Unspoken Pleasure

“Good to hear,” Karen said and then informed me, “By the way, the first rumour about you has already hit Gossip Alley.”

“W-w-what? W-what are they saying?” I stuttered, fearing what she would tell me next.

“I hear that you slept with a couple of basketball players in return for the privilege of becoming a PomPom.”

“No, that’s terrible!” I bewailed, tears forming in my eyes.

Karen rubbed my back gently as she chided me sympathetically, “Oh Jenny, get used to it! How many rumours have you heard about me?”

I thought about that and realized I’d heard lots. From the one where she gave blow jobs to our quarterback Aiden Smith before every game, to her sleeping with the hot gym teacher Mr. Parker and his wife, to her spending all last summer in rehab for drug and alcohol abuse. “Lots,” I admitted honestly.

“And trust me, almost none of them are true; we’re the celebrities at the high school. And rumours are like the tabloids, they feed the masses stories, the juicier the better, regardless of whether they’re true or not. People want to live vicariously through us.”

I considered her explanation as I said, “But people will think I’m a slut.”

“Well, you just so happen to be one and so am I; but if stories go around about it they won’t have any evidence, so everyone will think it’s just another stupid rumour. And at least people will know who you are,” she said.

Right at that moment Troy Sparks, a 6’3″ black basketball player, walked over to us and greeted, “Hi Karen, Hi Jenny.”

I blushed; stunned that the Troy Sparks had any clue who I was. I didn’t even hear the next part of the conversation, but suddenly they were both looking at me waiting for a response. “Sorry, what?” I asked like a confused idiot.

Troy asked me again, “Are you going to the Valentine’s Dance?”

“Oh, no, I don’t go to dances,” I began, until I saw Karen nodding her head yes at me, so I quickly regrouped and said with a sly smile on my face, “but there’s always a first time for everything.”

Troy, all confident, informed me, “Great, so you’ll be my date?”

A slight gasp escaped my lips as I realized that he was asking me to be his date at a major dance. I wanted to say no, but again Karen was nodding her head yes. So reluctantly, very reluctantly, I somehow conquered my shyness and told him, “Sounds great.”

The warning bell rang and Troy said, “Great, I’ll be in touch,” and headed off to whatever class he had.

I stood there stunned as Karen grabbed my hand and teased, “Geez, you really are turning into a whore.”

This brought me back to reality and we got to class just as the bell rang. Up till now all my teachers had noticed my new look, and they’d all given me a questioning glance or two, but none had said anything. But that changed as soon as I walked into Miss Morgan’s English class. Miss Morgan gave me her usual bright smile, but this time she said, “Wow, Jenny you’re a PomPom girl?”

“Yes ma’am,” I responded politely.

“That’s a real surprise,” she said, then added, “But in a good way! And you look adorable in your new outfit!” I blushed and my pussy leaked just a smidge at getting such a compliment from a teacher I’d spent many late nights fantasizing about while I… you know. Miss Morgan is a brand new first-year teacher and easily one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She has these hypnotic ocean-blue eyes, long straight blonde hair, large breasts that she doesn’t hide but even pretty much shows off with those tight sweaters she usually wears, and she has long, luscious legs that she always shows off in pantyhose (although deep down I hoped they were secret stockings or thigh highs). Her smile always made me melt and her voice, so sweet and innocent, was the icing on an already perfect cupcake. I guess I’ve just made it pretty clear I have a crush on her, just like the one I’ve always had on Karen.

I managed to force out a mutter, “Thank you, Miss,” and sat down in my front-row seat. I didn’t know at first if it was a coincidence or not, but it seemed to me that Miss Morgan would often take glimpses at my legs. By the end of the class I was convinced I was right, as the looks came often enough that they could no longer be just coincidence. As she talked about Langston Hughes and how he was the voice of a minority, I zoned out and wondered if Miss Morgan was a lesbian. I had to close my legs tight so as to not get too excited and desperately attempted to pay attention to her lecture.

Just before the bell was to ring Miss Morgan gave us all a brief assignment; She explained, “We all belong to minorities in some way. Some of you come from a minority racial background, some of you have unique family situations, and some of you may feel insecure about something else unusual about you.” She paused before finishing, “So your assignment, due tomorrow, is to write a poem, in the style of Langston Hughes, in other words simplistic in word usage but deep in message, about being in a minority. Get personal, get passionate, dig deep to see how you are a minority in this class, this school, this city, this country or this world.”

Someone asked how long and she said, “This is poetry so the length is irrelevant, so whether it’s long or short, just write until the message shines through. You are dismissed.” She sat on top of a desk near the door and watched as we got ready to leave. She then requested, “Jenny, can you please stay for a minute?”

“Sure, Miss Morgan,” I responded, both eager to hear what she had to say and scared of what she might discover.

As the class dispersed, she told me, “I’d like you to write about this whole PomPom situation.”

“Excuse me?” I asked confused.

“Well, as of today you’re a minority of one. I don’t think any grade twelve has ever been a PomPom before, have they?”

“I don’t think so,” I responded.Belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

“Well then, that’s your assignment. I look forward to seeing what you come up with,” she concluded before standing up and striding away to her desk.

“Thanks, Miss Morgan,” I said politely and began to leave. As I reached the door I looked back and saw her watching me. So unlike the old me, I gave her a wink and a smile and a wave; she instantly put her head down, but I was now pretty convinced Miss Morgan was a lesbian or at least girl-curious. Maybe she likes me! I thought.