Agnes Johnson was thirty-four, lived alone, and had three cats. Normally, this did not bother her - why would it? - but some days she woke up on the wrong side of the bed, looked around at her life, and realized something: She was a spinster. Just like her aunt Barbara, the one who lived in a condo in Florida and everyone felt sorry for. Her freezer was packed with Lean Cuisine meals for one and her pantry was stocked with cheap wine that she drink too much of on Friday and Saturday nights; her tenth story apartment in the Royal Oaks Housing Complex was tiny, cramped, and lonely, the only sounds the drone of the TV and the arguing of her neighbors, an old married couple who seemed to hate each other's guts.

Strangely, Agnes envied them. Maybe she was getting older, but the thought of being alone, dying alone, having no one to hold her hand and simply be with her during the long, cold winter of of age frankly frightened her. She liked to think of herself as a strong, independent woman, but as time wore on, she began to believe that maybe, just maybe, woman does need man, and man needs woman. We can craft lofty notions of feminism and rugged individualism, but we humans are social creatures, and it is in our nature to find mates, someone we can love, and who will love us back.

Not to mention sex. Ugh. She was not a highly sexual woman, but it had been nine long years since she was last touched, and her viberator just wasn't cutting it anymore; she needed the warm sensation of a man's rugged hand softly caressing her body, her tender breasts, her responsive nipples, the aching spot between her legs. Not just any man, of course; she might be lonely and horny, but she had standards. Not impossible standards, but not especially low, either. The last man she was with was a no good who drank and didn't work - she wanted a man as unlike him as possible, a man who was respectful, tender, sweet, kind, caring, considerate, a man with whom she could feel safe, loved, and protected.

Unfortunately, men like that seem to have died off in some kind of plague, leaving only the brutes, playboys, and mama's boys. She'd been on a number of dates over the years, but none of them ever lead to anything; the closest she came to finding something like love was with a man named George, but on their sixth date, when she was just beginning to think of taking him into her bed, he confessed to her that he was "kind of a pedophile."

Their association ended there - how could a grown man feel attraction to an innocent child? She loved children, and always had, which is why she taught, and the idea of ever being with one turned her stomach.

That was before, of course, what happened between her and Lincoln Loud.

If asked, Agnes would say that she was simply carried away on a tide of emotion that day, but the truth was, she had been noticing him for some time prior. He was a fastidious student and very conscientious - whenever she needed someone to watch the class pet while she went to visit her sister in Idaho, or to stay behind and help tidy the classroom at the end of the day, he always volunteered. In fact, there were days he approached her after everyone else had gone and offered to do whatever she needed of him. She gladly accepted all of his help not because she wanted things done (the quicker they were, the quicker she went home to her stifling loneliness), but because she enjoyed the company. She didn't know very much about him until after Christmas break because he always kept to himself, but she found him to be a sweet boy who was much brighter than his mediocre grades lead on: While she graded papers and he clapped erasers or swept the floor, they talked, and she was surprised by how intelligently he was able discuss politics and culture.

She asked him once why he didn't do as well in his work as he apparently could, and he only glanced shamefully down at his feet and shrugged. Focusing is hard.

Some children do find it difficult to concentrate, so she didn't give the matter much thought, but as they spent more and more time together, she began to notice little things that concerned her. He seemed very nervous at times, and overwrought. There were also his eyes. Agnes did not make it a habit to gaze into her students' eyes more than briefly, but when, one day, she looked into Lincoln's, she saw something that alarmed her: Sadness.

Something was wrong, and for nearly a week she hesitated to broach the subject with him. On a Friday afternoon, before he left, she sat him down and asked him if something was the matter. "Are you being bullied, Lincoln?" she asked.

He adamantly shook his head. "N-No, nothing like that." Anxiety filled his limpid brown eyes, and she detected a hint of begging. Please, stop asking me these questions.

She let him go, but worried the entire weekend about him, searching through her memories of their every encounter for clues. On Saturday night, it occurred to her that oftentimes, Lincoln seemed reluctant to leave - he would linger in the classroom, making busy work for himself, until she vocally dismissed him. At the time she didn't pay much attention to it, but now, with all of the other pieces dropping into place, it disturbed her greatly.

