Briana Dawson is seventeen years old when she first falls in love.

Her English teacher, Mr. Ramone, is in the hospital, though none of her teachers will tell them why. There are rumors, though—there are always rumors—that he fell down the stairs and snapped his spine. Which triggered a stroke. And a heart attack. And testicular cancer. Briana doesn't put much weight in the rumors. Doesn't really care enough to. All that matters it that Mr. Ramone is gone and a sub will be taking over their class and hopefully, hopefully these next few weeks until summer break will be a breeze.

She feels a little bad for taking joy in his misfortune, but she's hardly the only one. At least she didn't participate with the crowd who sang 'ding dong the freak is gone' after finding out the news.

She'd thought it, but she can hardly be judged for thinking things.

But she's getting off topic.

Briana is seventeen years old when she first falls in love. She's slumped in her chair, head propped on one hand, staring blankly in front of her. Her sort-of-but-not-really friend Katy is droning on about some guy she's been getting damp for for the past year and if she has to hear one more word about Josh's house party and is orange is really the new pink? Briana is seriously going to slit her own wrists.

She's imagining the expression on Katy's face if she were to tell her that she'd rather kill herself than listen to her speak a second longer when the door opens and a hush falls across the classroom.

The man who walks in is tall. That's the first thing she thinks. He's tall and slim and dresses in typical teacher attire—black slacks, white button down, dark grey tie. His hair's a dark brown, cropped a little longer than a buzz, and the nose that holds his glasses is long.

And then he turns around and faces the class, and Briana feels a bit like she's been struck by lightening.

The guy is… he's handsome. For his age. But she's seen more beautiful men in magazines. And while he's tall he's still too skinny. Doesn't look like there's an ounce of muscle on him at all.

And yet. And yet she can't take her eyes off him.

His gaze rakes over the silent classroom and briefly lands on hers before swiftly moving away.

Briana's breath stutters as she thinks, oh. It's his eyes, she realizes, heart pounding in her chest. It's his eyes. They're a pale blue, almost grey, but they're sharp, like shards of glass. He only glances at her for a moment but it's enough to make her feel like she's been looked through, right down to her bones.

And the way he moves. He's pacing at the front of the room, roaming his eyes over every one of them, and Briana finds herself thinking that he looks like a predator. His body all but glides across the floor, sharp angles appearing uncharacteristically smooth, and she feels a rush of heat between her legs when he leans back to sit on top of the desk, graceful and God-like, and smiles.

She's still trembling when the man finally clears his throat and says, "Class. I'm Mr. Smith and for the remainder of the school year I will be substituting for the previous Mr. Ramone. Questions?"

Briana's eyes flutter shut and she bites back a whimper.

That voice.

Somewhere in between worrying about her classmates smelling her arousal and hearing her racing heart, Briana manages to acknowledge just how screwed she is.  

 
***

His first name is Ian and he's six feet two inches tall. He has a Masters in English, Education, and Sociology, and he's fluent in Russian, Spanish, and French. He transferred from St. Martin's Private Academy for unknown reasons and lives alone in a flat uptown. He signed up to chaperone the poetry club and always eats his lunch in the classroom.

Briana has to pay Macy fifty hard-earned bucks for this information, and another fifteen for her discretion. It's worth it though, she thinks, while she listens to him read from one of Shakespeare's sonnets she can't be bothered to remember the name of.

She cried out his name last while she masturbated to fantasies of being fucked over his desk, and it felt like wine and chocolate on her tongue.

***

Everyone likes him. He's strict, but not anal to the point Mr. Ramone had been. And he teaches like he actually cares about the subject, which is a definite step up from his predecessor. He also treats his students like they're on his level which goes a long way in making everyone not want to let him down.

The girls all sigh when he enters the room, and the boys sit noticeably straighter. Briana doesn’t think she's ever been in a class that isn't buzzing with side conversations and subtle keypad clicking.

The way he so effortlessly commands attention, commands respect, makes her unbearably curious about what he's like in bed.

Sometimes at night, when she's lying on her bed, legs spread open and fingers running circles around her clit, she imagines him standing over her, orchestrating her movements and telling her what to do.

He'll say, "Briana, come," in that commanding voice he uses when he acts out the role of Macbeth, and the fantasy never fails to push her over the edge.

Washing her sheets has become a daily thing, and for the first time in her life she's grateful that her parents work too much to notice.

***

They're silently working on their essays and Briana is more turned on than she's ever been in her life (she realizes, distantly, that she's been thinking this a lot). Mr. Smith is wearing his usual slacks-plus-button-down setup, but to make up for the lack of air-conditioning in the classroom he's left open four of the buttons at the top.

