Stimulus-Response
When you're a biology teacher, sometimes, the only way to teach a happy-go-lucky red panda (you know how those wahs can be) is to give them a good hands-on lesson. That's one of the perks of the job -- or it oughta be, because the pay sure ain't...
When you're a biology teacher, sometimes, the only way to teach a happy-go-lucky red panda (you know how those wahs can be) is to give them a good hands-on lesson. That's one of the perks of the job -- or it oughta be, because the pay sure ain't...
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Let's welcome the new iteration of the website with a new story! I revisit the theme of red pandas here, because I didn't really do that well enough in my last story, if you ask me. Read and enjoy -- and as always, please chime in with criticism and feedback. Per ardua ad astra, and all that!_ _
"Stimulus-Response" by Rob Baird
To hear the more pious folk tell it, being a teacher is some kind of grand civic responsibility. Like if you had a do-goodish hankering, and you didn't feel like getting shot at or running into burning buildings, you could pack yourself off to get a teacher's license, settle in at a school somewhere, and before you know it you've done your part and everything is tickety-boo.
It's getting between the license and the tickety-boo that requires some effort. I mean, it really could be that the biggest obstacle to teaching is the pushback from the students, or the unsupportive administration. Or the terrible pay, the interminable extracurriculars, the shrieking parents, the politics, the burnout, the broken equipment, or the unwillingness of the local voters to pass a fraction of a mill levy to fund the goddamned district.
But I'm pretty sure the biggest problem is actually this: you spend eight hours a day at the school. You spend another five or six hours either getting ready for school, or finishing up things begun at the school, like grading tests or homework. Factor in another hour or two for commuting, cooking, laundry, and the other trappings of civilization. If you're not a robot (you might be) that only leaves you eight hours to split between drinking and sleeping -- not enough time to do either satisfactorily.
And yet here I was, looking out over the smiling (or, at least, not overtly scornful) faces of sixth period biology. "Now, remember," I said. "The fundamentals of stimulus and response can be divorced from what we understand as thought. For example, if you cut off a cockroach's head, you can prod it with a toothpick and the body will move to escape the sensation. Yes, Darren?"
Darren Fitzhugh had raised his paw. "I heard that a human head lives for eight and a half seconds after you decapitate it."
Er, thanks? "My guess is that that's an urban legend," I said slowly; Darren was a morbid sort, one of those kids where you couldn't be quite certain if he was repeating something he'd heard or speaking from personal experience. "But the relationship between consciousness and activity is not completely understood. For instance, there's a documented case of a headless chicken that got by okay, and those of you going on the field trip in Mr. Ortiz's class will get to see literally hundreds of brain-dead people who are still able to hold steady jobs."
"Really? Mr. Ortiz said we're just going to tour the Capitol and the White House."
I stared at the tigress blankly for a moment -- sometimes a fox's wit is lost on an unappreciative audience. "Ah. My mistake, Meghan." Shaking my head, I gave a forlorn glance to the clock and tried to salvage what was left of my lesson plan. "But in his own way, Darren has raised an interesting point. Stimulus-response behavior is not just an attribute of lower organisms with uncomplicated brains. For your reading tonight, I'd like you to review Chapter 19 in the green book, and pay particular attention to the story about Ivan Pavlov's work on --"
The bell to end the period sounded, and my words disappeared under a clatter of students snapping their books closed and bustling for the door. It was amazing how quickly their attention could be stolen away into the banality of high school chatter. Mind you, I was just out of college, myself -- but those few years made a world of difference.
"On second thought," I muttered, taking the seat behind my desk. "You can probably skip it."
I don't teach a class in the seventh period, which meant that my day was officially over when the last bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young promise-of-the-future had left the room. But I still had homework to grade, and the previous week's test to review, so I settled in for a long afternoon with a can of diet cola and a jar full of jellybeans.
The knock at the door caught me with my mouth full, so I waved the person in awkwardly -- like I was directing an airplane. She got the message, stepping inside and closing the classroom door behind her. I recognized my guest as Jenny Devkota, a student in my fourth period with grades that were nowhere near as remarkable as her figure -- you know the type.
It was on full display that afternoon. I should explain that it never really gets all that cold here in the winter, and the varsity cheerleaders are only given about two feet of fabric to work with -- one foot of skirt and one foot of top, with any remaining modesty the sole responsibility of the owner's pelt. It did a good job of revealing the charcoal fur of Jenny's belly, and the slim, toned body the fur had the pleasure of associating with.
"Mr. Owens?" she asked quietly.
