"It's not what you think" (closed)

"It's not what you think"

(closed)​

Samantha Hale struck a pose at the office door. Her boss, Gregor, looked her over, his head nodding gently with appreciation.

"I'd pay to fuck you," he said. When he saw an eye brow rise upon her perfectly made up face, he laughed. He asked, "What...? What do you think these guys are thinking?"

She just shook her head as she turned to head for the stage. She knew that the Club's patrons fantasized about bending her over the bar and pounding her until they spewed forth. But it was a reality about which she didn't want to think, let alone be so often reminded. Make'em want you...! Make'em hard for you...! Make'em think those dollars are a layaway payment on one day having you!

"And now...!" the DJ began Sam's introduction, "...put your hands together for Lady Godiva's newest dancer ... the beautiful ... the sexy ... Bambi!"

Sam cringed at the stage name with which Gregor had saddled her. He had claimed that Bambi's innocence, playfulness, and cuteness made men think about young women -- girls even -- upon whose bodies they would never get their hands. Pointing out to Gregor that Bambi had been a boy deer, not a girl, hadn't dissuaded him at all, so Sam had just gone with it.

The name, along with the younger looking outfits in which she mounted the stage, seemed to work. If the money the club's patrons forked over was a measure of their appreciation, they liked Sam a lot! She danced three sets a night, three nights a week, then made her way through and past the club's tables and booths, smiling to the patrons and teasing them with caressing finger tips. And they showed their appreciation by stuffing singles, fives, tens, even twenties into the waistband of her panties as she flirted.

It had turned out to be a very good living. Including the obligatory and meaningless minimum wage the Club was required to pay her, Sam was bringing home an average of $600 a night. And that was without doing lap dances, which she had told Gregor was closer to being a whore than I want to get. No, even at less than $2000 a week, stripping was bringing in more money than Sam's day job...

(closed)​

Martin Howell wasn't supposed to be inside the strip club, of course. He was only 18 years old, three years short of the age at which he could begin staring wide eyed at sexy women dancing on a stage while shedding their clothes. He was only on the premises because his father needed help delivering a new broiler to Lady Godiva's kitchen.

"Best deep fried chicken in the county," the club's cook told Martin as the three sport Letterman used his strength to heft the cooker into place. "I'll send an order home with you and your pop."

Martin thanked the man politely. But when the installation was complete and his father went to the office to collect payment, Martin's mind was not on chicken. He waited until the men were out of sight, then snuck out of the well lit kitchen into the nearly pitch black hallway the let out to where Martin could see the illumination of the flashing lights of the stage. He heard announcing the next dancer, and couldn't help but smile at the woman's name, Bambi. Perfect name for a stripper, Martin thought. Most likely a big boobed airhead blonde who thought that stripping before a dozen drunks made her some kind of a star.

Martin made his way slowly down the dark passage until he was just near enough to be able to see the stage. The stripper had more clothes on that he would have imagined, but what the hell did he know about strip clubs anyway? His only experience with them was what he saw in R rated movies, and by the time the point of view had moved to them, they were usually nearly naked anyway.

He was also surprised at her dancing. It wasn't just gyration atop stiletto heels, wiggling her firm ass and shaking her big tits. This woman could really dance. Once again of course, what the hell did martin know? About halfway through the song, the clothes started coming off. Piece by piece, the sexy, semi-sheer outfit begin falling on the stage, until finally she was standing there in just a sexy pair of panties and a matching push up bra. Oh, and then there was the mask.

Martin's father had told him about this club. The girls were all said to be wives or daughters, not your typical stripper who didn't care whether her family knew what he did at night in front of drunken, horny men. Martin had thought his father was just pulling his leg until now. But here the sexy, well shaped one was wearing a feathery black and white mask that matched her skin being under garments.

The first song morphed into a second one, and the men lining the edge of the stage began hooting and hollering like nothing Martin had imagined. A moment later he came to understand what the extra excitement was all about as the stripper reached to the middle of her back, unsnapped her bra, and let it pop forward, revealing...

