Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller Read Free Page A

enjoyed the extra gabbing time. His geometry girls would even sneak the extra time to hurry in and out of the spider stall.
    Since it was a pain to twist around while sitting just to reach the toilet paper, this peeping stall in the boy’s room was usually available.
    He unscrewed the little bolt on the right.
    The toilet paper holder dropped into a dangle.
    His warm palms resting on the cold porcelain tank, he leaned in and peered through the pencil-sized hole in the concrete wall.
    Sometimes the girls got smart and stuffed the opposite end with TP, but they hadn’t been smart for awhile, and the pathway was adequately clear at the present moment.
    Every day was a crap shoot, so to speak. He liked thinking of it in gambling terms. It made the game more interesting. Or “like a box of chocolates”—the Forest Gump line—“you never knew what you were going to get.” Reality was, if he got lucky enough to catch a girl doing her business in the spider stall, most of the viewing time was spent staring at the back of her head. Some turned around afterwards to look inside the bowl, some didn’t. When a particular girl didn’t, all he saw was her ass cheeks. That was okay, certainly. Better than nothing. He learned which girls had tattoos. But the real prize, the money shot, so to speak, came from the girls who turned around. Inevitably, when they turned around to judge what they’d left behind, there would be a quick shot of whisker biscuit as they pulled up their panties.
    If they actually wore panties.
    If they actually had a whisker biscuit.
    The unfortunate trend lately was an asinine invention called the Brazilian Wax.
    Asinine.
    There was a fitting word, Stuart Renly thought while peering into the hole.
    The spider stall was empty now.
    Fiddlesticks!
    He rolled snake eyes on the peeping game!
    It was hardly the first time, nor would it be the last.
    Luckily, he had a backup means of getting his jollies, albeit less thrilling.
    He screwed the TP holder into place and wrangled his smart phone from his pocket.
    The lavatory was quiet as he activated the photo gallery. The last pictures taken were the first to light up. And light up they did! Miss Bailey Howard! What a fine top you’re wearing today, Miss Howard. All the better to see your golden blessings. All the better to stroke an “active imagination,” which was the secret definition of A.I., as far as Stuart Renly was concerned.
    Time was short.
    And getting shorter.
    But as he thumbed through the gallery of buxom-heavy Bailey Howard one thing for certain was getting longer. Longer and harder, and rising in his trousers like a twisted and deformed third leg.
    Time to free the bugger.
    He turned toward the toilet bowl and unzipped his fly.
    Then the lavatory door opened loudly, jolting him from his fixated daze, and he quickly pocketed the smart phone and re-zipped his pleated khaki pants.
    Pure frustration mixed with sudden panic.
    Meddling kids!
    Nobody called out to him, but he was so frazzled by the interruption that he called out to them, saying, “Yeah, I’m coming!”
    There was an irony!
    Stupid over-eager kids couldn’t wait five minutes for him to drop a dollop before bursting in to see if he was dead like Elvis on the throne.
    He flushed the toilet for show, smeared flat his tingling third leg, unlatched the stall very loudly, and emerged in a staggering hurry.
    Principal Jenkins stood there.
    “Oh, I thought you were a student coming in to check on me,” Stuart Renly said. He moved to the sink under Jenkins’ watchful eye and began washing his hands. With soap even. “They can’t hardly wait five minutes to get their daily learning, it seems lately. It guess it’s good they enjoy my style of teaching.”
    “As we’ve discussed before, though,” Jenkins answered, “you need to begin your teaching on time.”
    “Doing my best to get this licked,” Stuart said. “Not as easy as one might think. I wouldn’t wish A.I. on anyone. It’s