I set the stack of tests down carefully, adjusting my glasses and turning towards her. "Yes? How can I help you?"
"I'd like to talk to you about my grade in your class..." I nodded to the chair on the other side of my desk, and the red panda settled into it carefully, smoothing down the fabric of her uniform. She'd clearly come from practice: it had the disheveled appearance of recent use, and I caught, beneath the faint scent of perfume, the earthy, pleasant smell of exertion and energy. It was hard to ignore that completely; my mind wandered happily for a second or two. "Sir?"
"Eh? Oh. Your grades. What about them?"
She leaned forward; the short, perfect triangles of her white-rimmed ears pricked up alertly. "Are they... good?"
I opened my gradebook and gave it a quick scan. "Well... Not conventionally, no. They have higher values in Scrabble, I guess." Taking two pieces of paper and using them to block out all of the page but the single row of her accomplishments, I turned the book to show her. "You have a 'C' in participation, which is good, but your last test was an 'F' and the two ones before that were both 'D's -- definitely below average."
Her ears drooped, and she sank back into the chair with a frown so sorrowful that I briefly felt guilty for causing it. "But why?"
"Well," I offered, "mostly it's because you don't display any understanding of the material. And you've never come to me for help before." And since this is your second time taking the class, I didn't add, it doesn't say wonders about your memory, either.
"But I thought I did understand the material."
I fished out her test from the pile. "Come here," I said, indicating my side of the desk; after a moment she got up, padding around to join me with her ears still pinned. "Here, question 7. I asked, what are the four nucleotides that make up DNA? You answered: 'Nucleotide A, nucleotide D, and nucleotide N.' All you've done is put the letters 'DNA' in alphabetical order. Even if that was the correct line of thinking -- which it's not -- there's still only three of them."
"I thought it was a trick question."
I sighed. "Do you remember when I talked about adenine, thymine, guanine and cytosine?"
Jenny shook her head, and leaned closer to peer down at the stapled sheets of the test. "Not really."
Her fur was warm, and close enough to tickle. Rather than letting myself get distracted, I leaned a few inches to the side and turned the page. "Fine. What about here? Question 15: what organelle is sometimes considered the 'power source' of the cell? You say, quote, 'it depends, but sometimes they chondrian.' At least, I think that's what it says -- I don't even know what that verb is supposed to mean."
Something soft flicked against my ankle; I hazarded a brief glance downward to discover that the firefox's brushy tail was now tucked between her legs. "But that's what you said. You said it might've chondrianed."
"I said mitochondria," I corrected, emphasizing the pronunciation of the second syllable. "It was also in your reading."
"Oh." She nodded softly; her ears started to lift again. "My mom is a mitochondria."
That brought me up a bit short. "Excuse me?"
"That's what daddy says. Because she always thinks she's sick. I didn't know it was a part of a cell, too."
I rubbed two fingers against my temple, trying to stave off a sudden headache. "That's a different word. Look, Jenny. The problem is that you don't pay attention in class, and half the time you're gone on competitions or whatnot, and you don't make up the work. So, no, your grades aren't so good."
"Is there anything I can do about them?"
I glanced to the calendar on my desk. "In April? The time to ask that would've been back in January."
Her ears wilted, and she slumped against the desk, fixing me with baleful eyes. "But if I don't pass this class, my GPA won't be high enough to get into the summer session for the squad... it's really important..."
"I'm sure it is. But that's not something I can help you with."
She looked forlorn for a moment; then she tilted her head with a hopeful look to her bright eyes. "Well, do you offer extra credit?"
"Not really."
I was expecting her ears to splay again; instead, the hopeful look ebbed into something more mischievous, and she took a careful seat on the edge of my desk. "Not at all?" If I ignored those eyes, she looked the very picture of innocence; her ringed tail was swaying back and forth, mesmerizingly, and it took an effort to ignore it.
"I don't see the point. If you know the material, you do well in the class. If not..."
"But not everything's on the exam, Mr. Owens," she cooed, her voice like honey. I heard a dull thump as the wah's shoe hit the dull carpet of the classroom, and then the warmth of her soft, bare foot was resting on my knee. "So maybe I could do you a little favor, and..."
I swallowed heavily. Her foot was working its way slowly up my thigh, bunching the denim of my jeans and then smoothing it right back down again. "Technically," I coughed. "I think what you're offering is less a favor than it would be a bribe, which would make it better suited to Mr. Ortiz's -- ah!" I squirmed about in my chair, jerking it back a few inches, because she was coming very close to my crotch. "Mr. Ortiz's government class," I finished quickly.
