The Math Teacher Is Dead

by Robert Manners

  The Math Teacher is Dead

  by Robert Manners

  It was ten-thirty on a sunny September morning, and Danny Vandervere — beautiful, athletic, popular, and sixteen years old — was perched on the edge of an old maple desk, leaning back on his hands with his jeans bunched around his knees, getting a blowjob from Mr. Janacek, his second-period Senior Calculus teacher; the man was doing a very workmanlike job of fellating Danny’s obscenely large cock, and Danny was enjoying the ministrations, but his mind was wandering.

  Non-reciprocal sex just wasn’t Danny’s style, and he found it a little frustrating that Mr. Janacek would not allow himself to be touched; Danny wasn’t even allowed to play with the teacher’s hair or rest a hand on his head — the man had brushed his hand away when he tried. Just sitting there getting sucked off was nice, but it wasn’t really sex, and there was absolutely nothing in this world that Danny loved more than sex — full-contact, total-involvement, mind-blowing coitus. A non-reciprocal blowjob just wasn’t fully engaging, so Danny’s mind suffered the intrusion of plans, ideas, and worries that had nothing to do with what was going on with his body.

  The worry that Danny was working over that particular morning was his motivation in seducing his teacher: it had occurred to him, when Mr. Janacek went for his fly with a tortured sigh, that he might have had a mercenary motive when he delivered his most effective smoldering look and leaned against the desk in a steamy crotch-forward posture while asking a seemingly innocent question about antiderivatives; after all, calculus was one of his weakest subjects, and the other teacher with whom Danny was having an affair taught his other weak subject, chemistry.

  Though Danny wanted to believe that he’d responded to Mr. Janacek’s furtive but unmistakable glances in order to spread happiness by giving of his body to just about anyone who wanted it (and with his extraordinary beauty, his curling black hair and clear pink-and-white skin, his big gray eyes and ripe red mouth, his tall muscular body and massive cock, an awful lot of people did want it) the fact remained that Ms. Fenniman had neglected to mark the three incorrect answers on his chemistry quiz the day after he’d given her three orgasms in the backseat of her Impala during lunch hour. If Mr. Janacek was similarly grateful for the use of Danny’s body, his beloved 4.0 grade-point average would be a good deal safer.

  Still, it wasn’t as though Danny couldn’t have brought up his grades in the traditional manner of hard work and extra-credit assignments, he had a genius IQ and perfect grades came easily to him; but ever since discovering sex early the previous summer, first being seduced by a young woman staying at the lakefront resort near his family’s home, and then seducing an older man at the same resort a week later, fucking had pushed all of his other pastimes into the background.

  He figured he’d racked up a couple hundred conquests since June, which was rather a feat considering that he lived in a tiny California mountain town with a population of just under five thousand (though a trip to San Francisco to buy his school clothes had bumped the numbers up quite a bit). And all that intercourse took up most of the time he’d once spent on studies, sports, and music.

  So, Danny decided as the orgasm mounted in his loins and he made some warning noises at Mr. Janacek’s bobbing head, it was simply a coincidence that it was his calculus teacher, rather than his English teacher or history teacher, who was giving him a blowjob that fine sunny morning; and he resolved to redouble his efforts to master calculus so that he wouldn’t need any displays of gratitude in order to keep his GPA up.

  *****

  One might be inclined to look askance at a forty-three-year-old teacher having sex with a sixteen-year-old student; but one must bear in mind that Danny Vandervere is something of a special case.

  For one thing, he doesn’t look sixteen: although he still has the clear skin and beardless chin of a child, his face is fully formed, with an elegant but decidedly manly bone-structure; his body is almost completely hairless, but it’s a well-developed man’s body, perfectly proportioned with broad shoulders and narrow hips, slender but rich with muscle; and the poise and confidence with which he moves and speaks belong to a much older person. It is difficult to think of him as anything other than an adult.

