Miss Davenports New School

(Author's note - This story was written in response to an email from a reader of one of my earlier pieces. He asked me to write something involving characters with certain specific traits and incorporating a list of particular plot events. I think I've met almost all of his requests. If anyone else has a character or plot which they would like me to try to write about, let me know. I'll certainly consider it. And, if you like this story, please make sure to give it your vote.)

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My name is Denise Davenport. I'm 26 and I teach senior English at War Memorial High, a downtown school in a mid-size Virginia city, one which has been going pretty much straight downhill since 1865, when Lee surrendered to Grant at a little courthouse about 100 miles west of here.

I'm probably not much like the English teacher you had when

you

were in high school. And that's putting it mildly.

The thing you need to know about me is that I'm pretty good-looking. In fact, only modesty prevents me from admitting that I'm flat out gorgeous. I've got high cheekbones, bee-stung lips, long legs, thick blonde hair, huge blue eyes and a 34DD pair of headlights that would bring eyesight to the blind. Maybe make the lame walk too, and raise up the dead, like poor, 72-year old Mr. Peterson, who spent the last 15 years thinking he was impotent. In short, I'm your basic 5' 4", 107-pound package of prick-stiffening pulchritude. But you didn't hear it from me.

The other thing about me is that I like all the male attention that being sexy gets me. Actually, I love it. I adore knowing that, when I walk down the street, every man with a pulse is staring at me, which can be a little dangerous when one of them happens to be behind the wheel at the time. As a result, I have a tendency to raise auto insurance rates whenever I go out for a stroll. And I get off on knowing that I can give any man I want an erection just by smiling at him. And that, if I give him one of my special smiles, but don't fuck him, he'll probably be looking for some privacy to beat off as soon as I walk away.

So, while most of the other women teachers wear frumpy dresses, loose-fitting blouses and sensible shoes, I wear skirts as short as the most flirtatious girls in my class, tight sweaters and the highest spike heels I can find. As I said, probably not much like the homely bow-wow who taught

English at

your

high school.

Coming to War Memorial was a big change for me. For the last couple of years I taught at a ritzy Beltway prep school, but I was encouraged to leave for getting too friendly with some - well, actually nearly all - of the male faculty. Their wives started a petition and I decided it was time to move on. I could have stayed if I really wanted to. I had a sort of special relationship with the headmaster and a few of the more influential members of the Board of Directors. But once the bitch club had me in their sights, things were bound to get ugly. Besides, they were all going to keep their husbands on very short leashes, and there went a big chunk of my social life.

So I started looking around for a new job and interviewed at a whole bunch of places. But the first time I walked into War Memorial, my eyes opened wide and I knew I was in the right place. I grew up in a rich suburban town and went to a classy college, but I've always had a taste for black men, with their big, thick pricks and their direct approach to sex. This place is about 70 per cent black, and the halls that day were jammed with big, horny, strong, horny, adolescent, horny, dark-skinned guys. The air was so thick with hormones you could taste them.

The boys stopped in their tracks and stared as I walked by, like hungry wolves who couldn't believe that such a tender, tasty bunny had just hopped so innocently into their midst, and I suddenly regretted the years I had wasted fucking the wimps at my snobby, lily-white private school.

From the beginning of my teaching career, I've had a policy of never fucking my students. But throughout my life, I've also always had a policy of never arguing with the little girl between my legs. She was pretty excited about the idea of teaching at War Memorial. The principal offered me senior English and I took it on the spot, knowing full well the temptations and tough decisions I would face.

On the first day of school, I made a big, big mistake, but it wasn't all my fault. I was supposed to have had a two-day orientation program. But the school district was short on funds, so they told me to just show a little early the first day and have Mr. Harwood, the assistant principal, show me around.

School starts at 8:00, so I figured I'd be there at 7:00. Wanting to make a good impression on my new boss, I wore a tiny, pleated, blue plaid skirt with a hemline 8 inches above my knees and a powder blue sweater, which wasn't quite long enough to reach the skirt. I left several buttons undone at the top and the bottom to allow a good view of my jeweled navel and substantial cleavage. And it was tight enough that, where I did button it, little gaps pulled open between the buttons. Not big enough to see anything. Just big enough to attract a man's eye like a magnet.

