I met Nathalie on a chilly autumn afternoon. It was October, and already the leaves were spiraling down from the trees in short breezes. When Nathialie ("the new girl") came into my class that first day, she tracked a yellow leaf in with her, which flitted across the floor in the draft from beneath the door.
Within a month Nathalie had established herself as my star student. I taught English, and most of my students couldn't care less about Fitzgerald and Shakespeare, yet Nathalie turned out stellar analysis and brilliant poetry with every turn. I knew she belonged in a more advanced class, but this was a small, private girls' school, and we didn't have that sort of instruction here. Still, I had to do something.
"Nathalie," I called one day, at the end of class.
"Yes, Mr. Larsson?" she answered, pausing in the doorway. Her hair was cropped tomboyishly short, and she tucked it behind her ear, looking at me obediently. I motioned for her to come over, and proposed after-school tutoring sessions, making it clear that I felt she deserved special attention. She wholeheartedly agreed, and promised to come in the next day.
We spent nearly every afternoon in November and December together, discussing literature, critiquing poetry. Nathalie was a brilliant conversationalist, knowledgeably debating everything from politics to pop culture. I enjoyed our time together, and I was sure Nathalie did, too. Nathalie had been a loner ever since her first day at the school, and I know she was glad to have someone to talk to.
In fact, Nathalie grew more and more attached to me as the weeks went on. I knew how hard it was for new students, especially eighteen-year-old ingénues like Nathalie, to make friends, and I was flattered that she would want my company. She began choosing a seat in the front of the room, near my desk, every day. She would watch me attentively during class, chime in during discussions, and comment on the books we were reading after each lesson.
And I enjoyed Nathalie, too. She was fun to talk to and had a wonderful sense of humor. Yet something more was coming over me. I couldn't deny that she was a lovely girl; small, with Botticellian slim hips and small breasts, she looked beautiful even in the school's uniform. (White blouse, navy sweater, plaid skirt, navy kneesocks, and black shoes.) She must have been about five feet tall and weighed only a hundred pounds. Her smile was lively, her brown eyes bright, her chestnut hair silky and fine. When I watched her tapping her foot during class, her head bent studiously over her notebook, I felt drawn to her. I didn't want to admit it, but I was falling in love with a high schooler.
I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. Here I was, a married man in my late thirties, lusting after a girl who was barely more than a child. Sure, my wife and I didn't have sex much anymore (and when we did, it was routine) but so what? Plenty of men had mid-life crises, plenty were attracted to other women. It was just abnormal for a grown man--a teacher, for heaven's sake--to believe himself to be in love with an adolescent schoolgirl.
But, against my better judgment, I allowed our afternoon meetings to take on a more friendly tone. We sat side-by-side on my desk, we performed 'Romeo and Juliet.' It was a thrill almost heavier than I could handle. But I did pay my price, when Nathalie laughingly pulled me close, playing Juliet to my Romeo, I fought off the erection that threatened to rise right against her sweet, firm belly.
I didn't know how much more I could take, or how much longer I could hide it. I debated calling off the meetings, dropping the class, quitting my job, moving far, far from here. But I couldn't take the thought of losing Nathalie altogether. Something had to give.
And it did.
Rather, Nathalie did. She stood on a chair, the day before winter break, as we played out the balcony scene. Holding her Shakespeare paperback high, she read her lines, nearly reciting them. I stood on the floor, a few feet away, grateful for the distance. And gradually, we moved closer, following the stage directions and our own inclinations. Then, when it came time for Juliet to kiss Romeo, Nathalie did not kiss the air and pretend to have done the deed. Shy but swift, she reached for me. Her lips touched mine, closed, quickly, in a chaste kiss. Then she giggled, dropping her book and running from the room, calling, "Merry Christmas!" down the hall. I was left alone in my empty classroom, the shadow of consummation still on my lips, a full erection at my groin.
I re-lived the kiss over and over as I drove home and then, when I reached my driveway, it hit me. I would not be seeing Nathalie for a full two weeks of winter break. Perhaps the break was for the best, though. Temptation might prove too much for me if I were to see her tomorrow.
Anyway, something had to be done about my current erection. I went into the house quickly, and found my wife in the kitchen, just home from work. "Honey," I whispered, taking her by the shoulders and turning her around. I began to unbutton her blouse as I kissed her, murmuring, "Come upstairs with me. I want to make love with you."
Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course. My wife was a pretty woman, and the sweetest person I had ever known, but I did not want to make love with her. I did not want her full breasts and womanly shape. Still, I led her upstairs, nuzzling her collarbone, kissing her breasts. I selfishly skipped foreplay and finished undressing her, pushing her back onto the bed. She whimpered as I straddled her, groaned as I slipped my cock inside, moaned as I began to pump her. I pushed in and out more quickly than usual, her hot wet pussy tightening around my cock and driving me on. She reached her orgasm before I did, pushing aside precedence and crying out my name. But I had my eyes closed as I vigorously drove it home, pushing my cock in harder and faster as the tension grew to a peak. I was imagining Nathalie's body writhing beneath mine, her tight pussy as my sheath, her soft voice moaning to me.
And I was careful not to cry out any name as I came.
I felt guilty for deceiving my wife, as if I had truly cheated on her. She laid her head on my chest when we were through, sighing happily. "You haven't done that in years," she said. "What brought it on?"
"I was thinking of you at work," I lied, stroking her hair. Then a half-truth: "You're beautiful." I did not mention the adolescent with more beauty.
Then, finally, the winter vacation was over. School began with the second-semester commencement, a long assembly at which Honor Roll students from the first half of the year were celebrated, and news for the second half was announced. The school population had outgrown the auditorium a year or so ago, and at the back of the room students and teachers leaned on the wall, wishing they had seats. Others perched on armrests at the end of each row, looking at the stage with medium interest.
My own right hand was resting on an armrest, as I had the seat at the end of my row. Within minutes, Nathalie found me, and took a seat not only on my armrest, but on my hand. From the look of surprise on her face I knew she had not planned it, and I dared not pull away, lest any of the other teachers notice. She sat perfectly still and stared straight ahead.
