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Ms. Kupala's Mistake

Chris Austin was clever. The was one of his problems. Well, actually it was my problem. Just a few months from graduation, the 18-year-old had started getting under my skin. Normal students struggled to master the material I presented them with in my AP Brit lit course. It was the kind of material they would be expected to master in college, but most of them just weren't at that level yet.

Chris was not one of those students. I could tell he would excel in his college courses, and the way he questioned everything would endear him to his professors. To me, though, he was just another daily hurdle I had to jump in order to get 20 seniors ready for the AP test.

Lately, he had been challenging the material itself, going on and on about a show called The Wire. I didn't mind discussion the pitfalls of the AP curriculum, but it was eating up too much of my instruction time, so I told him that if he really wanted to talk about it, he could stop by my room after school. I half hoped he had something better to do after school, but at 3:15 he pulled up a chair next to my desk and continued his argument right where he had left off in class.

"Oh, Mrs. Kupala please," he started. "Just because something is written doesn't mean it's a work worthy of discussion or analysis. The Wire is a novel come to life on T.V. and is the only T.V. series I have ever seen that I could make that claim about. The Wire is set up, not to appeal to the short attention span of the typical T.V. viewer, but to draw you into the web it weaves. Watch the first season of it and I promise we will have something to discuss. You should know I'm not some illiterate punk Mrs. Kupala. How else am I getting As on your papers? Or maybe you're just an easy grader."

I refrained from rolling my eyes. I was not an easy grader, and he know it. More than once I had returned a paper to a student covered in red marks, refusing to grade it until all the grammar and spelling issues had been fixed. Chris had just never experienced that first hand, as his writing was flawless.

"It's Ms. Kupala, young man," I corrected him. It was instinct, as I bristled at the idea that others assumed I should be married. "Look, I'm not saying the show doesn't have it's merits. If this were a class on film or drama, I would love to show high quality T.V. series. Shows like Orphan Black, Community, and Bomb Girls are also exemplary models of the kind of storytelling television is capable of. However, this is a literature class, and I've got 20 students that need to get 4s and 5s on the test in May. Writing skills are difficult to improve if reading skills don't improve, and while you may think this class is too easy, I guarantee some of your classmates would disagree with you. Besides, the content of The Wire is too vulgar for a high school setting. The language, sex, and drugs on the show means it would never get past the school board." I explained.

"Tell you what, though. Since you seem so passionate about it, and I hate to discourage passion in my students, I'll watch the first season and we can discuss it after school sometime." I turned back to the papers on his desk, expecting my offer would satisfy him and he would leave. "And while you may not be illiterate, Mr. Austin, you are kind of a punk."

"Ms? I thought you had a husband!" he bemused offhandedly, before continuing his tirade, unappeased. "Ms. Kupala, you know how easy that test is. That's not me being a smart ass, that's me saying if someone fails that test it's because they don't know how to form a coherent sentence or understand what they are reading. Why would someone who cannot do that be taking your advanced class? Since this is an advanced class, I believe that means your students are a given to pass the test, and our prerogative for that is learning harder or more open-to-interpretation material. Why have a filter for what we learn? The Wire is one of the most realistic shows out there, it accurately depicts how people think and what we're in for when we graduate into the real world where everything isn't filtered for us and we don't have a safety net."

He stood up, and I thought he was about to leave, but instead he leaned against my desk.

"I'm glad to hear that you are open to watching the first season for me, Ms. Kupala. Why don't you watch a couple episodes tonight, and tomorrow we can order some food and have dinner over discussion.Now, would you like for me to show you how to download the episodes for free?"

"Thank you for your offer to assist me in downloading episodes," I scoffed. "But I am NOT an old lady, and I can navigate the internet just fine, thank you very much. Besides, I prefer to stream my content. I will try watch an episode tonight, and we can discuss it tomorrow, but I think it would be inappropriate for me to have dinner with a student. How about just a coffee?"

"Inappropriate?" He chuckled. "Well, if you really think it is necessary, coffee would be fine. I believe you need to see more than one episode though, the first episode is merely the beginning of the story being fleshed out, Mrs. Kupala."

"Ms," I reminded him. "You know what they say about people who assume, Mr. Austin. It would have to be a strong man indeed to tie me down, not that my students need to know my relationship status."

"You haven't met that strong man yet, Ms. Kupala?" he queried. "Oh and please, call me Chris."

"I've met plenty of strong men, Chris, but finding one that matches up with my desires and finds me attractive as well is harder than it seems, especially since I'm looking for more than a prom date." As soon as I said it, I knew I shouldn't have. Desires? That was not something I should be talking about with a student.

