Note: All characters in this series are above eighteen years of age.
I’ve always been a smart guy; I knew it, my parents knew it, and most of my teachers knew it. Which was basically where I screwed myself over: I know now that I should have played stupid right off from Freshman year.
But I didn’t have the foresight to realize how it would have helped me, and the abnormally high scores on my placements exams and on standardized tests from pervious years had pretty much put a sign on my forehead: “I’m real smart.”
So, having the mental capacity to do well in school, everyone expected a lot out of me.
They weren’t going to get it. The Catch-22 is that I’m lazy. Laziest guy you will ever meet; I hate to work, I hate to do anything that isn’t simply for the hell of it. Schoolwork was low on my list of priorities.
I made it through ninth, tenth, and eleventh grade with average grades and the minimum amount of work. C’s and low B’s were the norm for me, and I was fine with that. As long as I wasn’t failing, I didn’t care. I wasn’t all that interested in college. As long as I got into one, it made no difference to me.
Senior year, however, was very different.
I was rolling as usual, straight C’s in all of my classes, or so I was led to believe. “Senioritis,” as they call it, was going around. I started skipping a lot of class time to see movies with friends, or get high in the park.
My grades dropped severely, but it didn’t mean much to me, until my counselor called me to his office one afternoon.
“Trey. Trey, please have a seat.” I shrugged, giving the little man a once over before sitting down. He was nothing special. Your typical ‘I’m not good enough to be a teacher, so I’ll get paid for pretending to listen to kids talk about their shitty ass lives instead.’
I think he may have noticed the disdain written on my face as I looked at him, because he smiled, all wicked-like. That made me nervous. He opened a sliding drawer and pulled out a file of papers (mine, I assumed.)
Yeah, good job fuckface. You got my name right.
“I understand that you have always been, in the past, a relatively decent student.”
“Do you realize how much your grades have dropped this year?”
I obviously don’t care, dumbass.
“Then let me tell you.” He waited expectantly, as if this comment elicited a response. I didn’t say anything, which made him squirm slightly. I smiled.
I cut a pretty intimidating figure, and I know it. I like it. Six feet and one or two inches of heavy muscle and lean, wiry figure. A head of dark hair, and these intense brown eyes. Yeah, I think I was making the little guy nervous. Usually I’m pretty easy-going, but in this case, I didn’t mind, because he was a prick.
“Your English grade remains an A, which has always been your strong point. Do you like English, Trey?”
Just say what you have to say, and let me leave.
He nodded, and shuffled his papers. “Anyways. Your english, science, history, and psychology grades are passable. It’s your math grade we need to talk about.”
I grimaced, because I knew what was coming.
“You’re failing. Missing assignments, poor test grades, if you even take the test, and what class time you put in, your teacher says you’re not paying attention.”
I frowned, putting a confused expression on my face.
“Who teaches that class again?”
It was all I could do to keep from falling on the floor laughing at the look on the guy’s face. Shock, mixed with horror and disbelief. Classic.
I knew perfectly well who the teacher was.
“Mr. Atwater teaches your calculus course…”
“Ohh, right.” I acted as if it was a revelation to me.
Mr. Atwater was not a presence to be trifled with. I’d play games with most of my other teachers; mess with their heads, disrupt their classes, but with him…? No. I tried to keep a low profile in his class. He was my height, maybe a bit taller, with intense blue eyes. I didn’t like it when he looked at me, because I swear to God that it was like he could read my mind.
“So?” I asked, regaining composure.
“You must know that it states clearly in the school handbook that if you fail any classes your senior year, you must postpone college education until you redo the course with a passing grade.”
We have a school handbook? …wait, what did he just say?
“What the hell?” I yelped, forgetting where I was. His eyes bulged again, but it wasn’t funny anymore. “Wait, you’re telling me I’m going to have to do one stupid class instead of going to college?”