"Oh, but I don't like Mr. Ortiz," she purred softly. Repositioning the chair had only bought me a few seconds; with a cheeky grin the panda's foot nudged between my legs, and I couldn't help but gasp as her toes kneaded at the hardening bulk they found there. "He's old and mean. Not like you," she said, locking her eyes with mine so that I was paying rapt attention when she licked her muzzle once with a deliberateness that was downright predatory, rubbing more pointedly with her foot.
Stimulus-response behavior, I heard myself say, is not just an attribute of lower organisms with uncomplicated brains. Well, here was the stimulus. "Jenny," I managed -- it was trying to be a protest, and it sounded an awful lot like a groan.
"Yes, Mr. Owens?" She slid fluidly from the edge of my desk, resting on her knees in front of my chair. Her black paws quickly found their way back to where her foot had been, denying me any chance to catch my wits; as she undid my belt, pulling my jeans open and tugging at my boxers, I was painfully conscious of every teasing, warm flick and touch of her skillful fingers.
"This isn't really an appropriate way to --"
"Oh, wow," she said, interrupting me. Her eyes were bright and dancing, and some distance beyond I could see the burnt orange tip of her tail, flipping back and forth. Her attention was focused between my legs, and she licked her chops again. "You're really big, Mr. Owens..."
That was the exact point at which my brain flipped from wait-hold-on-a-moment straight into right, fuck it. My paws fell from the desk to the red panda's ears; the strokes of my fingers were rewarded with a girlish giggle, and when I drew her forward, closer to me, she didn't resist. "Well, go on..."
The first touch of her silky, wet tongue along the base of my cock got a pleased growl from me, and she took that as her cue, running that warm, soft touch all the way up to the tip with a gratuitous slurp like she was after some particularly novel type of ice cream cone. Then she did it again, and my growl became a throaty, lower-organism-with-uncomplicated-brain moan.
Jenny worked her tongue over every inch of my shaft until I was wet with her saliva and absolutely rock hard. I closed my eyes for a second; when I did, all I noticed was that her tongue went away -- and then I felt the warm heat of her lips right around my tip. I opened my eyes again to watch her push her muzzle into my crotch, taking me inch by meticulous inch. Wahs have short muzzles; there was no way it was going to fit without choking her -- but she got as much as she could in, and then drew back to the head, sucking hard and giving me a cute, half-apologetic smile, like sorry I can't deep-throat you, Mr. Owens...
I'm a forgive-and-forget kind of fox. She made it real easy to forget, bobbing her muzzle in slow, smooth strokes, stopping every time I growled or shuddered to take a break and work that devilish tongue of hers over and over the tip of my cock. My hips were starting to hitch and buck against her, and when her warm paw cupped my sac, giving me the lightest of encouraging little squeezes, I decided that whatever she'd been learning instead of mitochondria was probably worth it.
My breath was coming in heavy, deep pants and intermittent groans, but even as my head lolled, senses blotted out with carnal pleasure, my sensitive ears picked up something else. I looked down to find the red panda's dark legs parted wide with her paw shoved under the scarlet panties that came with her uniform. The sheer fabric clung tightly to her knuckles, following the pumping rhythm as she fingered herself. Then she moaned, and with her lips wrapped so tight around me I felt it over every inch of my cock.
"Jenny," I warned. "I'm gettin' real close." She didn't stop for one second -- but she did moan again, and my ears twitched as I heard the slick, wet sound of her hidden fingers picking up a faster tempo. Panting raggedly, I focused on the sight of my length slipping in and out of her muzzle, watching as she sucked me off with singleminded focus. It was getting harder and harder not to give in. I wanted to see her take my load like nothing -- and then I thought: well, hell. I'm the teacher, ain't I? I ought to call the shots -- and I gripped her behind the ears, pulling her close and forcing myself in deeper.
She gasped and shivered, a rush of hot breath washing over me, and that was all it took. I groaned and tensed up, my rigid shaft throbbing with strong, thick spurts of fox seed. The red panda's eyes brightened, and with a pleased little murr she leaned back to suckle my tip as the hot splashes fell on her tongue. She had to swallow a few times, and when she did the murr deepened into a moan, like that was the best thing she'd done all day. When I was finally spent, twitching weakly in her maw, she eased up a bit -- but she still sucked soothingly at me, and it was a few moments before she pulled away completely. I sank back into my chair, fighting for breath.
Jenny ran her tongue over her lips with a fulfilled sigh. "How was that, sir?"
