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Invisible Lines (Novella)

The Principal of the Thing

by Savannah © 2009


erotic fictionThe hallway was silent, as quiet as the world outside the classroom windows, muffled by falling snow. In the stillness, Brian heard the distinctive tap-tap-tap of a woman's high-heeled shoes, striding purposefully. The steps approached his classroom, and slowed. He read student papers, slogging through juvenile arguments and laughable malapropisms, and waited, mildly curious, for them to continue. It wasn't unusual for a teacher to still be at school long after the hoards of students departed. It was probably a teacher, not a student; the footfalls just had a sound of authority to them.


Neither student nor teacher. The voice was firm, feminine, and still had the power, after two years, to unnerve him slightly. It was his high school principal, Mrs. Brunswick.

"Hi," Brian said. Should he stand up from the desk? Respect was always a good idea, especially with a woman who had a slightly old-fashioned sense of protocol to her. Brian stood.

Mrs. Brunswick came into his home room, closing the door behind her. She didn't speak, but glanced around with a neutral, almost expressionless, face. He guessed she was assessing everything—from the posters on the wall, the notes still up on the chalkboard, even the general level of tidiness. Brian waited. He'd only been teaching for two years. This was his first job, and he thought he was doing well so far. He'd made it through the first year with no major riots (on the students' part) or breakdowns (on his part). This second year had been easier.

"I wanted to speak with you."

That was never good. Brian felt like sitting down again. Why did school principals—even now—have that authoritative way about them? They made you feel like you were in trouble, even when you weren't. And he probably wasn't. He couldn't think of any issues recently that would concern Mrs. Brunswick. No disgruntled parents, no floundering students, no scandal in the lesson plans.

The principal nodded in measured approval at the state of his classroom, the empty seats facing them like so many possibilities. Beyond the rows of desks and the bookshelves beneath the windows, the day had turned black. In January, evening arrived early. He could see their reflections beneath the fluorescents. They were diminished and small, slightly blurred. One of the lights on the sport field below was on, and in its upside-down triangle of light, snow drifted down, illuminated like dust motes in August. He sat, feeling slightly more confident behind his desk. He was a teacher, after all. Not one of the kids.

Mrs. Brunswick turned on one heel, and perched herself on the corner of his desk, looking down at him, hands clasped in her lap. Her face now wore an expression of considered pleasantness. She was wearing a severe black suit, a skirt and jacket as tightly buttoned as the lady herself. The suit's austerity was broken only by a white blouse, still crisp at 4:47 p.m., which put him in mind of a nun's habit, stark and sexless. And a scarf. If there had been any chance of cleavage showing with the blouse, the scarf would cover that up. The scarf was a silky splash of colour and the only feminine thing about his principal. Well, the scarf and maybe her legs. They were pretty good. And the heels. So the scarf, the heels and the legs in black hose. And the lipstick? A soft pink shade that picked up the colours in the scarf and the—

The touch of colour in her cheeks. Mrs. Brunswick? Wearing blush? Perhaps she'd been outside in the cold, touring the grounds, making sure there was nothing going on that shouldn't: vandalism, a few tokes behind the dumpsters or a furtive make-out session in the cold. The woman kept a sharp eye on all things that went on at St. Andrew's High School, both inside and out.

Brian picked up his red pen, put it down, then picked it up again. He felt better with something in his hand. He waited to hear what she had to say to him, but didn't know why she was perched on his desk like a crow.

"Melissa Whitmore."

Oh, shit. Melissa Whitmore. The clock on the wall above him seemed to tick too loudly, like a countdown on a bomb.

Because Brian couldn't want Melissa one whit more than he already did. Wanted, and wanted very badly.

Melissa Whitmore was hot. Melissa was seventeen going on twenty-seven, and she was achingly perfect, at least physically. She had honey-blonde hair and smooth skin that seemed to hold summer's kiss, even in January. She had great bone structure and startlingly blue eyes. That was from the neck up. From the neck down, it only got better. Long legs, flat belly, hips and ass curved like an architect's wet dream, and best of all, a set of high, firm, young, full breasts. Christ. Melissa Whitmore had played a starring role in many sessions in Brian's apartment between the ten o'clock news and the six o'clock alarm. Melissa Whitmore and he had done some amazing, wonderful, dirty, and probably illegal things. Two or a dozen times over. Melissa Whitmore had warmed many a cold night for Brian.

And there was one more thing: Brian guessed that he could have a shot at really doing all the things that he fantasized about doing to Melissa Whitmore. Things he imagined while closing his eyes and stroking his aching, rigid cock. He could probably have her in real life.