  For another thing, he is something of a local celebrity: Danny’s great-great-great-grandfather built the town of Vandervere, California in 1880, as well as the Royal Vandervere Paper Mill, the town’s only large-scale employer. The town and the mill, as well as the surrounding million acres of tree-covered mountains that lie between Redding and Eureka in the Coastal Range, belong entirely to the Vandervere family, held and maintained by the venerable and incalculably wealthy Vandervere Trust.

  Being a Vandervere in Vandervere CA is a little like being a ruling lord in feudal Europe: the family owns everything in sight, not just the mill and the land but all of the commercial and rental property in town, as well as the bank that holds the mortgages on all the properties they don’t own; and they are not absentee landlords, they live right there in the town and are involved in every aspect of political, commercial, and philanthropic life in Vandervere and surrounding Ternion County — Danny’s uncle Charles runs the mill and all of its subsidiaries, his father Taylor has been the mayor for four consecutive six-year terms, his great-uncle Marcus was mayor for nine terms before that, his cousin Augustus is the County Commissioner, and his Aunt Claudia is the president of the School Board.

  As a result, Danny grew up in an atmosphere of almost grovelling deference and profound respect from the townspeople; and though he was not as arrogant or demanding as the majority of his aristocratic clan, people tended to not think of him as a human being — and certainly not as a child — but rather as a prince or even a demigod, something quite different and set apart from themselves.

  And then there is his beauty, breathtaking and flawless, which can batter down anybody’s defenses with a soft look and a slow smile. His eyes are huge and slightly slanted like a fawn’s, the soft warm gray of woodsmoke tinged with violet and flecked with gold, framed by impossibly long black lashes and exquisitely arched brows; his skin is as luminous and smooth as an infant’s, his downy cheeks bear a hot strawberry blush, and his opulently carved lips are a luscious cherry-red; his thick ebony hair is soft and glossy, worn in a cherubic halo of loose curls, his teeth are even and white, his nose is perfectly straight and perfectly centered.

  It’s not just his face, either: everything about him, from his long-fingered hands to his elegantly attenuated feet, from the sound of his deep rich voice to the woodsy smell of his sweat, is beautiful. His personality is open and sunny, unfailingly kind and honorable; and though he sometimes catches himself manipulating people with his looks and his charm, he does his best to counteract this flaw in his character with generosity and good intentions.

  *****

  Danny was casting around in his mind as he buttoned up his fly, trying to think of a way to make amends to Mr. Janacek for manipulating him into sex; the teacher was clearly not happy about what had happened, now seated at his desk with his head in his hands, his fingers clutching painfully at his thinning brown-gray hair; Danny was accustomed to a display of at least satisfaction from his partners after having sex, if not actual glee, and the teacher’s obviously miserable reaction was jarring.

  “Are you OK?” Danny asked solicitously, laying a hand on his teacher’s shoulder.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” Mr. Janacek replied in a strangled, desperate voice, shrugging Danny’s hand off his shoulder.

  “But I wanted you to,” Danny replied, meaning to take responsibility for the act, though the teacher thought he meant that his wanting something was more than enough reason enough for it to happen.

>   “Nevertheless,” Mr. Janacek’s voice hardened and he straightened up in his chair, “You’re my student, and you’re a minor: what I just did was immoral and illegal, whether you wanted it or not.”

  “Oh, pish,” the boy replied lightly, dismissing such picayune concerns with an impatient shrug.

  “Did you say ‘pish’?” the teacher looked at the boy incredulously and laughed.

  “Yes, I did,” Danny giggled, “Sorry, I’ve been reading a lot of English novels lately.”

  “You’re a strange kid, Danny Vandervere,” Mr. Janacek finally looked Danny in the eye, shaking his head in wonder, the desperation and shame leaving his voice.

  “I’m really not a kid anymore,” Danny said with an authority that very few sixteen-year-olds could carry off, “I am perfectly capable of making decisions about my own body, and with whom I wish to share it.”

  “But still,” Mr. Janacek protested, though without much conviction; Danny could tell the man’s sense of moral shame was dissipating in the face of his calm poise.

