Chapter 1

A swarm of dried leaves scattered through the nearly deserted parking lot of Clinton High School. Young girls struggled with unruly skirts in the crisp autumn breeze while boys combed their scattered hair in a futile effort to keep it in place. Making their slow way from one silent classroom to the next, janitors swept up the debris of paper scraps, erasure droppings, misshapen paper clips, twisted staples and broken pencils; all the ghosts of students who earlier in the day had marched obediently from one subject to the next. After-school rehearsals filled the air with a cacophony of distant sounds. Drum cadences and Bugle fanfares echoed from the band field. From in front of the gym the peppy shouts and 'rah-rah' 'Go-Get-'em' chants of the cheerleaders bounced off the walls and from the football stadium came the somewhat violent thuds of craniums in collision and the counterpoint of barked commands from the coaching staff. Students still walked the corridors but for the most part the school had finished the day's business, was locking up and shutting down, awaiting a fresh start in the morning.

In Room 203, a slim long-haired blonde sat at a large wooden desk in front of the blackboards, absent-mindedly shuffling through a stack of papers. All were due to be returned in the morning, complete with insightful commentary and teacherly guidance, but her mind drifted, its attention caught now by the sounds of practicing that floated in on the cool breeze, or perhaps replaying an insignificant conversation with some forgotten acquaintance earlier in the day. Anything to delay what had become for her a slow torture, a mind-numbing exercise in futility. "The Symbolism of Good and Evil In Moby Dick By

Herman Melville and the Meaning of the Whale" she read on a title page and literally cringed. Save me from mediocrity; that had become her prayer, one that seemed to go unanswered. All the idealism of youth and college was as a pathetic shout in a long night of deadly silence. Life follows exactly a carefully planned progression and still winds up taking the wrong path? She had no answers. It really wasn't that she disliked teaching; more it was a feeling that somewhere out there, the real task of teaching waited for someone else to fill the role, while here in Clinton, she was stuck babysitting in a cruel parody of teaching. Oh, it wasn't that bad. Perhaps if she could loosen up more, both with students and fellow faculty members. If she could let herself enjoy it instead of simply going through learned actions. But she couldn't, or had no way of unlocking a hidden capability, assuming it existed. Once, she'd felt truly called to the challenge of shaping young minds. She'd wanted to make a difference, do some good, feel useful. After two years here, she felt only used, though couldn't have said by whom. But somehow, by some sinister magic of choice mixed with random chance, her life had slowly dwindled to the dimensions of a small room, each crack on the ceiling memorized, her routine grown as familiar and static as a pattern of faded wallpaper, the steps needed to move around within her limited boundaries retraced often enough that she could do it blindfolded. She'd wither on the vine without having had the first chance to blossom, she thought.

Oh God. That's the kind of limp metaphor she'd come to expect from her creative writing class. Just who was working on whom, she wondered. A shadow crossing the open doorway interrupted her melancholy. "Who's there?" she called out, when whoever it was simply hovered out of view. A slouched figure slowly moved into the light, a faceless silhouette in the bright rectangle.

"Well come in, if you're going to," she said, carefully adding the tone of stern annoyance she knew characterized the image of her held by her students.

'Miss Perkins' was known as a tough customer. Other teachers got results with a friendly, gentle approach. Julia Perkins got what she wanted because usually her students were too damn scared to make a mistake. Merciless was a term used to describe her. Mean-assed bitch was another. While not her true nature, it was an image she cultivated carefully. The unexpected juxtaposition of her somewhat overwhelmingly good looks and ice-cold manner kept an otherwise rowdy flock safely sedated.

She recognized the figure as he entered the room.

"Hello, Steve. If that's your paper, it was due today during fifth period."

"Yes ma'am, I know." He approached her with steady steps, but his eyes avoided her own. "I thought I'd best hand it in anyway. It's better than an 'F' at least."

"That remains to be seen," she said with a deliberate hard edge in her voice. Wordlessly she flipped through the pages, appeared to read a paragraph or two and then, with no further comment, she scrawled a large LATE in red ink across the title page and dropped it onto the stack in front of her. She looked up at the youth with an air of casual dismissal.

He fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot and was obviously ill at ease.

"Was there something else," she asked, indicating by her tone that the prospect displeased her.