Melissa Whitmore had a boyfriend—of course—but she also had a crush on him. She'd as much told him so, more than once. Each smiling, flirtatious revelation that he was her "absolutely, honestly, favourite teacher, you know?" only served to bring Brian to another shuddering climax. On one notable occasion it had been in the staff men's room during the Christmas dance, only three weeks ago. He was supposed to be chaperoning.

"Melissa?" Brian said.

"Melissa Whitmore. You do have her in one of your classes, don't you?"

"Two," Brian admitted. "English and history."

Mrs. Brunswick's gaze held his as if she were accessing every dirty thought he'd ever had about Melissa—sweet Melissa—and even retrieving and rating the occasional fantasy that involved Melissa's closest friend, Ashley Woodburn. Ashley was a brunette, with about fifteen more pounds than Melissa. But they were in all the right places. Oops—he thought the principal had pulled up the rare daydream that involved Melissa Whitmore and Ashley Woodburn at the same time. Talk about making his wood burn.

"She has a crush on you."

"Oh—well—er. I don't know. Maybe. Just a little one."

Mrs. Brunswick was still sitting on the corner of his desk, looming there like a black eagle, he decided, more weighty than a crow. She drilled into his soul with her eyes, stern as a judge. "Don't give into temptation, Brian." Her voice was crisp and flat like the virtuous whole grain crackers she nibbled when she sometimes joined the teachers in the lounge.

"Of course not! I wouldn't."

"Although you may want to. I understand. The girl is certainly attractive, very attractive. And she knows it. Flaunts it. Prettiest girl in school?"

The silence was broken only by the clock ticking on the wall, its sound unnaturally loud again in the stillness of the after-hours classroom. Brian finally realised the question wasn't rhetorical. "Uh... one of them. Very pretty. Yes."

"Confident, too. In her looks."

"That she is."

"Doing well in your class?"

"Okay. She's not as academically inclined as some of the kids." Kids, he reminded himself. They walk like women, talk like women, probably fuck their boyfriends like women, but they're only girls. The kind of girls who didn't pay any attention to you when you were seventeen.

"Maybe she thinks she doesn't have to work in your classes. Because you'll let her skate through. Because you want her—and she knows it."

"No," Brian protested. "I've never."

"Responded to her flirtations?" One brow went up, sceptical as an atheist at a revival. Not aloud, never giving the girl any reason to believe he felt nothing but a teacher's interest in her. In her schoolwork. But physically? Oh, yes, Brian had responded to Melissa Whitmore's flirtations. She probably would be elated to know that she could more than unnerve him—she could give him a hard-on. Was she a cock-tease?

The lecture was continuing. Pay attention, Brian thought. He kept his eyes on Mrs. Brunswick, but it was hard not to think of Melissa.  ".don't let it," the principal was saying. "Don't give into temptation. Nubile young women like Melissa have their wiles. And their ways. It's flattering, isn't it? The way she looks up at you? The way she tilts her head, smiles, flashes you a bit of breast. Or thigh. Of course, we don't see those tiny little skirts now that the cold weather's here, but the tight jeans she wears show just as much, don't they? Hugging every inch of her. Those jeans make love to her ass."

Brian realised his mouth was agape. The principal continued to speak softly. "Who wouldn't want to as well?"

"I... I don't know what to say here, Mrs. Brunswick." I'm trapped, he almost said.

Trapped, and slightly aroused—against his will. And his principal wasn't finished. "Call me Juliana, please. You need to be careful, Brian. Of young women with a lot of nonsensical hormones running through their bodies. Their lush, young bodies."

Mrs. Brunswick shifted on Brian's desk, crossing her left leg over her right. Her black skirt rode up, but she didn't seem to notice. Brian found it hard not to look at his principal's thigh. It was easier than looking up into her eyes. He clutched his red marking pen tighter. Black hose—and they were shapely thighs, too. Who knew that under the plain suits there were such lines and curves? "We may be tempted, Brian, but it would be a very big mistake to give into that temptation. You may want to fuck her—"

Brian's throat was dry and he felt slightly sick. He'd never imagined his principal speaking so... frankly. Her mouth so easily slipped the word "fuck" into the conversation. Or was it a lecture? It was more like a lecture. A warning. She'd seen right through him, knew every nasty fantasy he'd had while he stood at the front of the classroom, his eyes roaming up and down the rows of desks, head cocked to one side, listening to students discover The Great Gatsby and groan at the length of Fifth Business.

