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Stephanie is uneasy from the moment Mr. Wilson calls her name, her hand stilling where it's currently putting her notebook back into her bag. She glances up, and finds her teacher standing by his desk, arms folded across his chest, eyes locked onto her.
"Please remain in your seat," Mr. Wilson instructs with a placid blink, and after a moment's pause, Stephanie offers a short nod, an agreement that isn't really a choice at all. You can't say no to a teacher asking you to stay after class, especially if you have no excuse for why you have to leave. It's the last period of the day, and a Friday—Stephanie doesn't have anywhere to be, and Mr. Wilson knows it.
As Harper gets to her feet from the desk next to Stephanie's, she offers a sympathetic grimace, eyes flicking briefly over to Mr. Wilson like she's debating staying behind as well before deciding against it; not that Stephanie blames her—Mr. Wilson might just tell her to leave, anyway, and besides, Stephanie wouldn't want to stay late with the man if she didn't have to.
So she just smiles back at her friend, small and reassuring, a look that fades away the instant Harper turns away for the door.
Soon enough, all the other students have filed out, and it's just her and Mr. Wilson left.
Stephanie's never been alone with Mr. Wilson before. It's a sort of unspoken rule amongst the girls, something they don't talk about but all understand —you don't allow yourself to be in a position where it's just you and him.
And it's not like Mr. Wilson's ever done anything, not really. Never touched them, or said anything inappropriate; it's just a feeling. Just a way he sometimes looks at them all, like they're prey. Like he's imagining the best way to go for the kill.
It's nothing they can act upon, nothing they can tell to the principal or their parents to get Mr. Wilson removed. It's just something they all have to handle, and hope that they can make it through the year and then never see him again.
The silence is almost oppressive, and Stephanie folds her hands on the top of her desk, fingers clenching at each other tight enough to turn white. Mr. Wilson observes her, leaning back against his desk and casually crossing his ankles. Stephanie lifts her chin and holds his gaze, refusing to shrink away from the intensity there. She's never been a wilting flower, and won't be one now just because the man gives her the creeps.
"You did very well on your midterm," Mr. Wilson says eventually. "One of the top in the class, in fact."
Stephanie is very much aware of that already. She's always had a brain for history, a talent in remembering facts and dates and she's opinionated enough to be able to write long papers on various events far more effectively than many of her peers. In general, she's one of the top students, so her midterm reflecting that isn't the least bit surprising.
"Thank you," Stephanie says anyway, because it's a better response than I know.
Mr. Wilson's chin dips in a small nod, and then he pushes off the desk, striding forward. Stephanie fights to remain in control, to not jump at the suddenness of it, but she can't help but lean back in her chair when he reaches her desk, perching on the edge of it. He's pretty close like this, his leg brushing the side of her chair, barely an inch away from her thigh. She can't escape the near-contact without pushing back her chair, and something tells her that would really be the wrong move.
"A bright girl like you, I'm sure you're applying to a lot of top schools, yes?"
Stephanie nods hesitantly. Yes, she is. Stephanie intends to become a doctor, and it's important to her that she attends undergrad at a school that'll set her up for success. She and her mom aren't exactly the richest of individuals, but she has faith in her ability to get a good amount of scholarship money.
"Would you like a reference from me?" Mr. Wilson asks. His eye is still boring into her, despite his casual tone. It has her skin crawling, and she clenches her hands tighter against a shudder that wants to run down her spine.
"I already have three," Stephanie says, trying to keep her tone polite. It's not even a lie—her other AP teachers were all too happy to offer her one when she asked. It pays to be a good student.
Mr. Wilson gives a quiet hum. He stands up suddenly, and this time Stephanie does flinch back. For a moment there seems to be something like a smirk tilting his lips, but he turns away too quickly for Stephanie to really be sure.
"Follow me," Mr. Wilson instructs. Stephanie takes a deep breath to steady herself, and then does as she's told, walking up the rows until she reaches his desk at the front.
Mr. Wilson pages through some of the papers on his desk, and seems to find whatever it is he's looking for, pulling it to the top of the pile and then tapping on it twice with his knuckle.
"Take a look at this," he says, but he makes no attempt to hand it over to her, instead lifting his gaze to look at her expectantly.