"Oh my god," Martin mumbled to himself at the sight of the woman's incredible breasts. They were perfect: large but not shockingly so, firm and well rounded, with huge, pert nipples set in also large ... Oh, crap what are they called...? Aereola...? Martin couldn't take his eyes off the stripper's bosom. He was fifteen feet away from the dancer, and yet this was as close as he'd ever been to real, exposed tits. Being an All State athlete in three sports hadn't presented Martin with the sexual opportunities his former Olympian father had told him it would and now, at 18 and a few weeks of age, be was still very much a blue balled virgin.

The second song was over far too quickly, and before Martin knew what had happened, the stripper -- with her panties now decorated by dozens of dollar bille -- disappeared behind the stage curtain. Martin stayed in place, for two reasons: he was hoping a second sexy woman would appear and, if that didn't happen, he hoped the bulge in his crotch would wane before his dad found him.

A door opened directly across from Martin, though, and suddenly he was face to face with the dancer he'd been watching. Now, though, she wasn't wearing her mask ... causing Martin eyes to bulge as he asked in shock, "Miss Hale...?"

Sam's eyes widened even farther than those of her student. The reason she had picked Lady Godiva's in the first place was that it was on the far side of town from Harden High, where she taught dance and art. It never occurred to Sam that one of her kids would ever see her at the job that was responsible for three fourths of her income.

She snapped at him in a combination of shock and anger, "Marty! What are you doing here?"

"Working!" Martin said immediately, his shock over discovering his high school teacher stripping battling with his guilt of having been caught seeing her stripping! He repeated and clarified, "Working! With my dad, delivering a broiler. What are you doing here?"

What are you doing here?

It was a simple question that would have been simply answered to anyone else in any other place. But the was one of Sam's students asking her what she was doing in a strip club with practically nothing in at all.

"Marty, it's not what you think," Sam said. Of course, it was what Martin was thinking if he thought he had found his high school teacher was taking her clothes off for money. "Let me explain."

Of course, Sam had no idea how to explain this. She stuffed her clothes under on arm, grabbed him roughly by the elbow, and ushered him down the hall and into the dancers' dressing room. There were three other girls there, one of whom objected to a male being in the room and two of whom quickly began with the inappropriate questions you might expect in a pro football locker room.

"Marty, you can't tell anyone you saw me here," Sam demanded. "I would get fired. Promise me!"

" I won't tell, I promise!" Martin said quickly. Miss Hale was an authority figure in this well behaved student's eyes. That combined with the shock that he was still in over this unexpected situation... He would have done anything that she told him to do at this point. "I promise. I wouldn't tell anybody, really, trust me."

Overwhelmed as he was, Martin simply could not help allowing his gaze to drop again to his teacher's bountiful chest. As with all of the other young men in his school, overwhelmed by raging hormones and urge driven fantasies, Martin had ogles Miss Hale's delicious body dozens, hundreds, thousands of times. He, like the others, had often wondered just what she would look like out of those loose fitting clothes within which she had always hid her shapely figure from all those ogling pairs of hungry eyes. The difference between Martin and all of those other boys now, though, was that he now knew.

"Eyes up!" Sam snapped, seeing the boy before her ogling her breasts. It was a common used chastising phrase at the school where it seemed most of the males' gazes were typically a foot lower than they should have been. She turned her forcefully toward the door and, as she pushed him back out into the black, ordered, "My office, before first period. We'll talk more about this then. Until then ... please, Marty. Keep this to yourself."

With that, she shut the door in his face.

Before he realized what was happening, Martin found himself in the dark hallway again. He stood there staring at the door in silence, allowing for the booming dance music, that is. After a long moment, Martin returned to the kitchen, where his father was simultaneously scarfing down a huge burger and telling his most recently learned jokes.

"You ready, boy?" he asked, snatching up a to go bag and tossing it through the air to Martin. "Save half of that for your mother."

Martin had expected embarrassing questions about where he'd been, but his father asked none, either at the club or on the way home. That was odd. Martin's father loved toying with his son's shyness, particularly when it came to the opposite sex. What Martin couldn't know was that his father had taken a moment to enjoy the club's sights, too. Part of the Old Man's compensation for servicing the club's kitchen equipment at a discount was getting his own equipment serviced, sometimes via lap dances in the lounge, sometimes via blow jobs in the private rooms.

Martin wouldn't be enjoying such pleasures, however. Arriving home, he quickly ate, then lied about not having homework and about being tired and needing to go to bed early. He beat off in the shower, spewing an unusually spectacular load onto the tile as he imagined Miss Hale bent over the make up table in the dancers' dressing room. Then, in bed, he drove himself to orgasm again fantasizing that he was tit fucking the teacher's well oiled melons, spraying cum all over her face and into her open mouth.

He fell asleep more satisfied than his hands had ever left him before...



Eleven hours later, Martin was entering Miss Hale's class room lacking certainty about what going to be said but not lacking the erection that had been a near constant companion since he'd arrived at the club the night before...

Samantha Hale was pacing the length of the classroom, nervous about her upcoming meeting with Martin. She looked much differently than she had the day before when he saw her, of course. Typically for her days of teaching, she wore very loose clothes to hide her well rounded figure, often including a top -- blouse or light sweater -- with a high, cleavage hiding neck line and a long skirt to also hide her long, shapely legs. Her makeup was always simple and gave her a natural look.

Today, she just flat out looked plain. She wanted her looks dumbed down in case she arrived to find out that every boy in school though she was a stripper or, worse, even a whore. She looked the worst she ever had, even back last year when she during the annual flu epidemic or the month after that after she'd caught food poisoning at the teachers pot luck. One of the prissier girls in school had even pulled her aside upon entering the school to ask with compassion whether she wanted so inconspicuous lessons on foundation and eye liner. Sam had assured the girl she was fine and headed on to her class.

When the student entered, she didn't hesitate to ask, "Have you shared our little secret with anyone, Marty?" When he assured her he hadn't, Sam closed the door behind him and gestured him to what the kids called The Chair, the seat at the end of her desk where she performed all of her counseling and review of their work. From here, Sam could see both doors of the classroom. Despite the young man's assurances, she was waiting for the male faces to begin filling the windows in them, looking for the school stripper.

"Listen, Marty," she said, her voice soft as she tried to balance between begging and disciplining the boy. "I need you to understand what you saw last night. It's not what you think. I'm not ... well, that kind of girl, the kind who likes to take her clothes off in front of other men and get paid for it, too. You have to understand--"

Sam feared her voice was going to crack with emotion, so she paused for a moment before continuing. "I always wanted to be a dancer. I even got a couple of shots at it ... a country music video ... a chorus girl in an off Broadway show. When I knew I was never going to become a star at it, I went with my backup: teaching. But I racked up a lot of debt along the way ... and then my father got sick, which meant more debt. I love teaching, but..."

She looked around the classroom with a look of disgust, then looked back to Martin and -- using a word she probably shouldn't have -- explained, "...but it doesn't pay dick! Marty, I can't live on my school district salary alone, so ... I dance."

She sat up a bit taller in her chair to move closer, a typical gesture when she was counseling students. She had never really thought about the fact that the movement caused her bountiful breasts to surge conspicuously forward until now. She went on, "Marty, I love my job ... this job, teaching. I can't lose this job. I need you to keep what you saw last night to yourself. I'm sure that you have secrets of your own, right...? How would you feel if I told your fellow students ... your teachers ... the principal ... your parents ... about those secrets?"

"How would you feel if I told your fellow students ... your teachers ... the principal ... your parents ... about those secrets?"

Marty had had a hard time keeping his eyes up, as the teacher often reminded the boob ogling boys. It had been bad enough when he could only imagine Miss Hale's body beneath her typically loose fitting clothes. Now, of course, he had an actual visual experience that he could attach to such imaginings.

He only got caught ogling her once as she talked. As she asked her question about his secrets, though, Martin had no problem diverting his eyes from Miss Hale. He certainly had his own secrets. And he sure as hell wouldn't have wanted anyone knowing what they were, particularly Miss Hale.

"I won't tell anyone, I promise," Martin reassured her again. "I understand what you mean about money."

He did, too. His family had lived hard times for most of his life, even before the Great Recession drove his father into a bankruptcy from which he had only recently exited.

While he knew she wouldn't want to talk about the stripping aspect of it, Martin couldn't resist telling her, "You are a very good dancer, Miss Hale. I mean ... not the getting naked part! The actual dancing."

