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Dedicated to TL: loved by hundreds, belovèd of one.

Lust for Elsa

by Frenulum

Copyright © 2010 Frenulum. All rights reserved.

Elsa. Lust.

They might as well have been synonyms: the one defined the other for me.

Oh, I knew what lust meant, as a word, as much as I could explain any of the Seven Deadly Sins. Consuming longing, a driving desire to possess, implicitly with overtones of sex: of amorous congress not as shared delight and romantic expression but as impulse, craving, addiction.

It was not a word I used often, or thought of much.

Until Elsa made it real.

I am a science teacher at St. Baffyld’s Catholic High School. A school for girls: something of an anachronism, I recognize, but the girls and their parents find it to suit them best. It is private, not a parish school; it’s astonishingly expensive. I am one of only seven men who work here: five teachers, two on the maintenance staff.

Every day, I am surrounded by teenage girls, immersed in a moving, ever-changing ocean of them. Beautiful, sexy young ladies. They range, with few exceptions, from girl-next-door cute to career-model stunning. Nearly all of St. Baffyld’s students come from backgrounds of money, influence, and privilege, and have had all the best in terms of diet and health care and access to activities that one could ever hope for. The salon, the spa, the fitness club? Gymnastics or dance or figure skating or tennis? Just reach for Daddy’s Platinum Amex card.

We require uniforms, on all but a few special occasions like Spirit Day and Pink-for-the-Cure Day: the school kilt, a pleated tartan straight from every standard schoolgirl fetish; a white polo shirt bearing the St. Baffyld’s crest; a dark green cardigan, similarly emblazoned, for the winter months. But these are girls with fashion sense and skills, and every August they sit down with their uniforms and prepare for the school year by shortening their new kilts as much as they think they can possibly get away with. Because they are wrap-around skirts, they have a natural full-length slit, which sitting or walking is liable to flash open. Anyone who might fairly call himself a leg-man, and I am one such, could be excused for thinking of this collection of beauties as a walking, twirling, bouncing, bending, half-naked wet-dream.

(A couple of times a year, the Directors meet at the school. We always issue reminders to the ladies that a modest appearance would be appropriate, and the knee-length kilts come out of mothballs for the day. I swear: the day after, they always come back showing even more leg than before.)

And because they’re not conscious of their own sexuality, most of them — and far more important, because there aren’t any boys around — they act with complete disregard to movements and postures that expose them even further. Not a day goes by that I don’t see a pair of simple schoolgirl panties stretched across a taut ass, or outlining the contours of a casually flashed pussy. They don’t notice it, because on the sexual radar screen of a teenage schoolgirl, an ancient teacher like me doesn’t even make a blip.

But far beyond their exposure, their frequent careless upskirts, their leggy beauty, they are innocents. Sexually ripe creatures, just beginning to become dimly aware of sex as something that applies to them personally. Some will cross the cusp from innocence to experience while they are at St. Baffyld’s. A few, sad to say, came here with that innocence already plucked from them, far too early. But most are quivering right at the edge: wondering, doubting, questioning, experiencing feelings and urges that intrigue, frighten, and tempt them. To me, that is far more arousing than any long bare legs, sweater-snuggled breasts, or gorgeous young faces.

And yet, though all of this is true, I had taught among these virgin beauties for years, and did not desire them, or fantasize about them, or dream of them sexually. Despite the tremendous potential for arousal, for temptation, I was, although conscious of their sexy innocence and sparkling beauty, never truly stirred.

Because for all the privileges that brought these girls to our school, what they lacked, many of them, were parents. Parents, that is, who were home reliably, interested in them, understanding and loving them, involved in their lives. Parents devoted to parenthood. Parents for whom children were a first priority, more than a box to be checked off on some sort of “proper Catholic life” planner. Far too many girls had in fact been raised not by parents but by sitters, nannies, au pairs, housekeepers — and by the time they were in high school, returned home to an empty house day after day, checking the calendar to see if mother or father, free of adult plans for once, might have an evening hour free. No loving arms to support them, no attentive ear or wise counsel, no one to be excited at good news or sympathetic in the face of setbacks, no one to remember the names and importance of their friends.

That was what drove me, every day I stood up in front of them; that was what inspired me. To teach, of course: to fill their minds not only with information but, as we are allowed to do in a private setting, with values. But more than that, to be an adult who cared about them, who was available for them. On paper I teach science, but what I really teach is trust and security; independence of thought; individual potential; self-respect; human value as not defined by one’s GPA. I become, for far too many girls who have been raised in the institution of wealth, the first adult they can speak to unguardedly, the first they can trust to be truthful with them always. The first one who will listen to the hard or scary or deeply personal question, and without flying into a rage or embarrassing her, give a girl a straight, plain-spoken answer.

In other words, I view a good number of my girls less as pupils than as… something very like daughters. I love them. I have a feeling of responsible care and earned trust that overwhelmingly outweighs any desire for their naïve sexuality, their fresh, young beauty, their edge-of-experience virginity. For years and years of teaching among them, this held invariably true.

Until Elsa.

I didn’t have her as a Sophomore (the upper school is grades 10 through 12; 9th graders are stuck in the same building as 7th and 8th, which they loathe, justifiably). I teach the advanced classes, and with a few exceptions teach only Juniors and Seniors. I never noticed her that year, either, which is hard to explain looking back on it. Perhaps she hadn’t blossomed yet.

But Elsa was fast-tracked in science, and she danced through my AP Biology classroom door at ten o’clock in the morning of the first day of her Junior year.

I can still remember the feeling that my heart had actually stopped.

Weeks later, at Fall conferences, I would learn that Elsa’s father, a towering figure with the look and the handshake of a trawlerman — he was in fact a successful intellectual-property attorney — had given Elsa her eye-catching, five-foot-eleven frame and classic Scandinavian cheekbones; while her mother, a diminutive first-generation Irish import with her own pediatric practice, accounted for Elsa’s creamy, flawless complexion and long, straight, near-black hair.

She had a perfect, kissable mouth, generous and curvy; a gleaming, snow-white smile; wide, curious, dark-green eyes; full breasts that bounced as only a teenager’s can, their taut springiness simply mezmerising. And her kilt was so short I was not sure that the pattern of the St. Baffyld’s tartan was fully represented on it. The hem fell below the globes of her perky little ass, but no stronger assertion was possible.

And oh, my, she had legs to die for. “Legs up to her neck,” as a good friend of mine once observed about another young lady. Legs that instantly, overwhelmingly filled my head with visions of licking my way, slowly, taking hours, from her delicate ankle, up her tautly curved calf, lingering for ages in her sweet popliteal valley, up those long, smooth, perfect, sexy thighs, all the way to —

I realized that I was frozen, staring, when another girl spoke to me and broke the spell. Just in time. I answered her question, and then a few more from others, before I turned back and got another glimpse of Elsa.

The slender curves of blossoming womanhood. The Irish-Nordic supermodel’s face. Hair that invited fingers to touch and play, as silky and shiny and even as a shampoo commercial. Those lips — oh, those lips! After just a few glimpses I would have been willing to swear on my immortal soul what they were made for: my pleasure — my hard, hot, leaking cock. I could almost see what her mouth would look like, forming a tight slick seal around my thick, heavy, pumping prick. Her amazing legs… how warm would they feel, how smooth and strong, bent over my shoulders as I took her, opened her, and made her mine?

I was riveted. There was a general clamor of girls greeting friends they had misplaced over the summer break; the usual noisy scramble to select seats — as if who sat next to you or behind you for one hour of the day would be the key to social success or misery for the entire year. The pick-me pick-me girls rushed to find front row desks, and those who wore indifference as armor plating took “Oh, any old spot, who cares?” in the back.

And there were others. Girls who had brought home a couple of B’s or a C last year, who had picked up from their parents — by tone of voice, or disappointed sigh, or remarks betraying the assumption that straight-A’s in high school were the only predictors of accomplishment and success in life — the sense that this made them failures, people of diminished or no value. They sat in the back, too, convinced that worthless, stupid, second-rate girls had no right to a seat in the front of the bus. Part of my job — too much of it — is to reclaim them to a place of self-worth, by appreciating them and honoring them for skills other than test-taking. To show them — prove to them — that there are other qualities that make a person valuable, important, and lovable.

I would do that. I would teach my subject, well. And I would be the mentor and the resource and the loving, approachable elder for any girl who needed what I could give.

But… Elsa. Elsa.

Elsa came into my life at sixteen years old, already tall, already curvy, already stunning, already conducting herself with the kind of poise that comes from quiet confidence rather than rehearsal, and replaced years of my professionalism, boundaries, and mature self-control in the space of an instant.

With lust.

There is no point in mincing words: saying she was “attractive” or that I was “interested” in her, or that I gradually “lost my heart” to her. I wanted her, instantly. I wanted her naked, stripped of her fuck-me schoolgirl-fetish clothes and laid bare on my bed or on her knees at my feet. I wanted to fuck her mouth, and then her throat: to train her that gagging is acceptable but resistance is not. I wanted her cherry; to own the title of Her First Fuck; to feel the tight heat of her teenage cunt milking the cum from me with the contractions of her orgasm. I wanted to see the shock and disbelief in her eyes when I introduced her innocent, carefully sheltered mind to the notion of anal sex, and to hear her moans when my steel-hard cock forced open that forbidden, oh-so-private path into her body. I wasn’t thinking about falling in love, or earning hers for me. I wasn’t thinking about dating, or holding hands, or intimate conversation, or snuggling with a sweetheart. I wanted possession. I wanted to claim her. I wanted to use her. I didn’t want to “make love.” I wanted to fuck her, hard and fast and deep, to fill her with hot cum and watch her suck me back to hardness so I could do it again.

The girls got settled, and I got started. I did not look at Elsa any more than I did the others. I had a bunch of new faces to match with names, and I always try to be perfect by day two. I also needed to start to take the first measure of the personalities, preparation, and needs of the girls who were new to me, and to pick up on three months’ worth of added maturity and experience in the ones I had taught before.

But when I did look at Elsa, in the normal course of surveying the room, I could feel my own desire. It was like having an IV drip of pure capsaicin: my blood ran hot and prickling whenever my eyes caught Elsa’s.

I was aware that her name was echoing in my mind even as I launched into the familiar first-day lecture and demonstration. I was half afraid that I was going to go completely West Side Story and start singing it aloud. I was more than half afraid that she would make eye contact with me, look deep inside, and see the images starting to form in my mind.

Elsa… mine.

Elsa… my hands on her clothing.

Elsa… lips coming closer.

Elsa… thighs warming my ears.

Elsa… bent over, spread, reaching back to hold herself open.

Elsa… crying out, gasping, moaning.

Elsa… extending a tentative, novice tongue, tasting our juices mixed.

One after another. Wildly inappropriate. I knew nothing of her, at that moment, other than how she carried herself, how friends interacted with her… and how she triggered every need in my body, every desire, every urge to claim her.

I got through the class. I had a free period to follow, and locked myself in my office, certain that I would not be able to carry on a conversation with a colleague. I sat in my chair and loosed the chains of self-control and watched an erection grow beneath my slacks until the cloth was tented away from my body. My breathing was shallow, pulse rapid; I felt feverish. My ears throbbed with the rush, rush, rush of heated blood coursing through my body. My eyes were unfocused, and my brain supplied one image after another — each more explicit, more sexual, more powerful, and more wrong than the last.

