DUNE

by Holly Rennick

AUTHOR'S NOTES

No relation to the same-named sci-fi classic by Frank Herbert.  Read it.

Here's a re-write of an earlier version.  Not that much of the plot's different...  Well, you decide.

DUNE

"Know what you're doing?"

Actually I'd little more than a general idea, but when Ms. Rennick said that going barefoot made her feet sore, I'd volunteered.  It's not that often (never, actually) that your teacher says she needs a foot-rub.

"More or less," my truthful reply.

"Well, you're doing okay.  Feels good actually.  Higher."

"Sure, Ms. Rennick."

***

Finding Ms. Rennick and Ms. Barton here on vacation was a total surprise.  I hadn't expected to run into anybody from home.  I'd figured I'd just hang out, work on my tan, maybe meet some cute girls.  Not lounge around the campsite with my folks, for sure.

And here were two of my teachers!

"Chris!  What are you doing here?" Ms. Barton had laughed when we ran into each other on the path.  "Holly -- Ms. Rennick, I mean -- and I are camping here, too."  The way she beamed, it was like Ms. Barton thought I was some sort of old-time friend.  She was one of my favorite teachers, though.  I'd heard her cheering in the stands when I made the three-pointer in the semifinals with Stanfield.  We lost by 18, but it could have been 21.

"We'll have to get together," she suggested, which I figured to be a nicety.  What would we do?  Make a campfire and let her explain about carbon?  I hardly even knew Ms. Rennick.  I'd had her for English and liked that, but she was sort of strict about punctuation and made us read Shakespeare.

"Whatcha doing now?" Ms. Barton asked as we parted.

And not a half-hour later she and Ms. Rennick found me on the nature trail.  "Let's get a move on, Chris.  This place has a million things to see," Ms. Barton decided like this was summer school.

Ms. Rennick gave me a wink.  I guess not all teachers are that excited about biology, or whatever.

We only made it part way round the trail's loop, Ms. Barton pointing out the eco-things, before the she decided we should explore where the sea-grass stops and the pines begin, a biological zone change, as if anybody but a science teacher actually cared.

Ms. Rennick had seen my three-pointer, too, and asked me all about it.

We found a dune high enough to block the wind and spread out their beach towels.  As the teachers had their suits on under their clothes, we could get a little tan.  I didn't have my suit with me, but as I was already burned a little bit anyway, my shorts and tee-shirt were fine.  I'd on my John Stockton shirt, the best ball handler ever.

Ms. Rennick produced some carrots and we shared two 7-Ups.

Ms. Barton's swimsuit was a bikini, violet, not one of those nothings in Sports Illustrated, but still pretty nice for a teacher as flat as a pancake.  Less than a handful, more than a mouthful, as they say, but maybe that depends on how big your mouth is.

Her areola showed through the nylon, but that didn't surprise me.  She's pretty foxy for teacher.  More than once I'd seen inside her bra in biology lab.  Once when we were dissecting a bean I think she caught me looking, but she'd just sort of given a little smile and quit bending over.

Ms. Rennick, on the other hand, had the bigger breasts.  Her suit showed less, but still more than I'd seen in English.  Hers was a navy blue two-piece, not totally a bag.  Her top had fat straps, an over the shoulder boulder holder, we'd call it.

They laid their towels side-by-side, Ms. Barton claiming one edge and Ms. Rennick, the opposite.  I was somewhat surprised to the middle, but I guess they didn't care.  The three of us lay on our stomachs, my shoulders almost touching theirs, even.  It's kind of neat, touching your teachers' shoulders.

It turned out that both teachers knew something about basketball.  Not really the rules or anything, but pretty good for teachers.  Ms. Barton had been a cheerleader and Ms. Rennick was in the band.  Who was in what didn't surprise me, not that you should go by stereotypes.

But after about three minutes of tanning, Ms. Barton needed to run back to their campsite and took her towel with her.  "Be right back, she promised, but maybe not for a while.  Chris, you make sure Holly doesn't get burned, okay?"

I kind of liked how she called Ms. Rennick, "Holly," like I'd know her by her first name, too.  Plus it was kind of neat being told to watch out for a teacher.

Ms. Rennick agreed that it would be great to have someone around.  Some women don't like to be alone in a place like this, so I said, sure.

