See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  He pulls away. “Then tell me to stop.”

  Not saying a word, I press his hand to my center, then hear a light chuckle before he goes back to work, and it’s the most glorious and erotic thing I’ve ever done.

  It doesn’t negate the fact that I’m still mad at him, or that I want to rip that cardigan off his body and smother him with it, but if I can get a little pleasure before I perform my act of murder, then it’s worth the wait.

  He moves his fingers to my entrance and presses two inside, scooping upward, making stars burst behind my eyes.

  “Arlo,” I whisper, shifting my hips, my body already humming, buzzing, climbing to the apex of my orgasm.

  Is it really that easy for him? For him to pull pleasure from me in seconds? It shouldn’t be possible. Moments ago, I was livid. Desperate to be left alone. But now . . .

  Pushing at my legs, spreading me even more, he drives his tongue harder against my clit, the sensation rocking me to my core.

  “Oh shit,” I say breathlessly as his tongue flicks softly, only to drive down again.

  My legs quiver.

  My stomach bottoms out.

  A wave of numbness washes over me and pools between my legs.

  “I’m going to come,” I whisper, just for him to pull away. “Arlo,” I whisper yell, aware that we’re still in the classroom. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “Wh-what?” I ask, my chest heaving, my legs shaking.

  “For what happened in Nyema’s office—do you forgive me?”

  “That’s unfair,” I say.

  “It’s not. I’m apologizing, I’ll finish you off if you forgive me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you want to come.” He presses his fingers upward and my head falls back.

  “Oh . . . fuck.”

  “God, you’re sexy.” He leans down and presses kisses along my inner thighs. “Doing this in the light, where I can fully see you, it has me so fucking hard.”

  “Arlo, please,” I beg, my clit throbbing, my mind crazy with need.

  “Forgive me, and I’ll make you come harder than the other night.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Try me,” he says, his eyes determined when I look at him.

  “Fine, I forgive you.”

  “Good.”

  He lowers his mouth to my clit and presses a few soft kisses before he flattens his tongue and moves long strokes along my slit. It’s not what I want; it’s just teasing me, dangling me off the edge but never letting me fall over.

  “You’re . . . oh God, you’re frustrating me.”

  “Then I’m doing it right,” he says, right before flicking his tongue lightly against my clit.

  Over and over and over . . .

  The pleasure builds.

  It wraps around me, warming my body.

  Igniting an inferno in the pit of my stomach.

  “Yes . . . yes,” I breathe heavily. “Yes, Arlo.”

  I clench his hair. My legs cling to him, pulling him closer, and then . . . I come.

  A cry falls past my lips as my hips jackknife against his face, my body racing with such euphoria that a wave of tears hits the backs of my eyes.

  “Oh my God, yes, Arlo,” I say, riding out his tongue, dragging out every ounce of pleasure until I have nothing left to give and collapse on the desk, looking at the ceiling of my classroom.

  I drape my arm over my eyes as I attempt to catch my breath. I cannot believe he just did that. The rule follower. The cardigan wearer. The it’s-my-way-or-the-highway man.

  What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?

  And how?

  Arlo lifts up, pushes my skirt down, and then helps me into a sitting position. Cupping my cheek, he looks into my eyes and says, “Have a good rest of the day, Miss Gibson.”

  “Wait,” I say, still trying to recover. “You can’t just leave like that.”

  “I can.”

  “But . . . what about . . .” I look down at his crotch, where I catch his bulge.

  “Not your concern.”

  “So, that’s it? You’re going to make me come and then leave?”

  “I don’t see why this is an issue. You got what you needed, correct?”

  “Yes.” I press my hand against my hair, making sure it’s flattened. “But what about what you need?”

  He glances at my crotch and then licks his lips. “I got mine, don’t worry about me.”

  And then he’s walking out of my classroom, making me question the last ten minutes. Because what man, who showed fierce dislike for me and made derogatory remark after derogatory remark, suddenly deems it his purpose to make me feel sated? Yet deny himself. It doesn’t make sense.

  I’m physically sated, yet does that mean I forgive him for acting in ways that were truly cruel and manipulative?

  Should I?

  Chapter Fourteen

  ARLO

  To: Faculty_All

  From: Dewitt, Nyema

  Subject: Promiscuous Students

  Dear Faculty,

  As some of you might have heard, there was a neon-pink thong found just outside the English department wing. Our goal as a faculty is to make sure within the walls of our school, we keep it to education. Given the raging hormones we’re dealing with, we’re bound to run into something like this. But we have a no-tolerance policy, which requires you to report any information you might have acquired through gossiping students. Feel free to stop by my office with any leads.

  Our school holds the lowest teenage pregnancy ratio in the country and I plan on keeping it that way.

  Thank you, and keep educating.

  Nyema

  * * *

  The door to my classroom slams, and I look up casually to find Greer standing by the door, a horrified look on her face, a printed piece of paper in hand.

  I don’t need X-ray vision to know what’s on that paper.

  “Have you seen this?”

  Returning to my computer, I continue to enter grades. “I did.”

  “Uh . . . don’t you have anything to say?”