And my breasts

do

grab a guy's attention. They're big, but not at all droopy. Even without a bra, which I almost never wear, they sit firm and proud, high up on my chest like a teenager's.

To top my outfit off, I wore shiny, bright blue stilettos, a few big, chunky bracelets, a cute little choker - two strands of cultured pearls with a small heart-shaped turquoise stone - and dangly earrings sprinkled with tiny, sparkly imitation jewels.

Problem was, no one had told me about the secure faculty parking area right next to the school. I parked at a public lot a couple blocks away and walked, which meant I had to go down a narrow alleyway between two buildings to get from the lot to the street the school is on.

The alley was dark, filthy and kind of scary. It stunk of old urine and cheap wine. The windows of the buildings on either side were covered by rusty security gratings, but many had cracked or broken glass anyway. Garbage and litter were heaped around randomly. But I was used to being safe and protected, and I was too stupid or lazy, or both, to look for a different route.

At the far end of the alley were what appeared to be a couple of piles of rags and trash. But as I approached, carrying a stack of books under my arm, one of the piles began to stir, and a shabby-looking guy, who had apparently spent the night there, rose like a zombie from under the refuse. The click-clacking of my spike heels in the quiet alley must have roused him. He rubbed his eyes and sat there watching me for a few seconds. "Boo-yaa," he breathed quietly, and then sang, "Goood mornin' liddle school girl," as the other pile began to stir too. He had a lousy voice.

Now I was terrified, and I stopped where I stood. But I didn't want to show my fear, so I didn't turn around and run.

As the first guy creaked into a standing position, his companion sat up and continued the song, "Can we come hooommme wit' you?" he croaked.

Then, as he stood up and the first guy began to move toward me, they sang in unison, "Tell your momma and your poppa we're liddle school boys too."

They were bigger than they had looked when they were on the ground, and probably younger and less decrepit than they seemed as well. I put my free hand into my pocket book. "I'm no school girl," I said quietly. "I'm a teacher at the high school, and if you put one dirty finger on me, I swear you'll regret it."

"Sure, Darlin', sure," said the first, approaching slowly. "We're not gonna hurtcha. We just wanna, you know, get acquainted." He smiled, revealing rotten and missing teeth. "I'm Reggie, and this is Nate." Now I could smell gin, and the stench of stale piss had become overwhelming. "And that gentleman back there," he added, nodding in the direction from which I had come, "that's our esteemed colleague, Thomas."

Reggie and Nate were now within a few feet, but I had to risk a glance over my shoulder to see if Thomas was real. He was, and he was standing at the end of the alley, larger and more bedraggled than the other two put together, with a big, menacing grin on his grubby, ugly face.

Thomas, whose voice was worse than Reggie's, repeated the last line of the song, "I'm a liddle school boy too," then chuckled and started sing-songing quietly to himself, "School boy, school boy, I'm a liddle school boy."

I felt Reggie's hand stroke my arm, pulled sharply back from his touch and whirled to face him. "I'm not kidding and I'm not flirting. I don't want you ass holes touching me," I screamed. Behind me, I heard Thomas' frenzied laugh.

"Hey, hey, ya don't have to get all historical and everythin'," said Nate, who seemed to be getting angry.

I tried to keep walking, but they blocked my path.

"C'mon, Sweetheart, just linger here awhile and chat with us all about your role in the educational system," wheedled Reggie. "Fraternize with the hoi polloi, as it were."

"Maybe

we

can teach

you

a couple of things," snickered Nate. As he spoke, he reached for my waist and Reggie put his hand on my arm again. Thomas couldn't stop laughing.

Now, I may climb all over the cock of every halfway cute stud I meet. And I do have a tendency to suck off any guy who asks me real nice. But nobody ever fucks me unless I want him to. Nobody. Not ever. Especially not Reggie and Nate, and real especially, not Thomas.

They left me no choice. My hand came out of my pocket book spraying Mace into Reggie's and Nate's eyes at point blank range. They howled in pain and instantly covered their faces with both hands. I kneed Reggie in the crotch as hard as I could and he collapsed, screaming even louder than before, now clutching at his groin, then his face, then his groin again, as if he couldn't decide which hurt more. I dropped the Mace and, holding my books with both hands, brought them down on Nate's head with all my strength. He slumped to the pavement, unconscious.

