The Norwegian Made Me Do It

His grin grew. "Well, that's too bad. I'll need one for track next semester." He shrugged smoothly. "I guess I'll need to find someone else to examine me."

This was all happening far, far too fast. I started to think about Todd's dick in me. I might just need to find him again this evening, despite myself. I arched an eyebrow. "Look at you," I said, shaking my head, "making plans with other nurses. I should be offended. Come on over. I'll take a look if you want."

He did, moving closer in his worn Chuck Taylors. He hadn't shut the door, but most of the rest of the school would be in the café now eating bagels. "Should I take my shirt off again, or just pull it up?" he asked.

Ball was in my court. I didn't want it. "Whatever makes you happy, Dylan. You're the patient." I pulled my legs back in, and he turned in front of me. I took a deep breath as, once again, he took the shirt clean off and tossed it on my desk. I had to crane my neck to look up, but not before I noticed the bright red boxer briefs sticking out of his loose shorts. "You took the bandage off?"

"They said to keep it on for a couple days," he said, shrugging. "That was yesterday." I stood up to get a look at his ink: it was three letters in Gothic script, DWR, then a date. Bacitracin was smeared over it in a light layer. I raised my fingers and ran them gently over the marking, looking at his skinny lats. I felt him inhale at my touch.

"What does it mean?" I asked quietly.

"It's my dad's initials." He shrugged, the shoulder blade moving under my fingertips. "He died a few months ago. Drugs, you know."

"Oh Dylan!" I knew the story already thanks to Audrey, but I still felt bad for him. My hand went to his arm; I rubbed it lightly in sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he said, subdued. "He had his problems. He's in a better place now. At least, that's what my grandparents say." He didn't sound like he was about to cry, but he was definitely despondent. I felt my heart go out to him, and instinctively I turned him around to face me.

"Hey," I said firmly, looking up at his face, "your grandparents sound very wise, but losing your father is an awful thing." I was guessing; mine was still all too alive. I kept rubbing absently at Dylan's arm. "We're all here if you ever need to talk about anything, okay?"

"Sure, Ms Boyle." He still sounded a little down, and I couldn't help myself. I pulled him in for a hug, and not one of those graduation hugs; I wrapped my arms tightly around him, the height difference putting my hands down near his kidneys. I pressed my face into his chest. His bare, smooth chest. He smelled rich and wild. His arms were around me, one hand on the back of my head while the other one rubbed my back, right over my bra strap. "It's okay, Ms Boyle," he said. "I'm fine." But, I noticed, he wasn't making any effort to end the hug. Hell yes, you're fine, my brain responded automatically. My fingers, with ten little minds of their own, were now caressing his bare back.

Why was I doing this? My mind thought immediately back to Gina, and gave me the answer from her story of the Homecoming Dance: I was waiting for Dylan Rotolo to get hard. If dancing with Crazy Gina had given him an erection, I was thinking thickly and with twisted, drinking-party logic, then a half-naked hug with me should do no worse.

So I was obscurely disappointed when I failed to detect a boner, despite my subtle abdominal moves in that direction. Huh. Well, I told myself, he's a year older now. He might have learned to control himself. Or, like, maybe he rubbed one out this morning. The thought of Dylan masturbating made me sigh against the skin of his chest, and it was a very reluctant Shannon Boyle that loosened her arms and leaned back out from the hug. I thought there might be something, a slight lump down his leg, but decided that was probably wishful thinking on my part. As I did so, I slipped my hands down to rest on the waistband of his ridiculous red underwear. I had to clear my throat before I spoke. "If you ever need to talk, sweetheart," I said urgently, "you know where to find me."

He looked down at me not like a boy, I noticed with immediate clarity, but like a man. The difference is slight, according to Gina, but so very important: boys want to bone you. Men want to marry you. Todd's look the other day had been that of a boy. I wasn't wearing anything particularly low-cut today, but I was looking for his eyes to wander toward my breasts anyway; I felt smug satisfaction when they did.

I took a deep, jittery breath. Enough. I slapped his chest. "You better stop hugging teachers with your shirt off," I advised with a big grin. "People might get the wrong idea."

"Fuck people," he replied automatically. I laughed, then slapped him again. This time I let my fingers trail off against his nipple.

"You watch your mouth, Dylan," I said, finally getting my other arm out from around him; he reluctantly stepped back from me. "You're not supposed to know words like that at your tender age."

