



Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. "I'm going to hell, aren't I?" [Mf, nc, blackmail, solo, hs, nosex, caution] + + + Erotic fiction + + + Mark looked down into his "D.A.R.E." mug and watched the creamer swirling into the coffee and wondered how it had happened. How had he become a rapist? A child abuser? The lowest form of sex criminal there was? Maybe the lowest form of all criminals? The lowest form of life? He had become a teacher to help kids. He'd never had any children of his own, and as he got older he started to realize that maybe this had been a big mistake. It seemed like there was a hole in his life; like he had something to give, but there was no one who needed it, or wanted it. It wasn't a woman/companion he was missing. He'd gotten divorced almost 8 years ago, and good riddance. He'd dated occasionally at first after the divorece, but it all seemed like more work than the reward of companionship and/or sex justified. He'd slowly drifted into a permanent bachelorhood, becoming close to a recluse, only socializing during holidays, or the occasional big sporting event. And even then it was with people he'd known for years. No new faces, no anxiety over being embarrassed in front of someone he didn't know. For sex he had the occasional trip to a strip club (followed by masturbation), and lots and lots of on-line porn (to accompany his masturbation). He was happy enough with that. But that hole seemed to deepen and darken over time, and he found himself looking into becoming a teacher. The shortage of teachers in the state meant that people with non-education degrees were being recruited to teach technical subjects in high schools. A six-month program, a few months of being a teacher's aid, and suddenly Mark found himself with his own classroom and classes. On the whole he was happy with the decision to start teaching. The majority of kids were good at heart, if a regular pain in the ass. But that's just how kids are. Maybe he was a little more indulgent of the girls than the boys, but that's hardly abnormal. Mothers dote on sons; fathers on daughters. He had no daughters, but he had his students. Boys needed rules and discipline, girls needed advice and hugs. Not that he *could* hug any students. Completely verboten, that, or any other physical contact, with any student, boy or girl. Also he couldn't curse, or threaten physical violence, etc. The students did all that to each other, with vigor, but they were too delicate to withstand such things from a teacher. Whatever. He did what he could to constrain the bullies--at least within his classroom--and he lent a sympathetic ear to those who wanted one. And he wished more would confide in him so he could try to explain to them what an unnatural environment high school was. How everything was weirdly distorted, and the wrong things were important, and how it would all change once they hit the real world. He wanted to hug those poor girls who were convinced that they were unattractive and tell them how beautiful they really were. Tell them to stop submitting to the all the bullshit they endured from their boyfriends, and from the other, supposedly prettier, girls. He felt like what he really wanted to do was be like a father to so many of them. What had happened? How had that become twisted into abuse and rape? It was the porn, of course. No, no, the porn didn't twist him or his feelings. It wasn't the porn that led him down the path from concern to love, nor did it force him to make the wrong turn from love into sex. No, what the porn did was hand him the opportunity. + + + To call it homemade porn wasn't entirely correct. Some kids did it to engage the interest of a single person, and then that person betrayed their trust. Some kids were just confused and lost in the land of sexuality, with hormones raging through their bodies and mixed messages clobbering their brains. Visually, prime-time television walked the line just this side of soft-core pornography, and music videos sold sex more than they did the music. But meanwhile the words, the commentaries, the headlines, made sex scandalous and dirty. Sex was apparently the point and cornerstone of marriage, and therefore fags couldn't get married, and an affair was the worst possible crime a spouse could commit. Wives defend and protect the husbands who beat them, but they'll attack with a knife a husband who has sex with another woman. Some of them were called "cam whores" and probably were--they sold themselves through sex the same way that advertisers sold music, cars and potato chips with sex. Others were just competing, or joining in, or showing off. Within that twisted world of high school (and middle school, dear Lord!) nudity in front of a camera was common and casual. And the competition drove things along until masturbation was as ubiquitous. Mark found himself caught up in this wave of webcam-porn. He had started just looking for younger and younger performers in his porn. Human brains are wired to find youth attractive. Young mates are more likely to be healthy and/or successful. And American culture reinforces this "to be pretty, you must be young" prejudice to the point of insanity. Or, at least it seemed to drive Mark insane. Because his quest for ever younger performers eventually led to him hoarding the little movies clips of webcam porn. At first it was a mix of various ages of women. Or various ages of "females", rather, as some of them were women, but others were still