School was its usual clusterfuck of teenage drama and academic purgatory wrapped in fluorescent lights and fake smiles. I coasted through it like a Formula 1 car in a go-kart race. Enhanced intelligence will do that. Every lecture felt like dĂ©jĂ vu from fourth grade, and letâs be honestâmost of my teachers were just older versions of the kids they were teaching. Slightly better hygiene. Slightly worse patience.
God bless tenure. And low standards.
Note to self: never let them know youâve already mentally rewritten the curriculum.
The only thorn in my otherwise pristine day? Lea. Death-glaring me like sheâd just watched a documentary called
"How to Kill Your Ex-Crush in 5 Easy Steps"
. And judging by the murder countdown in her eyes, she was somewhere between Step 4 and orange jumpsuit.
Still, I wasnât sweating her. Bitter feelings and bad eyeliner were the least of my concerns.
She sat across every shared classroom like I was a bloodstain she couldnât scrub off her soul. The kind of look that says,
"Youâve got five minutes to apologize or die screaming."
Cute. If I wasnât immune to guilt and too busy playing 4D chess with reality, maybe Iâd care.
Lunch rolled in like a Netflix filler scene. Madison and I sat together, open secret now. No more pretending. We were a thingâmuch to the cafeteriaâs collective confusion and my own private amusement. She introduced me to her little group chat squad: Ashley Kim (queen of side-eyes and contour), Emma Rodriguez (chaotic energy in a crop top), and Mia Santosâwho, and Iâm being brutally honest here, wasnât playing in the same aesthetic league.
Thick, awkward, kind of cute if you squinted, but compared to the other two? Background character energy. Ashley and Emma were hot enough to get invited to Dubai. Mia was... not.
Then came the plot twist.
Mia and Tommy clicked instantly. Like, sitcom-level meet-cute vibes over some coding project. Suddenly, my ride-or-die food-obsessed bestie was speaking fluent JavaScript and laughing like heâd found a soulmate in a slightly oversized hoodie.
Then Mia opened her mouth, and Tommy transformed from snack gremlin to Silicon Valley intern.
"Holy shit, you know Python?" he gasped, borderline blushing.
"Know it?" Mia flipped her hair. "Please. I was coding apps before puberty."
And boom. Nerd-magnet status achieved. They, locked in like two socially awkward puzzle pieces. It wasnât just flirtingâit was binary seduction.
Tommy had finally found a girl who spoke fluent algorithm, and Mia finally found someone who didnât blink when she mentioned backend architecture.
It was disgustingly adorable. And kinda terrifying.
Yeah, I was happy for
my
Tommy. Mr. Doritos-for-breakfast suddenly turned into a blushing Google engineer the second she brought up Python scripts.
Size really does find size.
God bless us nerds.
"So, Peter," Emma asked, all sass and zero chill, "Madison told us she wanted to test your... equipment before deciding to date you."
Cue Madison choking on her water like someone had just read her browser history aloud.
"Emma, what the hell!"
"What?" Emma shrugged, grinning like the devil in lip gloss. "You literally said you were curious about the quiet nerdâs dick game."
Ashley jumped in, smirking. "Honestly, we were all a little curious. You made him sound like some kinda forbidden USB stick."
Table went silent. Real
silent.
Madison regrouped faster than I expected.
"Okay fine, I was curious," she admitted, brushing her hair behind her ear. "But I wasnât gonna tell you guys anything even if it sucked."
"But it didnât suck," Emma added, wiggling her brows like a cartoon perv.
"Emma, I swear to God," Madison groaned, trying not to laugh and failing hard.
Classic rich girl behavior. Test drive the nerd like heâs a vintage Porsche, then act like she found Jesus when the engine purred.
âTheyâre gonna build a religion around me and call it Sexual Supremacy.â
Yep. Thatâs me now. Just casually becoming the messiah of a horny rich girl cult. I should start charging tithe.
Before Emma could ask for a full product reviewâincluding measurementsâI pivoted.
"Actually, I need help with something," I said, leaning forward just enough to make them lean in too. "Madison, you free this afternoon? I need backup for a... project."
She raised an eyebrow. "What kind of project?"
"The kind where you help me, and I help you with something you need."
Her eyes lit up like Iâd offered her a private shopping spree at Sephora and revenge in the same sentence.
"Deal. Whatâs the plan?"
*
Friday afternoon. Madison and I pulled up to Mrs. Rodriguezâs house like we were about to film the season finale of some edgy teen drama with a cult following. My AP Bio teacher didnât work FridaysâGod bless union rulesâand that was perfect.
The house was cute. Two stories. Minimalist vibes. White trim, some tasteful landscaping. It screamed
middle-class success story,
not
secret millionaire
like Madisonâs estate. But it worked. Clean. Structured. Like Mrs. Rodriguez herself.
I rang the bell. No answer.
Music was playing inside. Country music, to be specific.
Madison blinked. "Wait, is thatâ" Madison tilted her head. "She listens to
country
?"
"...I knew she was hiding darkness."
I rang again. We heard quick steps. And thenâdoor.
And there she was.
Mrs. Rodriguez. My teacher. In the flesh. Emphasis on
flesh.
She looked... stunned. "Peter? Madison? What are you two doing here?"
And holy
hell.
Seeing her outside the sterile walls of school was like seeing your favorite game character in a swimsuit DLC. Familiar... but uncomfortably enhanced.
Barefoot. Hair tied up in that effortless
I-woke-up-like-this
chaos. Strands falling into her face like some softcore shampoo commercial. She wasnât wearing makeup. Or a bra. And suddenly, the academic respect Iâd carefully curated just... evaporated.
She wore a thin, gray tank top that clung to her like betrayal. Soft cotton that didnât hide
anything.
Nipples like bullets. Breasts that swayed slightly with every breath, taunting gravityâand me.
Man, even my fantasy couldnât craft such a well-endowed Milf in the fake form of my teacher. No bra. Zero resistance. Just soft, perfect movement with every breath. The kind of slow sway that ruins lives.
And the shorts?
Calling them shorts is generous. Those were denim band-aids.
Old gym shorts cut so damn high I could see the curve of her lower back and the faintest trail of hip lineâ
God help me,
she turned, and the fabric gave me a glimpse of skin that most people gotta pay subscription fees for.
Her thighs were soft and thick; the kind of smooth that made you want to rewrite your future just to be worthy of touching them. There was a tiny mole on her hip. And the way her spine curved downward into her lower bodyâ
Youâre gonna short-circuit. Get it together, Carter.