"Yeah," he said wryly, turning to pick up the shirt. "I'm such a delicate flower, Ms Boyle." I laughed again, breathlessly, looking at the muscles of his butt moving easily underneath the loose jeans. Facing away, he put the shirt on; I just crossed my arms underneath my boobs and leaned against my desk, watching him. I wondered if my nipples were hard.

They certainly must have been a few seconds later, when he casually turned back to me, once again dressed, and reached slowly down to adjust his cock. He saw my eyes move down to look as he did so, and I remembered Gina's dancing story again: this was a trick that must have worked many times with Dylan. Hell, it was certainly working with me. I thought quickly: Gina said she'd responded by gyrating a little during the rest of the dance. I was better at talking than at dancing, though, and I made myself stare at his crotch as I spoke. "No," I said, all throaty. "Nothing delicate about you, Dylan." Then I let my mouth fall open slightly as I pulled my gaze back up to look at his face. I knew he was seeing the eyes of a horny woman. "You take care now. I'll see you soon."

"Thanks, Ms Boyle," he replied, his ass moving finely out of my room just as the bell rang.

* * *

I went out that evening, found Todd at the gym, and made him ball me hard and fast in the locker room. He wanted me bent over, which was fine, and I let him rim me again as a thank-you. He once again left me short of a full orgasm. But at least he took the edge off a little bit.

* * *

I started with Intro to World Religions the next day, but Dylan failed to show. He sat next to a boy called Trevor, though, who substituted nicely. If anything, Trevor was better-looking than Dylan, and he was good-natured as well. That's why, when we were halfway through the class and I defined "Ayatollah" for the class, he and I were able to enjoy a bit of sparkling repartee.

"The ayatollahs," I pointed out, "are religious judges. They've got a lot of power, but only in Shi'a Islam. They're considered extremely wise, like wise enough that their judgement in questions of religion is unquestioned. Like, for example," I said to a number of blank faces, "Trevor was the leading rusher on the football team last year. Weren't you, Trev?"

The boy leaned back in his seat and scratched his face. "Yup." He had the unmitigated insolence to talk to my tits.

"So," I said, smiling impishly at him, "we could say that, in this school, Trevor is the ayatollah of rushing. Like, all the other tight ends would look up to him."

"That's not all I'm the ayatollah of, Ms Boyle." The class laughed and made a few catcalls. A few of the girls blushed, I noticed. Not the smart ones.

"Oh?" I sat up on my desk and swung my legs. "What else are you the ayatollah of, Trev?"

"I'm the ayatollah of parties, Ms B!" He beamed. One of his buddies high-fived him. "The ayatollah of making the party last a loooong time, if you know what I mean!" He leered at Olivia, one of the blushing girls. I think I got the picture; translated, he meant that Olivia was apparently the ayatollah of sucking Trevor's dick at parties. One of many, it seemed. High school never changes; it always pays to be a sports hero.

"I think I do," I replied, and I actually winked at the cocky bastard. What the fuck was wrong with me? Trevor wasn't finished.

"What are you the ayatollah of, Ms B?"

"You tell me, Trev. Only remember, in real Shi'a Islam, woman can't be ayatollahs at all, guys."

"Still," he said boldly, learning back further in his seat, "you're the ayatollah of great-ass teachers, Ms B!"

"Watch your mouth. And thank you, but it's fine to just say 'great teachers' Trev. I think that's what you meant."

He looked boldly at me. "Actually, Ms B, no. I think I meant what I said."

Holy shit! He'd just done that in front of the entire goddamn class. I must be giving off pheromones, or something. Everyone was looking at me to see what I'd do, and I knew I should kick him out. "Ladies and gentlemen," I said instead, gesturing at the boy, "I introduce Trevor Gore, the Ayatollah of Crappy Pickup Lines." I knew I was taking a gamble saying "crap," but the kids liked me. I could get away with it, especially after I'd shown I could take a joke. They applauded, and Trevor bowed in his seat.

"Well played, Ms B!" he called. There was boldness in his eyes, though, and he was still talking to my tits. I didn't mind a bit.

* * *

That night, I broke down and went online to order a new vibrator. The town of Seaborne had no good sex shops, or at least none not staffed by former students of mine.

* * *

Dylan stopped by before class the next day. He was wearing a loose tanktop, and I was struck again by his earthy smell. "Did I miss anything yesterday, Ms Boyle?" he asked from the doorway. I was ready with a quick retort.

