Sam , Teach Ch. 01

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Note: All characters engaging in sexual activities are 18 years or older.

This is part 1 of 3.


Roman architect Vitruvius once classified columns, or Orders, into three categories. The Doric order, thick and unadorned, represented manly beauty. The Ionic was more decorative, with curled volutes at the top, and represented womanly beauty. The last, the Corinthian order, with its capital resembling the acanthus leaves and its thin delicacy, was in “imitation of the slenderness of a maiden.”

Greenstone academy is fronted by a row of Corinthian columns. Every day I pass between them, through the front door, and every day I ask myself what the hell that guy was smoking. They don’t resemble maidens. They resemble overly decorative columns of stone.

But just at this moment, as I’m listening to Mr. Perfect Asian with His Perfect Plan for the Future, I try to imagine a pretty maiden on my knee, and all I can think of are stupid columns.

“…and after I graduate from Berkeley, I intend to leverage my science degree with my MBA to create a start-up company.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“Because—” he pauses and gives me a double-take. “What?”

“I was just wondering why you wanted to start a company. What do you plan to sell, or create, and what do you hope to gain from it?”

He looks at me confused.

“Nevermind,” I say. “I’m glad you see that science – especially that of Physics – is as important as any business connection. You know Elon Musk?”

“Yes! He created the electric car – the Tesla.”

“Yep. And Space X too. Did you know he first got his undergraduate degree in Physics?”

He nods.

“Good,” I say. “Then—” A knock sounds on the door. “Looks like the next student’s here.” I reach over my desk and shake his hand. “A pleasure to have you in my class. If you ever need help or even want to run a business idea by me, do not hesitate to visit.”

I mean what I say. Jacob Song – my student – is a fine young man, I’m sure. We’re only one week in but I know he’ll be a good student, and a credit to himself, his parents, and his culture. But he’s boring. I’ve met a million like him. I look at my schedule, noticing the name: Samantha Pierce. A troublemaker. Those, at least, are interesting.

“Let the next student in, if you will.”

Greenstone Academy is private and prestigious. My students are the sons and daughters of wealthy men who, by and large, marry beautiful women. As such, most of my female students are beautiful. They have been taught by their mothers how to present themselves to the world. Which isn’t to say they are all eye-candy. Not at all. Most of them are bright, peppy little balls of eager sunshine and industry. Future leaders and scientists and all that.

But not all of them.

Case in point: Samantha. She sidles past Jacob into my office, strutting like she owns the place. She glances over my decorations – the Physics doctorate from Cornell and my research awards and the table of elements and the Hubble photographs of bright nebula, and glowing quasars, and exploding super-nova – and dismisses with them a toss of her head. She’s dressed in such a way to reveal as much flesh as possible without breaking any rules: Her jean shorts grip her upper thighs, revealing long white legs. A simple tank-top does little to cover her shoulders or the slope of her delicate feminine neck. Her dyed blonde hair’s been done in up in a careless bob. She watches me watching her, and sharp green eyes beneath dark eyebrows reveal nothing so much as a sense of annoyance and scandal. I require all my students to partake in a small interview with me? And I make it a test grade? How dare I? But yes, I dare.

“Hello Samantha,” I say.

“Yo man.”

“Word,” I say.

She rolls her eyes.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Excellent!” She doesn’t bother to look at me as we talk. The sound of her foot tapping is clearly audible. “I’m not taking up too much of your time, am I?”

“Yeah you are.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear that. But who can complain about a free test grade?”


“Do you know why I require this interview?”

“No,” she says. “But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“You’re right. I want to get to know my students. Science is not just about boring old facts rotting away in a dusty book. It’s about ideas and explorations and people – helping people. I don’t want you to see me as some authority figure commanding facts from on high, like God delivering the commandments to Moses: ye shall not covet thy neighbor’s electron.”

I wait for her to crack a smile. Nothing. Tough audience.

“Chemistry joke,” I say. “That’s why—”

“Noble gases are noble? Because they don’t covet their neighbor’s electron?”

“Hey!” I say. “Penny for the smart lady. Anyway, like I said, I want to get to know my students and my first question is one you’ve heard probably a million times and you’re probably sick of getting asked but I feel like Trabzon Escort I must: what do you want to do when you grow up?”

She hesitates and for a moment I think she’ll refuse to answer, but then she says, “I want to be a model.”

