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One Room Schoolhouse
Jim Harbo reclined in his black wicker chair and watched his frantic class scribble out math tests. It was incredible, but even two months into the term, some of the dolts still believed he was reading the hefty and battered Chaucer's Works open before him on his big oak desk.
Jim had spent the summer working as a lumberjack to pay off college loans, and it showed in his voice, a rumble like rolling logs, when he issued the first warning of the day. "No spying, Ralph." "I wasn't!" Ralph yelped.
Jim slid his chair back and stood up. His three-month stint chainsawing the Oregon woods showed in his powerful body too, the muscles of his swelling frame clearly visible under his jeans and red flannel shirt. It was hard to tell, but he thought he might have heard a couple of girls suck in a quick draw of breath. In any event, the scribbling sounds that had filled the class a moment before came to a dead stop.
"Excuse me. What did you say?" Ralph squirmed in his chair. "Uh. Maybe I was stretching over Keesha's desk a little too far. I mean, I can see how it could have looked... but I wasn't. Honest." Jim rolled his eyes. "Very well. Get back to work." He sat back down and pretended to read.
If only it had been Keesha cheating. Keesha Jackson did cheat, Jim was sure, even if he had never caught her. That girl had been the bane of his life since she had transferred in two weeks ago. Bad enough the Teachers Corps had banished him to corn-pone Siberia--one room, a stove and a cracked blackboard, this multi-aged dozen of cow-herding hicks--but then, just when he was beginning to have the class under control, to have the Jacksons move into town.... Honestly, Jim wasn't one-hundred percent sur e Keesha was a cheater. Maybe she wasn't, though she acted like one. One thing was for sure, though. Keesha was a very pretty girl.
It was so frustrating.
"Ralph," Jim said crossly.
"What, sir?" Actually, Jim was not certain himself, since he had spoken without really thinking. But that was all right. He had a quick mind. "What do you think, boy? I'll see you after class." "But I thought--" "I changed my mind. I am tired of your getting away with murder while the rest of this class puts in the studying to be able to turn in their own work." "But Mr. Harbo--" "Keep talking, Ralph. Every word you say is a shovelful of dirt in your grave." Red faced, trembling lips pressed tightly together, Ralph looked down at his open palms.
With some difficulty, Jim resisted the urge to smile. Perhaps thrashing Ralph after school would relieve some of his tension. Now, he felt the rare urge to actually read poetry. He flipped back through the Works to the Clerk's Tale of Griselda, his favorite--but before he could start, movement caught his eye. Keesha, sitting primly at her desk, had raised her hand high in the air.
"Yes, Miss Jackson?" "May I have permission to say something?" "Go ahead." "Thank you, sir. This is what I have to say. You have made a mistake. Ralph did not cheat on that test." Jim glared at her. Keesha knew how to itch like a burr in his long johns. "Oh. And how do you know that?" "It's simple. When Ralph was leaning over my desk, my test was flipped over, face down. Actually, I finished half an hour ago, sir.
Your tests are very easy." Jim mulled that over. "That is interesting, Miss Jackson. Very interesting. What was Ralph looking at?" Nonchalantly, Keesha lifted from her desk a sheaf of lined notebook paper covered with her neat handwriting, displaying it to the class. "Just something I wrote to show around. Nothing geometry-related." For some reason, this caused all the girls and most of the boys to start snickering--snickering, he was suddenly certain, at him.
Jim stood up again. "Do you understand what you are saying, Miss Jackson?" "Of course I understand. I am saying that since Ralph did not cheat, it would be wrong to punish him. What could there be not to understand in that?" More titters from the class, and then an expectant hush as it waited for his reply.
Jim walked around his desk, then down the center aisle toward the back of the room, where he stopped over Keesha, scowling down at her while she looked up at him. He stood like that awhile, inventing an appropriately crushing reply.
But he could think of no reply. Gradually, he became aware of his class looking at him, like a group of picknickers watching a dog choke on a loaf of Spam.
Jim snatched the notes off her desk.
"Hey! Give that back!" "Don't use that tone, please." He kept his back to her as he returned to his desk. "I suppose if you share the fruit of your literary labor with everyone else, you can share your fruit with me." "I'm serious, Mr. Harbo. You don't want to read that." "Keesha, Keesha. You don't want me to read this. I, in fact, am quite curious. Now be silent." He sat down, lightly tamped her papers into the gutter groove of the Works, and started flipping through.
Jim had confiscated many notes over his career, but never one quite like this. In fact, what he was reading did not appear to be a note at all. More like a story... a story about...