"Me, I hope." I laughed to make it sound like a joke. "No, we just talked more about Shi'a Islam. Ayatollahs and Grand Ayatollahs, things like that. The notes are online."

"Okay." He shrugged and walked over to join me by my desk. "It's just that Trev said it was a really good class, and I was sorry I missed it." Trevor, that fucking weasel. I'd clawed at myself last night, thinking about him in his football pants.

"Oh? What did he say about it?"

"Nothing much. Just that you were in rare form, I think is how he put it." I was certain he'd given Dylan a word-for word account of our exchange, which meant Dylan was currently thinking about my great ass. On impulse, I gave him a visual: I turned and bent over to get my water bottle out of my bag on the floor. He'd be looking, of course. "He said he had fun."

"I had fun, too." I straightened up and turned back with a grin. "It's always fun when I get to have a good chat with a witty student." My God, he was adjusting himself again! He'd gotten hard just talking to me and scanning my ass? I was living dangerously with this kid. "How's your tat? Need help with any lotion or anything?"

He smiled slowly. "Nah, I think I'm good for now." I'd meant it: I'd have been happy to get another crack at touching his back. He looked me up and down. "You should get some ink, Ms Boyle. You could let me return the favor."

"Oh ho!" He was well into this now. "On the star on my ass, no doubt?"

"Any star, anywhere," he replied, once again looking me over. He took long enough that I knew he wanted me to notice. "But sure, I'd help you out with that. You just say the word and drop your pants, Ms Boyle." Was he listening to himself? "I mean, hypothetically of course."

I had the sudden urge to jump onto him and fuck him. "Now now, Dylan," I said in a very low voice, "you're going to get me in trouble talking like that. If the wrong person heard that, I would think it would start rumors." I winked. "Dreadful, dirty rumors."

He cocked his head and took his time answering. "Dirty, yes. Dreadful? Maybe not."

Oh dear. I could feel my vag releasing its fluid into my underwear, so sudden and shocking that I gasped. And I'd laughed at him for getting hard! I felt myself gnawing at my lower lip, lowering my head so that I could look up at him intensely from underneath my brows. My nipples had to be noticeable; I didn't care. Little fucker should know what he was doing to me. I wondered if he could smell me through my pants.

"Definitely not dreadful," I agreed quietly. I looked straight at his crotch now, where his adolescent dick was obvious through the loose shorts. Unconsciously, my hand made its slow way to my right breast; neither of us said anything more as I cupped myself softly, letting my thumb flutter across my nipple. His eyes widened and, without thinking, his hand went back to his cock. Shit, was he going to masturbate right here? If he didn't mind, I sure didn't. He had his penis straight up and down now; the head had to be outside the waistband of his underwear beneath his tanktop. I was starting to catch fire.

I wondered if Todd was free tonight. Or hell, whether the faculty bathroom was unoccupied.

A glance at the clock showed me the bell was about to ring, which was a relief; there was nowhere else for the two of us to go now, other than onto the desk, naked. I swallowed, my eyes wide and intense; my skin felt very hot. I knew I was breathing hard as I stroked my tit, and I could see in his dark glassy eyes how badly he wanted me. He'd definitely be cumming tonight, into his hand or into Aimee or some other high-school skank, but it would be me he'd be thinking about.

Hell, who was I fooling? I'd be doing the same thing.

With great difficulty, I let go of my breast and reached a trembling hand out to touch his arm. "You need to go now, Dylan," I said gently. His skin was as hot as mine felt, and I had to restrain my treacherous fingers from caressing him. "I'll see you in class tomorrow."

"Shit, Ms Boyle," he sighed. I didn't correct him; I felt the same way. He blinked a few times, taking a long final look at my tits; I impulsively arched my back to put them on display for him, and then he slowly left, still holding his cock.

* * *

My workout that evening was the most violent I'd ever done, punctuated by the absence of Kid Todd. I debated about picking up someone else, but in the end I just did extra cardio and hoped I'd fall asleep faster. By the time I staggered out of the gym, I was melting; the seat in my battered Honda, already nearly moldy with my collected body funk of many years' standing, drank up my sweat like a sponge.