Her answer makes sense. Her dreamy there-but-not-there apathy would be perfect for the runway. She certainly has the face for it, pretty if not beautiful, smooth and flawless, polluted by neither freckle nor blemish. And the body: long legs, flat stomach, thin and delicate arms. Androgynous like all good models. Her breasts are a little too big but not enough to disqualify her.

“Or an actress,” she adds.

“Interesting,” I say. “Have you done any modeling? Or acting? Are you in the drama club here?”

She shoots me a venomous look. “I don’t do drama club.”

“Oh,” I say. “So you want to be like a movie actress? A Hollywood dream girl?”

“I’ve done a few commercials,” she says.

“Cool,” I say. “Anything I might have seen?”

“Doubt it,” she says.

“You don’t know that -“

We’re interrupted by her ring-tone, which sounds like a combination of death metal, boy band, and a hammer smashing a glass jar full of nails. The latest and greatest in improvised instrumentals, no doubt.

She flips out her phone, an iPhone in a pink case inscribed with roses. She chats rapid fire: “Yo? Yeah. I have some left. Yeah. You know the price? Okay. Be right there.”

She hangs up and jumps to her feet.


“I gotta go!” she says. “Did I pass?”

Before I can answer, she’s out the door. I shrug. It’s not exactly a test you can fail.

But the next one is, and she does. I give her a big fat zero because she copies another student’s work, right down to the nonsensical reasoning on one of their free response problems involving a juggling dinosaur. I schedule another meeting to discuss it with her – at 3:30 pm, an hour after school lets out.

At 3 pm, I head out to my car to pick up some of the tests – including hers. But as I pass by one of the shadowy niches outside our courtyard cafeteria, I hear her voice and another student’s. Intrigued I move closer, keeping out of sight, hidden behind one of the ‘maidenly’ columns. I see her talking to two freshmen. Tiny little creatures. I don’t recognize either of them; they’re both wearing hoodies. I flip out my phone and begin recording.

“Twenty a pop,” she says to them.

They look between themselves. “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen? Does this look like the Grand fucking Bazaar? You give me a chicken, I gave you a bag of nails, and oh my poor oh children are starving so give me your biggest slice la la la. I say it’s twenty and you either pay up and get what you want, or you don’t.”

The two look at each other nervously. “Okay. Are you sure this Ralph-nail—”

“It’s pronounced Rohypnol. It’s as advertised.”

They hand over their money and receive a half-full bottle of pills but as they’re about to leave, one of them stop and asks, “I heard you sell other stuff.”

“Yep,” she says. “Just think of me as the seven-eleven of drugs. X, coke, heroine, marijuana – and not skunk weed neither. Name your poison, and I’ll deliver.”

“Cool. You’re cool,” says the freshman and heads off.

When they’re gone, I step out. Samantha’s head snaps up, and she tenses, ready to make a run for it. But seeing me, she relaxes.

“Hey teach!” she calls out. “Am I late for the meeting?”

“Not yet,” I say. She watches me warily as I walk closer. When I’m a few steps off, I ask her, “Do you know what Rohypnol is?”

“So you heard.”

“Yes, I heard.” I raise my phone. “And I recorded it.”

She jumps to her feet. “You did what?”

“Answer my question.”

“If I sold it, I know it. Rophynol aka Flunitrazepam. It’s a benzodiazepine. It lowers inhibition by blocking a neurotransmitter in the brain.” After a moment, she adds, “It’s a roofie.”

“I know what it is. You sold a date-rape drug to some hormone-addled teenage boys?”

“Oh please,” she says. “Don’t even. What they do with my product is none of my business. I don’t make their choices for them. I just make money.”

“You’re selling drugs – hard drugs – on a school campus. Christ, Samantha, that’s a felony. You’re looking at serious jail time.”

She smirks. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of conclusion. How much?”

I fold my arms across my chest.

For the first time, she begins to look worried. “So – what? You’re going to give that to the police and let them lock me up? Look I’m sorry. Cut me some fucking slack. Aren’t you suppose to, like, be a role-model and a teacher and guide me in the proper ways? Well – guide me.”

I look her up and down. “Come with me. Now.”

She follows me to my small cinderblocked cell of an office and once inside, I shut the door behind her and lock it. I lean back against my desk, while she stands there, looking equal parts annoyed, frustrated, and dismissive. I appraise her. She’s not Trabzon Escort Bayan lovely, but she is hot. Her jeans hug her hips and reveal a curvy, well-shaped ass. Her shoulders are bare, but for white straps from her tank-top and black straps from her bra.

“Take off your clothes,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t waste my time, kid. First, you cheat on the test. You lack basic honor. Second, you sell drugs – hard drugs, rape drugs – to young kids. You lack basic morals. You offer me money, but I don’t need it. What then? A sordid deed can only be bought with more sordid deeds. A girl like you, I’m sure you know what I want. Or I can take this video.” I tap my phone. “And we can get the police involved.”

She narrows her eyes and for a second looks like she might spit in my face. But then she does as I command. She jerks her jacket off. Then her tank top, which she tosses aside, revealing a black bra that covers her small breasts. Then her jeans. They’re so tight that she has to shimmy out of them, angrily and impatiently. In just skimpy black underwear and bra, she places her hands on her hips and gives me an annoyed look.

“Happy?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Take off everything.”


“Do you think I’m fucking around, Samantha? We’re not on the river of love. This isn’t some peep show. After you take your clothes off, I’m going to use you for pleasure.”

“Whatever.” She reaches behind her to undo her bra. Her breasts are revealed, small tits that can’t be more than size B. Then she slides her panties down, revealing a cunt that is bare but for a landing strip of black hair. She doesn’t bother hiding anything. In fact, she seems to embrace her nudity, thrusting her hips forward.

“Now what, big boy?”

I shake my head. Defiant to the end. “Kneel,” I say.

She does and her hands reach out toward my belt. “Let’s get this over with.”

I brush her hands away. I undo my belt, slip down my pants and boxers, and let my cock spring free. Her young body has made me hard already.

She moves forward with open lips, taking me inside. She blows me aggressively, swirling her tongue, bobbing her mouth up and down on the tip, using a free hand to stroke me in time with her mouth. She wants to take control – but I said I was going to use her for my pleasure and I meant it. I begin by thrusting deep into her mouth.

The tip hits the back of her throat, and she immediately recoils and places two hands against my thighs. She pushes me back out of her mouth.

“Really?” I say. “A girl like you can’t deep throat?”

“Fuck you,” she says. “I just have to work up to it.”

“Alright,” I say. “Work up to it.”

Bless her heart, she does. Where before she stared straight ahead, focused on her technique, she returns to her aggressive blowjob staring straight up at me. After she’s covered my manhood in her saliva, and made her bobs deeper and deeper, she looks at me and nods. I slide myself down her throat. She gags a little bit, but doesn’t recoil. I slide out and then back in, and she quickly grows accustomed to it. I fuck her mouth, and she lets me. She breathes in and out of her nose, cute nostrils flaring.

After a bit, I pull out to let her catch her breathe.

“Jesus christ,” she says. “Cum already. I have things to do.”


“You’ve been down my throat, teach.” She rubs some smeared mascara out of her eye. “Call me Sam.”

“Okay, Sam. I’m not one of your Justin Bieber teenage boy-toys, ready to pop my rocks at the first kiss.” I lift her up off the floor. “Bend over my desk.”

She shrugs. “Figures.” She does as I say and scoots her cute ass out. When all’s said and done, I’m an ass man, and hers couldn’t have been more perfect. Smooth-back, with the knobs of her spine just visible, and a heart-shaped bottom just begging to be fucked. In fact…

I reach over to a cabinet marked Confiscated, where I keep my whiskey and items I’ve had to take from students. I snag a jar of lube jelly, take a big dollop on one finger, and press it against her asshole. She freezes.

“Stop,” she says.


She pauses. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

“Okay.” I slip one lubed finger into her ass.

She inhales sharply. “No wait stop.”

I wait.

“Don’t make fun of me.”


“I’ve never had it back there before.”


“Yes really. I wouldn’t have fuckin said so otherwise.”

“Okay. Good to know. And?”

I give her a minute to respond, my finger half-way up her ass. She doesn’t say anything, so I begin to move it in and out. After she begins to relax, I add a second finger. She inhales sharply again, and I get the feeling she wants to tell me to stop. But she doesn’t.

After I finger her asshole for a bit, I lube up my cock and place it against her backdoor.

“Stop. Wait,” she says. “I don’t want you to fuck me there.”

I chuckle. “What, were you saving it for someone special? I’m going Escort Trabzon to fuck your ass.” But I don’t press forward.

Finally, she says. “Okay. Okay. Do it. You’re right. I cheated on the test. I sell drugs to little munchkins. I’m a whore. Fuck my dirty asshole. Pound the shit out of me.”

“If you say so,” I say and press forward.

She grits her teeth. “Do it, teach. Fill me.”

I want to. But I don’t. I give her a third of my length and move slowly and let her get used to it. Then more and more. When I finally fill her completely, she lets out a loud groan. She looks back at me, almost disbelieving. “Are you all the way in? Fuckity fuck fuck, teach. Out, out, out.”

I obey her and give her a moment before I begin to push back in.

“Impatient son of a bitch,” she grunts. She grabs the edge of the desk and I can feel her relax. “In, in, in, it is.”

We establish a rhythm. Or I establish a rhythm and she accepts it. Despite the situation, this beautiful proto-model splayed out on my desk, asshole slick with lube, my cock buried deep inside, I can’t cum. She’s too tight. So I fuck her and she gets used to it and I fuck her harder and she gets used to that. By the time I cum, I’m pounding her asshole so hard that the desk is moving. When I feel the first surges of my orgasm, I grab onto her flanks, thrust inside her and fill her. She screams like a banshee, in what I hope is an orgasm of her own and not a spiritual transformation into a creature of the nether world.

“Goddamn,” she says as I pull out, my cock slipping out of her well-used behind. She reaches behind and touches her gaping asshole gingerly. “That is going to hurt so bad tomorrow.”

“Probably,” I say.

She looks back at me, down at my cock, and then begins to retrieve her clothes and put them on. I sit back, unchanging and watch her put her clothes back on. She knows I’m watching, but doesn’t acknowledge it. When her jacket is back on her shoulders, and her hair returned to some semblance of normality, she turns and looks at me. “Okay,” she says. “We’re even.”

I don’t bother to hide my look of contempt. “Even? We’re even because you offered me something that I could have gotten for a hundred bucks down on Tom Jones Road? How much drug business did you do tonight? Three hundred, four hundred?” Her look shows me I’m not far from the mark. “We’re not even close to even. I have three conditions: first, stop dealing drugs. Call up those freshies and get your rape drug back. Second, take your studies seriously. Not just in my class. I’m going to be asking your other teachers too. Third, we’ll need to conduct an interview once a week, just to make sure.”

She rolls her eyes and does an air-quote while mouthing ‘interview.’

“You wanna be a model or an actress or whatever, that’s going to take work, and it’s going to take dedication. By letting you go, I’m taking on responsibility for what you do. Don’t be a punk.”

“Whatever, teach.”

“That’s right. Whatever I say. And the first order of business is to retake your test, without cheating this time.” I snag a blank copy from my shelf.

Her jaw drops so low that she could have passed for an Edvard Munch replica. “You – what? Now?”

“Yes,” I said. “Now.” I hand her a pencil, an eraser, and a calculator. I put on my clothes. Then I sit in my chair, fold my arms, and wait for her to sit down. After a moment, she does. Then she begins her test.

The test takes her an hour, and I grade it on the spot. A 58. “Far better than a zero,” I say as I hand it back to her. “Study harder next time.”

“Uh huh,” she says and grabs the test out of my hand. “Your cum leaking out of my ass did wonders for my concentration.”

“See you in class tomorrow,” I say. “And here – in a week.”

I do see her in class the next day. She is dressed more conservatively than her norm. A longish striped skirt and black leggings and a baggy shirt. She sits down gingerly and slowly and with a visible wince. I feel guilty. I had gotten carried away, and I had no illusions that what I had done was anything but wrong, no matter her own sins or her poor attitude.

But in fact, she begins to apply herself. I don’t even have to ask the other teachers. She was a legendary slacker and this new change is the talk of the teacher rec room. I personally fail to notice much of a change in her attitude – her looks toward me ranged from resentment to boredom. But at least she turns in homework for five days straight. A new record, up from zero.

In a week, it is time for our interview.

I had prepared well for it. By which I mean I had prepared nothing. There was nothing to prepare for. Her knock is hesitant and light.

“Hello Samantha,” I say rising from my chair. “Take a seat.”

“Sam,” she clarifies. She shuts the door behind her, locks it, and sits down. Her movements are nervous and jerky.

“There’s nothing for you to be afraid of,” I say.


“Nope. You’ve turned your homework in. All the other teachers are talking about your strange 180. As far as I know – and admittedly I’m not exactly ‘in the know’ – you haven’t dealt any more drugs. I’m impressed,” I say.

“Oh goodie. That’s just what I hoped and dreamed for – for you to be impressed.”

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