Ask any teacher what the worst day is, and surprisingly few will remember the first day of work. The rumble in their tummy as they stand before a blackboard for the very first time, alone and without a supervisor seems to fade for them. It has never faded away for me, and I recall it vividly.
In my case it was even worse than average. I had come back to my hometown after graduating college; disappointing my parents who had expected me to move out and be a big success "away" somewhere. I explained that I'd come home to "give something back to the community", but it was complete balderdash. What I was really doing was burying myself in my work, trying to avoid admitting something that no-one else knew.
In college I had become Mistress to a lithe blond tart named Jacqueline "Tennisball" Turner. In some way, we'd been very much in love. I'd revelled in every whipping or spanking I gave her. She gloried in the loving abuse I heaped on her. But eventually I'd convinced myself that this wasn't what I wanted.
I was a "normal" woman, with normal desires. I wanted a husband and kids and. . . .And I wanted Tennie, or piggy, as I'd sometimes called her, crawling to lick a pair of black leather boots with four-inch heels that clung so tightly to my legs that my slave often had to yank them off me while I broke the suction with a shoehorn. I wanted her head bobbing vigorously between my thighs as the little electric shocks of pleasure shot from my clitoris. I wanted to hang her from the ceiling beam of my little house and beat her ass raw for breaking dishes, to set her impossible tasks and punish her for failing at them.
But I wanted other things too: the touch of her breath on my neck when I let her sleep in my bed; the soft look in her eyes when she knelt at the foot of that bed with my morning coffee; the contented hum of her when all the happy violence was over, the sweat and sometimes tears dried, and she cuddled into my arms during decompression.
And I wanted all of this while leading a June-Cleaver-with-a-career existence? It was too much, and I knew it. But while I sorted all this out I still had rent to pay, first to my parents, then to a landlord, and finally to a mortgage company. I found a job at a high school in town (not the Catholic school I'd attended, but a newer secular school called Park West Secondary).
On the first day of classes, I was way too early. Only the school custodian was in the hall as I entered the Old Building (the one built in 1976 was the New Building) and made my way to room 108 West. The classroom was empty, and I unlocked the door but left the light off. Instead I went to the door at the back of the class. In other days it would have been a storage space. The teacher I had replaced, one Mr. Carruthers, had been in the habit of smoking a pipe quietly in there while grading papers, and the room had that lovely "gentleman's club" smell of old leather armchair, shoe polish, and pipe tobacco. It's a smell I've always associated with luxury.
There was a little narrow window facing the soccer field, and long shelves of dusty textbooks along the wall with the door in. I put my necessary things into the desk and cupboards, my clipboard, a pack of marking pens, chalk (any teacher will tell you, you bring your own and hoard your supply), and my coffee mug.
My coffee mug.
It was a present from Tennie. She'd made it herself in some ceramics workshop course. It was well-made, a little clunky. I kept pens in it. On the side, in a slightly wavering script it read "World's greatest Mistress". Tennie loved her little jokes. I wondered where she'd gotten to. After our tearful parting in a restaurant washroom over a year ago, I'd never seen her again.
Except in your dreams, fantasies, and fevered imaginings
said my traitorous mind. Even now I got wet just thinking of her, and I felt a wild stab of jealousy at the momentary vision that confronted me:
Tennisball
Turner kneels naked at the left of a chair. Her distinctive blonde bob has been shaved, as has every inch of the rest of her, although her head has still a single long braid, almost a pigtail, rising from the top. Leather in blue and orange decorates each wrist, each ankle, and her throat. Her hands are locked together behind her in a single sleeve, almost elbow-to-elbow. She's bound by several short chains into a painful backward arc in a framework upon which two candles are mounted. The candles are positioned so that every few seconds a big drop of hot wax drips onto each of her breasts. When this happens, sharp moans escape her stretched lips and the reading light suspended on a pole, which is shoved into her mouth, jiggles. A hand slaps her wax-splattered right tit, cracking off a large chunk of cooled red wax.
"Be quite still, darling," says the raven-haired Asian in the chair "Mummy's going to beat you in a minute or so, and if the light keeps moving about it'll take me longer to read this chapter," her face hardens and her nostrils flare as she looks down at the helpless slave girl over her glasses "and you wouldn't like that
at all.
