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Every teacher lies and says they don't have a favorite kid. They always do.
Any tolerable person in this place sticks out like a sore thumb. Middle school kids. The awful limbo between childhood and the teenage years. Ages eleven to fourteen render the youth irritable and aggressive, even worse than high school kids, you'd argue. You'd heard the kids in public school were worse, but private school kids are their own flavor of cruel. Maybe in your first year of work, when you saw a kid get beaten into a pulp, you actually bothered to intervene. But nowadays, you don't do shit.
Not unless it's Ozzy.
Ozzy Cobblepot. With his stocky figure. Pointed nose. The tiny, squinted eyes of a puffy baby penguin. The littlest shoes you'd ever seen on a boy his age. Hands with three fingers on each, one slightly wider than the other two. His curled lip, puffy red cheeks, and the little beauty mark on the right side of his face. His wide forehead and downy dark hair.
Every day Ozzy will walk into your classroom and sit right in front. (You're teaching science -- early biology, to be specific. The kids call it 'nature science', the staff call it 'pre-bio'.) He knows an inordinate amount about birds. You always slide in a little bird-related bonus question at the end of every exam, just for him. He answers any related question with marked enthusiasm, his wide-gapped teeth becoming visible when he opens his soft mouth. He looks raised on a diet of mothers milk. Like an infant that stood up and walked one day. Like a downy nestling that jumped from its branch too soon, its fuzzy corpse still warm in your hands.
He's become a bit of an obsession, you fear. Initially it was because he was the only kid that seemed really interested in your class. Most children consider school arbitrary. Obligatory. And apparently, in almost every other class, Ozzy sits way in the back with his face rested on his cheek, yawning and bored out of his mind. But with you, he's almost a completely different person. He's almost entirely a straight 'C' student, but his bio grade has been a strong 'A+' since the beginning of the year. He preens in the front row, ruffles his feathers and makes himself look large and impressive, so you always choose him first when he raises his hand. Of course, you have to pick other people sometimes, and when that happens, his lip pouts in a way that drives you mad. He rolls his eyes when they get it wrong, and practically growls if they get it right.
During his free period, he'll wander his way into your classroom where nobody can bother him. Usually he has a book. Sometimes he brings a sketchpad and stands near the window where the pigeons land sometimes. But usually, he reads. Classic literature. A lot of Bertie Wooster, too. He has a rather sensible chuckle every few lines until the bell rings and he's off. He walks with a distinct and decisive shuffle. His ass looks great in his uniform.
You know it's wrong to feel this way. You're a teacher, for God's sake. You'll see perverts in the paper, on the TV, on the radio, and you shake your head and scoff and wonder how anyone could be so filth-brained. Because you're not like them, are you? When you see children, you feel... Disdain. Disgust, even. Not a day goes by that you don't regret your profession. If you had other options, you'd take them, but life simply doesn't shake out that way. It's rich kids, they chill you to your core. They're mean in ways you never even conceived of. Not mean to you, usually. Just mean to each other. Little sociopaths, almost every one of them. You're no predator, you want nothing to do with these brats.
But when you see Ozzy, you go batty. His fatty figure, stuffed into a slightly too tight pair of trousers. Tottering around like a thick-breasted capon. His crooked grin, wry and smug. The way his nose wrinkles when he laughs. In awe, you gaze upon him, silently filling in test answers with his shockingly deft hands. Having spent years with meager digits on each, he's become an expert in holding a pencil. His handwriting is neat. He signs his name in cursive every time. The expanse of paste-white flesh on his thick neck perfect for biting, kissing, licking. Most people don't need oxygen as bad as you need that boy.
He gets bullied quite relentlessly. Usually you rescue him if you see it -- chasing the boys away with vigor and helping Ozzy to his feet. But sometimes you just stand and watch. A dark part of you loves to see him cry. His face somewhere between an infant and an elder, scrunched up in abject and honest misery. An expression so sincere it could only ever come from a pitiful little boy. He always has bruises and scrapes, but tries not to display them. It's not very proper, after all. He just wants to be proper. Like everyone else. But he can't; his skull is too wide and his body's too strange, his tight dark eyes like pinpricks in his head and his teeth spaced so far apart you sometimes forget he has teeth at all. It's as if he was designed to be picked on. He'll never be a gentleman. Do gentlemen eat fish with their hands? Students claim Ozzy swallows them, pinbones and all.