"... and I can't say I blame you. It's only natural that a man should look at a woman that way. Especially a young, healthy man like yourself. But remember this—she's not a woman. She's a girl. I don't know what's going on—" Mrs. Brunswick shrugged, loosening her scarf. She plucked it away from her throat. "Something in the air, the chemicals in our food, or maybe it's just watching all that television, and being exposed to what in my day we'd simply call pornography. But their bodies mature much faster than they used to. But their minds, Brian, don't. She's a young girl who has a typical schoolgirl crush on you."

The principal smiled. "Not that I blame her, of course. You are an attractive young man. Good-looking. Pleasant. Nicely built—yes, I've seen you out running—and compared to so many of my staff here, so young. Approachable. The kids all like you, don't they?"

Brian didn't speak; he hadn't prepared for this... conversation—and maybe that was all it was, a very unexpectedly frank, heart-to-heart talk from an older, wiser professional. A mentor, of sorts.

A mentor who was sliding off her scarf, looking down at it. She was twisting it gently in her hands, running its flimsy silk through her fingers. Fingers that were tipped by nails polished in a dark red shade.

Red for danger.

The scarf was off, and Brian noticed that Mrs. Brunswick's blouse was actually unbuttoned at the top. Unbuttoned an inch or three more than he'd ever expected it to be, opened to the lace edge of Mrs. Brunswick's brassiere. Lace? Mrs. Brunswick? The two didn't go together.

And yet, suddenly, they did.

"Mrs. Brunswick," he said. "I—"

"Juliana, please. The kids all like you. I think you're a very promising teacher. But I'd hate to see your career end before it's even begun. The stories that have come out with distressing regularity—and they're all over the internet, where these incidents are mocked and sometimes even lauded... that can't happen here. And it won't."

Juliana Brunswick was smiling at him, belying the warning in her words. She ran her hand along her throat where the scarf used to be. And then she began to unbutton her blouse as he watched, unable to move. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. She unbuttoned it easily, casually, as if she were undoing her winter coat at the front doors. "If a young man such as yourself is stirred by the enticements surrounding him, I understand, I really do. But Brian, stay well away from the girls. You need a woman."

The red pen escaped from his sweaty hand, skittered across the desk and clattered to the floor. He couldn't look away from the sight as Mrs. Brunswick's breasts emerged, cupped by a lacy, too-flimsy-to-be-practical bra. It was a bra he could see through. It was a piece of women's lingerie that whispered of secrets in the dark, not administration of the school. It was a bra that begged to be unfastened by fingers that may have trembled just a little bit.

Wasn't she chilly, doing that? Her nipples were hard, raising enticing bumps against the sheer fabric. Brian's cock, already woken by the context of the conversation and the reminders of his lustful fantasies, uncoiled and twitched against his will. He could see her nipples through the bra, dark pink circles, perfect targets for a mouth. Mrs. Brunswick's nipples. He could feel himself harden further, just as susceptible to arousal as the boys in his classes. "But maybe it's not the teenaged girls," she was saying, as her fingertips left her throat, and drifted down to the sweet swell of her breast, lingering over a nipple. ".that you have to watch out for. They just gush and dream, and their flirtations are clumsy and obvious for the most part. They linger too long, hang around your home room. They just happen to be where you are, stalking you through the halls. Surely you've noticed?"

Mrs. Brunswick stayed perched on the desk, the long fingers that had caressed her scarf now touching the blouse, the blouse she'd unbuttoned to show the lace of her bra. She seemed to be longing to touch. Brian couldn't help but notice that Juliana had a good-looking pair of breasts. It was difficult not to notice, with the scarf off, jacket open, and blouse unbuttoned.

He was halfway to hard, but also halfway to bolting out the door and into the snow.

Even after two years teaching, Brian wasn't quite used to thinking of the principal as anything but an authority figure, someone to be deferred to, though most kids these days didn't respect any adult. And it still felt like he was new to this grown-up stuff, himself. It was only five years ago, after all, that it was Brian sitting on the other side of the desk in the classroom. A quiet kid, saved from being a nerd by his natural gift for sport. Girls, on the other hand, eluded—or evaded—him. They remained mysterious. By the time he acquired his first girlfriend, it was someone much like him: fond of books and not prone to unruliness, there was barely time to lose their virginity and part ways, bound for universities on different sides of the country. And at university, Brian had buckled down and bucked most of the partying, knowing that his scholarships depended on his grades, his grade depended on working hard, and the rest of his expenses depended on working. Staying in school meant working, not only on the books, but in the book store. He scored well in university, but not so much with the girls.