Stephanie's lips press into a thin line, really having no interest in getting close to him, but still she follows the instruction, moving around the desk to stand next to him.
It feels strange, to have his bare arm against hers, nearly double the size of her own and radiating heat. She wants to yank away, to break the contact, but the paper is at an angle that would make it impossible to see if she was any further away.
Weirdly enough, however, Mr. Wilson takes a step back, his touch sliding away as he waves her forward, allowing her to step up directly before the paper. Stephanie can't help the quiet, relieved breath, appreciating the space he's giving her, and then moves up to fill the space he just vacated, looking down to see whatever it is he wanted to show her.
And then her brow furrows, confused when she sees that it's just her paper, the one that they had to write at the end of the midterm. She already knows what this says; she wrote it, after all. Why is he showing her something that she did?
"You see this?" Mr. Wilson says, probably sensing her confusion, and Stephanie goes rigid as he steps forward again, arm extending to point at a specific paragraph on the paper. But he isn't standing beside her anymore, instead he's pressed against her back, pinning her between the desk and his bulk. He's so much larger than her, nearly a foot taller and certainly wider with all that muscle. And with one hand extended towards the paper, and his other moving forward to settle on the edge of the desk, he's bracketing her in place, engulfing her easily.
She can't breathe. Her eyes are wide, staring unseeingly down at the desk. She feels trapped, small, vulnerable, and has no fucking clue what to do.
"This paragraph," Mr. Wilson says, head ducking so the words are murmured against her temple, and this time she can't contain a shudder as his warm breath washes across her skin. "You make a very good point about the economic system. Good work, Ms. Brown."
Stephanie's mouth feels dry. She manages to say, "Thank you," but she barely understands how, her entire body frozen, his mind turning to static. She wants him to back off, wants to fucking leave, but she can't get her limbs to respond to her.
She feels Mr. Wilson nod against the side of her head, and then he draws in a slow breath through his nose like he's smelling her. It makes her far too aware of her shampoo, of the floral scent, wondering what he thinks of it, wondering if she'll ever be able to use it again after this event.
Somehow, Mr. Wilson steps even closer, forcing the edge of the desk to dig into her stomach. She can feel every inch of him against her, and as his weight settles more firmly against her back, she finally finds the will to move, a jolt running through her as she attempts to press back, to get him off, to fucking leave. But he doesn't budge a single inch, so much stronger than her and unwilling to let her free.
And a squeak escapes her when—as he presses forward against her escape attempt—he basically grinds forward, his crotch pressing against her ass with meaning that is impossible to ignore.
"I'd like to go now," Stephanie says, trying to sound firm, but probably sounding far more strangled. Her heart is pounding in her chest, rocketing with fear. "I'd—let me go."
"Relax, Ms. Brown," Mr. Wilson says, and the way she attempts to jerk away doesn't have any impact on the way he's now rolling his hips forward again and again, a hardness very clearly growing in his pants. Impossible to misinterpret. "Just be good for me now."
His right hand leaves the paper, and drifts down, going under the edge of the desk to instead cup her crotch through her pants. Her breaths begin to come in and out short and fast as he rubs, his palm and fingers just the right side of too hard. Her underwear does nothing to guard against the feeling of the jean material rubbing against her pussy, and her breathing begins to hitch as, against her will, it begins to send sparks of pleasure up her spine.
"Stop," she says loudly to make it a demand, but her voice shakes, and Mr. Wilson simply chuckles against her temple, hand not even pausing in its motions. "Stop!"
Mr. Wilson shushes her, lips brushing a faint kiss against her skin, and then her fingers are popping open the button of her jeans, then dragging the zipper down with exaggerated slowness. The sound of it is loud in the empty classroom, and she lets out a wounded noise as his hand slips inside, grabbing at her pussy over her underwear with a possessive intensity, like it's his right to touch her like this, his right to force her into this.
"No, please," Stephanie. "St-stop, Mr. Wilson—"
Her words cut off as his fingers push her underwear aside, not hesitating to rub at the lips of her pussy, thumb brushing over her clit. He works at her expertly, clearly experienced, and arousal begins to stir in Stephanie's gut without her consent, ratcheting higher and higher with each swipe of his digits, each burning touch, each drag of his callouses against the sensitive skin of her pussy.
