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The Court of the Crimson Queen

Writer's picture: bluvelvet99bluvelvet99


You ran your finger across the book-spines on your mom’s shelf.


“Where is it?” you asked yourself, noting every title your finger ran past.


You looked again at the shelf below it, your brows narrowed. You turned to the opposing shelf. Another unbroken row of books awaited you there.


“It was here a week ago…”


You looked at the shelf below it.


“Whatcha looking for?”


You turned to see your mom leaning against her doorframe. She was in her white skirt again.


You blushed and looked back to the shelf. “Um, your Shelley book...”


There was a silence as you looked over the spines, not really seeing them, just making busy like you were.


You then turned to see your mom still staring at you. Then she moved forward. You saw the edge of her ass, still visibly large from the front, running against her doorway, pushing into it. You looked away quickly, your cheeks getting redder.


Her arm extended over your shoulder. You watched her delicate finger run across the same book spines yours just had. You could smell her now, like lilacs. As her finger continued, you could almost feel her pouting. You felt her right hip now against the back of your left.


Her finger stopped. It poked in between two books, pushing one to the side. “It should be here,” she said.


“That’s what I thought.”


You turned to look within her room. Yesterday’s clothes sat discarded, hanging out of their basket. You remembered the way that red skirt clung to her just twenty-four hours ago. She moved past you, crowding you out of the way with a wide hip, to get closer to her shelf, her blonde hair and gaze fixed on her collection. “Where did it-“


That’s when you saw something peeking out from beneath the bed. “Uh-,” you started but didn’t continue. You walked behind her, the heel of your hand brushing her ass unintentionally. “It’s right…” You kneeled down to grab the rectangular end. You pulled it out, seeing the name “Percy Bysshe” appearing as you did.


You heard your mom coming up from behind. “How’d it get down there?”


You leaned down on your knees to get leverage, and you slid it out further.


There, where the name “Shelley” should have been, was instead a wall of lacy red. In sudden shock, your arm shot out as if electrocuted, and the book slid deeper under the bed.


You felt your mom’s hip slide past you. “What’s the matter?” she said, getting down on her knees. “You looked like you saw a ghost.” She leaned down, and her ass, hugged perfectly by the white of her skirt, bent over, making itself large before your face. She reached underneath her bed, her head entirely disappearing there, with her ass, its cheeks, sensitive to her every motion, tensing and swaying loose in front of you.


She came back out, her beautiful blonde hair barely dishevelled. “Here it is,” she said. She got to her feet and handed it to you. She brushed herself off. “Good choice by the way.”


You looked down at it. The name Shelley below the Percey Bysshe, loud and clear, no longer obscured by the piece of lacy red cloth, the one which gripped against your mother’s most private flesh on the usual day. “Thanks,” you said.


You felt her hand against your shoulder. You looked up to see her smile, that occasional look of warmth she gave only when her favorite topic came up. “No problem. There’s no way I’d deprive you of Shelley. It would be cruel.”


As she turned around and left, you watched her ass in that white skirt. It spoke with a poetry all its own, both prose and verse, rhyming and free, depending on what nuance you focused on. Then she was gone. The empty doorway bare there. You heard the front door open and shut.


Then you were alone. You turned and looked at her bed.


The book landed there, it falling open. You, now empty handed, crawled beneath the bed, rummaging past other lost artifacts, most of which your mom didn’t even know she was missing.


You felt it in your hand, soft and almost exotic to the touch, like something you knew you shouldn’t have.


You came back out, emerging behind the shadow of the bed, within the light cast by the window. Staring back at you in your fingers, red and lacy, were your mom’s panties. They hung there plainly, despite their eye-catching, almost regal shade of crimson, but only for a second. A second later, they were gone. And you stood there, in that room, with your cock unbelievably hard, and your cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s.


------------------------

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

------------------------


As your mom got out of the car, she had no idea she was being watched. One of the school windows, darkened brown by the daylight, held a dark set of eyes behind their sunlit glass. That dark set of eyes were locked on her, watching her as she continued toward the entrance. She disappeared within.


He sat back down on his chair, putting his feet up on the backrest of another. He looked down at his phone.


“White this time,” the text red. “Wait ‘til you see it.”


He texted back: “Oh, I saw,” he said. “And it was good.”


“Nathanial!” a female voice said from the doorway.


“Yes, teacher!” he said, without looking up.


“Nathanial, Nathanial, Nathaniel,” your mom said rapidly, setting her stuff down on Mr. Nemenheimer’s desk. “What am I going to do with you?”


He shut off the face of his phone and slid it to the center of his desk. “That’s sounds like a threatening sentence,” he said.


She looked down at her coat as she set it on the backrest of her chair, pretending to find nothing clever in his statement. “Standardized tests would say you’re a wizkid. You come to my class, and it’s like you chew paint chips.” She sat against her desk, her ass pushing in against its hard surface like plush. Her hands were held together, fingers clasped. “Well?”


“That’s a bit ableist, teacher.”


“’Teacher,’” your mom repeated sarcastically. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”


“It’s your title. Wear it with pride.” He grinned, his feet up on the seat rest, still as stone, his hands also clasped together as one.


She stared at him for a moment. There was almost something he found erotic in it. Then she spoke: “Senior year twice.”


His cool demeanor fell off the face of the earth. “What?” he said, his feet meeting the ground.


