I dug my hands deep through the roots of her soft blond hair, feeling the warm little head underneath and her locks filter through my fingers. She pulled away a little, but it didn't matter to me. I withdrew and instead clasped both of her little shoulders, leaning in closer and catching a whiff of her intoxicating scent. It smelled delicious, like summer. My love was redolent of blossoms. I buried my nose towards the nape of her little white neck.
"You smell lovely," I told her, my eyes closed, losing myself in her. I nuzzled myself against her, feeling her soft skin against my own. It was hard to maneuver around her. She was sitting at her desk, and I was kneeling down behind her. But I didn't care. I had to have her. I went to the front of her face and kissed her forehead. Then I went lower: the wing of her nose. Then lower again: the very tip.
"Mr. Hawthorne," she began.
I ignored her. Caught her cheek. Then trailed soft kisses down her throat, to her collarbone. My hands went to her tank top straps. They annoyed me and I pulled them farther and farther down her shoulders, down her arms, wanting to see more of her. As soon as I did this, she struggled to put them back up. I lowered them again. Then to stop any further struggles, I clutched at her little shoulders a bit more tightly, immobilizing her arms. Our lips met and the taste of her impassioned me even more. My mouth moved against hers, my whole body eagerly leaning in for more. My breathing came out heavily, my tongue searching for something in her—but what? She moved her little head back and forth, trying to free herself from me. I groaned.
"Mr. Hawthorne," she cried upon, momentarily, escaping my feverish kissing. I tried catch her again, but she dodged. I tried once more, and she dodged again. Instead I sucked on her ear, and when she shifted in a wince, I met her lips once more. Using my hands against the back of her head, I turned her and brought her more into it. She tasted delicious. She didn't like it, however. She continued struggling against me. I groaned again.
"You're so good," I told her, half-aware through my desire. "Don't you love me?" I asked. "Why do you struggle against me?" Not waiting for her to answer, I maneuvered myself between her and the desk, getting more of me on top of her. I licked hungrily at the back of her nape. Wrapped my arms around her neck and focused more on getting her out of her shirt. She pushed against my chest with her little hands.
"Mr. Hawthorne," I heard her cry. "Mr. Hawthorne, I need to do my math."
I came back up and ran my tongue against her bottom lips. Then I kissed her hard again.
"I don't care," I told her, stopping only to speak these words with her. Once again I was tantalized by her. "I don't give a fuck about math. Only about you."
She kept attempting to part herself from me. I was too big for her and overpowered her, plunging myself in deeper every second I got. I felt my hips begin to thrust to my heavy osculation, and I knew that my body wanted her as much as my mind. Her little hands grasped at my gyrating part, trying to hold me back, but I couldn't help it, nor could she stop it. I wanted her. She cried in my mouth: I tasted her fear.
One hand went lower. It grasped at the hem of her pink shorts. I struggled to get them off her. She raised her knee up to kick at me, but I caught her little leg and pulled her closer to me. Then I fiddled with her button, then her zipper. She screamed but it was caught in my mouth, which relentlessly moved against hers. My fingers worked fast. Eagerly I kept pulling at her and finally her pants came free, falling down to her ankles, revealing to me her pink underwear. I watched her face. It was red. I rubbed at the inside of her thighs, loving how they were so perfectly exposed to me, and slipped my hands down her panties, rubbing at her some more. She thrashed, kicked, clawed, and flailed. She didn't like it. But I did. I liked it a lot.
One hand went up her shirt to feel lovingly at her very flat chest. The other went to my own trousers, to where in which I began stroking myself through them. A moan was emitted from deep within my throat. Still thrusting, still touching her, I pleasured myself hungrily.
