Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.

Goddess (m Solo Fant)
   "Good morning, class," I hold my breath as the substitute comes in, "I'm
Mrs.  Goeddes," she writes it on the board since it sounds more like "Gets"
with a D for the T.
   She looks more like a Goddess to me, tall, and willowy.  Her milky
blonde hair is tied up severely, but I bet it's long, and luxurious.  She
fixes her pale blue eyes on us, and I gasp for air.
   "I'm not your regular teacher," she states the obvious.  Though maybe a
foot shorter, Ms.  Copeland probably out weighed her even before she
started showing, "So things will have to be a bit different untill Ms
Copeland comes back from Maternity leave." That's fairly obvious as well,
at least to anyone with rudimentory biological knowlege.  Already portly,
she'd swelled up with new life over the past few months.  I even have some
idea how it happened, I'd seen her husband, after all.  Somehow, the
thought of them rutting like hippopotumi fails to arouse me.
   "Miller, Michelle?" the kids giggle around me.
   "It's Mitchel," I never use Mitch because it only encourages them.  Bad
enough to put up with it from my Jock-strap dad, and prom mom, I swear I
was adopted.  I glance down between the drawers of her desk, and see her
long creamy legs, her skirt hiked up to the knee, her great shoes strapped
onto dainty feet.  I bet she's silky smooth, devoid of hairs, though they
might not show as pale as they are.  Does she shave?  Wax?  Disolve it with
foam?  I stiffen to the thought of an old fashoned saftey razor sliding
down them, my hands sliding up, under the shear fabric of her dress.  How
does she make them so glossy?
   "Whelen, Carol?" her voice was high, musical like an Elve's
   "Here!" she pipes in perkilly.
   Front, and center, I've got the best seat to watch her rize gracefully
onto those increadible legs.  Her skirt flips down after a breif heart
racing flash of white underwear.  I shift in my seat to hide my arousal. 
That's just what I need, one of my "peers" pointing it out, embarrassing me
in front of this vision of loveliness.  I let my eyes move over her as she
comes around the desk.
   The dress is light, in both senses of the word.  An off white a shade
darker than her flushless flesh, it moves with her like a mist, revealing
the outline of a long lean thigh, tight posterior, flat midriff, and the
bas releif of her breasts.  They're small, conical, no doubt as white as
the rest of her.  I look up to her face, at first to see if she notices me
watching.  I'm drawn in by her beauty, though.  Her Sylvan features are
only darkened to a pink at her lips.  Bowmakers since the Assyrians have
died trying to replicate that purfect complex curve.  Her nose shoots up
from it like an arrow, sharp as a blade.  IT was framed by eyes the color
of the sky reflecting the sea, nearly invisible brows.  I see no evidence
of makeup, nor blemish for it to conceal.  Just pure flawless skin like
polished Ivory.
   "What's this?" my pencil left a .7mm line on the paper as her albino
spider of a hand slips it out like a magician.  She towered over me, a
saline pillar of authority.  Her azure eyes violated my private thoughts,
her lips curling into a slight smile.  "See me after class," she tore off
the page, and neatly creased it onto her way back to the desk.  The dagger
heels didn't hobble her in the slightest, she swayed silently on them with
all the grace of a windswept aspen.
   My heart crammped, and fell.  How long would she be here?  Now knowing
what I thought of her, how could I face her daily?  My face, and ears
burned with shame amidst the giggles, and snickers around me as she dropped
the evidence on her desk.  The words scrolled through my head, written into
my memory as they went onto the paper.  "Mrs.  Goddess," and the damning
description of her.  I was such a pervert, and now she knew it.
   She gave us a reading from the textbook.  "The Masque of the Red Death,"
was a review for me.  "The Telltale Heart" would've been more appropriate
but life's ironies are never so blatent.  I glanced up, and found her
reading as well.  I recognised the page, the torn edge, neat script, ragged
line across the unfinished back of the paper.  A little color had suffused
her angular cheeks, a flush no ruse of rouge could fake.  She absently
chewed a darkened swollen lip, then flinched as the bell rang.
   I tried to sneak out with the kids, my books low in front in case of an
unexpected reaction.  "Mitchel..." I froze, let the classmates pass, "Did
you forget?"
   "No, Mrs.  Goeddes," I couldn't even look at her.
   "Close the door," she rose up with an audible swish of fabric.
   "Yes, Mrs.  Goeddes," I held the handle, let it go when it was shut to
keep it from snapping.
   "Don't you mean 'Mrs Godess'?" I looked up to see her grinning, her
teeth no whiter than the rest of her.
   "Uh," I looked back down, "I'm sorry about that."
   "Don't be," she touched my arm, and I almost leaped out of my skin,
"It's very well written."
   "You're not angry?" I looked back up to see a wry smile.
   "No," she shook her head, "It's all right, a little flattering in fact."
   "So you're German?" I changed the subject nervously.
   "Oustrian," she pronounced it, "But I speek Cherman, yes."
   "I," couldn't think of anything else to say, "Have to get to class."
   "I'll write you a note," she bent over her desk, and I looked away to
late not to see her neckline fall.  "I could use a bit ouf help," she
talked while writing, "Grading papers and such."
   "Uh huh?" I couldn't help glancing back, but the dark cleft of her chest
sucked me in like a black hole.
   "Come to my office after school," she handed me the pass.
   "Which one?," I looked up at her face, found it at least as beautifull.
   "Ms Copeland's," she turned to get her things.  That gave me a chance to
run, which is basically what I did.
   The hall was loud, crouded, frantic especially when the bell rang.  I
took my time, stopped by the restroom when on the way.  Hey, I had a pass,
so I could get away with it.  All that hardness made me have to pee, so I
let fly into the urinal.  It was white porcelaine, and vaguely heart
shaped. With a sigh, I backed up into one of the stalls, and locked the
door with my free hand.  My balls ached from being tempted through the
whole period, so I rapidly jacked myself to release.
   The whole time, She flashed through my mind, her legs, the view down her
dress.  I normally didn't have too good a visual memory, but she was burned
in, like she was standing right in front of me.  Her hand was warm on my
arm, not icy cold like I'd expected.  "Uhg!" my semen shot out, rolled down
my nuckles.  I tore off some tiolet paper to clean up with, whiped it off
the door, and floor.  Damned stuff stuck like machet'!
   Anyway, I transcribed the peice she'd taken during the rest of my
classes because I could, and it reminded me of her.  I had to go to the
rest-room a lot too, at least once a period.  I went twice during lunch
too. I barely got up the nerve to go to her office after my last class, but
I couldn't dissapoint her like that.  
  
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