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Subject: {ASSM} ON THE BEAM II: RONNIE'S CONFESSION
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Date: Sun, 5 Mar 2000 15:10:05 -0500
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ON THE BEAM II: RONNIE'S CONFESSION
by
Frank Saynesberry
All of us at Belle Glade High School were stunned by the sudden
disappearances early this year of our highly-respected wrestling coach, Rich
Watkins, and Clare Delewne, one of the most promising and graceful members of
our girls' Gymnastics team. Well, *diasappearances* isn't exactly the right
word, I suppose. But what else could you call it? At first, none of us
connected the fact that Clare was absent on the very same day that Rich had
mysteriously failed to show up for work; after all, it's a big school, and
there were probably twenty or thirty absentees that day. Those of us on the
faculty were much more concerned about Rich: a fairly recent widower, he had
been fighting depression for months, and when he simply didn't show up for
his morning classes, some of us feared the worst.
As it turned out, thank God, Rich was very much alive. But we only
discovered this when Clare's mother called the school, and frantically told
the Principal that Clare had left a note under her pillow that morning,
saying that she and Coach Watkins were running away together! By the time
Mrs. Delewne found the note, of course, they had been gone for hours; the
police later said they were probably out of state before either of them were
missed. So, it wasn't exactly like they *disappeared.* More like they
eloped - - - except that Rich was 35 years old, and poor little Clare, only
a ninth-grader, was just thirteen! Whatever could they have been thinking?
(Oh, boy, what a stupid question!) Anyway, my old friend Rich was now wanted
by the law, because although their affair may have just been an overblown
adolescent crush for Clare, it would mean, at the very least, a charge of
statutory rape for the Coach. Naturally, the scandal gave students and
faculty alike a juicy piece of gossip we'd probably remember all our lives.
But the last word on the subject was delivered, with deadpan wit, by Mr.
Watts, our cynical, wisecracking Trigonometry teacher: "Well, it looks like
the dish ran away with the spoon!"
But the school survived, and we all went about our business as usual. Except
for me. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself: I'm Veronica Higgins (though
everyone calls me Ronnie, of course), and I'm the girls' gym coach at Belle
Glade. I'm 29 years old and single (although I've been engaged once or
twice), and although I love my work, and my girls, I was feeling pretty
depressed myself after the scandal blew over - - - depressed and confused.
As a coach, I despised what Rich had done. To put it bluntly, you simply
don't fuck students, especially ones as young as Clare! It's a no-brainer!
But as a human being, I sympathized with him: because I, too, was lonely, and
although I'd never felt drawn toward any of my girls in an inappropriate way,
I'd certainly had some wistful (and wet!) thoughts as I chatted with the male
teachers and some of the older boys in the school. Sometimes, very late at
night, I would awaken from a deep sleep and realize that I'd been having an
almost orgasmic dream; then, face-to-face with the solitude again, I'd cry
myself back to sleep. I guess my loneliness, added to the sheer, naked
reality of Rich and Clare's scandal, led me to do a few things I wouldn't
have done otherwise. For example....
One beautiful spring afternoon, just after the fifth-period bell had rung
and the girls from my sophomore P.E. class were streaming out of the locker
room, I was met at the door to my tiny office by a young man wearing a brown
jumpsuit and carrying a clipboard. He was young enough, in fact, that had he
not been wearing the familiar United Delivery outfit, I might have taken him
for one of the students. As my coach's eye automatically sized him up, I
realized that he probably had a somewhat athletic build. Some of the girls
seemed to notice, as well, just as they seemed to notice his short blonde
hair and very green eyes.
"Are you Miz Higgins?" he inquired as I met him at the office door. Glancing
at his clipboard, he added, "I've got some 'quipment out in the truck for a
Miz Higgins. Is that you, ma'am? Shall I start unloadin' it?"
"Hmmm, I wasn't really expecting anything today," I replied, "may I see the
order, please?" He handed the clipboard to me and I glanced over the
receipt. From the corner of my eye, I could see that he was sizing *me* up,
just as I had done with him a few seconds before. But athletics didn't seem
uppermost in his mind.
I quickly found my name and half-laughed, half-groaned. "Yes, you're right.
I'm Coach Higgins, and this is for me. But it wasn't supposed to be
delivered at school; it's some personal workout equipment for my home! I'm
afraid if you leave it here, I won't have any way of getting it there!"
"Aw, shit," he sighed, then blushed deep crimson. "Oh, um, excuse me, ma'am,
I didn't mean to...well, y'see, we've got us a new shipping girl back at the
office who just doesn't seem to know what the Hell she's doin'." He
pronounced the word "Hell" like "hail," and I smiled as he began to apologize
again. "Sorry for my language...."