I grunted, which was about all I could manage. She giggled, and I closed my eyes to try and think about what I'd done. It didn't really matter, right? Like, in the long run? Civilization is all about the quid pro quo, and so what if I passed her? It wasn't like she was planning on becoming a doctor -- I was pretty sure, anyway.
And Christ, she'd been good.
I was just about on the verge of deciding I'd made the right choice when she murmured a sultry "Mr. Owens?" I opened my eyes, and the red panda gave me a mischievous smirk, her sharply clawed fingers hooking into her top and pulling it off to expose her chest. I hadn't quite realized how tightly the fabric had been holding her breasts; freed from it, they were full, and shapely, and she trailed her claws through the black fur, circling around a pert, stiff nipple. "I just thought you might want to see that," she said, trying to sound innocent.
"Yeah," I admitted. My cock hadn't really softened completely, and I could feel it stiffening to full attention again at the sight of the luscious young firefox. "A... well, a bit..."
Jenny snickered, watching this reaction, and got to her feet enough to settle on the edge of my desk. As she stood, she gave her panties a tug; they didn't come with her. She reached her foot over, her toes brushing softly over my length. Then, languidly -- like she had all the time in the goddamned world -- she parted those long legs of hers, giving me a good look at the wet, pink flesh that broke the soft ebony of her fur. She worked her fingers along her lips for a second, and then spread them invitingly. "Would you like to fuck me, Mr. Owens?" she asked, her head canted like the question was anything but rhetorical.
I stood, kicking the chair back and putting a paw on each of her thighs to keep her still as I got between her legs. When my pointed tip prodded the molten, slick heat of her entrance she gasped, her eyes going half-lidded, and when I pushed forward, sliding into her in one smooth thrust the red panda tensed with a shudder that seemed concentrated on the thick, hard flesh buried inside her. I groaned aloud with the sensation. She was hot, wetter than hell, and almost unbearably tight.
Drawing back to the tip, feeling her clinging snugly to my cock, I held there for a moment. Compared to the heat of her body the air in the classroom was cool against my exposed, wet shaft. I preferred the first feeling, and from the way she moaned when I rocked in again, finding an easy, quick rhythm, so did she. She shut her eyes, and her face went tense with pleasure; she was moving with me, arching her hips up so that we met with the clash of sodden fur and flesh, and I watched the telling grin spreading across her features with a low groan of satisfaction.
My muzzle dipped low, tracing the black parts of her fur from her muzzle down the side of her neck to her collarbone in a series of playful nips. She cried out, tossing her head back, and I continued. My tongue darted and flicked over her nipple, and that met with such a pleased reaction that I pushed my nose into the warm, soft fur, suckling on her heatedly. Jenny's back arched deeply, shoving her chest into my questing muzzle; I was more than happy to oblige.
Her chest was hitching in shallow gasps, and when I looked up I could see a dark blush spreading beneath the white parts of her mask. I heard paper tearing as the red panda's claws bunched up at my desk. Her strong legs wrapped around me, trapping me against the heat of her body, and she gave a sudden giddy, breathless moan. I pushed myself into her urgently as she started to squeeze and pulse around me, her toned frame moving in little jerks and twitches. Her muzzle was open in a gasp, tongue lolling between sharp teeth, and her ears were pinned flat. That was when I learned that there's nothing cuter than watching the firefox you're fucking come, hard, all over your cock.
I bucked into her a few more times until she had her wits about her again; then I pulled out, glancing down at the papers whose condition I was going to have to try very hard to explain -- later. "Turn over," I told her, and Jenny tilted her head questioningly for a moment, still fuzzy with the afterglow. I had to repeat the command, but she uncurled her legs from me gamely and twisted onto her front, feet getting purchase on the floor.
Bent over the desk, spreading her legs wide so I could see her dripping pussy, she glanced over her shoulder. "Like this?" Yeah, like that. I didn't waste any time, guiding my tip back between her lips and spearing roughly into her again. She shivered as her snug folds engulfed me, curling that fuzzy ringed tail of hers around me closely. I gripped her rump firmly to hold her in place, rutting her quickly, digging my claws in with the effort. "Oh!" She gasped it hotly, her hips quivering a bit as she pressed back into my sharp thrusts. "Ooh, yes, fuck me like a dog, Mr. Owens!"
I grunted, picking up the pace a bit. She felt amazing; my knot was starting to swell, and she gripped it tightly as I worked it into her, growling fiercely. Bucking at Jenny's fuzzy black rump, feeling her hot walls parting slickly around me, I felt distantly that I was coming to that place where the only thing that really mattered was pumping her full of my seed. I was driving deeply into her, drawing back to feel her tugging at my knot, then pushing in again.