She can feel herself getting wet. Her body is responding to his ministrations, and it isn't long before she can hear it too, a quiet, slick noise reaching her ears and making her face burn with humiliation.
"Stop, please," Stephanie says, strangled, grabbing at his wrist and trying to rip his hand out of her pants. But she might as well be pulling at steel for all that he budges, his fingers not even hitching as they move against her.
She gasps as a large finger suddenly pushes inside of her, a jolt running down her spine. She instinctively tries to pull away from the touch, lifting up on his toes in an attempt to escape it. But Mr. Wilson simply follows her, lifting his hand with her to begin fucking his finger in and out of her pussy. The balls of her feet begin aching nearly right away, and she whines with distress as the pain forces her to lower herself back to stand flat on the ground. It forces Mr. Wilson's finger even deeper inside her, and her next breath shudders as she draws it in, hating the pleasure that pulses in her.
He pushes another finger inside of her, and she moans a protest, head thumping back against his chest. She can feel his smile where his mouth is still pressed against her temple, and she's wet enough now that his fingers produce a squelching noise on each thrust, how turned on her body is obvious to them both.
"See how wet you are for me," Mr. Wilson purrs. "How much your cunt loves my touch. Sucking me right in, aren't you? A perfect little slut for me."
"No," Stephanie groans, shaking her head. "No, please."
Her words do nothing to stop him. He continues to fuck his fingers in and out, horrifyingly pleasurable, thumb still playing with her clit. The stimulation is nearly too much to bear, and she stands there gasping, legs shaking under the assault. Unable to stop it, helpless against him.
She's so wet, dripping onto the crotch of his jeans. There's a fire in her belly, growing and growing as she approaches her orgasm, as he forces her closer and closer—
Stephanie moans when she comes, collapsing back against his chest, held up solely by the arm he wraps around her midsection. The tremors wrack through her body, and he thrusts his fingers slowly in and out of her through the aftershocks, not stopping until she's whining from the overstimulation, squirming in his grasp, eyes squeezing shut.
Mr. Wilson chuckles lowly. "Good girl."
She's weak and pliant as his fingers pull out of her, not even having the strength to do more than flinch when the wet digits stroke over her mouth, smearing her own release over her lips.
He starts to move her, and at first she doesn't understand what he's doing, her chest being lowered to the top of his desk. It squeezes her breasts uncomfortably, and she pants, twisting her head to look back at him.
"What—?"
Her eyes go wide when she sees he's opening his pants, pulling his cock out. It's fucking large, wider than her forearm and maybe as long, and bright red, hard as a rock.
Immediately, Stephanie tries to push herself up, a shout escaping her in her panic. There's no fucking way she's going to let him—he can't just—it couldn't possibly even fit—
A large hand splays in the middle of her back, slamming her back down against the table and shoving the air from her lungs. She thrashes, trying to escape, tears beading her eyes.
"No, no, no," she gasps. "No, stop! You—you can't—"
"Don't be selfish," Mr. Wilson chides, and his free hand yanks her pants down to her mid-thighs. It keeps her legs trapped in place, forced still as he rocks forward. His cock brushes between her thighs, up against the thin material of her soaked panties. He grinds like that for a minute, thrusting roughly, burning the soft skin of her inner thighs, and for a moment she allows herself to hope. Maybe this is all he's going to do, just wants to fuck her thighs and get off, and then they'll be done.
But then he's pulling her panties aside, just enough to reveal her pussy, and the head of his cock nudges at her folds.
"No please," Stephanie tries, fighting against his grip, but not even slightly equal to the strength with which he keeps her pinned. "Stop, Mr. Wilson, please—"
"So you get off but would deny me?" Mr. Wilson scoffs. "This doesn't work like that, sweetheart. So be a good little slut and stay still."
"It won't fit!" Stephanie says, a tad hysterically. "There's—there's no way—"
"It'll fit," Mr. Wilson says, sounding terribly smug. "Take it, girl. Just take it."