"
In the tobacco-smelling little office, I checked my watch—fifteen minutes. I closed the door silently. My nipples were hard. I lifted my skirt and rubbed two fingers across my pussy, then touched them to my lips. It reminded me of being kissed by my slave just after she'd eaten me out satisfactorily; a taste like honey and jasmine, with a little hint of bitter lemon rind. I pinched one of my hard nipples through the fabric of my sweater and bra. My clit responded with a tingle. I sat back in the scuffed red leather chair and teased myself, running my finger slowly up my thigh. My mind took me back into the fantasy—only instead of the handsome Asian woman, it was
me
in the chair.
"I don't have long, piggy, so get that tongue of yours to work."
In this fantasy her blonde hair is all there, although her pussy has been trimmed to a tiny 'landing strip' of fur. She's wearing nipple clamps hung with two ounces of weight on each side. Her flesh is cruelly marked with red stripes. She displeased me yesterday, although I forget quite what it was. . .
Oh but that slutty little tongue of hers! She's really getting into her work. It makes her happy and wet to please me. Not that wetness does her any good. Her cunt is freshly sealed shut, pierced and padlocked only a few weeks ago, and as for her ass—well that's currently occupied by a "triple ripple" butt plug which I've been training her to enjoy.
I ease my haunches forward on the chair, presenting myself to her mouth. If her hands weren't locked tightly to her collar she'd be fingering me and I'd have cum already. As it is, her tongue flicks my ass and pussy in that rhythm that pushes me over the edge. . .
Voices; Outside; Shit! I stopped flicking my clit as the fire inside me banked, then died down. The window in the office door lit up as someone flicked the switch outside. Composing myself I quickly stood up, tucking my blouse back in, smoothing my rumpled skirt, and pulling up my damp panties. Taking a deep breath I glanced in the mirror on the end of the wall shelves. Slightly flushed, but nothing out of the ordinary for a first-day teacher. I sniffed surreptitiously—I always think that my smell gives me away when I'm horny. Not having deodorant with me
,
I anxiously sprayed a good bit of a can of "Air-Way Smoke-Out", thoughtfully left by the previous occupant of the room for such emergencies—or maybe not, into the air and walked up and down beneath the hazy cloud.
I opened the door and stepped out into room 108 to find a small group of kids slowly getting bigger as students trickled in. These were grade 10's—a particularly tough group for a new teacher. They'd seen it all, and were planning to do most of it; or egg someone else into doing it, possibly on video. Grade 10's are testing adult wings that don't quite fit yet. They're ready to fly on their own, mostly, and resent interference, but you can't quite leave them alone to figure it all out. So you have to be totally available and totally disinterested at the same time.
They stared when I came into the room, and I was conscious of the sudden silence. They could tell from my clothes that I wasn't a student, but surely this chick was too. . .what? Too young, too . . .
put together
, for a teacher. I could almost feel the girls narrowing their eyes as I walked to the big desk up front.
I was a bit nonplussed at the attention, especially from male members of the class. After all, I'd spent several hours taking care that my clothes were appropriate for a teacher. They were supposed to be stylish but plain. My heels (a personal conceit—teachers were supposed to wear flats for insurance reasons) were only two inches high. My stockings were plain and dark with a seam up the back; being old-fashioned about underwear I held them up with a garter belt. My skirt was grey and pleated, but respectably knee-length, although it had a disturbing tendency to flare outward a bit. I wore a high-necked blouse with pearl buttons, trimmed with lace at the throat and wrists, with a simple short jacket over all, and my long dark brown hair had been pinned within an inch of its life into a bun. I didn't realise until I was told, much later, how plain dressing can make a woman sexier than sheer stark nakedness.