“A man jumps off a building – flat. A woman eats thirty cheesecakes a day – fat. The janitor leaves cheese on the floor – rat.” She had a confident half-smile on her face. “A rebellious student refuses to perform to his potential – he fails.”


“I thought that was all going to rhy-“


“…and that’s that.”


“It did rhyme, it did…” He nodded to himself and looked down at his interlocking thumbs.


“I was getting to it.”


He looked up and out the window, fake-yawning to cover up his nerves.


“Listen,” she said. “I really don’t like wasting my evenings here with you. I know you don’t like it either. But I do it, because the only thing I like less is the idea of looking at your face for another year.”


“Am I that ugly?”


“Worse.”


His shoulder hunched up with indignation. “How do you still have a job?”


“My guy just won the election,” she said. “Political correctness took it on the chin.”


“I meant, why haven’t they scooped you up at Fox News yet?”


“Because I have a calling.” Her face hadn’t changed since she sat down.


“And that is…”


“Getting kids like you to take the written word seriously.”


“How benevolent.”


“That’s a big word for someone who can’t even manage a D minus.”


He sat there silently.


She turned and leaned over her desk, and he looked up from his silent pout to see the way her skirt strung itself against the shape of her soft and extended body. She almost looked to him like a Hellenic statue, or some holy figure in a renaissance painting. When she came up from her book bag with a folder and two books, his eyes rolled back down to his lap.


“You’re at a fork in the road,” she said.


He looked up, expecting to hear the same old spiel, said by teacher after teacher, about the opportunity of youth, and the directions his life could take, the cold starkness of the gutter, or the ivory halls of Olympus, either waiting for him there if he chose to apply himself.


Instead she looked back at him, two books in her hand. “Old Man and the Sea or Call of the Wild. Pick one and we’re getting started. Three… two….”


----------------------------------------------------------

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

----------------------------------------------------------


“Holy fuck she’s annoying,” the text read. “You have anything to shut her the fuck up.”


You lay there in your bed, her crimson panties hanging from your extended middle finger. You looked up at them then back down at the text. “I may have something to jam down her throat.”


“I have three things,” he texted back in no time. “My cock and BOTH balls.”


You laughed. The panties fall against your chest, tickling you, and you picked them back up, still surprised by how small they were in the grand scheme of things, still imagining how tightly they must have pulled against the heavy flesh of your mom’s ass as a consequence. “She’s not so bad once you get used to her.”


“Neither am I. Will you tell her to let off already?”


You laughed. “She tortured me my entire childhood. Why should you get off lucky?”


“You’re her son. You’re chained to her by your genetics.”


“Yeah, and now you’re chained to her by your grades.”


“Soon I’ll be chained to her by a rope of cum.”


Something throbbed and wobbled in your peripheral. You looked down to see your cock settling into place. You pointed your phone at it and snapped a picture. You then attached it to your next message. “Stop talking to the talk, and actually walk. Please.” You hit send.


It took him a while to respond. Then the text came. “You know sending that to me is illegal, right?”


“Calm down, you'll be an adult in a few months. Whatever floats your boat, I guess. I just won’t be sending you the hours upon hours of footage of my mom in the shower then?”


“Lol if you had that, you would have sent it months ago.”


You lay there. Things were silent for a moment. Then he texted again.


“Did she really vote for Trump.”


“Does that surprise you?”


“I mean, if I just met her on the street, no. But doesn’t she seem a little bit too well-read for that?”


“I think she does it to be different.”


“Jesus Christ, she’s irritating.”


“She is,” you typed, smiling. “Isn’t it wonderful?”


“She’s a seven with a ten out of ten ass.”


“And she’s also your future side-piece.”


There was more silence. Then: “do you know what a venus fly trap is?”


“Yeah, I’ve played Mario.”


“I’d rather stick my dick in that than between your mom’s ass cheeks.”


“No,” shaking your head with a confident grin. “No, you wouldn’t.”


“A venus fly trap can’t butcher you with its words. I rather get punched in the face than hear her say another word.”


“No, no, that’s not true, and you and I both know it.”


“If you’re expecting me to glaze her up and take a bite, I’m telling you it can’t be done.”

“You will accept no obstacle.”


“I’m telling you. I have more experience with the fairer sex than you do, and I’m five years younger. It can’t be done. It’s like trying to riz up a brick wall.”


“It’s like trying to riz up my mom. You will do it. And you will fuck her.”


“Bro, you don’t understand women.”


“I understand my mom,” you typed.


“In order to fuck a girl, you have to make her feel like you’re her better. And do it without it being said.”


“You can do it.”


“I can’t.”


“My dad did it.”


“Yeah, and she was probably too young to know any better back then. No disrespect on your father’s name, god bless the dead, but I very much doubt he was your mom’s better. I don’t think anyone is. She should be working for NASA. Or Tesla.”


“You’re her better.”


“Listen, if you want to get off, just catch her in the shower for real, and send it to me.”


“I’ve thought about it. A long, long time ago. Before I even knew you. You know once when we ordered out, she found a hair in the pizza before she even took a bite. She insisted it was a pubic hair, even though it didn’t look like one. She lawyered up, and the Pizza Hut settled out of court when they looked over their own footage. Poor pervert got deported back to India. That’s what paid for our SUV.”


 More silence. Then there wasn’t. “So you’re trying to tell me that you’re mom’s a pube whisperer?”


“I’m telling you that there’s no getting anything past her. If I put a camera in that bathroom, she’s finding it. And I won’t be surprised if she sues me. I’ll be on the next flight to India myself.”