It was getting harder to pull out, and she seemed to get the idea. "It's okay, I'm safe," she panted into the desk -- not that it really would've made too much difference, but it was nice to know. "Go on, come in me..."
I growled in answer, hilting myself and pulling her hips back into mine, feeling my pulsing knot swelling to lock me into the wah's needy sex. "Oh, god -- Jenny!" I gritted my teeth, overcome with the sudden pleasure. My cock pulsed, and I rocked my hips in time to the hot spurts as I filled her with my cum. My gripping paws held her squirming hips still, pinning her to the desk while I emptied myself into her.
"That's it -- come deep inside me," she moaned, and I did my best, grinding against her firmly as the pulses slowly weakened. When I collapsed into my chair, gathering her in my lap, she giggled merrily. "Oh, you dogs..."
I wrapped my arms around her belly while I tried to think of whether or not this was accurate. "Fox," I finally corrected -- being able to accurately name my species was a victory at that point.
"You foxes," she amended, shifting her hips in my lap. "Is that good enough for a 'C'?"
"A 'C' is just average," I pointed out, nibbling on her ear. "You think that was average?"
She shook her head, uncurling her ringed tail to flick it against the tip of my nose. "Uh huh. But if I go from failing to an 'A,' people will ask questions. All I need is a 'C,' anyway."
"Clever," I mumbled. "Fine, alright. Let's call it a 'C,' in that case." Pleased, she twisted around to give me a hug, and then settled down again. "What do you want to do with your life, anyway? I mean, if not biology. And not, I presume, cheerleading. Not forever, anyway."
"Wrenching. I want to wrench."
I tilted my head, not sure I'd heard her correctly. "What?"
"I want to work on cars... I'm gonna sign up for night courses at the community college next year, when I'm a senior."
Not what I would've expected. I nodded anyway. "What's your favorite car, then?"
"Aw, the Chevy Nova, no question."
"What -- like the little economy car? The Geo Metro thing?"
"It's a Sprinter, actually," she corrected me with a snap of her muzzle. "And no, not that one. I want to buy a 1969 Nova SS." She purred with the same tone she'd been using on me ten minutes earlier. "People are always all about the Camaro, but, you know, you could put a 396 in the SS, right, the big block V8? Little work, that's getting on four hundred brake horsepower, and nobody would even know it. It's the best muscle car of all time. Sleeper classic."
I blinked. "A 396? I don't really know what you're talking about," I admitted.
"I know," she said gamely, and flashed a grin. "Like I don't know what you're talking about with DNA. Anyway, '396' is the displacement in cubic inches." She shrugged easily. "Cars are really what I care about. I could spend two hours a night doing your biology homework, or I could spend two hours learning how to rebuild a transmission and half an hour once a semester to clear things up with you..."
When she put it that way, it sounded almost reasonable. "I guess that's practical enough..."
"Mm-hmm!" Her tail waved faster, tickling my muzzle. "Besides, wouldn't you say I at least understand the fundamentals?"
Well, that was true. I wound up soaking the students' tests, which positively reeked of red panda, in my bathtub. I apologized for the water damage -- blaming it on a burst pipe, which was accurate at least in metaphor -- and gave them all ten extra points, which made up for it so far as any of them were concerned.
The following day, as I was preparing to pack up for the evening, a knock at my door prefaced the entrance of a tall, older man that I took to be an otter. The ID he had on a lanyard marked him as faculty, and he introduced himself as Coach Morris. "You're the biology teacher who has Jenny, right? Jennifer Devkota?"
Why, yes, I suppose I am. "Yes, what's up?"
"I thought that she was failing your class, but she told me yesterday she has a 'C'? Is that true? I mean, it's great if it's true -- I'd love to keep her on the squad. But, you know..."
"No, no, that's right. Everything's tickety-boo -- she came by yesterday and we had a very good talk. Boiled down to a misunderstanding, really."
The otter raised an eyebrow. "How do you misunderstand failing?"
I shrugged. "Well, you know how it is. I'd asked the class to define mitochondria, say, and she wrote that it was a cell's... what did she call it? The cell's 396 cubic inch big-block V8. I thought she was speaking in tongues, but I guess it's some kind of car engine? Close enough for half credit. A lot of things like that."
"Oh." Mollified, the coach nodded. "Yeah, she's really an interesting girl."
"That she is," I confirmed. "With an intuitive sense of applied biology. And," I added -- it being the current lesson and all -- "a truly magnificent handle on the principles of stimulus and response."