on the "girl" side of things. Not children, though. Not child porn. Mark found and adopted the rationalizing term of "jailbait". Young women, too young in the eyes of the law, but old enough as far as biology was concerned. Or, at least, as far as the physical indicators of puberty were concerned. The minds and personalities of these jailbait girls? Unimportant. It shouldn't have been to Mark. He knew better. He dealt with "jailbait" kids in his classroom every day, and knew they weren't adults, or young adults, or pre-adults, or whatever silly term you may want to use. They were kids. In another time, in another culture, folks the age of his students probably would be adults. Holding down jobs, starting families, taking on real responsibilities. But in the extended adolescence of the U.S., they were a bunch of kids playing at grown up games. But as he watched the videos at night, hunched forward a little as if that would help improve the poor resolution and choppy frame rates, he saw them as little... women. They knew what they were doing. They had volunteered to be his whack fantasy. They wanted him to be fapping away in a darkened room, a couple of paper towels laid out to clean up the mess. And then, one night, while sorting through his daily catch of downloads, he found Sarah. Sarah was in his third period class. She sat in the fourth seat of the middle row. She did her homework, got Bs on tests, and spent a little too much time and energy socializing with the kids sitting near her in class. He sat back and watched as she took a hairbrush and rubbed hair conditioner on the rounded handle of it. Sarah? She always wore shirts that went all the way up to her neck. She'd never worn a skirt cut any higher than her knees. Yet there she was climbing onto her knees, turning around and bending over to stick her ass in the camera. Had she ever even cursed? Said, "fuck" or "shit"? She drew little hearts to dot her "i"s in the notes he'd confiscated. That cute little scribe reached back to adjust the camera, and smiled directly into it. Showing a hint of her braces, before her bare vulva became centered in the screen. Thin, bright red minor labia wrinkled along the edges of her tiny vagina, which was damp. With excitement? Mark's penis throbbed. It was so stiff and erect that it had started bobbing to the increasing beat of his heart. As he leaned forward again, he stroked it gently. He forgot the Sarah he thought he knew. As the hairbrush came into view, and was played up and down the narrow, virginal vagina, he glanced at her puckering anus. Pink, too, it seemed too small to pass anything bigger than a Tic-Tac. But as he stroked his penis harder, he wondered if maybe she would slide the hairbrush into there, too. + + + After he had cleaned up the mess, he watched the video again, more dispassionately. He penis still went hard, but in a less insistent manner. More of an acknowledging salute, then any kind of preparation for the hard work of firing his genes into the future. Holy crap, that really was Sarah! God, now what? He should delete this. Delete this file, empty the trash, and then defrag and compact his harddrive. Of course, he should delete *all* of this crap. Anything that could be even vaguely construed to involve anyone under the age of 20. Or 25. Better yet, 30. Mark deleted her video. And the whole day's catch. And then the whole directory of "CamPr0n" as he had named it. But he didn't empty the trash. He didn't do anything else. He turned off the monitor and went to bed. + + + He didn't have a first-period class, since he didn't have the credentials to be a home-room teacher. As the clock crept toward the end of first period he felt nauseous, and realized that he had already had four cups of the coffee he made with a Keurig in the combination supply closet and cramped office behind the blackboards. He tossed out the last of what was in his "D.A.R.E." coffee mug, and went down the hall to fill it with cold water from the drinking fountain. The bell rang just as he finished topping it up, and he had to patiently weave his way through the chaos in the halls to get back to his classroom. The immersion in the screaming students in the halls was like a dunk in an ice cold bath of water. He suddenly felt snapped back into reality. This was all familiar again, and he rolled through the second period class like the previous night had never happened. He was actually starting into the lecture for the third period class when he heard someone behind him sibilantly gossiping away. He turned around to verbally chastise whoever it was and found himself staring at Sarah. She was almost completely turned around in her seat, talking with the girl behind her. His brain locked up. This was it. The moment where shadowy, guilty fantasy met glaring bright reality. He said nothing. His mouth was parted, starting in on some sarcastically polite request, but it was stuck in place without making a sound. The students, other than Sarah, froze. Either from a sense of guilt, or from an anticipation of seeing someone else get in trouble. It took a few seconds for Sarah to notice the change in her classmates. She looked backed over her shoulder at Mark and smiled. Her braces showing a little. She probably said "Sorry, Mr. Mark" or something like it, but he didn't hear. Inside his head he was screaming, "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! I'm going to prison! I'm going to hell! I deserve hell! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Please don't get hard! Penis--NO!" Happily, his penis was reacting only to his fear and was trying to slide up inside him and pretend it was just a piece of misplaced intestine. The lump in the back of his throat was probably his balls. He reached out and picked up his "D.A.R.E." mug and took a sip of water. He turned back to the board before saying, "Please, save it for after class, okay?" He was squeezing his eyes shut and fighting to unclench his teeth as he said it. He must have sounded apoplectic to the students, because at the end of class Sarah came up to his desk and said, "I'm soooooo sorry, Mr. Mark." Her brow was bunched up and wrinkled from concern that she had really pissed him off. "I promise I won't do it again." Mark maintained the blankest face he could. "It's okay, Sarah," he said, "it wasn't... I had other things on my mind, don't worry about it." His heart melted at the look on her face. Such a wonderful girl, so concerned about his apparent anger. "Thanks," she said, and started walking out of the room. Mark turned his head to watch her go, his heart reaching out to quietly hug her. And then his eyes drifted down and he could see the panty lines through her unusually tight pants. And then his penis reached out to her.... He would have banged his head on the desk, but the kids from the next period were already filtering in, so he got up and went through the door on the far side of the blackboards and made himself a cup of decaf. "Shaddup," he called through the door as the coffee brewed. * * * That night, Mark didn't even turn on the monitor of his computer. He thought about turning it on just to shutdown the computer (bittorrents be damned) but decided to just avoid the thing all together. He watched TV for as long as he could stomach it, then when to bed early on an empty stomach. He was still a little nauseous and had skipped dinner. Besides, the sleeping pill he took would hit that much harder on an empty stomach. He didn't sleep well, but he slept. + + + He managed to ignore Sarah the next day, and then it was the weekend. He spent Saturday reading a book, doing the dishes and some other odds and ends. He vegetated in front of the TV for a while, then got on the computer to check the TV listings. He ended up spending the rest of the day on the computer. No porn though. Just killing time lurking on "community" websites, and playing various puzzle games. He never spoke to another human being the whole day. The only people he interacted with on Sunday were the workers at the grocery store, and the old guys at the hardware store. He did some minor repair around the house (condo, in fact), was yet again disappointed by TV, and was back at the computer. He watched a couple of recent-release movies that he'd bittorrented. He went to trim his beard before he went to bed and spent a while scratching at it, looking at the grey hairs that were becoming more and more prevalent along the line of his jaw. "Turning into a goddamn silver-back," he muttered, as he turned on the hot water to shave his neck. He took two sleeping pills, though better of it, and took a third. He went to bed without masturbating. He hadn't fapped since he had ejaculated watching Sarah plunge a hairbrush in and out of her thinly-lipped, reddish-pink vagina. + + + The fog in his brain from the sleeping pills didn't really clear until after lunch. He skipped out of school after his last class in sixth period, ignoring the grading and paperwork he should have been working on. He drove to the YMCA telling himself that he's swim some laps, but he never got out of his car. He sat in the parking lot, and found himself longing for a cigarette, and decided to go buy a pack, after six years of not smoking. But once the car was moving, he found it easier to just head home. And so he found himself home, hours earlier than usual, with nothing much he felt like doing. He got on his computer and bopped through a few "favorite" websites, not reading much. He tried some websites that were collections of purportedly-amusing images, and from there found himself looking at pictures of sexy celebrities and models. That led him into soft-core porn, and then hard-core porn, and as he was waiting for some promised "Hot Hottie Brunette teen Lovs In Up ASS!" to download, he dove into the collection of porn videos he already had on his system. The promised hot brunette teen was, of course, a 40-something Filipino who lightly rubbed her anus before spending 15 minutes bouncing up and down on some soft, ugly, hairy guy's dick. But Mark didn't care by that point, he was into some of his favorite videos. The little core collection that builds up slowly over the years of any serious porn surfer. There were some general themes among the videos, but nothing universal. They excited him for different reasons, and to different extents, depending on his mood. Tonight, nothing seemed to do it though. Mark had laid out his paper towels. He had started soft and slow with his stroking. Switched hands. Switched angles. Tried a revered wrist, but his triceps weren't up to the task (if only he swam more often). Full screen. Sound on, sound off. If it's possible to get blue balls from porn, Mark was getting close. He knew it was there. He'd always known at the back of his mind. He opened up the trashcan folder and undeleted it. The "CamPr0n" folder. He started watching those. He went from masturbating to really abusing himself. Like he was trying to beat the semen out of him. Harder, faster, and even harder, and even faster. Nothing. NOTHING! Mark was dripping with sweat when he opened up the trashcan folder again. He undeleted the Sarah video. He slumped back in his chair as it started playing. He penis flopped to the side, mostly deflated in disappointment. It was like a punch-drunk fighter, leaning against the ropes for support, dazed, unconfident. 