“And this is the woman you expect me to knock down and mount then?”


You lay in your own thoughts, hearing your mom’s thoughts busy in her own room with the sliding of book against her shelf, and the clacking of books against her desk. “I don’t expect you to do it out of trickery. She’s good enough to spot that.” You shifted in bed, your cock falling against your hip and then throbbing straight up again. “When I say you’re better, I mean you’re better. All I want you to do is show her that you are.”


“You’re delusional.”


“And you’re blind.”


You lay there, you cock hard. Your phone landed, its face blank, on top of Shelley’s name. You looked down at your cock. It looked back up at you. “Sorry, little buddy,” you whispered. “But youth is wasted on the young.” You lowered your other hand to it, wrapping the crimson panties around its shaft and pulling it tight against your body. “And genius… on the genius…”




 

He sat at his desk, his legs pulled up to his seat. “Idiot,” he murmured, and threw his phone.


It landed on top of the image of an old man. He looked at the image. He lifted his phone. The old man stared at him. “And fuck you too, you old fart.” He lifted the book and looked at the one beneath it. A wise, and learned canine stared back at him. “And you too, you fucking… dog…”


He looked back down at both books, one in his hand, and one sitting there.


He ran his thumbs over the pages of one, then opened the other, scanning through it. “They’re short enough,” he said. He looked at the time on his computer. It was 7:30 PM.


He looked down at the book in his hand, then back up at his computer, and his open word document. He breathed deeply, sat back, and then began reading. An hour and a half later, he was onto the next book. Two hours later, and he was sitting up straight, writing, hating every word he wrote. At 1:00 AM, he was finished. Ten minutes later, he lay on his bed with his eyes shut, and his mouth hanging open as he snored. Next to him, on the floor, a balls of tissues sat saturated and used. If you were to ask him, he’d say it was his most productive output that night.


-----------------------------

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

-----------------------------


When she got out of her car, bending into its backseat to grab her things, she did so without a single eye knowing she was there. The window of the classroom loomed back at her. Within a face sat, looking in her direction. But its eyes were closed. Its mouth hung open.


She walked up the parking lot and the lawn of the school without a single soul noticing.


Within, Nathaniel’s phone buzzed, its face glowing bright. It was a message from you. “Remember, you’re better than she is.” He snored, not hearing it. “Prove it.”


His lips smacked in his sleep, the buzzing of his phone on the table sounding as peaceful as rain.


“Nathaniel, Nathaniel, Nathaniel!”


He opened his eyes, turning in his chair to look up at the doorway. Your mom wasn’t there. “Forget me. What is the world going to do with you?”


She was already standing at Mr. Nemenheimer’s desk, setting down her things. He looked at her, his eyes clouded with sleep. It was the shape of her, the little ripples in her body with each harsh and startled movement, which woke him up.


She looked up at him, seeing the sleep in his eyes. “Oh, please tell me you started writing…” Her eyes were wide, her cheek bones stark against her grave face waiting for his answer.


“Relax,” he said. “I finished. What do you think I was doing last night? Chewing paint chips?”


“Where is it?”


“It’s-“ he pointed without looking. “I put it on the desk.”


She turned around. “Oh.” She bent over the desk to grab it, her ass bending with her. The sight of it woke him up entirely now.


“These are it?” she said, bemused.


“Yeah.”


“Two pages…”


“You said at least a page each.”


“The bare minimum…,” she said, nodding her head. “Well, at least it’ll be a pass.” She sat down on the desk.


He watched her ass give to its wooden surface, watching it push outward in all directions as she settled. I wish I was her better, he thought. God bless the man who is.


She held the pages over her thick thighs and began reading.


“I worked hard on it,” he said, lying.


“Tss-tss-tss,” she hissed without looking at him, silencing him.


“’The Old Man in the Sea is a book,’” she read. “Oh, is it now?” she exclaimed with an exaggerated nod.


She continued reading, silently:


“It’s a crazy book. It’s the story of someone I would usually spend no time thinking about. People fish all the time. They do a lot of things. They have a lot of time to do those things. For some, it’s too much time, so much they don’t know what to do with it, and they fill it with nonsense. Sometimes distractions, other times more dangerous things. For others, there’s just too little time. So they spend what little time they have trying to hide from that truth. Sometimes with distractions, other times with more dangerous things. It seems like no matter where you go, people are unhappy with the amount of time they have. That’s something I can relate to.


“School is a drag. Life is a drag. I work part time, and that’s a drag. When I get out I’ll work full time, and that’ll be a drag, I’m sure. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll do my senior year twice. That would be the worst drag of all.”


Your mom stared down at the page, her eyes natural through the rims of her glasses.


“I always wondered what was so good about this Hemingway guy. Everywhere I go, I hear the guy’s name. ‘Hemingway, Hemingway, Hemingway, what am I going to do with you,’ I think to myself. Apparently, a lot, as it turns out. I like the way he writes, because it doesn’t waste my time. He’s straight to the point. Like the Fisherman in the story, who’s old (and by the sea), he’s probably seen a lot of life, and it’s probably passed by way too slow, or way too quickly. I could feel that with this story. I can’t say for sure I know what it’s about. But I do feel exactly what it’s about. I think that’s the point. In the end, the fish got away, and maybe Hemingway felt like stories were like fish, and like no matter how hard he tried to catch his own, it never quite lived up to what he thought it would be. I know the guy is probably dead. But I want him to know, with this one, he really did catch his fish. I enjoyed reading it. And no, it wasn’t a waste of time.”