But he did all right. He was, as Juliana had pointed out, a reasonably good-looking young man. And now, in the insular world of a small high school, he'd taken on an aura he'd never achieved otherwise. It was heady. And the principal was right: he'd been tempted.

Juliana shifted on his desk, and her skirt slid higher. She tugged the blouse from the waistband, and toyed with the front clasp of her bra. Brian couldn't look away. She raised her skirt as if checking for runs in her hose. She was wearing thigh-high black stockings with a wide band of lace at the top.

Then she was off the desk and leaning into him. She turned his chair around, with a protesting squeak as it swivelled, so that he faced her. A smile played on her lips. She stroked his thigh as if appraising him. She eyed the bulge in his trousers, and her hand moved ever upward with each caress. Brian said nothing as her exploration continued. Then she was touching him right there, where his erection poked against his trousers, making him groan. As she bent forward to touch his crotch, his hard-on was impossible to deny, not with her fingers in a vee, moving up and down it. Brian swallowed. All he knew was the sight of her breasts in the scant brassiere and the touch of her hand on his erection.

All he knew was desire. He leaned forward, and his lips brushed exposed skin of her dcolletage, and found the swell of her breast. Juliana unbuckled his belt without hesitation, and unfastened his trousers. The sound of his zipper descending was clearly audible, and he inhaled sharply as she expertly pulled out his penis, now stiff. Hands that typed officious memos and school policy now stroked his silky, taut skin, the ball of her thumb sliding over the swollen head of his cock.

She sank down in front of him, and popped the brassiere open, exposing the glory of her breasts. They were fine: heavy, full, not yet fallen with age. Her nipples, which had teased him when veiled by the sheer bra, now stood out proudly. Her breasts were a good size, and while they didn't sit as high, round, and perky as the oft-imagined (and with some of the tops she wore, there wasn't much left to imagine) Melissa Whitmore's, they were full and inviting. She shrugged her black jacket off, and placed it on Brian's desk blotter. She took hold of his cock again, and bent to him.

Mrs. Brunswick's mouth slid lightly over his erection, her touch making him groan with desire. Then she took him into her mouth, hot and tight, moving up and down, relentless and slow. She squeezed his cock at the base, until the swollen head seeped with need. Then her tongue lashed over and around the crown, and lingered to tease him in that spot, that one spot on the underside... Brian groaned. How did she know about that spot? She circled around and around until he thought he would explode, then slowly moved down, taking more of him into her mouth than he ever imagined would fit. She sucked his cock nothing like a school principal, taking her time, teasing him. She tasted him, tugging open his shorts, finding his balls, Jesus, finding them with her tongue. She sucked until he was begging for release.

"Please," he whimpered.

She wouldn't let him come. She grasped his cock, laughing, as he sat there, sprawled out on his chair, harder than he'd ever been in a midnight fantasy, throbbing and helpless. He was ragingly tumescent. Juliana's hair had come loose, and she looked... young. Pretty. Her face was flushed again, and her lips swollen. Maybe he should kiss her. Did she want to be kissed? He could do that. He wouldn't mind.

Before he could, her mouth went down on his cock again, and Brian groaned. He watched, in the unforgiving fluorescent lights overhead, the skin of his cock, taut and glistening against the soft warmth of his principal's lips, emerging and disappearing. She was fucking him with her mouth.

Juliana finally eased off his prick, and stood. She was breathing hard, and her eyes had a glitter to them that brooked no refusal. Her breasts, with generous nipples, were too tempting for Brian. He pulled the principal onto his lap with a low growl, his face against the soft flesh. When he sucked at the hard nubs of her erect nipples, Juliana moaned. He sucked, the principal arching her back, her fingers in his hair, guiding him to one, then the other. Brian sucked harder, and her hand wiggled into his lap again, slowly jacking his cock. He wasn't thinking about Melissa Whitmore at all.

He stroked Juliana's back, met her skirt at the waistband, and went over it to cup the globes of her ass. His mouth came off one nipple with an audible pop. "You're not wearing any panties," Brian said, shocked.

The principal chuckled, a low, throaty sound that he found he liked, and Juliana wriggled on him. She straddled him, and he could feel her pussy against his cock. She was wet. And as he sucked, teasing her as she'd done to him, he could feel her getting wetter. He sucked until she began to thrash, grinding her hips against him.