It was around this time that she began to really look at Lincoln, mainly for signs of abuse, and found herself thinking what a cute boy he was. His eyes, when he was talking about something he was passionate about, sparkled like muddled diamonds, and his boyish simper always made her smile herself. If he would just come out of his shell, she thought, he'd be very popular with the girls. One day in early March, she looked up from a paper she was working on and watched as he cleaned Frank the Tarantula's cage. If I was a girl, I'd be interested, she thought, and immediately felt a rush of shame. She meant it innocently enough (if she was a girl of his age she would be interested in him), but it was inappropriate, and she admonished herself severely. Even so, it happened again, and again; sometimes she'd spend more time staring at him than at the work in front of her. He seemed to small, so vulnerable, and though the thought always brought guilt, there were times she wanted to take him in her arms, hold him tight, and smother his forehead with kisses.

It was motherly affection, she told herself, and absolutely not something deviant, no matter how much she internally fawned over his soft features, freckled face, and glowing smile.

On the third day of April, Lincoln was absent, and though a child not being present one day was not reason for alarm, she was worried. He was absent the next day as well, and cold, slimy fear coiled in the pit of her stomach like a venomous snake. If he wasn't there the following day, she decided, she would bring her concerns to Principal Bodner.

The next morning, she waited for him to arrive with bated breath, her stomach rolling with a strange and unpleasant mix of emotions. When he finally shuffled through the door moments before the morning bell, his gaze downcast and his shoulders slumped, relief washed through her...relief that turned to horror when he looked hesitantly up, and she saw the deep, shimmering hurt in his eyes.

That decided her, she would talk to him after class and find out one way or another what was happening at home.

When it came, and the other children were gone, she sat Lincoln down and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Lincoln, I was just wondering," she started haltingly, "if there's anything wrong. At home."

Panic clouded his eyes and he stammered out a half-hearted response. "No, I just...I have a lot on my mind." He darted his gaze to his lap and swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing weakly.

Agnes frowned and squeezed his shoulder. "Lincoln...is that the truth? You can tell me. I only want to help."

He nodded silently, his fingers worrying at the hem of his shirt. "I-It is, I s-swear."

"Lincoln…"

He blinked his eyes as if against tears.

"What's wrong?"

For a long time he simply stared at his lap...then he sniffed. "My Mom," he said barely above a broken whisper, "she has cancer and she's d-dying."

Those words hung heavy in the air as Lincoln began to cry, ringing through Agnes Johnson's head like the ominous toll of funeral bells. A shiver went through her, and she realized that she was hugging Lincoln tight to her breast. Hot, wet tears soaked through the front of her sweater, and Lincoln's hands clutched desperately at her skirt, his tiny frame shaking disconsolately. He felt so small in her arms, so fragile, like a wounded baby bird, and tears of her own welled in her eyes. She tried to think of something to say, something to ease the hurt and sadness, but nothing came, so she hugged him closer, allowing her hands to wander over his back and her lips to plant soft, affectionate kisses to his forehead. She knew vaguely that what she was doing would be considered wrong, and that she could possibly lose her job over it, but in that moment, she didn't care, all that mattered was soothing the boy in front of her.

"Oh, Lincoln, honey, it's...it's alright," she finally managed even though it wasn't; her fingers ran through hs snowy hair and her lips pressed softly to his wet cheek, his tears salty in her mouth. His crying had stilled, and he was silent save for heavy, ragged breathing.

He turned his head then, and their lips brushed; a sharp pang rippled across her stomach, and his warm, sweet breath filled her nose. Their eyes locked - unshed tears shimmered as he stared at her with a mixture of misery, hope, and need.

When he flicked his tongue between her lips, her heart jolted with terror, shame...and excitement. Her eyes widened and her muscles tensed. Her brain screamed at her to release him and pull back, but her heart told her that she couldn't turn him away...that he needed her more than any child ever had.

Kissing him back wasn't a conscious decision, or even a rational one - she simply did it, allowing his tongue into her mouth and gently stroking it with her own, her fingers threading through his hair and her heart slammed wildly. Lincoln laid his hands on the tops of her legs and slowly traced their outline through her dress, his clumsy but revenant touch sending goosebumps racing up and down her arms and stirring embers of passion in the pit of her stomach. She turned herself over to feeling, drawing Lincoln closer; he was on his feet now, bending over her, his hands lazily exploring her chest as their tongues made slow, delicate love to one another. She skimmed her fingers down his sides to the waistband of his jeans, then up, brushing his shirt over his hips; his skin was smooth, soft, and impossibly warm. Wet heat filled the crease between her legs, and somewhere far in the back of her mind she was disgusted with herself for being aroused by a student...a child…

Then Lincoln broke from her lips and hungrily kissed her neck, his hands squeezing her breasts and his tongue lapping her skin. It's possible that before that she could have drawn back, could have saved herself from falling over the edge, but the moment he wrapped his lips around her crazily pounding pulse, she knew.

She was going to have sex with him.

Lincoln trailed kisses up the side of her throat to her ear, his breath breaking hotly against her skin and his hands plundering her. She parted her knees and spread her legs on either side of him, her nails digging into his back and her eyes rolling back in her head at the sensations pulsing out from her leaking center. He kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her lips, his primal need overwhelming him and exciting her to the point that she trembled with it. She locked eyes with him and shivered when his tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her, prodding every cervice, tasting her, savoring her. His hand went to her leg and slid up, his fingers shaking with youthful angst. She lifted it to allow him better access, a moan escaping her lips when it disappeared under her dress, his palm scraping her sensitive flesh, his warmth drawing closer to the source of her heat and making her head spin.

He hooked his fingers into her panties, and she lifted her butt off the chair, sighing when he pulled them slowly down, over her knees and down her calves, freeing her wet heat. He slipped them over her ankles and dropped them to the floor; she was practically naked in front of him, the soft fabric of her skirt molding to her vagina like a second skin, absorbing her fluid and dampening. Lincoln stared down at it with wide, intimidated eyes, as though he were having second thoughts.

"It's okay, Lincoln," she said quickly, her body burning with lust. "I'll teach you~"

He flicked his eyes to hers then back to her center. He needed coaxing like the timid creature he was, and she would delight in guiding him into manhood. Leaning forward, her eyes half-lidding, she reached for his jeans button and undid it with trembling fingers, fumbling several times before she got it. "I'm a little rusty myself," she said nervously as she pulled his pants down; when his cotton clad erection sprang out, her breath caught and her center quivered. "You're really big," she said and ghosted her hand over his bulge; he sucked in a sharp intake of breath and shuddered under her touch.

She slipped her fingers into the elastic and tugged his underwear down; his penis came out like a spring, and her heart skipped a beat. It was indeed big, and beautiful, from its curved head to the strong, throbbing cord at its base. She looked up at him, and in his eyes was a mix of lust and self-consciousness. "Don't be shy, Lincoln," she said and tenderly wrapped her fingers around his warm, pulsating flesh. "I like it." She stroked her hand slowly up and down his length, kissing him with her fingertips and relishing the satisfying expression on his face: Red cheeks, parted lips, flickering eyelids. His hips began to rock gently back and forth and his breathing increased to a bursting pant.

Suddenly, he was kissing her, his hands tangling in her hair and his rod poking her stomach; she snaked her hands around his hips and sank her nails into the soft flesh of his butt; he gasped into her mouth and prodded harder, faster, mindless in his passion. Letting go, he drew herself up a little and lifted her left leg. "Hook your arm under it," she said breathily. Lincoln did, and she hiked her dress over her hips, baring her sex for him. She took him in her hand and guided him to her opening, skull-cracking pleasure filling her head when he grazed her aching clit. The whole time, he rocked back and forth, his breathing fast, his body yearning for release just as badly as hers. "You're there," she panted and let him go; she wrapped both legs around him and dug her heels into his butt. "Just push."