Jim hung his head. "Please, Miss Jackson, may I... lick your pussy?" "First, entertain me." "How..." "Act like a dog."
Jim's eyes bugged out. The little hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, generating static that prickled like a pincusion crawling down his spine. His hands flew to his forehead, rubbing at his temples as he read more and more. The acts she h ad him do, the words she had him say.... He shut the Works over her work, thump.
"Keesha..." Spoken so low, it was almost a growl.
The girl, scribbling away at something else now, did not respond.
Very quietly, though not quite inaudibly, she was whistling the battle motif from the 1812 overture.
"Keesha!" She stopped writing and whistling, and looked up from her desk.
"Excuse me? I was lost in thought." Jim counted ten breaths, slowly, determined not to betray his emotion as he imagined what he would do to her. He shook his head in what could have been almost sorrow, but for his lips curled into their thin smile.
"Class is dismissed," he announced. "Please turn in your exams if you have not done so. Ralph, you may go out with the others. Keesha, stay." For a minute there was the quiet scratch and scuffle of uneasy pupils packing up and filing out of the room; then the door shut behind the last of them, and he was alone with her in his kingdom. Bars of rich late-afternoon sunlight striped the wooden floor, and Keesha too where she sat at her desk, backlighting the halo of her willow-brown hair to a floating reddish gold.
"Come here," ordered Jim.
Keesha stood and crossed the room to him, where she stood with her arms folded, regarding him skeptically from the opposite side of his desk.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" "Yes. What did I--oh. You read the story? Didn't I tell you not to?" Jim sighed. "Take off your overalls," he said. "I am going to have to thrash you." "There's a little problem with that," said Keesha. "I was in a bit of a hurry this morning, and I didn't put on anything under--you know, panties. I suppose the thrashing will have to wait for tomorrow." "No, that's just too bad," Jim said. "Take them off. Next time, perhaps you will give some thought to undergarments, before embarking on a career as a smut-raker." Keesha was taken aback. "Really?" Jim drummed his fingers on his desk.
"Gee." She removed her shoes and socks, unbuckled the back straps of her overalls. "You're serious." She stepped out of the overalls, placed them neatly folded next to her shoes and socks. Jim took a long look at her, standing with her bare feet on the floor, dressed solely in a thin white blouse that barely draped her naked hips. A cloud blocked the sun outside, and the peach fuzz on her legs stood on end, reacting to the slight chill. "Now what?" "See that white pipe running under the ceiling?" asked Jim. "Jump up and grab it. Don't worry. It's strong. It will hold you." Keesha jumped up and grabbed it. She hung there, upstretched arms hitching up her blouse, baring her bottom to sight. Ouside, cottony snowflakes were streaking down out of the lowering and suddenly dark sky.
"Close your eyes. Remember to keep them tightly shut, for decency's sake." Jim took a moment to stoke the stove, got its coal blaze hissing hot again, and continued, "We'll start with twenty lashes. Count each one off and thank me for it. Anything ot her than the correct number, and thanks, will result in an addititional five lashes. Let go, and I'm afraid we will have to start all over again." He paused, licking his lips. "Keesha, are you sorry?" "Actually, sir, no." "You will be," said Jim, "after a taste of my ferrule." He hefted a wooden yardstick from the chalk tray, scraping the tip in the metal groove to make an eerie metallic squeak, and gave a few experimental whacks to his open palm.
"Ferrule." Keesha echoed the word thoughtfully. "I learn a new word today. My friends all call that thing a ruler." Whap!
"Ow! One! Thank you, Mr. Harbo." Whap! Whap!
"Ow! Ow! Two, three. Thank you. Thank you." A thin cloud of chalk dust puffed out around her ass cheeks, which were criss-crossed by three pink and chalky stripes.
"Now are you sorry?" asked Jim.
"Sir? You know, I am not even really in pain." Jim had been holding the ruler at the midpoint, but now he gripped the rod at the end. He brought it back, took aim at the sensitive dimple where her buttocks met the small of her back, and swung with all his might. Keesha let out a shriek this time when it smacked home, her entire body convulsed in a shivering wriggle. Jim waited long enough for the pain to sink in, then struck her again, and again. One buttock cheek, the other, the fleshy fold at the top of the back of her thigh. Seven, eight.
"How about now, Miss Jackson? That hurt?" "Aw... yes. Please, please... stop." Jim smiled, enjoying the way her head lolled forward at a skew angle, the broken rhythm of speech hitching on tortured gasps of breath. "Just kidding," she added.