Stephanie can't breathe as he begins to push inside her, inch by horrible inch. It stretches her wide, forcing her pussy to accommodate, to stretch around his large length. She's wet enough that at least the lack of lube doesn't make it hurt, but she hasn't had sex in months and it's—it's too much. She can't— she can't—
It feels like an age before she feels his hips pressed against her ass, his cock entirely inside her. It's left her gasping for air, feeling fuller than she ever has before. She wants to spread her legs, to lessen the pressure and try to make this easier, but her jeans have her trapped, forcing her even tighter around him.
She hears Mr. Wilson let out a slow breath, hissed like between clenched teeth. He draws back slowly, and then thrusts forward, making her yelp. She clenches down around him, instinctively trying to push him out, but it only makes him let out a quiet sound of pleasure, the hand on her back digging in more firmly.
"Yeah, just like that," he grunts, thrusting again and again, beginning to form a rhythm. "Suck me deep, you little whore. Your cunt is fucking begging for me."
"Stop," Stephanie hiccups, fingernails scratching into the wood of the desk. "P-please, please just stop."
Mr. Wilson ignores her, fucking her roughly, without care for her comfort, like she's nothing more than a toy for him to use. A convenient cocksleeve. She rocks back and forth on the desk, wheezing on nearly every breath, unable to fill her lungs because of how hard and deep he's fucking her.
"Little cunt is made for me," Mr. Wilson tells her, voice rough with pleasure. "Gripping me like a vice, fuck—"
The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, Mr. Wilson's quiet grunts, the wet noises as his cock moves in and out of her. She can do nothing to stop it, useless and weak as he uses her for his own ends.
She's lightheaded and nauseous by the time his thrusts pick up, a wildness entering his actions as his fucks into her, shoving her into the desk again and again until his hips stutter and grind forward, and then there's—there's a wet sensation filling her up, warmth spilling into her pussy.
"No," she groans, weakly twisting on the desk. "No, don't—don't come inside, please—"
Mr. Wilson just laughs. "Too late, kid. And don't pretend you don't want my cum, you little slut. I know you're dying to be filled up."
"No," Stephanie protests, eyes squeezing shut.
"Yes," Mr. Wilson disagrees. "You think I don't know about you getting knocked up? Bet you let that little boyfriend of yours come inside you. Bet you begged him for it. And then you couldn't handle the consequences."
A tear drops down onto the wood beneath her cheek, her breath hitching. It didn't happen the way he says, it was an accident, the condom broke or something, and she just—she couldn't be pregnant in high school, she just couldn't, so they decided to get rid of it. The school nurse knew about it, but she didn't think anybody else did, she sure as hell didn't expect it to be thrown back in her face, used as a reason to—to rape her.
Stephanie doesn't say anything else, just lies there and waits for it to be over, relief slamming through her when he eventually pulls out. He puts her panties back into place, and pulls up her pants, and she grimaces at the feeling of his release soaking into her clothes. She'll have to burn these—she can't imagine she'll ever be able to wear them again without being reminded of this.
Mr. Wilson pats her hip, and then steps away from her. "You did good, Ms. Brown. You've got a perfect cunt. Made for fucking."
Stephanie does her best to ignore him, to ignore the shame that burns in her chest. She pushes herself up on shaking arms, slowly leveraging herself until she's standing. Her legs are unsteady, threatening to collapse underneath her, and she stays on her feet through sheer force of will.
She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't look back, knowing she won't be able to handle whatever is on his face. Instead, she makes her way back around the desk, heading for where she left her bag. There's a deep ache in her core, her pussy aching after how hard he fucked her, and she pushes the sensation to the back of her mind for the moment. She just has to get out of here. She just— fuck, she has to get out of here.
Mr. Wilson says nothing as she grabs her bag and heads towards the door, and for a moment she thinks she'll be able to get out of here without anything else, can escape without having to face him again, but his voice freezes her as soon as her hand lands on the doorknob.
"I'll see you Monday, Stephanie," he drawls, satisfaction thick in his voice, threading every syllable. "Make sure you have your homework done—I would hate to give you detention."
Stephanie is too exhausted to feel more than a flicker of anxiety, and she offers him a short nod without glancing back before slipping out the door.