Lincoln buried his face in the crook of her neck like a child in search of safe harbor and inched his hips forward, his head penetrating her, spreading her walls, and throbbing in time with the beat of his heart. It had been so long since warm, living flesh had parted her body, and the sensation was so intense that she moaned. She pressed her lips to his ear and drew him closer with her heels, sinking him deeper, taking him with a virgin-like wince. He shuddered, then thrusted roughly, his member filling her, straining beautifully against her rippling walls, his head jamming against the back of her limit, touching her as she hadn't been touched in nine long years, scratching an itch that she herself had never been able to reach. A sharp moan burst from her lips, and she threw her head back, her hair coming undone and spilling messily over her shoulders. Lincoln desperately kissed her neck and fondled her breasts as he drew back and stroked forward; sensations she barely remembered consumed her fevered body, and she moaned into his ear as he fell into a slow but steady pace. She raked her nails across his flexing back and lifted to meet his thrusts, her orgasm already swelling in her depths. Each time his hips came flush with hers, he grunted and she moaned.

Panting heavily against her neck, he went faster...then expanded inside of her as his climax crested. Stinging bliss filled her, then his boiling seed followed, spurting deep into her cold, lonely body like lava and knocking her into a chasm of endless nirvana; she lifted up one last time, held him tight, and came with a trembling cry, her entire body shaking as it tore through her like a nuclear explosion, leveling every nerve, scorching every sensor, vaporizing her heart and reducing her bones to blackened splinters.

Lincoln's knees gave out, and he collapsed against her, his back heaving and his frame shaking as aftershocks swept through him. Agnes panted for air, ran her fingers through his hair, and rubbed a lazy circle between his shoulder blades. Now that her passion had ebbed and her mind was clear, she felt a muted rush of shame...but the lingering sensation of her orgasm eased her reservations.

They didn't speak for a long time, neither knowing what to say to the other, then she swallowed against a sandpaper throat and unhooked her legs from around him. "We'd better get dressed," she said, her voice thick.

"Yeah," Lincoln said awkwardly. He pulled away and quickly turned, stooping down to grab his pants and underwear. Without him, she felt...empty.

"Can you hand me my underwear?" she asked, and for some reason that simple request made her blush.

Lincoln snatched them from the floor and held them out, his eyes not meeting hers. She took them with a thank you and pulled them on, standing; his wet cum gushed out and dampened the fabric, squishing between her folds and leaking down the insides of her thighs. Lincoln yanked his pants on and hurriedly buttoned them. Agnes watched, not sure what to do - the air was heavy and tense, and part of her wanted to rush away, to outrun the abiding guilt worrying at the edges of her consciousness like questing fingers. Instead, she took a deep breath and draped her arms over his shoulders from behind. He stiffened, then melted back into her.

She kissed his temple, and his warm, happy smile melted her. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said and squeezed his shoulders.

"Okay," he said, "have a good night, Ms. Johnson."

He started to go, but she stopped him, and he turned, his sparkling eyes making her weak in the knees. God help her, she felt like a teenage girl, and before she spoke again, a giggle burst from her throat. "You can call me Agnes," she said, "if you want."

He smiled and nodded. "Okay. A-Agnes."

The sound of her name on his lips was sweetest music she had ever heard, and it sent tingles up and down her spine.

Wrong or not, she was very much looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.

Dusk hung heavy over the streets of Royal Woods, the lamps along the sidewalks blinking on one-by-one as the last light of day filtered from the inky sky.

Lincoln Loud strode down the sidewalk toward home, his chest puffed proudly out and his shoulders back. Cool guy music played in his head and he nodded smugly with every step. He passed a woman in a power suit and stared openly at her tight ass, licking his lips in appreciation at the way it rolled and wiggled beneath pink fabric. God damn, gurl. You gonna hypnotize me.

Shaking his head, he took a deep breath of fragrant spring air and let it out slowly. All of his hard work, almost six months worth, finally paid off; he got in Aggie Johnson's pants; boooo-yah!

He figured it wouldn't be hard - she was an old spinster who probably hadn't been fucked since Bill Clinton was president. Those are the easiest lays in the world if you know how to play 'em. Oh, boo hoo, my mommy's sick, comfort me. He took a hell of a risk brushing his lips across hers like that - the point was to let her initiate it, but this was his one chance and he was getting nervous that she wouldn't make a move so he took a gamble. Luckily it paid off.

Heh.

Who's the best playa in Royal Woods? This guy.

Now he just had to figure out how to ditch the bitch before she caught feelings.

Oh, Lincoln, I'm in love, dur dur dur.

What a joke.

In the end, though, the joke was on him, cuz she didn't catch feelings...

...she caught pregnant.