  Eyes trained on my computer, I say, “You apparently wear the same kind of underwear a high schooler would wear.”

  “Arlo,” she practically yells, coming toward me and slamming the paper on my desk. “What if my initials were on that underwear?”

  “Do you usually have your initials on your underwear, as if you’re going to summer camp and don’t want to lose them?”

  “No, but . . . it could have been a possibility.”

  “I’m busy, Miss Gibson. I don’t have time for your hysterics.”

  “Hysterics? Are you insane? Arlo, that was my underwear that was found.”

  I tap the printed email. “Which means, you better deliver the information about the underwear, since you know details. Don’t want to disappoint her.”

  “Stop being so casual about this.”

  Sighing, I turn toward her in my chair and take her in. Black skinny jeans, purple blouse, hair pinned on the top of her head, and high heels on her feet. She looks fucking good and I’m feeling hungry again.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Uh, not drop my underwear around school? Maybe try that to start. Or how about don’t steal my underwear at all? Who does that?”

  “You didn’t seem to mind until just now.”

  “Well, I do mind. Don’t take my underwear.”

  “Okay.” My eyes land on her breasts.

  “Eyes up here,” she snaps at me. I glance up at her. “We need to have a conversation.”

  “What kind of conversation?”

  “A serious one.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I have to admit, I like her irritated and angry like this.

  “Okay.” I rock back in my chair. “Converse, Miss Gibson.”

  “Fine. I will.” She shifts; her eyes look to the side. “So . . . uh—”

  “Kids these days,” Gunner says, busting throug
h my door. “Underwear in the hallways—don’t they have any class?” He pauses and looks between us. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Miss Gibson was just conversing with me. Would you like to continue?” I ask, brow raised.

  “Oh . . . uh, no.” She shakes her head. “I think I’m all done.”

  “Are you sure? It was about the underwear, was it not? I believe Miss Gibson might have a lead.”

  “Really?” Gunner asks, rubbing his hands together. “What’s the lead? Is it that punk Caleb and his girl Raquel? I saw them making out against the lockers several times the other day, and I kept poking them with a baseball bat to break it up.”

  Greer purses her lips, shoots me a look, and then says, “No. I don’t have a lead. I was just . . . disgusted that someone would believe it’s acceptable to not only take someone’s underwear, but then display it to the school. Don’t you think that’s disrespectful? And something that shouldn’t happen near the English department, especially on Arlo’s watch?”

  “She’s got a point,” Gunner says with a knowing look. “How are you letting that kind of behavior slip by you?”

  “How do we even know it was promiscuous behavior?” I ask, rolling my knuckles over my desk. “Could have been someone accidentally losing their underwear after changing from gym.”

  “Plausible, but the gym is on the other side of the school. She’d have been fumbling with her books a lot to lose her underwear.”

  I point my finger. “Can’t guarantee the underwear belongs to a girl, either.”

  Gunner taps his chin. “Right, right. Good point.” He turns to Greer. “Are you sure you don’t have a lead?”

  “I don’t.”

  He studies her, and she fidgets under his gaze. Gunner is good at reading people, and funnily enough, Greer is giving off all the wrong body language. “You look like you’re hiding something.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?” I say, finding too much comfort in how uncomfortable she is.

  “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just . . . thirsty. I need a drink. Excuse me.”

  Gunner steps into her path, breaking off her retreat. “Hold on a second.” He lifts her chin and studies her eyes carefully. I smirk behind her, loving every moment of the squirming Greer. “Yup, there’s a secret she’s holding back. So, what is it, Greer?”

  “Care to share with the class?” I encourage.

  Her shoulders tense and her head lifts. Finally, she says, “Fine . . . I heard the underwear belongs to you, Gunner, and that there’s some trend of male teachers wearing thongs.”

  Gunner shakes his head. “Stopped wearing thongs after I graduated from college. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “You wore thongs in college?”

  “Easier for the long runs our coach made us go on.”

  “Oh, well . . . that’s what I heard. Okay, bye.” Greer pushes past Gunner and exits the classroom before either one of us can stop her.

  When she’s out of sight, Gunner turns toward me and says, “I don’t believe that.”

  Chuckling, I say, “Yeah, me neither.”

  “So, Sunday Funday this weekend? Your place still?”

  “We’re practicing, right?”

  “Yeah, but figured we could make it a little more fun. Jason has the day off and he was going to come over with his wife, Dottie, and I was going to bring Lindsay.”

  “You’re going to bring your girlfriend to Sunday Funday? Think that’s a good idea?”

  “Dottie’s her best friend from college. She can handle whatever we throw her way with her friend by her side. Plus, I think Lindsay could be good friends with Cora. They got along when we had ice cream last time.”

  “You don’t have to reason with me, just wondering if you’re ready.”

  “I am.” He smiles and takes a seat on a desk. “Dude, I really like her. And Dylan, fuck, he’s amazing. Sweet and funny. And smart. So freaking smart.”

  “Does Dylan know about you being his dad yet?”

  “Not yet.” He looks downcast. “Lindsay isn’t ready. She wants to make sure we’re in a solid spot before she tells him. Bringing her to hang out on Sunday could be a good next step.”