"What exactly are your desires Ms. Kupala?" He asked, leaning closer to me. "And who says I'm looking for a prom date? I don't think I am even going to prom, it seems like a dull affair."

"I didn't mean to suggest that you specifically are looking for a prom date, only that what I'm looking for at 26 is much different than what I was looking for when I was your age," I clarified. " You know, prom is fun if you go with the right people. Some students expect it to be the highlight of the year and the most romantic night of their lives, but really it's just another party. Those that expect too much will be disappointed, but it's a good time if there aren't many expectations. I went with a group of ten girls and had a blast.

"I know what you were saying, but you seem to be dodging my other question Ms. Kupala."

"What question am I avoiding?" It baffled me that a student would care so much about my life. While I was flattered, it also made me uncomfortable. He was a student after all, and there was a line one shouldn't cross.

"What desires you have that are so hard to match?" He asked again.

"Oh, Chris, I don't know if it's appropriate to talk about my personal life with you. It's not very professional of me," I stated, and chewed on my lower lip. He looked at me intensely, and I felt as if his eyes were boring into my soul. I relented.

"I guess I need someone who's aggressive, and knows what he wants (me), but is still a feminist and doesn't tell me what to do, except for in the... oh, I definitely shouldn't tell you about that! I can't tell you any more, it's too inappropriate. I could get in trouble." I could feel all the blood rush to my face, and I started to sweat. There was that line, and so carelessly I had almost crossed it. I shuffled some of the papers on my desk, hoping that he would drop it and go away.

"Ms. Kupala," He sigh, and stood up straight. "I've been in your class for a few months now, and I would like to be honest with you. I have noticed that as we've gone on you haven't seemed as cheerful as you used to. You seem to have fallen into some sort of funk."

As he talked, he slowly walked behind my chair, and put his hands on my shoulders. He really shouldn't have been touching me at all, but I couldn't remember the last anyone had touched me, let alone a man. I simply sat there as he began to knead the muscles between my shoulders and neck.

"Maybe it's because you haven't found your man yet," he commented as he continued to slowly massage my shoulders. "It's okay Ms. Kupala, you can tell me. I promise this is between you and me."

I shouldn't have. I really shouldn't have. But his words got to me, and I could feel the tears threaten to pool in my eyes. I couldn't keep it it.

"I'm lonely," I blurted out. "Professionally, I have exactly what I want, but it's not enough. I thought dating would get easier when I moved to the big city, but really there's just more men to disappoint me. Every time I think I'm getting close to someone, I get ghosted, but more often than not, I'm just left dissatisfied. Everyone is so conventional! Maybe I'm asking for too much, maybe what I want is just too much for most men."

I had told him too much, but I couldn't tell him enough. I couldn't tell him how much I craved for a man to push me against the wall and fuck me until I cried, or for the sting of a hand spanking me in the heat of passion. I couldn't tell him that my nipples longed to be sucked, bitten, pinched and slapped, or that my ass craved a stiff cock to be rammed into it. I couldn't tell him how I desired someone to both bruise me and hold me as I fell asleep.

I grabbed one of his hands and turned in my seat, looking up at him.

"Chris, you can't tell anyone I what I told you," I pleaded. "I'll lose credibility."

"Ms. Kupala," he cooed, staring down into my eyes. "I'm so sorry to hear you're going through this.You don't deserve it at all"

His eyes shifted down my face, and I became aware that my blouse was buttoned low enough that from his vantage point, he could easily see my bra. For a brief moment I wondered what he thought of the pink lace.

"You're a beautiful woman, smart, sexy, you know how to talk to a man... you deserve so much more." He moved his left hand off of me shoulder and slid it against my neck. I knew what he wanted to do, but I sat there frozen in disbelief. He firmly grasped my neck within his fingers then leaned his head down to press his lips against mine.

I gave into the kiss for a moment, relishing the way his hand felt against my throat, yielding against his firm lips. For a moment my body lightened, the tension gone. Then I came to my senses and jerked away.

"Chris! You can't... I can't... It's wildly inappropriate!" What else could I say? I had crossed a line that should never be crossed. It might not have been illegal, but it was unethical, and I could be ruined from just that one little kiss. My face was flushed and my chest heaved with heavy breaths. I slowly backed away from him.

"Don't you understand how much trouble I can get in? You have to go. You have to go now." I pointed to the door, refusing his eyes.