  “And speaking of which,” Danny said in a sultry tone as he sank gracefully to his knees in front of the teacher and laid his hands on the man’s thighs, “I’d really like to share more with you.”

  “Oh, Danny,” Mr. Janacek moaned with a mixture of sadness and lust, “No.”

  “Please?” Danny begged prettily, casting his eyes up at the man from under his lashes and wetting his voluptuous mouth with an agile tongue.

  The teacher hesitated, his moral nature struggling mightily with his animal nature, his reason melting away in the heat of the boy’s dazzling beauty; Danny took that hesitation as assent and dived into the man’s crotch, deftly unzipping his pants and fishing his cock out of the opening. It was small and uncircumcised, which Danny found adorable, it fit so comfortably into his mouth and required so little effort to tease into erection.

  It was over all too quickly, though; Danny tried to draw it out to give his teacher as much pleasure as he could, but after a scant three minutes Mr. Janacek let out a stifled cry and grabbed spastically at Danny’s hair, trying to pull the boy’s head away from his lap so as not to come in his mouth. Instead, he splattered semen all over the boy’s face and neck, as well as his own brown argyle sweater-vest.

  “Such a pretty mess,” Danny smiled mischievously up at his teacher, opalescent semen dripping from his scarlet lips onto the floor.

  Mr. Janacek wondered if the boy knew he was quoting a song from the teacher’s own youth in the long-ago 80s as he reached into his desk-drawer for a box of tissues (the brand manufactured by Royal Vandervere Mills) and set about wiping the boy’s face and his own sweater, which he planned to take off and hide in his briefcase.

  “Are you OK, now?” Danny asked as he helped Mr. Janacek tidy up.

  “Letting you do that didn’t help matters any,” the teacher replied with regret, but not with the desolate tone with which he’d lashed himself earlier.

  “You mustn’t feel guilty about giving in to me,” Danny reasoned, leaning down to plant a kiss on the man’s forehead, “I always get what I want.”

  “I just wish you wanted things that boys your age are supposed to want. And tell me, did you really need help with antiderivatives, or was that a ploy?”

  “It was partly a ploy,” Danny admitted with a laugh, “But I really could use some help with them.”

  Back on familiar ground with calculus, Mr. Janacek visibly relaxed, and Danny listened carefully as the teacher explained the concept of antiderivatives in greater detail than he had in class. When he’d finished, Mr. Janacek was pleased to see that Danny understood and had assimilated the information in his remarkable brain; there is nothing so satisfying to a teacher as seeing ideas take root in their students.

  2

  Since his encounter with Mr. Janacek had taken longer than Danny anticipated, he’d overrun morning break and was now almost ten minutes late for French class. But being a Vandervere meant not having to face consequences for such minor infractions; besides which, he was already fairly fluent in French due to growing up with a French nanny, as well as having private tutoring in French literature the previous year; he was only taking the class because it was a college requirement that he needed on his transcript, and an easy A on his crowded academic schedule. Danny put his books away in his locker and went along to the restroom to primp his hair and enjoy his own reflection for a while.

  The teacher’s frenzied grasping hadn’t done too much damage to Danny’s carefully tousled curls, they only needed a little pulling, pinching, and patting to return them to their rightful places; standing back from the full-length mirror in the boy’s room, he closely examined his clothes, rebuttonning the fly of his jeans when he noticed he’d missed a button earlier.

  Stepping back even further, he took in his overall appearance, and tried out a few nonchalant poses to enjoy the effect. His clothes were not in the usual teenage fashion, the deep aubergine polo shirt and artfully faded blue-gray jeans being a good deal more form-fitting than what was worn by his peers, most of whom preferred to wallow in oversized layers of t-shirts and hoodies with sagging khakis or wide stiff jeans that completely disguised their bodies; he also eschewed the puffy athletic shoes and flat sneakers that other boys wore in favor of stack-heeled motorcycle boots that made his buttocks stand out and gave his walk an eye-catching swagger: Danny was intensely proud of his body, and loved the effect he had on people by showing it to its best advantage.