Juliana, with athletic grace, moved up over his prick. She parted her thighs and stroked his cock with the swollen lips of her pussy. There was heat and slippery wetness, inviting him. He had her hips, and tried to get his cock into her, but she evaded him. The skirt bunched in his fist, he pulled her to him. She rose, and the chair rolled a few precarious inches, coming to a halt against the chalkboard. Brian cried out, the principal gasped, then laughed, giddy. He steadied her, still kneeling over him. It didn't seem real: Juliana, wet, her bra dangling open like a parted curtain. Juliana, with a thatch of dark pubic hair that was both primal and exciting. She had a lush bush, and Brian was slightly surprised by it. He thought of all women as being neatly trimmed and edged, as formal and tamed as hedges in an English garden. Not his principal. She had a wild tangle of damp curls, with a hint of musk that sent a shock through his body, from his nose as he bent, unable to help himself, and inhaled, the scent in his nose shooting down to make his cock twitch again, iron hard.

He wanted to taste, but before he could bend deeper and taste the swollen folds of her sex, she was off the chair and leaning over Brian's desk, pushing papers, his planner, his coffee mug aside, and raising her ass to him.

He never imagined this: she was bent over his desk, scattering English compositions and yellow pencils. A sheet of paper fluttered to the floor, and both ignored it. Her ass was delectable: full, round buttocks, pale, framed by the stocking bands on her thighs and the black skirt, rudely shoved up to her waist. It looked like a gift coming out of tissue paper. He caught the scent of her excitement, and grunted. His cock twitched, throbbing. Juliana parted her thighs wider, and over her shoulder, hissed an urgent command: "fuck me."

Brian was more than willing to comply.

He pushed his trousers down, his cock rampantly erect, teased without mercy, aching to bury it someplace warm and tight. He clasped it, squeezed, and guided his prick to her moist folds. She made a sound when he touched the swollen head to her lips. He took a moment, using his prick to open her up, sliding up and down her sex, slick heat greeting him. Then he pushed inside the principal with a grunt of pleasure, and grabbed her hips. He thrust in, slowly, savouring every inch of contact. In a moment, Brian was buried inside her up to his balls.

Fucking was easy. He stood at his desk, feet apart, the principal raising her ass up, clutching the edges of his desk. She wriggled and pushed back at him as his cock moved in and out of her. She began to make soft sounds, distress or enjoyment. He figured it was the latter. Brian began to stroke the principal harder.

He looked up and saw them again, two figures at the front of the classroom. This was a lesson he'd never planned on learning. He groaned, and thrust even faster. There was no going back now.

Orgasm came quickly. In just a few moments, the pleasure was unbearable and he could feel it building. Beneath him, she thrust back, mewling. He could feel it when she came: she pushed back at him, keeping him buried inside her, and cried out, shuddering. He'd made Juliana Brunswick come. He'd fucked her.

Brian exploded.

He stood there, still inside her, heart pounding, his grateful cock still twitching.

Then she moved impatiently, and he stepped away, still hard as he pulled out of her. Brian stumbled against the chair, knocking it a foot to the right. He felt behind him, found the chair again and collapsed into it. The ordinary smell of the classroom: chalk, pencil shavings, orange peel, the lingering pine of disinfectant was eclipsed by unmistakable aroma of sex. He closed his eyes.

"Ah, much better," Mrs. Brunswick said. The bra was fastened again. She was straightening her skirt, and the blouse buttoned up beneath her nimble fingers, her skin disappearing under the pristine white. The generous flesh he'd explored was hidden by the stark black and white clothes, reminiscent of a memo to the staff in black print and white paper, or of an exam he'd failed.

Or passed. "I hope we can do this again soon," she said. "Now, don't stay too late. All work and no play."

She picked up the scarf from the floor where it had fallen, brushed off the desk in the midst of their frantic coupling.

"I will be keeping a close eye on your career. You can always come—" with an ever-so-slight pause, "to me, you know. The principal's door should always be open to those in need. Don't be afraid to ask for... guidance, when you think you want it."

Then she was leaving, her heels tap-tap-tapping away, fading down the hall to the principal's office. Brian sat there a while, watching the snow falling outside, idly stacking the essays he'd never finished marking. Life was full of lessons. And surprises.

© 2009 Savannah. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Savannah Stephens Smith likes to type. By day, she crafts business letters in a mundane office environment, but at night she likes to make her paragraphs do more interesting things. She's Canadian, currently dark brunette, curious and curvaceous. She has a degree in Anthropology, a dog, and a husband, so she is also quite content.

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Twisted Faith

Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Menage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

by Angela Caperton

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

Unjust Rewards
by Delores Swallows

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

by Sybil Rush

by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz