My father had taught me, Thomas Maguire, to play chess when I was eight years old. It was just the basics. Dad didn’t study the game or learn openings, but I turned into a halfway decent player nevertheless. In my elementary school years, I could beat most of my teachers. One, whose class I was never in, lost 23 straight games to me before giving up.
I slowly drifted away from the game in middle school as there was no active chess club there. However, my interest was rekindled when I was 16 and a classmate named Bruce asked me why I hadn’t shown up to play chess at my high school’s club. Bruce had not attended the same primary school I had, so I was puzzled by how he knew I even played chess.
Bruce explained, “We’re always seeking new members. A couple of your old victims from Central Elementary School recalled you played chess back then and said you needed to be coaxed into playing again.”
I said that was very flattering, so I promised I’d drop by the club that was held every Wednesday after school in Mr. Durban’s English classroom. I did. The first day I was stunned by how easily Bruce defeated me. I figured I had to be rusty. I played someone else and won handily, and did the same against a third opponent. When I asked Bruce for a rematch, he crushed me again.
“Okay, I see what the problem is,” I concluded. “It’s not necessarily that I’m lousy. It’s that you are an excellent chess player, Bruce. Well done.”
Mr. Durban laughed and said, “The first step in solving any problem is admitting the problem exists. That applies to many things, even getting better at chess. Thomas, I’ve been thinking of expanding the chess club so we can meet more than one day a week. Starting tomorrow, if you are interested, I can teach you better ways to exploit your openings and play a more efficient attacking style.”
I said I was indeed interested, so I took up Mr. Durban on his offer. He obviously knew what he was talking about and I could see how his theories could improve my game. Within a short time, I had progressed to where I could beat everyone at the school club—except for Bruce.
Mr. Durban was truly enthusiastic about chess and our school’s club. He encouraged all the serious, capable players to enter inter-school chess events. He drove us to two of them annually using his minivan. I soon discovered there were plenty of Bruces out there in the world of high school chess as I always finished in the middle of the pack at these events. Bruce managed to win one tournament held in April, which made our group's trip home a joyous one—until Mr. Durban made a surprise announcement when we pulled into the school's parking lot.
"Boys," he said rather solemnly, "not many people know this yet, but when the school year ends in two months, I'll be retiring from teaching."
That news came as a shock to us all as Mr. Durban was only 56 years old.
The reason was even more stunning. "Recently I've gotten some discouraging medical news. I likely don't have long to live, perhaps five years at most. I have a heart issue that sadly runs in my family. In layman's terms, my heart is aging quicker than the rest of my body. Basically, the old ticker in my chest is that of an 80-year-old—and it’s steadily getting worse by the month. I want to take whatever time I may have left to enjoy life on my own terms. I want to travel and do various other things I've always wanted to do. I'm sure you can understand this, right? Therefore, when school resumes in September, I won't be here to run the chess club as I have over the past dozen years. Another teacher will have to step up to take my place. As you likely realize, a school club is not allowed to function without a staff member being officially in charge of it."
Then he pointed at Bruce and me. "I want you two fellows, who still have another year before you graduate, to make sure the club does resume. All the chess books, boards, clocks and pieces will be stored in my classroom where they always are. Can I count on you two to keep the club alive?"
We assured him we would. As it turned out, Mr. Durban was gone before Christmas. He went to bed one night in mid-December and never woke up. His funeral was a sad affair. At the time of his unexpected death, the new school year had been underway for more than three months and the chess club had been handed over to an attractive teacher named Miss Fontane—who oddly knew next to nothing about chess.
Part Two
On the first day of school, Bruce and I made an appointment to talk to our principal, Mr. Hamilton, about resuming the chess club. He said he'd poll the staff to see if any of them were chess players. None were, it turned out. However, Miss Fontane, a rather fetching art teacher agreed to replace Mr. Durban to satisfy the requirement of having a staff member supervise all club meetings. She had previously done the same with the boys' wrestling team on several occasions when no other teacher was available to transport them to events. (Miss Fontane knew nothing about amateur wrestling, either.) Sitting around watching the school's nerds play chess, it was explained to her, was a lot easier than managing wrestlers—so, with some trepidation, she agreed.
We all understood the situation, so we realized Miss Fontane was no Mr. Durban. In fact, if we had an odd number of players at a club session, one of us would pair up with her to teach her the game’s basics. By the end of two weeks, Miss Fontane at least understood the object of the game and how the various pieces moved. The one advantage this presented was that if a raw newcomer showed up at the club who was unskilled, he/she had a perfect opponent waiting in the wings—Miss Fontane.