As the first days of the year unfolded, I started to get acquainted with the girls I hadn’t taught before. But I also made a careful effort to re-appraise the ones I had. That’s so important. Girls grow and learn and change over the summer break — at this age, in huge steps — and some even use the time away from certain people or groups or habits to reinvent themselves consciously. I get so frustrated to hear a colleague say something dismissive like “…But Cathy’s just not a hard worker” — I want to scream back: “She wasn’t a hard worker last year!”

For some of the new students, getting to know them is easy: they’re vocal, they’re blunt; if they have a question they’ll come right out with it, and if they’re not following a lecture or lab they’ll give me the full semaphore treatment, bouncing in their seats.

But others take time, patience, and work. Some are quiet by nature, and I won’t ever stoop so low as to call on a student who isn’t raising her hand. I tell them on the first day that I love and want participation, and that it’s safe and acceptable to speak up before they’re sure of what they want to say or how to phrase it. But also that it’s safe and acceptable to be quiet, to want time to think something over, or simply to be more interested at a given moment in what other students are saying.

Early on, Elsa found a place in the middle of the spectrum. She wasn’t a pick-me pick-me girl — not like Maggie, who should have saved wear and tear by having her arm splinted in the upraised position. She wasn’t like another of the new girls, Kayleigh, so desperately shy I could hardly get her to speak to me after class, let alone in class. Elsa had a few things to offer every day, listened to her classmates with every indication of real interest, and aced the first quiz, on organic molecules. She was clearly popular, never coming in to class or leaving without a knot of friends around her; but more telling, I noticed that when she did speak up in class the other girls hung on her words.

She never lingered after class to ask a private question. She never came to office hours after school. She was in all respects a perfectly ordinary, bright, hard-working, social sixteen-year-old.

And day by day, my lust for her grew.

The rest of the students got my professional attention. They earned my respect as I earned theirs — I don’t want the cheap kind that comes for free just for standing in front of the room. The rest of them learned, if they didn’t know already, that I would try to influence their values by being honest about mine, but never by spouting doctrine or, worse, lies. That if I didn’t know something I was happy to say so. That my opinions, as opposed to facts, would be clearly labeled.

When I looked around the room, at one girl after another, I looked for their expressions. Excited or bored? Right with me or starting to get lost? Eager to contribute? Worried or distracted? Is my pace right? Are you getting this? Are you getting excited by this: the amazing, astonishing wonders of the world we collectively call Biology?

But when I looked at Elsa…

My blood seethed. I saw her eyes and thought of making them roll back in orgasm. Her mouth, and was almost rocked off my feet by the need to fill it, to feel her lips, then tongue, then too-tight throat. Her face, and could only picture it glazed and dripping with a fresh hot load of my cum. I saw her hair as hand-grips for controlling a plunging face-fuck. Her blouse as a barrier to be torn away so I could feast. Her next-to-nothing kilt as a tease — no: as an invitation — no: as begging. I saw her legs as levers to spread her pussy because it was mine: mine in which to sink the burning flesh that pulsed, trapped, frustrated, against my leg.

I needed to have her. Needed to.

The first time I had any personal interaction with Elsa, I nearly lost control.

My Biology students were doing the osmosis lab. It’s not simple — plenty can go wrong, and does — but should be within reach of advanced students. And it’s not hazardous, calling only for sugar, water, and lab gear. So it’s a good way for them to get back into good habits: safety glasses, hair tied back, aprons, lab books meticulously kept up during the experiment, keeping things clean.

I went over the procedures while the girls were seated at their desks, and then walked around the room from one lab station to the next. At each one I called three names, and those students got up and assembled to work as a group.

“Theresa, Annie…” I almost called Maggie’s name, but she and Annie each represent about two-thirds critical mass of something fissile. “Katharine.” I moved down the bench as those three scurried over, hair, kilts, and boobs all a-bounce. “Erin, Elsa, Claire.” They scooted past me as I rounded the corner to the next station. I caught a whiff of scent as they swept past me: something soft, floral, delicate, fresh. I wondered if it was Elsa.

And my mind screamed back: no! She doesn’t smell like flowers! She smells like sweat, like cunt-cream, like semen, like lube. She smells ready to fuck, or just fucked, or just fucked again. She smells slippery and hot, wet and needy.

I had to take a calming breath, while the seated students waited with curiosity. “Patricia, Ashley, Bridget…”

The experiment got started. Each group starts by making up sugar-water solutions of various molarities, five in all, double- and triple-checking measurements among the group members.

Then comes the part where it sometimes gets messy. The girls have to cut lengths of dialysis tubing, tie off one end, not-quite fill each one with one of the sugar solutions (plus one more for plain distilled water), and then tie off the open end to make a sort of liquid-filled sausage.

I roamed the room, gauging progress, ready to field questions, although there hadn’t been any yet.

Eeeek!” Ah, the unmistakable sound of a typical accident: tubing not tied quite tight. I found the victim and took advantage of the teachable moment. “Everyone’s attention,” I called — quite unnecessarily, as of course they had all turned toward the scream. I took Maureen by the shoulders and turned her to face the room. “What do you notice about Maureen? Anyone?”

“She’s all wet,” giggled Meghan.

“What else?”

“She’s not wet, her apron is wet,” offered Molly.

“Exactly,” I said, pleased with the quick catch. “A little sugar-water on the apron, no big deal, right?” The bounce of pony-tails showed nods all around the room.

“But the good habits start now. Safe habits. Suppose Maureen had forgotten her apron, or thought it was too hot, or that this lovely industrial blue-grey color clashed with her eyes.” That got laughter from everyone — such a pretty sound. “And suppose,” I said, giving them my serious face, “This had been the enzyme catalysis lab we’ll do later on… and this had been sulfuric acid?”

I made sure it sank in, and then added, “So always check each other for safety before you start. Ok, let’s get back to it.”

I continued to drift from group to group, taking a glance over the shoulders of my busy students, looking for problems, and making sure that they were documenting their work. But they didn’t need a lot of attention, so I was free to focus mine on Elsa. With her back turned to me, I could stare all I wanted to. Even without the benefit of heels, her legs were amazingly sexy: long, bare, shapely, smooth… and seemingly endless, as they rose to the hem of her next-to-nothing kilt. She shifted her weight from time to time, and I watched the muscles flex in those glorious columns. I wanted to part them. I wanted them wrapped around me — around my head, hooked together behind my back, folded over my shoulders. I could picture myself walking up behind her, pressing on her back until she bent over the lab bench, flipping up her skirt and tugging her panties to one side, burying my aching, needy, rock-hard cock into her tight teenage cunt, tearing through the virginity I knew she kept.

She dropped her pen; bent for it; flashed panties stretched taut over buns and pussy. I moaned and then panicked, for I couldn’t be sure I had only done so in my mind. I watched, full of nerves, for anyone to turn and look at me, and gradually calmed down when nobody did. I could feel the heat of my cock against my thigh, half hard, ready for Elsa’s mouth to bring it fully to life. That would do it. A minute or two in her beautiful mouth, fucking her face, with her beautiful bright eyes on mine, and then it would be hard enough. Completely rigid. Stiff enough to force her asshole to open cock-wide.

“Mr. Curtis?”


“We can’t get this tight enough that it won’t leak.”

“Let’s see.” I went to observe and assist, soon setting things back in motion for Maggie’s group. Words echoed in my head. “Tight enough.” Like Elsa’s snug hot cunt. “Leak.” Like her juices, shining on her thighs. Like semen from my pulsing cock, plunging down her throat, stroking into the hot depths of —

“Mr. Curtis?”

I turned and saw Elsa, looking at me, holding something in her hands: a sugar-water sausage of dialysis tubing, which in the lab exercise represents the plasma membrane of a cell.

“Is this how long it should be? Is it the right size?”

She held it out to me. Her fingers curved around the fragile cylinder, about 2cm in diameter.

No. That’s not the right size. My cock is much thicker than that, and half again as long. When you wrap your soft slender delicate fingers around my heavy hard hot prick, your fingertips won’t even meet. You won’t find me yielding and pliable like that tube — you’ll feel iron beneath my skin. Flesh more than solid. A fuck-hole stretcher. Ready to choke your throat or fill your —

“Yes, Elsa, that looks just right. Go ahead with the others.” She smiled and turned back to her group. I raised my voice a little. “Remember, the test cases don’t have to be identical. You’ll weigh each one and keep track of the changes individually, as percentages, so don’t worry if they don’t contain exactly the same volume of solution.”

I heard one soft and slightly exasperated “See? I told you,” and went over to poke my nose into that group’s progress.

But as I went to them, a feeling made me look down. It was only obvious if you looked… but my cock was engorged enough that the disturbance in my trousers was apparent.

“Oh, Elsa. What you do to me,” I thought, even as I fought to quell my incipient erection. After all the years of teaching, unmoved, among class after class of tempting teenage tartlets, she… infected me. Not with romantic love, however inappropriate, nor consciously controlled desire, nor longing, but with the crushing burden of lust: a furnace in my loins, a storm in my mind, an addiction. The need to take, to own, to use.

I felt so close to helpless. I wondered if something would break.

It only got worse as the year wound on. Every day that I saw Elsa my lust for her grew. She had a habit, whenever seated on one of the tall lab stools, of putting one foot up on the top rung, a move that caused her kilt to cover even less of her perfect, sexy legs and, more than once, gave me a direct look at her panties, snuggling the pussy I needed to claim for my own. I couldn’t afford any sort of extended stare, but even momentary glimpses — the aponeurosis of the gracilis taut and tempting, just beginning to lift the edge of her pretty cotton panties — haunted my dreams, sleeping and awake.

If she stretched to get something from a cabinet, I looked at her bottom, or the way her blouse pulled and tightened across her breasts. If she crouched to get an eye-level view of a dissection, my eyes caressed her legs. If she bent to pull something from her backpack, I glanced into the open v-neck of her blouse, finding the lacy edge of her bra, and my fingers ached to free her from its confinement.

I reached the point of dreading lab days, which ordinarily were the high point of teaching for me, because the physical effort of not staring at Elsa was exhausting. My girls are sharp, observant, and curious: they see and remember everything, no matter how trivial. If I wore the same necktie one Friday as I did the previous Friday, someone would be sure to say “Mr. Curtis, is that your Friday tie? Your wore it last week, too.” Were I to show any favoritism, any bias toward Elsa, any extra attention — if I talked to her more than to Maura, or let my gaze linger on her longer than on Hanna, or stood closer to her than to Kerri — it would have been the subject of speculation and gossip immediately.

Weekends were no better. During the week, I had one hour of Elsa on four days, two hours on lab day, plus the occasional encounter in the hallways. On the weekends, I had nothing to do but dream of her constantly. In class, she was dressed — albeit only half-dressed, half-naked, and in a provocative, fantasy-inducing costume. On the weekends, in my active imagination, she was bare, or prancing around in heels and stockings, or lounging in my bed in a teddy or some other scrap of pretty, lacy, fuck-me-now-please lingerie. At school it was talk of Biology and experiments and tests. At home, by myself, it was “On your knees, Elsa,” and “Bend over, baby,” and “Oh, yeah, lick my balls, just like that, that’s a good girl.” In real life, I got a daily view of her bouncing breasts and long curvy legs and breathtaking face — plus the occasional flash of panties hugging her taut little ass or her pussy. In my unrestrained free time, she was spread, dripping, open, raw, slippery, pink, cum-glazed, moaning and panting and begging for my cock.