Briana's been staring at that white expanse of skin since she entered the class. Working on her essay has been torture, and the only reason she manages to finish at all is because of the promise of undistracted staring.

So she focuses, and she finishes, and she stares, and now there's drool accumulating in her mouth at the sight of his perfect neck and chest.

Mr. Smith, for his part, is sitting at his desk, slumped over whatever book of the week he's reading. There's a whole row of desks in front of her, and the idea that's beginning to take form in her head is solidifying by the second.

Her panties are completely damp, and her pussy's been clenching for the past thirty minutes. If she doesn't get herself off within the next few minutes she honestly thinks she's going to scream.

Taking a furtive glance around her and inhaling a shaky breath, Briana leans forward and slips one hand past the elastic of her underwear.

She's right about being damp, and the first contact of her fingers against her clit has her trembling. She takes another look around her then slowly begins to fondle herself, taking care to control her breathing so that it isn't too loud.

Every so often, when she dares, she glances up at Mr. Smith, and that only increases her desperation to come. She squirms in her chair as her fingers quickly work her clit, fingers clumsy at the result of how wet she is.

She leans forward and quickens the pace, hyperaware of every sound around her. When the pressure builds to the point that she knows she's going to topple over she glances up without thinking, seeking the one object she knows will get her there faster, and freezes.

Mr. Smith is staring right at her.

Briana bites her lip as she comes, shoulders hunching and body twitching as her climax rushes through her. After a few moments she opens her eyes and, heart pounding, braves a look towards the front of the room.

She doesn't know if she's more disappointed or relieved that Mr. Smith is no longer looking at her. It's about even, she thinks, watching him flip a page in his book.

She's still rubbing herself when a cough startles her and spurs her into action. If her panties were damp before, they are certainly soaked now. She quickly removes her hand from her underwear, wipes her fingers against the inside of her skirt, and sits up. She swivels her head around and relaxes when she sees that no one is paying her the slightest bit of attention.

She uses the hand sanitizer she keeps in her bag to get rid of some of the smell, and spends the rest of the period trying to figure out how she's going to get to her locker, grab a change of clothes, and change before the start of the next period.

She ignores the satisfied twitch in her pussy as she plans excuses.

***

"If you would stay behind, Miss Dawson." Mr. Smith says just as the bell rings.

Briana shrugs her shoulders at Katy's questioning frown and stays seated while everyone else files out. She waits nervously, fingers dancing along the table top while she waits for the last student to leave. Once the door swings shut behind them she stands and shoulders her bag.

Her stomach clenches with nerves as she walks up the aisle towards Mr. Smith's desk. She has no idea what he wants to speak to her about, and she doubts it will be anything good. And yet…countless fantasies flitter across her mind, making her skin tingle in overwhelming excitement.

Don't get ahead of yourself, she thinks, stopping a few feet in front of the desk. For fear of looking stupid in front of Mr. Smith, if nothing else.

Mr. Smith doesn't so much as glance at her as he scribbles something illegible in a spiral book. She fidgets nervously, excitement giving way to anxiousness as he continues to ignore her.

Finally, after what seems like long minutes—though couldn't possibly be longer than one—Mr. Smith sets down his pen, closes his book, and looks up at her.

The sensation she gets when their gazes lock feels a lot like vertigo, she reckons, as she tries to calm her breathing.

Mr. Smith isn't wearing his glasses, and she feels like she's being pinned to a table as his pale eyes bore through her.

"Miss Dawson," he says, and the way her name drips from his tongue like molten caramel and honey sets the pit of her stomach on fire.

"Y-yes, Mr. Smith?"

Later she's going to be so embarrassed for all but whimpering at him, but for now she can do little else but struggle to restrain herself from leaping over the desk to see if his mouth tastes as good as she thinks it will.

He pauses and licks his lips.

Briana thinks she's going to die.

"I wish to commend you on your essay on the symbolism of blood in Macbeth. The paper was quite well done. Not that I expected anything less of you, of course." He taps his chin and looks thoughtfully up at her, and Briana imagines him kneeling on the floor between her spread legs and gazing up at her with that exact same expression—mildly curious and thoughtful, like he's trying to decide the best way to go about eating her out.

She swallows heavily and thanks god that she wore jeans today. He certainly would have smelled the arousal on her otherwise.

"Have you no interest in joining one of the school's afterschool literary clubs? The poetry club, perhaps?"

The poetry club which he teaches.

