Chapter 1: Mrs. Meacham (Part III)

at 2:12 PM
      Instead of taking the photo, she gave me another one. “Now, look at that one.”
      I did. It was Mrs. Meacham again, this time looking more like herself, except she had an entire unpeeled banana in her mouth. I didn’t say a word and just gave it back to her.
      “Food for thought,” she said, and then reached and extended herself out to put the photos on her nightstand. I could see her naked body in its entirety now. She slipped back into bed. “Something catch your eye, Tom?”
      “No…Nothing, Mrs. Meacham.”
      “Is it my imagination, or are you getting further and further away? Come closer.”
      I came closer.
      “Just as I suspected. You have an erection.”
      I looked down, as if I didn’t know already.
      “What is it with you? Every day, every class, I always see you fidgeting in your chair, trying to cover up erection after erection. Honestly, Tom, do you think you’re fooling anybody?”
      “Is it that obvious, Mrs. Meacham?”
      “Yes, Mr. Chalmers, it is. Now come over here.”
      I moved in closer.
      She grabbed hold of my jeans and without hesitation or any frills, unzipped them. She reached in and around my underwear, and grabbed my penis.
      Now, at this point in my life, Nobody had ever grabbed my penis. Except for maybe me. But that’s neither here nor there. I hadn’t done anything with girls. Basically, because I’m a dweeb. Just ask my stepsister, Wendy. She’ll tell you. I was geeky. I had some pimples, not enough that the name pizza face would be in order, just enough to cause scientists to stop and marvel. My hair, or haircut was pretty much just shit-brown, straight, and bowl-shaped. I was of average height for a 15/16 year old, and skinny. Not athletic as the word skinny might suggest. I was skinny, but still managed to be flabby.
      Maybe my worst trait was my incredible sense of fashion, which worked its way into my life on a regular basis. In case you didn’t realize, I was being sarcastic. My clothes were homely. And yet, when I tried to dress nice, maybe wear clothes my stopmom got me, it just wouldn’t work. It’s like my body was genetically wired to only wear loose long-sleeved shirts and corduroys every day. When my Dad bought me a leather jacket, I was for sure thinking that this would get me somewhere in high school. It did. In a bad way. People called me the Fonz or greaser. I didn’t really want to draw anymore attention to my greasy hair than needed. So eventually the leather jacket got put away. Until my Dad got it out to wear, just in time for his mid-life crisis.
      However, as bad as all this stuff sounds, all these things, mercifully, seemed of lesser consequence when I was dreaming. Like the enlarged phallus, my hair seemed better, and my clothes fit better. Even my pimples seemed to take the night off while I was dreaming. My conscience seemed to think there was no way this whole dreaming thing was gonna amount to anything unless it air-brushed a few things out and maybe nipped and tucked a couple other things. Of course, I didn’t mind, as the beneficiary. Yeah, I didn’t want to know I was dreaming. It was like Kryptonite, or the big purple nerd in the room. My biggest fear was knowing it was a dream, thus ruining it- that’s when the pimples started popping and pants started flopping. When that happened, when it was lucid, I just woke up. Got a Yoo-Hoo. And tried to get back to sleep again. This time, trying not to let the cat out of the bag.        
      Okay, so back to Mrs. Meacham and her whole hand on my penis thing.
      First of all, in case you didn’t know, when someone else grabs your penis, I don’t know why, but it’s really good. It’s difficult to describe. Anyway, when Mrs. Meacham grabbed my penis, that indescribable sensation came over me, the one where your legs seem to lose their feeling. “Mrs. Meacham,” I said for no apparent reason.
      She started stroking it. First slow and then really fast. 
      “Mrs. Meacham?” I repeated, this time in the form of a question. I think I remember why I said her name now, to try and get her to stop as ridiculous as that sounds.
      “Yes, Tom?” 
      “Oh, nothing…”
      “I’m doing you a favor, Tom. When it gets like this, it’s not just gonna go away.”
      “Tell me about it.”
      Then, like she had with the banana, she slid it into her mouth. Sometimes she would pull it out and merely lick it and other times she would just bob up and down. She was really determined, I remember that much.
      I closed my eyes. It felt so good. I remember the blood was rushing up and down my body. It really is an incredible sensation. Especially when it’s never happened to you before. In a way. The mind does a good job filling in the gaps with what I didn’t know. Good thing too, or else I would dreamed about sitting around watching TV all the time. What a drag. Fake, fantasy sex, now that’s where the real dreams were.
      I looked down some more. I wanted to remember this picture. The mere idea wasn’t enough. A mental picture goes just as far as s real one, if not more. I wanted to etch this image of my drop-dead goddess of an English teacher going to town on my penis.
      For the most part, Mrs. Meacham’s eyes were closed, but occasionally she would open them and unmouth me long enough to flash me a gracious smile, for I guess, bestowing on her this most righteous honor. At some forgettable point, she said, “Are you ready to come?” Then went back to gripping my penis and stroking it as fast as she could.
      When she said that, along with the motion of her hands, I couldn’t help but come one shot of semen on her face and in her hair, just like I’d seen the pros do in one of those magazines or movies I discreetly borrowed from my Dad’s closet every now and again and again.
      “I guess you are,” she said and immediately put her mouth back around my penis, pushing it down her throat as far as it would go, and back to bobbing up and down like crazy. 
      I remember all too well, how this felt, as I closed my eyes and felt the release rush over me with every shot in her mouth and down her throat. And as I came a little more, I actually heard Mrs. Meacham hum, like she was dying for the stuff. When I was done, Mrs. Meacham tickled the tip with her tongue and tried to get even more but no such luck.
      Then she looked up and said, “Now, don’t you forget that writing piece,” squeezing my dick for some added effect.
      “I’ll get it done, Mrs. Meacham.”
      She put my softening penis in her mouth one last time, and took her free hand and squeezed it from the base to the tip and ate up the last bit of come that came out.

      The next day, in class, I handed her the writing piece, all word processed with a plastic cover I’d grabbed off an old history report.
      “Tom,” Mrs. Meacham said, taking the piece in her hand. “This isn’t due until Friday.”
      “Oh…Yeah…Well, I thought I’d get it done all the same.” Then I winked at her. 
      This gave her pause, and she looked at me rather queerly.
      I saw her hand on her desk, remembering how much pleasure it had given me the night before. So I caressed her hand appreciatively.
      She looked down at her hand. And then at me, but I was already on my way to my seat. This time not minding so much if I should happen to get an erection during class.
      Yeah, that’s right, my tenuous grasp on reality was coming undone and I couldn’t be more ecstatic.