picture of nightmare chica

Mrs. B. was a great teacher for 10th grade English. Funny, engaging, personable—and a bit flirty. She was in her late-20s, just a couple years out of The University of Michigan, cute, nice body and flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She knew the boys all lusted after her and she did nothing to discourage our interest. Students even gave her a nickname, “Bubbles.” The administration was not pleased, but Mrs. B. didn’t seem to mind. She liked the attention. Oh, and I think that we actually learned a lot of English Lit between the horsing around.

The next Saturday night looked to follow the same as the others, but even as Sarah awoke just after midnight there was a greater urgency. Perhaps it was the fact that without school that day she had been lazing around for most of it, or perhaps the fact that her nightly drinks weren’t enough to satiate her anymore. As usual Sarah strode in through the open door of her father’s room, not bothering to tiptoe anymore knowing it wasn’t necessary. With a gentle flick the sheets of her father’s bed came sliding off and fell to the floor. Sarah crawled like a cat onto the bed, she had stopped wearing clothes a few nights before and her modest bosom grazed the top of his legs as she made her way up to her usual spot.

As the two youths bickered over their shared drama, Noah stood by, waiting for the referee to hurry up and do his job, but he was eating up the dialogue.