Sam laughed nervously at the combination of the teen's compliment and his reminder that he'd seen her stripped down to her panties. "Well ... thank you, Marty, but ... you need to forget all about that, please. Just ... file it away in the back of your mind."

The sexy dancer knew that that would be easier said than done for any man and damn near impossible for any teen age boy. But Martin had certainly seen his share of naked women, either in movies or online or even in the flesh. He was an All Star athlete and good looking young man, and sex and sexting amongst the members of the Harden High's student body -- particularly the In Crowd of which Martin was a member -- had recently become rampant. Sam said lightly and with sincerity, "I'm sure I'm not the first female you've seen in no more than her panties, so ... don't treat it as a big deal, okay?"

She leaned forward again, emphasizing, "And just because I was getting paid to take my clothes off, that doesn't mean I do anything else. I'm no whore! I don't do lap dances, and I certainly don't have sex for money."

Sam realized she was beginning to get pretty graphic in her words, particularly to a teenage boy who had seen her nearly naked. She went silent and leaned back in her chair again, drawing and expelling a deep breath that incidentally swelled her chest before Martin again.

"I'm sure I'm not the first female you've seen in no more than her panties," the teacher told Martin. "Don't treat it as a big deal, okay?"

Martin looked down again, embarrassed about his lack of experience with women.

"And just because I was getting paid to take my clothes off," she continued, "that doesn't mean I do anything else. I'm no whore! I don't do lap dances, and I certainly don't have sex for money."

"Oh no!" Martin responded quickly, looking up to her. "I never thought that! Really! I--" He didn't know what he'd been about to say, and instead went quiet for a moment. Then, quietly, tentatively, he peeked up at Miss Hale and said in almost a whisper, "You're wrong, though. I've never ... you know..."

He didn't know how to say it. He didn't even know whether he should say it. It was inappropriate to discuss such things with a teacher, particularly a female teacher that you had recently seen dancing in nothing more than her panties. He gestured a waggling hand toward Samantha's bosom as he looked to it one more time, then looked up to her.

"I've never seen a girl-- a woman without her clothes on," he continued. "I'm ... I haven't been ... you know..." He drew a nervous breath and realized his hands were trembling. He looked down to his lap -- where a raging hard on was going to prevent him from rising to leave when the time came -- and finished, "I'm a virgin, Miss Hale. I ... I haven't been with any one."

"Oh no!" Martin responded. "I never thought that! Really! I--"

Sam wanted to smile at the teen's stumbling words but resisted. One of her quiet, private joys was watching and listening to students tripping over their tongues as they dealt nervously with her. In the past, she's watched them sweat and tremble because of unfinished homework or copied tests or unacceptable punctuality. But she'd never had one act this way as he denied thinking she was a whore. It would never have occurred to Sam that one ever would, and that was enough to make her smile broadly in her mind at least.

Then, Martin dropped a bomb shell, explaining that he was a virgin. Sam did not see that coming. It would never have occurred to her that this good looking hunk of an athlete hadn't charmed at least one girl out of her clothes by this age. Things suddenly seemed ... different to Sam. She didn't immediately understand why, of course, but after he left the class room, she would realize that she sort of felt sorry for the boy-- the young man.

"I'm ... I'm sure you will some day ... see a girl ... you know, that way." Sam was using her standard compassionate teacher tone, the one she used when she was trying to convince a student that he would do better on the next test or assignment. She continued with a little more caution, "You know, when the time is right. The right girl at the right time. But, don't ... don't be in a hurry."

Sam was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She'd counseled some of her female students in matters of the heart and body, but never one of the boys. That was something best left to the male teachers and administrators. She stood from her chair, donning the posture well known to the students as her We're done here stance.

When his art teacher stood and struck her We're done here pose, Martin stood as well. He hesitated, having so much more he wanted to say and, truthfully, not wanting to depart from the presence of the woman he had seen naked just 12 hours earlier. But he finally turned and headed for the door, saying for no specific reason at all, "Thank you, Miss Hale."

