Too Creative--A TJ Jackson Erotica

I don't know how many people can relate to this, but I think I was one of the few kids in high school who did NOT have a crush on any of my teachers. They were else too old, too boring or too ugly for me to think about that way. (Plus I was too hung up on Michael Jackson to even see straight back then) but I do know lots of girls were particularly freaking out about this one Brit Lit teacher. He was indeed attractive, but while I had a C-plus smiling at me, I was trying to focus on prose and not his body. But I was partially inspired for this story by that very idea, because it occurs in just about every school there is. Some young innocent falls head over heels for their teacher. But very rarely, does the teacher fall also....

"Too Creative"

A TJ Jackson Erotic Short Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

The winding, labyrinth of a corridor was alarmingly cold, and hauntingly silent.

The doors to dozens of vacant classrooms and long-slammed lockers stood shut, everything still and stoic, as that of an oil painting on display.

The fluorescent lights, both overhead and positioned between the doors in finely tooled sconces, flashed and created eerie balls of light on the polished hardwood, in the waning daylight, dusk beginning to settle in.

Suddenly, in the distance, the distinct, yet audible sounds of two separate pairs of feet disturbed the austerity of the hall.

At the far end of the hall, off of the grand staircase leading to the upper levels of the building, a man and young girl stepped.

The man, towering a good half foot over his companion, stared straight ahead, clutching the handle of a tobacco brown briefcase at his side. His other hand was pressed firmly to the girl's back.

While he seemed to be paying attention to all of his surroundings keenly, the young girl gazed up at him, eyes widened, saucer-like, as if bewitched into an unbreakable trance.

Haphazardly, a shimmering silver hologram backpack had been slung over her shoulder, the pink Minnie Mouse zipper pull bobbing here and yonder with each step.

Without a word, the two advanced further down the hall, the man licking at his lips with a mix of tentative trepidation and admiring satisfaction.

The girl's mouth was set in a fine, defiant line of a smile, the ends curling slightly as she continued to stare at him.

Reaching the end of the hall, the man's grip on the girls' sweater, tightened, pulling her back slightly.

Curiously, she turned to him, gaze never breaking.

His eyes were dark, mysterious...frightened.

Those damp glistening lips parted and his voice, naturally high, came out dry and hoarse, brows raising in warning,

“You...you can't tell anyone what happened this afternoon, do you understand?”

The girl's head started to go up and down.

“Yes, Sir--”

He leaned over her.

“I mean it. You can't tell. It'd put both of us in danger. I'd lose my job, and I'm up for tenure next year. You'd be expelled...and likely wouldn't get into any of the colleges you've applied to--”
“But...you told me you get me into my first choice--”

“And I will!” The man hissed, eyes glowing. “I keep my word; I need you to keep yours. We've got four weeks. Keep this...”

Her lips were tapped by a long finger.

“...keep this shut and everything will be alright. And everything I said will be followed up on!”

“Even....even the publishing?” It was now the time for her eyes to shine and the man nodded harshly.

“Yes! Just keep quiet for the four weeks until graduation--”

Rising on tiptoe, the girl's mouth bumped his.

The briefcase was dropped, the man wrapping his arms around the girl, greedily returning the kisses, so sweet, so warm so delicious.

So....so forbidden.

The two weren't ignorant. They what they'd done was risky, foolhardy, impulsive and dangerous.

Perhaps that was what made it so exciting in the first place.

How extremely taboo it was...

…for a thirty-seven-year-old teacher...to start a relationship with his eighteen-year-old pupil!

Eight Weeks Earlier

The Dalton School

Cumberland, Georgia

There was something different about Willow Lester.

Seated in the far back corner of the dining hall, the contrast between the senior and that of her counterparts was swift, apparent and impossible to ignore.

The Dalton School, a prestigious, exclusive private school situated fifty miles inland from the Georgia coast and a stone's toss from neighboring Savannah, had always been a breeding ground for the cream of the crop as far as Southern Society went.

Many of the pupils seated at the tables, picking at meals, and chattering back and forth cheerfully were the products of some of the most-revered, affluent families below the Mason-Dixon line.

It was a room filled to the brim with privileged, somewhat aloof, and outright spoiled teens, most of whom barely bothered to crack books and nearly all were legacies, having had at least one other relative, in many cases multiple generations, having walked the same halls and studied in the same classes.

It was an open secret that an overwhelming portion of the pupils there were admitted solely because of who they were, not because of how intelligent or gifted they were.

The Dalton School, though it did produce some of the best testing scores in the state, every last one of its purpils in every graduating class getting their diplomas on time, it was an open secret that the school was used more as a bartering field than anything else.

Young men were encouraged to make connections with other young men that would be advantageous to them in the future, and girls, were encouraged to try to make matches as early as possible so they could “marry rich” and be nothing more than doe-eyed, soft-spoken, empty-headed trophies for the men.

Yes, it was an archaic outlook on life, the male-centric society, that prepared boys for life and girls to be housewife, and very blindly, many of those lounging around munching, were indeed keeping step with “tradition”.

All of those, with the exception of Willow Lester.

Unlike her peers, girls who did the bare minimum to pass, or appease their parents into buying them something pricey as a bribe, and being decoration for the opposite sex's arm, Willow Lester with a girl with actual drive, ambition and direction.

All across the dark, wood-paneled hall teenagers sat together in clusters, gossiping, staring into the tiny glowing screens of smart phones and in general causing a ruckus, Willow was alone to herself, and silent.

A tray, containing a half-consumed cheeseburger and cold, congealed fries under a mound of ketchup, set in the center of the small table, made to seat four. Nearby, a can of Diet Coke sweated, a bendy straw jutting from its top.

One look at Willow instantly set her apart from the other students.

Students at the Dalton School had a...certain homogeneous look to them, and it wasn't just from the neat, tailored, black and white uniforms.

Four out of five students were blonde, be it by birth or from a bottle, pale or tanned skin, and anything dark feature was a pure rarity.

In the corner, Willow was dark in the very best sense of the word.

Thanks to roots that mainly comprised of strains from Kenya, with others of Ghanaian, and South African, Willow possessed a cool, smooth, complexion that was exceedingly rich and deep, was luminescent, as though lit from within.

When unfolded from the chair, Willow, much like her namesake, was very tall and slim, her appearance always the neatest of the neat, plaid skirt perfectly pressed, white oxford tucked in, matching tie in a Windsor knot at her long throat, and the white-piped black blazer buttoned up fully at all times.

Under the table, impossibly long legs were crossed, white knee socks contrasting the black skin so attractively.

Above the table, a thin, heart shape face was obscured, even thinner fingers, tipped by dark, matte pomegranate-hued nails clutched a kindle, its cover glittering with thousands of Swarovski crystals, fashioned to look look like a huge rendition of Hello Kitty.

And while the screen of the device showed she was in the middle of chapter eight of F. Scott Fitzgerald's hailed classic, The Great Gatsby, alas Willow was no longer reading.

Instead, Willow was using the kindle in a subtle attempt to disguise the fact that she was watching...and had been watching for about the last ten minutes.

No, she wasn't ogling bronzed, tow-headed captain of the baseball team, Chaz Delmonico, although just about everyone in a five table radius were pining after the popular athlete, Willow's gaze went completely over him.

That wasn't to say Willow wasn't interest in the opposite sex, what seventeen-year-old girl wasn't? It was just her tasted leaned a bit further than an immature, raucous, bawdy and pretentious boy.

Willow had her sights aimed higher, at someone a bit more aged, a bit wiser, a bit more alluring.

A real man, set apart from the boys.

Those wide, glassy, impetuous and tumultuous eyes paid no mind to any of the young bucks in their path, instead focusing on the lone figure, hovering over the salad bar in the center of the room.

This was no fellow student, idly filling a large bowl with hearts of romaine; this was her AP English instructor, Mr. Jackson.

Willow, an avid reader since the age of three had, far too many times to even try to calculate, come across the phenomena of love at first sight, in the books she cracked and pulled up on that kindle, but never had she given much credence to such a idea, much less to the idea that it could happen to her.

Yet, only six weeks earlier love had run over her like an eighteen-wheeler like an unfortunate pup.

Six week earlier, on the very first day of school, shortly before the tardy bell before fifth period jangled, Willow had entered room 209, up on the second level of the huge, rambling, four-story, brick and mortar main hall, only expecting to meet her teacher, get a hold of the lesson outline and buckle down to work to lift her GPA and look appealing to her top three choice schools.

As was her routine, she seated herself in the front row, because, while she was a very bright and swift-minded student, she hated to be called on in class as public speaking was not one of her strong suits. She liked to blend into the scenery and let her grades speak for her.

Her head had been down, at that kindle, reading a selection of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, to kill time until class convened, as the teacher was out of the room.

Willow had just began Sonnet 43, with its well-known line 'How do I love Thee, let me count the ways...', when a voice, warm, soft, lyrical, enchanting had invaded her ears, announcing,

“Pardon my being tardy to my own class...there was a paper jam while I was printing up your syllabuses. My name is Mr. Jackson, and welcome to AP English.”

Willow, already quiet as she had been ardently reading the poetry lifted her head, and immediately forgot what speech was.

Poised before the class, a stack of papers hugged to his chest, was quite possibly the most gorgeous, heart-stomping, magnificent specimen of masculinity Willow had ever set her chestnut browns on.

His face was the very first thing Willow zeroed in on and in that instance, the whole of her was stolen.

Chiseled, sculpted and bearing cheekbones so high, his upturned little nose should have bled, Mr. Jackson had the face of an Adonis, his complexion a bronzed sepia, with just a touch of a reddish undertone.

Thick, black, arched brows, brows that would look like sooty azalea bushes above anyone else's eyes were the height of male grooming, keeping in step with the rest of his sharp features.

He had been smiling, a sweet, charming, somewhat crooked smile, that curled at the corners much like that of the Joker in the Batman films and comics, but with none of the dastardly cruelty behind it.

Framing his face were jet, glossy, willy-nilly curls exploding from the crown of his head, haphazardly arranged to resemble a flattop.

His face...His face wasn't like that of his contemporaries, which were lined with age, tight with aggravation and stern from having wrestled with many an entitled pupil over the course of their careers.

Why, Mr. Jackson didn't appear that much older than Willow herself, and she ballparked his age at around twenty-five.

He was handsome, almost too handsome to be a mere teacher.

A face like that cried to be photographed; why wasn't he a model?

Why relegate himself to blackboards, clapping erasers and evaluating essays the rest of his life?

It seemed a crime against humanity!

His look was refreshing and alarmingly youthful, and his choice of outfit that afternoon furthered this.

While all of the male teachers Willow had met thus far had been dressed down in suits and neckties, lending a very professional air to their classrooms, Mr. Jackson was far more laid back, in a slate blue polo, the collar loosened to reveal his graceful, swan-like throat, and charcoal trousers, all hugging to a fitting a thickset, manly, swarthy frame.

Even his footwear was nearly comatose, plain sneakers.

Blue was a color Willow came to like on Mr. Jackson as it complimented his coloring spectacularly, and he wore some variant of the shade every week. (She had often wondered if perhaps blue was his favorite color.)

And that particular Wednesday, in the middle of October, was another blue day.

Mr. Jackson was turned out splendidly, yet with his trademark nonchalance in a brilliant, cobalt blue sweater, that Willow, even so far off, could tell was made of cashmere, which skimmed over his body in the most becoming way, yet was not confining.

As he continued filling his bowl with the romaine, light danced and gleamed off the face of the wide-banded, white-gold watch he constantly wore on his wrist, where the skeleton mechanism, beneath a crystal face moved seamlessly. Satisfied with the amount of lettuce as a base, Mr. Jackson rounded the long salad bar, his back turning to Willow.

It was a move that never failed to cause the poor teen's pressure to skyrocket, and alternately cause excessive drool production and her throat to dry up like the Sahara.

Willow had never considered herself the type to pay much mind to someone's backside, but that bulging, plump, perfectly spherical protrusion at the base of his spine was far too glorious to ignore.

His booty was on constant display, as Mr. Jackson had a penchant for tucking in all of his button downs, or with sweaters, as worn today, the back of it was always pulled to rest at the top of his waistband, while the rest dangled carelessly in the front.

Watching that muscular mass rippling beneath his starched gabardine, Willow knew Mr. Jackson's movements before he made them. Weeks of observation—stalking in some circles—revealed a pattern to Mr. Jackson's lunchtime habits.

Three days out of the week, Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays, he grazed on salad, switching between, Green, loaded with iceberg, cucumbers, celery, pitted olives and jalapenos slices,topped by Green Goddess dressing, Caesar, with extra croutons and a creamy version of the dressing, and since today was Wednesday, it was Southwest Chicken.