She had finished for a full minute before he realized she had. It was then she cleared her throat, twisting around to set the paper down behind her. She didn’t say anything, only brought the next paper up and began reading it.


“I’d be lying if I said I ever expected my biggest literary hero of all time to be a freaking dog. But after reading Jack London’s Call of the Wild, I can say that not only is Buck man’s best friend. He’s my best friend. Or at least I wish he was.


“I was expecting this book to be some cheesy Lifetime movie, one where the dog gets lost, and then, thanks to a few conveniences in the plot, he makes his way back home to a family I don’t care about. Instead, as the pages went on, and the Buck avoided having his throat torn out by one dog after another, and when he became the one to start tearing out throats, I could feel myself rising off my seat as I read. ‘He’s not going home at all,’ I thought. ‘Is he?’


“I was wrong. Buck did go home. Not to his hoity toity home in California. That would have been too easy. If that was how the book ended, I would have forgot about it as soon as I put it down. Buck didn’t go back to California. Buck went ‘Home.’


“I know this book was about a dog, and in fear of being compared to an animal myself, I have to say, I’ve never related more to a character. Ever. I don’t cry often, and I didn’t cry this time (Buck would be proud). But after reading this book, I could feel a tear drop fall within me. I don’t know how to explain it. Jack London could do it better than I could (I feel like he could do anything). One day, I’d like to be able to describe that feeling. I don’t care about grades so much, but I get why Teacher loves this book stuff. It’s really good as long as you get the good books. Lucky for me, her taste in books is better than her taste in presidents. My life is better for it. I’ll be reading a lot more (Shh, don’t tell her).”


She sat there, the sheet on her lap, staring down at the last page.


He sat in his chair, looking down at his clasped thumbs. His leg was fidgeting, and he made to look like it was boredom alone which motivated it. When he finally gained the nerves to look up again, he saw her staring down at the last page. He looked down again at his thumbs. Moment of truth, he thought again. I’m sure the almighty Witch Queen will be fair. When is she not?


He smirked at his own sarcasm, and then looked up.


She was still sitting there. He was about to look away when he noticed: she was still on the last page, staring at it. He stared back at her, seeing nothing in her face. She just stared downward, natural and still, the way she always did when she read.


There was a silence in the class, cars could be heard passing without. Somewhere on the first floor, the after-hours janitor could be heard mopping up a floor, possibly in the classroom directly below them.


Nathaniel stared. She was still.


Then, all of a sudden, she ruffled through the papers, looking somewhere in the middle, then back at the start. Then she flipped through them again, her fingers busy, but without composure, haphazardly scuffing the paper as she went through it. “You wrote this?” She shook her head, not looking up at him. “I mean… of course you did, it’s not…” she was silent for a moment.


He stared at her, more shock visible in his eyes than her own.


“… it’s not particularly professional… but…” Her eyes scanned up and down the page again. “You wrote this…”


“I did,” he said.


Her gaze was still down at the page, but slowly she began to lift it.


She saw him sitting there.


They stared at each other for a moment.


He felt uneasy there in his seat, never witnessing her like this before. Then he noticed it, and it made all the difference.


She looked down just as he did, again rifling through the pages as if in some subtle state of disbelief, but he could see it there, glowing on her face like fruit to a man starving amongst the oppressive green of trees. It was even the color of fruit.


It was her cheek, it was blushing a pinkish-red.


The shock in his face had already faded, replaced by curiosity. Now, even that was gone. Instead a look, one both confident and predatory took him over.


The papers sat on her lap, again being shuffled, like a man digging through the trash for a winning lottery ticket, but it was his teacher, not digging for a sure win, but digging, and digging with barely-concealed desperation, for a loss.


His eyes scanned up and down her body. Her thighs rich and succulent, her chin delicate. Her glasses, rather than obscuring her beauty, adding to it. Her ass, while hidden below her, couldn’t be hidden at all, not any more than the look of shock on her face could be hid with that stoic expression.


“What’s wrong?” he finally asked, doing so with a grin in the corner of his mouth.


“Umm…” she said, fingers still busy. “It’s… it’s nothing, I guess.”


“Did I pass.”


She nodded quickly, with too much eagerness, without looking up. “Yeah. Yeah,” she said. “That’s a pass. It’s…”


“It’s what?”


“It’s really good.”


“Really?”


“Yeah… it’s…” She put the pages down next to her, still not able to look him in his eyes, her eyes now on her hands, one thumb rubbing the other. “Yeah, if you only had done that before, you’d have a free afternoon right now.”


He smiled at her, looking down at her hands, seeing the way they rubbed each other for consolation. He saw the usual phat of her body, seeing it tensing up in new places, places he had never seen it go tense in all his months watching her, and the years watching her from afar before he had the dual pleasure and shame of being one of the sacrificial victims in her classroom, raked over her coals and strung above her alligators, a sacrifice to her gods, gods no one else believed in, sacrificed in volumes no other teacher would require, not even Chiron to Hercules.


He sat there in his seat, feeling like a giant. She sat above him on the desk, looking like a little girl, seeming to be half his age instead of doubling it. Her hands were shaking now, not of their own accord, but because one of the knees they rested on was in the motion of an adolescent fidget.


“A free afternoon,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth grinning. “Free and clear from you.”


She looked up suddenly, and just as she did, his grin was sucked back within himself, replaced by his usual natural expression.