"I'll bet Chris can massage that knot out," suggested Ms. Barton.

"What knot?" wondered Ms. Rennick.

"You know, the one we talked about."

"You sure?"

"See you two later."

I wasn't a masseuse by any means, but nobody asked for my opinion.

I made designs in the sand.  I like to draw.  It wasn't like I had other plans for the afternoon, other than walking around looking for girls.

"Ever read Dune?" Ms. Rennick asked after a bit.  "Frank Herbert.  You'd like it.  Land of sand."

I hadn't and she told me to look in the library.

And that's when I agreed to rub her feet.  When I'd said okay, she'd maybe thought that meant I knew what I was doing.  Well, there can't be that much to rubbing a foot, I told myself.

The thing was, in doing it here at the dunes, I had a total view of her behind.  Nothing you'd not see on any woman in a swimsuit, of course, but a little different when she's been your teacher.  It wasn't that you could see her butt, but the way a swimsuit fits, it's not like you can't, either.

"You play other sports?" Ms. Rennick wondered, providing me a heel.

I told her about soccer, how I'd been a forward, but basketball was where I was concentrating these days.

She agreed that was a good idea, to concentrate where're you're good.

"Thinking about college?"

I said I guessed so and she said I should.

I told her that maybe I'd study sports training and she though that would be a great idea.

She hadn't exactly said to go above her feet, but didn't seem to mind when I did.  Her calves were pretty firm, more than I'd have thought, anyway, for an English teacher.  She must walk a lot.  It didn't take more than a minute to do them, as I didn't know the special pounds, or whatever they do in real massage.

"Doing fine," she let me know.

"You must exercise, right?" as I figured she'd like the compliment.

She must have because she laughed.

"Enough?" I asked, figuring it was.

"Got time for more?"

I did the backs of her knees.  It was where skin dips in between tendons that got me more interested.  The back of a leg's hardly some special place, of course, but the idea of being there got me thinking, "The knee bone connects to leg bone.  The leg bone connects to the..."  We learned the song at camp and everybody giggled about making out.

"Okay?" I wondered, thinking about the next bone, so to speak.

"Super!" Ms. Rennick judged, still silent about stopping.

I kneaded the lower part of her thighs, scooting up a bit to get there, my knee now against her calf, not on purpose, but suddenly conscious of the contact.

You'd not normally rub your teacher's leg, but we weren't at school or anything.  I worked toward the inside of her thigh where she was softer and she rustled herself a little more into the sand and a little more against my knee.

"You doing okay?" I wondered, a little unsure about being were I was.  Not that I was unsure about the location, that is, but that she'd catch on that I liked being there.  It's one thing to put your hand on your girlfriend's leg at the movies; it's another to do it to a teacher.

"I guess you know your stuff," Ms. Rennick confirmed, flattening herself and to my surprise, parting her legs a little.

"We'll I'm no expert or anything."  Not quite the truth, several girlfriends having told me otherwise, but it's not what you tell a teacher.

"But you've got the idea," she clarified.

That I did -- my own idea, anyway -- so I kept working.  There was no reason to rush back to see what Mom was making for supper.  It would be macaroni.

It was sort of fun to feel just below where Ms. Rennick's butt pouched up.  She may have been an English teacher, but there wasn't much wrong with that part of her.  Women like my mom get jelly-like unless they go to the gym.

"Know what?" Ms. Rennick asked,

"What?"

"You can do my butt."

Her butt?  Me?  You can't touch a teacher's butt!  

She read my mind.  "Nobody's around, right?"

I looked.  "No."

"Go ahead."

"You sure?"  Ms. Rennick really didn't seem like somebody who'd let me.  Ms. Barton's butt, on the other hand, was one we all had designs on, at least in our heads.  Once I bumped her butt when she was showing me how to use the microscope.  If she noticed, she was pretty cool in how she just kept talking.

"Positive," Ms. Rennick brought me back to the present, wiggling a tad to show me where.

I hardly touched, just one hand.  She really was soft underneath her suit.  When I pushed to test how soft, like with Ms. Barton, I was pretty careful to make it seem accidental.

"I don't mind, Chris.  We're not at school."

"Okay."

I didn't mind, either, to put it mildly, now pushing down enough to dent the flesh.  I'd want to remember everything!

"That's better," she deemed.

I did it again and moved my palm in little circles.

This too she didn't seem to mind.

This is maybe a little risky, I decided and started to scoot back to do her feet again.

"That's not my butt," Ms. Rennick noted.

I palmed the circle again and when she didn't say anything, matched the circle with a hand on her opposite hip.

"That's more like it."

It was pretty exciting, rubbing my English teacher's behind and watching how it stretched the fabric.  What seemed pretty obvious from her wiggles was that she was liking it too.

"Ummm," Ms. Rennick announced as my palms spread her cheeks and after a cautious moment, my thumb drew into the dip between.  I wouldn't have done it if she'd not been twisting toward me.  It wasn't as if her suit especially wedged in, but it wasn't as if my thumb didn't have a line to follow.

She flexed to tighten her behind, but I figured that if her objection were other than reflex, she'd have shooed me away.

I didn't venture to where her legs met, of course, as that was about something else.  On the other hand, once I realized she didn't mind me feeling her crack, I let my path get pretty close.

"Positive nobody's around?" she asked again, trying to peer over her shoulder.

I looked once more.  You don't want somebody seeing you rub your teacher's backside, even if they don't know that she's your teacher.

"Don't think so," giving an upward shove.

"Ummm," returning a push.

I couldn't believe she was letting me do this!  Not my English teacher who made us diagram sentences!

"Well, keep an eye out," she reminded me before raising her knees and shoulders to let me rock her against the sand.

On my knees for better leverage, I again looked around like she'd told me.  Safe.

"Know what, Chris?" she asked after a long moment of wiggling downward.

"What?"

"I'm going to turn over."

All good things must end, as maybe Shakespeare said.  "Okay."

"And know what else?"

"What?"

"You keep doing it."

With that pronouncement, Ms. Rennick rolled to her back, her nipples like marbles.  A teacher who looks like a teacher at school can look more fun when she's on vacation.

Unlike the backside fabric that bridged a broad swath, the front fabric wrapped her mound and buried itself within her thighs.  I'd never again see her in a skirt without pretty much knowing how she'd look in her panties.

"Come on," she urged, catching my stare.  "Nobody's around, right?"

The safest place for my hands -- I wasn't going to blow a good thing -- seemed to be on her hip bones from where I could circle over the sides and then back up.  Massaging a butt doesn't mean you can massage a front.

"Ummm," as she shut her eyes and rotated her shoulder blades in what I took to be encouragement.  Nipples thrust upward are a sign that the defense is curmbling.

It was good that her eyes were closed, as otherwise she might have seen that I was a bit excited myself.  Not that I had an offensive plan, of course, but your mind goes places.

I spiraled onto the flatness between the twin knobs of bone and then onto her abdomen.  Her sucking in was a positive sign as well.

I palmed outward, then down her hips, then onto the front of thighs.  Then back out and up and inward to her belly button.  Kind of like circling the bull's eye.  Not that I'd likely score a basket -- it was Ms. Rennick, after all -- but even where I'd gotten to wasn't half bad.

The hair question, I must admit, had my curiosity.  Would a teacher do anything special?  It took a few traverses along her waist, each pass pushing the elastic a bit lower, to find the answer.

Apparently this teacher didn't do a thing.  Not that I was disappointed -- her barely exposed curls seemed impressively dark -- but I'll bet Ms. Barton at least trimmed hers a little.

Every tine Ms. Rennick's knees parted, which was pretty much every time I did the lower pout of my journey, the mound in the middle pouched higher.  It wasn't as if I was seeing anything different, but what I was seeing, I was seeing differently.

Hoping that I'd not get into too much trouble, I let a thumb brush the lower edge of her suit.  When that worked, the other thumb found the other edge.  I couldn't actually tell what was above the hem, but that wasn't the point.  She has to know where I'm touching, I told myself; it's not where she wouldn't be sensitive.

Taking care not to be hasty, I finally let my thumbs ride onto the fabric, silky smooth.  It seemed more like something you'd do with Ms. Barton, not Ms. Rennick, but who was I to judge?

It was only now that I realized that her eyes were again open, her gaze on the rather apparent burgeoning of my own excitement.  There wasn't much I could do to hide it, though, and anyway, why would I?

Having come this far, I couldn't very well stop.  It's kind of like after you've practiced a behind-the-back dribble all summer, you need to do it in a game.

And actually, I decided, it being Ms. Rennick was even better than it being Ms. Barton.  A teacher who maybe doesn't already know everything might be a little more fun.

She held super still as my thumbs founded her twin ridges and she made no motion when I dimpled into valley between, though her suit yielded not that much.  Very warm and very sweet, though I could only imagine those qualities.

"Ummmm."

Up and down I furrowed.  Or maybe it was Ms. Rennick sliding down and up.  Or maybe something in between.  In any case, it's all about repetition, same as when you're practicing free throws.

Ms. Rennick was breathing heavily.  So was I.

"You shouldn't," she blurted, her face flushed in the dune sun.  It was like she was fighting me and helping me win at the same time.  If I didn't win, I'd be in trouble.

Her thighs rolled inward and outward, lifting against my thumb and falling away and I worked her sweet spot as best I could.  Like I've said, I've had girlfriends, but there's always a little uncertainty about the startup, especially when you're working her from the outside.

Once I centered where it counts, though, Ms. Rennick gasped, twisted to elude me, twisted to find me, thrust her knees outward, arched, gasped again, and once more arched, her eyes all the time squinted shut.

Finally, "Oh!"

Some seconds later she shuddered, sank back into the sand, her hips twitching.

Like a slam duck, the way the pros do.

I lay my head on her chest, soft like a pillow except under my cheek where she was still hard like a gumball.  I could hear her heartbeat.

"You OK?" I ventured, having no idea what my question even meant.

The way she said, "Yeah" sounded like she was very okay.

I could have gotten her top loose, but it seemed sort of overkill at this point to take advantage of her lack of defense.  Like in a game where we're way ahead, coach has us work on passing, not just run in layups.

Not bad, I told myself, for never even getting in her pants.  Sometimes, though, especially on a first date, you don't want to spook your girlfriend.  You want it to be more of a fun surprise.

Success with the nice surprise, so to speak, gave me the gumption to slip my hand into Ms. Rennick's bikini.  As she didn't squeeze her legs until I'd made it between, I guess she'd been thinking along similar lines.  Kind of like when the practice team sets up to let us try one of our fancy plays.

After another minute (or maybe it was longer, I don't know) she whispered, "You know, don't you, Chris, what happened?"

"I guess."  Actually I understand perfectly.  What was surprising was that a teacher would know.  Or that if she did, that she'd think we didn't.  Like we sit in the back row of the Cineplex to help our dates write their book report?

"I didn't think..." she tried.  I mean..."

I was tempted to assure her that it's natural, but I thought better of acting too knowledgeable.  After all, I was just getting to know her.  "I liked it, too," was how I left it.

"You won't tell?"

Her question made me realize I'd yet some power in this thing.  If I was going to keep a secret, it might as well be one worth keeping.

"No way," I guaranteed, advancing my finger into where she was yet wetter.  The key's to go in slowly, keep her interested.  Once you know a girl's smell, she'll do whatever you want the next time.

"Me neither," Ms. Rennick agreed, straightening her legs in anticipation.

I rather liked the possibilities.

***

After an interlude, Ms. Rennick made a wiggle of disengagement and suggested that I leave first.  If my folks asked, I'd been hiking with her and Ms. Barton.  "Don't forget to mention her, too."

Actually, Ms. Barton was just over the dune, sitting on the sand between us and the nature path.

By her lack of chitchat, she maybe knew everything.  "No talking.  Not to anybody.  Understand, Chris?"

"No way, Ms. Barton."  If I did, my ass would be grass.

She grinned the way she'd grinned in lab when I'd seen her boobs.  "And don't expect any breaks on your report card."

I'd planned to take fitness training next year, but Ms. Rennick's teaching Yearbook.  Journalists probably make more money than basketball players who don't go pro, so I'll tell the counselor I'm thinking about sports writing.

Plus, of course, Biology II.  I like the lab part and it's good to learn the names of muscles and things.  Plus it's good to maintain an alternative game plan.

***

When I got back to the campsite, Mom looked up from the picnic table.  "I was worried you'd be late."

"Ran into some teachers and talked about basketball.

"How nice."

"Macaroni?"

"I figured you'd be hungry, Christine."

THE END

Holly on the Web

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that which is salvageable on http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick.  If you take the time to read me, don't wade through an early version.

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Holly