'What went wrong, boss?' it seemed to ask. But then there she was. The look, the smile. The tease and the plunge. He penis rallied. As he stroked it, it became alert, it was ready to charge into the breach, just one more time. For you, my liege! For England! Mark leaned in again, switching briefly to his left hand for the stroking, he used his right for the mouse and turned on the video's sound. "You like that baby?" she said. Or something like that. It was meaningless babel. It wasn't even sexy. It was more like she was repeating things she didn't really understand but had heard were what you were supposed to say. But it was her voice. Most definitely Sarah's voice. He leaned back into the chair, and thought he could hear her voice saying, "I'm soooooo sorry, Mr. Mark.... I promise I won't do it again." His head rolled back as he closed his eyes and saw her face, so beautiful, with the little wrinkles in the middle of her forehead as she worried that she hadn't pleased him. "I promise I won't disappoint you," he imagined her saying, his memory threw in the refrain, "I promise...." Leaned back like that, he had his penis aimed for a high trajectory, and as he ejaculated so hard that his whole body snapped into ridgidity, the chair creaked in protest, and his semen shot out like a wad of half-congealed glue, up high enough, and traveling far ehough, to clear even the keyboard and land squarely on the phone bill laying there on the desk waiting to be paid. That was just the first round, but the subsequent ones didn't have the mass to carry as far, and rained down on his legs and arms and, as he slumped back and stopped stroking, dribbled onto his stomach. Mark was woozy. His brain seemed starved for blood, and he felt close to passing out. Or at least dropping into a little nap. He normally only felt like that after long, long athletic sex with a woman who knew what she was doing. "Holy crap," he said, blinking his eyes, and trying to get his head to stay upright on his neck. He started wiping all the semen off of his body, and the chair, and wasn't that some on the floor? He tossed the paper towels in the general direction of the waste basket and pulled the chair closer to the desk. The video was still playing, but Sarah had pulled a bed sheet up over her nakedness and was making little screechy exclamations in response to something she was reading in the chat log. He turned off the sound. It was better with the sound off. She didn't seem quite so.... young, when you couldn't what she was actually saying. "I promise," he preferred to hear, "I promise." He decided to make a special folder for this video, and was contemplating a name for it as he moved his keyboard a little and noticed the phone bill. And the widening pool of semen that was taking it over, like a monstrous jelly-fish eating its prey. "Fuck" he said, impressed with himself, as he carefully lifted up the bill, so as not to spill anything. The spoo seemed to add a notable heft to the bill. This meant something. The amount of his ejaculate, and the force with which his body and launched it on its mission was beyond anything he'd achieved (by himself) in years. Maybe decades. Was it love? Was it some kind of highly purified lust? It was pure... something. It was something he couldn't name or describe, but it was the exact opposite of the pitch-black darkness in that hole inside him. This didn't fill the hole--it reacted with it. It popped and fizzed and put out a blinding light that burned away shadows in all directions. Mark studied the dome of semen on the phone bill and wondered if there was any way to preserve it. To show it off. To be able to experience it again, later? It wasn't the semen he wanted to experience, of course. It was the act of ejaculating it. Mark shook his head and laughed at himself and rolled the chair over to the wastebasket and tossed in the phone bill. They'd send him another bill next month, anyway. Besides, his mind was full of more important things. + + + He smiled a little too much at Sarah the next day. She didn't really notice, because she mostly paid little or no attention to him (he was, after all, a teacher). When class was over and she was leaving she glanced at him and caught the leering curl of his lip, and stopped to say, "Uh?" Which is teen-speak for "Oh, did you want to speak with me?" Mark just shook his head and looked away. That night, he masturbated to Sarah again, but, while it was good, it wasn't the as good as the night before. If there was just... just something a little more. Some kind of connection, something that showed she wanted *him* to be the guy jacking off. A connection between them. A two-way connection. The next night he had to work late to finally catch up on his grading and paperwork, and, by the time he finished eating, the bed was calling his name stronger than the computer was. (That this was even possible probably said more about his age then his greying whiskers.) Over the nights to come, the video would become, unfortunately, all too familiar. He would unintentionally memorize it, and knowing exactly what