On top of the romaine, went corn, black beans, sliced avocado, red bell pepper strips and sliced of grilled chicken breasts, topped with a pinky salsa-infused Ranch dressing.

On off days, the semi-heath conscious instructor would tuck into a double cheeseburger and fries!

Dark eyes followed Mr Jackson across the floor, where he joined a line of the students and faculty, sliding trays along a rail that faced an array of gooey desserts.

Mr. Jackson would eat a slice of Dutch Apple Pie tomorrow. Today it was a cup of blueberry Greek yogurt.

And as always, a can of Dr. Pepper.

A sleek platinum card was swiped, and he was moving to the other end of the room, where, much like Willow, Mr. Jackson seated himself, alone, becoming engrossed with his cell phone, its yellow gold case highly reflective.

Looking on as forkfuls of salad were chomped away on, Willow Lester was waging a war with herself.

For the last couple of weeks, she'd been desperate to speak to Mr. Jackson, inquire of him a question burning like hot lava.

But for a girl whom had hadn't said more to him than the obligatory 'here' during roll call, finding her voice was proving a difficult task. Yet, she couldn't go on, the desire to ask that question on the tip of her tongue at all times.

She had to have the nerve, the will...

And that's when she heard it.

Two underclassmen, arms linked breezed by her table one remarking to the other flippantly,

“...I couldn't care less what my mother says! I'm dying my hair lilac like Katy Perry, damn it! YOLO!”

YOLO, you only live once...it was a simple, silly online motto but in that very moment, it was the words Willow Lester needed to hear.

And instantly, Willow was on her feet, picking her hologram backpack off the floor and slinging it over her shoulder, she hugged her ostentatious kindle to her chest, and slowly, steadily, began crossing the crowded lunchroom towards Mr. Jackson.

His head remained lowered at his phone, finger flicking as he scrolled.

Willow inched along, until she stood at the chair opposite his.

It was a rare treat to be so close to him, look on him.

See the small mole on his cheek bouncing as he chewed, lush inky lashes fluttering.

Notice the deep amber strands among the ebony ones in his curls. His small, shell-like ears.

Those lovely, deep pink lips with the flared ends.

Willow hesitated five full times, going completely unnoticed, as a bite of yogurt was consumed.

Then finally....finally, her pouted, nude-painted lips parted,

“Excuse me, M-M-Mr. Jackson?”

There was a slight hesitation, the long, angled face coming up, leaving Willow momentarily dumbstruck.

Jesus Christ....his eyes!

How had she never noticed the amber glints in his brown eyes?

Seeing her, those orbs of seduction crinkled at the outer edges, a soft, tender smile curling those lips, showing a touch of his white teeth.

Smiling! He was smiling at her!

“Hello, Willow...” He continued to beam up at her. (He knew her name?) “What can I do for you today?”

Aside from marrying her?

“I...I...I....I...”

What was speech? What were words? What were those noises people made at each other to communicate?

It escaped Willow.

Mr. Jackson tilted his head, looking up through his lashes at her questioningly,

“You...what?”

From somewhere within, the courage mustered itself and she heard herself spit out meekly,

“I'd like to inquire about the writing assignment...the one for extra credit, Sir.”

“Oh yes, the short story a week. “ The curly head nodded with understanding. “Please...”

The chair she was gripping for dear life was pointed at, indicating she sit.

And sit Willow did, her legs had become so gelatinous.

Sipping his soda, Mr. Jackson peered into the eager, glowing face.

“I'll choose a topic for everyone to write about—this week it was about Cowboys and Native Americans—at least ten pages, and its due before the end of the day on Friday.”

A spoon of yogurt was lifted. It never made it to his mouth, Willow replying.

“I...I already finished the story, Sir. It's in my locker now, but I'd like to turn it in to you next period.”

Unbridled surprise registered on Mr. Jackson's face, heavy brows raising, causing lines to crease his smooth forehead, an audible “hmmm?” gliding past closed lips.

He was silent a long moment, staring into the attractive little face, smoldering eyes on him, under small, rounded brows, nostrils flaring on her proud nose.

“You've already finished your story, Willow? Completely?” The head dipped further, disbelief clear.

“Yes, Sir.” The head bobbed emphatically, waist-length ponytail swaying.

“...and how long is your story?” The spoon was swung at her.

Those beautiful eyes popped a good six inches out their sockets, when Willow declared quietly.

“Twenty-five pages, Sir.”

The spoon was plunged back into the cup, Mr. Jackson nearly shouting,

“You wrote me a twenty-five page story in two evenings?”

“Yes, Sir...” Willow's head bobbed some more. “I'd have finished it Monday night, but my trigonometry homework took longer than I expected.”

He was grimacing at her, visibly chewing on his bottom lip, trying to make sense of this turn in conversation. Did he have to look like a cute puppy?

Willow's heart melted all the more.

His right hand, the large watch on the wrist tinkling as the gears moved, lifted, a slim finger pointing out the door.

“Willow, would you please go retrieve it for me, now?”

“Now?” Willow repeated and upon him intoning 'yes', was up on her feet kowtowing as she backed away,

“Yes Sir! Yes Sir, I'll be right back! I won't be but a minute!--”

“I'll be right here.” Mr. Jackson assured her, as she scurried away.

Once she had passed through the swinging double doors, he chuckled to himself, and resumed noshing on his bowl of greens.

A Few Hours Later

Come see me after school, please—Mr. Jackson

Willow Lester had lost track of how many times she'd read the short, simple, yet cryptic note, which had been delivered to her during her seventh period study hall.

She didn't know what had surprised her more: That Mr. Jackson even knew she took study hall at the end of the day, or that he had taken the time to both pen the note, and send another student to hand deliver it to her in the annals of the school library.

Either way, for the last half hour since the summons had been in her possession, a litany of thoughts had been swarming through her head like a tsunami, threatening to wash her very sanity away.

She was quite certain his wanting to see her had to do with the story she'd turned over to him earlier that day, but she was terrified about what he'd wanted to say about it.

Perhaps he hadn't liked her story. Perhaps he was calling her in to tell her face to face he'd been dissatisfied with her work and would not give her the boost in grade she so desperately needed to attain the Valedictorian title by the time graduation came around in June.

As was her particular knack and inherent flaw, Willow had whipped herself into a worrisome lather, imagination having gone wild, expecting only the worst of this meeting, and by the time school ended with the jangling of bells, Willow was sure Mr. Jackson was going to escort her behind the building, give her a blindfold and a cigarette and shoot her for handing in a horrific paper.

Rounding the corner from the corridor that ended with the library near the rear of the main building of the school, Willow was faced with a hall of solid, brown painted, metal locker fronts, hers in the very center of hall to the left.

School hadn't been out ten minutes yet, and already the place was a veritable ghost town, not a person to be found.

58-73-75-78...she spun in the combination on her lock, the mechanism releasing, and the door swung open.

By contrast to it's plain exterior, the interior of Willow's locker had been decorated in her favorite color—pink, with a background of a lighter pink with darker dots—a heart shaped mirror and pinups of her favorite celebrities, singer Zayn Malik, and former Disney actors Cole Sprouse and Zac Efron.

Willow, stacking in her Trigonometry and French IV textbooks, grabbed a couple of notebooks and folders, tossed them into her backpack, and stopped to examine her appearance in the little mirror.

She looked what she deemed acceptable. Her makeup was natural and flesh-toned, saved for the thick, winged eyeliner she favored wearing. Her hair was neat and tidy, revealing the tiny, neat, white-gold hoops hugging her lobes.

Like every other teen in the country, instead of seeing how beautiful she was, Willow only saw the 'worst' of her appearance. She thought her eyes too close together, wished they were a lighter color, green or hazel. Her nose was small enough, but she wanted the tip to tilt upwards at the end. Were her lips too big?

Shrugging to herself, but no more confident, Willow shut the locker, tossed her sack over her shoulder, and continued on down to the hall to the archway marking the staircase leading to the higher levels of the building.

With each step Willow mounted, the more apprehensive she became.

It wasn't until she came out on the landing stretching into a maze of halls on the second floor did it dawn on her: she'd be in the class, alone, with Mr. Jackson.

Nerves overtook her as she started towards his class, seven doors in, on the left.

She'd never been alone with Mr. Jackson before.

Hell, the closest she'd ever come to it, was him wandering around the class during exams to ensure no one was cheating. And him hovering behind her for five seconds had been excruciating enough.

But now...she was going to be right there by him, with his full attention.

Her throat was dry, palms moist, heart erratic, as she came to the shut door.

Peering in through the small, rectangular window, she saw the class was vacant, except for Mr. Jackson himself.

He stood behind his desk, wiping down the blackboard with a towel.

Willow paused a long moment, admiring Mr. Jackson's physique yet again.

The strong, broad, thickset frame, tight, hard arms, those strapping muscular legs, that tremendous backside.

Especially that backside.

So meaty, so bouncy, so wondrous it was....how did one man come to possess such a treasure of an ass?

The question was forever nagging Willow.

Finishing the cleaning, Mr. Jackson took the time to fold the small white towel and place it on the groove directly below the board, that contained pieces of chalk.

A hand fished in his pocket, coming up with a thin strip of gum which he opened, casting the silver wrapper into a low trash bin and popped it into his mouth.

Chewing, he glanced down at his watch and it was then Willow realized he was waiting for her.

Hand on the shiny brass knob, Willow went to turn it, but found it was locked.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Timidly her knuckles banged against the glass several time, before the curly head, still focused on the timepiece, came up, spotting her at the door.

God, why was he so beautiful?

As Mr. Jackson began ambling towards her, though his gait was nothing out of the ordinary, slow, deliberate steps on slightly bowed legs, there was something strange about his expression.

It was oddly serious, his features set, the line of his jaw noticeably tense.

Again the feeling of apprehension washed over Willow, shooing her feelings of attraction to her teacher away.

There was still that paper between them, and several points between her and Valedictorian.

Maybe all was not as well as she believed.

There was a small clang as the deadbolt loosened, and the door swung.

The half-smile, only partially showing his teeth appeared, and Mr. Jackson greeted her as warmly as ever,

“Hello, Willow, thank you for joining me. I'm not keeping you from any extracurricular activities, am I?”

“Oh, no Sir...” Willow informed him, passing through the door, which he closed behind her, deadbolt sliding again. “...I'm in Club Francais, and History Club, but they both meet on Thursdays...”

“Oh...” Mr. Jackson echoed her, his hand out, pointing to a spot in the first row, directly in front of his carved desk. “Please have a seat.”

Obeying, Willow sank into the seat, watching tentatively, as her instructor, returned to his desk, a massive structure of high-gloss oak, carved in an Art Nouveau style, fluid of lines, organic to its surroundings, accented by a whimsical carving of berries and winding vines along the front, the sculptural legs appearing as swooping vines themselves, highly-detailed reliefs.

Mr. Jackson paused, staring down at his sparsely decorated desktop, bearing only an antique brass and green lotus-leaf shaded Tiffany lamp, a matching brass and glass photo frame containing a portrait of himself hugging Rusty, his pet Red Siberian Husky, and a faceted crystal apple, serving as a paperweight.

Bracing against the desk with both hands, Mr. Jackson's gaze remained downcast, with him asking of her,

“Tell me, Willow...once you graduate from Dalton, what do you plan to major in, in college?”

Her hands began to ring in her lap underneath the tabletop, cool droplets of sweat springing from her spine and rolling down her back.

“I....I plan to double major in Writing and Journalism...Sir...” She managed, her breath growing ragged.

“So...you want to be a writer? Write and publish novels, things of that sort?” He kept looking down.

“Yes, Sir...I've....I've wanted to be an author since I was a little kid...” Her throat was dry. Why was her throat so dry? It was as if she'd never taken a sip of water in her entire life, so raw and scratchy her throat was all at once.

Squeeeeeeeeeak!

The wheels on the bottom of the wooden chair behind Mr. Jackson's desk squealed as he took hold of the back of it, pushing it towards her...he was going to sit beside her!

Willow wanted to pass out as the chair was pushed to her side, with him dropping down on it.

As he sat she caught a direct hit of his cologne, a mystical, spicy, oriental sort of fragrance, that played badminton with her nostrils and made her chest into a vice around her thoracic cavity.

Damn it, he smelled as alluring as he looked.

A second time, he paused, looking her over, before his face creased with a large friendly grin, so large his eyes crinkled at the corners and the full scope of his white, blinding teeth were visible.

The sound of her heart was deafening!

“Willow...” He dragged her name out gently, lashes fluttering.

Why did her name sound like music when uttered by those pert lips?

His voice was so sweet, so melodic, a natural, soft-spoken tenor.