So yes, he gets picked on.
Last week, a mourning dove was crushed under a passing schoolbus. In the rain its feathers were soaked and it hardly resembled anything familiar to you. One of the schoolboys, he was in the seventh grade, he scraped the gnarled beast off of the road. Grinning with the damp roadkill in his hands, he looked at Ozzy, who was being held by a few of his friends. You stood there in awe. Maybe you should've done something.
"Hungry?"
You couldn't see the boy's face. Ozzy squealed and kicked, but his arms were painfully wrenched. Muscles under pressure. Under tension.
You watched, with rapt fascination, as the boys made Ozzy eat that dead bird. The head, or what was left of it, twisted off and stuffed into his mouth. They screamed at him to swallow. Poor Ozzy, with that agonized look on his face you loved so much. He choked it down, along with fistfuls of slimy, wet guts. His soft jowls lined with baby fat shifted with each motion. Sometimes he had to chew, and he'd wince and gurgle. It kept going until, like a ripple through his body, he jerked and vomited onto the boy in front of him. Each burp was followed by spew, the undigested remains of the dove still recognizable, like the bones in an owl pellet. And only then did you intervene, of course acting like you hadn't just been there the whole time.
You're his hero. You are undeserving. You play the role of his rescuer. He has no idea. A cherub. Soft buccal fat that you want to lay your hands on, and a body you want to defile unending. You're starting to (convince yourself) suspect he's seducing you on purpose. Surely he doesn't need to wear his trousers so tight. Surely he doesn't need to adjust his clothing so that his pants accentuate the fat pad above his genitals. Surely, you think, when the weather starts to get hot, or when you spy him running outside for gym, he could wipe down some of the sweat collecting around his chest. Surely. Surely. Surely. He must know, he must do it on purpose. When he vomited up bird bones, his lips were so pink they looked like rubies. He knows you want to connect with his spit-wet, kitten-like mouth.
It's raining outside. Ozzy kicks his legs below the desk, reading Oedipus Rex and sucking on the end of his pencil. He has a towel around his neck -- you always bring a spare on days like these. The other boys threw him down outside into a puddle, and Ozzy's father still hasn't come to collect him. It's nearly 4 PM, now. Mrs. Cobblepot is always punctual, but she's got something important to do tonight. A big woman. Maternal and friendly-looking, with a bosom meant for a kid to hide his timid face in. The father, however, is the opposite. Tall, thin and avian, with a sunken chin. And very, very rude. Ozzy has no strong love for the man, always berated and tormented by him.
If only you were his father, or mother, or sister. Then you would see him all the time.
Soon it'll be summer break. You won't see Ozzy for months. What will you do then? You stare at him across your desk. Oblivious? No, he has to know. He must know how it feels when he sticks his tongue out while reading, deep in thought. A blushing pink, hanging down over his skin just an inch. Like a toothless dog.
Before you know it, you're standing just in front of his desk. He doesn't notice you for a moment, but he looks up. Those tiny, dark eyes. Little voids in his skull.
"Hi." Ozzy's voice is small and scratchy. Like the call of a juvenile crow. "Is my father here yet?" A slight lisp comes out whenever he says the letter 's'. A blush crossed his face months ago at the school spelling bee when he was asked to say the word astigmatism. Uthh-thtig-muh-tithum. He spelled it right, but couldn't bear the shame and ended up stumbling over his next word: septuagenarian.
No, not yet, you answer. And you offer him a drink.
"I'unno. Water, maybe."
You step out with a pill in your pocket. You don't want him to remember this.
Flat-faced dogs snore and breathe loud. Every minute of every day. They snort and wheeze and huff. Cough, cough. Woof, woof. Ozzy is the same way, he snuffles in his sleep. Drool puddles under his soft cheek, he gurgles and mumbles. He took the water glass and downed it, rohypnol and all. It didn't take long for the drug to grab hold of him. Now he's as deeply asleep as a person can get. You gently shove his shoulder and he doesn't stir a bit. His eyes don't even flutter. A blessed angel, resting in your classroom. Is it cruel of you to clip his wings? To take his holy halo and snap it in half?
Are you a monster?
He does whine a little when you heft him onto your lap. He's not as heavy as you expected.