But at the door, Martin hesitated again, gripping but not turning the handle. He simple stared at it for a moment, the thought that had plagued him all morning returning to him once more. Last night, after he'd returned home, Martin's only thoughts had been fantasies, imaginings of him and Miss Hale doing all sorts of intimate, even nasty things with one another, at the club, in his bed, over her school desk. It had been typical teen age boy fare, with the twist that as he imagined Miss Hale naked below him, above him, before him, Martin had the added delight of detail, for he had only just hours before seen her naked.

This morning's thoughts, however, hadn't been about what he had seen the night before but about what he wanted to see in the days to come. Watching Miss Hale on that dance floor had been magical, but ... Martin wanted more! And, inside his scheming horny teen age boy mind, he had been developing the idea that he deserved to see more, too. It was like Miss Hale had told him last night and then clarified this morning: she could lose her job if he told the school administrators what she did on the side. Although Martin didn't know why specifically, Miss Hale -- like all of the District's employees -- had a morality clause in her contract, and stripping on the stage while letting strange men stuff money in your panties was definitely a violation of those paragraphs of text in the agreement.

So, if Miss Hale could lose her job if Martin spoke out...

And Martin was kind enough not to speak out...

Should he get something for his silence?

He turned to face his teacher once more, trying to remember the words and phrases that he had been practicing all morning. He'd told himself over and over that he would never be able to say what was on his mind, but in the next few moments, Martin would be surprised at how well he actually stated his case. "You have often told us in class ... about our grades, I mean ... that we get what we deserve, no more, no less. I'm just wondering..."

He hesitated here again, drawing and releasing a calming breath before finishing, "I'm just wondering ... I'm keeping what you call our little secret secret ... which is good for-- beneficial for you. It's what you deserve, no more, no less. But ... where's the benefit for me? What do I deserve?"

Even though Martin got the question out -- with what he thought had an unspoken but obvious meaning -- by the time he was done talking his hands were trembling enough that he stuffed them down into his pockets to hide their gentle shaking.

Martin asked, "But ... where's the benefit for me? What do I deserve?"

Sam had been fearing since the moment he left the club the night before that Martin might contemplate blackmail, so when he asked his questions, it angered but didn't surprise her. She knew that taking a domineering, authoritarian posture wouldn't get her anywhere. Martin would cower, then rush home to his computer and post the news all over social media. She needed an approach that would seem to give the boy something without giving him what she knew he wanted: sex!

"How about I give you a private showing," she said with confidence. The reaction from Martin was just about what she'd expected. While it may have sounded like she was giving the boy a lot, she actually wasn't. He'd already seen her strip in the club. What was giving him his own show going to hurt? "I can arrange something with Carl, the club manager. A private room ... music ... lights ... just like you saw last night, but ... just for you."

Deleted. Was posting more but I will wait for you.

Martin's eyes widened as his teacher made her offer. His smile widened a bit more, though he tried to contain it. Down below his belt, his cock got even harder, which he wouldn't have thought possible and -- unlike his smile -- couldn't have been helped in any way.

He had fantasized that his veiled threat would end up with Miss Hale vowing to claim his virginity -- making him a man, his father would have called it -- but that had probably been wishful thinking. He wasn't disappointed, though. The sexy teacher was going to give him his own private striptease! How many 18 year olds could claim that?

"Okay," he said, his excitement obvious in just that one word. "When...? Tonight?"

Sam laughed quickly. "Eager are we." She knew he was. Even if he hadn't expressed it with words, the massive bulge in his crotch was enough to tell her so. "No, not tonight. This weekend ... before my regular sets. Friday. No, you have a game, right...?" Martin confirmed his commitment, to which Sam said, "Saturday, eight o'clock. You be in the parking lot behind the club, out of sight. You can't be seen going in, you understand?"

After he confirmed, she waved Martin off, reminding him, "You can't be telling any one about this, Marty. No one!"

After he was gone, Sam returned to her desk to prepare for her first class. But she couldn't keep her mind from repeatedly going back to the situation with Martin. Of course, the situation wasn't aided by the distressing fact that her panties were wet!

"Eager are we?" Martin's teacher laughed.

That was the understatement of the year. Martin couldn't believe -- just simply could not fucking believe! -- that his sexy, young teacher was going to strip for him and him alone. He was going to be alone with her, in a private room within the club, like one of those club goers who typically had to put out ... well, Martin had absolutely no idea how much money those guys paid for a private show, but the point was that he didn't have to pay a cent!