He walked toward me and grasped the back of my head by the roots of my hair. I cried out, in shock, in pain, in pleasure. With his other hand he pressed against my chest to push me up against the wall. I became acutely aware of the placement of his hand, so close to the opening of my shirt. It would only take a small movement to slip inside. He pulled my head back using my hair as he nibbled on my neck, tasting the sweat on my skin, smelling my intoxicating perfume.

"Chris, please. You can't! Please stop!"

I whimpered and groaned as I felt his stubble scrape against my pale, sensitive skin. This close, I could smell his sweat and deodorant, an intoxicating blend that made me light headed. I should have been fighting back, trying to push him away. Instead I grasped his shirt tightly, unsure what to do.

Chris didn't have any of my uncertainty. His hand slid up to grasp my neck as his kisses moved lower. He didn't hurt me, but he held my throat with enough pressure that if I spoke again, he could quickly silence me. I almost wanted to speak again, just so he would tighten his grip.

As his tongue traced my clavicle, he lifted his knee and wedged it in between my thighs. With a slow, steady movement, he lifted his leg, and my skirt with it, and leaned into me until he was pressing firmly on my crotch. If I hadn't been wet before, I was now, as my pussy flooded with lubricant and soaked my panties. I couldn't help it, I ground into his leg, desperate for the stimulation against my clit. He chuckled in response.

"Ms. Kupala," he exclaimed quietly. "Humping a student? I don't think that's in the curriculum." In response to the fear in my eyes, he kissed me deeply, and this time I let him, without resistance. His tongue snaked between my lips and met with mine, exploring my mouth as I explored his. He caught my tongue between his teeth and sucked on it so hard I worried he would rip it out, and cried out in response.

"Shh," he warned me, letting go of my hair for a moment and tightening his grip on my neck. "We don't want anyone to discover our little secret. If you want me to continue, you'll need to be very quiet." I pursed me lips together tightly, and he smiled.

Removing his leg from between mine, Chris dropped to one knee. The hand that had held my throat dragged down to cover one breast, and squeezed it savagely over my shirt. My hand flew to my mouth to muffle any sound that tried to escape. With his other hand, he reached for the hem of my skirt and pushed it up until it rested above my hips like a belt. He hooked his hand under my knee and lifted it to rest over his shoulder, using the hand on my breast to steady me. Then he pushed the crotch of my panties to the side and pressed his lips to the slick folds hidden there.

I couldn't remember exactly the last time a man had buried his face between my thighs, but I thought it must have been over a year. I was always apprehensive when a partner offered to eat me out, as most of the time I was left bored and unstimulated. I appreciated the effort on their part, but most simply lacked the technique to satisfy me with their mouths, then grew resentful when I didn't scream out, arch my back, and grab their hair. Mostly, though, if I didn't ask, they didn't offer, and really it was better that way.

Chris Austin, on the other hand, knew exactly what the fuck to do. He alternated between tongue flicking, sucking, bitting, and licking in a manner that made me forget my own name for a moment. I pressed my hand harder against my mouth, but I couldn't stop the moans that he elicited. His tongue thrust into my wet hole and my leg started to shake. I responded by grinding my hips against his face and grabbing a hold of his shirt collar, pulling him closer.

He pulled his mouth away for a moment and replaced his tongue with a finger, then returned to sucking on my clit the same way he had sucked on my tongue. His finger curled and thrust into me, rubbing against my g-spot. He added a finger to his administrations, and I added a hand to my mouth, as my moans had started to turn into outright cries of pleasure. A third finger, and I started to feel stretched, his fingers dragging against the inside of my pussy in rapid motions. I could hear the squelching of my lubricant as he pistoned his fingers in and out of my needy hole. He bit down on my clit and I lost it.

My eyes slammed shut and my hips rocked of their own accord. If not for his hand steadying me, I would have collapsed under the force of my orgasm. It wasn't as if I hadn't had an orgasm in a while. I usually gave myself one as part of my evening routine, but the orgasm that rocked my body at the hands and mouth of Chris was unlike any I had had in such a long time. My pussy continued to spasm and clench as I came down, and Chris, for his credit, held his fingers steady inside until my body had relaxed.

Removing his fingers from my pussy, Chris stood up, smiling. He presented my own cum to me, and I obediently opened my mouth and cleaned off each finger. Once clean, he tugged my skirt back down, like a gentleman, and kissed me on the cheek.

"Remember, this is our little secret," he whispered in my ear. Then he picked up his backpack and left.

I slid to the ground and contemplated the enormity of my mistake.

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