Clara Krautheimer nipped through the dark chocolate shell and allowed the candy nugget's mocha cream soft center to melt onto her tongue without chewing. The See's Candy clerk saw the obvious joy in her customer's eyes as she relished the free sample and asked, "Can I make up a one-pound box of those for you? Or would you prefer a variety?"
The interrogatory jogged Clara back to reality, but not as much as what she saw through the shop window, across the Quadrangle Mall's wide aisle. There, in Victoria's Secret, she was certain that she was looking at Charles Womack, paying for she couldn't guess what. As she tried to fathom the scene, she turned to the candy clerk and answered, "No, no, Dear. It's delicious, but I'll stick with my usual. Just pack me a half-pound of Scotch Mallows and Bordeauxes, evenly divided. There's a good girl. But do hurry... I have to, umm, meet someone!"
Moments later, Clara rushed from the candy shop and discreetly surveilled the eighteen-year-old high school student she recognized from her American Literature class. Standing hidden behind a large ficus in a cement planter, she was of two minds: Part of her was eager to discover not only what naughty intimate item, or items, the boy had bought, but for whom they were bought. Another, more sensible, part of her urged her to turn around; take her confections, and go home to her calico cat, Fritzy. As she wrestled with her yens, her target left the lingerie shop carrying a large pink-and-black box and headed away from her toward a mall exit.
Until last evening, Clara's sensual devil-may-care alter-ego had been on a hiatus since her affair with young Ernie Post ended with his graduation three years ago. Now, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she piped up excitedly, "Carpe Diem, Dearie! Remember how you wondered if that sweet boy from seventh period had a dickhead as smooth, fat and yummy as a Scotch Mallow? Don't miss your chance to set up finding out!"
The stout sixty-four-year-old English teacher's nipples poked up hard, thick and sassy from their wrinkled platforms as she blushed under her make-up at the returning taboo thought. Neither her brassiere's buttressing full lace-and-cotton cups, nor her silky rayon slip restrained the plump pips' impression against her cotton print dress. Her heart was on fire, her brain blazed and she had a familiar, but long absent, queasiness in her tummy. While she moved past the weeping fig and followed her quarry, she chided herself, "You are so bad, Clara Krautheimer!"
"No, you're not," countered the voice. "You're just a woman with natural neglected needs and increasingly few opportunities to meet them. This boy might be your last chance before you retire and are surrounded only by old men with failing prostates. Don't let yourself shrivel into hagdom, Dearie!"
Oblivious to his stalker, Charles drifted through the light Saturday afternoon shopping crowd toward his parked Mazda. He was consumed by thoughts of the best way to present his mother with the sexy purple satin-and-lace bikini panties and matching sheer net nightie that he carried under his arm. "Before dinner will be way too early," he mused. He saw, in his mind's eye, the royal flimsy veil draping her pale voluptuous body and figured, "But actually giving it to her on Mothers' Day will be too late to enjoy tonight. So, after dinner I'll just have to look for an opportunity and hope for the best."
Even though Charles knew for a fact that he had fucked his mom twice, just since breakfast, it was difficult for him to wrap his head around his transition from 'dweeb' to 'stud'. In particular, although she had squealed and clutched him tight as he loaded her up with his cum, he was unsure whether she was serious about continuing their sexual relationship. He questioned himself, "What if she gets all guilty, or is embarrassed, or even angry? What if she doesn't like the outfit that I bought her?"
As he opened his Protégé's driver's side rear door and tossed the package onto the bench seat he was startled to hear his name called. The voice was oddly familiar, but the setting for it was all wrong. Raising his head abruptly, he cracked it sharply on the upper edge of the open door-frame then pulled back. While he straightened up and turned about to see who was nearby, he winced at the throbbing pain.
From three feet away, Clara exclaimed again, as if completely surprised, "Charles Womack! It IS you! Imagine that!" Then, noticing the lad's grimace as he rubbed the back of his towhead brush-cut, she promptly rushed forward. Penning him in between her fireplug body and the flung-open car door, she lowered her voice and consoled, "You poor boy! That was a nasty bang... I'm sorry now that I shouted. I could have waited until you were outside the car..."
Seizing the moment, just as her inner voice had advised, Clara spun Charles in place as neatly as a cop about to frisk a suspect. However, more tenderly than any policeman with a legal reason, she ran her hands up his back and tipped his head forward over the door as she sweetly cooed, "Good, I don't see any obvious bleeding or broken skin in your scalp." Her deft light touch at his temples and behind his ears down to his T-shirt's collar felt weirdly wonderful to him while she soothed, "Still, it's already raised a lump and head injuries can be deceptive."
Clara took full advantage of her teaching experience and maximally exercised the authority she had built up in her classroom. Kindly, but with no nonsense, she walked Charles around the Mazda and parked him in the front passenger seat as she informed him, "You're coming with me. I want to watch you, in case there's a concussion, or worse, developing." Closing the door, she hustled to the driver's side more spryly than he would have guessed possible based on her age and shape. He watched, stunned and speechless, as she used the keys that she had somehow liberated from his hand to start the little sedan's engine.
Clara put the car in gear and aimed it for the street while she spoke conversationally, "As you well, know, Charlie... it's alright if I call you that outside the classroom, isn't it? I mean, I AM your teacher, but we BOTH know who put the chocolates under my door mat yesterday afternoon, don't we?" Turning her head briefly from traffic, she winked at him and smiled conspiratorially. "Oh yes, Charlie," she thought, as she quickly assessed his susceptibility to fall prey to her wiles. "I think you're going to be easy and fun."