She set a time and day, then reminded him about keeping their arrangement between them. He said with obvious excitement, "Of course! Just you and me, Miss Hale."

He hurried down the hallway, heading for his first class with the widest smirk his face had ever displayed. Other students passing by gave him curious looks, with a few that he knew asking what the fuck was going on to make him so happy. He only ignored them or told them it was nothing. It wasn't until he'd traveled all the way to the end of the hallway that he stopped, turned around, and realized he'd been going the wrong way the entire time. He sprinted back the other way, reaching his class just as the bell rang over his head.

(OOC: Sending you a PM about Martin's next post. Please read it before you post.)

(OOC: Good idea.)



Sam couldn't help but spontaneously break out in a smile or even a short laugh every so often during the day. You're going to put on a striptease for a student! What the HELL is going through your head? And WHY the HELL is it exciting YOU?? She had actually had to go to the Staff Locker Room after her first period -- and then again after her fifth! -- to change her panties because just thinking about her situation with Martin was causing her to wet them to the point of discomfort. She ended up having to put on a pad because she was out of panties, and the feel of the pad and its reason for being there only made her smile and laugh more through her last two periods of the day.



"What are you doing here?"

The man at the door backed up as Sam moved into his apartment, pushing him playfully back. She smiled broadly as she said without shame, "I need you to fuck me. Right now."



Three hours later, after she'd enjoyed four amazing orgasms, Sam awoke and rolled to look at the man passed out from exhaustion and satisfaction. Robert had been her lover for three years until two years ago when his job with Doctors Without Borders necessitated them going their separate ways. After he returned, they began meeting occasionally when one or the other of them had a need to fill. Friends with benefits. Sam never thought she would be an FWB, but it had served her fairly well over the past few months.

And tonight, as she fantasized about the young man from school, it had served her very well. She'd tried to convince herself while riding Robert's cock that this had nothing to do with Martin. But the fact was, she -- like the teen -- was having fantasies. She'd almost even called out his name as her third orgasm rushed through her.

Martin had had to skip his 4th period PE class. Removing his class clothes to don his gym clothes had made him think of Miss Hale stripping, and his cock had instantly begun to harden. He had waited until he was alone to finish changing, only to find that his jock strap was insufficient to hide his hard on. He switch back to his class clothes again -- leaving his jock strap on! -- and took the "F" for the day.

He tried to bump into Miss Hale a couple of times during the day without success. At days end, he hurried home to masturbate yet again. It was satisfying but it certainly wasn't as much so as Miss Hale was enjoying a few blocks away.



The team rushed out of the tunnel, breaking through the huge sheet of paper upon which the Cheer Squad had painted the school's logo and their wish that the team might win their first Homecoming in over a decade. As team captain, Martin was always the one to burst through the big banner. He liked it, laughing every time as he imagined he was being held captive in a room and crashed through the wall to freedom. He may have been 18 now, but sometimes he still enjoyed the fantasies of childhood.

As he always did, Martin rushed right past the benches to the stands to jump and wave the home crowd into a frenzy. The 3000+ fans packed like sardines on the standing room only bleachers instantly resembled a crazed mob, waving their pennants and hats of maroon and gold, the school's colors. After he reached end of the stands, he eversed course to the opposite end, then headed to the bench where the rest of the team swallowed up. All 80 team members jumped up and down together as if a single gigantic living being. After a minute, they suddenly broke out and headed to their pregame positions.

Before he headed out onto the field for warm ups, however, Martin turned to look to the Cheer Squad on the track right below the student seating section. He had no interest in the teen age girls, at least not this evening. His interest was on their Advisor, none other than Miss Hale, who came to every game or event at which her Squad performed. Martin was pleased to find Miss Hale looking at him, just as he was here.

He simply met her gaze for a long moment, smiling knowingly to her, then donned his helmet and rushed out onto the field.

It was a typical Homecoming game for the Bulldogs, meaning the team was being soundly stomped. When the players returned from the locker room to the field after half time, Martin and his mates were down 31-17. Sam could see in the players' steps that many of them were already accepting that they were defeated. It was sad.

