Fucking Celeste

by

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Humor, .

Desc: Sex Story: (#20) a tribute to the sex stories reviewer

Copyright © 1997

"Fucking Celeste," I said.

"What, honey?" my wife asked. "What's wrong?"

"Oh," I chirped. "Did you see Celeste's review of 'Wet-T Shirt'?"

June shook her head. "It's funnier than my story. Again. She even stops the review to tell JOKES in the middle of it."

"So?" my wife asked.

"So I HATE that!" I shouted. "It's not fair. I'm not allowed to do that. And did you see the review of the one before that?"

June shook her head.

She gave it one paragraph. Jeez!"

"What were the numbers, dear?" June asked.

"'9's' and a '10'", I answered. "But you have to look past the numbers. Everybody looks at the numbers. You have to read the review if you want to know anything. The numbers are a crutch." I was a little testy.

"Why? The numbers give a nice quick idea of how she liked it, right?"

"Oh, you have to be a writer to understand. It's her written criticism that's helpful. Even though I sometimes get my shorts in a knot when I read it. Anyway, she tossed that one off in one paragraph! She said 'it's good but he's done better.'" I frowned. "And like three sentences of story summary, and then the numbers." I frowned again.

"Fucking Celeste," I said to no one in particular. "And she *never* comments on the disclaimers where I try to sneak in the part about having to be 18 or older to read the thing." Like that.

"Now she's hired guest reviewers and won't even tell us who they are!" I was in a funk. "How are you supposed to know whether to believe them or not? Christ, it could be Mr.Fucking Spraycan writing the goddamn thing."

"There, there, dear. Why don't you just go downstairs to your computer and write a story?" June suggested. "That always seems to calm you down." She was right, as usual.

"OK, I'll try." I shrugged. I got up from the table and went to the stairs. "Fucking reviewers," I muttered under my breath. I went to the computer. I thought for a few minutes and started typing. Here's what I wrote:

Fucking Celeste - by MIKE HUNT


How had I gotten myself in *this* situation? I've been in some strange circumstances before, but nothing like this.

I was at a parent-teacher conference. At the Sadley Virgin School. In Flint, Michigan.

You see, I don't have children. None. Not at the Sadley Virgin School, not anywhere. Hell, I don't even live in Flint!

Maybe I should back up a few hours and to tell the story properly.

I was visiting Michigan on business. Flint, Michigan. Not exactly the tourist destination of America, but there's still a little business left there. The city always reminded me of Pittsburgh or Rochester. I think of the bricks when I think of those cities. More precisely, the grit in the bricks. Those are hard-working industrial cities. You don't find the pretty bright brick like in Atlanta or Boston. No, in Flint it's dirty brick and dirty fingernails. And unemployment. Lots of it. That's why I was there.

The government had hired me to do an analysis of how many people were really unemployed, as opposed to how many were just collecting the checks. So I, already employed, got to go count the unemployed. I thought they could have hired one of the unemployed to do the job, but that's not how it works, I guess.

Anyway, my sister lives in Flint, actually just outside it, and has a kid, a bright young boy named Eric. I was staying with them for a couple days in the guest room, and had come back to the house after my hard day at work on unemployment. It was around 5:00. The phone rang.

I answered it, thinking it might be my wife June calling to say "Hi." Instead it was my sister. She was obviously on a cellular phone; I could tell by the crackle.

"Mike!" she said.

"Oh hi," I replied. "What's up?"

"Thank goodness I got you." She sounded a little breathless. "I had an accident in the car..."

I interrupted. "You OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answered quickly. "But the car's kind of smashed. Crazy teenager coming out of a McDonald's parking lot." I could imagine.

"Do you need a ride?" I asked. "Where are you? I'll come get you."

"No, no," she shot back. "The tow guy is here and he's going to tow me to the garage. I'm on his phone. He thinks he can just hammer the fender away from the wheel and I'll be able to drive it, at least until I can get it repaired properly."

"Oh, good," I said.

"Anyway, I have AAA, and I can catch a ride home from a taxi if the car isn't drivable. But he thinks it will be, so no big deal." I was silent. "But I do need a favor, if you don't mind..."