I grabbed the Mace again and spun around to face Thomas, holding the tiny spray can horizontally, like a thug with a 9mm gat. He had come a few feet down the alley, but stopped, held his hands up and started to back away, still sporting that crazy, shit-eating grin.

I turned back to Nate and kicked him in the balls, hard, for good measure. He was still unconscious and couldn't feel it at the time, but when he came to, I wanted him to have a reminder of how bad his manners had been.

When I looked up, I realized a small crowd had gathered at the street end of the alley. They began to applaud. I straightened my clothing, took a deep breath, stepped over Reggie and Nate and marched out to the sidewalk.

"Thanks for the support," I said sarcastically to one of the men in the crowd.

"I was going to run down there and rescue you," he replied, "but before I could change into my Spiderman suit, you creamed them, really creamed them."

"Same here," said another guy, who wasn't half-bad looking. "You were awesome, girl."

"Thanks," I said, and smiled at them. But I didn't have time for flirting. I wanted to get to school quick.

Just as I turned down the street toward War Mem, a cop car pulled up, siren wailing and lights flashing.

"When I saw what was happening, I dialed 411 on my cell," explained a girl, probably one of the students. "Are you really a teacher," she asked. "You must be new. What's your name?"

"Denise Davenport," I answered. "And you probably mean you dialed 911, because 411 is Directory Assistance"

"That too," she replied brightly, "but first I had to call 411."

"Why's that," I asked suspiciously.

"To get the number for 911," she answered, as though I should have known.

"Which, coincidentally, just happens to be....911," I observed dryly.

"Who'd have thought it?" she bubbled.

Any way, that was the end of my plan to get to school early and make a good impression. The police arrested Reggie and Nate and put them in the back of the car, then spent more than 45 minutes interviewing me and most of the witnesses, taking names and addresses and asking all kinds of questions. Meanwhile, the sidewalk was crowded with kids walking by and taking in the scene on their way to school. But it wasn't a complete waste of time. One of the cops was really hunky and we exchanged glances and phone numbers.

By the time I got to school it was almost first bell. I had to ask directions to my homeroom, and it turned out to be on the third floor, south wing. When I got there Little Miss 411 was sitting in the front row, beaming her biggest smile and every student at every desk knew exactly what had happened on my way to school. The administration had chalked a formal greeting on the blackboard, but someone had erased my name and replaced it, so that the salutation now read, "The students of Homeroom 327 warmly welcome DENISE-THE-BEAST."

As I walked to the front of the room, my slut sense began to tingle something fierce. Okay, one other thing you need to know about me is that I have this sixth sense. I call it my "slut sense". You've heard of Spiderman's "spider-sense"? The back of his head tingles whenever he's in the presence of danger. Well, I've got sort of the same thing. Whenever I'm in the presence of a guy who's a truly great fuck, even if I haven't seen him yet, or don't even know there's anyone there, my clit tingles.

The little girl between my legs perks up lots of other times, of course: when I kiss a good-looking guy, when I watch a Humphrey Bogart movie or hear a romantic song, when I put my hand in my panties and stroke it, stuff like that. But whenever it begins to smolder for no apparent reason, it means there's some seriously-hung beekcake nearby. And as I entered Homeroom 327 it was tingling so hard, I could barely walk. More than any time since that sweaty afternoon in the Sixers' locker room.

I looked quickly around and a tall, handsome black kid with a short-sleeve shirt and dreamy muscles caught my eye. Must have been about six-foot two and 220 pounds. Just then, the bell rang and the students were out of their seats pushing past me, pouring out into the corridor, giggling and looking at me over their shoulders.

I went to my desk and checked on the seating chart. His name was Joey Jurgensen. I had been given basic information about all the kids and looked him up. He was 18 and on the football team. I later learned he was the starting centerfielder, or quarterback, or something. I couldn't be certain that he was the one who set my slut sense off, but I sure hoped so.

Despite my, shall we say, "busy" social life, I take my profession seriously, and I'm actually a pretty good teacher. If I were ever going to violate my rule against having sex with my students, it would ease the guilt a little if that kid were as good-looking as Joey.

