The exit door on the second floor tended to stick and not lock properly. The young woman had snuck into the school that way before. Her satchel rested heavy on her back as she climbed the stairs, even though it only contained some nice linen paper and an ink pen that her Aunt had given her on her Birthday. His instructions added the weight. During every step she took, words whispered to her in his rich voice. “Go to a nice prim writing desk.”
She padded down the hall, looking for the room that she needed. If she were lucky, the janitor would be down in the basement smoking weed like normal. The classroom she wanted had only one window to the outside. Sometimes it was used for counseling, but most of the time it wasn’t formally occupied by a specific teacher.
When she pushed the door open, her lie was on her lips. On the off chance that someone was there, she was ready. It would be easy enough to say that she had left something behind. Blessedly, the room was empty, and she gratefully slid into its twilight. She shut the door behind her and locked it.
There were only about six student desks in the room, crowded together as if they really didn’t belong. The shade over the room’s one window was yellowed and water stained. Bookshelves lined the room and there was a thick braided rug under the teacher’s desk and the leather chair behind it. The room smelled dusty, and she felt the papery taste of old books on her tongue. With a shrug of her shoulders she lowered her satchel to the speckled floor. She reached up and pulled the door window’s curtain closed. The color of the fabric had faded over the years to a nondescript gray brown. She took a step back and decided, maybe wedging a chair under the door wouldn’t be a bad idea. She knew she was delaying, but she got the chair and walked it over anyway, settling it firmly under the door handle. She took a deep breath. It really wasn’t that big a deal. She told herself. She reached for her satchel and headed to the nearly empty desk at the front of the room.
The surface was polished oak, nicked and worn with time. The blotter looked unused and the black phone was dated and over practical. A cup saying number one teacher was half full of short pencils and chewed pens. A silver letter opener with a polished round handle lay abandoned. She pushed all of it to the side of the desk, making room for her task. If she hurried, she could be done and gone in no time. She gave a little shudder as she placed her satchel in the chair.
The paper perfectly lined up with the top of the desk, her black ink pen uncapped and waiting. She found herself staring at the surface of the desk. She could do this. The door was locked. No one would know. “Just do it, and get out of here.” She whispered to herself, “You can do it.” She reached under her gray uniform skirt and shimmied her panties down her thighs. It had been hard to think in class today. Images of laying over his lap had flickered in the back of her mind, distracting her in American Literature. Focus had been impossible.
He’d said, “Take off your wet panties and set them by the paper.” She stepped out of the silk of her panties and placed them on the desk next to the crisp clean paper. The lump of twisted silk looked obscene to her next to the tidy paper. Touching her fingertips to her forehead she squeezed her thighs together. The wide wooden desk beckoned. She took a step forward and the rounded corner of the desk nestled to her thighs. A glance to the closed door, and she pulled up the front of her skirt. Her fingers slid over her belly and down between her thighs across her heated sex. She was liquid silk against her fingers. To be lit. She shivered.