“Mr. Carmichael, please, calm down. You can simply do the course over the summer!” He said it like it was something to be excited about.
I took a breath, attempting to count to ten. I made it to four before asking, “What are the alternatives?”
“Well, there is the option of summer school. Or you can simply try to bring that grade up! You do have almost a full quarter left. I suggest you talk to Mr. Atwater about this. Please do what you can to rectify this. A letter has already been mailed to your parents.”
I left at his dismissal, without a goodbye.
Fuck. Double fuck.
I glanced at the clock ticking madly on the wall. I still had three periods left before the end of school, and I honestly didn’t need to go to English, so I braced myself, wound up some courage, and headed to the mathematics hallway.
Atwater taught in 402.
I passed 399, brushing my hair out of my eyes with one hand. Why was I sweating?
I did not want to talk to him. He made me nervous as hell.
I wanted to stop walking right there, but it was like his room was one end of a magnet, and I was the other. My feet kept moving.
I stopped in front of his door, and looked inside the room.
He was teaching.
I sighed, wondering why I had gotten so worked up. I should have known he would have had a class right now.
I watched him write something on the blackboard, his numbers (which made no sense to me) arching across the board like some beautiful, foreign language.
At that moment, he glanced up and out the door. Our eyes met, my angry chocolate gaze shattering under his piercing blue one. He smiled faintly, lips quirking. I shuddered, and turned to leave, and the bell rang right near my ear, making me jump.
“Fuck!” Thankfully, my voice was drowned out by the din of students exploding from their classrooms, doors slamming open, the hallways filling. I was about to lose myself in the crowd when a firm hand closed around my upper arm, and pulled me into 402.
I jerked back, once I was in the classroom, Atwater’s hand falling away from my arm.
I glared, and he smiled. “Mr. Carmichael, so nice of you to drop in.”
I think one of the reasons he freaked me out so much was the fact that he didn’t look much older than me. He was some young protégé, fresh from college, and it showed. He was relaxed, and cool, and pretty brilliant, though his classes were tough.
“Yeah. But I have to go, my next class-” I stammered.
He cut me off. “No, you’re excused from the rest of your afternoon classes. So. I take it from the pissed off expression on your face that you’ve spoken with your counselor?” At my nod, he continued.
“You can’t honestly be angry with me about that; I don’t like failing students. But you deserve exactly what you’ve gotten: a failing grade.”
I snarled, ready to throw every dirty word I knew at his handsome face. He smiled, as if he knew what was coming, which stopped the words in my mouth.
“Yeah.” Was all I could manage.
“So, Trey– can I call you Trey?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “I think our best option is for you to get a tutor, namely me, and for you to make some free time in your very busy life.”
His sarcasm would have intrigued me, had he been anyone else, but here it just pissed me off. I was nearly literally fuming by now.
“Because you, sir, are going to be doing a LOT of extra credit work. And it starts now.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Grab some chalk, and do these four problems on the board.” He handed me a sheet of paper, and I glanced down. I had absolutely no idea what any of them were, or how to do them. I looked up to find that he was watching me.
Surprisingly, his cheeks reddened faintly, and he turned towards his desk. “The first step would be to write out the problem, Trey.”
I shrugged, and, putting my pride aside for the moment, wrote out all four problems neatly on the board. When I had done that, however, I was in a rut.
I bit my lip, thinking hard.
I looked at him again, and he was watching me again, a predatory smile on his face. I was pretty sure Atwater was enjoying watching me make a fool of myself.
He did some complicated math step on the board, his chalk leaving yellow dust on his hands. He didn’t seem to care.
“Now you try.”
I did give it an honest effort, but I was still quite unsure of what to do. I was standing on my toes now, to reach the top of the board where I was writing a (very incorrect) equation, my back to Mr. Atwater, when I heard his chuckle behind me, very close to my ear.