"Well, Miss Perkins. I really worked hard on that paper. I know it was late, and all, but I really tried to do a good job on it. You always complain that we don't take our work seriously, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd keep in mind that I really worked hard on it when you grade it."

He spoke with great discomfort. Yet the sincere expression softened her. It wasn't often that she had an opportunity to deal with her students one-on-one like this. There seemed much less call for the metallic formality of her classroom manner.

"All right Steve. I will really keep that in mind. I appreciate you speaking your mind like that."

This shift in attitude caught him by surprise. His eyes widened for a split second. Without warning, he hit her with a question that could have been taken from her own inner monologue of a few minutes before.

"Miss Perkins, do you enjoy teaching?"

Now it was Julia's turn to be surprised. But he asked it of her so simply and with such honest, straightforward inquisitiveness, she couldn't help responding in kind.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Steve, sometimes I really don't know." She was a little flustered. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, embarrassed now by his blunt question. "It just seems that there wouldn't be a lot of rewards for having to put up with so much."

She smiled, knowing that too was out of character. "Do you think I have to put up with a lot?"

"Oh ... yeah. I guess so." He grinned a boyish, self conscious grin. Uh-oh, Julia, she thought.

Watch yourself. The light from the doorway outlined his curly brown hair with an aura-like sheen. He was, to be sure, a very good looking young man. And, she was forced to admit, she herself was not that much older than he. In three more years the age difference would be wholly insignificant. Now, however, the gulf between them was far wider than years alone could account for. She leaned back in her chair and assumed a casually familiar posture, again very much out of character. He seemed to loosen up, appeared to be in no hurry to leave, nor was she necessarily anxious for him to do so.

"There are rewards in teaching. Not as many as I'd thought there would be ... every so often someone stands out of the crowd, shows some special ability that you can tell yourself you helped to develop."

"We learn a lot from you, Miss Perkins. I know you don't always think so, but everyone has a lot of respect for you."

"Does that include you?" she asked.

"Oh, yes ma'am. Yes Ma'am; sure." He said it hurriedly, almost seemed surprised by his own words. He still shifted his weight from one foot to another though he didn't seem as uncomfortable as when he'd first come into the classroom.

"Why don't you sit down," she invited, enjoying this personal contact with someone who usually was just another blank unresponsive face. Against her will, she couldn't help notice the long bulge that stretched from his crotch down the inside of his left thigh. In her mind, she gave a long low whistle. Steve Tanner, she thought, you are one stunningly well-endowed young man. Almost as a reflex she caught a quick flash of a secluded back country road, of a darkened automobile hidden off to the side, of closed windows fogged over. She saw a bare ass rising and falling in the back seat, could almost hear the muffled cries of the cheerleader or majorette stretched out on the vinyl, felt the heat of this young stud's cock pounding through her, could almost feel its touch, feel it tearing through her own flesh--! Urn ... take it easy there Julia, she thought. Let's not get carried away here. But wait! What's this? Could it be that she was actually getting a little steamy under the silk? Hmmm ... no doubt about it. That oily slipping of her thighs against each other as she shifted in her chair to face him was certainly no fantasy. Now here was an unexpected development. One she was not ready to deal with. She suddenly thought it might be better if he did leave, but at her invitation sit down, he'd (eagerly? she wondered) he's pulled up a chair and was now looking quite relaxed. Julia sensed that somehow, the hard line between student and teacher had been erased, perhaps not fully; still, his attitude was much more one of a peer rather than a student. Best get things back on a safe professional track she thought.

"What do you want to do with your life, Steve?"

He laughed.

"I know; isn't that just the corny kind of question you'd expect from a teacher?" He mulled over his answer, choosing his words carefully.

"I want to get out of Clinton ... I want to go to college . ... I guess I want to get someplace where I can experience a variety of options, you know?"

She nodded, a sympathetic friendly nod. Look casual, she told herself. Be natural, as if he'd somehow invaded her thoughts and knew what she'd been thinking.

"I don't know what I want to do Miss Perkins. That doesn't bother me though. A lot of times, the people who know exactly what they want when they get out of high school wind up in a rut real fast. And they don't ever seem to leave Clinton either."