He saw it in her eyes, just a moment, a passing flicker, and he knew he had her. That glimmer, like his smirk, disappeared, sucked back within her. She must have hid these little expressions, these chinks in her armor and clues to her vulnerability, deep inside her, hidden where no one could see them. This must have accounted for the size of her ass. He thought this, and as he did, he realized that it was this style of thinking, this clarity of thought, mixed with the fuzziness of imagination he had, which had done that to her, done it in a way she wasn’t expecting, written on those sheets.


She was no longer dealing with a late bloomer, or gifted mind with a failure to launch. She was dealing with a deep soul, one deeper than her own, and she knew it.


He knew it as well. He knew she could write circles around him, that she had years worth of practice to do so, and that this was the source of her lead. He also knew, and she knew with him, that if he followed the advice she had given (forced him to submit to), he would pass her in a matter of years, even as she continued at her usual pace. And then, in a few years beyond it, he’d pass her again, and again, lapping her over and over as she continued her pale sprint, nearly out of breath. The only thing he was lacking in, her only advantage over him, was practice. That was all. Beyond that, he had the Je ne sai quois, and the cat, no matter how hard she tried to keep his attention from it, had just escaped that bag.


“I guess it’s not without its charms,” he said.


“What isn’t?” She was too quick to ask.


“Oh,” he said. “Um, being here with you. You’re a pain in the – you know where – but at least you got me to read those books. It’s better than anything else I’ve read.”


She tilted her head, again tilting it too much, no longer conveying comfort with it, but trying and failing to appear at ease. “Well, I told you, Nathan. Books are-“


“’Nathan,’” he repeated.


“Huh?” She looked like she had seen a ghost.


“’Nathan.’ The last time you had called me Nathan was the first day of class. Since then, it’s been my full name.”


She shuffled in place. “Yeah. Yeah.” She shrugged as if it were no big deal.


He knew that before reading his essays, she would have just stared back at him, looking at him as if he were the biggest moron in the world. But even that was theoretical, he knew, as she never would have called him Nathan. She was losing it, what little face she had, and she was beginning, at risk of blowing everything, to claw at the icy incline to get her fat ass up to where she once sat, that very same ass, comfy beyond all question, snugly beneath her. A cushion so bloated with soft comfort, it was reserved, by even the peasants of the kingdom, for its royalty.


“I just…” he started. “I like hearing it. When you call me Nathan.”


“Oh,” she said, her fingers running through her hair. “Okay.” She was fidgeting, looking out the window as if there was anything in the school parking lot she cared to look at. “I guess it’s your place to start making demands now.” She said it with her usual cold confidence and sarcasm, which she had, in the passing moments, conjured up from somewhere (from her ass maybe); but it had been too late. She had shown her card, and he knew she had.


“Don’t you like demands? I mean-“


“What?”


“I mean, you don’t like all this politically correct bullshit, you said that, right?”


She didn’t answer.


“I’m assuming it isn’t just other people who need to be put in their place with a stern word, right? I mean, you’re not that narcissistic, you know better.”


She stared at him. The fact that she didn’t have rebuttal in the bag for him spoke volumes.


“You want to be told like it is sometimes yourself. At least once in a while.”


She sat there silently. Then she shrugged. “…of course.”


“Okay,” he said. “I’m that messenger. Let’s cut the triggers and safe spaces. The micro-aggressions.” He looked around, his hand up before him, conversationally. “Even the theys and the thems. It’s me - ‘He” - and I’m telling you - ‘She’ – just one thing I demand. You can or cannot give it to me. That’s your right. But I also have my right to ask. Right?”

She was silent for a moment. Then: “of course.”


“Of course. There’s no shame in me asking for what I want. No shame in me demanding it, even, as long as you retain the right to disagree.”


She shuffled, and then fidgeted some more, her stone thighs becoming like rubber.


He kept his gaze strong and square against hers as he continued. “Of course you get it. You’re famous for it. They say you’re like one of those butterflies or whatever. The ones with the crazy wings, with all the colors and the designs, and everyone has just got to look. Then they get close and – boom – they’re hit with poison. Yeah, you get it. You get it better than anyone. I knew you would. I’ve known for a while. That’s why we chafe. People either bump heads, and one side gives in, or they bump heads as equals, and they continue bumping heads until they both break something or die of exhaustion. That’s why we’re both here. We’re bumping heads. And we’re not stopping. We’ve been doing it so long the sun is leaving us behind.” He motioned to the window, to its sunless eastern horizon. “That’s what I respect about you.”


“What?” she said, feeling her usual quick-wittedness leave her.


“In you, I finally have my equal.”

 



 

The janitor, poor man, had lugged his mop and bucket all the way up the stairs, only to get to the second floor. Then he looked up. He sighed, noticing Mr. Nemenheimer’s classroom door shut. And then he remembered. “That bitch,” he mouthed to himself, recalling the time she chewed him out for mopping the two classrooms down from her as she lectured one of her students after school two years ago. He had never forgot it, the condescending look on her face, and worse, that extended, proud finger being waved around as if it were a gun.


He slowly turned, took the mop bucket in two hands, resting the mop handle against his shoulder, and she slowly cradled it down to the lower step. Then he did another. “Nice ass though,” was the last thing he murmured to himself before lowering it beyond view from the classroom window.