Briana shakes her head. As wonderful (and awful) as it would be to spend more time in Mr. Smith's presence, she can't stand the sorts that make up the poetry club. Moreover, she's never been eager to stay in school for longer than she has to if she won't get anything out of it. It takes away from her time spent masturbating, for one thing.

"Not really," she manages to say apologetically.

Mr. Smith narrows his eyes at her and tsks. "That's a shame," he tells her, re-opening his book, "as I'm sure you'd be nothing but an asset in the class."

He picks up his pen and once again begins scribbling things down.

Briana understands the dismissal for what it is.

"Um…thanks, Mr. Smith. S-see you, tomorrow." She stutters out, then turns on her heel and rushes towards the door.

The moment her fingers touch the knob Mr. Smith once again calls out her name and she stills. She's about to turn around when he says, "And might I suggest, Miss Dawson, that the next time you decide to masturbate in my class you clean the mess off your chair before you leave? It's hardly within my pay grade to clean up the cum left behind by students—wouldn't you agree?"

She freezes, mortified beyond words. She's barely able to hear him over the sound of her thundering heartbeat and the rushing sound in her head.

"And I do hope you reconsider my invitation to join the poetry club. Have a great day, Miss Dawson."

And then the only sound in the classroom is the scratching of his pen.

Briana flees, letting the door slam shut behind her as she rushes to her next class in a daze. The hallways is bustling with students and it's a miracle that she makes it to class without causing anyone injury.

She leaves school that day not having learned a thing.

***

Briana goes to school early the next morning to visit the student activities office. She fills out a request form to join the poetry club and hands it to the secretary with a tight smile.

***

Mr. Smith doesn't spare her a single glance during the duration of her entire English period, but that's alright. It's not as if she'll be able to look in the eye, anyway.

***

The poetry club runs from 3:15 to 4:30 every Tuesday and Thursday. Like she feared the class is made up of pretentious douchebag snobs who look down on anyone who can't recite half of Milton's works from memory.

The first upside is that they're just starting The Wasteland and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot, and Briana's always been a fan of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

The second upside is that Briana gets to hear Mr. Smith recite poetry and say things that make her toes curl in her shoes.

The pros far outweigh the cons, in her opinion.

She doesn't really get along with the handful of students there, not that she expects to. She spends the class ignoring those around her unless specifically called on. The time creeps by quickly, and before she knows it the afterschool bell is ringing and everyone is packing up their things and strolling out.

Briana takes her time closing her books and placing everything in her bag. She spares a glance towards the front of the room as she stands and stumbles when she sees Mr. Smith watching her.

She swallows.

Try as she might, Briana still can't wrap her mind around the fact that Mr. Smith had seen her and hasn't reported her to the principal. He didn't respond in any way she expects, and as a result he's badly thrown her off. She doesn't know what his next move is and that excites her almost as much as it frightens her.

"S-see you tomorrow, Mr. Smith," she stutters shakily.

The look he gives her is undecipherable.

"Tomorrow, Miss Dawson." He nods, still staring.

She feels his gaze on her back long after she slips out of the room.

***

The first thing she does when she gets home is strip out of her clothing, grab her strongest vibrator, and lie on her bed. She turns it on and presses it against her clit until she cums, over and over and over again. She spends an hour and a half bringing herself off through clit stimulation alone, until she's an exhausted, trembling wreck and the sheets beneath her are completely soaked through. She falls asleep just like that.

***

She wears a skirt to class the next day.

They're taking the last test of the semester before finals, and she rushes through it effortlessly and finishes with a long chunk of time to spare.

Her heart's been racing since she came up with the idea this morning, and she's honestly surprised she hasn't died from a heart attack already. She looks around her slowly, making sure everyone's properly distracted, and reaches her hand into her panties.

The thrill of doing this again has already made her wet, but the knowledge that Mr. Smith will probably find out, will probably be watching, makes her pussy throb.

She chose thin, stretchy panties to wear this morning, ones that are easy to push aside, and they do the job. Once out of the way she hunches forward and spreads her legs a bit wider and begins to rub.

Her clit's already enflamed, sticking out of her and beyond sensitive to touch. She's so wet her movements are smooth, and her fingers glide above her pussy like silk. Her breathing starts to get a little heavy and she quickens the pace, hand moving in jerky circles and horizontal swipes just the way she likes.

She tenses when she feels someone watching her and slowly, so slowly, looks up.

She expects it, she does, but still the sight of Mr. Smith's steady gaze on her brings her up short.

Their eyes lock and Briana continues to touch herself, mouth falling open a little. She struggles to not lift her lips and moan like she so wants to, and the effort makes her body clench tight like taut string.

Her fingers move faster against her pussy and she's...