move, what motion or frame stumble was to come next made the video seem robotic, almost unreal. As an added horror his brain dredged up the audio that he thought he hadn't heard, and now he knew what she was saying, and how... incorrect it was. "Incorrect" in that it didn't fit into his fantasy. He started having the same reaction to Sarah at school. She would make a joke about a fart and he would wince. No, *his* Sarah doesn't joke about that kind of thing. She'd whine about something and he'd struggle not to scold her for acting like a child. Despite that fact that she was, of course, a child. Her mistakes on homework or unanswered questions on tests seemed like a personal insult. Here he was, dying inside from wanting her so much, and she obviously couldn't care less about his class or, by extension, him. And as she continued to fail to match up with any of his fantasy-fueld expectations, he started to hate her, just a little bit. + + + He'd taken a break from Sarah's video. He'd put it aside, realizing that he was wearing it out. He started casting his daily nets again, trawling in piles of webcam videos and sorting through them. Compare the duplicates to see if one is a better quality of video, or has more (good) content, or less watermarking. Toss the ancient hags posing as teens (where "ancient hag" is any woman over 22). Shred the ones that gave up the "jailbait" pretense entirely and showed pudgy little girls half obscured by the hairy bellies of their fathers, who took these over-exposed videos of them pressing their dicks up against their (step?) daughter's anus. His collection of keepers started to swell and he sorted them into categories. Baits, Anal, DogLovers, BFF, BJs, etc. And he found himself preferring the videos of humiliation. Hairbrushes were common, but a hammer? That was a girl with a self-respect so low that she would happily demean herself for a few more smilies in chat. The girl who stuck a Sharpee in her vagina, sucked it, then into her anus and back to her mouth? Wow. What was her home life like that she would do that casually for an audience? She either didn't get enough hugs, or a few too many that lasted way too long. Girls who where obviously being pressured into their performances were even better, he decided. "This is just for you," they'd stammer at the camera, "Remember. You promised." And after stripping and sticking the camera half-way up their wazoo they'd flop onto their unmade beds, hug a stuffed animal and whine, "I love you." No wonder the recipient recorded the show and dropped the video into gaping maw of the Internet. Was that not the next logical step in a relationship built on her grinding her face in shit to prove her devotion? Only after completely humiliating her would her "lover" finally grow bored and dump her. (But, then she'd do the pleading, always-entertaining, 'What you're missing' video!) But after Christmas break, when Sarah had already missed the first two days of the new semester because her family's ski trip had run long, and when it was becoming harder and harder for Mark to decide if he had seen a given fingers-in-the-pooper clip before, he opened up her video again. As she repositioned the camera and assumed what Mark now thought of as "The Position," he couldn't stop focusing on her anus. It quivered as she laughed at the weirdness and stupidity of this thing called sex. It was stretched downward in sympathy as she pushed the hairbrush into her vagina passed the point of lubrication. And maybe it winked at him, once or twice. What would be completely awesome, he decided, was if she pushed that hairbrush into her ass. Slowly and deliberately, massaging it in and out of her anus, the sphincter pulling outward with the retreating shaft, as if to say, "Please, no, don't go!" And perhaps the sound of Sarah whimpering and moaning? Mark closed his eyes and leaned forward so that his ear rubbed up against the side of the humming monitor. Hunched around the top of the desktop, he occasionally banged his fist into the underside of it, making the keyboard rattle and the monitor sway. "Anything for you," he heard Sarah saying, "All I want is to make you happy." And she meant it. Under the desk was not a good place to keep his PC, he decided, one new video card later. + + + Careful planning was the key, he decided. He was risking some serious pain, hell, he was risking everything he had for this. Luckily, Mark had looked at his life and decided that it really wasn't much to lose. Had he been prone to suicide, he'd probably have blown his brains all over the bathroom years ago. But, no, he had plugged along, with noble thoughts of teaching tomorrow's leaders, and with a growing distaste for quick and easy meals that he ate for three days because they were intended to feed a family of four. A pocket-sized gadget that would play videos was relatively cheap and he picked one up at Best Buy on the way home from the school one day. Unfortunately, he managed to buy one that wouldn't play the format of file that Sarah's video was in, but some digging around online found an application that would convert her video to something playable on the PSG. The image quality suffered quite a bit in the conversion, but it was good enough to be able to see that it was most definitely Sarah with that hairbrush up her twat. More confusing was figuring out all the webcam chat-rooms, and how to capture videos. Obviously it was to the advantage of the sites that hosted the chats to pretend that