Jim frowned fiercely. "All right, young miss. That's twenty-five." He wiped the dampness from his lip before striking her again. "You have provoked... you will be punished... you will show repentance." "You will show repentance," Keesha echoed in a chipmunk version of his voice.
Between Keesha's smart mouth, his growing ire, and the whaps of the whizzing ferule, the snowstorm had not progressed long before Jim began to have trouble keeping track of her extra stripes himself.
Somewhere around nineteen--what was it now, out of forty?--she spoke up again, her words underscored by a far-off roll of thunder. "Okay.
Now I am in pain. I am in serious pain." "If you beg for mercy, I might forgive the remainder of your strokes."
"That's... great! But you should know, there is a difference between being... in pain... and being sorry."
"Hey, stop a second," said Keesha. "This can't go on." "Yes it can." "No way. I won't make it to forty-five. I... won't be able to sit down. Hold, sir please! Wait... I have an idea." Shaking the kinks out of his right wrist, Jim stepped around to her front. Even just now, Keesha's voice had seemed fairly level, but her face was blotched with red, tears sliding down her cheeks from her tightly shut eyes. "What is your idea, girl?" "Well... why not give my poor bum a rest. There are... many other areas of my body." Jim mulled this over. "It is irregular," he finally said. "But I don't see why not." Without more ado, he began to do exactly what the foolish girl had suggested, lavishing his wrath on her wherever he pleased. He started with her sides and belly, then went on on to the backs of her legs, working slowly, allowing her time to feel the fu ll effects of each blow before giving the next. Her cries were entirely in earnest when he smacked the fine hills under her scanty blouse--left, right, in-curving undersides--
Suddenly Jim was staring at her navel. Keesha had done a chin-up.
"Thirty-three! Enough on my breasts!" So he crouched down and lashed the sensitive sole of her left foot.
"Thirty-four!" Keesha began to wave her other foot about, attempting small evasive kicks.
Gauging her jerky movements with ease, Jim brought the ruler back to strike, when suddenly--patterpit--the noise of a tiny spray flecking the floor. Jim stayed his arm and glanced down. A constellation of droplets on the wooden floorboards directly ben eath Keesha glistened violet as lightning streaked outside. Sweat, surely.... Standing part-way, he peered into the vertex of her Keesha's open and shifting legs. Sweat did, indeed, lightly sheen the supple tenderness of her limbs. But it was not sweat beaded in a rivulet down the inside of her thigh, trickling from the pink pout of her downy, slick sex.
In a heartbeat, Jim had put his mouth to her dampness, his calloused fingers fondling her, feeling the streamers of gossamer honey webbing her silky thigh. Keesha curved her stomach in, somehow pulling herself even higher, but there was no escape. Jim followed her up, his face between her struggling legs, kissing her nether lips. Neither able to pull herself higher nor to close herself to him, she resigned herself to fate, abandoning futile fight to begin to sigh softly as he teased her defenseless bu d with his tongue. Finally, still spooned-up in the awkward position, like a crazed acrobat, she did the mid-air splits. Her femininity spread before him like a glistening flower, she moaned, "Oh, oh, give me, oh..." But Jim did not. Instead, he withdrew his ministrations and stood up. "Keesha, let yourself down." "Please," she begged hoarsely, her legs spread even wider, her toes wriggling frantically. "Please, please--" "No. You have been very bad. No more till you return to your proper place." Keesha's small, smooth biceps quivered to the rhythm of her breath a long while, unyielding, but at last she lowered herself down, her white blouse turned pink where her nipples crinkled the sweat-soaked cotton. Jim took one of her breasts in his mouth, tasting her salt through the fabric;
she arched against him, growling. He stepped away and insinuated the tip of the ruler between her parted legs.
"Thirty-five," she whispered.
Jim slid it out, and a moment later pressed it to her lips, glistening with her wet. Keesha sucked on it until he pulled it free with a slippery pop.
"Enough of this," Jim said in a low voice, and flung the ruler across the room, clattering into a corner. He suckled briefly at her other breast, then let go and peeled her blouse off, draping it over the white pipe, so she hung before him entirely nake d except for her hands which still clung to the bar, swathed in white cotton. Swiftly he doffed his shirt and tugged down his jeans and briefs; then she was wrapping her legs around his hips, drawing him close. "Enough," he said again as she slid down o ver him, perfect. He reached up to remove her hands from the bar, the blouse fluttering down behind her as her arms went over his shoulders. Her face was wet, her cleft wetter, convulsing around him him as her whole body jerked in breathtakingly rapid climax. He closed his mouth over her lips, inhaling her cries, continuing to slide her up and down on him, until she exploded again, drumming her tiny fists on his back. "Never enough," she gasped, riding him, "never, never, never--oh yes, yes! YES!" as he pumped her full of himself, gushering his infinite pleasure.