The bucket’s wheels, one floor down, could then be heard squeaking their way to the opposite end of the school. Nathaniel could hear them, and he took an internal sigh of relief at the sound. Your mom, staring at Nathaniel, heard nothing. It was as if the fuzzy reddening of her cheeks came with a buzz, clouding not only most sounds, but even her own thoughts.




 

“Don’t you agree?” he asked.


“What?” she said, both somehow as if she hadn’t heard, and as if she had, but couldn’t believe it.


“I don’t mean to be too disrespectful, but even if I am, I’m sure you can take it, but I think, and I think you might agree, that, in some ways, we’re equals, right?”


She stood there, frozen stiff, her body tense, unnaturally so, even for her.


He knew she couldn’t say a word. To even say that would be to submit. But to kick against those pricks would be to falter, her voice cracking, squeaking, or coming out like air without body. Just that, or anything like it, however brief, would break her. She just didn’t speak, and he knew, knew it with every fibre of his biology and experience, that he was on the cusp of victory. All he had to do was push. “Right?”


It was only a moment, but it felt long within its air of the monumental, before she finally began, submissively, to nod. “Yeah,” she said, thanking god within that her voice didn’t crack or waver.


“Yeah,” he said. His finger came up, pointing at her playfully. “But you’re still my teacher though. Don’t think I’d forget it. Even if I wish you weren’t sometimes.” He laughed, doing so with absolute confidence. She followed, doing so with none.


“Come here,” he said, standing up.


“What?”


He motioned his finger with a few flicks. “Here.”


She came close.


His hands leapt out to grab her. And as soon as he had her there, felt her there, and knew, even as he stared into her eyes, that she wasn’t retreating, the grin came back to his face.


He pulled her closer.


“You can’t grab me there,” she said softly. “You’ll be a prisoner in my class now.” She said it as a playful threat, but it was devoid of her usual cleverness and wit, a mockery of what she once was. Just an attempt to convey and equality between them, one which he was smart and experienced enough to see through, and one which she was desperate enough not to.


“Well since I’m stuck here then, turn around.” There was no wit necessary on his part any longer. He was no longer jousting with her. He had already jousted and won. Now he held her captive, and she, despite her pride, was eager to march alongside his horse for however long he required it of her.


She looked into his eyes.


“Turn around,” he said again, still soft, but with a firm kernel at its center.


“You’re ‘Teacher,’” he said, referring to her.


He kneeled down behind her. “She’s Mrs. ______.” He said this, staring directly into the center of her ass.


She giggled, almost in disbelief.


“Let me meet her for the first time. I have to before I’m out of your hair.” He knelt down, rotating 180 degrees in place beneath her. Then he grabbed the hem of her skirt. He lifted upward.


It all emerged, all at once, glamorously and unglamorously both, above his head.

“It’s nice putting a face to a name.” He lifted his fingers upward.


He felt them plunging through her, feeling as if he were digging much deeper than he actually was. The every nerve of his finger were alive with the every grapefruit inch of her pussy, and she dripped past those two obstructions, down onto his upturned chin.


“It’s raining down here,” he said, sliding out.


“Really?” she said. “Because it’s like a rock-slide up here.”


It wasn’t unclever, but the ‘because’ made it two syllables too wordy, and he prided himself in having the intuition to know this. She had demanded this insight from him, dragging him kicking and screaming toward it. Now that he was here, he knew it wasn’t that impressive in the first place. If he had it, and had it in spades, he could think of her as nothing but a fool for holding it in such high regard this entire time.


Because of this, her top came off without protest.


He plunged toward it with the same mouth which jabbed her verbally all year.


“Oh, you taste sour,” he said. It was the perfect word choice, both innocent and suspicious. A reflection of her body, a jab at it perhaps, but also possibly a jab at more, one which she’d lose face answering. She had to ignore it, and, more than that, had to continue; which is to say: had to let him continue with her.


Again, he plunged inside her, feeling her warmth, feeling her more wet than he was hard, which was saying a lot.


“I’ve never felt a boy so hard,” she said, bungling her usual mastery with words.


He knew that was a lie, of sorts at least. The only other “boy” she knew was the one she married, nothing but a “girl” herself. She was trying now to portray herself as someone who had done this before, or, even, had done it often. He said nothing, only refusing to answer the asinine nature of it with words. He only kept pressing within her, feeling her in her most private place, the place everyone else wanted to be, but refused to bare the slings and arrows, which she flung so maliciously, necessary to get there.


“Turn around,” was all he said, and she did as she was told.


He felt himself going in her, just as he had felt with a dozen others. She felt him entering her, just as she felt with one other. Only one other.


He looked down at her, a grin in the side of his mouth as he thrusted, enjoying her every internal inch, seeing her as a bit of a joke beneath him. He could trace every moment of her façade, her affectation signalling she was used to something like this, like he wasn’t the first, like he wouldn’t be the last.


No, he was the first, and he would be the last. He had her, had dominated her, and it was only a matter of collecting on that fact now.


The useless lick of the finger, it headed nowhere, her hand only falling back to the desk. She doing it with all the apparent carelessness she showed turning the page of whatever book they were reading in class. But it was the little things which just weren’t there any longer. The things he couldn’t put his finger on, but which he somehow knew vividly. He had her below him, feeling the shiver through her form, it reflecting against his palms, and around his cock as it thrusted, extracting from her the pleasure her body gave.


“Do you work out?” he asked, his voice strained by his own pleasure. He was feeling her ass with the fullness of his palm.


She smiled impossibly wide, not answering.


“It’s great,” he said.


Her smile impossibly wider.