“Willow...you really wrote this story?You wrote, The Old Dusty Trail, by yourself?”

Willow froze, much like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi.

Those rich, liquid orbs of gold...didn't he realize how dangerous they were?

“Yes, Mr. Jackson, I did...” She hesitated, adding, her voice cracking, “Didn't you like it?”

“Oh yes, I liked it. I enjoyed it rather greatly.” His voice dropped an octave, sending a chill waltzing up her spine. “It was a very, well-written, thought-provoking piece Willow...”

Confusion was all over the teen's face and she was thankful she was seated, lest she tumble clean out of her seat and onto the floor in a withered heap.

He'd liked her story? He'd enjoyed it?

“Willow...” His hand, large, heavy and warm fell on her shoulder, squeezing it “...you possess a rare, special talent. You have an aptitude for storytelling unlike any other student I've ever had.”

“Really, Sir?” Willow could feel her cheeks aflame at the compliments.

“Yes. All of your passages were incredibly descriptive, such as the Native Americans attacking the covered wagon caravan...I could see it in my mind's eye. Hear the battle cries, smell the gunpowder as the cowboys fired back, see the carnage left behind from such a clashing. It was remarkable.”

“Thank you, Sir...” Willow was so elated, she wanted to scream, shout and dance a jig around the perimeter of the room, but by some Grace of God, managed to keep her composure in the face of lieky the grandest compliment she'd ever received in her life.

“If you wrote this in only two evenings, it means you have an ease of writing, a swift imagination...”

His eyes washed over that little face.

“I'm pleased to hear you do have the ambition to be published--”

“That's why I did the extra credit in the first place.” She blurted, excitement overtaking her. “I want to get into Buford College in Savannah, they have an excellent writing program and help students get their work published.”

“Is Buford your first choice, or--”

“First choice.” Willow nodded emphatically, absently pulling her long ponytail over her other shoulder and starting to twirl the tips of it in her excitement.

A wry smile came to Mr. Jackson's face.

“Splendid!” Petting her shoulder, he stood. “I have something I'd like to show you, Willow.”

He returned to his desk, opening the top drawer, and produced a sleek, rose gold iPad, his name inscribed on the case in bold, block lettering: Tito Joe Jackson.

Tito? His name was Tito?

That detail struck her as strange. She had long since envisioned Mr. Jackson as having a much more exotic name. Something more Southern, something more old-fashioned sounding along the lines of Rutherford, or Eldridge or Hammond.

Nothing as ordinary as Tito.

Willow squinted up at him as he poked around the touch screen of the device, moving back towards her.

Tito....Tito...Tito....the name did have a Latin flair to it, the more she repeated it in her mind, and looking at her teacher, with him seating himself at her left, she wondered if he were indeed mixed with some kind of Spanish.

But she knew better than to outright question someone on their background.

That was rude and it was unbefitting a Southern lady to be anything but amicable.

The iPad was set before her, displaying a photograph of a smiling couple.

The man was tall and stocky in a smart black suit and tie, of a lighter complexion with shining round cheeks, sticking out all the more as he was smiling broadly, with laughing dark eyes, a shade or two lighter than Mr. Jackson's. His hair, though of a looser curl pattern, was also worn similarly, tapered on the sides and exploding off the top of his head, displaying wide-set ears.

His arm was tucked around the waist of a shorter, petite woman, very attractive and obviously Hispanic, with cool olive skin, wide dark eyes and flowing black hair, contrasting her pale grey wrap dress, hugging a slender figure.

“Willow, this is my older brother, Taj. He's a professor of Computer Technology at Buford College...”

Willow could feel her eyes tripling in size at Mr. Jackson and for once it wasn't because he was so devastatingly gorgeous.

His brother....his own flesh and blood was a professor at the very college Willow had wanted, yearned to attend since she knew what the word 'college' meant.

Mr. Jackson's lips kept on moving with sounds that caused her lungs to collapse.

“...but I think his wife, Talia, will be more of an interest to you....”

He was grinning even harder, his eyes turning to slits in his face.

“...Talia is a professor in the Literary Arts department....”

Willow trembled. Was he telling what she thought he was telling her?

“...and Talia knows plenty of publishers and agents. All the people needed to get a young talent such as yourself up off the ground.”

“Oh, Mr. Jackson...” She huffed, the room tilting and spinning around her. “Do you really think I'm good as all that?”

Though she had toyed with the idea of writing and publishing novels for the public, Willow had never quite figured how to make that leap from amateur to professional.

And now here was Mr. Jackson, practically laying it all at her feet.

That hand was on her shoulder squeezing, and she wanted to black out.

“Yes, I most certainly do, Willow. Tell me...”

His hand moved from her shoulder to her back, just below the nape of her neck.

He couldn't feel her heart beating so hard? Feel the cool mist of perspiration on her back, under his palm? He couldn't hear her breaths quickening being so near him?

“Have you any more stories? I'd like to read them.”

Willow was close to stuttering under such a gaze.

“Yes! I have lots more. I...I'll have to print them...”

He nodded encouragingly,

“Please do. I look forward to it.”

His fingers wiggled, tickling her back and causing goosebumps to break out all over arms, thankfully both the sleeves of her blouse and blazer masked the fact.

“Now listen to me Willow: I want you to keep writing short stories each week. Keep doing the extra credit. You'll pass with a high score, I can guarantee that. But I need as many of the stories as you can produce. Okay?”

“Yes, Sir. I will.” Willow was breathless and a bit loopy from the lack of oxygen.

“You already have an 'A' in my course at the moment, a ninety-two, if I recall correctly, but if you continue to hand in stories like the one you gave me today, you will be very near a perfect one hundred by the time you graduate.”

“Oh Mr. Jackson!” The inhibitions of her strict upbringing, and trepidation of being so close ot the man she'd dreamt of nightly for six solid weeks, waning in that second, Willow snatched his free hands on hers, caressing his warm soft appendage. “That makes me so happy! I-I-I don't know how I could ever thank you for being so kind and so generous, Sir!”

“A-ha-ha-ha!” His head turned from her a bit, Mr. Jackson laughing heartily at Willow's exuberance, with him adding in a lower tone, hardly audible to her ears,

“I'm sure we'll think of something...”

Louder, he reasoned,

“Willow, I'll need you start sticking around after school, with the exception of your club meetings on Thursday afternoons. I do want to help you, both get into Buford and prepare your stories for my sister-in-law to read over and pass on to her colleagues. But I'll need your cooperation and undivided attention--”

Willow's clamp on his hand became tighter, with her vowing, lips quivering,

“I'll do anything, Mr. Jackson! I...I swear it! You just lead me and I'll follow! I'll...I'll...I'll...” Desperately Willow clawed for an appropriate and witty analogy,

“Sir, I'll be the Trilby to your Svengali!”

Willow had expected him to laugh again, alas he didn't.

Mr. Jackson regarded her soundlessly, those heavy brows going up, folds appearing on his forehead, his lips mashing down into a straight line.

His hand slipped off her back, coming up to her face.

Willow stopped breathing entirely, as Mr. Jackson caught the flesh of her cheek between the tips of his thumb, index and middle fingers, pinching it gingerly.

“I love it...” He whispered, those eyes piercing past her and into the very depths of her soul.

The two stared at each other for what seemed longer than time itself...

Blinking suddenly, Mr. Jackson rose to his feet, releasing her cheek.

“I won't keep you any longer, Willow. I'm sure you have plenty of things to do this afternoon...”

“Not...not really, Sir...” Willow admitted her head drooping a touch, with embarrassment at her lack of a social life, standing and allowing him to escort to the door, where he unlocked and opened it.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Y-y-yes Sir....goodbye.”

Her back was patted again as she exited.

“Mr.--”

She turned back to see the door was shut, with him walking away.

Brow puckering, Willow adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started away.

As she took the stairs back down tot he first floor, aiming fo the parking lot where her car awaited her, to drive home and dig up all the stories to print, Mr. Jackson was doing some digging of his own.

Back at his desk, in the empty classroom, he pulled the other iPad from his desk.

The school-issued silver one that all the teachers worked from in lieu of a more traditional computer.

Several clicks revealed the roll list for his fifth period class.

He scrolled down to the 'L's.

Lester, Willow Mariah.

Another click revealed her personal information.

GPA: 3.89

Father: Elijah Lester, III

Mother: Rosalind Kimbe-Lester

Address: 9210 Magnolia Avenue

Phone: (912) 555-1955

DOB: November 6, 1997

A devious curl came to his lips, his eyes seeking out the seat in the very last row, at the thought that in a little over three weeks, its occupant would become eighteen-years-old.

A very legal eighteen-years-old.

Two Days Later

For over twenty-four hours, Willow had been on pins and needles, impatiently awaiting to hear Mr. Jackson's critiques of the stories she had handed in to him to proofread, before hopefully they were passed along to Professor Talia Jackson. And in Talia's hands, Willow prayed that her work could find its way to being bound between a hardcover and for sell in bookstores across the globe.

It was a lofty ambition, but the teen would have settled for nothing less than the perfect best.

Seated in the rear of the library, at a table hidden shelves and shelves of dusty tomes, Willow fidgeted, fingernails clacking against the pink and white, faux marble case of her cell phone.

She was supposed to be conjugating verbs for Madame Robillard's French class, not to mention completing three additional worksheets as part of Madame's Club Francais.

But translating French terms and phrases were the furthest thing from Willow's mind, although with a Creole grandmother on her father's side,she was practically fluent in the language anyway.

Her thoughts were pulsing and driven by Mr. Jackson.

She didn't quite know what to do with herself. Ever since she'd turned over the stack of short stories, Willow hadn't been able to focus on any of her studies.

Over and over in her mind she'd replayed Mr. Jackson's words to her, until they had become interwoven deep within the fabric of her psyche.

It still felt like a dream from which Willow never wanted to awaken, remembering Mr. Jackson's peaceful, smiling face, the spearmint that had been on his breath as he'd spoken to her. He'd had gun in his mouth, but never once did Willow see him actually chew it. He must have just held it under his tongue. It didn't matter.

What did matter, was Mr. Jackson's generosity.

His want to help her begin and nurture a career as an author, help it to flourish. His offering of his connections— a brother teaching at Willow's first choice college and a sister-in-law in the business—to her.

He didn't have to do any of that. He didn't even have to speak to her beyond saying her name during roll call.

Willow couldn't help but feel a little special twinge in her chest (and a few other places) at the thought of having so much of Mr. Jackson's focus on her. Last week, he probably didn't' know her from Adam and now he was personally trying to mentor her.

Folding her arms n the tabletop and resting her chin on them, Willow thought back to the day before,when she had given her stories to Mr. Jackson.

Oh, he'd been so glorious that day, wearing one of his more relaxed ensembles, of a simple maroon tee and some black jeans so tight they had to have been painted on.

Apprehensively, Willow had moseyed over to him, her backpack feeling like a lead block hanging off her shoulder.

Since it was Thursday, he was having his usual double-decker cheeseburger and a large order of fries smothered in mayo and black pepper.

Seeing her, he was again cordial, offering her a seat and even some of the gut-busting spuds, which she declined.

Willow had been breathless as she sat with him, the rich, wine color of his shirt playing so well with his rich, mocha complexion.

She'd never forget the expression of shock on his face, the way his eyes widened and sparkled, his brows had shot to his hairline, his mouth forming an “o” above his chin, when, from her book bag, Willow had produce a stack of pink folders, all of which containing different stories she had write, printed and bound special for him.

He'd been rather dumbstruck, taking them from her and thanking her.

She'd presented him with over thirty tales, while she knew it would have been damn near impossible for him to have read them all, she hoped he'd made a dent in the works, and liked what he was reading.

Why did time have drag on so, when she was so eager to hear his feedback?

Flipping her phone over, it's background a photo of Zayn in a leather bomber jacket, smiling, she saw above his slicked back black locks, the time read at two-thirty in the afternoon.

Damn it.

Willow shook her head derisively, braided ponytail whipping.

Still a half an hour until school let out for the day.

Unable to control herself. Willow was moving before she was aware of it.

Pushing herself out of her seat, she quickly was throwing her French book and notepad back into her hologram bag, throwing it over her shoulder, Willow was gone, weaving her way through the stacks, and out of the swinging double doors.

It wasn't like she'd be missed. Most everyone with study hall as their last period used it as an excuse to leave school an hour early, especially on a Friday, and Willow was one of the select few that actually stayed on campus to make use of the time.

Thinking it in her best interest to use the time touching up her makeup, Willow made a bee-line down the hall to closest girl's bathroom, a stone's throw from the lunchroom, where she glimpsed an unfortunate Home Ec class all chopping onions, some of the girls, and the lone boy crying from the fumes.

Passing into the stark, austere, all white bathroom, Willow was hit by a different kind of fumes.

Very faintly, she could smell the sweet, vanilla-y scent of expensive tobacco burning.

Looking down the row of open doors of the five regular stalls, she saw that the larger one of the handicapped stall at the end was shut.

And from the bottom of the stall three pairs of feet were visible, all wearing black leather flats, a wide, gold cutout 'T', for the Tory Burch label visible on all. Overhead, wisps of smoke danced.

Willow knew those shoes anywhere, they belonged to the girls known as the Three E's, after the last syllable of each of their first names.

Stephanie Lane, Mandie Drew, and Whitney Dunbar, three of the most popular seniors all hailing from the wealthiest families in nearby Savannah, those three, were the extreme definition of the word legacy.

They had no real claim to fame, other than their names, and their sordid reputations that included everything from, pregnancy scares, a botched abortion and at least once a month there was a brawl breaking out on campus between two or more boys vying for the girls' affections.

They were the very antithesis of what Willow Lester was, popular with the boys, sexy, coy, witty to a fault, and to an extent Willow did envy them, as all those outside the bubble of popularity oftentimes looked in longingly. Even if when it came to their studies they had the combined IQ of Dijon mustard.

Each had had family who were Dalton alums dating back to the turn of the century, and rumor had it Kacie's great, great, great grandfather had left school to go fight in the Civil War. (and lose abysmally with the Confederacy)

Easily, they were among some of the longest running patrons of the school, with the science hall being named after an uncle of Stephanie's.

Coming to the first sink, Willow put her bag in and dug through it, removing her makeup bag, black canvas with a pair of puckered oversized pink leather lips on the front.

From the smaller bag, she pulled out a travel-sized bottle of her favorite perfume, Chanel No 46, matte translucent powder, tube of mascara, and rusty brown gloss.

Willow didn't pack on the cosmetics as so many in her age bracket tended to do. She did the bare minimum opting for a more natural—and easily maintained—look.

(Besides her conservative mother would have screamed bloody murder if Willow pranced out the door looking more like she was destined for a street corner instead of a schoolyard.)

Taking the powder puff and starting to dust her nose, which liked to get shiny by the days' end, she paused, her ears picking up a conversation,

“....I'm telling y'all...I just know my folks are gonna go ape shit on my ass when my report card comes in. No way to avoid it...” She heard Mandie lament, her voice high-pitched and squeaky.

“Why?” There was Stephanie's lower, cultured, holier-than-thou tone.

“Why? Don't be dumb—you know I'm about to flunk Mr. Jackson's class!”

“Wait, which Mr. Jackson?” Softer, whispery Whitney put in. “Mr. Jackson that teaches Music Comprehension or Mr. Jackson that teaches AP English?”

“Duh, the one that teaches English! You know I don't take Music!” Mandie exclaimed. “I mean, y'all know how hard I've been studying and working on my essays and analysis and all the shit he asks us to do, and I still got a solid fucking 'D' staring at me!”

“That's because you were staring at an entirely different 'D', Mandie!” Whitney chuckled.

“I beg your pardon—the hell is that supposed to mean?” Mandie challenged, causing her besties to laugh at her harder.

“You know what I mean!” Whitney retorted. “I've seen you during class. Your thirsty ass always staring directly at that man's crotch., hunting his 'dick print'. Hell, if you looked any harder, his pubic hairs would probably burst into flames!”

More laughter shook the room with Mandie crying,

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up! Like you're not all in that man's ass your damn self!”

“Sure I am, but I pull myself out of those succulent cheeks long enough to keep my grades where they belong for me to get into Yale like my folks want.” Whitney snickered evilly.

“Well, excuse me for admiring a sexy man.” Simpering Mandie's feet kicked at the tiled floor.

Stamping at her T-zone, Willow's ears were acutely attuned to the conversation. She had been so tied up in knots over Mr. Jackson—AP English one—her mind so clouded on one track only, she'd never considered that he had the same affect on her peers as he did her.

Eavesdropping, Willow set her powder aside, lifting the mascara, careful not to make a sound, lest she give herself away and be physically dragged all over campus for the breach of privacy.

“I guess I'll have to break down and start trying to writing those short stories he wants done for extra credit. What was the topic this week—fire me up again?”

A lighter flicked with Stephanie commented,

“I swear, I don't know what y'all see in the Jackson that teaches English. The one that teaches Music is a hell of a lot more gorgeous to me! He is so thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick!”

“That's because you always were cuckoo those mixed, light-skinned men, Steph!” A perfect smoke ring floated through the air. “And everyone knows the Jackson that teaches Music is Puerto Rican and Dominican on his mother's side. My cousin Yolanda told me that when she took his class last year! Someone asked what his background was and he told them: Mom is Latina and his Daddy is Black.”

Passing the tiny brush through her long lashes Willow vaguely remembered the Mr. Jackson that taught Music, as she had taken his class in the tenth grade. That was back when she thought she had the talent to play piano.

(Took an entire semester and the fraying of most of her sanity to realize piano was not her strong suit.)

The other Mr. Jackson had been a sweet, soft-spoken man; tall and a touch heavy-set, with a bronze complexion and mesmerizing greenish eyes.

Willow almost stabbed herself in the eye by what Stephanie said next,

“Well, shows what you know, silly bitch!” She cackled, “Mr. Jackson that teaches Music is the older brother of the one that teaches English!”

“What?”

“You're shitting me!”

“Get out of here! They're brothers?”

“Bitch, quit lying!”

So Willow's assumptions about Mr. Jackson's lineage had been correct; he did have Latin blood coursing through his veins.

“Wait a minute...” There was Mandie again. “You said Music Jackson was older than English Jackson. How the hell? They both look like they're twenty-five!”

“I don't know, but you know I spend second period working as a go-for, for Headmaster Collins and he has me in an out the Teacher's Lounge all the time. That's how I heard about it. Music Jackson was in there last week with Coach Marata talking about the fortieth birthday party he was planning for August, so I can only assume he's thirty-nine now--”

The gander went up smoke billowing.

“You're shitting us, gal!”

“Thirty-nine,I call bullshit! No way! He looks too good! Too young! ”

“Y'all know Black don't crack!” Stephanie boasted, and could as she was Black, while her White counterparts grumbled in understanding.

Meanwhile, Willow was whirling. If Mr. Jackson—English—were indeed close in age to his sibling, then it meant he had to be in his thirties at least. Much older than she had first anticipated.

And for some reason, that fact enchanted Willow all the more.

It made him more forbidden, more taboo...

“Lordy, the things I could do to that man....” Mandie declared suddenly. “Too bad I can't 'head' my way to an 'A'. Suck that man's soul and skeleton out!”

Depraved giggles took over.

“You would say that, you tramp!” Whitney screeched. “Oh, well, who am I kidding? I'd probably do the same thing. Knock all those pretty curls out his head. Have him screaming...”

There was a snort, and Mandie questioned,

“What about you Stephanie? Would you play Music Jackson's 'skin flute', if you could?”

There was silence and someone blew another smoke ring.

Stephanie mumbled something though Willow couldn't hear it, it caused her friends to shriek like wet cats. .

“Oh my God! You slut! You slut!” A pair of feet bounced, Mandie wailing. “You mean to tell us you gave Music Jackson...a blow job? When?”

Willow stood, mouth agape, ears so tuned she could have picked up Radio Free Europe.

“Remember when I had to stay for detention two weeks ago, after I knocked Anthony Delvin over the head with a French horn cause he pinched my tit!”

“Oh yeah! That son of a bitch had it coming. He was touching all the girls! Pervert...”

“Well, anyway, that big, mouthwatering hunk of caramel started scolding me, and I've always been into dudes telling me what to do...”

“You didn't!”

“Where the hell you think I've been every day after school?”

“EVERY DAY?”

Willow didn't hear the rest of the conversation, fleeing the room.

A few yards down, she stopped and leaned against the wall, trying to collect herself.

She'd had to get out of there,or she'd have hollered and given herself away.

Mata Hari she was not.

At the mention of oral sex, quite vividly and invasively, she'd had an image of herself performing such a lewd act on the English teaching Mr. Jackson.

She had thought of it often, but never before had the thought crossed her mind while she was on campus.

It was frightening, and what frightened her all the more that another student, a girl the very same age, had done the very things—maybe even more knowing a fast piece like Stephanie—she'd only fantasized about, with a teacher.

A teacher whom had to be mighty close in age to her own Mr. Jackson.

They were brothers after all.

And who was to say English Jackson's tastes didn't run as evenly as Music Jackson's?

Brothers did have a way of influencing each other, did they not?

Unscrewing the cap on her small bottle of Chanel No. 46, she applied the woody, floral scent to all of her pressure points, right as the bell ending the day began jangling.

By the time the Three E's came out of the girls' room, unaware their trio had been a quartet, Willow was a speck in the distance, battling against the crowd going down the stairs to the second level while she was trying to go up.

It was a hard fought little battle, for Willow to get up those twenty-four steps and past that one landing dead in the center, though she had been mashed like a bug against the stained glass window in that alcove.

Eventually, Willow, albeit slightly battered with her temper shortened, emerged to find the hallway but an empty, cavernous shell, the doors to all of the classrooms standing shut, the entire floor still as a graveyard in the dead of night.

Willow, aiming for Room 209, was busily trying to push her makeup pouch into her backpack, when, much to her chagrin, it missed its mark, and fell on top of her Mary Janes.

“Damn it!” She whispered to the walls, stooping to retrieve it.

As her hand clutched the canvas, out of the perimeter of her vision, a pair of shoes, black, polished tasseled loafers appeared, causing her to tense and freeze.

Slowly, very slowly, her eyes came up, over the starched and creased black gabardine trousers, stretching and straining over wide hips, the trimmer waist cinched by a leather belt, with a burnished silver Ralph Lauren buckle, up over the black silk button-down, shoulders expanding to form a perfect hourglass shape, loosened at the throat.

And found Mr. Jackson staring down at her, face stoic and devoid of any readable emotion.

But his eyes....his eyes...there was something off about his gaze.

His eyes were so fierce, so serious, on the verge of being treacherous, they frightened Willow to her very core.

The muscles around his cut, square jaw, tensed, he was clenching his teeth behind immobile lips.

As swiftly and stealthily as he had come, Mr. Jackson turned on his heel, pacing back to his class.

Reaching the open door, he hesitated a second, staring back at the frozen teen, then disappeared into the room.

And in short order, Willow was sprinting down the hall after him.

...scritch....scritch...scritch...

A good quarter of an hour had trickled by, since Willow Lester set foot into Mr. Jackson's class that afternoon, and filled the seat in the front row directly facing his desk.

And for those fifteen minutes, outside of Mr. Jackson stating he had some worksheets he needed to grade before he left that evening, he had been seated at his desk, the tip of his fountain pen raking across the pages.

...scritch....scritch...scritch...

Thumbs twiddling on the desktop, though her head was ducked, she was dutifully watching her instructor.

His own head lowered, the pomade keeping his curls tamed sparkled like dewdrops under the harsh, florescent lights.

...scritch....scritch...scritch...

The pen, red cloisonne, with a gilt dragon wrapping it, continued rapidly checking off correct answers and more slowly leaving notes on the incorrect ones.

Staring at him, Willow replayed the tawdry conversation she had been covert party to.

The discussion not only of Mr. Jackson, but his elder brother.

And the fact that Stephanie Lane had performed such an act...that the music-teaching Jackson would allow it to be performed.

A new, fresh, shocking thought occurred to her, causing her jaw to sag: What if the elder Jackson had been the one to make the first move, initiated it, not Slutty Stephanie?

It wasn't a thought so far fetched.

The news was littered with stories of pupils and teachers doing far more than expanding their minds within the confines of a learning institution.

...scritch....scritch...scritch...

Unconsciously, her eyes traveled down Mr. Jackson's body, down to the open front of his desk, were his legs, spread and splayed, as most men's did when seated, bounced as he checked more papers.

To the protrusion poorly concealed by name brand trousers.

...scritch....scritch...scritch...

It was a place Willow found her eyes drawn to more and more.

And there had been too many days, too many sleepless nights to count where she'd wondered just what was concealed in those trousers.

Mr. Jackson was outwardly a big strong, strapping man; wouldn't all of him be big, strong and strapping, too?

Her temperature increased, mind falling off into the gutter with a splash.

What would it be like to get a good, hearty taste of that hot chocolate?

...scritch....scritch...scritch...

Willow shifted, her head lifting a touch and she stared down her nose at him.

It was only natural to be attracted to an attractive man, one who was sweet and kind and mild-mannered.

Everything a Southern gentleman was taught to be and prided himself on evolving into as he aged.

