Standard disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional, and all characters are 18 or older.
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Zoey's Fantasy
Some days (many days anymore, ever since she started fucking Mr. Harlow, if she's being honest with herself), Zoey finds her mind drifting away, conjuring elaborate fantasies of her and her teacher. It happens whenever class gets too boring, or on the bus ride home, or even at the dinner table with her parents. She's never been so horny in her life, sneaking off to rub one out two, three times daily. She wants to get herself a nice vibrator, or even a mediocre one, just something that will do the job better than her own fingers. Mr. Harlow can't fuck her every day, so something needs to satisfy the heat between her legs. In the meantime, she makes due, slinking off to the bathroom when the pressure of her desire becomes too great and she can't help herself.
In Zoey's fantasies, it's always 6th period senior science with Mr. Harlow. She is sitting in her usual spot in the middle of the classroom, surrounded by all of the other girls. It's a lecture day, something boring like geology that she's supposed to be taking notes on. Mr. Harlow's words are a barely-heard murmur, nothing she actually absorbs. She has her pencil and papers out, but she hasn't picked them up all period, instead staring out the window at the gray autumn sky. Of course, she forgets that Mr. Harlow likes to call on students who seem like they're ignoring him. Forgets, until the sound of his voice calling her name breaks through the haze of boredom.
"Zoey? Hey Zoey, I asked you a question," he's come to stand next to her, just a little too close, making her feel even smaller in his shadow. His hips are even with her face. The other girls giggle, a mocking chorus that makes her pale cheeks flush.
She tucks a lock of blond hair behind one ear before responding, tries to simper just enough to charm, not annoy. "Sorry, Mr. Harlow. I must've zoned out again. What did you say?"
He lets out a long, frustrated sigh, rubs the back of his neck with one hand.
"Zoey," he says, "that's not cool. You know you need to pay closer attention."
She lets a flash of annoyance show, not liking how he's singling her out in front of everyone. Defiantly, she says, "Well, maybe if your lectures were more interesting, I'd listen to you better."
The other girls gasp, shocked at her attitude. Now he's angry, his own face flushing in turn. "I'm not interesting enough? Well, maybe I just need to make things more interactive, see if that holds your attention."
"Yeah? How're you going to do that?" Zoey is more assertive in her fantasies than she would ever be in real life, scowling up at him with a level of disrespect she knows will provoke.
"By making you the subject of the lesson," Mr. Harlow gives her a cold smile before looking around the classroom, "Gather 'round, girls. Get out your phones. Zoey wants things to be more 'interesting,' so I'm going to oblige."
Chairs scrape on the linoleum as her classmates get up and circle around her and Mr. Harlow, a sea of white blouses and blue pleated skirts, cell phones held up and already filming. A flutter of nerves courses through Zoey's belly. She's never been the center of attention like this, not even on the volleyball court, and now she's not so sure she's going to like what's about to happen.