I jumped, getting ready to bolt, but he grabbed my wrist firmly, his breath hot against the back of my neck, and began to guide my hand holding the chalk over the board. I watched as he helped me write the correct equation, and I was vaguely surprised that I sort of understood what was going on in the math problem.
I was getting pretty into the problem, writing a lot of the stuff on my own now, his hand still lingering on my wrist, when he took another step forward, trapping me between his body and the blackboard.
I couldn’t see him, because my back was to him, but I felt his lean body pressing me into the cool blackboard. He must have leaned down, because when he spoke again, his lips brushed against my ear.
It was right about here that I started to get some weird vibes.
I was a little creeped out. I shuddered slightly.
“I think you might just know what you’re doing, Mr. Carmichael.”
I nodded, not quite sure what to do. He placed one hand against the blackboard, the other still wrapped around my wrist. I noted his long, slender fingers, and how powerful they looked. I got a visual of those fingers, sliding down my stomach, lower…
I jolted, coming out of my daydream and pushing back hard, trying to get out of the cage his arms had made. He didn’t move. Atwater was pretty strong, and he had a few inches on me.
I was still for a moment, my eyes flicking around the room for a heavy object and/or a way out. I found none nearby, and the feel of his lips on the back of my neck distracted me entirely from my search.
He was… kissing my neck now? His teeth scraping over my sensitive skin and making me squirm slightly, tightening things lower in my body.
No fucking way I like this, I told myself, and yet my body was saying other things. As Atwater’s tongue flicked over the back of my neck, I felt myself growing hard, my erection pushing against the ledge attached to the blackboard.
“W-what the hell are you doing, you perv?” I snarled, my voice sounding frightened even to me.
He chuckled, an entirely male sound, and spoke with his lips pressed against my neck.
“What I’ve wanted to do for a while.”
At those words, he drove his hips against mine, and I felt him incredibly hard against my ass. He was pushing against me now, grinding his crotch against my ass cheeks, and I was writhing, my breath coming faster.
He began to pump his erection in between my ass cheeks, the force of his thrusts driving my own erection against the blackboard ledge, and drawing a faint moan from my lips.
The only thing that was keeping him from sliding deep into me was the thin layers of clothes between us. That knowledge snapped me back to reality, and with a sudden movement, I slammed my heel down onto his foot, and pushed myself backwards forcefully.
He snarled and let go of me, and I bolted to the door.
“Carmichael.” Was all he said, and his voice stopped me in my tracks.
It was like I was in some kind of trance. My hard-on was rubbing uncomfortably against the rough material of my pants, and making every step I took incredibly erotic for me.
“Come back over here, Trey.” Mr. Atwater said, his voice soft.
I couldn’t stop myself as I turned slowly, and began to walk towards him. He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, and looking like the cat who got the cream.
“Keep coming.” He said, grinning.
I continued my trek towards him until I was standing directly in front of him, our eyes locked in a silent battle. I lost, being the first to look away.
“You’re going to do everything I tell you to.” He said slowly, as if I wouldn’t understand him.
“Like fuck I will.” I snarled, all pride and defiance. I think he liked that. He smiled, and suddenly reached out a hand, tangling his fingers in my hair and jerking me forwards hard, drawing a yelp from my lips.
The sound was promptly muffled as he pressed his lips hard against mine, kissing me roughly with his teeth and his tongue. My lips would be bruised tomorrow, but the harsh force with which he kissed me only made my erection harder.
The kiss drew a groan from my lips, my chest heaving with silent panting. He broke the kiss, shoving me away from him, so that I stumbled backwards into a desk.
“You’re going to do everything I tell you to.” He said again, in the same politely pleasant tone. I was about to protest again, but the memory of his kiss and the hard-on in my pants stopped me, and I dropped my head.
I want more.
“Yes.” I said, and with the single word, I was pretty sure I sold my soul to the devil.
Author’s note: This is my first submission, and I have a lot more to write, so if I get positive feedback from my readers, I’ll put up part two soon. Thanks (: