Benjin Leclair, 33 years old, frustrated French substitute teacher

"Benjin, darling, could you please do me a solid?"

You leave your book and gaze at the crappy teacher's lounge bathed in the light of the falling sun. Penelope Monaghan is looking at you. You look back. Elizabeth Taylor reincarnated, triple D bra, strict bun…

"Benjin, would you mind taking over detention for me? I have something very important to do."

Of course, she doesn't specify what is so important that you have to step in for her. You sigh. Despite she is one of the nicest faculty members she is still abusing her position over you. You look at the book on your lap. The last Amelie Nothomb, at least you will have time to finish it. You look at the clock, ten to, if you want to get there before the students, you have to go now. You sigh again.

“Benjin, I owe you one,” Penelope says as you leave the lounge.

At the entrance of the arts building, you walk past Horgarth Whyte in front of the soda machine, he looks stunned at the label. You ignore him and enter the art class with the detention sign on the door. The list of students is on the desk. Horgarth and Mercado, both local students. You sigh.

“Please have a sit and take out your assignments. No chitchat and, Mr. Whyte, no food or drinks during detention, am I clear?” you say in your terrible French accent.

“Yes, Mr. Leclair.”

You gaze out the window for a while as the room fills with red dusk. Fall is coming early this year. Eventually you take out your book and go back to the depressive story. Two hours later, as you start the last chapter, you hear the two students leaving the room.

“Good evening, Mr Leclair.”

You mumble an answer.

Ten more minutes go by before you finally close the book. Better than you expected. You collect your things on the desk, fill your bag and head to the door. On Horgarth’s table you spot a bottle of coke. You take it. “Have a drink with Dracula” the label says.

“Halloween is coming early this year,” you think.

You throw the bottle into the garbage bin by the door without realizing that it has already been opened. The coke spills on the floor, some splashes on your hand. Mechanically you lick the drops.

It’s been years since you last drank coke, your more of a water man, but the taste of this bottle is foul. You shiver as the taste radiates over your tongue with a weird tingling feeling. You look at the puddle around the bin. You shrug. You can always blame the students tomorrow, after all they did open the bottle and left it there. You turn off the lights and get into the dark hallway.

You close the building and walk to your car. The tingling feeling does not go away. The electronic clock on the dashboard tells you it is nine thirty. Too late to go shopping, you’ll have to settle for the local dinner. Your tongue is dull and your teeth are hurting you. For a moment you wonder if you should go to the local hospital but then you remember that you are not in France anymore Dorothy, and that health coverage from the school will never cover for food poisoning. You will have to google your symptoms, maybe you will find something online about foul sodas that give tingling feeling to the tongue, tooth ache and … make you hard? That is weird! Anyway, in the meantime you have to get to the dinner, you are positively starving.

The traffic lights are red. You stop. The dizzy spell as moved down to your shoulders. You are having a hard time breathing and the damn hard on is so painful… You close your eyes and rest your head on the wheel. Merde! What the hell is happening to you?

Suddenly, the slow infection reaches your heart and stops it.

Merde, again.

You open your eyes as you die.

***

“Mr. Leclair? Are you all right?”

You blink twice, somebody is standing by your car, knocking on the window. Your vision slowly unblurs. You feel weird… No that is an understatement, you feel transformed. The hard on is still here but all the other symptoms are gone. No toothache, no sore neck, no tingling tongue. You pause and listen; your heart beat is gone too.

What the fuck?

“Mr. Leclair?”

The tone has changed the panic is replaced by polite curiosity. You finally look at your good Samaritan. Mrs. Mercado, Brooke if you remember correctly. She looks delicious… You would not mind sticking you hard dick into one of her orifices. You could drill her for hours…

What the fuck?

Merde!

NO!

You cannot! You are her teacher, you cannot fuck her… Fuck her long and sweet and hard and please her and …

NO!

Merde!

You are a teacher! You cannot have those thoughts, those urges… You are a substitute French teacher… You cannot French kiss her. Kiss her!

YES!

No…