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School.

Ss-kuul.

Scum and fool.

Some once saw sacrosanctum in study. And futures paved by pages. Discipline defined all destiny. Now, a joke. A chore. For teacher and for student. Boring and odious; instead a battlefield atop ideals dead.

You may yet think this, tale, is about a student. A child, blind; who feels restrained and forcibly defined, in a needless prison.

No. This tale, is my tale, and I... am the true prisoner. Captured. Tormented by im_ps_.

Monsters in short stature, who know nothing and yet preach everything. They spit my name. They whisper their lies in the halls. Roll their eyes. Caterwaul and wail wastefully, over insignificant incidents no more important than the scummy-spit on their tongues.

You see... I am -- among such so-loathsome souls -- charged, sentenced, to teach them. And my prison, a private school. A privileged school. And full of fools. Run by fools, formed by fools, dictated by idiocy and driven by currency.

All around me, my fellow prisoners, drugged. Drunk on optimism. They see childrens' smiles as guiding lights in their lives. Unconcerned for how little they are paid. How little they are loved. And how little peace, they will see, when they are no longer needed.

Unsung, are their skills. Their toils and tears, disregarded. Discarded. For in the era of today, they are cardboard to be stepped upon. Scorned for the crime of daring care.

In these, once hallowed halls, where learning and knowledge was alluring -- awe-ushering -- children now reign.

Here, all the filth begins. From behind small desks, to greater ones, the miasma of gossip and gruel of ingratitude -- flung in our faces -- bloats upon itself. Rising to rule the world. Into our congresses and offices, scum-scuttling insects.

We have given them knowledge. But all they have taken, is our dignity.

I endure. Somehow. No, but I know how. My secret. My sal-vation. My sin, unforgiven.

Watching all of them, caught in their sense of esteem and self-pulchritude, I am reminded fondly. Of her. She, in whom I can always confide. She, for whom my loins yearn. She, who shares my scorn.

As long, unending days give way; I am free. Given leave to go home. A solemn journey, sullied in knowing I only come -- once more -- here, when the sun rises anew. Home, I gamed. Seeking solace in CGI. Even there, though, the scum reigned without reprieve! I suspected I would never escape them. That no heaven waited ahead -- filled with more -- and there only existed: hell. So I believed.

Then... she came. Mein Engel, I named her, my angel. Her mirth, my merriment. Her serene lingo, my song. She alone, showed me heaven was so. Or a haven, here, in hell.

? ? ?

I learned of her, when first I heard her, in a game. We were alone, online. With no one else around, somehow I was drawn to a rant. I vented my rage and my hate of my job -- I believe, perhaps, because she asked where I worked. If I worked.

She listened.

All as I spoke, I thought she with me, in the room.

"Sorry for the rant," I apologized, feeling relief and yet shame. My hate was self-contained. I bore it alone, for I knew I was not so-entitled to share it. To complain, where I had income -- when my decisions were to blame for working there.

"It's all right," she assured me soothingly, "I enjoy listening to your voice. Hearing your intelligence. Everyone here is dumb."

I tried to shrug off the kind words. As we, online, could not grow beyond more than sharing words. "Why do you say that?" "They are," she bleakly rebutted.

I sought to repay the favor of her loaned ears, and urged her on. "You let me rant. About time for your turn, isn't it?"

"Hee, I guess I did. Okay! If you really don't mind."

"Of course not." She explained. The world around her showed ceaseless scorn. Many online felt-so. But she... mein Engel... was not the same. She didn't blame everyone else. Nor did she blame herself. "It's just how they are," she reasoned.

"They have their own stories," I affirmed.

"Yeah. Blaming anyone is just as dumb."

Such... a pure view of the world. Unblinded by her lot. Or her own sense of self. She was so... giving. And I, ashamed, for losing my patience with those around me.

"Sometimes," I broke the stillness with bitter wisdom, "It becomes too much. Even for those of intelligence, or good. We cannot endure everything, indefinitely. Even a good heart has limits."

"I know," she answered softly, "But talking to you... I feel I can bare more. Handle -- heh -- more than I have."

I smiled. "Like it really doesn't weigh that much, anymore?"

"Yeah -- how'd you--?"

"I feel the same way," I added, albeit infused with guilt. Such flirtatiousness knew no answer online, no fulfillment.

Yet... "I wish we could be talking, face to face," she mourned. And I knew, then, with similar sorrow, she shared my yearning.

"Well, it wouldn't really be safe, would it? I could be a liar."

"I don't think so."

"Why's that?"

Amusement in her tone, "You seem like a good person. And I don't really think teachers become teachers for the pay."

I laughed. "No, I don't think so either."

Silence came.

I broke it, "There's tomorrow, too, instead. On here, naturally."

"Yeah, there is. Do we really have to wait until tomorrow, though?"

Another smile cracked my face. So many smiles, she blessed me. I haven't known so many before. Before her. "Regrettably. Tomorrow's a school day."

"It should be over, soon, though, right?"

"Mhm."

More silence.

Once-more I struck it apart, "I should get going, then. I'll throw you an add."

"Um, before you do...?"

"Yeah?" I intoned, curious.

"Would you? I mean, would you, if we were able, have coffee or something with me?"

Bewildered but not taken aback, I spoke unthinkingly, "I prefer tea."

"I hate coffee, but still. It's the idea that matters, right?"

"That it does," I affirmed while in thought, grinning longingly. Finally, "Most likely. But, we likely aren't."

"Well, maybe we are? It couldn't hurt to find out. Where do you live?"

Becoming hopeful, myself, I responded -- although uneasily, "The retirement state. Way south. You know, Aflorians."

She giggled. A sound so... wonderful. It made me smile, too.

Then her answer came. And my mind soared. My heart with it. My whole being came alive with the fire of elation. "I live there, too."

"But probably not the same city," I cautiously coined, daring not believe my own happiness could come to be, "Hoofford?"

"Wow. Hoofford. Really?"

"...You're kidding." Her joy chased away my worries. Elevated me where I alone could not raise myself.

"No, I'm not." In mutual, utter disbelief, we managed to chat away half the night. When the sun started to rise, I swore. Once, at how distracted I got, and twice -- to assure her we'd speak again. Soon.

? ? ?

Every night, thereafter, we spoke more. Traded tales of treaded-on dignities. Names. Pictures. Again and again, mein Engel voiced her disbelief... that someone in the world existed, who comforted her. And she always apologized when she feared coming off as insecure. Or listlessly whispering, "I don't deserve you."

It never failed to make me answer reassuringly. Gently. Telling her over and over, "Never say 'sorry,' you are not a doormat." Or, "Everyone deserves something to make them happy."

And always, in an uneasy answer, "I know."

The pictures... she never showed herself. Others easily became suspicious, in the lack of such images, or sought to defile a woman's dignity by demanding "tits or get the fuck off." No one would demand that of mein Engel. Most of all, not I. Her voice told me what I needed to know. I saw the squalor she lived in. How, in truth, she played in the living room of a trailer. Sometimes, she needed to go. Quickly.

I always meant to ask her why, but the sheer anticipation and elation, of another night with her, made it slip my mind.

She grew more salacious, over time. Slipping in sensuous details. Such as saying she finished showering. Saying how soft, her form, how warm.

I couldn't stand it. So arousing. Distracting. I pleaded with her, "Stop saying such things."

"I'm sorry," she whined, one night, in response, "Does it... offend you?"

"No, no; it isn't that," I assured, "It's... arousing."

"So...?"

"I don't want to sully my imagination of you, with such ideas as those... as those images give me," I beseeched.

"It's okay with me, if you do. It makes me happy, when you're pleased. It's only dirty, if it's wrong, right? Think about me, please?"

"All...right."

"Just about me," she sussed, her voice a symphony.

"About tea..."

I snorted in amusement.

"And your penis..."

I rose a brow...

"...in my mou-th."

My breathe caught. I thought I could see the movement of her tongue, so sexually running along the roof of her mouth. And I heard... the jingle of a belt. A rustle of cloth. My chest weighed greater. My stomach rose to my ribs, tightened.

"Li..." she paused, for a short, endless moment, "-cking."

I shut my eyes. I let my hand wander. Low. Beneath my belt.

"Mo-ving... Low-er. Up... Down..." I breathed out. My hand worked. Shifting under my pants. Grinding my thigh. I fought a groan.

"Sslrp-ing." She said it, first. And then I heard it. Suckling. Slurping. On something. And her moans. "Mngh... Nhm. Nhmff."

More tensely. Faster. Matching her sounds. Her wonderful, sexual sounds.

"Hh-Ghlngh-mh," she gagged.

I groaned. Everything spun. I felt weight-less. Elated to para-dise. Lost. My cock throbbed. A shiver surged through me. Downward. I arched. Groaned out. Ecstasy, seeping from me. Spilling free. Warm against my thigh, at first.

"Ghlwp!"

As I caught my breath, I tried to make sense of what just happened. My eyes opened. Darkness retreated to the edges of my vision. I panted. Confused. Aroused. Alarmed. "What..."

She giggled. "Cucumber."

"Ah?"

Her voice lowered, cooing. Just slightly gravelly, in a tomboyish-seeming tone, "Just a stand-in. But next time," she paused for a breath, "I... wan-t... y-ou."

"Ach.. mein Engel..."

"Prom-ise...?"

My mind swam. Before I knew I was doing it, my mouth opened. And I answered. "Yes." Before I could ask "when," or if she meant it, if she truly meant that...

...she signed off.

I was left... wanting.

Stunned.

In need.