselves exciting to Sasha -- indeed, as 
exciting as the writing assignments she was being given.

    And, in this way, with Ms. Windom as her mentor, Sasha became 
a pornographer. 

    Not at first, of course.  In the beginning, she wrote simple, 
over-heated, teen-age romances, but, gradually, as she lost her 
clothing privileges piece by piece (punishment for errors in 
grammar and style -- and for some things as trivial as poor 
penmanship), the topics became increasingly salacious.  When she 
had no more clothing to lose, she was caned for her mistakes.  
These were not proper canings, however, or she could never have 
tolerated so many, so often.  They were relatively mild and were 
intended more to humiliate than to inflict pain.  (Sasha later 
looked back on them with nostalgia.)  

    By New Year's, Sasha was completely obsessed with the 
experience.  Partly from a desire to please her mentor and 
partly from sheer pride in her craftsmanship, she was 
constantly fantasizing all sorts of perverted scenarios 
that she could later spin into compelling stories.  

    As a result, she became an accomplished writer...and her 
teacher was certainly well pleased in the process. 

    The lessons continued during the second semester, and Ms. 
Windom always spent some of their time together masturbating 
(gently, in order to prolong it), and Sasha, correspondingly, 
came to relish the smell of hot cunt...her teacher's and her own.    

    During the last few weeks before summer vacation, she also 
learned what Ms. Windom TASTED like.  Each day, after her caning, 
she spent half an hour with her head under her teacher's skirt, 
learning how to lick cunt....

		******************************

    Then the bell rang, bringing Sasha back to the present and 
calling her freshman English class to order.  She had the 
homework passed to the front, collected, and placed on her desk. 

    "Now, open your books to page 346, read Browning's 'Andrea del 
Sarto....'"  

    Cute little Louise Bittner murmured, in an undertone just loud 
enough for the teacher to hear (as bright students have been doing 
since perhaps the days of Socrates), "The faultless painter...."

    Sasha fixed her with a penetrating look and said, "CALLED.  The 
line is: 'Called the Faultless Painter.'"  Louise blushed at the 
reproof and wriggled at the attention.

    "Anyway, class, read it and take a few minutes to think about 
it.  Then we'll discuss it."  

    She smiled inwardly.  "They just might have a random thought or 
two about that poem," she said to herself.  "Maybe I should have 
assigned part of 'Paracelsus' and really screwed them over."  Her 
mood shifted.  "Most of them nowadays -- witlings or oafs -- don't 
belong in college."  She sighed.  "But there's always a few...."

    As she was squaring up the blue books, she spied what appeared 
at first to be the corner of a loose page.  It turned out to be a 
sheet of notebook paper, written on both sides, folded once, and 
sloppily inserted between two blue books.  

    It was pornographic, of course. 

    And she was the central character.

    The handwriting was, to her practiced eye, unmistakable.  

    "Melanie Martin, please see me after class," she said crisply.

		******************************

    Some minutes later, she looked up.  "Okay, class...I think 
you've all had enough time.  Let's get to it.  First, you should 
know that Andrea del Sarto was a Florentine who lived...um...from 
1486 to 1530, and he was indeed an exceptionally fine painter.  In 
Browning's poem, he is talking to his beautiful and treacherous 
wife -- for whom he beggered his parents and stole money from the 
King of France....  And, all the while, she was unfaithful to him, 
of course."  She grimaced.  "In any case, about three quarters of 
the way down the second column, there's a famous line and a half:

	'Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,   
 	 Or what's a heaven for?'

    "What do you suppose Browning was trying to tell us here...?"

		******************************

    The bell rang at last, bringing to an end a rather desultory 
class discussion.  Virtually all the (so-called) "students" left 
noisily and immediately without looking back.  Louise Bittner and 
a couple of other grinds lingered a moment, but not long, for it 
was clear that Miss Cooper had some serious business to talk over 
with Melanie Martin.  Louise was not displeased.

    Melanie advanced, diffidently it seemed, up to the front of 
the room and stood quietly in front of Sasha's desk.  She was a 
tall redhead, well-built but quiet and rather bookish.  At present, 
she wore an unreadable expression.

    Sasha took Exhibit A, the sheet of notebook paper, from her lap 
drawer and smoothed it out on the desk-top so the girl could get a 
good look at it.  "Recognize this?" 

    Melanie nodded.  "Yes, Miss Cooper." 

    "Yes, I thought you might.  It's completely indefensible, of 
course."

    "Miss Cooper...."

    "No excuses.  Besides two homophone errors, the paragraphing is 
inconsistent, the conversations stilted, the imagery lackluster, 
the characters two-dimensional, and the plot development dull and 
hackneyed.  It simply MUST be thoroughly re-written.  Tutorial 
today at 3:45."  She waved her hand.  "Dismissed."

    Wordlessly, Melanie scurried from the classroom.  Sasha was 
so looking forward to the end of the day that she was already 
salivating.

		******************************
 
    Alone at last in her house, Sasha glanced nervously at the 
elderly schoolroom clock on the wall.  It was 3:38, and Melanie 
Martin would be arriving soon, for she was always punctual.  The 
cane was ready, and the writing materials -- pen and paper -- and 
that wretched story, ripe for a re-write.  

    Sasha was seated naked at a salvaged student desk, her nipples 
already stiff and her cunt already drooling onto the wooden seat 
of her little desk.  Then she heard the front door open, and she 
shivered, knowing that Ms. Martin had arrived and that her latest 
tutorial was about to begin....