poeticdesires

Category: ASA

  • ASA: Field Trip

    “TNG.”
    I gave him a questioning look.
    “The Next Generation.”
    “You mean like Star Trek?”
    “No.”

    It was Friday, 5:15pm again. This time when I stepped up to his door there was no pensive waiting, no pacing. I simply gave a quiet knock.

    Mr. Ebon beckoned my entrance, and I sat on top of the desk as before. My knitting stayed in my blazer pocket. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, ready to speak.

    “You need to meet people, interact with other people in the lifestyle.”
    “Lifestyle?”
    “Yes Ms. Ivory. Dominance and Submission, if so chosen, can be part of an alternative lifestyle. There are entire communities of people, friend groups and chosen families, who have similar desires as yours. You need to meet your own kind.”
    “But I thought you were going to teach me.”

    I didn’t want my voice to sound petulant, but it did.

    “I am teaching you, Ms. Ivory. And this lesson is about community. There is a TNG Munch…”
    “Munch?”
    “A meetup where there is no alcohol.”
    “Oh. There are meetings with alcohol involved?”
    “Happy hours at bars. But since you are just starting in your journey, I think a munch should be your first step. Often they are held at a restaurant in a private room. There is a munch at an eatery near the community college every Sunday at 2pm. You will go there this weekend. Talk. Meet people. Learn what you can and report back to me on Monday.”
    “Yes Mr. Ebon. Is that the lesson for today?”
    “Yes Ms. Ivory.”

    I hopped down from my desk and began to walk out. I was a little disappointed, but I hoped it did not show on my face.

    “Ms. Ivory, before you go…”
    “Yes!” As soon as the word left my lips, I wished it hadn’t. My eagerness dripped from the syllable.

    Mr. Ebon did not seem to notice.

    “A word of caution. Before you walk into the meeting, decide how much of yourself you want to share with the world. You are young and don’t yet know what turns your life will take. Consider using a nickname.”

    Disappointed again, I simply said, “Thank you Mr. Ebon,” and walked out of the room.

    ~

    “So, Ms. Ivory, how was your first munch?”
    “It was okay.”

    It was Monday afternoon, 5:15pm, and I again sat on top of my desk conversing with Mr. Ebon.

    “At first I was nervous. Very nervous. Everyone was older than me.”
    “That was to be expected, but go on.”
    “Since I was nervous, my stomach a ball of knotted twine, I didn’t buy any food. I found the room in the back, knocked on the door, and heard a chorus of come-ins. As soon as I stepped inside, there were a lot of smiling faces. That was nice.
    “I introduced myself. There were five people there, two guys and three girls, who went around saying their names. I can only remember one of them, though. He…”
    “He?”

    I wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be a note of jealousy in Mr. Ebon’s voice.

    “Yes. He was one of the leaders of the group. His name was Alex. Since it was my first time, he welcomed me and talked to me about the rules.
    “One, no play at the munch. Two, everyone buys something so the restaurant stays happy. And three, any and all disagreements are dealt with outside of the munch; no fighting in the restaurant.”

    Mr. Ebon’s face turned grim.

    “Mr. Ebon, is something wrong?”
    “Ms. Ivory, rules are made for a reason.”

    My face gave an implied “and…?”

    “If there is a rule about fighting, there must have been an incident in the past. Be careful.”
    “I was careful. I used my middle name, and no one there knew me. It was fine.”

    Out of habit I’d already been twirling a shoe lace, trying to ask what seemed like a dumb question. Mr. Ebon picked up on my unease.

    “Ms. Ivory, is there something else you need to say?”
    “Actually… this seems like a silly question, but what is play?”

    His face stayed grim.

    “Excuse me, Ms. Ivory?”
    “That first rule: no play at the munch. What is play?”
    “You didn’t ask anyone there?”
    “Well, no.”
    “But Ms. Ivory, you were at a munch. And you had a legitimate question.”
    “I was nervous. And we didn’t talk at all about anything that wasn’t SciFi related, which was rather comforting actually. Aside from introductions, a discussion of Star Trek versus Battlestar Galactica took up the entire two hours.”

    Mr. Ebon gave a great sigh, dropping his head into his chest.

    “Well, at least you made a few friends,” he said more to his shoes than to me.
    “Yes, and I’ll be back next Sunday. But Mr. Ebon, play?”

    He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine, his intense stare now boring through me.

    “Each time I have pulled out my ruler, each time I have reprimanded you, that was play. Play is how we define what we do.”
    “Sir…?”
    “Yes, Ms. Ivory.” I saw a small glint in his eyes, and the beginning of a grin on his lips. He liked it when I called him Sir.

    I wanted to ask another question, not sure I had the nerve, but in a mood to be bold, I just said it.

    “Are we going to play today?” A smile crept across his face.
    “Yes, Ms. Ivory.”

    ~~~~~~
    After School Activities
    ASA: The Words

  • ASA: The Words

    The ruler was made out of cedar, lacquered, with a metal straight edge. The numbers were a deep black, with inches as their only measurement. When it struck my hands, there was a snap in the air, not just from the sound but from the tidal shift in my world.

    Mr. Ebon’s class on Monday was just as brutal as ever. A pop quiz on the weekend’s reading greeting his beleaguered students. I breezed through the questions and sat patiently as the rest trudged through it. As I waited, hands crossed on the desk, staring straight at the chalk board, though I never saw even a whisper of a glance from his direction, it felt like his eyes were always on me, always watching, always noting even my slightest twitch. It was unnerving, and exhilarating.

    We passed all our quizzes, after the fifteen minute limit, to Hilda. Her desk was the most to the left, the closest to Mr. Ebon’s. She left the pile on the desk next to hers and never dared look at them again. Once, when she happened to lean over to straighten the messy pile she’d originally left them in, Mr. Ebon burned her with a searing stare. His voice, though its same volume, took on a chilled quality. “Ms. Caron, don’t.” She never did, again.

    Class over, the period bell rang, and our night’s assignment given, everyone filtered out. As we all gathered our things to go, I had hoped maybe he would acknowledge me in some way. Maybe he would ask me to stay after, if only for a moment. Maybe he would give me a subtle cue, a knowing glance, something. I left his classroom, nary a whisper from his lips.

    At 5:15pm, around the same time as my stroll on Friday, I made my way up to the History wing. Just like before, his was the only classroom who’s door was closed. I stood outside, taking deep breaths, trying to quiet my nerves. Why was I nervous? Why did my heart flutter, my chest feel light as air?

    “Come in, Ms. Ivory.” I hadn’t knocked, and yet he knew I was there. A second later, I realized half of the door was clouded glass. Who else would be at his door at so late an hour? I bit my lip from the slight embarrassment, and walked in.

    I stood, just inside the door, my back against the wall. Though I’d done this before, though I’d been in this very room just a few hours before, it all seemed different. Holding my hands behind my back, I lightly brushed the wall for balance.

    “You may sit as you did before.”

    Hesitantly, after screaming at my legs to move, I took my spot like last time, cross legged on the top of the desk. I pulled out my knitting and started a new row. I wanted to look up, but wanted just as much to breathe. After a few rows, and my breath nearing normal, I dared to tilt my head.

    He sat, arms crossed, eyes locked on me. I had no idea what was going on in his head. Had no idea what he thought of me. Had no idea the next word to emanate from his lips. But I yearned for him to speak, to say something, to do something besides concentrate on me. He sat there for what seemed like forever.

    “Do you know what domination is?” It seemed like an obvious question.

    “To have control over someone or something.”

    “Do you know what a Dominant is?” Though I could not see it myself, I’m sure my face looked puzzled.

    “Um, someone who has control over someone or something?”

    “Yes. And do you know what submission is?”

    “Giving up control or allowing oneself to be controlled.”

    “Good.” He let a breath out, uncrossed his arms, and rested his hands on his desk. “Ms. Ivory, do you know what a submissive is?”

    “Uh, one who gives up control, who allows oneself to be controlled.”

    “Yes.” He leaned forward, looking very intently at me. “Ms. Ivory, are you a submissive?”

    The question made no sense, and yet made perfect sense. I was at a loss for words.

    I tried multiple times to find something, anything, to say. Finally, leaning back in his chair, he spoke again.

    “Ms. Ivory, what happened on Friday was inappropriate. I am your teacher and you are my student. That conflict alone is… difficult. But I see in you what I felt in myself at your age: longing and a desperation to understand this part of you that, I suspect until a few minutes ago, lacked a name.

    “You are a submissive. You do not fully realize what that all entails, but I see it. I saw it as soon as you walked into my classroom that first day. You are brilliant, and will do great things with your life, but you will not feel fulfilled unless you acknowledge this side of yourself and find an outlet for your desires.”

    Desires. What a perfect word for the swirling emotions in my head. Because, in that moment, all I wanted was to please him. To be at his beck and call. To do whatever it took to be his. I desired Mr. Ebon, had for almost as long as I’d known him, and now I possessed the words.

    “Submissive.” I let it roll on my tongue like a piece of hard candy. “Mr. Ebon, are you a Dominant?”

    “Yes, Ms. Ivory. I am a Dom.”

    “Then, you can teach me to be a…Sub.”

    “Ms. Ivory…”

    “You can teach me to be a Sub! You’re my teacher. Teach me.”

    “Ms. Ivory, it’s not that simple.”

    “Yes, it is! You’re a Dom and I’m a Sub. You’re my teacher, I need to learn, so teach me.”

    “Ms. Ivory, I’m your History teacher, not your…”

    “Oh please, I’m acing your class just fine and probably could do it without your instruction.” 

    My hand hit my mouth before I finished my next breath. His eyes grew wide, and his lips pursed. I couldn’t see it, but I’m sure he started grinding his teeth.  A moment later, he relaxed his face.

    “Stand up.” His voice was cold, calculating, chillier than even when he’d reprimanded Hilda. I put my knitting to the side, which I’d been holding the entire time, and slowly slid off the desk. He stood as well, once again towering over me.

    “Turn around.” I gulped hard and turned to the back of the classroom. My heart thumped in my chest.

    “Bend over the desk, hands and arms flat.” I carefully leaned into the position. The warmth of my breath bounced off the wood of the desk. I heard the drawer with the ruler open and close.

    He stood beside me, his leg brushing up against mine.

    “Five strokes this time for making the same mistake, twice in a row.”  Using the ruler, he lifted my skirt. I, like most of the girls, wore boxer shorts over my panties. Again using the ruler, he hooked the elastic waist band to help pull the shorts down. He let my panties stay on.

    He placed his hand on the small of my back.

    “You will count each stroke and follow the number with a Sir at the end. Do you understand?”

    “Yes.” He grabbed me by my hair and pulled my head back. His mouth was on my ear.

    “Do you understand?”

    “Yes Sir.” He shoved my head back down.

    Smack! “One Sir.” It stung like a hundred bees stings.

    Smack! “Two Sir.” The sound was louder than on Friday, cracking through the entire room.

    Smack! “Three Sir.” I could tell he swung harder than before.

    Smack! “Four Sir.” My ass began to ache, but so did something else…

    Smack! “Five Sir.” I breathed hard, heavy. I knew I would go home and think of this tonight while in bed.

    He walked back to his desk and sat down.

    “You may stand and pull up your shorts.” I fixed my clothes, but remained looking towards the back of the room. “For now, Mondays and Fridays. You will come to this classroom and I will teach you. But, if anyone finds out about this, and I think you know this, I will loose my job. Are you worthy of me taking such a risk, Ms. Ivory?”

    “Yes Sir.” I tried to convey all of my gratitude, all of my wanting and yearning for both his lessons and him into those two words.

    “Very well. Gather your things and go. I will see you again on Friday.”

    Like before, I hurriedly grabbed my bag and knitting. Like before, I quietly slipped out of the room. But, not like before, I dared a glance at his direction as I left. He sat, staring at me, the whisper of a grin on his lips.

  • After School Activities

    ~erotica~

    Mr. Ebon looked like he stepped out of one of those recruiting commercials that played during the breaks of football games: buzzed cut hair, sleek trim muscles, a solid gait you could set a metronome to. The only difference was his uniform consisted of a starched tie, crisp folds in his collared dress shirt, and pressed black dress pants. He did, however, sport polished black boots that shimmered with each step. He was a former Marine and still carried the air about him.
    To say I had a crush on this man was to discredit the length and breath of my affections.

    Everyone feared Mr. Ebon’s History classes, especially AP US. He was strict, unyielding, and calculating. He knew what to quiz you on for understanding, not just memorization. His required reading went well beyond just chapters in a textbook. Instead of churning out fact crammed teenagers, he sought to create fierce thinkers, sharp minds, leaders. Most people prayed for a C; I was bound and determined to be his first A+.

    On the first day of my senior year, I walked into class early and sat front row center. As if I were not in the room, he continued his work, jotting down notes and occasionally glancing at his computer. He never looked at me. The classroom filled, all ten of his brave pupils in their seats. The period bell rang, he stood, stepped to the front of the class, and spoke.

    “Ten. Good, I like even numbers.

    “My name is Mr. Ebon and this is AP US History. If you’re here, that means you’ve heard the rumors about how difficult this class is and decided to take it anyway. For that, I will give a small sliver of respect. The rest you will have to earn through effort, hard work, and excellence.

    “I’ve taught this class four times previously. In each instance, students have cried, begged, threatened me, thrown something, or gotten up and walked out, never to be heard from again. Which one will you be?”

    The smart ones didn’t cower at his warning. I sat, straight backed, meeting his gaze, ready to live up to his challenge.

    Twenty page term papers, 200 page books on military battles, founding fathers, and other important American leaders were fruits I bit into to each evening. Staying late, with no car and parents who’s job didn’t end til 6, I had more than enough time to immerse myself in his teachings.

    On a crisp fall Friday evening, having finished the night’s homework, but still at least an hour before my ride would show, I decided to take a stroll throughout my ancient school.

    Whetherly Academy was a co-educational private school. Students wore uniforms, parents paid tuition, and everyone carried an air of the elite they knew themselves to be. I, however, was a scholarship student. My squared shoulders and small knowing grin came from my core truth: I was smarter than any of them and would someday have what they had, but I would have earned it.

    As I quietly roamed the halls, almost tip-toeing to avoid the creaking of the hardwood floors, I somehow made my way to the History wing.

    Buildings have a life all their own when no one is around. The lights were off, allowing what little sunshine left to cast an eerie glaze across the floor. Classroom doors stood open, inviting, but nothing to offer inside. Desks with chairs in all manner of pushed in or pulled out whispered the lessons already taught for the day. But there was one door closed, so I decided to open it.

    Peaking my head inside, there he sat, just like the first day of classes, working. Slowly retracting my head, a loud creak from the floorboards informed him of my presence.

    “Good evening Ms. Ivory. Is there something I can do for you?” Mr. Ebon had not even looked up from his desk, yet he knew it was me. Or had he glanced my face when I did not notice?

    “No, sir. Just killing time til my ride arrives.”

    “And the twenty-five pages on Gettysburg I asked you to read?”

    “Completed, along with some cursory notes before your lecture tomorrow.” This gave him pause; his hand stopping and his eyes finally met mine.

    “I see. Well, if you have nothing better to do, why don’t you have a seat? I, too, have nothing but time to kill, what with the pathetic group of children known as my Freshman World History class who cannot write a five page summary well for all the sand in Sri Lanka.”

    He beckoned me to the desk in front of his. After school, alone, with a man I adored, no one around to judge me except him, I decided to relax, a bit. I hopped up on the desk, sat with my legs crossed, and pulled out from my bag my latest knit project, a black and orange scarf for Halloween. I made sure to not look at him til I began a new stitch. When I did glance up, I think there was the slightest of smiles on his face.

    “You knit?”

    “Helps pass the time. And since I never leave before seven each night, I have time.”

    “Seven?”

    “My parents own a General Store; they don’t close til six. And it would take three buses for me to get home. So, I wait. Gives me time to finish homework and work on other things.”

    “Other things?”

    “I write a little. I knit a little. Occasionally I’ll pull out my sketchbook and roam the halls for inspiration. Things to pass the time.”

    “Friends?”

    “I’m on scholarship, Sir. How many rich kids you know want to be friends with some poor girl? Well, to them I’m poor. My family lives comfortably enough. We just don’t ride around in Benzes and sip cherry after dinner. Oh my, I’ve been blathering on and you have papers to grade.”

    “Stop. I invited you to sit. Chatting is a part of sitting.”

    “Ok. Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you become a teacher? I know you’re ex-military. Why the change?”

    “I took a piece of shrapnel during a munitions exercise. It made me unfit for duty in the field. They offered me a desk position, but if I couldn’t lead my men, I didn’t want to stay.”

    “And teaching?”

    “G.I. bill. I wanted to get a degree in something. Why not study what I thought would be my life, military history. I never thought things would play out as they have, but teaching is well enough. How about you? What do you wish to do with your years?”

    “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about a major yet.”

    “Your college applications are in?”

    “Soon. By December. I was giving myself a break because of my birthday.”

    “Your birthday?”

    “Yes, today Sir. October tenth, ten ten. Easy for people to remember, though I have no one is this school to tell.”

    “Well, happy birthday Ms. Ivory. As of today you’re now allowed to vote, be drafted, and drink a beer in some states.”

    “Yeah, I’m legally an adult.”

    “Excited?”

    “No, sad.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “It’s just… I don’t see myself as an adult. I’m a student, a smart learned plucky student who knows all the answers and does what she is told, when she is told, whatever she is told, however it is to be done. I take comfort in knowing exactly what to do because you have told me to do it. I feel safe in this room, completely centered and true in this room. In this room… I am the shit.” My hand quickly covered my mouth as my cheeks turned red. “I am so sorry. That was inappropriate. I’ll go.” I quickly hopped off the desk, grabbed my bag, and turned to leave.

    “Ms. Ivory.” The sternness in his voice stopped me.

    “Turn around.” I slowly pivoted on the balls of my feet. He stood, his height towering over me.

    “Come here.” I put down my things and walked slowly to face him by the side of his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a ruler I had not seen before, wooden and old. “Hold your hands at your sides, out and up, side-by-side, palms to the ceiling.”

    I stood there in supplication to his whim. Swiftly, he lifted and came down with the ruler across the insides of my hands. It stung, but I only flinched slightly.

    “Now, gather your things and go.” I turned and quickly grabbed my backpack and knitting.

    “And Ms. Ivory.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “Please come by and chat with me again Monday evening.”

    “Yes, Sir.” With hast I exited his classroom, silently closing his door and making my way down to the lobby to wait for my ride.

    The weekend seemed to crawl by.