At last, Keesha climbed off him, stumbling back, leaning on the blackboad for support, evey muscle in her body atremble. "Never, never, enough," she kept saying with joyous awe as she climbed off him. "Not ever. Thank you." "You're welcome," he said, easing himself into his wicker chair.
"No problem. Any time." Jim was fully dressed before Keesha had even collected her wits, but he waited for her, and when she was at last decent, he gave her a ride back home.
Keesha Jackson sat pretending to read Euclid's Elements while her class pretended to do Silent Sustained Reading on Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. In a way, it was silly to read Euclid in an age when his whole project could be collapsed out of a few basic premise of differential topology, but sometimes she just wanted to think how people had thought thousands of years ago. Reading Euclid confirmed one of Keesha's dearest beliefs, which was that life had not changed as much as most people thought. A squared plus B squared still equalled C squared... and people who enjoyed power, like her, still ruled the world. The other good thing about geometry, of course, was that you could hold a tricky proof in your mind without actually looking at the page.
The feeble tactics with which her students attempted to undermine her authority were often quite amusing--like Jim Harbo, the new boy in town, attempting to surreptiously pass Ralph a sheaf of papers. Jim should have known by now that nothing escaped he r watchful eye... though she had to admit, the boy had pluck. In a way, Jim was her favorite pupil--though he would never, ever know it.... While she mused, Ralph arranged the notes on his desk and hunched over to read. It wasn't long before his mouth spread into its habitual broad, goofy grin.
That poor boy.
No need for spurs, once the horse is broke in right...
Keesha recalled that nugget of down-home gold--the truest her daddy had ever spoke, back on the ranch--as she grasped her favorite riding crop by its ivory handle and hefted it off its peg in the wall.
Standing stealthily, savoring the bony coolness of the handle in her palm, Keesha maintained perfect silence in her tan pumps as she walked down the center aisle till she stood over Ralph's desk. Many a teacher would have been disconcerted by the lank hair curtained greasily over his eyes, but she took a more pragmatic view--if she couldn't see him, he couldn't see her. She wound up, bringing the crop up over her shoulders almost like a batter on deck, then swung down at the page cradled between his pudgy hands, connecting with a vicious crack.
Ralph sat up so fast his head bashed the plaster wall behind him, squealing like a slaughter-bound pig when his teeth clicked over his tongue. "It's not mine!" he whispered, as though wanting to scream but having forgotten how. He leaned over his desk towards her, hands clasped abjectly and brown eyes wide with fear. "It's Jim's! Miss Jackson, plea--" Keesha twitched the crop off his desk, missing the tip of his nose by perhaps half a centimeter, and then he was flapping his mouth like a beached flounder.
She took up the papers and walked away.
"Oh Miss Jackson." Jim's tenor, coming from behind her, did not sound particularly worried. In fact, he sung the words, to a mockingly cheery tune not unlike Frere Jacques. "You shouldn't read that." Ignoring him, she sat down and began the process she secretly thought of as Inquisition--scanning the pages quickly, looking for something punishment-worthy. Of course she would find it, she always found it, though nearly all the notes she intercepted were pitifully inane... what the heck...
"Dear God!" she blurted out loud. "This... this..." This was abominable. Years spent galloping through dense forests and jumping high fences had given Keesha what she thought were nerves of steel, but her whole body was trembling. Keesha never blushed--but now she felt like she had just bit into a ripe jabanero. Worst of all, though everything that was sane and noble in her longed to thrust the nasty thing away, she seemed posessed by a perverse demon that would not stop reading. When she finished, it took all her inner strength simply not to turn back to the first page and start over. On finally ripping her eyes away, she saw that Jim was watching her, grinning smugly. In a flash, she understood. Jim had planned everything, had known she was watching him, had expected Ralph to get caught. It was awful. Awful beyond--
"I can see what you're thinking," Jim said from his seat. "Well, don't even try to steal my hard work. It's copyrighted. And I expect I will soon have offers from the big publishing houses. Yes, I will." The words brought blood pounding to her ears, made the sentences swim on their page. Never had Keesha she felt so violated, so cheap, so easily used....
At long last she regained her composure. Drawing a deep breath, she walked to Jim's desk and dropped the notes there. They sifted softly through the air and tapped down, the small sound like distant lightning in the electric silence of the class.
"Do you know what this is?" "Sure," Jim answered. "It's a sex fantasy about you." "No. It's your doom."
To Be Continued... Maybe...