Our Miss Spinks (fiction)

[rdodger]

Our Miss Spinks

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2020

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission note must remain attached.


Rebecca Spinks teaches Classical Literature at the community college. It's a required course, so her classes are normally filled with students who would rather admire her body then take notes. And no wonder – her lecturing style is boring as hell, but her outfits don't attempt to downplay her chest and ass.

It's a mid-February morning, and the class and teacher are both restless. The lesson plan for the day lists Sappho, but Miss Spinks disappoints the students by explaining that only about 600 lines of Sappho's actual poetry survive to the present day, and she won't be reading any of it. The sorority girls in the back row look devastated. The football players look confused. Miss Spinks announces the mid-class break, and goes to get a cup of coffee and escape the hubbub behind her.

When she returns to the classroom, some joker has left pink envelopes on every single desk. Shaking her head, Miss Spinks goes around collecting what are evidently Valentine's Day cards. She dumps the entire batch into the wastebasket behind her desk, and sets her lecture notes down while the class filters back into the room. A movement catches her eye, and she looks up to see a handsome young man frowning impatiently. She sets her papers to one side. "Yes?"

"What happened to all the Valentine's cards I put out?"

She takes a second look at the student, and sighs. "I don't believe in distractions during my class. And Valentine's Day isn't a national holiday or anything else that justifies the distraction." Seeing that the young man seems upset by this, she relents enough to throw him a bone. "Look, maybe if we were studying Romantic Literature I'd feel differently. But we need to start on Thucydides, so please take your seat."

Valentine's Day cards. Really.

Whatever energy was in the class before the break has vanished, except for the three history majors who have moved up to the front row. Miss Spinks leans forward a bit, responding to their obvious interest in the material. Actually, they're watching the material of her blouse as it strains from her posture.

Eventually, Thucydides is dealt with and the class disperses to lunch, afternoon plans, whatever. Miss Spinks puts her lecture notes into her leather bag, and pauses. There's a pink envelope on her desk. It certainly wasn't there earlier. Curiosity wins out over annoyance, and she opens the envelope to find a poem written in elegant cursive.

A community college professor
Was never the social aggressor
But those in her class
Drooled over her ass
So she quit wearing panties, God bless her!

Insulted, she rips the poem and envelope it in half and tosses it into the trash with the rest. Grabbing her purse and portfolio, she heads out of the classroom, pausing to bend over at the water fountain.

Well behind her in the hallway, an irritated Cupid is watching. An eight-year-old could hit that kind of target, and Cupid may look young but has far more practice than any eight-year-old. He pulls one of the special barbed arrows from his quiver, tugs the nock back and lets fly. A cruel smile spreads over his face.

Miss Spinks stands up suddenly, turning around but seeing nobody near in the hallway. What was that... and then a cramp clutches in her lower backside and she runs to the bathroom, the immediate need pushing everything else out of her mind.

** ** **

Afternoon classes arrive, and something is amiss - Miss Spinks is not her usual self. Instead of sitting behind the desk, lecturing in a dry tone, she's standing up and moving from one side of the whiteboard to the other. Her delivery is not exactly animated, but she's certainly restless.

What none of her students know is that Miss Spinks has a problem. She has an itch. And she can't do anything to it in class. When class is done, she's quick to the parking lot and quick through traffic and really quick through the door to her bedroom.

A single woman does not lack for toys and modern technology, but nothing hits the spot. When modern approaches fail, she tries older methods but cleanliness brings no relief. In tired desperation, she goes to the shower and leans against the wall taking the shower jet straight on. Then she kneels face-down, offering her ample bottom to the hot needle spray from the shower head. It doesn't dispel her problem either, not by a long shot, but the combination gives her enough relief to finally go to bed and get some sleep.

The next day, even the least interested of her class notice that something is different. Miss Spinks leans back against the edge of her desk, peppers individual students with questions about the material, darts between topics unexpectedly. She vibrates with a barely tethered energy. Perhaps there's something exciting about Classical Literature after all.

Or perhaps the issue is within the professor, like the itch between the shoulder blades that can only be relieved by backing into a sharp corner. Sitting only allows the problem to grow. Motion distracts her, and now she welcomes the half-educated babbling of her students so she has every excuse to twist, shift her weight, clench certain muscles.

Class ends. Miss Spinks knows she needs help. She has made up her mind, it's time to call on her friend. More of a friend with occasional benefits, but this qualifies as an occasion. A quick phone call on the way home, and she is relieved to hear him accept her invitation. At five foot ten and with an athlete's build, he's got what she needs.

