Fitzpatrick taught us were part of every gothic horror novel. I was a senior then, about to graduate. Glued to my seat even in the late, late spring when my classmates were terminally zoned out, focused on graduation, the summer ahead of them, college. But I still had unfinished business here, and today he was wearing a black tie over a light blue button-up and jeans that were just snug enough to drive my imagination wild.
When he perched on the edge of his desk reading from The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, I let my eyes wander up and down his body, imaging a new use for each part. He was the new cute teacher this year, the one the girls whispered about between classes. Fitzpatrick is looking good today. But his charm was undeniable, who else could make the classics so sexy? Every day when he taught his inflection would bounce up and down with passion as he taught us about Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson.
When he taught Dracula he became brooding and obsessive, delving into each character. Even in the clinical, fluorescent-lit classroom it was sexual. The week he spent on, The Haunting of Hill House, was one of the most oddly erotic of my life. The text was thrilling, I was in a constant state of suspense and I held myself to not reading ahead, and being completely present in class when he talked about the role adrenaline plays in our bodies physiological state as we read.
When graduation was only a few weeks away, I felt bolder. Surely I should make a move, if the consequences of being rebuffed were so low? What could they do? I was almost gone. And so I became consumed with the idea of hooking up with Mr.
At first, I thought I could be subtle. Fitzpatrick certainly noticed when I wore something low-cut or a little more form-fitting. Once I entered his classroom in a dress that particularly accentuated my curves and I could have sworn I heard him groan.
But understandably, he never did anything more than cast a lingering glance my way. So I put my mind into creating the perfect plan: The senior end-of-year dance was coming up, and I inserted myself into the planning committee long enough to serve as an official liaison and ask Mr. A light flickered in his eyes as I carefully enunciated the word desperate. Hopefully that was a look of comprehending my agenda. He agreed to the task. I bought new lingerie, black and red and lacy. I wore it under a loose-fitting white sundress, pure and virginal like a gothic heroine, but dark and carnal underneath.
At the dance, I added a note to the clipboard waiting for him as a chaperone. It was the regular list of rules to enforce and emergency contacts. My note was underneath, it was a line from Dracula along with his room number: I never went to the dance. Instead I made my way through the dark and empty corridors of the school until I let myself into his classroom. I brought with me one candle to break up the darkness without relying on the fluorescents.
Lighting it and setting it on a desk in the front row I climbed into Mr. It was a long wait. I got excited and then mellowed again when I realized it was my imagination. I was glad he was expecting it to be me. I stood up and leaned against the edge of his desk, facing him, opening my legs a bit so he could imagine himself between them.
I just wanted to discuss Dracula more. When he was close enough that I could touch him, I grabbed his tie and pulled his body into mine. I could feel he was already hard as he pressed against the loose fabric separating us. The situation excited him as much as it excited me. I slide back farther and wrapped my legs around him. He says he loves the way I look lying on his desk. I respond by feeling the bulge in his pants, attempting to grip him through the fabric and feeling him grow.
Even in the dark he looked handsome, brooding. I wanted him to tell me more about sex and blood and death but I also just wanted to experience it with him — all the parts of being human, all the things worth writing about. I was happy there, to be a willing participant in a fantasy I was sure he had. While forging a path with his mouth from my neck, down to my collarbone, and then landing on my breasts he pulled me closer to him and entered me.
The speed with which he poured himself into me belied his eagerness. I knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him to. His hands worked their way through my hair, separating it into two ponytails he held firmly as he used them to guide my head onto his cock, increasing in rhythm until I felt him tense up, his hands clenching my hair. Pulling my head down on him, he held me there and emptied himself into the back of my mouth.
I could taste the saltiness as I removed myself from him, licking my lips. It was the perfect end to my senior year.