Begging. That’s how I needed to have her. Addicted to pleasing me. Hooked on my cum.

One thing that always surprises guests I bring to the school, is how casual the girls are with touch and other displays of affection. It’s an artifact of an all-girls school — you don’t see the same thing at a co-ed high school, at least not to the same degree. They don’t think anything of touching each other, because there’s no one around who will misinterpret it, or pretend to; no one to mock them or make snide remarks. So they hug — each other, and staff. I hardly go a day without a hug, and I’ve been kissed more times than I can count. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Curtis!” with a hug and a kiss for the smallest favors, like granting an extra day for an assignment. But mostly with other students. They embrace each other freely. Girls will hold hands walking through the hallways just because it’s a friendly, companionable, fun thing to do. Combing or plaiting another girl’s hair, exchanging back rubs, lounging in tangled piles like newborn puppies — they just don’t give it a second thought.

I walked out of school late one Friday afternoon and saw one of my students, Graceann, sitting on a bench, with Elsa lying along it with her head in Graceann’s lap.

Graceann wears her kilt as short as any of the girls, so Elsa’s head was resting on Graceann’s bare thighs, her dark hair spilling over the fine smooth skin. Graceann was idly stroking the top of Elsa’s head, softly, over and over. Elsa’s eyes were closed; her feet were drawn up close to her with her knees in the air, and there was nothing between my eyes and her pussy but a narrow little scrap of cotton panties.

“Hey, Mr. C,” Graceann chirped. Elsa’s eyes opened sleepily, coming to focus on me. She smiled.

“Hello, Graceann,” I said, “Elsa.” I glanced out over the nearly empty parking lot. “Waiting for a ride?”

“My mom’s picking us up,” Graceann answered. “She got stuck at her office for a while.”

“But she’s on her way?”

“Yeah. She just left. Should be here in, like, twenty minutes. She was supposed to pick us up at three, but…”

Graceann just shrugged. Having met her mother several times, I knew the unspoken words: “But I’m only her daughter, not her career, so that promise didn’t really count for much.”

“Would you like me to wait with you?” I offered. St. Baffyld’s is in quite a safe location, but no place is guaranteed these days.

“We’re ok,” Elsa spoke for the first time, drawing my eyes to hers. At some level, she had to be aware of her exposure, but to a sixteen-year-old girl a man my age has no sexuality — no reason to notice or care about her body. I made sure my eyes were on her face. Not on her thighs. Not on her ass. Not on the pair of fuck-holes barely concealed beneath her skimpy panties. I pictured myself pulling my dripping cock out of Elsa’s slick hot cunt and pressing against her asshole, forcing it, until its natural resistance finally failed.

“It would be no trouble,” I said.

“Thanks, Mr. C. Don’t worry about us. We’ll just chill until Mom turns up,” Graceann assured me.

“Ok. If you’re sure. Big plans for the weekend?” I inquired.

Graceann smiled broadly. “Elsa’s spending it with me!”

“Oh, a pajama party.”

They dissolved into gales of giggles. “Oh, Mr. Curtis,” Graceann finally choked out. “Nobody calls it that!”

I smiled back, having tossed out the dated phrase just to get a reaction. “Have fun,” I said, turning to go, “Don’t study too hard.”

“Oh, Mr. Curtis,” said Graceann again. “You’re the only teacher who ever says things like that.”

Then Elsa’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Why is that?” she asked. As I turned back she was sitting up, her head brushing past Graceann’s breast. Her expression was curious and serious. “Why do you always say things like don’t work too hard, and every other teacher is, like, all about homework and studying and all that?”

I retraced the few steps I had taken away from the girls: I never discount a serious question from a student. Had I not been lust-blind, I might have noticed that the two girls were almost twins of each other: in personality, sweet but confident, smart without arrogance, and in looks, Graceann a shorter version of Elsa rendered in blond and blue. But I saw only one student, and one fuck-doll I needed for my own.

“For one thing,” I answered, “I have you for an hour every day. A whole hour! Twice that on lab days. If I can’t teach you what you need to know in that much time, then I’m not doing my job very well. For another… you have other things to do. Sports, music, church, hobbies, volunteering, reading for pleasure, being with your families and friends, chores around the house… shopping.” More delightful giggles. “Or just sitting quietly with your private thoughts. Some people, and I’m afraid it’s true of a lot of teachers, think that education and school are the same thing. I know you get a lot of your education — probably most of it — from things you do outside of school. I just don’t think it would be fair of me to steal those hours away from you.”

“But the other teachers —” Elsa checked herself. “Yeah, I guess you said.”

I gave the pair a final wave. “Take care, ladies.”

“Bye, Mr. Curtis!” they chorused.

I walked to my car. The trapezius muscle is one of the largest in the human body, but the part from which the stabbing pain emanated was the small part just below my occipital bone, trailing down the left side of my neck. The strain of keeping my eyes on Elsa’s face, rather than staring up her skirt between her parted legs, had been almost too much to bear. A physical, muscular effort in direct opposition to my own fierce desires.

Those incredible legs were mine. To hold, to caress, to lick, to spread. Those cute little panties were nothing but gift wrap on my pussy, my asshole. Waiting for me to unwrap the treasures that belonged to me. I had to have her.

Euphemisms were impossible. My mind refused to back away from the true, honest words. I had to fuck her. I had to fuck Elsa’s tight virgin cunt. I had to drive my steel-hard cock all the way to her cervix. I had to fuck her hard, and deep, and fast, holding nothing back, lust fueling every stroke. I had to feel her lithe young body beneath mine; I had to turn her over and fuck her on all fours, slamming my body against her ass: smack, smack, smack. I had to have her ride me, tits bare and bouncing, her snug little cunt plunging onto my cock, twisting on it, bucking, rocking; crying out, moaning at the border between pain and bliss. I had to fuck her hard and then treat her innocent soft mouth and her tight tiny asshole in exactly the same way. I needed her on her back on my bed, with her head hanging off the edge, taking my cock in long strokes straight down her throat, gasping for breath as spit flowed in torrents across her flushed, inverted face. I wanted to cum in her mouth, spurt deep in her cunt, flood her ass, gush all over her remarkable, stunning, beautiful young face. I wanted cum on her skin, in her sleek dark hair, matting her long, thick eyelashes, coating her perfect teeth, oozing and dripping from her holes. I needed it.

I drove home in a fog of lust, hardly aware of the road. It’s a miracle I lived.

As the year marched on, my obsession only grew. Approaching the long Christmas vacation, I began encouraging myself that two weeks without seeing Elsa every day would give me the perfect opportunity to regain control of my thoughts — of my sanity, my professional oblivion to working in a building full of nubile fetish-clad tartlets. I told myself a hundred times a day that I would be strong, master my lust, and go back in January restored to mental health and self-control.

Even when Elsa gave me a hug, quick but warm, to go along with her “Merry Christmas” wish after the last class of the term, I held on to my resolve.

Which lasted less than a day.

I take photos every year of my students doing lab work; I started doing it when digital cameras became affordable. I run slide shows during open houses, offer the administration an occasional picture for the school newsletter, and use them to illustrate presentations when I speak at science teacher conventions once or twice a year. At parent-teacher conferences, I show the parents that all the girls use their safety equipment, work coöperatively, and get really engrossed in the experiments.

On that Saturday morning, the first day of break, my first day of Elsa-drought, I fired up my computer and started flipping through the current photos folder.

I was relieved to see that the photos were about evenly distributed among my classes, and that the ones I had taken in my ten o’clock Bio lab featured all of the students, without dwelling on just one.

But that still left me with a lot of pictures of Elsa.

The first one showed her from the side, closest of a group of three girls: Elsa, then Claire, crouching slightly to get a reading off the scale, then Erin. Elsa was looking down at her lab book, pen in hand. Her bare legs stretched alluringly from the top of her sneakers to the bottom of her kilt, an expanse of erotic curvature that was literally breathtaking. Her hair was as I require the long-haired girls to wear it for labs: in a ponytail, tight against her head.

I saw Elsa, on her knees between my legs, looking up at me. Naked.

No. In her schoolgirl uniform, emphatic of her innocence.

No. In a really steep pair of strappy fuck-me sandals, and thigh-high stockings. Black stockings with back-seams and little satin bows decorating their bands. And nothing else.

Not looking up at me. No, instead: looking wonderingly at my erect, oozing cock, its size and stiffness something she had never properly imagined.

No. Not wonder. Apprehension. A virgin’s nervous doubt and caution. Guessing that her mouth is only the beginning. Doubtful that such a hard, thick probe is going to fit inside her body at all.

And then my hand wrapping around her ponytail, taking it in my fist, right next to her head. Fully controlled. Helpless.

My hand pulling her closer. Closer. Her lips parting. Her mouth opening wide. Wider. Full wet lips, sweet pink tongue, innocent little fuck-hole ready to be filled. Closer. Steered by her hair, unable to resist…

And she felt…

She felt…

Her lips were so…

And then the image on the monitor swam back into focus: three innocent girls carefully at work on the osmosis lab. I looked down and saw my cock, fully erect, bulging beneath my jeans, so hard that I could make out the ridge of the corona right through the denim.

I got up and walked around the house until my erection faded. I wiped my face with a cold washcloth — such a cliché, I thought, even as I did it.

Twenty minutes later I was back at the computer, unable to fight the urge any longer, looking at picture number two.

The second term duplicated the first. The hours I spent teaching my other classes were bearable, because they required all of my concentration and focus. Hours teaching AP Bio were one test after another of my self-control. AP Bio labs left me shaking from the isometric exercise of keeping my face pointed where it was supposed to be.

And the hours I spent outside of school were consumed by lust-fueled fantasy. I couldn’t even grade tests without imagining Elsa, kneeling between my legs, dutifully lapping at my balls or rimming my asshole until my work was finished and I could give her all my attention. And every last millimeter of my cock.

One day in early May, I gave my Biology students the annual talk about taking, or not taking, my Seniors-only Anatomy class.

“It’s hard work,” I told them. “We cover every system in the body. Concentrating on humans, although we look at non-human parallels as well. There are at least two dissections a month. I teach it like a college class, and expect college level work.” I looked around the room, gauging interest levels. “Anatomy is open only to Seniors, and you can’t sign up for it unless you have my permission in advance.”

I took a paper off my desk, walked over to Haley’s front-row seat, and held it up. “This is a schedule of ten-minute appointment times for those of you who are interested.” I put the sheet down on Haley’s desk. “If you think you might want to take Anatomy, write your name down next to a time you can come and talk to me about it.”

Haley scanned the sheet briefly and wrote her name — I knew she would — against one of the time slots; she passed it across to Rachael who, already nearing the end of her Senior year, handed it along. I lost track of the paper as it marched from desk to desk.

“Now, let me say something to all of you, so that if you hear it from me one-on-one, you’ll already have had a chance to think about it. I won’t admit everyone who wants to take Anatomy. If the class isn’t right for you, I won’t let you take it just to see you struggle, get frustrated, and fail. That’s not a comment on how smart you are, or how deserving, or how hard you work. Among you there are as many different learning styles and temperaments as there are people. Some aren’t compatible with the structure and demands of my Anatomy class. That is simply a statement about the class, not about your worth or goodness or how much I would love to teach you for another year.” I softened my voice. “Which I would — every one of you.”