"It sounds like you've thought a lot about this. You have a very mature attitude." That's it. Sound like a teacher. Sound like someone he needs to look up to. She wondered if he'd seen her looking at his crotch-like THAT ... oh lord, gotta cut that out. Was it her imagination, or was his crotch bigger. Crotch nothing, it was his cock she was wondering about, and yes, now that you mention it, it did seem to be bigger. Not, you understand, that SHE was noticing, or preoccupied or anything of the sort. She was a teacher, and hadn't he said they respected her? That had surprised her, of course; she'd assumed they all thought she was not quite human, or at least female, even though she'd unbutton an extra button on her blouse once in a while and manage to drop a piece of chalk and linger just a little long, not too long mind you, but enough to flash a fast glimpse of rolling, curved flesh that all male eyes would be targeted on when she'd stand back up and continue as if nothing was out of the ordinary, because after-all, she was 'Miss Perkins' the mean-assed bitch, wasn't she, who could not possibly have thoughts of sex or titillating students, and maybe it was true that she was still a virgin and just needed a good fuck, like by the football team, or at least that's what they all thought, wasn't it?

What did Steve think? She was confused here; all of a sudden she thought maybe he was putting her on. Was that it, or was she paranoid; guilt-ridden at this stunning violation of taboo, though what harm was a little fantasy, after all? No harm at all, unless, of course, you wanted it to become real and from somewhere in her brain, some new, strange person walked on the scene and subtly assumed control; someone with no concern about what was or was not socially acceptable; indeed was unaware that such a distinction existed. And now, as Julia chatted about school, and Clinton, and even let out bits and fragments of her own past (teachers were once students, remember) the teacher in her battled furiously with this intruder, who's only drive seemed to center ... well, yes ... seemed to center right there between her legs with little to no real thought involved. Just ... lust. Mad lust.

As she spoke with her voice to Steve, she pleaded with herself in her mind to get a hold of this thing, and at once saw her hands clutching a large swollen cock. No, no; that wasn't quite the idea....

"Do you ever think of moving on, Miss Perkins? Getting out of Clinton?"

"Sure. Don't get me wrong, I like teaching; I don't always think I'm good at it, but I like it."

He nodded encouragingly, enjoying this familiar, casual manner of hers as much as she did.

"I guess there's a certain stigma though. You know; "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach'. "

"What would you like to do?" The question was innocent enough, and natural enough too. But was he really stealing quick looks at her breasts, or was that too paranoia, if paranoia was the right word. She realized that she'd loosened a couple of buttons on her blouse as she'd been grading papers, just so she'd be more comfortable.

"What would I like to do ... " she mused, letting herself contemplate the question. Wouldn't you love to know what I'd like to do she thought. "I'm like all English teachers," she said. "Just a frustrated, failed novelist."

"Yeah?" He seemed genuinely intrigued by the idea. "What would you like to write about?"

"Oh, I don't know; I wrote short stories in college but everyone does. I even got a few poems published." She smiled, a little sadly. "Dreams. That's what I'd write about. Dreams and the people who dream them."

He considered that for a minute, then hit her with another unexpected change in direction.

"Miss Perkins; what do you think about someone ... young ... getting, sort of involved, with an older person."

Julia wondered if the shock was as evident in her eyes as it felt in her gut. He was looking straight at her now, his eyes piercing through her. Or, was he just innocently waiting for another answer from a teacher who'd unexpectedly turned out to be friendly? And was she losing her mind, or did she really want to be the object of his question? What WAS going on here?

She tried to maintain her casual tone with him as she answered, but could hear the quiver in her voice, or at least felt it in her throat and assumed he too noticed.

"That's a pretty serious question, Steve. "I don't think I could just give an all purpose answer. It all depends on the situation."

"But there are situations where you could imagine it being all right?"

"Well, as I say ... it all depends. For example, how young is young? Your age?"

He nodded.

"Steve, are you asking about a situation in your life, something that's happening to you right now? Because if you are, I don't think I'm the one to advise you, if advice is what you're looking for."

"Oh, that's not so Miss Perkins. You're not really all that much older than me ... I mean, you can still remember what it was like when you were young."

"Whoa, I hope you're not calling me old."

"Oh, no ma'am, not at all. Well, it's just that you could probably relate to the situation a lot easier than other people I know. And might not be so quick to come down hard on me."

Don't be so sure of that, boy, she thought, though she doubted he was aware of her interpretation.

"Like I said, Steve. There's a real risk involved, and one that could be greater for the other person, even ... I couldn't give any opinion without knowing who stood a chance of getting hurt. If someone could get hurt, yourself included, you'd need to consider you actions very carefully."