video capturing didn't happen. And they did tweak the technology enough to make how to do so non-obvious. But there was always someone out there willing to spend the time to develop what you needed to achieve whatever nefarious end you had in mind. In theory, you would then have to pay, but people Up To No Good are notoriously untrustworthy customers, and so with patience and persistence, you can eventually get the software you need with no strings attached. Not that Mark would have minded spending the money to achieve his ends--he'd bought the PSG without much thought about the price--but he didn't want his credit card attached to the purchase of software that had few, if any, ethical uses. And he wanted to avoid going too far down the rabbit hole that is layered, online anonymity--the last thing he needed was to be rubbing electronic elbows with pedophiles, well *professional* pedophiles, and hackers. Though, he hit a wall with setting up an account on the video chat site he'd chosen. They were, apparently, under an indictment for something or other and suddenly you had to verify your identity. Which was the last thing Mark wanted to do. After a brief flight of fancy about slowing down and taking the time to create an entire throw-away identity, with credit cards and all, he came to his sense and just signed up at a different website. He also created an account for Sarah (naming her Peach Melba) and set up all the trusts and privates and alerts and what have you so that Peach and Paul would seem to be the most passionate of lovers. Cruelly separated by hundreds of miles, but brought back together through the wonders of the Internet. + + + Everything was ready, but Mark was consumed with fear. He had too much of an imagination, and could see in his mind all the ways he would get caught and punished. Of course, it was this energetic imagination that let him empathize with people so easily. And that empathy was one of the things that led him to eventually become a teacher. He was, in general, someone who really did care about other people. And yet, here he was, poised to rape a teenage girl. One of his very students. Did he really hate her that much? As his kids worked on the pop quiz he had thrown at them because he'd spent his previous night planning his crime, instead of working on his teaching plan, he looked down on Sarah. She was hunched over her desk like most of the other students, petrified more by the idea of a pop quiz than any actual consequences that may come from it. Yes, she was jsut like all the other kids. She wasn't remarkable in any particular way. Did he loath her? Did he really hate her enough to go through with his plans? And he found himself wondering about how would his crime affect her. It was, technically, rape. But not *really*. It was just a little private show. He wouldn't even touch her. He'd be miles away, his end of the webcam chat actually a video stream of some random kid playing with his dick. The school year was half over, and he'd probably bump her grades just to avoid any reason for her parents to come calling. Summer would come, he would fade from her memory. By the next year she'd probably have a new hairstyle, a new wardrobe, and another year worth of puberty on her bones. By then he'd probably have trouble picking her out from the mob in the hallway between classes. But still. He wasn't sure. He ran his eyes over all the kids, to hide his interest in only one, but that one still held his thoughts. Except that, instead of the real Sarah, the video Sarah kept bleeding in. He looked down at the scribbled lecture notes he'd made during the pop quiz in his first class. He couldn't shake the idea of her. Of the Sarah that only want to please him. "I promise." What else did he have in his life, anyway? "I promise." If he didn't do this... what would he do? "I promise." Start planning his suicide instead? "I promise." What a completely worthless piece of shit he was. This, this was what he'd become. He glanced up to see Sarah cheating off her neighbor. "Sarah?" he said, quizzically. The reality of Sarah cheating was unimaginable beyond even his most lecherous of fantasies. Her head snapped up and she met his stare with a burning glare. Her brow was knit, but not in any kind of adorable worry. She was angry. "What?" she said, "I didn't do anything." She put her head back down to stare at her paper, trying to pretend that she wasn't halfway out of her seat. Her body language was like that of a cat that had just run full tilt into a closed sliding-glass door. "This is completely normal," it said, "Nothing to see here." Oh, really, now? "Sarah," he said sternly, no hint of a question in it. She glared at him, hunching defensively. "See me after class." She turned back to her quiz, but deflated a little, sliding over into the middle of the seat. Mark slipped his hand into his pocket and rubbed his thumb across the PSG. It had her video on it. After class Mark waved for Sarah to follow him into the small room behind the blackboards. He sat down in the old wooden office chair and it shrieked with complaint as he leaned back. Sarah slumped against the door frame. The light in the room was dim and drowned out by the sunlight coming through the windows out in the classroom. Mark unconsciously struck a pose, his eyes closed, an elbow on the little wall-mounted bench-top that acted as a desk, with his fingers gently pinching the bridge of his nose. "Cheating?" he said, "You?" "I wasn't cheating," she