I looked around and saw understanding. “Any questions?”

There were several. One about dissections from a student who had been noticeably uncomfortable during the ones we do in Bio. Several on what I meant by “college level work.” Several, from girls who had been Ivy-pressured by their parents from infancy, about the chances of getting a disastrous B or C.

Then Elsa raised her hand. “I’ve heard that you teach about sex. Is that true?”

I said to myself: look at the object of your sexual fantasies for the past year, engage her eyes, and talk to her about sex. Without exploding.

“My aim is to cover all the major systems of the body. That includes the reproductive systems of men and women, and to teach parts and plumbing I have to talk about sexual intercourse, pregnancy, childbirth, and so on. My experience has been that students have all kinds of questions about sex acts, behaviors, and intimate relationships, and I’m certainly happy to address those as well.”

I had every girl’s attention. “Notice that I said that was my aim every year. I save sex and reproduction for last thing in the year. By that time my students will have had an opportunity to impress me with their adult-like maturity, and their capacity to talk about sex honestly and as young scientists. If, on the other hand, I find myself with a room full of silly immaturity, I have other topics I can substitute. That doesn’t happen often, but it has happened, I’m sorry to say.” I suppressed a smile as I looked around the room and saw every last girl trying to look as serious, studious, and mature as she possibly could. They were even sitting up straighter.

Then Nina popped up from her last-row seat and brought the appointment schedule up to me. I dismissed the class without looking at it. When the room emptied, I took a look. Three names stood out: two girls who I already knew would not be a good fit for the class, who would have to be let down very gently and handled with plenty of careful reassurance. And Elsa.

I was not at all sure I was going to make it through one year of seeing her every day. I was terribly afraid that two would be more than I could handle.

Two days later, Elsa skipped into my room at the time appointed for her interview. She stopped bouncing, about half a second before her breasts did, but kept her cheerful smile as she called “Hi, Mr. Curtis!”

“Hello, Elsa,” I said, motioning toward the front row of desks. “Have a seat.” I turned the adjacent desk to face her and sat there, putting a nice solid desktop between my eyes and Elsa’s long, bare thighs. “You seem to be in good spirits,” I observed.

“I’ve been having a good day,” she replied, not offering any details.

“Happy to hear it. I have been, too.” She flashed that brilliant smile at me, and for the thousandth time I imagined how wonderful it would be to see her lips glossy with my cum, or to see it strung between her teeth as she opened wide to show off a brimming mouthful. “Tell me why you’d like to take Anatomy next year.”

“Well,” she said, pausing to gather her thoughts. She interlaced her fingers and rested her hands on top of the desk, looking every bit the proper innocent schoolgirl. I listened to her answer and pictured her naked, gasping, tense with the rigor of orgasm. “This has been — Biology, I mean — like my best class ever. It’s not — well, sure, I’m, you know, learning a lot but… I don’t know how to say it.”

“My usual advice is: just say what’s on your mind, and don’t worry about wording.”

“Yeah. I guess what I want to say is how much I like your class, not, like, for the subject and all — I mean, I do like the subject, but… All the other teachers, they, like, treat everybody like kids. Or like they’re important and we’re not; or maybe what we think about things and what we want to know doesn’t matter. You… I remember you said at the beginning of the year that we were going to have a ‘mutually respectful classroom.’ And… I really feel that. Like, you really respect me, and the other girls. You listen. You never lie. I hate it when people lie to me, or pretend to know something when they don’t. Or they…” She looked off into the distance for a moment. “Anyway… I’ve had a really great year in Bio, and it’s, like, the one hour a day when I feel grown up and respected and, you know, like you’re just straight and open and honest, and you care what I think.” Elsa was blushing a little bit, which I found endearing. I watched her mouth as she spoke, and thought about how it would feel, warm and wet and busy, stretched by my engorged cock. I looked at the rosy highlights in her creamy skin and thought how lovely her face would be, covered with a generous lacing of warm, sticky cum, oozing over her cheeks and dripping from her chin.

“So, I just was thinking about Senior year,” she continued, “And that one hour is so important, I really don’t want to give it up. So that’s why I signed up.” She looked at my face, trying to read my reaction.

“Well, Elsa, that’s very kind of you to say. Not one of the reasons I usually look for, but I’m happy at any rate that your experience in Biology has been a good one.”

“It’s my best class ever,” she repeated. Her voice was so sweet. I wanted to hear her gagging on my cock, crying out in climax, moaning when I slid a second finger into the tight clench of her virgin asshole. I wanted to hear her cock-muffled voice begging for a mouthful of hot fresh cum.

“Classroom atmosphere aside, is there anything about the subject of anatomy that interests you particularly?” I asked.

Elsa blushed again; the rosiness stayed in her cheeks. “Yeah. Um… sex. I want to learn about sex. That’s why I asked you if you taught about it. It seems like it’s so important, but nobody… All I know is that half of what my friends say about it is wrong, or made up, and everything that they print in Cosmo is made up. And other teachers try to make us scared of it, but… Anyway, I know I could trust you. Not just to know about it but to be honest. And I can’t —” She paused for a long time, and then blurted, “I can’t ask my parents.” She searched my eyes for understanding.

I tried to convey it to her. “It can often be tough for a girl your age to talk with her father about love, intimacy, and sex,” I acknowledged, “Because he has an understandable inclination to be protective. But, Elsa, your mother’s a doctor — she handles deeply personal questions every day. You can’t talk with her?”

She shook her head quickly. “She’s a pediatrician. There’s not a lot of two-year-olds asking her, like, can I get pregnant playing Seven Minutes in Heaven if I get, um…” Elsa’s blush deepened. “You know, um, stuff on my hands.” Before I could react to that, she rushed on. “Which I heard at lunch last week, and it sounds totally bogus but — how are you supposed to know? So I want to learn about it from you, because you won’t lie, or say something is a sin when it’s not, or pretend we’re babies and don’t need to know things.”

I considered Elsa’s words carefully, my cock trapped and throbbing in my pants. Yes, I wanted to teach her all about sex. But not in a classroom. Practical lessons, instead. Private lessons. With an oral exam every day. The part of my cock currently in your mouth is called the glans penis: suck it. “Fair enough,” I said. “But there’s a lot of material before we get to sex. Skeletal, nervous, muscular, endocrine —”

“I know,” Elsa broke in. “I want to know all that too. I’ve, um, pretty much decided to do something in Bio in college. I’m really interested in… well, everything you’ve taught me. So, I think Anatomy will be pretty awesome, too.”

“I’m flattered, Elsa. Thinking about a pre-med program?”

“No.” Her answer was definite and cold, and spoke volumes about her home life.

I took a quick reading of the stiffness of my cock, decided it would be safe to stand up, and did so. I went to my desk and found the necessary bit of paper. I signed it, and turned back to Elsa, handing it to her. “You have the dedication, the work habits, and the interest I’m looking for,” I told her. “If you’re sure you’re willing to put in the effort, give this slip to Mrs. Elgar in the office, and she’ll get you signed up for Anatomy.”

She took the paper like it was a rectangle of gold leaf; it shook in her hands. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Curtis!” she gushed, eyes wide and bright. She stood up, reading the permission slip over and over again, giving me an extended time to contemplate her long, bare, perfectly sexy legs, the dramatic curve of her hips, the gentle motion of her breasts as she breathed, and the glorious beauty of her face. She looked up at me, smiled, and said “I’m so happy.”

I returned the smile. Elsa spun, threw another “Thank you!” over her shoulder, and skipped away, her bouncy step making her minimal kilt alternately concealing and revealing. I watched until she turned a corner.

That conversation was my breaking point.

I made it through the rest of the school year, made it to the relative refuge of summer vacation. But the character of my thoughts about Elsa changed, at the moment I granted her permission to take my Anatomy class. Not only because it meant another year of seeing her for an hour every day.

I’ve been teaching what amounts to St. Baffyld’s only sex education class every year since they first hired me (a brief mention in ninth grade Health doesn’t count — the girls are too young and the teachers too timid). Oh, the schedule says “Anatomy” and the syllabus concludes with “Reproductive system,” but that’s just to keep the stuffier administrators and Directors placated. Not to mention the deeply conservative parents, who can’t bear thinking of their tender princesses as sexual. I think it borders on criminal to send out into the world girls who think that sex is a reluctant duty, or that enjoying it is sinful, or that it is meant only for having babies. Or that “Only a slut would touch herself” — which I had heard, asserted with utter confidence, just the year before. I think it’s a disgrace to graduate a girl to whom the only acceptable contraception is “natural family planning” — also known as the rhythm method, also known as serial unplanned unwanted pregnancy. I think it’s a contemptible abrogation of adult responsibility to let young ladies tell each other that they can get pregnant from sharing a swimming pool with boys, or that they can’t if a boy “pulls out in time.” I think that a seventeen-year-old girl who sees a textbook drawing of the vulva, yelps “Ew!,” and turns the page as quickly as she can, needs a new definition of normal — and, good grief, permission to look at her own body. That a near-adult who doesn’t see a gynecologist because “I’m a virgin, I don’t need one” or “It’s too embarrassing” needs someone to act as the rational parent she lacks.

So I took “reproductive system” as a license to teach the girls what they needed, and desperately wanted, to know.

I knew from experience that, once the questions started coming and the girls realized they were getting straight, honest, non-dogmatic answers from me, there would be a flood of them. Mr. Curtis, if the clitoris is for pleasure, why isn’t it closer to the vagina? What’s the correct angle for an erection? I’ve heard that there are as many calories in semen as in a Big Mac, is that true? (I get that one every year.) Mr. Curtis, the man always has an orgasm, but the woman doesn’t have to, right? Can grinding make you pregnant? How far can sperm travel? But Mr. Curtis, what does an orgasm feel like?

And I would answer them. Looking straight into the eager, rapt, curious faces of a room full of beautiful schoolgirls, poised on one edge or the other of their transition into sexual creatures, I would give them the direct, plain answers they craved. I would answer the question from the girl still looking forward to her first real kiss, and from the girl with the all-knowing look who was guarding her “virginity” by giving up her ass. From the girl to whom a mouthful of semen was an unthinkably sickening notion, and from the one whose delight at hearing “No, only about six or seven calories, on average” would be evident in her sudden smile of relief and anticipation.

It would be, as I required, a mature, calm, serious four weeks. There would be no gasping or giggling, no cries of shock or secretive whispers. But for all that, the classroom atmosphere would be charged with blossoming sexuality.

So it was not just another year of Elsa-filled classroom hours I saw in my future. It was that particular class, and that particular topic. My mind was dizzy with thoughts of what I might learn about her. Would she be the one to pose the annual “blue balls: fact or fiction” question, and thus betray an intimacy with a boy and his self-serving ploys? Could I contain my rage if she did?

Or would she be in the huge majority of her peers, who had never seen an R-rated movie or read a steamy romance, never once glanced at porn on the net, never even given her own body a close, detailed look, because she had been carefully taught that sexual curiosity — let alone actual knowledge and exploration — was a dreadful sin? Could my already hyper-concentrated lust for Elsa bear the confirmation of her complete, delectable innocence?

With that prospect ahead of me, my lust-driven fantasies changed. Oh, I still pictured using Elsa for every pleasure I could imagine. I still pictured her, throat jammed with cock, nose against my groin. Or riding my cock, dancing on it, burying it in her tight little cunt. Or prostrate, ass high, while my fingers played deep in both snug hot holes and semen leaked from my cock, ready to fill either one… when I had made my choice.

But at that point I also began another kind of fantasy. The fantasy of how I could make my fantasies become real.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation: imagining, wondering, one could even say plotting, how to take Elsa for my own.

All sorts of scenarios occurred to me: not surprisingly, since I spent most of my waking hours thinking about her — about fucking her, using her, satiating my lust.

The one that recurred most often was the simplest of all, a fantasy so common as to be trite. What if she started the year off with a failing grade? What if college-bound Elsa had a fatal blot on her transcript? What if she faced the prospect of going to her parents and telling them that, despite their careful $27,000-a-year investment, she had failed?

Would that make her desperate? Would she consider trying to skirt the system, to get the grade changed by some means other than schoolwork? Would her sheltered imagination stretch far enough to recognize that her body was a commodity so valuable as to be a potent bargaining tool?

I imagined that, and countless variations on it, and a dozen other ways that a conservative, religious, innocent, seventeen-year-old virgin might want to — might have to — have sex with her fossil-like teacher. Ways that would leave her no other choice. Circumstances that would compel her to give up her most precious, closely guarded treasure. Events with the power to drive her to — according to her upbringing — mortal sin.

I let my imagination fill in every detail, the fantasies playing out like movies on the screen of my eyelids. Movements, postures, atmosphere; dialog and action. I could hear Elsa’s voice, helpless, out of options, pleading. I could see myself, sitting back, silent, watching her slowly, reluctantly, slide her panties down her legs, a crimson blush burning her face.

I was honest with myself. I was fully aware that my thoughts were traversing an increasingly deep hierarchy of wrong:

Sex, at my age, with a teenage girl.

With a teenage girl whose moral upbringing proscribed it.

With a girl over whom I had authority.

Authority in loco parentis.

With my student.

A student with whom I had established a relationship that was all about personal trust.

And not even sex as an expression of mutual love and shared passion. Sex as taking, claiming. Sex under compulsion of circumstance. Elsa’s reluctance, or even abhorrence, of no consequence.

Unreasoned. Uncontrolled. Animal. Lust.

My thoughts were my one source of pleasure and my constant torment. The betrayal of my career-long principles appalled me, even as I gave in to my fantasies. I recognized my lust as an addiction and fought with myself to break it; time and time again, I failed.

It felt like my lust for Elsa was a separate creature, living within my body and mind. A parasite in my thoughts, beyond my capacity to deal with it. A beast: ravenous, raging, running out of control… controlling me.

I saw Elsa only once over the summer. I was running errands, and stopped for a cold treat at the neighborhood mom-and-pop handmade ice cream shop. I was seated at a sidewalk table when a car pulled up and disgorged five St. Baffyld’s students, all of whom I knew. They had been at the beach; they all wore bikini bathing suits with the itty-bittiest possible cover-up shorts. They squealed in a chorus of delight to find me there, and stood around my table, filling me with tales of their summer adventures, asking how mine was going, and laughing among themselves — and at me — at the astonishing sight of their science teacher in a bright floral tropical shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals.

Elsa was one of them.

Tummy bare, waist bare, shoulders bare, arms bare. Her navel. Her ribs. Her clavicle. The incredible slender curve of her hips and waist, always shrouded during the school year by the shapeless polo shirt. Her hair was pinned up, her neck slim and graceful without its shadow.

Her breasts. Half concealed, so fully revealed that there was no mystery left about their shape, size, texture, or allure. Her bikini top had shoulder straps; there was a tan line from the strap of a halter top visible on her chest, and part of the upper curve of her breasts was paler than the rest, suggesting that she had switched suits mid-summer.

Every scrap of attention I had to give to any other girl was agony. And yet I had to distribute my gaze, from one pair of eyes to the next, in equal turns. Equally interested in each girl’s excited chatter, while the seashore-rush of my pulse pounded in my ears. I was careful, I was discreet — but in the three or four minutes the girls lingered, I memorized Elsa’s near-nude body.

The girls went in to get ice cream. I got in my car, drove home, released my aching, fiercely pulsing erection, and in a few long strokes spurted pent-up cum into the kitchen sink, just a few steps from the doorway. I stared down at the pearlescent globs and felt a stab of fiery anger, that what was meant to be a lacy, glossy, dripping decoration on Elsa’s striking, flawless face was lying there, wasted, squandered on cold, lifeless porcelain.

I went to the den, sank into my favorite chair, and let variation two hundred and thirty-nine of the failing grade scenario play through my mind. I stroked my slippery cock back to hardness, imagining Elsa with no choice left but to satisfy my lust. I pictured, with a brand new wealth of detail, her beautiful bare breasts, and my cock stroking between them, Elsa squeezing them around my shaft and lapping at my cockhead on every thrust. I pictured the last-minute move to fill her open, hungry mouth with torrents of spooge, and then erupted again, making an utter mess of myself and my surroundings.

I moaned. Not from orgasm. From despair.

The new school year started. I slipped back into the familiar routines: the faculty retreat, the meetings with staff and administrators, lesson planning, the Mass to welcome new students and their families.

I never teach exactly the same material from year to year. There is always new research to work in, always something fresh I want to make sure my students are aware of; there is also the ever-shifting landscape of college admissions standards and expectations. So there was plenty of work to keep me occupied.

I spent all the time, prior to the first day of school, steeling myself for another year with Elsa.

The opening day hubbub was as usual, an energetic, noisy chaos of confident Seniors and disoriented Sophomores. Their kilts were shorter, as always. I’m convinced that if I keep teaching long enough, the tartlets will be wearing nothing but a blouse and panties with a plaid ribbon for a belt.

I was in the hallway, helping to direct traffic and point new students in the right direction, when Elsa passed by in a cluster of girls. They all waved or called greetings, which I returned.

I suppose I had had some faint hope, until then, that the long summer break had altered me. That despite my near-constant fantasizing, I would be able to confront the object of my lust with a new attitude. It was not to be. The hallway dimmed, other figures faded: I saw only Elsa, legs and ass and swaying hips and bouncy tits and moist full lips and cum-ready face.

Fully consumed by lust, owned by the beast, I got ready for another year.

In Anatomy that afternoon, Elsa chose a front-row seat, giving me an hour-long view of her perfect legs — and the promise of an entire year of the same. I hardly needed the extra distraction. I started off with an overview of the syllabus, and outlined the standards I expected them to meet. I pointed out, as a reminder, that they would have most of the school year to convince me that they were mature young ladies, able to have a serious discussion of human sexual anatomy and behavior. And I saw in their collective expressions, as I do every year, that there was nothing more important to them than to pass that test.

We got past the preliminaries, and I started the first lecture, on anatomical terms of location: words like “distal” and “anterior” that they need to use rather than ambiguous ones like “far” or “front.”

I finished the day with my other classes. I went home. I sat down on the couch in my living room. I put my head in my hands.

I knew that I would not make it. I could not get through the entire year without either going mad from my lust, or acting on it. I would be lucky to last until Christmas. Then I scoffed at my own thoughts. I’d be lucky to last a month.

I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t just walk away — there were so many other girls depending on me and my teaching. So many Seniors who would come to me for college advice or help with recommendations. My Anatomy girls, fed on a diet of religious doctrine, rumors, manipulation, outright lies, and other bullshit about their own sexuality, needed me to give them both facts about their bodies and a sexual morality grounded in the real world.

But I couldn’t stay, facing Elsa every day, scourging myself with the sight of her body. I couldn’t face the class and see her lovely face, with her gorgeous blow-job mouth and wide green cum-target eyes. I could not keep my composure, day after day, all the while looking at her flawless young body in the front row and dreaming of possessing her.

Something had to give. Something had to break. There was no way for everything to bear up under the ever-mounting pressure of my lust. It was just a question of when.

And then one day, just a few weeks into her Senior year, fate delivered beautiful, innocent Elsa right into my hands.

I stood by my desk, with an eye on the clock. Right on time, the door opened a crack, and her face peeked in.

“Come in, Elsa,” I said. “Close the door behind you.” I watched her walk across the room toward me. The sight of her long bare legs, with the tiny little kilt swirling around her thighs, only just barely covering her bottom, was as captivating as always. “Have a seat,” I said.

She sat at the desk closest to me, and waited. The silence in the room was replete with tension. I turned to my desk and picked up a file folder. I spent a few minutes reviewing its contents, although I didn’t really need to. Finally, I closed the folder, and turned to face her. I met Elsa’s eyes, which she immediately lowered: anguish, fear, and doubt clearly readable on her beautiful face.

“You are here, Elsa, as you know, because on Tuesday a half-full pint flask of vodka was discovered in your locker.” My voice was formal and deliberate. I wanted to sound authoritative, official, daunting. “Today I will inform you of the consequences of that discovery.”

I re-opened the folder and took out the first paper. “This is Mrs. Carroll’s report of the discovery and seizure, along with the signatures of the two witnesses who accompanied her.” I passed it to Elsa, who looked at it without seeing. She was fighting to keep her composure. I knew what was going through her mind.

She had a plan — all nicely mapped out. She had faithfully executed all the steps in it. A good student, year after year. No trouble: never. Assignments done well. Excellent grades — on a top-ten trajectory. A fine transcript; outstanding results on the SAT and ACT. A laudable community service record. Already roughing out her applications to the best colleges in the country. And she could sense it all about to crash into fragments at her feet — leaving her with nothing. Nothing at all, as she understood the world.

“This is your signed assertion, collected at the beginning of the term, that you read, understood, and pledged to abide by the Student Code of Conduct.” I handed it to her. “This is your signature?”

“Yes, sir, it is.” Her voice was shaky.

I selected the next sheet. “This is the authorization from the Principal for your corporal punishment; here is the consent form your parents signed along with your enrollment application. In a few minutes I will administer your spanking.”

I watched as Elsa squeezed her eyes shut. Tears started to roll down her cheeks. I could just imagine her thoughts — that this nightmare had been tailor-made to torment her in every conceivable way.

Eleven years earlier, the retirement of a colleague had made me the school’s disciplinarian, ex officio as the most senior man on staff. There was no written rule that a man had to fill the rôle, but there were years of tradition, and St. Baffyld’s is very careful about its traditions.

Spankings were rare. I had had one perfect year, with none given. In the worst ever, I had spanked eight girls: a single incident involving a secret smoking party and a fire in the gardener’s shed. A typical year might hold just one or two.

To reduce the need for corporal punishment, I had implemented a strategy from the time I took over. When I spanked a girl, I made it unspeakably painful and humiliating for her — so that the dreadfulness of the experience became a matter of widespread understanding in the student culture. A student, standing in class because sitting is unthinkable, with tear-tracks on her face and hot pink skin showing beneath the hem of her kilt, sends a powerful message: being a good girl is a very wise choice.

And being told you are about to be spanked is the cause of utter hopelessness and despair.

I continued, as if unaware that my mention of physical punishment had unnerved my lovely student. “This letter, signed by the Principal, is addressed to your parents. You will take it home this afternoon and see that they get it. The letter invites them to a conference at the school, with the Principal and me, to discuss the options of suspending or expelling you from St. Baffyld’s.”