I looked in the mirror, panting, and stared into my own wild eyes. I felt like I didn't even know myself. I mean, I'd always been comfortable with sex; I had few body hangups and no real concerns about self-esteem. Even when I'd been heavier, it hadn't been some magazine-based body myth that had made me slim down; rather, I'd just been interested in getting healthier. I'd never had problems finding boyfriends either, and more often than not I'd been faithful to them.

So why now? I brushed kinked, gummy hair out of my face. I was supposed to be mature, capable, and self-assured. Here I was, acting like a sex addict. There was absolute certainty in my mind that if The Kid had been in the gym that night, I'd be letting him fuck me right at this moment, probably in this very car. I'd even stashed condoms for the purpose, a few each in my glove box, my locker, and even my desk drawer at school.

I pounded my wheel in frustration. The extra cardio had done nothing for me. I drove home with my teeth on edge.

* * *

"I'm worried about you, Shan," Gina whispered as she gnawed at a carrot. We were sneaking a meeting just before school started. "You look like shit. Beautiful, nicely dressed shit, but shit all the same."

"Huh." I hadn't slept at all well the night before. I was wearing my glasses, even. I'd filled her in on the basics of yesterday's flirtation session, and she'd evidently been alarmed enough to come find me at 7:45 for a brief heart-to-heart. "I got the shipping notice for my new vibrator. Three more days!" I wailed.

She glared down. "Get it together," she said, disgusted. Weakness offended her, but I was too rattled at that point to care. "Now listen, bitch, and listen good, because this is not the type of advice you usually get from me." She leaned in; kids were due any minute. "You cannot, absolutely cannot, let Dylan Rotolo stick his dick in you. Cannot." She shook her head. "Your text freaked me out. Were you really boob-masturbating? Right in front of him?"

I felt like crying, but the cold glint in Gina's eyes stopped me. "I wasn't even thinking."

"No shit you weren't." She rolled her eyes. "You, Shan, have gone too far here. I told you to flirt with him, not to deflower him. What's gotten into you?" She reached her hand out and laid it firmly on my shoulder. "Listen," she said slowly, looking sideways to make sure nobody had come in, "is there anything I can do? Like, I'm not really into the lesbian stuff, but you're my friend. If I can, you know, help you with anything to take the edge off..."

I shrank back. I'd had precisely one experience with another woman, on a dare at a college party, and it had felt like trying to throw a ball with the wrong hand. "No thanks," I said quickly. "You're a dear, but no thanks."

"Good," she said, seeming pretty relieved herself. It had been a kind offer, though; I was touched. No, actually, I wasn't... touched. Per se. But still. "You'll just need to get back to the gym and monopolize that Tim kid."

"Todd."

"Whatever. Get him to eat you out; I know you like that shit. It's the least he can do after you let him suck out your turd-cutter. Twice!"

I thought about that. Leon was an excellent cunnilinguist, and Todd showed no signs of expertise in that area. I could tell by the way he licked my ass that he wouldn't do what I wanted him to do on the front side. "I'd have to give him a blowjob," I said doubtfully. That second time, in the gym, I'd gotten a better look at his dick. It had made me realize that I liked cut ones better.

"Then run your tongue under his foreskin, think of England, and go to town!" Gina hissed, enraged. "What's the matter with you? Just don't," she finished, shaking her finger for emphasis as my first student shuffled in, "I mean, DO NOT, fuck your student. Until after he graduates." With a final glare, she squeezed my shoulder fiercely one final time and scuttled back to her own classroom.

Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one with the weeping pussy. After yesterday, I'd brought an extra pair of underwear (full coverage, to catch the drool) and, in the fine weather, opted for a knee-length dress. My pants probably hadn't been ruined yesterday, but I felt like they had.

Enter AP European History, 27 seniors with whom I had to be on the top of my game; a couple of sections of sophomore history followed, me feeling increasingly dull and crabby, before Dylan's Intro to World Religions class after lunch.

I dug out my chicken salad sandwich and trudged to our usual corner of the lunchroom. Audrey and Gina were already there. Audrey blinked up at me. "Jesus, Shan. You look like shit." She shook her head as I scowled at her and gave her the finger. "You need to get laid," she said. Gina and I just exchanged a glance.

* * *

I went back down to my classroom early, as I needed to cue up some videos for the Religion kids; I just wasn't up to teaching them today. The videos, National Geographic pieces about Islamic art and architecture, would fill the whole period. I hoped I could stay awake. I moved my tall stool to the back of the room, where I usually sat to watch films, and I waited with a new cup of coffee.