Gradually I lifted my head from the kissing, eyes closed, my mind only focused on my fantasies and masturbation. She must've realized I wasn't going to have sex with her, for she didn't cry out anymore. Although I had wanted to make love with her, I held myself back. She didn't like it. At all. And I didn't want to hurt her. Only in my dreams would I do so. I unzipped my trousers. Stuck my hand down farther and rubbed harder. Staggered into an empty chair and kept going at it. Heavy groans were constantly escaping my lips now. It was the only thing I could utter when I thought of her like that.
Long minutes passed. Finally I couldn't hold it in anymore and with a loud cry I released my gratification. It was finished. I then sighed. Stroked at myself some more to calm myself, and then finally stopped. My trousers went back up and then with another sigh I took my clean hand and rubbed at the side of my face. I was very much tired. Then I spotted her looking at me.
"Get your shorts back on," I told her, "before someone sees you." Of course before I had attacked her, I had made sure that the blinds were down and the lights were off, making it appear as if the room was devoid of people. But accidents could happen, and I didn't feel like going to prison. Sighing and getting up from my chair, I went to the back sink to go clean up my mess. As I wiped furiously at a sticky desk, chair, and floor, I said to her, "Get your stuff too. We're leaving."
She nodded her head up and down enthusiastically, rambunctiousness returning. But then she paused, stopped, and looked at me. "What about my math, Mr. Hawthorne?"
I shook my head. As I told her earlier, I didn't give a fuck about math. "You can do it on Monday." That seemed to be an acceptable answer to her—I knew she was happy on the inside for I knew that she hated math—and she merrily tripped off to pack her schoolbag. I, on the other hand, continued working at removing my gratification. I scrubbed at it, touched the objects it was on—they still had residue—sprayed more cleaning solution and scrubbed at it again. It was one of the disadvantages to having sexual intercourse in the classroom, but I couldn't resist her. The hour that was supposed to be used giving her extra help on math had been instead used on her. Then my sense of danger heightened. I began to rush. Finally pleased with my cleaning, I returned everything to its spots and fixed up the room so it looked as if I was never in here after school. I took her hair, fixed it, put it back in a familiar ponytail. Pulled her tank top straps back up. Adjusted her shorts and straightened her clothes. I wanted her to look perfect. Then I grabbed my briefcase, her hand, and my keys. We were leaving.
Quietly I slipped through the door, and then her next. I locked it behind me. Then together we walked to the building's exit. Bright, warm sunlight bathed our faces as we stepped outside. It was almost summer, and it was hot. I didn't mind. Summer was my favorite season, and I welcomed it graciously every year. With summer came the end of the school year and a long vacation. Although I would be spending it doing teacherly things like taking tests and classes and attending conferences, I didn't mind. A teacher's work was never done, but just the thought of the long days calmed me greatly and work no longer mattered. Right now it was the last weekend before school ended, and though I would miss my students dearly, I wanted everything to be over.
I pulled her to the right with me. I had spotted my car: dark blue, and a convertible. During these times of the year, I always rode with the top down. This greatly excited her as she and I neared it. I fed off her happiness.
I unlocked the door, took her bag, placed it in the back, and helped her inside. I would be driving her home today, for she was the daughter of my neighbor and lived right next to me. She was a single mother from California who was horribly in love with me even after I had turned her down, but still trusted me with all her heart. In very much a way, it was my fault. I had purposely won her over to get my hands on her daughter, who I had fallen in love with. She didn't know this, and I meant to keep it that way. Setting my own stuff down in the back, I then got in the front seat.
"Are we going to drive with the roof down?" she asked me, genuinely excited. I placed the key in the slot, started up the car. It thrummed with life.
"We'll only go with it down if you want to," I said.
"Ooh, I wanna go with it down."
So I drove with it down.
I couldn't help but keep my eyes more on her than on the road as I went down our wooded neighborhood. The rear-view mirror provided a look into her little word of the backseat. Seatbelt crossed over her little form, she struggled against it to try and twist and look out over the door. Being so open fascinated her. However, sometimes I had to cry to her to calm down and stay in her seat. If I had gotten in an accident and anything had happened to my love, I wouldn't know what to do.