"Oh, don't worry," I said, "I've heard plenty worse than that. My only
problem is how to get this stuff back to my apartment. I don't want to leave
it here over the weekend...." Then I had a thought. Glancing at his name
tag, I said, "Look, Buster - - - " I paused, unable to believe it, "Excuse
me, but is your name really Buster? I mean, that's not a nickname?"
"Aw, no, ma'am," he replied happily, "Buster's m'name, all right, Buster
Creech. Why, I guess m'name's always been Buster, come to think of it!" I
laughed out loud, then stifled it, so as not to hurt his feelings. "Okay,
Buster, see how this sounds. I only have one more class this afternoon, then
school will be out. If you have any other deliveries to make, do you think
you could just meet me at my apartment in a couple of hours? It's over on
Sequoyia Circle, just about a mile from here. Would that just be too
inconvenient? Then we could get rid of your problem and mine at the same
time."
Buster furrowed his brow for a moment, calculating his time, then beamed at
me. "Why, Hell yeah! I mean, yes ma'am, that'd be no inconvenience a'tall!"
"Great!" I exclaimed, handing him back his clipboard. I told him my
address, and we agreed to meet there at 5:30. "I really appreciate it,
Buster," I added. "I'll owe you a favor now!"
"Aw, Hell, Coach, you don't neither!" he replied happily, then turned and
loped down the hall to the Exit. I couldn't help noticing the movement of
his hard young body inside the folds of the oversized jumpsuit. "Ronnie," I
thought, "you're going to let that boy help you with the equipment, then give
him a nice tip, and say goodbye. Is that understood?" I refused to answer
myself.
I finished out the afternoon and drove home. As usual, before doing anything
else, even checking the answering machine, I stripped off my sweatsuit and
took a hot shower. Until I performed this little ritual, you see, I felt as
though I were still at school, still being the Coach, still being the
responsible *role model.* Which was fine, and I loved it, but when the final
bell rang at the end of the day, I was ready to become Ronnie again, whatever
that might mean on any given day!
I towel-dried my shortish blonde hair and easily resisted the temptation to
put on any makeup. (The girls at school often say I look like Meg Ryan,
which is ridiculous: I'm taller than she is, and, anyway, I don't even like
her!) I went into the bedroom and checked the answering machine (no
messages), still nude, allowing the air to finish drying me off; then slipped
on a pair of not plain/not fancy green silk panties, some old jeans, and an
ancient college t-shirt. I had hardly made it to the kitchen when I heard
the doorbell ring. Was that the guy from school, what was his name, Buster?
The kitchen clock said that is was only 5:00. I padded barefoot to the front
door and opened it.
"Howdy, Miz Higgins!" he exclaimed, a silly, boyish smile illuminating his
face. "I hope you don't mind me gettin' here a little early, but I done
finished up my deliv'ries, and here I am!"
"Oh, that's fine," I laughed, opening the door wide for him. "But please,
Buster, call me Ronnie, okay?" He stepped across the threshhold and glanced
back at the big brown delivery van. "Well, I'd be proud to call you Ronnie,
Miss Ronnie, but I think we oughtta get that 'quipment in here before we do
any talkin.' Where d'you want it, anyway?"
It really wasn't all that much, just a new computerized treadmill, and, after
showing him the spare bedroom where I work out, he lugged it in. The whole
process took about ten minutes, but he was sweating by the time he finished.
"Thank you, Buster," I said, "but you look like you've had a long day. Come
sit down and we'll have a cup of coffee, or a soda, or something." Without
waiting for a reply, I turned and walked to the small living room, where I
beckoned for him to have a seat on the couch.
I went to the kitchen and returned with two Cokes. "Well, thank you, Ronnie,
that's real nice of you, yes, indeed, nice OF you!" I laughed and sat down
beside him on the couch. "Tell me, Buster," I said, "you're not from around
here, are you?" He blushed, took a long sip of his Coke, and shook his head.
"No ma'am, I mean, Ronnie, I'm new down here. I come from 'way up around
Atlanta. Only been here in Flor'da for a couple weeks."
"Do you have family here?" I inquired. "Do you have a girlfriend here?" I
thought. "Oh Hell no, Ronnie, my whole fuckin' family - - - of, excuse me,
shit, there I go again - - - my whole family's up in Georgia: my momma, and
my cousins, and of course my silly-assed little brother, Brian. That Brian!
He's two years younger'n me, but you'd swear he was only six years old,
either that or a fuckin' retard, excuse me. You know what that kid done? He
went and got caught screwin' with his own girlfriend's little sister! Child
was only nine years old, and they caught 'em right there on the got-damned
livin' room rug, just a-humpin' and a-grindin' to beat the fuckin' band!"
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, this fountain of bizarre information dried
up. Buster blushed again, and looked away from me, obviously ashamed. "I'm
- - - I'm sorry, Ronnie," he muttered, "I got no right talkin' that way to
you." "Oh, Buster," I sighed, exasperated, "will you quit worrying about
your language? As a matter of fact, Buster, just fuck it!" His head jerked
upright, his eyes wide. "Why, Ronnie! You said - - - well, I'll be
got-damned. I didn't think you schoolteacher types knew them words. But
anyway, ma'am, that's not what I meant. I meant that I had no right
spreadin' around family bidness that way!"
I was in the process of taking a sip of Coke, and at this confession of
family loyalty I simultaneously laughed, choked, and spewed the Coke from my
nose! How ladylike! "Aw, shit, I've done upset you now!" Ronnie exclaimed.
He pulled a surprisingly clean handkerchief from a pocket in his jumpsuit
and began awkwardly dabbing at my chin and nose with it. I had never seen
such a strange mixture of courtesy and clumsiness. "Got damn it, I jist had
to go tellin' you all that nasty stuff....but shit, Ronnie, it's okay," he
continued, worried that he'd offended me, "'cause the kid was clean, and she
didn't get pregnant, a'course, she was only nine, but the family didn't even
press charges! Brian got off free as a bird! Just some community service
shit, whatever that means..."
"Oh, Buster," I gasped, finally able to breathe, "you're a sweetheart, you
really are. You didn't shock me. I'm okay." I paused for a moment, then
added, "Girls these days....you know, Buster, your brother's little mistake
wasn't anything unusual. Why, one of the other coaches at school, a grown
man, 35 years old, just ran off a few months ago with one of my 13-year-old
students! Can you believe it?" Buster's jaw dropped. "Why...why, that's
awful, Ronnie," he said, astonished. "That's just awful! A man that age,
well, shit! Just tell me: it wasn't the football coach, was it?" I snorted
with involuntary laughter again. "Buster, what difference does it make? She
was 13 years old!" His brow furrowed as he took another swig of Coke and
considered this. "Damn, that's a hard thing. Hard to understand, too. Like
that dumbass Brian. What do they see in those little girls? Shit, I like
'em with at least *some* kinda tits on 'em!" Oh, no, I thought, here comes
another apology....
Before he could think, before he could say another word, I was on my feet.
This boy couldn't be a day over 20, but he was irresistable. I grabbed the
hem of my t-shirt and quickly stripped it off, dropping it on the coffee
table and stared him right in the astonished face. "I know what you mean,
Buster," I said in a low voice. "How about these?" I straightened my back,
pushing my 36-C breasts out. Hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my jeans,
I popped the snap and tugged until I heard them unzip.
"Holy shit, Miz Ronnie," Buster stammered. "You're beautiful! B-but what are
you doin'?" In the time it had taken to say these words, a very sizable
bulge had appeared beneath the loose poplin of his jumpsuit.
I wriggled out of the jeans and kicked them aside. Nothing remained but the
green silk panties. Starting to tug them down with my left hand, I slipped
my right hand inside the silk and began to rub myself. "I'm getting naked,
Buster," I said softly, "and if you're going to keep on talking all evening,
I'm gonna have to find myself a cucumber! Now, just what the fuck are *you*
doing?"
"Oh, my stars, how you talk, shit, if my momma heard you....." but his little
speech didn't prevent him from setting aside his Coke, standing up, and
moving around the table to where I stood. As he approached me, he began to
unzip the jumpsuit at the neck. My panties still hanging on one hip, I moved
to meet him. "Let me do it," I said firmly, reaching one hand out and
grasping the zipper, while holding the cloth fast in my hand. I quickly
pulled the zipper all the way down, to where it ended at the bottom of his
crotch. He was only wearing white briefs, and what looked like an
eight-inch-long penis was poking up out of the waistband. "How very, very
nice," I said, more to myself than to him. He shrugged his shoulders out of
the jumpsuit, freed his arms, and let it fall to the floor.
Not wanting to lose the initiative, I knelt before this beautiful boy, this
homespun, naive chunk of perfect virility, and slipped his briefs down to his
knees. His cock bobbed like a metronome, and his large, heavy balls swayed
as they fell free. He had very little body hair; and his pubic hair,
blossoming gradually from his navel to his balls, was golden blonde.