You run your hands down his sides. Your fingers sink into his body. Your chin rests on his head. Hair thin, fuzzy, soft, No flight feathers.
One of your fingers finds his face. You run it over the curves of his cheeks. Red as apples. His face is always so flushed with life. Digits find their way into his mouth. Those pomegranate lips. One sinks in between his teeth, and then a second. He suckles on them. The vacuum seal he forms around your fingers is better than any oral sex you've had. The way they settle between the double-wide gap that parts his incisors.
How long have you been imagining this? When did it all start? Maybe the first day of the year, when Ozzy first ambled his way into your classroom, jaunty as could be. Or maybe when you heard him sing at the Christmas recital. He's an awful singer, but the scratchy bark of his crooning rose above the choir, blocking out anyone else. Or when he tried to ingratiate himself with the local pigeon population by copying their trill, only to be bitten on the finger and fly into a tantrum. Or maybe it was... That other day. When he was forced to swallow that dead bird.
The sopping feathers sticking out between his teeth.
His rain-wet hair flattened to his scalp.
His short eyelashes fluttering.
The tightened expression of his crying face.
The blood that squirted out onto his shirt.
Wet guts clinging to his breast. Entrails dotting his mouth and nose. He looked like a feeding vulture. The single bird's foot waving good-bye as he swallowed it whole, that same foot waving hello when he puked it back up. His nose running, cheeks blotchy, chin covered in his own dribble. Chyme and intestines and bones and his digested lunch in a pile at his feet, where the boys shoved his face down and made him smell it. The way one might do to their dog if it pisses indoors. Maybe that was the moment you decided to have him. Bruises and bird spew and all. His drooling, spitting self, left behind in the rain watching his own vomit putter towards a storm drain.
Your dreams have become reality.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
You made it.
He's here in your lap, now. You squish his cheek between your fingers. The delightful softness, it excites you. You withdraw your other hand from his mouth, watching the dewy spider's thread of saliva trail between you and him. He drools all over himself. Angel, he's an angel. You're defiling something holy. In church, you'd spit on Christ and you'd spit on the Virgin Mary and you'll spit on the eucharist. You'll expose yourself in front of the nativity scene next Christmas. You'll stick a rosary someplace unmentionable. And you'll rape an angel.
His face is perfect. You could almost cry at how perfect it is.
In your arms, he is Lolita.
Your hands run down his sides. He has the soft curves a middle-aged woman ought to have. Breasts, belly, butt. With his shirt tucked in and his pants riding high on his waist, every inch of him is accentuated. Some might say that's a bad thing, but they know not of what they speak. You wish you had all day to explore him. His peaks and valleys.
But you don't. Mr. Cobblepot could be here any minute and, even if he hates his boy with a passion, he'll call the authorities on you if he sees you molesting the little prince he'd helped create. If only you could always be around to treat him right. You'd hand-feed him tea cakes and cookies and sweets by the boatload and you'd satisfy him every night.
Your hand locks around his crotch, and the sleeping figure jolts a bit. All nerves. ('A thtimuluth ith thomething that cautheth a thenthory rethponthe,' he said, and his classmates laughed. Stimulus. Stimulus was the word, but his crooked teeth butchered it horribly. He came to you after class in tears, and you gave him your handkerchief to wipe his eyes.) With a bit more prodding, you can feel him getting hard in his trousers, straining the buttons that struggle to hold his beautiful body. You offer those buttons respite and open them.
Oh God, you're really doing this.
Only when you gaze upon his cock, tiny and dainty and hairless, does it really hit you. He won't remember a thing. Maybe in his deepest dreams, he'll feel your hand across his lower stomach, and he'll wake up soaked in his own thin spend. He's told you before that he wets the bed sometimes. He told you because he trusts you. He wets the bed and his daddy spanks him until he cries. Would he get spanked, you ask yourself, if he has a wet dream? He's at that age, after all. Sticky sheets and swampy pyjama pants. And in those dreams, perhaps, he'll think of you. That pleases you a bit more than it should.
It's so small that your whole hand encases it. Covers it. He whines a little, and for a moment you feel the world crashing down on you... Until you realize he's still very much asleep. Asleep through his first ever handjob. You start rubbing and squeezing the appendage. His breath grows heavy. Face red, almost feverish in nature. His lip trembles out of habit, out of instinct, because even in his slumber Ozzy solves all of his problems by crying. He cries on the playground, he cries in the classroom and in the art room and at gym. There's hardly a room he hasn't cried in.
