The Wrong Treatment Part III
"Ms. Armstrong, are we disturbing you?" Mr. Phelps stopped his lecture.
Misty flipped her phone face down and slid it to the corner of her desk.
"No. Sorry," she mumbled.
The bored 18-year-old slunk back in her chair and stared down at her notebook until the perturbed psychology teacher returned to his lesson. Free of his attention, she slipped off her gray hoodie and hung it over the backrest. In all the time I'd ever known her, from middle school till that moment in senior year, I had never seen her wear a revealing item of clothing. Her wardrobe was a medley of jackets, which concealed all but her face. I suspected a lot had to do with her brother, Richie. As a varsity football player and a grade-A tool like Brent, he and his buddies were always objectifying the preppy, popular girls that liked to test the limits of the school dress code with skimpy skirts and low-cut shirts. Misty clearly wasn't interested in becoming one of those bubble-headed sluts. That is part of the reason I'd always liked her. That, and her cute smile, pretty face, and biting wit. She didn't have to show off her body to be attractive.
She didn't HAVE to, but today she was. Drinking in the new look, my eyes gravitated over the cleavage of her girly, pink top that cinched so tight around her breasts, I wouldn't have been surprised to see the two sequestered mounds of flesh burst from the seams and flash the entire classroom. They were not the biggest tits, but on her skinny frame, and in that snug top, they projected like a couple of over-ripened grapefruit ready to squirt at the slightest pressure. I fidgeted nervously as my dick hardened and contemplated how strong the magic must be to have altered Misty's psyche so abruptly. First Brent's mom, and now her. I could not afford to let the situation get out of hand. Richie deserved to suffer, but not his sister.
Recalling the label to the love potion, "For a binding love, that will not break until the hour is of late," my mind scrambled to deduce its meaning. Many nights had passed since I dosed Brent, and the effects of the drug were as prevalent as ever. And why was it making people attracted to women in their own families? I wished I could ask my grandpa for help, but that would mean admitting to stealing and using restricted potions from his shop on unsuspecting kids my age. Fuck!
It occurred to me that though Brent and Richie had been at football practice when they chugged down the mysterious elixir, their attention hadn't been on their teammates on the field. They had both been interacting with their phones... Holy shit! I felt like an idiot. The magic wasn't determined on creating incestuous couples. It was just happenstance they both were communicating with family at the time they were affected.
"Ms. Armstrong, what did I say about text-" Mr. Phelps's voice caught in his throat as his eyes fell on the busty teen. She had tried to stow the phone in her lap and was leaning forward, arms parallel and pressing against her boobs, squeezing them together, as she tried to text covertly.
"Put the phone away or it is detention!" the flustered middle-aged man managed to stammer.
I noticed a few other kids gawking at Misty as she bent to stuff the device into her pack. It sickened me to imagine how Richie would react seeing his sister in such a vulnerable position. The jerk would no doubt whip out his cock and fuck her over the desk, taking a fistful of her long, dark mane and pulling it back until she was so overcome with both pain and pleasure that her legs would turn to jelly and she would cave to an earth-shattering climax. Jeeze. I shook off the thought. I was becoming too desensitized thanks to the incredible libido of Brent and Mrs. Young.
If only Richie had drunk from his bottle a few seconds later... If only he had become infatuated with someone else. The thought of coupling the bastard with a different mate unfolded in my mind. Why couldn't I give him another treatment? I had only used a couple drops for each go-round. There was plenty left in the vial. I watched Misty stretch her legs out, then prop her head up with her hand. Hopefully, the spell would wear off once her brother bonded with someone else. It was worth a try at least.
When the lunch bell rang, I rushed down the hall to intercept Brent before Mr. Phelps could even say "dismissed." No point wasting time when every minute that passed drove the magic to spread its roots deeper. And why risk getting caught on the football field when I could just order my minion to do it for me?
"I need you to get me Richie's backpack," I demanded as Brent walked past me. I didn't want to clue him in that I was about to slip stuff into his friend's drink.
"What?" He shook his head in angry confusion. "First his jacket, now his backpack?"
"Yeah. I don't care how you get it. Just get it done... Or else." Man, I loved making ominous threats to a dude who used to pummel me for just existing.
"I can't," Brent replied.
"What do you mean, you can't?"
"He has lunch detention," Brent steamed through clenched teeth.
Detention. Crap... Wait... Actually. That could work. That could work brilliantly. No Misty, no access to cellular devices, a limited group of lowlifes to get focused on...
"With whom?" I pried.
"Mrs. Watson, I think."
I whizzed past Brent and shuffled my way down the corridor. Mrs. Watson was our history teacher. A woman in her late thirties, with mid-length chestnut hair that was restrained into a bun most days. She was married with two toddlers that she liked to gloat about like they were God's gift to humanity. She even had a family picture of them posed with her husband on her desk next to one of her figure skating decades ago. Apparently, her dream career was to be on the ice, but it was cut short after suffering a knee injury in college, so she went into teaching. Her classes were brutal, and the tests were just as unsympathetic. I believed she hated her job because she secretly begrudged each student. She was overly stern and had no sense of humor, often reprimanding kids for the smallest infractions like passing notes.
"Here goes nothing," I whispered to myself before barging into the classroom. I scanned the group of miscreants sitting dejectedly at their desks. I counted six including Richie. I walked past a girl with a lip ring, much too much makeup, and jet-black hair with white emo bangs covering her eyes. I'd never seen her before in my life. Richie was sitting behind an obese kid who didn't talk much and was a year older than everyone else after getting held back as a sophomore.
I slumped into the desk behind Richie. His backpack leaned against the back leg of his seat. Mrs. Watson sat with perfect posture behind the computer in the front of the room. Her lips pursed as she peered over a pair of thick-rimmed librarian glasses, which rested on the edge of her nose, concentrating on the screen in front of her. Matched with her conservative frumpy checkered dress that fell to her ankles, and went out of style 40 years ago, the outfit gave her the appearance of a woman trying to pass for a lady twice her age. That didn't stop kids from passing notes with stick-figure drawings of them boning her. She was one of the youngest teachers after all. Heck, it may have even encouraged them knowing she was trying so hard not to avoid being the object of their teenage fascination.
She was also one of those teachers who assigned seats, making sure to separate friends so they wouldn't talk and disrupt her curriculum. The first day we got our syllabus she said that she had no tolerance for misbehavior and had lived up to her word by giving out a handful of lunch detentions every day. As a loner, I was not a traditional attendant to her midday sentences and usually managed to lay low and unnoticed till the bell rang.
Swallowing, I felt my hand sweating as I unscrewed the tiny bottle of potion in my pocket. The room was completely quiet, save for the soft sound of intermittent chewing, and the tick from the mounted clock behind me. I waited a couple minutes, hoping for an opportunity, but none arose so I stretched my foot to nudge Richie's bag. The water canister wouldn't take much to jar loose. That's when the door burst open and the sound of garbled voices from the hallway bled into the room.
"Sorry, Mrs. Watson," interjected a brawny, 6'2" black student, Andre Michaels, as he barged in.
"There was a line outside. It took ten minutes to get my lunch." He peppered his excuse by raising the sandwich he'd purchased from a vendor.
