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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."

About him!
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 dr*ped 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.
Whap-whap-whap-whap!
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."
Vzzt-whap!
"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...



End of Story