Neat Nails.
m-solo


Neat Nails.

"Mr. Douglas."

Mike looked up from his grade book. Alana Stewart. She was sixteen, smarter
than all of the women--and men--he knew. "Yes, Alana? What can I do for
you?"

"You didn't credit one of my answers." She laid the paper in front of him,
upside down to her, and tapped her forefinger on number 14. "Problem
fourteen."

She held her finger there for a moment and though he pretended to look at
the problem he actually examined her fingernail. Fashionably short, clean
and manicured. It was painted with a clear coat of polish, possibly with a
pink tint, that made it shine in the fluorescent light. The large white half
moons of the base contrasted nicely against the healthy rose pink of the
rest of the nail bed.

He did not even look at her answer as he marked the problem with a red plus:
he knew it was right. He adjusted the grade at the top by three points and
returned the exam to her. "There you go. Sorry about that." It was then,
looking up at her again, that he realized that they were the only people in
the room. It was the end of the day.

"It's all right." She folded the paper lengthwise, creasing it with her neat
nails before tucking it into her blue calculus textbook. "See you tomorrow,
Mr. Douglas." She flashed him a smile before leaving.

He got up from his desk and ran, almost stumbling over a student desk, to
the window. He saw her come out of the building and pause as if looking for
someone before continuing. She wasn't getting on a bus. She lived in town
and he knew she walked home.

Every day he saw her on his way to school in the morning as she trudged up
the steep hill of Main Street that ended at the red brick school. Every day
he wanted to stop and offer her a ride but he couldn't. Shyness and fear,
more the latter than the former, prevented him. Instead he would try to pass
slowly--but not so slowly as to arouse her suspicion--so that he could watch
her. When it rained she wore a red slicker and between the swish-swish of
the car's wipers he gazed at her supple form shifting under the rubber
sheath.

He didn't realize how long he'd been standing at the window. All the buses
had pulled out. He moved slowly back to his desk and methodically packed his
briefcase. He glanced around the classroom briefly before he turned off the
lights and started down the empty hallway.

See you tomorrow, Mr. Douglas. He played it back in his head, the way she'd
said it and her smile. Sometimes he thought he lived for those tomorrows, to
see her sitting in her desk in the front row with her head bent over the
daily quiz. The fingers of her right hand were curled around a grey
mechanical pencil, its point resting lightly on the paper as she read the
problem. Then carefully she would write out the equation. She drew sensual
integral notations.

He lived on the east end of town in a small white one bedroom home. He had
no family or pets. He checked the black mailbox posted next to his door and
shuffled through the envelopes. MasterCard bill, letter from his mother,
Kroger circular, water bill, Penthouse magazine. He thrust his key into the
lock.

It was quiet. It always had been since he'd moved in the year before. Part
of him longed for noise, any sound would have sufficed. A dog barking or a
cat meowing or children clamoring down the hall to greet him. Instead there
was just the sound of the mantel clock chiming the hour.

He tossed his briefcase onto the blue couch and, mail tucked under his arm,
went into the kitchen. He wanted a beer. He dropped the mail on the table
and opened the refrigerator door. Remembering something, he let the door
close and returned to the living room. From his briefcase he withdrew that
day's quizzes and a red Bic ballpoint pen.

In the kitchen again, he sat at the table, an open Rolling Rock half drunk
in front of him. He'd unwrapped the Penthouse and had opened it to the
centerfold.

"Gross," he said out loud.

He graded a few of the papers. The scores were miserable. It had been a
challenge to remain patient with many of his students. He found it hard to
believe that they'd managed to pass algebra and trigonometry because they
sure as hell weren't passing his calculus class. As he corrected some of
them, he realized there was more red than black on the papers. He slammed
his pen on the formica tabletop and pushed his chair back.

He picked up the magazine and studied the picture. The woman had
exaggeratedly large features. That her big ass balanced her big tits was the
only way he could figure that she didn't topple over as she stood. He pulled
the picture closer to his face to examine her fingernails. They were only
red dots on the page. He decided they were fakes, much like the rest of her.

He searched through the stack of papers for Alana's. Finding it, he took it,
his pen, and his beer into the bedroom. Setting everything on the night
table, he unbuttoned his blue chambray Oxford shirt and slid it down his
arms. He hung it on the footpost of the bed. He stepped out of his brown
leather lace-ups and sat on the edge of his bed to remove his navy blue
socks. He lay them across his shoes before he stood and unbuttoned his khaki
slacks. He folded them to preserve the crease and hung them over the bed's
footboard. He wore only his blue cotton boxers and he glanced at his window
to make sure his blinds were shut. His neighbors, an elderly couple, were
nosey and on more than one occasion he'd caught them unabashedly staring
into his bedroom.

He walked slowly, thoughtfully, around the room. He held Alana's paper in
his left hand and the beer bottle in his right. He stopped and leaned back
against the chest of drawers. He had an erection. He put the beer bottle on
the dresser top and slid his hand under the elastic waistband of the shorts
and grasped his cock. He squeezed it and gasped with pleasure.

"Number nine is wrong," he murmured as he stroked his balls. He scraped them
gently with his nails. It felt good.

He walked back to his bed and laid the paper on the maroon comforter. He
pushed his boxers down to his knees and let them fall to the floor and then
he stepped out of them. His dick was fully erect, its head peering up at him
as he looked down at it. He took Alana's paper again, first in his right
hand and then deciding the left would be better, and lay down on the bed. He
traced his finger along the underside of his cock and it twitched. He cupped
his balls in the palm of his hand and continued to read the paper.

"Number thirteen is right, but not the way I would have done it." He
encircled the shaft with his fingers and rubbed the opening on the head.
Some lubrication spilled out and he rubbed it all over the head with his
thumb. Then he brought his thumb up to his lips. He flicked his tongue out
and licked his thumb.

"Everything else, though..."

He took his cock into his hand once again and stroked it in earnest. No more
teasing. He wanted it. He clutched Alana's quiz in his hand so tightly that
it crumpled between his fingers as he masturbated.

"...looks..."

He thought about her fingernails again, the way they had looked all shiny
and neat. He thought about her strong fingers grasping her pencil as she
wrote, the way when her lead broke she would tap--click!click!click!--and a
new one emerged from the steel tip.

"...good."

He came, ejaculating all over the back of her paper. It rolled quickly down
the paper and some of it dripped onto his stomach. "Jesus," he muttered.
That didn't usually happen. He sighed. Now he'd have to tell her he'd
"misplaced" her quiz.

Still naked, his dick mostly erect but beginning to limp, he strolled into
the living room. He took his grade book from the briefcase and opened it to
section five, seventh period. He took another pen and scanned down the list
of names until he found Stewart, Alana. Beside her name he marked a bold,
red A+.