"R-ronnie..." was all he could stammer before I lowered my already-drooling
mouth over the head of his cock. "R-ronnie!" he repeated breathlessly, the
muscles rippling involuntarily in his lower abdomen. I slid my hands up the
back of his strong, sinewy thighs and firmly grasped one hard, flawless
buttock in each hand, squeezing, kneading, exploring. At the same time, I
gradually lowered my face, centimeter by centimeter, until I had nearly all
of his cock in my mouth, and was near to gagging. I stifled the reflex and
closed my lips around the shaft, slurping at its underside which I sloshed my
saliva around like hot water in a washing machine. He moaned and roughly,
but not too roughly, grabbed the sides of my head. I continued to suck and
slurp and try to take him even further, my knees digging into the carpet, my
panties still dangling on my hip, my pussy soaking as the lips parted eagerly.
"Oh, fuck, Miz - - - oh, shit, Ronnie, I can't he'p it, oh, I'm a-gonna
come!" The last word came almost like a howl. I dug my fingernails into the
crack of his ass, tickling the wild, coppery hairs, brushing against his
anus, while I forced my head a fraction of an inch further, so that his
entire cock was in my mouth. I nuzzled and snorted at the base of his prick
with my nose, and with a long groan he swelled and began to shoot his wad
deep into my throat, squirt after throbbing squirt, as I swallowed the stuff,
frantically, hardly able to breathe, until finally he was through. My pussy
was throbbing, but it could wait; the best was yet to come....
I held him in my mouth for a few moments, savoring the heat, the texture, the
taste of his cock against my tongue and cheeks; at that moment I could have
happily fallen asleep, even without coming myself, because his prick, which
was already beginning to shrink, felt so natural and whole and real, the way
it filled my mouth so perfectly....but, finally, I relaxed my jaws slightly,
and parted my lips, and he slid out of me, dripping semen and saliva on my
naked breasts and the carpet so far below. He wobbled just a bit, then his
powerful leg muscles took control again and he straighten up, his cock-head
banging into my nose, then reached both his hands under my naked armpits and
began to pull me up from my crouch, to face him. But I resisted: reaching up
and grabbing his shoulders, I leaned in and gave his scrotum a little nip
with my teeth, causing him to lose his balance, and I roughly pulled him down
to the floor. He sprawled on his back, and before he could speak. I was on
my hands and knees directly above him, my breasts flopping, nipples brushing
against his own. Then I leaned forward to give him a long, deep kiss, and as
his tongue met mine and pushed into my mouth, his hands came up and gently
took hold of my buttocks. He then realized that my panties were still on,
although askew, and without the slightest pause, he simply tore them off and
cast them aside. Then he ran his palms over my ass, the backs of my thighs,
the insides of my thighs, until they reached - - -
"Gota'mighty, Ronnie," he exclaimed, breaking our kiss, "you ain't got no
hair down there!" His fingertips lightly ran back and forth over my groin,
my pussy, all the way back to my asshole. "Why, there's no hair a'tall!"
What a thing to notice, and what a time to say it! How typically male!
Exasperated, I rested my weight on my elbows and looked into his eyes; our
faces were mere inches apart. "I ain't got no hair, Buster, because I took a
shower about an hour ago, and I *always* shave when I take a shower!" I
didn't see why any further explanation was necessary, but he said, "Well,
shit, you feel like a little girl down there!"
I literally laughed in his face. "Well, sir, are you complaining? Shall I
try to grow some hair real fast for you?"
"Aw, fuck no," he exclaimed, bursting once more into his radiant, naive
smile. "Tell you the truth, Ronnie, I like it! Shit, you are so clean and
smooth! Mercy! You're 'bout as slick as snot on a brass doorknob!"
I collapsed onto his chest, giggling until the tears came. "B-buster," I
managed to say between giggles, "I believe that's one of the nicest
compliments I've ever had!"
But now his mouth was on my throat, and the head of his prick, already fully
erect again, was beginning to press against my swollen pussy. Once again, I
felt the lips open to meet this beloved intruder. "And I believe I'm gonna
fuck you now, Ronnie, Miz Coach Ronnie who's tryin' so hard to get fucked!"
And we both laughed, until the front door opened, and my dearest friend
Roxanne stood in the doorway staring at us.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Ronnie," Roxy said, "I was just in the neighborhood,
and....hey, can three play at this game?"
NEXT:
ON THE BEAM III: SURPRISES
If you enjoyed this story, please write!
Saynesberry@Hushmail.com
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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