  “Then bring her.”

  “You don’t mind the extra people?”

  “Have I ever?” I ask, raising a brow at my friend who is notorious for bringing extra people to my parties.

  “You’ve gotten butthurt before.”

  “Don’t fucking use the term butthurt.”

  Gunner chuckles. “You know what I mean. But if you’re cool with it, then I’ll bring her along. And Jason is a lot of fun. He’s ready to take some people out in badminton.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Okay, well, I’m going to hit up the teachers’ lounge, see if anyone knows any info about the thong. I really want to bust Caleb. He’s such a little bitch.”

  “Is a seventeen-year-old really getting the best of you?” I ask.

  Gunner stands and stretches his arms over his head. “He is, the little fucker. He’s really getting to me.”

  * * *

  “Dear Mr. Darcy, it was a pleasure—”

  “What are you doing?” I ask from the doorway of Greer’s classroom.

  Her head snaps up, and when she sees me, her eyes narrow and she lays the paper in her hands flat on the desk.

  “None of your business.”

  “Ah, still mad about the other day?”

  “No.” She turns away from me.

  “Liar.” I walk into her classroom and shut the door.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she says, holding up her finger to me. “I’ve got news for you—whatever is going on in that thick head of yours isn’t going to happen.”

  “What do you think is going on in my head?” I approach her desk.

  “Sexual things.” She turns back to her paper, reading it over.

  I slip the paper from under her and bring it to my eyes to read.

  “Hey, give that back.”

  I scan it and then ask, with a confused brow, “Did you write a love letter to Mr. Darcy?”

  Head held high, she says, “I did. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No, I’m just wondering why.”

  “We’re writing letters to fictional characters next week and I wanted to use this as an example.”

  “Love letters? Are you going to bring out the construction paper and markers as well?”

  “Hey.” She snaps the paper out of my hands. “Don’t be rude. This is a great way to help the readers connect with the characters.”

  “Bet you they hate it.”

  “Bet you they think I’m fun and exciting and always creating new, interesting ways for them to learn, unlike your stodgy approach on the other side of the wall.”

  “Not getting into that debate with you again,” I say. I have other things on my mind.

  “Okay, then why are you here?”

  “I wanted to check something under your desk. I’m looking for a symbol to see if it’s an original.”

  “Seriously?” she asks. “That’s what you’re doing on your lunch break? Checking the authenticity of the desks?” Shaking her head, she pushes away from her desk and motions to the large opening. “Have at it.”

  God, that was far too easy.

  Moving around the desk, I get on all fours and crawl under the spacious opening. I haven’t seen many desks likes ours that offer so much room, but when I was sitting in my classroom looking at it, I knew it’d be perfect. Especially since the sides of the desk are flush with the floor.

  “What’s that pink thing in your back pocket?”

  “A flashlight,” I lie, then turn around and pull at her chair, bringing her closer to me.

  “What on earth?”

  My hands find her thighs, and I switch on the vibrator I stole from her apartment and rub it against her inner thigh, grateful for the skirt she’s wearing today.

  “Oh my God,” she says. “Arlo,
you can’t be—”

  I press it against her pussy for a second and then run it down her other leg.

  “Oh Jesus. Oh God, this is not happening.” She says the words but spreads her legs at the same time. I smile to myself. She’s way too fucking easy.

  What I can’t believe though, is that I’m doing this to her in the first place. This is so out of character for me, and yet, I can’t seem to stay away. I’ve had fucking partners, women who knew that there would never be intimacy between us. Mildly satisfying. But Greer is so expressive. Volatile in every way.

  And although I could be noble and say that my sexual attacks on her are solely for her pleasure, they’re not. I like the control. I like causing her to buckle. Perhaps, to push her beyond her normal boundaries. She’s addictive, but I know I won’t let it go any further than this.

  “I’ve thought about doing this to you ever since I stole your vibrator. I’ve just been waiting for the right moment.”

  “What . . . what made that moment today?” she asks, spreading her legs even wider.

  “This dress. I saw you walking down the hallway and I knew I needed to fuck you in it.”

  “Well, you’re not really fucking me, now, are you? A vibrator is.”

  I turn up the speed, and she jolts when I bring it closer to her center.

  “It’s still me controlling it, knowing when to turn it up, when to turn it off, when to torture you.” I slip the vibrator under her thong and rub it against her slit.

  “Dear God, please forgive me,” she says.

  “I wish I could see your face. I want to know what you’re feeling.”

  “Turned on. Breathless. Useless.”

  “Do you wish this was my cock?” I ask, moving the vibrator away, only to push it back on her clit.

  “I wish I was able to touch your cock,” she says.

  “Are you saying you’re greedy for it, Miss Gibson?”

  “Yes,” she says, just as there’s a knock on the door and it opens. Greer sits straight up, but I don’t move . . . and I don’t turn off the vibrator.

  “Greer, do you have a moment?”

  “Principal Dewitt,” Greer says as I turn off the vibrator. She doesn’t move—she can’t, or else she risks the possibility of exposing me. “Of . . . of course.”