With one fist holding his dick, your other hand grabs the meat of his chest through his shirt. Big-breasted, like a frigatebird in mating season. Squeaks coming from him only encourage you to pinch his nipple through his shirt. He huffs, softly, and jams his thumb into his mouth.
God.
Fuck.
You're going to Hell.
But this is Heaven on earth.
The sound of him sucking his thumb urges you on. Sunk cost. It's too late to stop now. So you keep rubbing, keep pinching, all while he squirms only ever-so-slightly in his place. That wet mouth of his. You want it someplace else, but that would be too far. Someday, somewhere, you'll get to do this with him awake. He'll chatter and coo and nuzzle into you. Or maybe he'll cry, like he cries about everything. You love that about him, though.
You whisper something in his ear. Something only you hear. Whatever it is, a tremor runs through him as a reply. Your hand thumps against his gut as you jerk him off. Expertly frigging, the way of the Marquis de Sade. He sucks his thumb in peace, only occasionally interrupted by the sound of his own tiny voice.
As his face gets redder and redder, you beat him off faster. His stubby legs wobble. The meat of his thighs covers your whole lap, with ripples across his fabric-encased lamb shanks.
It's not long before he cums. A weak spurt that could very well be water. It's accompanied by a reedy squeal. What could he be dreaming about?
Against better judgement, you keep rubbing him. He squirms in listless discomfort. The hand of his by his mouth drips spittle. Another weak squirt -- weaker than the first. It's sticking to the desk, and to his pants. You hope to God the stains won't show. Or, at least, you hope you won't be blamed for it.
In the deepest recesses of your mind, you see him trying to scrub it clean. His father shouting at him for messing his uniform in such an undignified manner. Perhaps you've earned him an extra spanking, maybe even a caning. But you don't feel bad. You wish you could. All that matters is the here and now. Ozzy's little stiffy quickly softens, looking much like how it started.
It's hardly even a second after the comedown that he lets out a sigh... And urinates on the floor. A long, weak trickle that you just barely get your legs away from the brunt of. His breathing is unsteady. It's like a third orgasm that keeps going. You can't help but watch.
Poor, prim and proper Ozzy, weeing just inches away from the lap of his favorite teacher. The boy who wears his ties so tight they look ready to suffocate him. Who asks girls to dance with a kneel and a kiss on the hand. Who turns his nose up at the commonfolk -- all commonfolk except you. He loves opera and Shakespeare and drinks tea after school and now he's making a mess of the floor, a big yellow puddle of shame.
You shuffle him into the seat once more, and tuck his penis away after admiring it a little bit longer. Hints of rosiness still linger on his forehead.
By the time Mr. Cobblepot has come to collect his boy, you've made the floor spotless. He steps in, a frown creasing his face.
"I'm terribly sorry for my lateness."
You tell him it's not a problem.
"Oh, where's that boy. Oswald!" he shouts, storming over to the desk where Ozzy sits. "For the love of..." His bony hand grips Ozzy's shoulder and shakes him a bit. His eyelids flutter, but he's clearly still drowsy. "Great job, really fine job you did, only one teacher in this whole bastard place that likes you and you piss in their classroom. What a great son I've raised." His voice stings with harsh sarcasm. Ozzy blinks and rubs his eyes, looking down at the mess he made of himself.
"Oh..." He blinks back tears.
You assure them both that it was no big deal. You've seen much worse. But the father doesn't seem especially convinced. He yanks his son's arm, pulling the little one to his feet.
"Well? Apologize."
"Sorry," Ozzy hiccups, "I didn't mean to."
You say again -- it's fine. And you even give Ozzy a little ruffle of the hair. His eyes light up like it's Christmas in Gotham Square.
He'll never have to know what you did.
"Um- thank you for letting me stay so late." He lowers his head politely. The gnashing turkey-necked father drags him out by his wrist. And you...
You have a lot to think about.
Maybe take this one to confession? Even if you're not Catholic, it'll make you feel better.
Just try not to think of the boy.
Not during the drive home, or while you make dinner, and certainly not while you try to go to sleep. Banish him from your mind... Or else you might consider doing it again.