Alissa Nutting - Tampa

I offered weeping Trevor a tissue as I adjusted against the cum-soaked wad of it in my pants. Suddenly the classroom door opened. I worried that it would be Jack, that upon seeing me with Trevor he’d convince himself I was holding dual trysts with other students. But the sound of heavy footsteps and the labored breathing relieved me of this scare. It was Janet.

Waddling in, she tilted her head back to look at Trevor through her Coke-bottle glasses. “Someone failed a quiz, huh,” she barked.

Momentarily ignoring her, I turned and spoke to Trevor in a dramatic manner I knew he’d like. “If I have any worry you might harm yourself, I’m required by law to report it,” I said. “Now, you and I both know she isn’t worth this suffering. You will have a long list of women in your life, Trevor. It hurts now,” I said, clenching my asshole in empathy, “but that pain is temporary. What I need to know from you is whether or not you’re going to be okay until I see you in class tomorrow.”

He gave a long sigh and tried to stare out beyond the walls of the classroom. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll make it until tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” I declared, standing to place a hand on his back and usher him toward the door. For a moment I worried the ball of tissue had dislodged when I stood and was about to roll down my pant leg and drop onto the floor like a magic egg that Janet and Trevor and I would all look at in disbelief. “Be kind to yourself,” I whispered to him. “Go home and jerk off to porn on the Internet. Have a look at other fish in the sea. Especially the surgically enhanced ones.” He gave me a confused grin and blew his nose.

“Thanks, Mrs. Price.” I nodded and shut the door. When I turned I found Janet leaning over my desk, bracing her weight with her elbows; her head now occupied the exact spot where Jack’s erection had penetrated my rectum.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said victoriously. “AP Rosen’s shoe has officially been removed from my butt.” For a second I worried her comment held a sort of telepathy, but I knew it was just coincidence.

“Oh good.” I smiled. “I bet you’re more comfortable now.”

“He said your reports showed I was making… let me remember exactly how he phrased this. Oh yeah, ‘demonstrable improvement.’” She pointed a finger at me and began to wag it. “Before you stepped in he was throwing around write-ups and termination guidelines, all kinds of bullshit.” Her right hand balled into a doughy fist and pounded the desk. “Damn it,” she said, nearly tearing up, “you’re the only decent person who works here.”

Before I was able to run or dodge her, she’d lunged toward me in a rare display of speed, drawing me close into a pillowy, slightly sour embrace.

“Well you’re certainly welcome, Janet.”

As she released me she gave me a firm slap on the arm. “I have to admit, I thought there was something off about you when you first came here. You didn’t seem like the bleeding-heart liberal type who’s out to save the world. And you sure didn’t look like you needed the money. I didn’t get why someone like you would want to piss away their youth and beauty in this torture chamber.” I smiled nervously and let her hand meet my face in a grandmotherly pat. “But you’re just a good person. Rare. The world is going to shit and flies real fast.”

She moved toward the door, then stopped to wave a disapproving hand in front of her nose. “Speaking of which,” she called out, “I can’t stand the stench of these kids. Make our classes smell like a locker room.”

I opened the door for her and held it as I gave my brightest smile. “It is a little ripe in here by the end of the day,” I conceded.

Though we’d escaped any legal consequences from Buck’s interruption, the sex with Jack had definitely suffered. Puerile buoyancy no longer poured from him like an energy source. This had been one of my favorite things about our sessions together; I was determined to get it back. Prior to the incident, if a camera had been trained on Jack’s face during intercourse, the viewer might’ve guessed he was jumping on a trampoline: the underwater sway of his hair combined with the wordless marvel in his bouncing face made him look nearly airborne when he was on top of me. Now there was a sullen determination to the way he went about the task. When he inserted himself, he did so with a concentrated silence, watching as though our two parts could never fit together without his direct oversight. His eyes, squinting with focus, made him seem like a burdened metalworker performing an arduous task on a lathe. “Don’t scowl,” I had to remind him all the time now. “It causes wrinkles.”

I thought the introduction of props and toys might add some much-needed levity, but this was tricky: my own arousal was based on the juxtaposition of Jack’s long-standing innocence and budding carnality—vibrating cock rings and French ticklers might pique his interest, but they would do so at the expense of my own. If Jack’s requests began to grow more adult and lurid, the effect would be just as offensive to me as his body maturing.

My creative suggestions, therefore, had to be homespun deeds of inverted kink that came from the corruption of something wholesome. I tried having him wear his old Halloween costumes and sports equipment while I pleasured him—a favorite of mine was the now-too-small cup that had been part of his junior soccer uniform. It barely held him; his genitals spilled out from its edges, like a snake-in-the-can practical joke that had been halfheartedly pushed back inside after popping open.

But nothing seemed to nudge Jack back into the mode of abandon I was searching for. The problem, I soon realized, wasn’t simply between us. The way Jack would flinch at the slightest noise when we were alone, the moments during sex when I’d open my eyes to find that Jack’s gaze wasn’t trained on me at all but on his closed bedroom door, made it clear he couldn’t let the catastrophe of Buck finding us together go: it had left Jack with a post-traumatic stress disorder that was heartily interfering with my getting off. It felt like Jack and I were never alone. At every moment, Buck’s leering, potbellied ghost was pressing in upon us at the periphery, threatening to suffocate the best aspects of my relationship with Jack for good.

What was needed was a dual act of revenge upon Buck—a plan that Jack and I could execute together as a team to show him that his father didn’t hold any real power over us. What Jack no doubt really wanted—for his father to know that Jack alone sexually fulfilled me—obviously wasn’t possible; we couldn’t demonstrate for Buck what amazing orgasms I achieved atop his son. But I realized with heavy delight one Friday that we actually could do something a little bit close.

“Jack,” I proposed, my expression flushed and gleeful. “Let’s drug your father tonight.”

I hadn’t predicted hesitation on Jack’s behalf, but he wasn’t so sure; he asked a long series of prudent questions and didn’t agree until I’d sufficiently explained every aspect of it—“You’re sure he won’t feel sick the next day? Won’t he know something happened?” I felt as though Jack was a dubious employee at some stickler government agency and I was applying for a building permit but hadn’t met the zoning requirements. Every detail had to be disclosed before he’d sign off.

He was eventually convinced, and perhaps a small bit frightened, when I relayed how often I’d gone about the process with Ford. “At worst your dad will have a headache or sleep in late tomorrow,” I promised. “I do this to my husband all the time.”

Jack laughed with worried eyes, unsure if I’d made a joke. When he realized I hadn’t, he brought a fingernail to his teeth and chewed for a while. “You’ve never done that to me?” he hesitantly asked, thinking back on whether or not he’d ever abruptly fallen asleep in my company.