said, more of a plea than a statement. He was moving his hand away from his face as she spoke, and so he paused, with his hand frozen in mid-air, playing shocked and appalled for an imaginary TV camera. "Lying, too?" he said. So dramatic, but Sarah was just confused. "Huh?" she said, frowning and bouncing a little to accentuate her pathetic slump against the doorjamb. Mark sighed. He was reading from a different script than anyone else around him, it seemed. Again. And forever. Screw it. "You were cheating off of Marcy." "No, I wasn't," she said, shaking her head, knotting the ol' brow for emphasis. "Give it up," he said, "I know you were cheating and I'm more curious than anything else. I would never expect you to cheat. And cheat so... flagrantly." Sarah leaned away from the door and straightened up a little. Her shoulders were still sunken, but she squared them to her accuser. "It your fault" she said, staring just under his chin. Mark paused, baffled. "My fault?" "You knew," she said, and she looked him in the eye, "You knew I just got back from Vail." Her head moved forward, her chin too small to jut, but it still aimed itself at his chest, as she said, "There's no way I couldn't not fail. I didn't even know what the homework *was*. Of course I didn't read it." Her hand came up, half inside the arm of her sweater, just a curl of fingers really, and she aimed it at him like a lttle gun, "You did it on purpose just to fuck with me." Mark was... aghast? The girl was livid, her body language was nothing but threats, and she was slowly leaning forward, as if she could loom over Mark as he sat. And then there was the foul language. "You can't handle that I went to Vail and you were stuck in this shit-hole for Christmas," she added, starting to sneer, "Fuck you; you asshole." Slowly Mark stood up from his chair. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was still a head taller than most teenage girls. As he looked down at her, her hand slowly retreated back toward her chest, and the preciously-pink, down-filled vest she was wearing. As she turned her head to break away from his gaze, her hand dropped away, flipping around the lift ticket still attached to the zipper of the vest. This little bitch was throwing money in his face. Money? She went to Vail, and he was supposed to be so enraged with jealously that he had tossed out a quiz just to mess with her? She thought he was some kind of impoverished servant? Only putting up with all this bullshit because he needed the money? And, she presumed that she was so important, that his entire teaching plan would spin on the need to screw her over? Fuck with her? She has no idea. The noise from the filling classroom was growing deafening and the last thing Mark needed was an audience, anyway. His frown deepened and his teeth clench as he tossed his chin toward the door. "Close it," he hlaf-growled. She did, and took the chance to step away from him, not that there was much room to maneuver in there. He pulled the PSG out of his pocket and fiddled with it. His growing rage was screwing up his ability to think straight, and to operate the little goddamn piece of Chinese bullshit. He turned away from her and jerked the device up close to his face as he stabbed at it. And, then, there is was. In color, no less. He smiled and took a deep breath. He didn't even look in her general direction as he motioned her closer. "Look at this," he said, and turned the screen to her face. "Recognize anyone?" Her brow didn't knot. Her face stayed blank and calm, like the water of a frigid lake on a clear, windless morning. Her hand came up, not to take the gadget, but to gently touch the screen, which illuminated her face with the garish glow of crappy videography. "He..." was all she said before lapsing back into silence. After a moment, Mark took it away and turned it off. As he slid the evidence into his pocket, he said, "Fourth period is about to start. You'd better hustle." She turned to the door, and as she gripped the knob, he said, "I don't have any classes after sixth period. Come see me again before the day's over." She had paused. That was all. She said nothing, opened the door and left. Mark popped a cartridge of coffee grounds into the Keurig and poked the "Brew" button a few times. The bell rang before the cup was even half full and he yelled out through the open door, "Shut up in there, dammit!" By this point they all knew about the quiz, so he said nothing as he handed the stack of quizzes to the class kiss-ass to be passed out, and sat drinking his coffee, staring out the windows. + + + "Hello?" "I'm back here," he said, pushing aside his paperwork. Not that he was getting anywhere with it, anyway. She moved on little cat feet and appeared silently in the doorway, silhouetted in the afternoon sun, her face hidden in shadows. Mark had no idea what he was going to say. He still wasn't sure why he had shown her the video. Yes, he had this whole nefarious plan laid out, but planning something was no where near as real as actually doing it. It was like the difference between reading the owners manual of a motorcycle and riding that motorcycle. It all seems to easy, so uncomplicated or hazardous, when you're just planning it. And when his rage from earlier had left him, so had his conviction. He was, as they say, on the fence. "He..." she started, but again just fell into silence. "I don't care," he said. That was honest, and non-committal. Easy peasy. But she just kept standing