As she watched from the track, Martin shed his helmet to adjust a strap that had been damaged in a hard hit just seconds before the break. He looked up at her, locking bis gaze as he had before the game. But this time, there was no lust in his eyes, no sexual excitement. It was obvious that the imminent loss -- his last football game ever -- was hitting him hard.

Sam headed across the track to her student, taking his helmet from him as if she was going to repair it herself. She toyed with the strap for a moment without saying a word, then handed it back to him. After Martin donned the head protection, Sam moved a bit closer and asked quietly while she adjusted the helmet, "You know what a lap dance is, right?"

Sam could tell by Martin's expression that he did.

She continued, "You win the game ... and you'll get one." She looked deeply into his eyes, then backed and -- for benefit of others -- said aloud, "Fixed! Now go get'em."

Martin's joy over tomorrow's striptease had been replaced by sorrow. He'd had such high hopes for tonight's game, and here they were about to get their asses handed to them again. And to make matters worse, it was Martin's last game since he wouldn't be playing football in college next year.

He was fiddling with his broken helmet when Miss Hale suddenly stepped up to assist. His eyes widened in shock. She had never approached him at one on his games, and now to do so the night before she was ... well, that!

She asked as she doctored the strap, "You know what a lap dance is, right?"

Martin felt his chilled face explode in heat. He looked abiut to ensure none of the others ciuld hear her, then nodded nervously.

"You win the game ... and you'll get one."

Martin's mouth literally fell open. Miss Hale had told him she didn't do that kind of physically sexual stuff as the club. Had she lied? Or was she making an exception for him?

"Fixed!" she said, handing him his helmet and smiling. "Now go get'em."

As she walked away, Martin just stared in disbelief until finally his coach hollered at him to get on the field. He rushed out to take his position with the rest of the kick off receiving team, his mind whirling. It was still spinning with hope when, with third and nine to go, the call was a passing play to him. He caught the quick pass, eluded a pursuer, and ran 63 yards to score. He spike the ball and screamed to the surprise of all, "Lap dances for everyone!"

Sam had, of course, meant what she had promised the young man, watching as his dream of a homecoming victory threatened to turn into yet just another sporting nightmare. And if teasing him with a lapdance -- since she honestly didn't think they could pull out a victory -- would help soften the blow, then she was willing to take the chance that the team might actually pull out a win. When Martin actually ran the ball in for a touchdown less than two minutes into the second half, Sam found herself both overjoyed for him and concerned for herself. Doing the strip tease for the teen was a lot better than having him tell his friends and possibly even others, including the school administration, that his art teacher took her clothes off at night for money. But a lap dance? She knew that if he pulled out the win, she would go through with it. But all of a sudden, Sam found herself wondering if it wasn't just better for them to take another loss.

Then, just as sudden if not more so than the Bulldogs touchdown, their opponents, the Spartans, caught the subsequent kickoff from their opponents and ran it the entire length of the field for yet another touchdown. Sam should have felt some relief, knowing that that put her seven points away from performing in the teens lap. But again she found herself conflicted. She kept her eyes on Martin from the moment he scored to the moment that the Spartans did, and the hange in mood was obvious in body language.

But the scoring for both teams wasn't over yet. And over the next several minutes, Sam found herself repeatedly rooting for and against Martin, for and against the team, and for and against the win.

39-24.

Martin stared up at the scoreboard after the Spartan touchdown and two point conversion. As if they weren't already beating us bad enough, he thought about their opponents decision to not simply kick the extra point, they have to go and get the extra one by running it in?

They were just 40 seconds from the end of the third quarter, and the Bulldogs weren't making any headway towards getting Martin his lap dance. Returning to the huddle after yet another failure to gain yardage, he peeked up over the top of the huddled players to find Miss Hale standing between the Cheer Squad and the field. It would have seemed ironic that a young man like himself would the dancing teen cheerers and stare at the slightly older woman in loose fitting jeans and a sweater. But then, he'd seen far more of her than he'd ever seen of his female high school counterparts, despite the jumping and dancing that was at times showing off even more than their long, delicious legs.

"Howell!"