Finally I came to my house. Parking in the driveway, I then took out her and her bag, and then together we walked over to her house. She skipped ahead happily in front of me, very much in high spirits. When she came to her little porch, she was the one to ring the doorbell. Then she stood patiently at attention while her mother came to the door. The white wooden structure swung open, and then I stood face-to-face with Rachel Meyers, my little flower's mother. Her eyes met mine. They were brown, unlike her daughter's, which were blue. She giggled in that very familiar, shy way of hers.
"Oh wow," she exclaimed. Wow. No one said that over here on the southern east coast. I smiled at her. "Thanks for bringing her home. Thank you so much."
"It was nothing," I said. That's when she rushed forth to hug her mother tightly around her legs.
"Guess what I did today, Mommy," she said to her. "I got to ride home in Mr. Hawthorne's converty-ble."
"Convertible," I lightly corrected. Rachel giggled again.
"Did you have fun?" she asked her. She nodded her head up and down enthusiastically.
"Uh-huh. It was so cool. Can we get one?"
"Perhaps when we have enough money, honey." Then Rachel turned to me again. "How was her math? Is she getting any better?"
We hadn't really worked on any math today but she didn't know our private business. "She's progressing." Then I turned to her. "What's twelve plus seven?" I asked her.
That question caused her to pause. Her blue eyes scrolled up the sky. Why students believe that answers will rain from either the sky or the ceiling, or any other place from above is beyond me. Her little face scrunched. I knew that was the wrong question to ask. Even though we had worked with it many times during her tutoring, she couldn't seem to remember it.
"Uh…" She faltered, and then smiled at me. "Seventeen?"
She ughed in apparent frustration and stomped her little pink sandaled feet. Rachel took her hand. "You're still working hard on it, honey. You'll get better at it."
"No I won't," she cried. "It's because I stink at math."
"But with practice, you'll be good at it," I told her. She didn't want to hear it.
"Why do I have to do it, Mr. Hawthorne?"
"Math. I hate it so much. It's too hard. It's the worstest thing in the world."
"It's the worst," I corrected.
"It's the worstest thing in the world and I hate it."
"But honey," said Rachel to her daughter, "every job requires math."
That little comment made her stop to think again. After a few long seconds, her eyes lit up again and she got the answer. "Uh-huh, Mommy. I'll just use a calcie-lator…or a computer." She struggled with the word 'computer'.
"Calculator," I corrected again.
"I'll just use a calcie-lator and it will tell me all the answers."
"The calculator only works if you know the math," Rachel told her. "You have to tell it to do the math. And how can you tell it to do the math when you don't know the math?"
She looked at her mother. And then she looked at me for answers. I shrugged my shoulders. I had none for her. Ultimately, she had brought this downfall upon her with her rambunctious and seemingly-carefree attitude. Being mischievous and playful, she was concerned more about having fun and games than her education. She had received a low score of twelve percent out of one hundred on her math test. Now I had to work with her every day after school until she got it right. Rachel laughed at her silence, and then took her hand. "Come on, honey," she said, pulling her inside. Then she lifted her head to look hard at me. She wasn't suspicious. She wasn't angry. I knew from the familiar longing in her eyes that she was still in love with me. "Goodbye, Derrick," she said to me, now smiling. I waved to her.
"Bye, Mr. Hawthorne," her daughter called to me.
"Bye Rachel," I said. Then I looked to my love. "Goodbye, Caroline."
Caroline. That was her name: Caroline. Caroline Meyers. From the first day I had met her last summer ago, I knew she had to be mine. I had found her simply lovely. She was quite talkative for her age, making her a bit precocious, but I didn't mind. She had captured my heart so. I waved goodbye to her more than anyone else.
Then the door finally closed. Sighing to myself, I began to walk back to my own house to enjoy the weekend. How much could I, though?
Without her, I was lonely again.