The boys in the class shifted uncomfortably in their seats as I turned around and wrote my name on the board: Miss Flock. I'd expected some whispered comments about my last name, but a girl named Althea Flock either gets used to it or changes her name to Karen Smith. But the question I got asked wasn't quite what I was expecting:
"Hey," said a boy in the second row "what do we
call
you?" "I'm Miss Flock" I told him. He had on jeans that puddled around his ankles, a t-shirt with a big green marijuana leaf on it, and a red ball cap turned sideways. "Nah," he said "what's your first name?" I was a bit stunned, and reacted from pure instinct. "I don't have one as far as you're concerned Mister . .?" "Fisher," he said "Jerry Fisher—but everybody calls me Fish." His mouth was open, and his hair hung over his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. "I'm not everybody, so I'll call you Mister Fisher," I answered "and take off that hat, please." I think it was only surprise that made him do it.
People think teachers haven't got ears. Students will talk, even while other teachers are present, and they don't seem to understand how much of what they talk about makes it back to the staff room. During my first year I gained a reputation as a fierce disciplinarian, but a parallel reputation for being fair and for working things through. I didn't hesitate to give detentions, which surprised and appalled a lot of parents and brought me into a lot of conflict both with them and with the school administration. But I stood my ground, sacrificed my time, and gradually the parents came to know me as the teacher who could get the best work out of their kids. Almost all their kids.
For my part, I settled into school life like I'd been born to it, and for five years I taught high school English and History. I was satisfied and doing useful work. Eventually I got used to the loneliness too.
It wasn't that I didn't get offers. In the first couple of years every straight male teacher (and one I wasn't certain about) and a couple of the gay female ones made me offers. I always felt awkward turning them down. My fling with Tennisball and the discomfort of sharing classes with her after it all came apart (after I
broke
it apart), or of seeing her around and the misery it brought on, were still pretty fresh to me. I cautiously accepted a few invitations, had second dates with a few men; turned down all the women.
It wasn't that I was "denying my gay self" or something. I just didn't feel
anything
for them. It was that "plain toast, no jam" feeling. Not that I got anything much from dating the few men I spent time with. I took a couple of them home; actually saw one man for several months. We had sex, and it was terrific overall, but eventually the whole relationship came down to sex. There wasn't anything else. So I thanked him and said goodbye. It wasn't quite that simple—I wound up sleeping with him occasionally for nearly a year before I decided it was doing me more harm than good.
Once again I said goodbye, and once again he was nice about it. We talked by phone occasionally, but I wasn't very encouraging, and eventually the phone went silent too. I spent a lot of time working out or reading, and slowly got used to being alone. Then something happened that made my tiny flickering flame roar up and consume me.
At the beginning of the fifth year I worked at the school, I arrived early, masturbated quickly (it had become something of a habit), and walked into the classroom from my little office, which smelt less like smoke and more like sandalwood nowadays.
The new students, a grade 12 History class, were grouped around the room in the usual dribs and drabs. I'd had some of them in prior years. Clearly they'd told their friends about me, because as soon as I arrived there was a bit of a scramble to take seats. I felt the eyes crawling up my legs to my ass, then to my back as I strolled up the row, heels clicking. I deliberately put a slow wiggle in my walk—it would be useless for me to pretend any longer that I didn't enjoy the looks I always got on the first day. At the front of the room, I wrote my name on the board and turned to face them.
"Good morning," I began "I'm Miss Flock. It seems like you already know my general rules. I expect you to behave professionally towards me, just as I will towards you. I'm going to get your names from you now."
The front row consisted of Jeff McWhirter, a skinny boy in a ratty t-shirt and glasses. I noted the shirt and made a mental check to remind him of the both the school's dress code and my class dress code, which was somewhat stricter. Next to Jeff was Linda Long, who vaguely reminded me of a spaniel puppy. Beside her was Calvin Chung, a thin Chinese boy I guessed was both bright and gay, as was the long scarf he wore. The fourth seat was vacant.
Like most teachers and preachers, I hate vacant seats at the front. I looked over the room of blonde and brunette heads to the very back. I caught a glimpse of swirling black hair with a single blue streak, pale bare shoulders, and the distinctive "T" of a g-string visible above the waistband of a pair of "Sho-T" brand jeans (the hot brand for teen no-longer-wannabe-virgins that year). The owner was seated, leaning into the aisle as she rummaged in an oversized canvas book bag.
"Excuse me," I said, pointing "Yes, you. What's your name please?" There was a mumble. "I beg your pardon?" I said. "Sue." "Sue who?" I heard a solitary giggle from somewhere.