Elsa gasped, and her eyes opened wide. “Oh, sir, no, please —”

“And this last, Miss, is the report I will file with the police later today.”

“Oh! Mr. Curtis, no, please, you can’t —”

“Elsa!” I said firmly. “Quiet. You have committed a crime. Possession and use of alcohol by a seventeen-year-old is not only reprehensible, as you have surely been taught, but illegal.”

The tears were coming fast and heavy. Elsa’s whole body trembled. Disaster upon disaster — her world quaking out from under her feet, no relief to be had. Shame, degradation, and failure all that she could see.

“But it wasn’t mine, I swear it wasn’t,” she sobbed.

“The reason we use keys instead of combinations for our lockers,” I reminded the wretched beauty, “Is to allay any confusion about who has access. Your key was in your possession when the bottle was found.”

“I know, but… it still wasn’t my stuff, please, sir, please believe me!”

“It’s not for me to believe you or not, Elsa,” I replied. “Mrs. Carroll, Mrs. Mancini, and Mr. Barret did the investigation and they all spoke with you. My only job is to see to the consequences that they agreed on.”

I stood up, went to my classroom closet, and took out two large, heavy blocks of wood, each with two opposite faces covered in non-slip rubber. I placed them on the floor in front of my desk, adjusting them to be about three feet apart. It is a familiar task.

I had devised the blocks in my second year as disciplinarian, to make spankings more effective in three ways. First, by making a girl stand with her feet perched on those platforms, I deprive her of confidence in her footing. A girl who is certain of the floor beneath her feet will dance and kick while being punished. Unsure of her footing and balance, she’ll hold still — her bare bottom a reliable, unmoving target.

Second, when I raise her feet eight inches off the floor, while still requiring that she bend over with her elbows on my desktop, I cause her bottom and thighs to stretch even more tautly. And that, as the poor girls learn to their lasting dismay, makes every swat sting even more painfully.

Third and finally, I place the blocks quite far apart. So when her panties come down, the naughty girl is perfectly aware that her naked pussy is clearly on display. That doesn’t change the pain of a spanking, but it renders it terribly more humiliating. To have had my eyes on her most private, intimate places is a dreadful shame that will last a girl even longer than the fire I light in her bottom. Especially because, for most of the girls at St. Baffyld’s, no lover has yet been admitted to her secrets.

“Take your shoes off, Elsa, and stand on the blocks, facing my desk.”

She gave me one more imploring look, and saw only determined authority in my face. She stood up. Her movements betrayed her agony of spirit. From this point forward, every scripted move was another step toward making a ruin of the life she had envisioned for herself.

She pried one sneaker off with the toe of the other. I can’t remember the last time I saw a girl tie or untie a pair of shoes — those few who don’t wear highly-constructed, high-tech athletic shoes, loosely tied, opt for dress slip-ons. Bare toes engaged the opposite heel, and Elsa stood barefoot before me.

I simply waited, as she directed slow, unsteady steps toward my desk. She climbed shakily onto the spanking blocks, and stood there with her back to me. Her legs were open so wide that her tiny kilt rode even higher on her firm, bare thighs.

“Place your hands on top of your head, Elsa, with your fingers interlaced,” I told her. Trembling, she obeyed.

I walked across the room, leaving her there. I locked the door, knowing that Elsa would hear the sharp snap of the lock. I walked back to her.

“Keep your hands in place,” I warned, knowing that this was the moment for most girls that they first thought of defending themselves.

Standing beside Elsa, I unbuttoned the first of two buttons on the waistband tab of her kilt. At the contact, felt without preamble, she gasped.

I undid the second button. The last fastener was a hook-and-bar; to slide it open I had to hold the waistband of Elsa’s kilt in my fingers. The backs of my fingers pressed against her body, separated from skin only by the fabric of her blouse. The skirt fell open and I pulled it away from her. Her panties were plain white cotton, snug against her beautiful bottom; her legs and ass were as flawlessly sexy as ever — but the ultimate, most intimate view was about to be mine.

I put the skirt aside. “Bend over and rest your elbows on my desk, Elsa,” I ordered.

She complied. From her elevated perch, and given her height, it was a long way to bend over: she had to catch my desk with her hands, first, before settling into the prescribed position. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs; one hand clasped the other tightly. The hem of her polo shirt slid upwards a bit, baring Elsa’s slim, delicate waist. Her head hung low, registering her sense of helplessness and defeat.

Without a word, I took hold of the waistband of Elsa’s panties, and tugged them down to mid-thigh. They stretched tautly between her wide-spread legs. Elsa whimpered.

Her pussy was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

I knew that her exposure to my eyes was the worst humiliation she had ever felt. I could feel her conscious awareness that she was displaying her most private place, guarded all her life, meant only, she had been relentlessly taught, for a husband’s eyes. I didn’t need to see the flush in her cheeks and ears to gauge her shame. I could guess at her innocent unawareness that her tiny puckered asshole was just as much the object of my lustful attention — that I thought of her not as a virgin, but as a virgin times three.

I made her wait there for a couple of minutes. Tears fell to my desktop.

Then I took my position beside her. I placed my right hand on the taut, luscious curve of Elsa’s deliciously tempting ass. The contact startled her.

“Are you spanked at home, Elsa?” I asked. Well over half of our students are. Among the families St. Baffyld’s serves, the tradition of corporal punishment remains strong.

“No, sir,” she managed to say, voice fearful.

“Then you are probably wondering how painful your spanking will be. Well, Elsa, the answer to that is: more than you can possibly imagine.” I continued through her frightened crying. “However, you must stay on the blocks, with your forearms on my desk. If you move, or interfere with your punishment, it will be the worse for you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she sobbed.

I lifted my hand away from Elsa’s perfectly beautiful bottom: tight and springy, the ideal balance of tone and fullness. I could anticipate the sharp crack of my palm against those tender globes. I could predict from experience the number of smacks that would fall before her first startled, disbelieving cry of pain. And how long it would be before she started to beg.

I raised my arm.

In an instant, Elsa was off my desk, off the spanking blocks; spinning to face me; sinking to her knees. I was startled into immobility. She lifted imploring eyes to mine, on her knees at my feet with her panties around her thighs. She clasped her hands together prayerfully.

“Please, oh, please Mr. Curtis, I can’t — oh, sir, please, there must be — I can’t be expelled, and have a… p-police report; I can’t…” Tears coursed freely down her cheeks, falling to her breasts and wetting her blouse. “Isn’t there some other way? There must be!” Her voice betrayed desperation, her eyes defeat. “I have to graduate. I have to go to college. Oh, please sir, I’ll — I’ll do anything, Mr. Curtis, anything else. Please, sir!”

As she begged, my hand slowly lowered to my side. I looked down at Elsa: half naked, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen or imagined, completely, utterly vulnerable.

“I’ll —” Elsa blushed; she lowered her eyes for a moment and then raised them imploringly to my face. “I would… let you… do, um… sex with me. If you… if you could make the rest of this go away. Please, sir. Anything you wanted — anything else.”

When I didn’t answer, she reached for the hem of her shirt, took hold, and skinned it over her head. She tipped her head to swing her hair aside; her hands flashed behind her back and her bra tumbled off her shoulders and down her arms to be cast aside. Her nipples crinkled erect at the sudden coolness. Nude except for the panties stretched from thigh to thigh, she begged from her knees. “Oh, please, Mr. Curtis, wouldn’t that be better? Am I… pretty enough for you? Couldn’t — instead of punishing me and telling my parents and everything… could I just…” Her blush deepened, and she swallowed. Her voice softer, she continued, “I’ve been… I’ve been a good girl. I — I’m a… virgin.” The last word was almost a whisper. “Would you like that instead? To… to be the first one?”

My silence clearly unnerved her. Her wet eyes sparkled as she sought reprieve in my face. “It wouldn’t have to be just one time. We… I could… I could, like, do it for you a lot, this year. As… as much as you want.” Then her face flamed an even hotter pink — about the color of a very well-spanked bottom. In a soft whisper she added, “You could… m-make me do it… w-with my m-mouth.” Slowly, she raised a hand to her face, curled her fingers, extended her thumb, and slid it slowly between her soft, plump pink lips. She sucked it a little, and then withdrew it, glistening with saliva. “If you told me to do it… I would have to.” A beat went by, and she rested her case. “Please?

That’s how the fantasy went. Running through my thoughts, time after time. Making me stiff, fanning the flames of my lust for Elsa. Often I would stroke my cock, imagining Elsa on her knees, looking up at me, begging me to fuck her all year long. Finally cumming with her name on my lips, the semen meant for Elsa flowing warm and wasted over my hand.


I stood by my desk, with an eye on the clock. Right on time, the door opened a crack, and her face peeked in.

“Come in, Elsa,” I said. “Close the door behind you.” I watched her walk across the room toward me. The sight of her long bare legs, with the tiny little kilt swirling around her thighs, only just barely covering her bottom, was as captivating as always. “Have a seat,” I said.

She chose one of the lab stools and perched on it with the grace of a bird alighting on a branch. Without a second thought, she immediately lifted one leg to rest her heel against the upper rung of the stool. Her panties were pink-and-white-striped cotton, and the seam-binding around her thighs bore printing meant to look like handwriting. I recognized the brand — HUE — and though the text was too small to read I knew that the words were cheerful mottoes. “Color outside the lines… Let yourself daydream… Agree with your imagination.”

I picked up a file folder, turned back to her, and looked her right in the eyes. “Elsa, this is all the official paperwork. An order for me to give you a disciplinary spanking, right here and now.” Her face turned pink in an instant, her ears even redder. “A letter for your parents, discussing your suspension or expulsion from St. Baffyld’s. And a report to the police about underage possession of alcohol.”

Elsa’s fierce blush at the word “spanking” had started to fade, but her expression grew increasingly agitated and apprehensive. She opened her mouth to reply: plump lips, wet; bright, even teeth; soft, moist, agile, yet-to-be-trained tongue — the perfect home for my cock. I longed to be the one to relieve her of that virginity, holding her soft hair in my hands. That virginity first, before the others.

Before she could speak I tossed the folder back on the desk, behind me and out of sight: a symbol. “That’s the official stuff, Elsa. Now, unofficially, just between you and me — what happened?”

Her eyes followed the folder full of doom-laden paperwork and then came back to mine. She saw nothing but care and concern in my face. My lust for her was hidden, the beast trapped inside.


She took a deep breath. I saw moisture in her eyes, unspilled.

“It wasn’t mine. I never drank any.”

She stopped, and looked away for a moment. Tears started to seep from her eyes, moistening her long, thick lashes. So often I had pictured her with my cum on her beautiful face, wetting her eyes for a much finer reason.

“There were — it was just, just — a bunch of girls, just hanging out, waiting for the bell, you know? Like six of us. Not for any reason?”

I nodded.

“And, I don’t know why she did it, but.” Long pause. “I won’t tell you who, I just won’t, ok?” she said, fierce determination in her voice belied by its quiver and the welling teardrops.

“Go on,” I replied, without agreeing.

She sniffled. “One girl had that little flat bottle, the one they found. She — she just pulled it out of her purse, like — like it wasn’t a big deal, or anything to be… to hide, or be, like, a secret, you know?”