Tito Joe Jackson did possess all of the qualities valued in a gentleman in those parts: intelligence, good looks, wit, a fine dresser no matter what he slipped onto his beefy frame.

Soon, Willow was going to be a Southern Lady, shouldn't she have her gentleman?

“Thank you for your patience, Willow.”

Her head popped up, Mr. Jackson's voice breaking the silence.

“It's....it's quite alright, Sir...I know you're...you're busy...”

She rambled, playing with her fingers.

The pen was capped and twirled in his hands idly, with Mr. Jackson glancing at the object,

“Before we get into the topic of the stories you gave me, I'd like to speak candidly with you, Willow... get to know you a little better. We only see each other in class and I'm usually in the middle of a long-winded lecture on the finer points of George Orwell or Sylvia Plath...”

It was no secret in class that once wound up, Mr. Jackson would dominate the floor with few interjections, unless it was a dire emergency.

He was so passionate about his link to all things literary, only a hurricane causing the roof to collapse on him would have put a halt to the spiel once he was on a definite roll.

“Well...” Willow paused, as she had never really been asked much about herself in conversation. “...what do you want to know?”

“Hmmm...” He hummed a moment, mulling it over. “Do you have any siblings or are you an only child?”

“I...I have two brothers. Clark goes to Georgia Tech, and Elijah, Jr. is a doctor at Johns Hopkins in Maryland.”

“Oh, you're the youngest of three?” Mr. Jackson's face brightened. “So am I! Taj is the professor I showed you the other day and Taryll works out in the Music Department here. We're both the babies of our families. What a coincidence!”

A-ha! So the music-teaching Mr. Jackson was indeed his sibling!

And she couldn't help smiling at the fact they both the youngest of three.

“Yes, Sir...” Willow nodded, Mr. Jackson reclining in his seat, springs crying.

“And what do you do in your spare time, other than the two clubs—French and History, if I'm remembering correctly—you said you were a part of?”

“Um....” Shyly, she ducked her head again, inspecting her nails. “I mostly write in my free time, Sir--”

Her cheeks burned over her lack of social life, but that was one debt to pay in order to rank near the top of the graduating class of 2016. Dances, football games and general teen hanging out were something she had dreamed of, but which was never realized for Willow.

“I love it.”

Sitting back upright, Mr. Jackson beamed out at her, eyes twinkling along with his pearly teeth.

“That shows your dedication to your craft, Willow. You have a lot of focus and drive. I admire that...and you're quite the prolific little authoress. I was greatly surprised when you gave me a stack of thirty-three stories!”

“Thank you.” She was counting the lines of her fingerprints she was staring at her hands so hard, crumbling under his steady stream of praise, as she was unused to such attention, especially from someone as dashing as her AP English teacher.

“Of course I haven't had the pleasure of reading them all just yet, but from the four I looked at, I like what--”

“Which...” Willow's voice cracked as she broke in, “...which stories did you read, Mr. Jackson?”

“Call me, TJ.”

“Beg pardon, Sir?” She inhaled, with him smiling harder, eyes starting to crinkle in that adorable, heart-rendering way.

“I said...call me TJ” He repeated warmly, “ You're so polite, Willow. We don't need to be so formal when classes are over. Off the clock, I'm just plain ol' TJ...”

“Okay...TJ...” It was only two letters, but the act of saying them caused Willow's lips to tingle as a result.

She'd never called a teacher by their first name.

There was something so intimate about being allowed onto a first-name basis with him.

“Wonderful...” He winked at her and small hands clutched tighter to avoid their trembling being spotted. “...and to answer your question, I got through The Vicar's Confession, Take Your Best Shot, Under the Weather, and Harem.”

Squeeeeeeeeeak!

The chair hollered as he rolled back a couple feet, far enough to open the top drawer.

“You have an exceptional talent Willow...”He informed her, removing a pink folder. “I had assumed The Old Dusty Trail was perhaps a fluke... just you putting in extra effort to raise your score. I'm quite happy to find I was wrong in my assumptions.”

The folder was tossed on the desk.

“You consistently wrote interesting, engrossing stories. The kind of stories that transcend time and space, transporting readers away from the here and now—that's a gift.”

“Th...thank you...” Willow didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry, she was so overtaken.

''I...I was particularly drawn to your story, Harem. I've read it three times already...will you come here please...”

Long fingers wagged, Willow rising and making a tentative approach.

“The premise of the story was quite amazing...” Those golden eyes swept up her. “...a mighty rajah with a harem of fifty concubines giving it all up for a single peasant girl.”

“Thank you, Sir...”

Pages flipped, to a passage that had been highlighted in electric blue marker.

“I hope you don't mind me marking this page...” Mr. Jackson apologized. “...but this paragraph keeps making me wonder...what exactly is the ethnicity of Rajah Sanjoo?”

What an odd question. That tidbit had been made abundantly clear, as he'd fallen in love with Priya, the peasant of a much lower caste.

“He's Indian, Mr—TJ—why do you ask?”

“Oh...” His head was bobbing, mouth forming an 'O' above his pointed chin.

The folder was held up to her.

“Would you be so kind as to indulge me and read what's outlined, please, Willow?”

Taking the story, Willow cleared her throat, starting quietly,

“...Tended to and pampered since his birth, Sanjoo was an indulged, arrogant young man, confident in both his name and wealth. Sanjoo rose just past six feet tall, with a presence that seemed double that. His skin, darkened to a rich coffee brown by the blazing summer suns, his features clean and cut as though sculpted from the finest marble. When not wound in a silk and gem studded turban, he possessed glossy, wild curls. He was a handsome, well-built devil, gold-tinted brown eyes, forever dancing beneath the thickest black brows in the province...”

There were several more lines colored in, but Willow trailed off, that cool mist of sweat starting to saturate her back, a realization coming to her.

She hadn't noticed it as she had written the story, but she had inadvertently modeled the protagonist, Rajah Sanjoo of the fictitious Ranchipur Province, directly after Mr. Jackson!

Willow was silent for a very long time, the pounding of her heart, the only sound between them.

Embarrassment had never been an emotion she handled with grace, and Willow was contemplating how far she could run away before she burst into tears.

After the interval, Mr. Jackson pulled the folder away from slick, clammy palms, mentioning the obvious, with a wry chuckle,

“Perhaps its a bit of wishful thinking on my part, but I can't help but notice a bit of a...ahem...similarity between Sanjoo and myself...or am I mistaken?”

His forehead was buckling, head cocking to the side with wonderment up at Willow, whose chest began to increase in the pace it was rising and falling, her nostrils flaring, her nerves failing her.

Her mouth had gone so dry, her tongue nearly cracked as she whimpered,

“No...no, Sir...he's....he's modeled...af-af-after you...”

Why didn't she lie? Why didn't she tell him he'd been mistaken, that he was wrong?

Oh, she knew in her heart she couldn't lie to him, she never would.

She...she loved him too much.

As much as a seventeen-year-old could feel what she perceived to be love for her much older teacher.

“Huh...” Mr. Jackson puffed, casting the document aside on the desk. “That's interesting, Willow, very interesting...”

Fingers laced together on the desk and he stared down at them.

“Harem is a good, almost forty-page saga. And a good, nine, almost ten pages comprise of a, what I'd like to call a rather explicit scene in which Rajah Sanjoo is...serviced by the scarved maidens of his harem...”

Squeeeeeeeeeak!

The chair was pushed back, creaking until Mr. Jackson collided with the wall and blackboard behind him.

His legs again splayed, the hands folding in his lap, head remaining lowered with him adding,

“You have a particularly descriptive way of writing, Willow. You got into exacting detail of even the most minute of parts of a scene. Down to the fluttering of an eyelash or bead of sweat rolling down a forehead. I was quite astounded by how you were so...elaborate with your scene...”

He gazed on her, eyes squinting, searching,

“Now, tell me Willow, and I want you to be honest, this is strictly between the two of us. When you wrote that scene, did it come purely from your imagination...or from experience?”

Stunned.

She was stunned.

Completely and utterly stunned and for a few seconds, Willow felt a rush of cold take her body.

Flabbergasted by such an insinuation, the type that good, well brought up Southern ladies avoided at all costs, Willow was the antithesis, of girls like the Three E's, and at such an inquiry, her constructed, contrived and heartily maintained veneer shattered,

“Mr. Jackson!” She sparked off shrilly, hands turning into firsts at her sides, voice acidic with rage of so deep an insult, “What kind of girl do you think? To...to think I would do those things? Sir, I'm a writer! That's what writers do, create, make up stories. Not everything I write I do! I've written murder mysteries and believe you me, I can guarantee there are not any bludgeoned, bloated bodies stacked up like plywood in my basement! Excuse the hell out of me for being creative--”

“You're too creative.”

Mr. Jackson stood abruptly, moving to her.

“Tell me something, Willow...” He was so close to her, closer than she could ever recall his being to her before. She could feel the heat radiating off his body as his chest pressed against her shoulder, with him standing a good head taller than her.

His breaths were measured, even and deliberate, his cologne, bright, spicy and oriental, tickling and taunting her nostrils.

Did he have to smell as hot as he looked, Sweet Baby Jesus in the Holy Manger!

“You say you don't do those things...” She trembled as he caught hold of the braid trailing down her back, pulling it up over her shoulder, between them and twisting the ends of it twixt his fingers playfully. “...but if given the opportunity, I'm pretty damn sure you'd act on your impulse and ignore your inhibitions.”

“Mr. Jackson--”

“My name is TJ.”

He corrected her sharply, causing her to jump, startled by his change in tone.

Eyes boldly in hers, Mr. Jackson's face hovered so closely to hers, his streamlined, upturned nose collided with hers.

“I've read Harem three times. You admitted yourself that Rajah Sanjoo was based on me, and you had him doing some pretty raunchy things with his concubines, Willow. You have to see this from my point of view...” His voice softened, a strange light coming to his eyes, transforming them pure amber.

She couldn't bear to look at him any longer and started to turn away.

“Do you see me that way, Willow?” His hand, warm and smooth as satin, cupped her cheek, bringing her face back to him. “ Like Rajah Sanjoo? See me as the master of my domain? See me as this...this source of power and sex that can command anything I want, get anything I want...”

“It's...” Willow heat surging though her like a five alarm fire at the drastic, uncharted turn this conversation was taking, commenced mumbling, looking for a path to escape. “It's just a story...it's all fantasy--”

“A fantasy about me.”

The chin pressed his palm, but unable to override his brute strength, Willow's face remained towards his.

With what seemed like the world starting to crumble around her ears, her eyes moistening with the onset of tears, Willow's voice lowered to a quivering, traumatized whisper, shame raw on her,

“I'm...I'm sorry. I...I won't do anything like that...ever again...Please....I'm sorry...”

He was examining her face with concern, eyes further softening, lashes fluttering.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Willow.” His hand left her cheek, with it scorching in his wake.

His hands busied themselves, pulling her plaid necktie out of her closed blazer, and as he had done with her hair, he was running the fabric between his fingertips.

“It's a story as old as time itself, a girl, young, innocent, wide-eyed, falling for her older, educated teacher. Confidentially, when I was about your age, I had a fling with a teacher of mine. Funny enough, she taught Human Anatomy...and trust me, I learned about things never mentioned in my textbook.” He chuckled wryly again, occupied with the tie.

“You've been found out Willow. I now know your secret: you're attracted to me. What you feel for me is more than what society claims a schoolgirl should feel for her teacher. And, I can honestly say, I am flattered...”

Willow speechless, could only blink in disbelief.

He was flattered?

“You're such a nice, intelligent girl, on the cusp of a promising writing career...you're also quite beautiful.”

Beautiful? He thought she was beautiful?

Willow was dizzy, her ears on fire at the compliment.

“Mr. Jackson--”

“I am TJ.”

He repeated, the grip on her tie tightening slightly.

“Don't think this is all one-sided, my little apt pupil. Don't think I haven't noticed you. I've been watching you since the first week of class. How can I ignore the combination of you being one of the brightest students I've ever taught, and how stunning you are.”

He thought she was stunning?

“Always look like some kind of exotic supermodel when you come into the room. Those thoughtful eyes, that full, tender little mouth...you've got the face of a goddess. And then you sit so quiet, hardly speaking, in the back. Letting me look at you and admire you from afar...”

Those same thoughtful eyes that had once been moist with the onset of weeping, dried, widening so to the point the visible lids nearly disappeared from sight.

She was spinning, Willow was spinning.

Just what was Mr. Jackson—TJ—saying to her?

Her tie was looped around his fingers, drawing her into a few inches.

“...always look so perfect. Never a hair out of place, makeup always done perfectly. Look like something out of a magazine. Neat little body, long, legs like a giraffe....So attentive, so studious. Never wasting a moment in class. In a room full of spoiled tarts and meatheads, its refreshing to see someone paying me mind. Listening to what I say, heeding what I'm teaching...”

The tie was looped a second time, and Willow was forced closer.

“...I may smile and be cordial and jovial in class, but I have to do that. I have to keep my job, I have a home and car and bills and Rusty to take care of. There are days where it is so hard for me. Days where it seems like I'm talking to nothing but the bricks and light bulbs because no one is listening to me. Too busy taking selfies or on Twitter or hell, even catching a few ZZZs at my expense. And then there's students like you, Willow...”

Again she was pulled, Mr. Jackson's fist directly below her chin, with her coming close to being strangled, as he huffed into her face, breath smelling of spearmint and stale coffee.

“You are a delight to have in class. Make the job worthwhile. You listen to me, do you work, hand it in early. Comprehend what I'm teaching. And like I said, you're not hard to look at either...”

His face was coming ever so much closer, bridge of his nose crinkling, pink tongue darting to dampen his plump, pursing lips.

“Mr. Jackson!” Alarmed by what he was intending to do, Willow's initial reaction was to pull back.

Those flecked eyes widened at her.

“I am TJ.”

Lips so hot, so soft, so delicious collided with Willow's and her eyes shut, hands coming up automatically bracing against his hard chest.

Felt his heart thundering under her palm.

Was he as apprehensive as she?

Willow didn't know.

She only knew his mouth was so enticing, so succulent, so wondrous to her.

Her knees....her knees were buckling.

“Uh...” She moaned, starting to sink, only to be caught by Mr. Jackson's strong arms, muscles flexing as he hugged her against himself.

“Don't do that...don't faint on me...” He half laughed half warned over her head, kissing the top of it.

“Not yet...”

Weak, Willow just thoroughly weak.

Had that just happened? Had she really just kissed her teacher?

Locked lips with Mr. Jackson—TJ.

Glazed eyes went up to the grinning face at her. Those crinkling, teasing eyes.

“Are you alright?” He questioned and in a trance, Willow nodded,

“Yes, Sir.”

“I've wanted to do that a very long time...” He admitted, releasing her, and she propped against the side of his desk for support.

Hands on his plump hips, he heaved a loud, disdained sigh.

“I've very attracted to you Willow.” He confided, staring down at his loafers. “I...I want to be with you.”

Willow sank to the floor, hand still clutching the side of the desk.

She couldn't possibly be hearing correctly.

He wanted to be with her? Date her? Have a relationship?

Had she died and gone to Heaven?

“TJ...”

It was all she could say.

He crouched in front of her, another wave of his cologne enchanting and enticing her.

“You do realize....should we go forward with this, it puts us both in positions that are...compromising.”

He admitted, face falling into lax sullen lines.

“You're a student, only seventeen, still underage--”

“My birthday is in exactly two weeks!” Willow, so seduced, so wild, so hot, so cockeyed for this man, she no longer knew right from wrong. Good from bad.

She only knew she wanted TJ, and that was all that mattered to her heart of hearts.

“I know that.” Those heavy brows wagged at her. “...and I'm twenty years older than you, Willow...”

She was awestruck. Never would she have guessed he was thirty-seven! He looked so young, so youthful.

No signs of age gave him away.

“This, what's between us now, puts us both in danger. You risk expulsion and I risk termination. We have to be careful, very careful, Willow. You can't tell anyone, I can't tell anyone. This...this...”

He stood and taking hold of her hand in both of his, helped her to her feet.

“This isn't something that has to just be masked for the next two weeks. It has to stay on the hush and hush until you graduate. I...I want to see you graduate as Valedictorian, and go on to Buford, and become a writer. I want to see you do it and be there to root you on along the way. But we have to be careful....Sweetness...”

At the term of endearment, he was kissing her again, Willow sagging away in his arms, blackness swirling, the scent of his manliness filling her nose.

Right or wrong, no matter how unethical, Willow scarcely cared.

She was in love with TJ.

And when a girl was in love, she feared nothing.

For the next fourteen days, Willow Lester lived in something of a giggly, lighthearted, intoxicated daze.

Sure she went on to her classes and continued her studies, handing in her work ahead of schedule; that detail of her routine never changed.

After many hugs and kisses, Mr. Jackson was stringent about going no further than that, stating it was already bad enough he'd lost his self control to that point in the first place.

They had agreed to have little to do with each other in public to avoid suspicion and they were determined to fly underneath the radar.

But there were little things she began to notice in Mr. Jackson—TJ—right away, following the pact of secrecy about their...relationship.

During lunch, it was no longer Willow who watched Mr. Jackson.

Sitting alone in her designated corner, she found him yards away, at his spot of solitude, observing her, eyeing her.

His class the following period was no easier to endure, as, whether he was up giving one of his endless lectures, or sitting, grading papers, over and over , his eyes were drifting to her.

And the expression was, strangely, hauntingly the same, without change.

It was a dreamy, faraway, spellbound look, his head tilted to the side, bottom lip sucked in, much the way a hungry child looked upon their very favorite sugary treat.

There was no way to keep track of how often Willow had found herself the subject of such a glare.

She only knew she cherished and relished it, being the very center of his attention.

For Willow, gaining male attention had been nothing more than a desperate desire in the very recesses of her mind, but one which she had never acted upon.

And now to have the gaze, want and heart of the most eligible teacher in The Dalton School, she was as full to bursting with pride as a tick with blood.

Though she couldn't breathe a word about it to anyone, she was still thrilled to the very marrow of her bones.

Each time her eyes met his, she would smile smugly to herself, for the first time in her scant life feeling attractive, beautiful, stunning, all the the terms he'd so lovingly described her with.

Who cared if she couldn't tell another soul, couldn't shout it from the rooftops just yet?

She was sharing the secret with the most important person: TJ.

During school hours, the closest Mr. Jackson got to Willow, was during class; no matter what, he found some excuse to wander to the back of the room, else leaning over from behind her, or placing a hand on her back as he stooped to read whatever she was writing, it was enough to cause a spark and send ripples and waves through the breathless teenager.

Along the way, the photo of Zayn as her phone's background was replaced by one of Mr. Jackson, taken in the lunch room right after he'd sat down with one of his big salads.

He had looked so arresting that particular Monday afternoon, in a crisp merlot button down and khaki cords.

The color of the shirt had set off his complexion in the most mouthwatering way, not to mention that the khakis hugged him in all the right places.

Places that had been inching closer and closer to Willow, after school.

Mr. Jackson maintained a strict hands off policy as he and Willow met each evening, except for Thursdays, to discuss the stories she had written including another two that had been handed in for more extra credit.

Those were the times Willow lavished and reveled in the most.

Mr. Jackson—TJ—in that creaking chair, pulled along side the small desk in the front row, with him leaning in, pointing out different passages with one hand, his opposing arm draped about her shoulders, his cologne ever stronger, the further he leaned.

Eventually, within a half hour of the start of discussions, kissing would break out.

Sometimes, TJ would be the one to crack, darting in for impulsive pecks that would lengthen each go around until the two were left gasping for air.

Other times, Willow, after staring at him a very long time, to the point she's memorized the mole on his cheek, would smooch at it, moving over to his mouth, wrapping her arms around him.

There was nothing like it. Being held so tightly in those arms, feeling light as a feather and small as a pixie next to him. Hearing his breaths as he embraced her, feeling his lips on hers, his tongue sneaking into her mouth.

The more time Willow spent with Mr. Jackson, she became increasingly frustrated.

The hugs and kisses were fine and dandy, but they could only go so far.

Only do so much.

All because she had been born a bit too late after him.

It was such a bittersweet event to leave him, as Willow would have to do after a little over two hours in order to make it back home in time for supper.

Lateness for supper would only arouse her parents' suspicions and God only knew what they'd do to Mr. Jackson—TJ—if they were found out.

Each time, Mr. Jackson, arm on her shoulders or wrapping her hips would lead her to the door.

His lips would mash her cheek and he'd smile, so sad a smile it turned her heart to dust, it was crushing, and he'd whisper,

“I love you...be safe out there.”

And she'd leave, heading for the archway marking the stairs.

Looking back, she'd find Mr. Jackson in the hall, solemnly watching her go, and he'd always blow a kiss after her.

Which she'd always catch and hold to her heart.

Thursday, the fifth of November came and dragged on much as the days before it had dragged: long monotonous, relentless.

It was day that usually, once the bell chimed, saw Willow venture from the library following study hall, out to the annex building to Madame Robillard's class, for Club Francais then further to the end of said hall for Mr. Earle's History Club.

That day, though, instead of making her usual jaunt, Willow, bag on her shoulder, braved the crowds, and was effectively squished into every locker and door in the hall, as she went against the current, heading for the staircase leading to the second floor.

There was a question that had been following her around like an unwanted entity all the week and there was only one person who could answer it for her.

The door to Mr. Jackson's room stood open, with him in the middle of the empty class, peering down at and poking about on the lit screen of his personal iPad.

Willow halted in the doorway.

He had looked exceptionally good that day, wearing a grey and white striped cardigan over a navy oxford and pleated slacks, blue and grey sneakers on his long feet.

“TJ...”

“Willow?” He choked, off-guard as she rushed to him, throwing her arms around his middle. “I thought you were over in your French Club...”

“I'll just have to be late!” She declared defiantly, his arms wrapping her, with Willow leaning back to stare up into his questioning face. “I...I have to ask you something.”

“Okay...” The device was set aside, and warm hands cupped her cheeks. “What is it, Sweetness?”

She so loved being called Sweetness.

With his full, undivided attention, Willow drew a deep breath readying her nerves.

“W-w-what are we doing tomorrow...it's, it's my birthday.”

There was that damn Joker-esque grin.

“I can't say...” Quickly he smooched her lips. “...that's a surprise you'll have to wait until tomorrow to see.”

“Aww...” Like a small child, Willow pouted, pushing her bottom lip out and plucking at the buttons on his shirt. “Don't I get a hint at least? Please, TJ?”

“Nope...” His lips pressed her forehead. “I don't even have it ready yet. You'll just have to wait until tomorrow, after school. I'll have it then.”

“TJ!” She protested as his hands grasped her shoulders, turning her and pushing her towards the door.

“Now you run along, Willow, I know Madame Robillard is expecting you. Don't keep her waiting. Be good.”

Lightly, his lips grazed her cheek.

“Be safe....I love you.”

Hand cupping her backside, a first, which startled Willow, Mr. Jackson propelled her out into the hall, promptly shutting the door to his room.

Perplexed and befuddled, Willow stared at the shut door a moment, unsure of what to make of the exchange, and shifting the bag on her shoulder started down to go to her club meeting and likely be sacked out by the French transplant for her tardiness.

Not that she was bothered...her mind was on TJ...and what surprises he had in store for her.

Through the small window of the door, Mr. Jackson hovered, watching, as the tall girl in the short skirt descended the stairs.

With a weak yet hard sigh, he pressed his forehead to the cool glass.

Further down, out of sight, hidden by the door, hands clasped over the hardness pressing against and testing the strength of the zipper on the fly of his trousers.

A hardness that was becoming more and more difficult to control when Willow was around.

A hardness that would have to be satisfied quite soon...

...or Mr. Jackson was going to lose his mind.

* * *

She looked pretty.

It had taken the greater part of her study hall hour, but standing there, giving her reflection in the girls' room, a deep, scrutinizing, harsh once over, Willow was quite sure of it.

She looked pretty.

Today was her birthday and as of 1:03pm, she was eighteen-years-old.

Legally an adult.

It was strange; in only a few hours time, she was another year older, and yet, she didn't feel all that different.

For the longest time she had assumed that when one reached that milestone, there would be a change, both seen and felt, and really...Willow felt like plain old Willow.

There had been no fireworks, no fanfare...only time ticking by.

Time that had indeed ticked by so very slowly that day.

And for the first time in her life, Willow lacked giving her studies the proper attention they deserved.

Again she had been in a fog much like the one that had graced her two weeks earlier when she had sparked up with her Mr. Jackson.

Thinking only of him.

His looks, his touch, his kisses, his scent.

Everything.

Lunchtime had been hard, watching him from across the packed hall, eating away at a salad.

His golden eyes darting to her again and again. Sheepishly, sweetly, covertly.

English class had been even harder...

Mr. Jackson had stood all the period, giving another of his famous speeches, this time detailing the ins and outs of Nabokov's controversial novel Lolita.

Of all the books in the world in which to speak on, why did that he have choose one in which a man becomes obsessed with a much younger girl?