Miss Fontane came to the chess club with some baggage attached to her, however. It was rumored that during her time with the boys' wrestling team, she had gotten unusually friendly with two or three of its members. It never got past the level of salacious schoolboy gossip, though. Certainly, it would have been very easy for Miss Fontane to convince a typical horny high school boy to engage in a sexual tryst with her, as she rated very high in the good-looks department. She was about 5'6" tall, had curly short brown hair, an attractive face--and a sensational figure. A good estimate would place her age around 33. Miss Fontaine was easily the most attractive female staff member at our school. In fact, there wasn’t even a close second to rival her.
In mid-October, Miss Fontane received some correspondence from Mr. Durban. He had gotten some information in the mail about a chess tourney to be held in a rural high school about 20 miles away on the last Saturday of the month. In what turned out to be Mr. Durban’s final trip to his old place of employment, he dropped off the tourney info directly into the hands of Miss Fontaine. She read the event’s information to us aloud at our next club meeting. Four of us (I, Bruce, and two other competent players named Nigel and Zachary) said we would be interested in going if a ride could be arranged.
“Consider it arranged!” Miss Fontane told us. “My van can easily accommodate four passengers. Besides, I want to be there to root for you four experts and see how one of these tourneys operates.”
It turned out to be the best tournament result I ever had. I got as far as the quarterfinals, losing to the eventual champion who was two years younger than I was. Bruce was a semifinalist; he lost to the same fellow, so we at least had something in common to chat about during the ride home.
When we got back to the school, Bruce and our two teammates had rides waiting for them. Miss Fontane asked where my ride was. I said I lived a ten-minute walk away from the school, so I didn’t need one. “Get back into the van, Thomas. I have nothing to do for the rest of the day. Let me give you a ride home.” I shrugged my shoulders, said, “Okay, if you insist, thank you,” and got back into the van.
Before starting the engine, Miss Fontaine said, “I understand this was a personal best for you today.”
“Yes, I don’t normally get to the final eight in tournaments,” I reported. “The competition is too tough. I’m not gifted at this game like Bruce is.”
“That sounds like an ideal reason to celebrate,” Miss Fontaine replied. “I believe there’s a good Chinese food takeout place in a plaza not far from here, right?”
“Yes, Royal Dragon,” I confirmed. “Their food is always excellent.”
“If you’re interested, I could get us a dinner for two and we could go to my home and enjoy it there together. I live in a cozy apartment about a 15-minute drive from here,” she said while emphasizing the word ‘cozy’.
The lurid rumor about Miss Fontaine popped into my head—which made her offer all the more enticing to me. “Sounds like a fabulous idea!” I exclaimed.
Part Three
When we got to the plaza, Miss Fontane put her hand on my knee and ran it to the upper part of my thigh and smiled. “You’re not built like a wrestler, Thomas, but you’ll do,” she said to me sexily as she got out of the van to place our order. While she did that, I used a pay telephone to call home and tell a fib. I told my mother not to make any dinner for me as “the whole chess group was going to celebrate our good showing with a Chinese food feast.” Mom bought the lie.
In about 20 minutes our takeout order was ready. Miss Fontane passed it to me as I had returned to the front passenger seat. She placed the large brown paper sack on my lap and adjusted its position. Then, she placed her right hand directly on my crotch and gave my penis a sensual squeeze. “Man cannot live on Chinese food alone,” Miss Fontane told me with a naughty giggle. Obviously, those rumors about her carnal exploits with the school’s wrestlers had some validity.
I normally savored Chinese food, making it last as long as possible. However, I never wanted to finish a meal from Royal Dragon quicker than I did that evening. Miss Fontane saw me wolfing down my food—which was excellent, as usual—and figured out why.
“Okay, it’s time to be blunt, ” Miss Fontane said to me. “You’ve obviously figured out that I brought you here so we could fuck. I like teenage boys. I always have. Thomas, you and Bruce are both 18. If you weren’t a student at the school where I teach, everything would be absolutely within the law. We could fuck like jackrabbits until the sun rises tomorrow morning and it would be nobody’s business but ours. But the law says otherwise because I’m in a position of authority over you.
“I’ve provided us with the celebration alibi and I’ll keep the receipt from the Chinese food in case anyone ever questions what we were doing together in this apartment on this specific date. Enjoy the food, Thomas. It really is fabulous. There’s no need to rush through it, though. I’m not going anywhere.”
I said, “Wow, that’s totally fine with me, Miss Fontane.”
“Please call me Abigail,” she insisted. “It makes me sound less like a teacher.”
“Okay, I’ll do that, Abigail.” I complied. “But I have to ask you this one question: Why are you wanting to have a fuck with me? I’m no prize.”
“You are definitely the most attractive of the chess players—and I imagine you probably have a bigger dick than Bruce does.”
“I hope so,” I noted. “I’d like to surpass him in something because I certainly can’t beat him in chess.”
When the last morsel of the main Chinese entrees was gobbled down, we opened our fortune cookies. They contained apt messages. Mine said, “Your anticipation will be rewarded.” Abigail’s said, “A pleasant surprise awaits you.” We showed each other our fortunes and laughed about them.