After my homeroom kids left, things calmed down for a while. I had a minute or two to look around my new classroom. The building was probably 60 or 70 years old, with high ceilings. I was pretty sure my room hadn't been redecorated that whole time. It had tall windows, crumbling plaster and old, dark, wood trim. There were big, old-fashioned, cast metal, steam-heated radiators, which would probably be way too hot in the winter.

First period was general college prep English. Like all my classes, they were good kids, fairly well-behaved and mostly 18 and 19. Every one of them knew all the details of my encounter with Reggie, Nate and Thomas, of course.

We talked about my plan for the year, which was to read a few of the classics and make sure they were able to write an acceptable expository essay.

The girls didn't know quite what to make of me. Was I competition, or were their boyfriends too young to interest me? The boys, however, were a lot less ambivalent. I could tell from the way they looked at me that I was very much to their taste. But one of them went a little too far.

To get to know the kids, I'd been going around the room having them tell me their hobbies and interests. Shawn's answer was, "Boning on the davenport." The class exploded in laughter, catcalls and wiseass remarks. I doubt many of them got the double-entendre, because most of them probably don't know that a davenport is a couch. But they sure got the idea that Shawn was joking about having sex with me.

Now, I have no problem with the boys drooling all over me in class. If I can keep their attention, maybe I can actually teach them something. But I need to keep some degree of order and decorum, or things will get out of control real fast. So I had to make an example out of Shawn and send him to the office. But I did take note of the fact that he has a pretty decent vocabulary and put him on my mental list of promising students.

Second period was free time, so I went to the office to see Mr. Harwood and get my orientation. He's a tall, trim, handsome black man who appears to be about 45. When we shook hands, I held his for a couple of seconds longer than necessary and briefly placed my other hand on his muscular forearm, then sat down in the armless chair in front of his desk and crossed my legs with a flourish. He was still standing, which gave him a good view down the front of my sweater.

He also knew about my little alleyway adventure, of course, and had been the one who dealt with Shawn, so the first thing on his orientation agenda was to explain some kind of faculty dress code.

"Now, Ms. Davenport, we here at War Memorial High School have a dress...," Harwood began.

"Please, call me Denise," I interrupted sweetly.

At this point I realized that I had at least two problems. One was the rules Harwood was about to try to enforce. The other was that I hadn't been fucked in over 12 hours and I was getting pretty horny. But I thought I had a solution to both problems. It was the same old solution I apply to most difficulties. You see, for me, sex is like duct tape is for most guys. Any time a guy gets into a little predicament, he reaches for the duct tape. Me, whenever I have a problem, the first thing I try is a little romance, a little flirting and a whole lot of getting myself stuffed full of stiff cock.

"Sure," he answered and most of my friends call me...," he hesitated as if a little embarrassed, "...'Jelly'."

" Jelly?" I asked, letting my tone and expression convey interest, bordering on amusement. "It's obviously not short for 'Jelly-belly'," I added in reference to his obvious fitness.

"No, no" he explained, "It's actually short for 'Jelly Roll'."

" Jelly Roll Harwood?" I said letting my growing amazement show.

"It's because I'm a big fan of the early jazz and blues musicians, like Jelly Roll Morton," he replied, "But my real name is Longfellow, because my mother has always been fond of the American Romantic poets."

"Longfellow...Jelly Roll...Harwood," I said slowly, lingering on each word. "That name's more than romantic. It's deliciously exciting. Almost seductive," I purred. By this point, my clit was beginning to pulse and tingle. It wasn't my slut sense. It was just his masculine presence and, mostly, his name. As I said, when the little girl talks to me, I listen, and right then, she was speaking up loud and clear. I figured I really just had to find out if he would live up to his name.

I braced my hands on the chair behind me to thrust my breasts out seductively. I uncrossed and recrossed my legs just because I know how much men like to watch me do it. Then I did it again just because it made my clit feel so good. There was a noticeable and rapidly growing bulge in Harwood's pants. When he noticed me eyeing it, he quickly sat down, but that apparently made him sort of uncomfortable. He squirmed for a few seconds, then reached down into his lap to adjust something out of my view. If he could have turned red, he would have.