"Anything," I said.

"Eric's school advisor has a parent-teacher conference with me tonight that I'm likely to miss. Would you go and sit in for me? I mean, it's not the same exactly, but you know Eric, and you can tell me what she says."

"Sure," I said. I'd never done this before, but I figured I could substitute OK.

"It's at 6:00, Room 212, I think, Mrs. Redstone, Sadley Virgin school. It's just a couple blocks up and over one. You drive right past it on your way into the neighborhood."

"Oh sure, I know it," I answered. "You sure you're OK?"

"Yeah, just have to fill out the accident reports and get towed and get fixed and come home. Nobody hurt, no damage done except to the cars. See you later. Thanks."

"Sure," I said. "Bye."

I hung up the phone and walked through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the guest room. I needed to freshen up, and I took the opportunity to wash my face and hands and brush my teeth again. I took off my shirt and applied the wet washcloth to my torso. I felt like showering but didn't have time. This would have to do.

Ten minutes later I was walking out of the house on my way to the Sadley Virgin School. I'd pulled on a polo shirt and thought I looked fine. Of course I don't play polo. I'd call it a golf shirt, but you can't call what I do on the golf course golf, either.

I walked into the building and looked for the room. 212. It was at the far end of the building, 2nd floor. I found it without trouble and looked in. An attractive woman was seated at the teacher's desk in the front corner of the room. She was alone.

I knocked on the doorframe as I poked my head into the room.

"Mrs. Redstone?" I asked.

"Yes?" she answered.

"I'm MIKE HUNT," I said.

"You don't say," she retorted. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm here about Eric. Wilma couldn't make it."

"Are you his father?" she asked.

"No, his uncle. They're divorced, the father lives in Oregon." I was answering questions I hadn't even been asked.

"Well, this is supposed to be for the parents or legal guardians," she said.

"I know," I replied, "but Wilma had a little car accident, nothing serious, and asked me to fill in. So here I am."

"I see," she said. She thought for a moment, then said "Sit down."

I pulled a chair away from one of the student desks and sat in it. There was an uncomfortable silence. I took a moment to size her up. She wasn't frowning, but she wasn't smiling either. Mrs. Redstone was red all right. She had red hair, almost orange red. It went well with the reddish outfit she was wearing. She looked to be in her late 30's.

Finally she said, "Mr. Hunt, I should tell you first that I'm quite forthright. I don't mince words. I'm known for it around here."

"OK, good," I said. This was not an auspicious opening, I thought.

"So first I should tell you that Eric is very bright."

"I think so too," I said. She threw a quick glare at me. She didn't like being interrupted, apparently.

"He catches on to new things quite easily and is a quick study. Too quick, perhaps. He doesn't apply himself. He only studies the night before a test, and his homework is rather slap-dash." She was on a roll. I interrupted again.

"Well, I was like that as a student. All except the 'bright' part, I guess."

"Yes, well, it would be helpful if he were more disciplined. He obviously could use a father figure in his life. His father's in Oregon, you say? Too bad. Because in spite of his brightness, he's becoming a problem here at the Sadley Virgin."

"How so?" I asked.

"He's sometimes disruptive in class. Tells the stupidest jokes to his classmates." It's hereditary, I thought. "Comes in late, fools around in the back, doesn't pay attention to my lectures. As I said, he's very bright when he wants to be. Does very well on the announced exams. Does just as poorly on pop quizzes." She went on. And on. I stood up from the chair and began wandering. I was restless hearing all this about my nephew.

I had my back to her when she said "I guess I'm leading up to the really bad news." I turned to face her. "I had to report him to the principal last week. There's serious disciplinary action being considered."

Now she had my full attention. "Why?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Well, this is delicate, but as I said, I'm forthright, so I'm just going to say it." She paused, far longer than necessary after that preamble.

"So, say it," I said.

"I caught Eric having sex with girl here after school." She seemed uncomfortable with the announcement. "Right in this room. Actually, right in that supply closet over there."

I turned my head and stared at the door to the closet. "In there?" I asked.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Humor /