there, trying to look small, facing the wall across from the door, instead of facing him or, indeed, anything that might be considered the "interior" of the room. Would Mark stand that same way on the doorstep of his prison cell? He shifted in his seat and dug out the PSG. This time he played the video for himself. Did he still feel it? Was that monstrous gob of semen still churning inside him, waiting to explode for her? Exploded over her? On her? Into... her? That sensation of being "weak in the knees"? You can get that even if you're sitting down. As the notion of actually having ravenous sex with Sarah--video Sarah--lit up his imagination, Mark got that feeling. He sagged a little to one side, as his spine buckled. "Oh God..." he said quietly to himself. But she heard him say something. "What?" she said. A little adorable quiver in her voice. "I..." he said, straightening up and turning to her, "I...." What he wanted to say was something along the lines of 'I'm going to cover your face in my cum. No, wait. I'm going to cover your ass with my cum. No, wait. I'm going to *fill* your ass with my cum.' But he steeled his nerves--there was, after all, almost half a school year left. Almost five full months. Why rush things? "I wonder," he said, folding his hand in front of his chest, "Who is it you *most* want to hide that video from." He waited. After a time, she shrugged. But no more. "Come here he said," gently, waving her closer. She shuffled into the room, stopping a foot or two before him. "No, no," he said, pointing at the floor directly before him, "Come here." She moved forward until she was almost touching his knees. "Kneel down," he said, "Like you were praying." She was awkward as she got down on her knees, because she was trying to keep her legs locked together and her arms tight at her side. Once down, she folded her hands in her lap, and kept her head bowed. Indeed, almost as if praying. Mark was suddenly empathetic with all those cretinous priests. "What you you pray for?" Mark asked. He started to lean forward, but had to pause and reach inside his pants to adjust the position of his penis, currently cast from steel. "Do you pray the other girls don't see it?" He cocked his head and leaned toward her left ear. "Do you pray all the boys don't see it?" He moved his head fluidly, like the hood of a cobra hypnotizing its prey, and into her right ear he whispered, "I bet it's your father." She stifled a sob. He sat back up in the chair. "Look up at me," he said. She paused, but did. Her eyes seemed to dart around trying to avoid meeting his, but then they did. And their gazes locked. "Say this," he said, "I promise." "I..." her voice cracked. She coughed, snuffled and said, "I promise." "All I want is to please you." She stared at him dumbly for a moment, then started, and repeated it. "All I want it to please you." "You promise?" "I promise." Mark sighed and sat for a moment with his eyes closed. He pushed his chair back, away from her, and grabbed a pen and a Post-It. "Here," he said, as he handed them to her, "I want you to write down this web-address...." She didn't draw little hearts to dot the "i"s, however. After she had shuffled out again, Mark made himself a cup of coffee. As he looked down into his "D.A.R.E." mug and watched the creamer swirling into the coffee, he wondered, where will this end? And how far will it go before it does? + + + THE END + + + Author's Note: + Fiction + "Fiction" means "I dun made this shit up. It's not true. It didn't happen." If you think I'm protesting a little too much, you don't know some of the emails I've gotten in years gone by in response to rape porn (which is what this is, despite the lack of violence). + More? + This story ended up taking a lot longer to get to the, er, "good bits" than I was expecting. Not that everything in here doesn't need to be in here. But, my original concept actually had our protagonist just abusing Sarah as a kind of "gateway girl" leading on to more and deeper depravity. To be honest, I was actually more interested in a girl named Jenny, and how she would twist Mark's brain into a pretzel. But I ran out of steam (I tend to be an inspired writer, not a diligent one), and this tale spiralled into a nice stopping point. And to be honest, at this point, I really have no idea how far Mark went with Sarah. He may have changed his mind, sworn a secrecy pact with Sarah and quit teaching. He may have gotten his personalized, "I promise" webcam video from her and left it at that. Or, he may have escalated. In the end, I think it would all depend on what other events happened in his life. Would he start connecting with people again, and build some healthy social connections? Would he find an appropriate outlet for his emotions? Or would events conspire to leave him even more isolated? Would his world just get smaller and smaller, and would he grab at the only thing he could reach--Sarah--and drag her into his collapsing waveform? + Feedback + If you'd like to hear more, please say something. Though, I can't promise anything. Like I said, either I'm inspired to write or I'm not. Then again, while it's not 100% effective, blowjobs from experienced women who know where a guy hides his prostate tend to be very inspirational, in my experience. Oh, and if you found the story horribly offensive, please say so. Just please don't yell, and try to be specific. If you found the story just horrible, write one that's better. I dare you. I *DOUBLE DOG* dare you.