It didn't help matters one iota that every time the word Lolita passed his lips, Mr. Jackson's eyes automatically, unwillingly, as if with no control of his own, would drift to Willow, in the back of the room.

At one point, as he had referred to the title character as a “saucy little nymphet”, Mr. Jackson openly laid his hand on her back and she'd nearly shot up out her chair at his touch.

She knew the words had been meant for her.

Only her.

The whole process had been quite maddening.

Things were too hot, too raw, too pervasively scandalous.

Regarding herself, the cool mist of perspiration starting to dampen her back, as Willow wondered exactly what the surprise was that Mr. Jackson—TJ—had promised her.

A part of her had an inkling as to what it was. What had been put off earnestly for so long.

What they were now able to succumb to, give into so readily now that the chore of age was out of the question and off of the table.

Willow had put extra effort into herself for this very reason.

She was an adult and wanted to look justly so for her man.

Her hair had been set free from its ponytail, cloaking her and reaching her tiny waist in gentle, becoming waves.

Her makeup, earlier had been natural and and a bit unnoticeable had been driven to a darker place, smokey eyes, deep, glossy lips, winged liner, her features cut and contoured out.

Was she ready for this? Ready for what was to be the next step in this 'relationship'?

It was a point of no return.

Before Mr. Jackson—TJ—Willow had never kissed a boy.

Now she was about to make the uncharted foray into womanhood.

Was the ready?

She kept on telling herself she wa--

PING! PING! PING!

Willow came crashing back to reality.

There it was.

The final bell.

The last bell of her childhood chiming out incessantly.

One last, fleeting glimpse at herself.

She was ready.

Shimmering, holographic bag slung over her shoulder, Willow turned from the mirror, shoulders squared, head held higher than ever before, she exited the restroom.

And while she was jostled, bumped and banged around, going against the wave of students fleeing to the nearest exits to begin their weekends of debauchery, she barely felt it.

Hers was a one track mind and the solitary tune playing was Mr. TJ Jackson.

On the stairs, just outside of the archway that marked the second level of the building, Willow paused, dug in her bag, produced her little tube of perfume, rolling Chanel No 46 all over her pulse points and for the first time, in between the little mounds that sufficed as her bosom.

Inhaling, to the point her lungs were filled to the brink of bursting, Willow mounted the last few steps.

The hall was cool, dim, still.

Mr. Jackson looming in the center of it.

Willow was taken aback by how unnaturally handsome he was.

How alluring, how beautiful.

How sexy.

That towering, commanding body, draped so simply, yet exquisitely, in a black cashmere cardigan over a plain v-necked white tee, paired with black slacks.

He shifted from one foot to the next, the soles of his tasseled, high-gloss loafers squeaking lightly on the flooring.

As he did each and every afternoon, Mr. Jackson stared her down for several seconds, then turned, going back off into his classroom.

The unspoken hint that she follow.

Leaving her breathless and running after him.

She'd have followed that man to the ends of the Earth and through the Seven Circles of Hell if she had to.

Reaching the door, Willow came to abrupt halt, hands clasping over her mouth.

Her usual after-hours seat, the desk facing Mr. Jackson's, had been decorated.

From the back of the chair, a bouquet of a dozen baby pink and silver balloons had been tied and bobbed in the wind from the heating duct.

On the desktop, furthering the theme was a silver gift-wrapped box, long and rectangular,huge pink bow topping it off.

In front of the desk, Mr. Jackson stood, holding a single pink frosted cupcake, candle sprouting from a silver fondant crown ablaze.

He was smiling so hard, those crinkles around his eyes out in full force, all of those gleaming teeth exposed to her.

“Well, are you going to just stand there gawking, or are you going to come blow this out and make your wish, Sweetness?” He teased with a snort.

How she adored being called Sweetness.

“Oh, TJ...” She whispered, truly touched by his thoughtfulness, dropping her bag to the floor.

Swiftly, she crossed the room to him, wrapping her hands around his, their eyes meeting.

Her eyes fluttered shut and with a small gust, the flame had been extinguished.

“...and what did you wish for?” He was smiling ever harder as she looked upon his long, taut features.

“Nothing.” She replied simply, taking the pastry, seating herself in the desk. “I already have what I want.”

“...and what is that?” His lips closed, hiding his teeth, the corner curling in a bit of a sinister way.

Dark eyes smoldering, Willow stated slowly, dipping her fingertip in the frosting.

“You.”

She started to her mouth with the pink goop, but was stopped, Mr. Jackson taking hold of it.

Her finger was guided to his mouth, with him intoning,

“You've had me since day one.”

Willow trembled, allowing him to place her index finger past his lips, sucking the icing away.

Releasing her hand, he instructed,

“Enjoy your cupcake. I have to do something right quick. Don't open your gift just yet.”

“Okay...” Nibbling on the treat—it was strawberry icing on a chocolate cake, her favorite combination—Willow watched Mr. Jackson lumber away, that lovely backside jiggling, to the door.

Hand on the lock, he turned the deadbolt, with it clanging dully.

Sealing them off from the rest of the world.

They were alone.

Retracing his steps, Mr. Jackson retrieved his wooden chair, pushing it alongside Willow.

Squeeeeeeeeeak!

Spicy cologne tickling her nostrils, he put his arm around her shoulders, first rubbing his cheek, there were the touches of a five o'clock shadow growing in, then his lips, so warm and tender.

Lips that moved to hers the pair kissing so profoundly, it seemed their souls intertwined.

Slowly, with a soft smack, he pulled back.

“Now, you can open your gift.”

Gift? What was a gift?

Willow was so lightheaded and drunk off of him she'd forgotten there was even a gift there for her.

If he smiled any harder, his eyes were going to disappear.

Small, shaky hands took to the silver wrapping and pink bow, tearing it away, revealing an unadorned white box.

Reaching in, Mr. Jackson removed the top,tossing it away, and pushing aside the tissue paper inside.

“TJ!” Willow gasped, him digging further, lifting out a laptop.

The most beautiful laptop she'd ever seen, its top entirely covered by varying cuts and shapes of pink Swarovski crystals, glittering under the lights.

“Oh!It's so pretty! I love it! It's really mine? Thank you so much! I love it! Oh, TJ, thank you!”

Popping out of her seat, she rounded the desk, TJ cackling,

“Of course it's yours. My perfect little writer needs the perfect computer to keep her stories on--”

Without thought, Willow stood over him, throwing her arms around his long neck, lips mashing his earnestly.

Cradled against him, Willow stiffened slightly, feeling his warm palm, first on her knee, gliding up onto the bared flesh of her thigh.

“Come on...come on...” TJ hissed hotly, pulling at her arm.

Thinking he meant her to sit on his lap, she went to drop down.

“No...straddle me...” He corrected her instantly and obediently, Willow sat, her legs on wither side of his.

She'd never been this close to him before.

Parts of her were in flames already.

Only he could extinguish it.

“Yes...perfect...” His eyes wandered over her. “Everything about you is perfect, Baby...”

Deftly, the buttons on her blazer were loosed, with it pushed off her shoulders and onto the floor.

Her tie was undone, cast aside, her blouse following, exposing the snowy lace demi-bra.

“Damn...” TJ huffed, gorgeous orbs widening. “You're too cute! You were hiding all that from me?”

Willow was thrust against him, TJ burying his face in her neck, sucking at the smooth perfumed flesh.

Mimicking him, Willow kissed and sucked along his Adam's apple.

Did he have to smell so good, be so spicy?

“Willow...Willow....Willow!”

Suddenly TJ jerked away, so hard, the chair shot back a good foot, and if she hadn't jumped up, she'd have likely hit the floor.

“What?” She cried, throwing her hair over her shoulder, hands wringing in front of her.

“Am...am I doing it wrong?”

The curled head shook wildly,

“Wrong? Wrong?” He nearly shouted. “You're not doing anything wrong. You're doing it right!”

Climbing to his feet, he kicked the chair back, with it crashing into the far wall.

Fingers flew undoing the buttons on his sweater, TJ stating, breathlessly,

“I...I thought I could wait. I thought I could go through a bit of foreplay with you, my saucy little nymphet...I realize now I can't....It's impossible.”

The sweater was gone, flung on the nearest desk.

Hands clasping behind herself, Willow's breaths increased, watching as TJ tugged the tails of the white tee from his trousers, pulling the whole thing up and over his head.

She was keenly aware his eyes were fixated on her quivering bosom, contained by the embellished floral lace cups. In between the cups a tiny, rhinestone crusted bow caught the light.

The shirt landed beside the sweater.

TJ Jackson was topless.

There were hardly any words to describe him.

Willow had long imagined what was under his shirts, the clingy polos, the starched oxfords, the loose tees, and nothing was quite like the reality.

He was so broad, so powerful, so thick.

His upper body was massive, but fine-tuned, toned, but not overly so.

It was obvious the man took the greatest care of himself, as far as keeping in shape.

Arms so dense and heavy with muscles, flat stomach rippling as he breathed, his innie bellybutton visible above the waistband of his trousers.

So smooth and chocolaty all over.

Darker, little nipples accenting each pectoral.

He was breathtaking and Willow audibly wheezed at the sight of him.

God, the man was perfection.

His glare was lethal, peering out at her.

Only her.

As if she were the only woman he'd ever looked at in his natural life.

Slowly, he stepped back, seating himself on the rolling chair.

Squeeeeeeeeeak!

Finger out, he beckoned Willow.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she tentatively paced over to him.

The room was electric, the air so charged the entire place should have blown to bits.

Why didn't it?

His legs flayed open as she reached him, large hands on massive thighs.

Light dancing off his hair dressing, he dipped his head, peeking at her through his lashes.

“You know I love you...right, Willow?”

“Y-y-yes...” She nodded, taking note as his hands moved inward, removing the leather belt

“I love you, too...”

She could barely breathe.

He loved her. She still couldn't believe a man like him would even like her, much less love her.

The belt joined his sweater and tee.

“Tell me something, Sweetness.” Her hand was grasped with Willow pulled between his legs.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes...” Again she nodded, hands trembling behind her.

His hands were on her hips, circling them she was so slim.

So warm, so soft, much softer than any man's hands should have been.

“We're about to do things...things we can't speak of. Things I'm sure you've probably never done before...that's why I have to have your love and you trust...to know that you'll let me guide you.”

His head came up, lips curling, fiendishly, but those goldish eyes showing his concern.

Concern for her well-being.

“I don't want you to ever feel like I'm using your or taking advantage of you Willow. I know I've promised you a lot of things. How I'd help you become Valedictorian, and get my sister-in-law to get you started writing. I mean it. I wasn't just idly speaking or doing it try to get you to do naughty--”

He was cut off by Willow moving forward, kissing him.

His grip on her tightened, as she daringly plunged her tongue into his mouth.

Then he was puling on her.

TJ was pulling on her, pulling her down in front of him.

For a scant moment, Willow resisted and she remembered what she had heard Stephanie say about his brother.

Was Willow expected to provide the same service?

It seemed evident by the bulge starting to make itself clear beneath the starched back fabric.

An obviously long shaft, longer than Willow had anticipated, mushroom-headed tip perfectly outlined.

Her breaths were heavier, TJ's hands coming up to her shoulders, guiding her down onto her knees.

He must have seen the look of fright on her face.

Pinching her chin, he stared her directly in the eye.

“You don't have to be afraid of me, I don't bite....”

The zipper was loosed, peacock blue underwear peeking through.

“...that is, unless you want me to!”

“...yeah....yeah...yeah... just like that! Just like that, Sweet Baby...you're a little natural at this...”

TJ hissed through grit teeth, brow puckering as he stared over his abdomen to the head bobbing up and down over his nether regions.

“Yes! Yes! Willow! Like that! Oh God! Girl, yes!”

Further down, Willow, one fist barely fitting around the base of his shaft, nestled in a neat, little trimmed bush decorating his pubis, trousers and underwear merely pushed away, but not entirely removed, Willow was running her mouth up the length of it.

He was so long, so girthy, so sweet to her.

To say Willow had only imagined performing such an act, she had taken to it with an ease of manner and delicacy of much more experienced women.

It was almost as if she had been born to it.

Sucking after him, kissing along the length of him, nibbling the head of him.

Hell, she even plucked after his fuzzy coinpurse for good measure.

Was he truly unlocking all the sexual prowess she'd never even realized had been lying dormant within her?

“Oh! Oh! OH! Oh, shit! Oh!”

Crying out into his own fist, every noise TJ made only heightened her, brought her blossoming into full female sexuality.

“Fuck...” His hands were in her hair, propelling her along that meat tube even faster.

“Willow! Yes! Yes! Oh! Hell, yes!”

Why was he so delicious?

Willow never needed food again. She could have lived solely off air, sunshine and TJ.

Suddenly she was pulled completely off him, the tip of him popping her chin, and sparkling with saliva,

“I love it...”

His hands were cupping her face,

Lips pressed hers wetly, passionately, crazed, and when he abruptly stood, Willow was left dazed on the floor.

“Go to my desk...” His voice was deeper, more throaty. “... go over there...”

Aroused, and strained.

Arm lifted, pointing out the huge carved structure fronting the blackboard.

Willow started away and was put into reverse by the TJ's hand yanking the back band of her brassiere.

Held against his warm, lithe, hard body.

That foot-long appendage bumping her backside and thigh.

Her hair was clenched in his fist, head pulled back with a snap, his mouth devouring hers.

Her legs...Christ her legs were weakening again!

If he kept this up, she was going to lose all use of them.

Hands on her head, she was thrust forward.

“Now go.”

Stumbling, Willow crossed the room, clinging to sides of the desk for support.

It didn't take that long for her to reach the desk.

It truly didn't feel as though it took that long.

But when Willow turned around, she was brought to the verge of collapsing.

TJ was very calmly, very neatly folding a blue piece of fabric.

Wearing nothing but his skin.

Every inch of that statuesque form was exquisite.

Smooth, free of any traces of hair, save for the thatch decorating his groin and some appearing on his lower legs.

All that remained on him was his gold watch and a pair of white socks.

He started towards her, stopping only to retrieve his leather belt and her plaid necktie.

And Willow had been reduced to a pile of skin on the floor.

TJ had turned his back to her for the tie, effectively mooning her in the process.

That plump, round, jiggling mass extending from his back was too much for her to take.

Willow went into flames quicker than The Hindenburg.

“No...no...no....” TJ was quite calm, laying a hand on her bicep and bringing her back to her feet.

“I already told you not to faint on me.”

“I...I can't help it...” She whimpered, his lips on her cheek, hands behind her.

With one snap, the band on the bra was unhooked, cups falling away to reveal the small, but matured breasts, sitting up high and proudly on Willow's sternum.

“Oh....” The brows bounced, eyes growing. “Oh... Willow....you're absolutely perfect....”

And his face was buried in them.

“Ah!” Willow gasped, goosepimples taking her, heat surging, TJ greedily licking and sucking on the mounds and areolas. “TJ!

His arms were around her, lifting her.

Setting her atop the desk.

Holding her near her rib cage his lips moved along her sternum between the bosom, Willow watching him in awe, eyes up at her.

He knew what he was doing.

Had he planned it all along?

“I need you...” He panted, breaths warm and moist on her right breast.

Hands gliding over her he flipped the skirt up, revealing the matching pair of lacy underwear.

Underwear that were slipped off quickly, leaving a little, exposed triangle to him.

Hairless, silky, untouched.

Willow was going in and out from lack of oxygen she had been holding her breath so steadily.

TJ stared at the triangle a long moment, tongue wetting his lips, setting the items on the far corner near the photo of Rusty, which he turned face down.

“Has...has anyone...been here before?” His forehead rumpled and stricken, Willow shook her head.

“No--”

“Good.”

With a firm push, he opened her legs, revealing stark damp pink folds deep in the surrounding brown.

To contain herself, Willow chewed nervously on her nails, awaiting his next move.

“I...I..I.” He was at a loss of words. “Oh...shit.”

Sucking in his bottom lip, he composed himself continuing.

“I...I wanted to look at you. See your face...see how you react to me when I...”

He trailed off, right hand stroking the length pointing skywards.

“TJ!”

Willow cried at the ceiling, TJ falling on her and at the same time, rushing into her with the force of a speeding train and feeling very much like one, he was so large.

It had been one thing to look at him, it was another to feel him.

The initial impact waned and Willow was able to get her bearings, staring up into the stern, set face, watching her so closely.

And that was when it dawned on her: He was still inching into her!

He was so large, too large! There was no way she could possibly take all of him!

“Stop...stop...please...I...I can't!” It was a fruitless effort, but she laid hands on his shoulders, trying to push him away.

“Yes you can Willow...” His voice low, dry, strained, eyes unblinking, hips pressing forward.

“ You can take it. Take me. Show me how grown you are. Show me...”

“Please....please...ah! Oh, TJ! Ah!” Her pleas went down his throat, TJ bearing down on her mouth, tongue flopping, the bush on him meeting her flesh.

He was all in.

The pair of them connected in a way as never before.

Willow was raw, so delightfully raw.

“I told you...you could take it...” He blew into her face happily, teeth flashing.

Willow realizing he was laying down further on her.

Pressing her against the top of the desk.

That was the calm preceding the storm.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh, TJ! TJ! TJ! Tito Joe! TJ! TJ!”

At once, his hips began flicking, throwing himself into her again and again,

Rushing back and forth, back and forth, so far in, but never coming completely out.

The first few seconds, Willow, whined and keened, her eyes shut against the new sensations overtaking her.

It was the silence that caught her attention.

The sheer silence.

It took quite a bit of doing, but Willow managed to open her eyes.

And found TJ staring directly down at her.

Face still solid, brows together, lips sucked in, a dimple showing itself on his left cheek.

Aside from his streamlined nostrils flaring and beads of sweat starting to decorate his hairline, he otherwise appeared unstressed by his actions.

The complete antithesis of his young lover.

Lips smacked hers, with TJ pushing himself, looking down at the embattled quivering cocoa figure beneath him, thin legs wagging on either side of his hips.

The crumpled, scowling face, mouth hanging agape, breasts bouncing so alluringly, the rest of her slender form bucking and rocking with his every stroke and throw.

She was absolutely stunning and all his.

And the feeling of this fact was swiftly running away with him.

He...he had to stop.

Or the moment would end prematurely.

One hand on the back of his neck. TJ reached, hand wrapping her throat and began pulling her up...

...at the same time pulling himself from her, an act that left Willow confused.

Was that it? Was that what sex was? Was it over just like that--?

“I almost forgot...aha...aw...” TJ snickered, hugging her close, tongue wagging against her throat.

“Today is your birthday....”

Willow was spun so quickly, the room whirled, and she found herself sprawled on the desk again, this time her back to TJ.

His brown hand slipped in picking up the belt and tie...

“And you're my birthday girl...”

His weight was on her briefly, just long enough for TJ to loop the tie over her head, twice, forcing the fabric in her mouth, gagging her, knotting it at the back of her head.

“Hmmmm?” Willow, distressed, eyes, bulging, once more tried to pull away, slamming back down into the table top.

A draft caught her buttocks, as he pushed her skirt so it flared up over her back.

There was an audible CLAP of the leather , TJ doubling it in his hands.

“...and I need to give you....your birthday whacks...”

POP!

“OW! TJ!!!!” Willow jumped screaming against the gag, as the belt met her tender flesh.

Sheer reaction cause her to throw her hands back in an effort to cover her backside and her wrists were grasped in TJ's hand, with him holding them out the way.

“Don't do that.” He told her frankly “It'll make me lose count and if I lose count, I have to start all over again.”

POP!

“NO! TJ!”

POP!

“STOP! TJ! TITO JOE! DAMN YOU! TJ!”

POP!

“STOP! STOP! THAT HURTS! TJ!”

POP!

“DAMN YOU! I HATE YOU! LET GO OF ME!”

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

By the time the eighteenth and final whack had crossed those cheeks, now sore, inflamed and staring to show bruises, Willow, whom had been bucking and thrashing at first, sagged into submission slumping on the desk, gasping for air, throat burning from screeching so.

The belt tumbled to the floor.

“Oh no....” Willow remarked, feeling that familiar weight on her.

Sweet Jesus, he wasn't done!

“Time to bring this home...” She heard him sneer, hands gripping down on her shoulders.

“Ugh! Ugh!Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!...”

Roles reversed with TJ being the one making noise and Willow falling silent, stunned into it by the sheer feeling of him.

Her hands trapped behind her back and between them, Willow was left at TJ's mercy (?)

His speed increased tenfold and what had been soft and tender before began to show his strain and urgency.

“Yes...Yes....Yes...Fuck...Yes....Ay Dios Mio....Yes!”

Over and over his furry crotch collided with those slim ass cheeks.

That rod splitting deeper with each forceful thrust.

“Aw...Oh God...Oh shit!” He choked off suddenly, the hold on her shoulders shifting so that he was now embracing her from behind.

“Won't be long now Sweetness! Won't be long now...OH!”

The pounding became more frantic and with a sharp wail, TJ's head fell on her shoulder.

“Mmmm! Mmmm! Damn! MMMM!”

With that one last fleeting cry, Willow felt the plunging lose speed, slowing up, until TJ removed himself from her a second time.

Purely flexing his hips as he refused to let go of her, he was running his meat between her cheeks, encouraging the damn to burst, which it did...

A warm liquid plopping around her shoes.

“There it is...I love it...” He whispered to her drunkenly, joyously, kissing at the back of her ear, adding, squeezing her all the tighter.

“I love you, Willow....I love you...”

It went unheard, for all the cotton in her mouth, but Willow, battered and exhausted, managed to repeat the very same phrase to him.

* * *

“...well...it's the last day of school...”

TJ remarked from where he stood, wiping down the blackboard, one final time.

Reclining lazily against the carved desk behind him, Willow nodded solemnly.

“These last seven months have really flown by. I...I can't believe it's all over. I'm...I'm graduating tomorrow.”

She watched the broad shoulders in the red sweater droop, TJ tossing the eraser into the groove at the base of the board.

“Are you ready to deliver your commencement speech....Miss Valedictorian?”

Turning he was beaming, although there was a bright gleam of sadness in his eyes.

“Of course...and you'll be there, front row, you promised.”Willow reminded him, running her hands over his pecs through the wool. “I do so want you to meet my parents. So glad I can finally tell them about us. Tell everybody!”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world. I have to cheer my little girlfriend on.” TJ chuckled, running his hands through her flowing tresses. “I'm so proud of you, Sweetness.”

“Couldn't have done it without you.” Willow beamed, TJ coming closer.

“Are...we interrupting something?”

Passing through the door were a couple,.

A couple that seemed vaguely familiar to Willow.

A handsome, chunky, light-complected black man, dressed down in a Ghostbusters tee and jeans, accompanied by an attractive Spanish woman wearing a woman's version of the same outfit, a large manila envelope clutched in her manicured hands.

“Taj! Talia! Come in! Come in!” TJ, arm around Willow openly, it felt so good to do that withotu fear of repercussions, waved the pair over, both smiling.

“Willow, this is my brother, Professor Taj Jackson and his wife, Professor Talia--”

“We're all friends here.” Taj interrupted putting a hand forward and shaking Willow's, followed by Talia.

“Nice to meet you both!” Willow grinned, with Talia replying,

“It's so good to finally meet you Willow! I've been reading your stories for months and it's so wonderful to finally meet the authoress!”

“Aw...” Shy, Willow ducked her head, TJ massaging at the back of her neck.

“I'm looking forward to seeing you on Buford's campus next year.” Talia continued, holding out the envelope to her. “That is...if by that time you're not already on a tour promoting your new book. I have your finalized contract from the people at LifeGo Publishing in Atlanta. About how much more do you have left on that epic account of Rajah Sanjoo's life?”

“Thank you.” Willow started to open the envelope adding, “Only a few more chapters. It really wasn't that difficult turning a short story into a novel. But I just can't thank you enough...all of you. I'm graduating Val, have a writing contract, and will enter Buford in the Fall. It's all so perfect--”

“Don't shoot him! Don't shoot him please! I love him! Run Taryll! Run! He's got his rifle! Daddy, no! I love him! Daddy please! Run Taryll!”

At the frightened, frenzied shriek, the quartet turned in time to see a sizable yellow blur—it took a moment to register that the man was completely naked, save for a pair of red sneakers—go flying past the open door, followed seconds later by a middle aged Black man in a suit and tie, indeed carrying a double-barreled shotgun.

“Just what in the hell do you think you were doing to my little girl you bastard! Come here!”

Bringing up the rear, sobbing and screaming after them, was Stephanie Lane.

Oh ho! So Stephanie and Taryll had finally been found out!

“He picked himself out a student too?” Taj questioned, neither he nor TJ making moves to assist their middle sibling.

“Yeah...” TJ nodded. “But it seems like we were able to keep the secret better than him and his little thing...should I go ahead and call Pops, put him on the alert, Taryll might be on his way to the ER?”

The rose gold phone was produced.

“You do that. We're on the second floor. I hope that damn fool doesn't try to jump out a window naked as a jaybird. Excuse me. You girls stay here. Come on Teej!”

As the men ran away, Willow was left with Talia who simply smiled at her and tittered,

“I was a student of Taj's too...must be something that runs in the family!”