"Thrice”
by Julius
Copyright April 2008

Marsha chose a new victim every year, although she hardly thought of them as victims. She was also sure that they never saw themselves as such. It was her way of celebrating the start of the summer vacation. She reasoned she earned it, and the young man was never the loser.

Paul was eighteen and, strictly speaking, no longer her student, so she was breaking no law. He was tall and shy and well mannered and there was something about him that made the blood hurry in Marsha’s veins.

He had a summer job at the supermarket, mostly just stacking shelves. He was making pocket money and waiting for university to swallow him up. She’d sought him out in the store and chatted with him while he worked, finding out when he finished.

When he emerged they appeared to meet by accident. Her cart was loaded and he, quite naturally, offered to help. Minutes later he found himself sat in her car, headed for her apartment; he promising to help her with her groceries and she offering to pay him with a beer and a snack. 

He perched on the bar stool, his elbow on the breakfast counter with the promised beer in his hand.

Paul couldn’t believe the change in his teacher. She was barely recognizable. If she’d not spoken to him in the store he’d never have known it was her. Now, here, in her apartment, he watched this sexy woman move around, making them a snack.

Day after day, forever it seemed, he’d watched her and listened to her in the classroom. Just another teacher, vaguely female but by far the easiest to stay awake with during class. He loved history and she made it come alive. But her hair had always been pinned up. She’d worn loose sweaters and calf length skirts. Anything, he realized, to hide the woman he was seeing now.

She’d just been Ms. Sims. He’d not even known her first name was Marsha.

“A penny for them?”

“Huh?”  He snapped back to the here and now.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“Sorry, I was thinking about how different you look.”

“Oh, not the plain, dull, boring old schoolmarm?”

“You weren’t boring or old or,” he forgot which adjectives she’d used.

“I tried not to be boring, but plain I did try for, and I am old.”

He looked at the new Ms. Sims, “You’re not old,” he said, with genuine sincerity.

“You’re eighteen, Paul, multiply that by three.”

Paul’s mental arithmetic wasn’t too bad, “Fifty-four?”

She stepped closer to him, her cleavage little more than a foot from his face, her skirt brushing his knees. “Fifty-four, Paul, just about old enough to be your grandmother.”

Paul put down his empty beer bottle. No beer drinker, he now had a bit of a buzz. He could smell her perfume. His cock burrowed urgently in his