“So she drank some, right from the bottle, and then just… passed it to another girl. Like ‘No big deal’ — like we were… like it was normal.”

Tears spilled out of Elsa’s eyes and ran down her cheeks in bright streams. She looked away from me, remembering, trying to gather her composure. I was much closer to her than usual; her panties were so snug that I could tell she had pouties — that her labia minora were fleshy enough to protrude prominently. The intimacy of that knowledge thrilled me. I wanted her sweet pink pussy-lips in my mouth; I wanted to part them with my tongue and taste Elsa’s sweet, flowing girl-juice. Warm and tangy in my mouth as I listened to her cries of delight.

My eyes were on her face when she looked at me again.

“I could see,” she continued, “Everybody stealing looks at each other. Like, nobody wanted any… booze, but nobody knew if maybe she was the only one, and we’d, like, call her a wimp or… you know, like rag on her like ‘Oh, you’re such a baby,’ that kind of thing.”

Elsa bent her face to one short sleeve, tugging on the fabric as she wiped her eyes. Her blouse pulled against her breasts, showing their shape more clearly, hinting at their heft and solidity and warmth. I remembered them, half bare in her tiny bikini, in perfect detail. I wondered how sensitive her nipples were, and how hard they might get when aroused. I wondered if she would gasp if I took one between my lips, or moan, or twine her fingers in my hair while I feasted.

When she looked up I was holding out a box of tissues. She took one with a fleeting, grateful smile. “Go on,” I said softly.

She nodded, and dabbed at her eyes one more time. I wanted to kiss her tears away, tasting their salt on her skin. To start by gently licking around her eyes, and then to progress to her lips, ultimately falling into an endless kiss.

“So. The next girl took the bottle. I guess because nobody had said anything.” Elsa looked down at the floor. “I should have. I know that. I should have said something.”

“We’ll come back to that,” I told her. “Tell me what happened then.”

She looked back up at me; her cheeks were wet again. I regretted Elsa’s tears. I only wanted to see happy ones on her face. Like the tears that would come while I patiently trained her, hour after hour, to take my cock all the way down her throat and hold it there, while lapping at my balls with the pretty pink tip of her extended tongue. Those tears would be beautiful.

“She took it. And everybody was, you know, watching her. So… she took a little sip. She was ok for, like, a second, and then she started coughing, and covering her mouth with one hand and holding out the bottle like ‘Take it! Take it!’ So someone did and that’s when we heard a teacher, I think it was Mrs. Marcus. So everybody started to panic. And somebody saw my backpack was unzipped and stuck it in there and said ‘Hide it in your locker’ and then everybody split.”

“I see,” I said. Elsa unhooked her heel from the rung of the stool and lowered her leg. Her tiny little fuck-the-schoolgirl kilt went back to — barely — doing its job. My disappointment lasted only a moment, though, for she pulled the other leg up into the mirror pose, hugging her knee. The lighting was even better that way, her labia crisply delineated by the snug, tight cloth. I wanted to tell her how cute her pretty pink-striped panties were. But not as much as I wanted to feel them rubbing the side of my cock as I fucked Elsa’s wet pink pussy.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Elsa said, a fresh spate of tears falling as she recalled the helpless feeling. “But I didn’t want it in my backpack: someone might see. So I went to my locker, and pretended to switch some books, and put the bottle behind my coat.”

I could picture her, crouched by her locker, ass to heels, with those long, curvy, bare legs taut. A perfect pose for lapping my balls, sucking my cock, and feeling spurts of hot cum exploding all over her perfect features. I could picture it as if in slow motion: arc after arc of creamy white, jetting across that lovely face, splashing and spreading on her lips and cheeks and forehead, sparkling in her eyelashes, clinging warm and heavy to her soft skin. I could picture her parting her lips, letting their thick gloss of sperm flow into her beautiful mouth. Her tongue peeking out, searching for more.

“Then I went to class,” Elsa continued. “I didn’t know what to do. It was all I could think about. I wanted to give it back to — to the girl who brought it. But I was afraid to open my locker… that someone would see it in there, or see me give it to… to her.” She blotted more tears. “Then finally, Mrs. Carroll came into fourth period English and… pulled me out. And… and… now this.”

I held Elsa’s eyes, waiting, letting silence surround us. I wanted to make sure that she had said all she was prepared to tell me. She looked back at me, eyes brimming. Suddenly, her face… crumpled — distorted with anguish, fear, helpless dread — and tears poured down her cheeks. Sobbing, she choked out, “Oh, Mr. Curtis. Are you… really going to… s-spank me?”

I thought about it. The fantasy, a thousand times repeated in my solitary hours, flashed back into being in my mind. I thought about the moment of revelation, when those darling little panties slid down Elsa’s thighs and bared her charms to me. No — not charms: fuck-holes. Bared her cunt, her asshole. I thought about her, naked and spread open for me. I dreamed that horror at her prospects would put her on her knees before me: begging, offering, desperate. I dreamed about claiming her body and her innocence as mine, at long last satisfying my lust for Elsa.

I reached back to my desk, and picked up the folder of paperwork. Elsa watched it as I turned back to her, and then lifted her eyes to mine.

“Well, Elsa,” I said, gently, “That is the official plan. Your spanking is what is supposed to happen next. It is certainly what Principal Barlow expects to hear when I report back to her. However…”

The look of hope that shone in Elsa’s face at that instant — it was indescribable. For the rest of my life it will remain one of my clearest, brightest memories.

“However” had given Elsa her life back.

“I know you, Elsa,” I continued. “And you and I have a very well established trust. You trust me to give you the truth, and I have the same trust in you.” She nodded, agreeing. “I also have an excellent sense of your character and behavior. When I heard that the vodka had been found in your locker, the first thing I said to the other teachers was that we would find it to be a mistake, or a plant, or that there would be some other explanation for it.”

“You believe me?” she breathed, imploring.

“Yes, Elsa, I do. I didn’t know the details of your story, but its substance doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Her eyes grew wide. Her shoulders lost their slump. Alas, she took her foot off the top rung of the stool and let that leg dangle next to the other, depriving me of the appealing sight of her pretty panties stretched tightly over her sweet young pussy. The tight hot slick virgin schoolgirl pussy that I craved for my own, to eat, to finger, to fuck, to flood with cum.

“Now, believing what you’ve told me is well and good. But it doesn’t mean that you are entirely off the hook, either,” I said, fixing the beautiful schoolgirl with my best this-is-serious look. “You had several opportunities that day to conduct yourself more responsibly.” Elsa nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You could have spoken up, as you have already realized, when your friend showed what she was carrying. If you were too shy or too afraid to speak up, you could have walked away, and thereby set an example for the other girls as well as sending a clear signal of your disapproval.”

More tears spilled, and Elsa whispered, “I know.”

“Any teacher would have helped you, if you had gone to her straight away and explained your predicament. But what really disappoints me, Elsa, is your refusal to name the girl in question.”

“I can’t, Mr. Curtis. I — I just think it’s… I don’t want to be… you know, an informer. And it’s bad enough I got myself in trouble, I don’t want anyone else…” Her voice trailed off.

I looked at Elsa, sympathy on my face, the beast of lust hidden. An angry beast, now that I was thwarting it at its finest opportunity.

“I understand that point of view, Elsa. Especially with words like ‘tattletale’ and ‘snitch’ such common taunts.” She winced at “snitch” — I know she had heard girls called that: labeled with it. It’s the kind of label, like “slut,” that is said in a flash of anger but sticks to its target for years, wounding her, altering her friendships, her self-image, her life.

“I want you to understand mine as well,” I continued. “A girl who not only carries alcohol to school, but casually and easily takes a gulp of it before class — does that suggest to you that it was an experiment, or a first time for her?”

Elsa didn’t have to ponder that for long. “No, sir,” she said meekly.

“No indeed. That’s the behavior of a girl with a problem, a serious problem, that needs to be addressed. Your silence is not an act of friendship; it is not in any way commendable.”

I left a minute of silence between us, in which Elsa found something to contemplate on the floor. She was uncomfortable, clearly, but also not moved from her decision.

“Very well,” I said. I opened the folder of paperwork — the forms that condemned Elsa to a humiliating and fiercely painful bare-bottom spanking, that raised the possibility of her explusion, that put her in the hands of the local cops. “Because I believe you, and trust you, and know the kind of girl you are, Elsa…”

She concentrated all her attention on me, hoping for words of mercy.

“I’m willing to make you an offer. Five weeks of detention, two hours after school every day, and I will make the spanking go away.” I took that sheet from the folder and tossed it onto my desk. The lust within me howled with rage: no Elsa, bare, bent, spread open. No sweet pink pussy, warm and inviting, open to my eyes. No tight little ass under my hand, flesh rosy and heated. No begging for reprieve, trading her body for the life she had imagined. No Elsa, on her knees, pleading, offering her virginity in exchange for her future. No Elsa, suggesting the most depraved act she could imagine: taking my cock in her beautiful mouth.

“And since the notion of possession is rather murky, I don’t really think the police report is called for.” I took those forms out of the folder as well, putting them aside. One sheet was left, and Elsa’s eyes darted between it and my face.

“Now, as for the conversation with your parents. I don’t think we need to talk about suspension or expulsion. But I want to see you tomorrow morning, Elsa, before your first class, and I want you to tell me face to face that you’ve explained and discussed this entire situation with your mother and father. As carefully as you just explained it to me. That means doing it tonight, no putting it off, you understand?”

“My mom’s in Zurich,” she answered. “At a conference — she’s presenting a paper.”

“Your father, then.” I made sure I held her eyes. “Tonight, Elsa — without fail.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Her rising hopefulness was evident in her tone of voice. Not happy, not quite — but her relief was audible.

I put the folder back on my desk, and turned back to Elsa. Her tear-streaked face melted my heart; her perfect, flawless, sexy teenage body drained blood from my brain and sent it pumping through my aching, needy cock. I watched the gentle movement of her breasts as she breathed; I saw the smooth tender skin of her long bare thighs and could almost taste it — as I could imagine the taste of her mouth, the scent of her warm, freely-flowing cunt-honey, the tight squeeze of her virgin asshole, the feeling of her silky hair in my hands as I drove my cock down her throat.

“I’ll expect to see you first thing tomorrow morning. So: may I take it that you prefer detention to the… official response to your conduct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. I’ll let Mrs. Barlow know of the change in plans.”

Elsa’s good heart was evident in her response. “Are you — will she be mad at you for not, you know, doing what you were supposed to? The, um… the spanking, and all?”

I smiled. “She will… explain to me, Elsa, not for the first time, that I must not unilaterally overrule administrative decisions. Then I will explain to her why this course of action is more appropriate. And she will harumph at me in that very characteristic Brenda Barlow harumphing way.” That got a grin from Elsa, her first bright look since entering my room. “But she will yield, eventually — so don’t worry about me.”


“One last thing, Elsa. I’ll let you decide. You may spend your afternoons in the detention room, with any other girls who happen to have been sent there, and you’ll have the time available to study or do homework. Or, you may spend them here in my lab, in which case I’ll put you to work and you’ll have to find other time for studying — but it won’t be obvious to others that you’ve been given detention.”

“With you, please, sir,” Elsa said without any hesitation.

“Very well. Starting tomorrow, right after school. Since I anticipated your accepting this altered sentence, I’ve already let Miss O’Reilly know that you won’t be trying out for the Fall musical.”