“For your age.”


Her smile was gone by the time his palm fell hard against her ass.


She still took his kiss, knowing it would be a loss not to. And she continued, letting the pleasure she felt mount, falling within her delusion that she was winning now somehow, occasionally entertaining that this may have been a stalemate at the very least.


Again she licked her fingers, this time finding her pussy with them. To upstage her, he plunged his own fingers within her mouth, reversing the logic, forcing her to taste her own pussy. She shook her ass to muster the confidence.


“Turn around,” he said again, and his cock pulled out of her with a satisfying (for him) pluck.


He held her there, awkwardly, in a way which kept her off balance, and he thrusted in her, staring her dead in the eyes as he did.


She shut her own, moaning, living with the sensation of that thing thrusting through her, not allowing its context to leak in, especially now that it was staring her dead in the face.


She had kicked her leg out and held it there, trying to look exotic, or purposeful in her splayed out position. As she did, the sweat of her ass rubbed mercilessly against Mr. Nemenheimer’s desk, wearing away at its paint. It would leave a stain there, one which Nemenheimer would later assume was from a spilled soft drink or coffee. He’d look at it with disdain, feeling as if he had one up on the colleague who annoyed him most, never knowing the true story behind the stain his coffee sat on top of.


When he began probing your mom with his tongue, a confidence came back to her, and she rubbed her ass further against the desk, widening the diameter or wearing paint, in her excitement.


He pulled his head back up. “Yeah,” he said. “Real sour.”


He came back up, his expression neutral, but with a sudden insistence that he should be fucking her again, not using his tongue. She tried meekly to get his head back down there with her fingers, but he pushed past them, outwilling her, grabbing her again by her thighs as if they had always been his to grab.


As he plunged into her, he pushed a little harder than he knew she was comfortable with, feeling her thigh stretch a little bit, not enough for pain, but just enough to keep her off-balance, to keep her from the pleasure of his cock within her.


He stared her deeply in her eyes, his own sparkling like marbles. “You’re so… so beau-“ he stopped, suddenly grimacing. He turned his head without slowing down his thrusts and spit on the desk. He looked back up at her. She waited, her head rocking with his thrusts, for him to finish his sentence. He never did.


“Turn around,” he said again.


She did as she was told, leaning back on the desk for him.


“Other way!” he said, firmly.


Her ass, big and beautiful, lay for him on the desk. He had wanted that thing, not just all year, but since the very first moments he laid eyes on her from a distance in junior year. He told himself, like he did with every ass, that he’d be fucking it one day. He was saying this before he knew his worth, before he knew he could get asses like that, just believing some stroke in the universe would bend the branches his way, sitting each and every ass like this squarely, cheek-to-thigh, within his lap.


He had found out since then that it wasn’t that simple, nor was it that complicated. The asses he so admired, feeling them to be impossible boons in life, were both in his league, but not universally his to taste. He knew, like all men good with women did, that no woman was sacred, only desirable. And that every ass sat somewhere in between the measuring posts of Guaranteed and Impossible.


Now, looking down at it, he knew exactly where your mom’s ass sat on that spectrum. And with knowing that, experiencing it firsthand, all of her mystique went up in smoke.


He looked down at her, face and hips uneager, as if expecting her to do the work. She responded in kind, eager to.


Despite seeing this, despite feeling a bit sorry for her, he pressed further. “You don’t work out, hey?” reframing the question exactly as he should, knowing that in that subtle flickering shift, it would be a world of difference within her mind.


“You look so perfect,” he said.


She was apprehensive to show joy at hearing it. She was right to.


“…for a mom.”


The arm on her shoulder for leverage, pushing her head, positioning it in a way that forced her eyes on the wall, left her to herself. Even as the waves of pleasure shot through her, there was a tightening grey-brown mistiness billowing itself within her, the metallic sour sense of disappointment.


She swallowed it again, the fury of his young thrusts giving her at least some pride, knowing from TV and pop-culture, that the shape of her ass, and its size, was in with his generation even more than any other before it.


She looked up at him, feeling secure in at least this.


He, as if by divine intuition, read those eyes like tea leaves, all his experiences with women, even if they were all half her age, giving him all the knowledge he needed. He stared into those eyes, seeing a brightness, a desperate brightness in them growing.


His gaze then fell lower, looking down at that ass. A slight curl came to his lips, one he forced there so well, he almost believed it himself: A disappointment in her body, a sense that he had had better, or that her ass, rather than being perfect beyond perfect, the Platonic form of all ass, was instead too big for his, or for anyone’s, liking. The impossibility of that task, and his harrowing success at it, brought about a small, but very-much felt, positive indifference. An indifference as large as her ass itself, her own size of her ass working against her now.


He looked back up, only catching the tail-end of a shock in her face, a mere fraction of a second, replaced by a stoic gaze. The light in her eyes gone.


He knew it was time now to push for the grand finale.




He made her ride him, made her responsible for his pleasure, made her work for it. “Move your hips,” he suggested, husky and strained. “Faster,” or “slow, slow, slow,” whatever it required, making it sound each time as if he were only telling her what she already should have known. “Oh!” he’d say suddenly. “Now we’re ta-“ and then he’d stop, shaking his head subtly, as if only to himself, in mourning for a moment lost. He’d then look up at her, shooting her a false smile, hidden within it, a deeper, much more malicious grin, one as genuine as any he had ever felt.


“I’m going to cum…” he announced.


