Making the Grade

The lockdown, an absurd, panic-driven over-reaction to inaccurate computer models, false reporting, and pseudo-expert predictions, funneled through petty, power-hungry bureaucrats, meant that my classes for the rest of the year would be teleconferenced. Warrantless house arrest will do that.

The software showed me a thumbnail of each student. What the girls saw was the video feed from the one who was talking, plus a constant image of me.

I could write a dissertation on “Bedrooms of Teenage Girls: From Decor to Disaster.” Some of them dressed nicely and sat at a desk; some lounged on their beds with tousled hair and rumpled sweats, balancing a laptop on a pillow or a lap.

I was leading a Biology class, when I noticed that one student, Melanie, had muted her microphone. Sometimes a student does that by accident, occasionally it’s to make sure that her video is never the one being sent to the class. I fired off a quick IM to make sure she knew about it.

Melanie was at the bottom of the class, hovering dangerously over the failing grade. If she was distancing herself on purpose, it wouldn’t be surprising.

Midway through the class, a movement caught my eye; I could see in her thumbnail that Melanie was holding up a handwritten sign. I clicked it to give me a full-scale view.

“Would a C cup get me a C?” said the sign.

Before I could puzzle it out, Melanie dropped the sign. She was topless.

I forced my attention back to the class, trying not to sound unsettled, but couldn’t resist glance after glance as Melanie played with her lovely breasts. She lifted them, squeezed them together, stroked them; she licked her fingers and played with her nipples until they stood stiff and proud.

I was losing my train of thought. I told everyone to take a ten minute break. “Be back at 10:40.” Some girls took off, for a snack or a bathroom. About half went straight to their phones, probably calling each other. A few stayed looking toward their webcams, presumably surfing other sites.

Melanie cupped her breasts as if to offer them, and raised a questioning eyebrow. Nothing in my teaching career had prepared me for this; I didn’t know how to respond.

She held up another sign: “How about Butt for a B?”

Then she bent over, back to the camera, and slid her shorts and panties down. Her bottom was fetching indeed, but my eyes were on her pussy, peeking out between spread legs. She reached behind to play with her ass cheeks, which had the effect of revealing her private places in greater detail. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even as my brain was screaming warnings. I couldn’t stop my cock from responding either. When she gave herself a few spanks, it grew full and hard.

With three minutes left in the break, Melanie sat back down and lifted up her last sign. “An A would be the best. Have to save my cherry but…”

She lowered the sign and slowly, deliberately, sensuously, ran her tongue around her lips, her mouth in a wide O. Not at all ambiguous.

My resolve crumbled. I sent an IM with my home address, and seconds later Melanie vanished from the conference.

It was so wrong, in so many ways. But my pulse was racing and my cock was hard and… well, nobody can spend a career teaching high school girls without ever having a single fantasy.

I finished the Biology class, somehow, although now I don’t remember a bit of it. I just remember one thought, surfacing again and again as I listened for the doorbell.

Sure, Melanie, I’ll let you suck my cock. But in my gradebook…

A is for Anal.

— Frenulum