  Danny’s style of dress had caused something of a stir among the more fashion-conscious boys when he adopted it for his Senior year, and they aped his tighter clothes to the best of their abilities — though most had to resort to vintage shops and the internet for pre-millenium 501s and Izods where Danny’s lavish allowance from the Vandervere Trust enabled him to wear Gianfranco Ferre and Ralph Lauren Purple Label; and they all pulled back from the blatant display of cock and ass, pecs and thighs that were Danny’s whole reason for dressing as he did.

  Satisfied with his beauty, Danny left the restroom and ambled down the broad silent corridor to the library, where he pulled a new copy of The New Yorker off the Periodicals rack and fell into a comfortable chair with his feet up on the table to while away the remaining third-period hour.

  He was watched but not challenged by the librarian, Mr. D’Arby, who was completely in love with Danny; and though Danny was usually happy to return such adoration with sex, he found the librarian dreadfully repellent: he thought Mr. D’Arby looked like an inflated frog, obese and lipless and pop-eyed; the thought of the man touching him with those short sausage-like fingers or pressing that soft spherical body against his made him shiver with revulsion.

  Still, he was nice to the man, and flirted with him outrageously whenever he checked out books (which was two or three times a week, as Danny was a voracious reader), earning the man’s undying loyalty and affection.

  It was affection that Danny craved above all else, the need that drove his prodigious sexuality; and even before he became sexually active, he was fully engaged in getting people to love him. As a child he had gone out of his way to charm people, to study what it was that made them respond with fond smiles and then give it to them; he watched his father charm people when he wanted something, and replicated that charm, watched his other relatives treating people with disdain and did the exact opposite.

  The charm came quite naturally to him: his openness and his sweet disposition, his amazingly retentive memory and his interest in the details of people’s lives, were as much a part of him as his beauty; and like his beauty, he cultivated his charm assiduously and displayed it ostentatiously, using it to get the affection he needed. He could never get enough of it, and during his short life had exercised his charm to such an extent that the entire town loved him.

  The exception to this rule, and the obvious genesis of this insatiable need, was his own family: his parents, his brothers, his aunt and uncle and cousins all despised him, had done so alm
ost since his birth; he had nearly killed his mother in childbirth, earning both parents’ animosity; and from the very beginning he was so clearly different from the rest of his family — his curling black hair and huge bottomless gray eyes, his inhuman prettiness and precocious intelligence, his gentleness and sweetness. In a clan of handsome blond WASPs, conventional and average in every aspect but their autocratic sense of entitlement, Danny was the ugly duckling, suffering the cruelty and isolation of a pariah.

  But like most young men, he was blissfully ignorant of what made him tick; he was aware that he used his beauty and charm to manipulate people and to make them love him; but he had no idea why he was compelled to do so — nor did he really care. He just knew that he was happy, that he loved his life and the pleasures it gave him.

  Danny put away his magazine and headed for the gymnasium before the bell rang, and was already undressed and standing naked at his locker when the rest of the fourth-period boys came pouring noisily into the locker room. Some of the boys wondered how he could be so comfortable, naked in a room full of clothed people; others shook their heads at his blatant exhibitionism; most wished they looked like him, quite a few wished they could touch him; a select few already had, and Danny was engaged in picking out those he would approach next — part of the reason he flaunted himself in the locker room was to gauge reactions and catch those flashes of lust that indicated the kind of interest he craved. All of the boys looked at his oversized genitals, some with disgust and most with envy, but there was a certain look that came into a boy’s eyes when they were lit with desire, and Danny was constantly on the hunt for that look.

  He had marked down a chubby blond boy, a trumEric in the marching band, as his next quarry by the time he was dressed in his tight white t-shirt and baggy blue jersey shorts (though he liked to show off his body, he did not wish to appear out of control, and he frequently got erections during gym class that he didn’t want everyone to see); he called out a greeting to the boy, whose name he remembered was Derrick, and reveled in the confused blush that mantled the blond’s smoothly rounded cheeks.