The Rapture

Back in Arlo's apartment, the night winds down. He excuses himself, offering a polite goodnight before disappearing into the guest room. I retreat to his room, my new sanctuary, my mind still buzzing with the events of the day.

I undress for bed, slipping into the cool comfort of the silk sheets. The darkness envelops me, but sleep remains elusive. Questions swirl in my mind, a relentless tide of curiosity and confusion. I long for tomorrow's promised lecture, eager to unravel the mysteries of this new world, to understand the powers that now course through my veins.

But as I lie there, my thoughts inevitably drift to Arlo. His strength, his kindness, his enigmatic allure... they've all left an indelible mark on me. The memory of our shared moment in the dream forest lingers as a forbidden fantasy that both excites and terrifies me.

My eyelids grow heavy, and I finally succumb to sleep. But even in the realm of dreams, Arlo's presence haunts me.

I'm back in high school, sitting in a classroom that feels both familiar and strange. Normally the school is a freezer with everyone wearing hoodies to stay warm, but this morning the AC broke amid the late spring heatwave. The teachers and students alike fanning themselves listlessly, their discomfort palpable.

But my attention is solely on my teacher, Mr. Thorne. He stands at the front of the class, his back to us as he writes on the whiteboard. He's wearing a white button-down shirt, the fabric clinging to his sculpted muscles. The top two buttons are undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his tanned chest. His skin-tight jeans leave nothing to the imagination, outlining every curve and contour of his powerful legs.

Wearing a tight white tank top that reveals the red lace bra underneath. A red and black flannel, discarded due to the heat, is tied around my waist. My black shorts showcase my long, toned legs and my rounded backside with the pockets hanging out.

History is usually a bore, but with Mr. Thorne as the teacher, I find myself strangely captivated, but not with the history of some boring vampires. I'm only half-listening to his lecture, my mind wandering to forbidden fantasies, imagining what it would be like to be alone with him, to feel his touch, his lips on mine...

Suddenly, Mr. Thorne's voice cuts through my daydream. "Ms. Quinn," he calls out, his voice smooth and deep. "Can you tell us what the significance of the Blood Moon is in vampire mythology?"

I blink, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I know he just mentioned it, but I was too distracted to pay attention. I stammer out a vague answer, my words stumbling over each other.

Mr. Thorne sighs a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Ms. Quinn," he says, his voice firm but gentle, "you need to stay after class."

A collective "Oooh" rises from the other students. Some are teasing, amused by my predicament. Others seem envious, their eyes filled with a knowing glint.

I sink lower in my seat, my face burning with shame. But a part of me, a hidden, rebellious part, can't help but feel a thrill of excitement. Being alone with Mr. Thorne, even under the pretense of punishment, is a tantalizing prospect.

As the bell rings and the other students file out, I linger, my heart pounding in my chest. Mr. Thorne turns to face me, his expression unreadable. The dream fades, leaving me on the precipice of the unknown, a mixture of fear and anticipation coursing through my veins.

As the last of the other students leave the classroom, I slouch in my seat, face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and a tingling excitement for the chance to be alone with Mr. Thorne. He finishes erasing the whiteboard, and I can't help but watch as his muscles flex against the fabric of his shirt, highlighting his biceps and forearms with each stroke of the eraser.

Without turning toward me, he finishes cleaning the board and says, "Ms. Quinn, you need to pay..."

A heat rising in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the AC being broken, spreading down my neck and pooling in my chest as Mr. Thorne turns to face me, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. I am unable to hear his next words. All I can think about is his core muscles glistening with sweat, and him pushing me over his desk. He saunters over to my desk, his eyes locked with mine. I am still in a daze wanting to be spanked over his desk, when I hear a hard slap and feel the vibrations of my desk shock me back to reality. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears.

"Ms Quinn," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

He leans against my desk, his hand brushing against my thigh, and I suck in a sharp breath. His touch is electric, sending a shockwave of desire through me. I've always had a crush on Mr. Thorne, but this is different. This is forbidden, and that makes it even more intoxicating.

Mr. Thorne's voice, a deep rumble that usually makes my heart flutter, is now tinged with disapproval. His words, "Ms. Quinn, you need to stay focused," barely register as I inhale the scent of his cologne, a heady mix of sandalwood and something spicy. His hand rests on my thigh, a warm weight anchoring me to the hard plastic chair. I try to focus on words, but my mind drifts again. This time, Mr. Thone's eyes aren't just concerned; they're filled with a warmth I've never seen before. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary. His hand slides up my thigh, sending a shiver down my spine. The scent of his cologne intensifies as he leans closer, his lips brushing against my ear. I gasp, a mixture of shock and excitement.

"I dream again of taking him in my arms and kissing him in the classroom. Feeling our hot sticky bodies pressed together. His skin on mine." Now we are naked. His fingers are in my core as I arch in pleasure.

“Ms. Quinn”, Mr; Thorne raises his voice not in anger but to snap me back to reality. I return to his smell, his touch on my thigh, clothes still on, but now his voice so commanding.

I feel him again inside me. Again we both are without clothes laying on his desk as he kisses my nave. Telling me to come with that demanding voice. His scent overwhelms my body as I moan and feel the release of pleasure.

“What am I going to do with you”, Mr. Thorne says removing his hand from my thigh. The sudden loss of heat brings me back to reality again. As I am there looking up at Mr. Thorne over me. His member and solid quads show in his tight jeans, as he stands back up.

Feeling my wetness beneath me from my dreams. I look up pleadingly in Mr. Thorne's eyes, “I need… uh, I don’t know how to focus.” I plead with him.

“What do you need Ms Quinn to help you”, he asks with only sincerity in his words.

I reach up towards him grabbing his firm ass, feeling the indentation of his glutes as my fingers wrap around him and pulling myself into him, “I need you!”

I then wake suddenly. The abrupt awakening leaves me disoriented for a moment, the remnants of the dream clinging to my consciousness. The coolness of the sheets against my skin contrasts with the lingering warmth of sleep, a physical reminder of the transition from dream to reality.

The flickering twilight, filtering through the edges of the blackout shades, paints dancing patterns on the walls and ceiling of Arlo’s room. The familiar sight grounds me, slowly pulling me back to the present. I take a deep breath, the sound of the air filling your lungs anchoring you in the here and now.

The cool marble floor greets my bare feet as I step into the kitchen, a yawn escaping my lips. The metallic tang of blood, sweet and alluring, hangs in the air, a siren's call to my senses. My eyes scan the room, landing on Arlo's back as he stands in front of a large whiteboard, a marker clutched in his hand. He's meticulously drawing a map of the world, dividing it into four distinct colors.

Curiosity piqued, I wander closer, my red lace bra peeking out from beneath my white spaghetti-strapped halter top. My black shorts contrast with the white cotton that pokes out and my pale legs, leaving little to the imagination, swish against my thighs as I walk. A smile tugs at my lips as I spot a lone school desk positioned in front of the whiteboard, a crystal glass filled with crimson liquid resting on its surface.

Arlo turns, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he takes in my attire. "Good evening, sleepyhead," he greets, his voice a husky whisper. "I see you're ready for class." He gestures towards the glass of blood, a playful smirk on his lips.

I chuckle, pulling the stray flannel from the chair and tying it around my hips. "You know me, Mr. Thorne," I tease, settling into the desk and reaching for the blood. "Always eager to learn." The cool liquid slides down my throat, a delightful shiver running down my spine.

He leans against the whiteboard, arms crossed, a professorial air about him. "Excellent," he declares, his gaze sweeping over the map. "Then let us begin."