"real" teacher.

Or, more aptly, he was fucking me. I didn't start it. At least, I didn't make the first move. Does that count? Would it hold up in court? We were both adults-aside from the ethics of the thing, there wasn't really anything wrong with what we were doing. But it felt wrong. It felt so very wrong, and maybe that's why it felt so incredibly good.

Mr. Kennedy-his name was actually John, believe it or not-was a hot young teacher, and all the girls had crushes on him. I couldn't blame them. He was just thirty-something, with dark hair that curled around his ears and the nape of his neck and even darker eyes that radiated heat whenever he looked at me. He was charming and cocky and loved to crack goofy jokes with the kids that pushed the limits of propriety-almost.

He hovered on the edge of dangerous all the time, and I liked to sneak up behind him to see if I could convince him to go over.

And one day-he did. We were both staying late, completing progress reports, which involved a dizzying amount of sharpening number two pencils so we could fill in the correct circles on computerized forms. We talked about the kids, we talked about our lives-he wasn't married and was in between girlfriends. There had been plenty of flirting and innuendo between us, and I think we both knew what we wanted. The question was-did we dare?

It was just a subtle shift. I uncrossed and crossed my legs in the soft, respectable-length gray skirt I was wearing, hanging one heel off the edge of my bare foot and rolling my neck.

"Tired?" he asked, putting down his pencil.

I nodded, yawning and stretching, feeling my blouse pull out of the waistband of my skirt a little. "But it could be worse. Most teachers make their student-teachers do all the drudge work like this. At least you help with that part… and you let me do the fun stuff, too."