Elsa’s face fell. She had not looked ahead that far. But of course it didn’t take her long to realize that, cooped up in detention every afternoon, she wouldn’t be free for rehearsals. “Yes, sir,” was all she could say. I knew it was a blow — as a Senior, she would have had an excellent shot at a starring rôle.

“Is there anything more you want to tell me, Elsa?”


“All right then, you may go,” I said. Elsa hopped down off the lab stool. I continued, “And I will see about arranging some sort of help for Danielle.”

“I never said her name!” Elsa exclaimed. “I never once —” Then, realizing that her sharp reaction was confirmation enough, she stopped, blushing. She lowered her eyes, unwilling to meet mine.

“No, Elsa,” I said gently, “You didn’t tell me who brought the alcohol to school. But several teachers have noticed a change in Danielle’s behavior this year, and I’ve been wondering about her attitude, her absences, and the inconsistent quality of her work. Once we learned that we had a drinker among the students, a few of us put our heads together, and didn’t have much trouble coming up with Danielle’s name.”

“She’ll be furious with me if she thinks…” said Elsa.

“Don’t be so certain,” I replied. “Think about this, Elsa: Mrs. Carroll didn’t just decide to go poking around in the lockers one day. There was a call to the office, anonymous, saying what she would find in yours.”

Elsa gasped, and put a hand over her mouth, her eyes registering the shock of understanding.

“We’ll never know who it was, but it had to be one of the girls you were with. In my opinion, it was Danielle — in my opinion it was her way of getting someone to intervene in a situation that was beyond her control. I think it was a cry for help, and I think she trusted in two things.”

Elsa slowly lowered her hand. I had her full attention, but I think her mind was racing ahead of my words.

“One, I think she trusted that your reputation and conduct would be enough to keep you out of serious trouble. I don’t think she wanted to hurt you or cause a problem for you. And two —” I fixed Elsa with a very serious look. “I think she trusted you to help her, by letting a teacher or counselor know she needed attention.”

Elsa’s cheeks were wet again. “Yes, sir,” she said, just above a whisper.

“That’s all today. I will see you before first period tomorrow morning, in Anatomy class as usual, and then right after the bell to start detention with me.”

Elsa turned away from me. She bent over to pick up her backpack; her barely-there kilt rode up and gave me another fine and protracted look at the pink-striped panties stretched across her delectable, sexy, fuckable ass.

She was half-way straightened up again when she changed her mind. She put the backpack down, rose, turned to face me, and then ran three short steps to me, arms reaching out. She hugged me.

Not a little squeeze and release. A full-body embrace, tight, lingering. She was only a few inches shorter than me; I felt her wet cheek against mine. I felt the fullness of her firm breasts squashed against my chest. I felt the softness of her hair as it spilled across my face. I felt the pressure of her loins — so often and so desperately had I longed for that sensation — and the warmth of her naked thighs through my dress slacks.

I wrapped my arms around her, more gently than she was holding me. It felt like the right thing to do.

“Oh, Mr. Curtis,” she said into my ear, as I felt the heat of fresh tears against my cheek. “I don’t know how to thank you enough for how much you care about me. No other teacher — you’re just the best ever. I’m glad it was you. I love you so much.”

There, in Elsa’s tight embrace, pressed against the body I had desired beyond sanity, holding the sweet schoolgirl whose innocence I had dreamt of shattering, my lust for Elsa died.

I felt a sensation overtaking my mind, so strange that I couldn’t recognize it for a moment. Quiet. Calm. Peace. It was like hearing silence after a year of jackhammers and chainsaws.

The beast had vanished.

Elsa relaxed her arms; I let go of her. She stepped back, stealing her perfect young body away from me, leaving me bereft of her warmth and touch and scent. Her wide green eyes looked straight into mine. “I’m so sorry for all this trouble.”

“I know it didn’t start with you, Elsa,” I replied mildly. I wondered if, as we embraced, she had been aware of my thickened cock, pressed against her body.

But the wonder came with its own answer: no, she would not have noticed. Like most of her peers, Elsa still bore the innocence of her youth, inexperience, and conservative, highly sheltered upbringing. Boys were of interest. Sex was certainly on her mind — though still a matter of speculation and uncertainty and whispered rumors and concepts half-understood. No matter how much she thought about her sexual self, though, no matter how adept she might be at gauging the difference between a limp and a half-hard penis by feel, there was not the least possibility that she thought of me as having sexual feelings or interests — or even a definite sex, come to that. Young people are male and female, to a teenager. Old people are just old.

Elsa bent once more for her backpack. She flashed her panties again. I looked. Pulse under control, thoughts entirely professional. A student, like sixty or seventy I teach every year. A student, just one of the hundreds of pretty girls that fill the halls and classrooms of St. Baffyld’s.

She straightened up and turned to me. I was just opening my mouth when she said “First thing tomorrow, to tell you I talked this over with my dad.”

“Right.” She had anticipated my reminder.

“After school, here in the lab, for five weeks.”


She paused for a moment, thinking. “What kind of work will you have me do?”

“Whatever needs doing. There’s always a certain amount of tidying and organizing to be done, even though you ladies are pretty good about neatness. I have notes for a few labs that I haven’t ever tried in class, and I’d like to see if a student as sharp as you can get through them and understand them — so I’d like you to be my guinea pig. And if you really want to be a dear you can take some prep work off my hands.”

“Like what?”

“Like… preparing agar plates for a bacterial transformation lab. Half with plain lysogeny broth, half with an antibiotic added.”

“That doesn’t sound so much like detention,” Elsa said, her usual brightness of mood resurfacing. “That sounds more like playtime.”

I smiled at her. “Just don’t tell Mrs. Barlow, ok?”

Elsa laughed. Music.

She turned, walked to the door, unlocked it, and paused. She turned back to face me. I waited.

“Mr. Curtis?” Her voice was hesitant, almost shy.

I wondered what was on her mind, that she had to ask from a safe distance away. But I just waited. Girls talk, or don’t talk — prompting doesn’t change anything.

“Is it true… I mean, I’ve heard that… Um.” Color started to rise in that flawless, stunning face. I waited.

“Do you… um… the, uh, you know, spanking? Is it, um, true that… you — I mean, the girl, who’s, you know, getting… spanked, that you… that she’s, well, naked?” Oh, my, the blush.

“Kilt off, panties pulled down, spanked by hand, hard, on the bare bottom,” I replied calmly. “Yes, that’s true. St. Baffyld’s Directors are quite… old-fashioned in such matters.”

She stared, wide-eyed. No doubt she was picturing herself so exposed. Realizing that “panties pulled down” meant much more on display than buns. Wondering, perhaps, what the ordeal would have felt like. But far too naïve, I was certain, to realize what commuting her sentence had meant to me.

Elsa took a deep breath. “Oh,” she said softly. “Ok. Thanks. I had heard — well, you never know if people are just, like, making things up. You know, just to scare you.”

“That’s the scientist in you,” I replied. “Checking for yourself, instead of just believing what you’re told.” I recognized a connection to some things Elsa had said in our Anatomy interview. “And you’re right,” I continued, “Some people will do that: scare you with fabrications. Trying to control your behavior that way, because they can’t rely on reason, or don’t have confidence that you can make mature, moral decisions if you know the facts. Some of what you’ve been told about sex is meant to make you reluctant to learn about it or experience it.”

“But you won’t lie,” said Elsa. It wasn’t a question.

“No.” I thought for a moment. “Lying, to a scientist, is like… plagiarism would be to a novelist. Not just wrong, but disgraceful.”

Elsa nodded. She hesitated, looking shy again. I waited patiently. “Mr. Curtis? Do you think… Could I be a scientist?”

“Yes, Elsa,” I told her confidently. “Without question. And a very good one at that.”

She beamed at me, and finally relaxed fully for the first time that afternoon. “Would you help me figure out what colleges to apply to? There are so many and they all say the same things about, like, student ratios and campus life, and how great the professors are, and they all have stories about students who do, like, these amazing projects… Can you help?”

“I’d be happy and honored to.” As is the case every year for a dozen girls or more. Some of them go to the guidance office; some of them, because of earned trust, come to me.

“Should I bring in some catalogs?” Elsa asked.

“No need to. I’ll spend some time with you asking questions about what you’re looking for and what sort of college environment you think would be comfortable, and we’ll figure out some likely choices. I already know the places that have good undergraduate life sciences, so it’s more a matter of fitting the right college around you.”

“Thanks, Mr. C!” she enthused. “Thank you so much!”

I smiled at her. “Happy to help.”

“Well… see you tomorrow morning,” Elsa said. A brief shadow flickered across her face, with the recollection that she had a tough conversation with her father ahead. “Thanks for everything.” With that she turned away and disappeared, sneakers squeaking down the empty hallway.

I took a seat at my desk. Pushed my chair back. Leaned back, after a moment, and put my feet up on the desk.

“I love you so much,” Elsa had said, with the directness and uncomplicated honesty of her years. The sword-thrust into the heart of my lust for her. A vital, essential reminder:

For student after student after student, I am the parent she has longed for. Accepting and appreciating who she is instead of holding her up against a preconceived template. Supporting her with attention, patience, and understanding. Being the reliable adult presence she needs. Being honest, especially about the hard questions of adolescence, especially about the mental, emotional, and physical turmoil of blossoming sexuality. Reassuring her that her value as a girl, a young adult, a lady, a person, is not measurable by the Educational Testing Service, but that it comes from the character she chooses for herself.

And I love them. I love them. Like daughters. Not with lust — with respect, fondness, support, encouragement, and with the pain of seeing them grow up and leave. That pain is ameliorated by the knowledge that growing up and leaving is what children are meant to do… but it is nonetheless real.

With Elsa, the incomparable beauty, the encapsulation of everything sexually appealing to me — perhaps the summation of my decades immersed in an ocean of youthful innocence, beauty, and sexual awakening — I had lost my bearings for a while. Elsa’s simple, straightforward avowal of her love for me had reminded me of the right path.

Can the Seven Deadly Sins be ranked? I might say that envy is the worst of them, the most destructive. But lust is up there. I knew from experience its power: the power to overwhelm principle, conviction, and character.

But the glory of love is stronger still.

Lust died. Vanquished by my love for Elsa.

Author’s notes on Lust for Elsa:

When I publish Flash Fiction, it is always in the hope that one of those little seeds will sprout in your mind, dear reader, and grow into a pleasant fantasy. I suppose it’s no surprise that Extra Credit (in Flash Fiction VIII) took root in my own imagination, growing into the story you have just finished.

I owe the original seed, and this outgrowth of it, to my wonderful, wonder-full friend TL, who not only has the enviable job of teaching science to fetish-clad half-naked sexually awakening high-school girls (“tartlets”), but the infinite kindness to beguile me with tale after tale of the lovely lasses. TL was also an early and frequent reviewer of and contributor to Lust for Elsa, never complaining about my endless questions, and gave me excellent insights into the classroom and students: their behavior, their thoughts and emotions, their questions, and their highly conservative, astonishingly sheltered upbringing. To the extent that this tale rang true, the apples go to the teacher. Errors or false notes are mine alone.

Please use the e-mail link or the form below to send me your comments. Your messages are my sole compensation for writing. Thank you.

Confidential to TL: Tuesday IS.

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