Salt – Part 2

I ran through the breezeways to my literature class with my semi-erect cock rubbing against my jeans. Although I tended to disregard punctuality most of the time, being an avid absentee from my daily courses, I didn’t want to miss a minute of this class – and thanks to Becky Lowell, I was already five minutes late.
This class was important because of who sat two seats forward and to the right of me. I think you can probably venture a very accurate guess as to who that might be.

When I walked into the classroom Mrs. Beals snapped her eyes to me briefly with a look of disdain and then continued her lecture. She didn’t care that I was late, she just hated anything that drew attention from her when she was speaking. I edged through the room and took my seat; I had only then realized that I left my backpack in my locker. This was soon forgotten when my attention was immediately drawn to the redhead goddess that was nearly adjacent to me.

Her jacket was neatly hung upon the back of her chair, it was within keeping of her organized nature. There was an intellectual appeal about her sweater, but not approaching a pretentious appearance. It was a lighter shade of grey and it contrasted her vibrant scarlett hair with a beautiful opposition, almost as if it were jealous and yearned to be as colorful. Her large breasts pressed firmly underneath the fabric, stretching it to the point of making the space between them quite taught. Her shapely legs were accentuated by the surprisingly tight pair of jeans she was wearing; they were crossed, and her red sneakers complimented the color of her hair. She painted her nails black today.

“The author of this poem is unknown to this day, but many scholars in the field of medieval literature believe that he was contemporary of Geoffrey Chaucer,” Mrs. Beals lecture had leaked into my amorous observations of Zee.

My attention was withdrawn for a moment from both sources when I had noticed John Sachs across the classroom texting on his cell phone. For a moment my heart jumped at the thought of him telling someone about Becky and I in the locker room earlier. I had considered that threatening him with physical violence might not have been enough of a deterrent. The look on his face though betrayed some of these concerns, it was quite serious and not at all facetious.

“So in closing,” Mrs. Beals continued, “each of you will have a group of-”

My eyes once again went back to Zee. The perfect manifestation of female beauty, a tangible greek goddess that carried my lust to the heavens, and alas, had remained a fantasy.

“Bryce!… Bryce?!…, Mr. Bryce Flannigan!” Mrs. Beals yelled at me. My gaze broke at once as I looked towards her with a response.

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

“Bryce, do you not care about this project, poem, or my class for this matter? Because if not I don’t dare ask why you decided to drag yourself away from your less academic activities, which I imagine consists mostly of screaming homo-phobic comments in the halls and flirting with girls that deserve far better,” she said.

The class giggled. My focus was on Mrs. Beals but I wondered if Zee had laughed as well.

“I’m sorry ma’am, please continue,” I said.

“Well, thank you for your permission Mr. Flannigan, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said.
The class snickered again.

With my face red I continued to listen to her – earnestly this time. She was describing our homework assignment for the next few nights and how we would be split up in groups. We were to discuss and present an essay as a group about the medieval poem “Pearl”. She began assigning our teams when I came to a very grim yet elating realization: “Zee”. No sooner than the thought had crossed my mind, did the unthinkable not only happen, but also in a worse manner than I had feared:

“And group four will be: Bryce Flannigan, Zahary Windling, and Johnathon Sachs.”

* * *

It was after lunch, I got into my Chevelle and lit up a smoke.