“See, now I’m sure you have a big dick!” Abigail declared. “Fortune cookies are very reliable.”
We laughed some more...then Abigail thrusted her hand inside my trousers and began to expertly caress my penis!
“What are you thinking about Thomas when I am fondling your dick?” she inquired.
“Frankly, I’m thinking about doing my best not to fill my briefs with sperm—and that’s exactly what will happen if I don’t get out of my clothes in the next minute!”
Part Four
“Time for bed—but not for sleep,” Abigail told me as she got out of her chair and headed to her bedroom. She sexually signaled me with her right index finger to follow her to her boudoir for some horizontal fun. There was little doubt that I was in the mood! I stripped quickly, exposing my 6½-inch phallus that was ready to launch a load of sticky, white goo at the slightest provocation.
Abigail had dressed very professionally for the chess tourney, looking like a bank secretary rather than a modern-day teacher. She was down to her blue bra and panties when she said, “Thomas, that’s a perfect dick for a teenage boy. I want to suck on it right now.” And she did. The feeling was sensational.
It was the first time I had received fellatio since the seventh grade when Mary Stuart, the class slut, had serviced a dozen boys during the lunch period one day in May—just to prove it could be done. Abigail Fontane was considerably better at blowjobs than Mary Stuart was. I was ecstatic, but I still had enough sense to realize I could fondle this art teacher’s lovely melons if I could remove her brassiere. I began to reach around her torso while Abigail had her mouth full of me, but she anticipated what I was going to do and took off the bra herself. Her tits fell sexily downward and bounced a couple of times before they settled. They were magnificent physical features.
“Those are fantastic breasts you have, Abigail! I just have to fondle them,” I informed her.
“That’s why I removed my bra!” she said. “Have fun, Thomas. They were made to give males pleasure.”
I happily cupped them with my hands and jiggled them for fun. I could feel Abigail’s nipples begin to harden, so I rubbed my thumbs against them.
“You probably want to fuck my tits,” Abigail surmised. “Most males do!” She took my throbbing dick and set it sexily between her pair of treasures. Then she wrapped her boobs around my rod so it could only be felt by me but not seen. Abigail asked me, “Why are you waiting, Thomas? Thrust away and enjoy it. I did! I occasionally thrusted it far enough for Abigail to lick the tip of my penis, which was another sensual thrill. I was about to overload on sensory stimuli.
I noticed that Abigail still had her panties on. I mentioned, “Those sexy blue undies need to come off if you want me to fill your pussy with my big, hard dick, Abigail.”
“Oh, excuse my forgetfulness,” she said apologetically. She suspended the titty-fuck, stood up and let her panties fall to the carpeted floor. Her pussy was carpeted, too but I was not one to complain about a hairy vagina. She scampered to the center of her queen-size bed and promptly spread her legs wide. It was wan invitation I was expecting. I quickly laid atop her, shoving my dick into her love hole, and gave her vagina a loving but somewhat hard fucking. At one point, I lessened the frequency of thrusts, which Abigail did not like.
“Thomas, give it to me as hard as you did before—harder, in fact. Make me come, too.”
I followed that order closely. I repositioned myself so I could drive my erect dick into this fine specimen of female humanity with greater force. I could feel the wetness within Abigail’s vagina increase—and I heard her moan. That was the signal for me to let loose. “Here I come!” I proudly announced. I did indeed come, firing three volleys of my warm semen into Abigail’s glorious vagina.
“That was fabulous, Abigail,” I said while panting. “I hope I knocked you up with triplets!”
She laughed for a moment and then replied, “Why not four or five babies?” she asked me. Then she said that wasn’t going to happen. “I like fucking, Thomas, and I truly love bedding teenage boys, but I don’t like the normal consequences associated with it. My sweetheart, the birth control pill always prevents that from happening.”
“Well,” I said in mock anger, “had I known that, I would have fired my load onto your sexy tits, your beautiful face and inside your mouth.”
“Thomas, I already told you I’m not going anywhere tonight. Hey, if you want to try to achieve all of those things with me tonight, I am ready and willing.”
I kissed Abigail romantically for quite a while, occasionally sucking on her fabulous nipples for a change of pace, but eventually we got back to the serious business of fucking and cum shots. I was a youthful 18, but I expended too much effort in producing my first orgasm. I had a second—which I aimed to cover her heaving mounds—but that absolutely exhausted my arsenal. Abigail knew it as certainly as I did.
“It’s too bad you aren’t enrolled in any of my art classes, Thomas,” she told me while we had a post-coital cuddle. “That way we could fuck in the art room some day following the last bell and after everyone but the custodian has gone home. Why don’t you take art, Thomas?”
I paused for at least ten seconds before giving her this answer: “Let’s put it this way, Abigail. You are a better chess player than I am an artist.”
“Oh, that bad, huh?” she said.
"Yep, that bad, " I confirmed.