ZAK

I was interested in Ms. Rennick, my English teacher, from the very start. Not that at first she seemed that sexy, but some things grow on you. Nothing she did, particularly -- not like Ms. Warner, who teaches science and is hot and knows it -- but in the way she’s friendly.

I’m not the teacher’s pet type, to be sure, but when your grade’s on the line, maybe stay after class a few minutes to help get the chairs where they belong. Ms. Rennick’s big on us sitting in a circle, but her next period needs them behind desks. It’s lunch period and I bring mine. Saves me racing to the cafeteria to find a table. As she brings hers, sometimes we even trade. She knows I like Cheetos -- my mom won’t buy them -- so she has something to bargain for, say, my celery.

Maybe help with other stuff, even, like shelving the lit books in her book closet. That’s where I rubbed against her. Accidentally, of course, she’d have thought, had she even noticed. Pulled it off a bunch. Just one at a time, though.

My big chance to get on Ms. Rennick’s good side comes when she mentions having bought a bird feeder on a pole at Home Depot and asks if I know how to make it straight up and down. She’d dug a hole, but every time she tried, the dirt around it pushed it at an angle.

Maybe takes two, I advised, though of course it shouldn’t. I could bike by on Saturday and show her how. Super, she said. Cost you a lemonade, though, with which she agreed, promising to serve it with a straw.

I time it perfectly, arriving before she’s not gotten her bra on -- it being Saturday -- but she can hardly ask me to come back later. As I’m doing the shoveling, her bending to keep the pole vertical provides me a bulls-eye view of what I’d hoped to see. Also when she serves me lemonade. Super nice!

It wasn’t maybe a week later that I came upon something really major!

Some of my buddies are into porn videos, morning, noon and night, but mostly night. Stupid! Interesting, I’ll admit, but not worth a lot of time seeing tattooed performers, each clip the same as the one before.

Myself, I Iike a story with a plot. Plus sex? Absolutely, but maybe in a way that has, say, more personality. You know your train’s destination, but the passenger car is part of your trip. So there’s this site, and one of the authors I follow is Mopsy Cottontail. Could be a gay pedophile -- I’m no idiot -- but actually seems more like a female who just writes little stories. Some are hot; some boring. You never know. Probably some old virgin, actually. No offense, of course, as I’m one, too, but I’m not old. Keeping my eyes open.

So here I am, reading Mopsy’s story about this teacher and her student who helps her shelf books, and then he bikes to her place to help put up a bird feeder. She knows he’s coming and doesn’t wear a bra Then they have hot sex.

Is this for real? Not that they have sex, of course, but the stuff up to it, almost exactly what happened with Ms. Rennick?

But maybe it’s just coincidental that Mopsy imagined the start of a story the same as what for a while really happened. Possible, but Ms. Rennick said in class that to write fiction, let your own experiences set the stage. Blah, blah, blah. She’s so full of advice on writing.

But there’s more. Mopsy never says much about herself on the web, but she seems pretty familiar with English teaching. She makes references to Methodists. Ms. Rennick goes there, same as us. Mopsy’s single, I expect; Ms. Rennick is definitely. If Mopsy were married, she’d not publish where she does. Ms. Rennick likes to travel, and some of Mopsy’s stories are in places Ms. Rennick’s been, according to the patches on her backpack. Mopsy has this hot teacher friend Lulu, and Ms. Rennick hangs out with Ms. Warner.

Is Mopsy Cottontail my teacher Ms. Rennick? Look at the evidence.

Maybe I could get Mopsy to send me her picture, but she’d probably not, and I sure wouldn’t send her mine, in case she’s Ms. Rennick.

HOLLY

So here’s what’s in my story.

The teacher realizes that seducing him over the lunch hour -- I could write a torrid bit about doing it on her desk -- is formulaic. Have him come by her place to help with something. Ah hah! To set up a bird feeder.

The night before (still in draft):

“I let the shower massage my neck, rivulets streaming over my breasts. I suds my belly and let the foam flow between my thighs. My fingers glide with the bubbles. Emerging, I play the towel against myself. Talcum mist envelops me as I dash to my room.

“I draw back my blanket and slip under a single sheet, the linen taut between toes and nipples, then let the cool fabric settle over me. The cotton rises and falls with each breath.

“Only then does my hand release the corner of the sheet and slip under, a single finger ascending to the frontier of my areola where its neighboring digit joins to capture my waiting nipple. The two fingers tantalize their captive brusquely enough to cause me to flinch.

“Mt palm sculpts me, and then passes to my stomach, resting there until I inhale, from where it further slides to part the flaxen wisps. I fingerprint the dip above my crease and press to the succulence, teasing out my hardness but then onward it slides to penetrate through the constricting muscles.

“Then back to my nubbin, coaxed from its protection, still swelling and firming, to be bathed in my nectar. I encircle my prey, conquest nearly complete.