He looked at her for a long time. Then he shifted his position and a look of discomfort crossed his face. Without realizing what she was doing, she followed the line of his body to his crotch, and openly regarded the erection he was obviously trying to conceal. His face turned a deep crimson and without warning he stood up.

"It's getting late, Miss Perkins. I, uh, have to pick up my brother. It's been real good talking to you." He hesitated, as if to say something else, and then bolted from the room, nearly tripping on the leg of a desk by the door.

She sat motionless at her desk for a while more; how long, she couldn't have said. There were no cheerleader yells now, no fanfares; only an occasional slamming of a car door, a gunning of an engine and squeal of tires as the last remaining students roared off into whatever nightlife there was to be found in Clinton.

The light from the doorway was a pale orange now; she was swallowed in the late-afternoon silence. She was afraid to think, afraid to openly confront the scene that had just taken place, had no language with which to phrase the questions in her mind. Had anything at all taken place? And if so, how had she responded?

Later that night, their conversation still haunted her. She prepared a salad in her clean spotless kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine and flipped through the stack of records beside her stereo, finally settling on some Mozart string quartets. She thought of the boy, who was really no boy at all; none of them were. They were all driven by awakening urges and tensions only dimly recognized. But she was charged with guiding them, with helping to develope their young minds, and was she any more in control of her urges? Wasn't that at the heart of her dissatisfaction with life in Clinton, the fact that, simply put, she was lonely, that she longed for nothing more than a loving caress, the physical touch of a man capable of reading her needs and answering them? How long had it been since she felt confident hands stroking her breasts, removing her clothing piece by deliberate piece, tickling the hair between her legs, raising the juices inside her in a mounting torrent? How long since she'd loved, or simply made love? Too long.

As she knew she would, almost unaware of her act, she began massaging her breasts. They ached; they were starved for attention. She sipped her wine as she gently rolled a nipple between her fingers. Signals raced back through her nerves, filling her breasts with a passionate need for more, spilling over through the rest of her, down through her slim body till she felt a tingling inside the moist triangle of hair at the meeting of her thighs. How did students do it these days; was the back seat still their most familiar ground, or were they more sophisticated now? She doubted it, recalled her own fumbling encounters, the raw lust that filled her and that was only partially eased by the inexperienced cocks she'd permitted to pass the gates of her cunt. What she'd give now for one of those young cocks.

Wouldn't she love to have one at her disposal, this very night? A cock that could grow instantly hard, come in a mad torrent, and then grow hard again. Did Steve's cock have thick blue veins rippling along its stiff sides, she wondered, as she opened her blouse. Did its head swell and turn purple as he began throbbing towards orgasm? She grasped her breasts and saw his tightly packed jeans and tried to imagine what had been going on beneath them-, breasts straining fiercely at the confining cups of her bra, spilling wildly into her hands as she unclasped the restraining clip, thick globes of pink flesh with large brown moons in the center. She worked her fingers into them now, deeply, squeezing and pulling them, imagining that they were Steve's hands at her, that it was he who unzipped her skirt, who scratched across the outside of her wet panties. She wanted him; this morning she'd never have acknowledged such an outrageous notion but something beyond her conscious control, past awareness even, had boiled out of her in a mad surge leaving its oily smear across her thighs, as she'd talked with him today; now she wanted only to be taken by him, savaged by his strong athletic hands, raped by his throbbing cock. She wanted it in her, wanted to feel it pushing past her wanton lips even as she plunged her fingers under the elastic band of her panties and buried them in her.

She was wet and her juices spilled over her hand as it furiously worked the swollen pink flesh. As her tension mounted, she went past fantasy, past thoughts of men present or past, past language and thought, was focused only on her quivering clitoris and the screaming surges of ecstasy it shot down her legs each time she rubbed against it. She cried, a cry of unfulfilled lust, a cry of isolation, and a cry of coming, mad coming, filling her body with its racking spasms.

At last she was still. The delicate counterpoint of interweaving strings floated through her, binding her splattered being once more into a coherent whole. The tension in her body, in her tits and cunt had been relieved. For now. The tension in her mind was just beginning. Somehow, some way, she knew that unless and until she resolved it, she would be driven by a force beyond her control, poised, like a crazed ballerina, at the leading edge of madness.