Martin flinched at the hollering of his last name and realized that the huddle had broken up and he was standing alone with only the quarterback in the back field. Terry Lee was wearing a What the fuck! expression behind his face mask as he hollered, "22, 22, right!"

Martin turned and hurried to his position, only to hear the team's offensive leader holler the play number at him again. Martin hurried over to the other teen's other side to set up. Keep your head in the game, idiot! Martin chastised himself. Keep in the game! Pay attention! Read the defense! Score ... and you might score in other ways!

As if the Football Gods had been listening to his demands wishes, Martin noticed the Spartans' coverage on his side of the field ... or, it should be said, lack thereof. He hollered to Terry in team code, "12 left! 12 left!"

The quarterback had been in ready to call out to the center but hesitated at Martin's voice. Terry may have been the leader of the offense, but their was a reason Martin -- who played multiple positions -- was the team's captain: he knew how to read a defense. And Terry could see that his fellow team mate was right on the money. He hollered out to his 10 fellow combatants in code, "12! 12, 22! 12, 22! 12, 22! Hike, hike, hike!"

As the center launched the ball back through his legs, all Martin could hope was that the line men and tight end on his side of the field had heard the change in play. And with great joy, he found out quickly that they had. As he turned in place, Terry passed the ball to him almost in the same movement in which he'd caught it himself, and a split second later, Martin was heading down the side lines with the tight end plowing over the only Spartan who'd been where he was supposed to be.

"Touchdown ... Harden Hiiiiigh....!" the announcer's voice bellowed over the field and the city beyond. Martin restrained himself in his end zone celebration this time, however. The last time he'd equated scoring with scoring, the Spartan's had scored themselves, on the very next play! Instead, he just hurried back to the side lines to accept congratulations from the others and give some to Terry and his bull dozing tight end as well.

Martin was tempted to look to Miss Hale again but resisted. Keep in the game ... keep in the game...



They were deep into the fourth quarter when Martin looked up to the score board again: 45-38

He and his team mates, rejuvenated by Martin's infectious enthusiasm -- and horniness -- had had nearly shut down their opponents. They'd killed the Spartans' touch down drives, forcing the visiting team to settle for 2 field goals. In the meantime, the Bull Dogs had scored two touch downs themselves. One had been a 30 yard pass from Terry to Martin. The other score came after Martin begged the defensive coordinator to put him in as Safety, the position he'd filled when he first began football as an 8th grader. Terry intercepted a pass, ran it back a dozen or so yards into the face of three angered defenders, then skillfully executed a lateral to a team mate who followed Martin into the fray, broke through, and scored to the howls and screams of the overjoyed Bull Dog fans.

One more score! One more TD! Martin told himself after they kicked off to the Spartans and he took the field, again as Safety, with less than 3 minutes left. It's not impossible! We can do this! We can do this! His excitement was high, like it hadn't been in four years of losing high school football seasons. Ironically, he'd forgotten about Sam and the promised lap dance. His mind was, in fact, entirely in the game. They were going to pull this out and finish with their first winning season in ... oh, hell, he didn't even remember a winning season since he started playing. But this one...! This one would be one!

Despair began to set in as Martin realized that the Spartan's were beginning a delaying action, trying to simply make their first downs while running out the clock. He signaled the defensive coordinator, who had come to that same conclusion before calling out a play. As their opponents hiked the ball, the Bull Dogs' line men split open a hole and one of Martin's oldest friends surged through toward the Spartan quarterback. The blitz caused the panicked teen to hurry his pass to the wide receiver ... a pass that ended up in Martin's hands!

Thirty yards later, he was standing in the end zone looking up at the score board! 46-45

Back on the side lines, the coaches were already conferring: kick the extra point for the tie and risk it in overtime, or risk it now with an attempt at a two point conversion.

"Two!" Martin hollered as he broke through the other players. The coaches turned to look at him, his helmet dangling in one hand as he sprayed water from a bottle into his mouth with the other. After he gulped, he repeated, "Two points. Let us finish this here, now, Coach. We can do this!"

Martin looked around to the others, and -- helmeted or not -- heads were nodding throughout the mass of maroon and gold. He looked back to the Head Coach with a wide smile. "We can do this Coach! We can finish this now!"

(OOC: Do they win?)