“Inside m-“ she stopped, seeing a flicker in his face. Changing course. “On my ass.”


He didn’t say anything, a look of disinterest at the prospect.


She still rode him, staring down at him with her eyes wide, her mouth open, desperate for an answer.


“On your face,” he said.


She stared down at him, her bangs bouncing against her eyebrows with every gyration.



 

She sat there on her knees, waiting, as her student jerked the long shaft of his cock above her forehead. She reached for it twice, and was rejected both times, and now only knelt there with a strange, reluctant duty, her palms itchy to do something, only sitting clasped insecurely to her thighs. She saw his balls tighten and she braced herself. He gushed forth, covering her face in that warm, thick goo, assaulting her with it (though she was expecting it to feel worse).


Nathanial stood there, breathing, looking satisfied. His ass leaned against the desk behind him. Which student it might have belonged to would have been an interesting (and unfortunate) question had either of them thought to ask it.


She gazed on him warmly. A sudden flush of inspiration came to her. “Nathanial, Nathanial, Nathanial.” She said, her grin over her own cleverness as wide as her face. “What am I going to d-“


“I need to piss,” he said, cutting her short.


“What?”


“Piss. I need to-“


“Uh…” she looked around, as if the answer were near. “Then… go…”


He nodded. Then he grabbed his penis, its shaft still half-hard, and pointed it at her.


That’s when she realized what he meant. “Uh… no…” she said.


He looked down at her, surprised. “I… can’t…?” he was breathing somewhat heavily still.


“Uh-” She felt uneasy at drawing this line, almost terrified that it was she who was out of step here, not him. As if she were too prude, too ungrateful, or too out-of-fashion, and that he would realize it if she tried to stop this. But, looking around the classroom, looking down at its carpet, a genuine concern came to her. “You can’t do that here. Not in Mr. Nemenhei-“


“Where can I do it then?”



 

The janitor, done with the opposite wing, had come back, happy to see the upstairs classroom was empty. The witch inside disappeared, hopefully melted at the touch of sunlight, leaving him to his work. He moved past the classroom, rolling his mop and bucket, seeing the giant stain left on Nemenheimer’s desk.


“Filthy bitch,” he said, rolling on, having no idea just how right he was.


He came into the upper level of the gym, holding the door open with his weary spine to roll in his bucket, and then he continued, finding the door to the gym showers mercifully propped open for him. He knew not to ask why, counting his blessings.


As he rolled in, he heard an echo, and then the sound of a voice. He continued, expecting to find, like he had many times before, students smoking pot, or a young man trying his darndest to work whatever awkward magic he could on a young woman, his inexperienced lips whispering awkward sweet nothings near the open orifice of her naïve ear.


It was only once he was about to round the corner that he heard one of the voices again, recognizing before he could even stop himself, the person it belonged to.


He leaned beyond the corner.


Kneeling there in supplication, her calves beneath her thighs beneath her heavy, nude ass, was your mom. Standing above her, a young man, her student, stood, penis erect and extended, his eyes alive with mirth, as a solid stream of unbroken yellow fell against her face, open mouth and all, spilling over her accommodating curves.


The janitor stood there, not moving, stuck in place by the sight of the heaven and debauchery before him, it being as unbelievable as it was beautiful to behold. His eyes were as open as the mouth of the bucket, and his cock as stiff as the wooden shaft of his mop.



 

Your mom knelt there, her eyes shut, as the warm liquid crawled over the various nooks and inclines of her body. It did so, feeling more voluminous than it could be, and she sat in that darkness, halfway between confidence and shock in herself, halfway between pride, and shame, so ambivalent and vague in her understanding of herself, and where she had inexplicably found herself now, that any notion or sense of what it all meant was impossible.


The stream continued though, feeling twice as voluminous, at least for a moment. She knew she must have been imagining it, and she felt secure in that as the sensation against her, and the echoey sound of it against the tiles below, seemed to be the same as it was seconds earlier.


“Nice, isn’t it?”


She was about to nod her head (in earnest or not, she didn’t know), until she realized.


She had heard the question from several feet away.


She opened her eyes, turned to see where it came from, seeing, through a running film of yellow, Nathaniel standing there, far off, his cock hanging, smiling. Smiling. Not even at her.


She turned, seeing the source of the stream, looking up at the penis, much more weathered, which produced it. She looked up, dread mounting, almost coming apart, seeing the rough hands which held the foreign shaft in place, and then above, the much-less attractive body it was attached to. And then, worst of all, the face looking down at her, smile wide, as it produced such an unpleasant yellow surprise. “Shh,” said the grinning, blue-collar face, his stream continuing. “Better be nice for once. Wouldn’t want you to end up on the news and in prison.”


Horror, mind-numbing terror, was her reality now, it could be seen in her face even as she weathered the warm and sticky stream.


“Don’t worry?” he said with mock assurance. “I would never tell on my friends. And you…” He laughed. “I know you’ll always be a real good friend to me…”



 

She lay there, sandwiched between two bodies, smelling of a sickening copper, a horrible taste on her tongue, and more tastes to come, two shafts, big and aggressive plunging through her. One as if it had finally caught its fish. The other as if it had come home. She had finally met her match. And she knew she would be meeting them, both of them, for every evening of the rest of her life.


Buck would be proud.

-----------------------

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!


Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”


-Ozymandias, Percey Bysshe Shelley

-----------------------





 


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I love myself a nice noncon story but seeing the bully seducing the milf does show her submission more exquisite

いいね!
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