At least he usually does. Despite enthusiastic (and on her part slightly desperate) gymnastics, her friend is eventually spent but Miss Spinks still needs – something.

When he leaves, she tries a shower and then a bath, then looks at her vanity and gets an inspiration that turns her face red. Glad that nobody can observe her, she takes up her hairbrush and lies back, legs spread and knees lifted. The brush handle belongs nowhere near where she puts it, but she shudders and sighs as it brings a little relief.

The relief vanishes overnight, as if a mirage. And the weekend seems ages in the distance as Miss Spinks gets ready to teach her class. None of her pant suits can be tolerated; blouse and skirt is the order of the day. Her classes take no pleasure in her appearance because her mood is so foul.

"Bug up her ass" and "Tight-ass bitch" are the kindest of the comments made about her, and her students would undoubtedly be shocked to know just how correct they are.

Miss Spinks is a smart woman. For every problem there is a solution that can be discovered with logic. She knows the solution to this problem now, but she doesn't like it. And she can't go to her boyfriend, she just can't.

Wait, she thinks. What about the wrestling coach? She's heard all sorts of things about him in the teachers lounge, and if only half are true... But the man is barely civilized. And she doesn't want to involve any other people.

So Friday night finds her driving to the far side of town. The store she finds has - an astonishing variety. She can't bring herself to ask for advice, but the clerk at the cash register simply comments that she'll need some good lubrication and throws in a few packets for free. Miss Spinks spends the rest of her evening with objects and activities that would shock any of her friends or students, and frequently causes her to shut her own eyes.

Relief. Sweet relief, and a good night's sleep.

But when the morning sun shines through her bedroom shades, she twists and writhes and realizes the relief isn't lasting. Reluctantly she picks up the phone and calls the wrestling coach. The conversation is stilted and awkward; Miss Spinks can't just come out and ask a man for his cock. She does manage to convince the coach that they should meet to discuss "a matter where I need someone of your experience".

They meet in a back booth of an out-of-the-way diner, the squirming busty professor and the cautiously intrigued muscular coach. After several elliptical approaches, she finally comes straight with him. She's got an itch... back there. And she can't make it go away on her own.

The coach's face distorts as he rises to leave, and Miss Spinks asks – no, she begs out of utter need and desperation. Obviously reluctant, the coach allows himself to be talked into coming to her house – none of this should really be discussed in public.

Safely in private, Miss Spinks gasps to see the size and girth of the wrestling coach, but puts her knowledge of male anatomy and her own fleshy assets to full and effective use, as a sort of down payment. Afterward, sweaty and out of breath, she asks once more for his full help.

The coach's response shatters her. He turns her down. She's good, but he's gay, and the saying that "a hole's a hole" just doesn't really work for him. Miss Spinks howls, rolls on the floor in a fetal position, asks what she's going to do, appealing for charity if nothing else. Perhaps shamed by having taken a blowjob under false pretenses, the coach admits to knowing someone who's open-minded about his partners and might be convinced to help. Setting things up might take a week.

Miss Spinks posts her lecture notes on the class website and calls in sick for a week. She spends most of the time naked and wet, finding new and obscene ways to use all sorts of things in her house. When the coach calls the following Friday, her voice is so wild that he orders her to take some kind of tranquilizer or he won't let his friend near her.

Miss Spinks doesn't want a total stranger at her house, and the coach's friend is of like mind, so everyone meets at the coach's house Saturday afternoon. Introductions are made and drinks are poured, enough to take the edge off an awkward situation, and clothing is removed. First the wrestling coach, to set the tone, then Miss Spinks, stripping like a professional for the audition of her life. Finally the coach's friend, swinging an impressive erection and obviously enjoying what Miss Spinks offers.

The coach leaves the two of them alone. His friend warms Miss Spinks up, broad hands exploring her flesh, lips and teeth adding arousal to her existing need until she grunts and squirms like an animal in heat. Satisfied, he smears her own flowing juices between her cheeks and positions her on the floor.

He's good. More than good, and for the first time Miss Spinks doesn't just get past her ache of need, she writhes and pants, gasps for more, for the experience, the deep feeling, the heat. And her own explosion claims a similar response from the man inside her, and a second act no less urgent and intense.

Invisible in a corner of the living room, Cupid is watching, having been chastised for using his powers out of pique. One of his special arrows zips through the room, precisely aimed when Miss Spinks screams, and he removes the cause – but not the symptom.

Nothing changes visibly in that house, but the edge of desperation in her voice is gone now. Eventually they ask the wrestling coach to join in, turning the couple into a threesome. The weekend is long and active.

The coach's friend calls her Becky now. And she comes when he calls.

/ END /