Leda & Swanne

Leda had the misfortune to have a surname that started with an 'A', so she sat right at the front of the class, under the teacher's nose. She had good fortune to be pretty and well developed for her age. Having just turned 18, she looked older than her classmates in the all-girl school she attended.

Swanne had the misfortune to be the only male teacher at the school, a major break with 150 years proud tradition, and the cause of much muttering from the other teachers, spinsters, virtually to a 'man', and 10 years older at least. He had the good fortune to be 'not ugly'. Not handsome, just 'not ugly'. Which was enough to fuel more than a few teenage fantasies amongst his students.

She was the closest thing the school had to a tart. She was curvy and moved in a way that showed she knew it. She wore make-up, discretely, as well as perfume. Both were explicitly banned in the lengthy list of school rules. But these infractions paled into insignificance when compared to her flouting of the school's uniform code. In this area she was a legend in her own lunchtime, the subject of admiration, jealousy and desire in almost equal parts. The uniform should have consisted of

- Pleated woollen skirt, to the knees.

- Thick 'bullet proof' tights in summer and winter

- White cotton blouse, long sleeved and buttoned to the neck.

- Striped tie.

- Underwear had to be of the most utilitarian design, big, baggy and practical.

Is it a wonder that she ignored the rules? Instead of wearing what she was meant too Leda likes to make a few variations. Perhaps you would like to know how Leda gets ready for school? Shall we watch?

Leda stumbles through her morning, waving goodbye as her parents leave for work. Watching until their cars are completely out of sight, she moves away from the window and pads softly to her parent's bedroom, excitement building with every step. "NOW I can raid Mummy's vanity!" she says to herself. Leda's mother, Claire had every hue of lip rouge, every kind of mascara and eye shadows.

She stands before the door, and opens it slowly, as though about to enter a holy shrine. Ahh! There is the altar. The altar that she will worship when she is no longer a child, when she becomes a woman. Crystal atomisers filled with heavenly scents stand in a row like receptacles of holy water.

"These are the things 'Claire' wears that make men's faces light up at Daddy's parties," she thinks, savouring the irreverence of referring to her mother by her first name.

She uncaps "Wantonly Red" lipstick but forlornly remembers school rules. Replacing the cap, she rubs the cherry-flavoured lip-gloss across her lips, instead. This is quickly followed by a bit of powder on the cheeks and a little mascara on the lashes. (Although in this case 'a little mascara' might not be the description used by someone with a little more experience in applying the stuff.) Pleased with her face, but not her "look," she rolls up the waistband of her uniform skirt until it's much shorter than regulation, but shows her legs more flatteringly. She turns. Profiles. With a sigh, she realises that even thrusting out her chest doesn't quite give her the look she knows will come one day.

"They'll grow," her mother had reassured her. "Yes, but when??" she wonders.

Again, with a sense of awe and excitement, Leda opens the doors to the French armoire where Claire's "delicates," are stored in lilac-fragranced compartments. She takes out a wisp of silk, nothing like the coarse panties that she's forced to wear, and without hesitation, slips out of the offensive garment and dons the soft, tiny piece of cloth that just covers the hairs that have just recently sprouted. A matching bra beckons her, and she quickly whips off her blouse and clumsy camisole. The underwired, padded bra gives her the look she's yearned for. Before pulling her blouse back on and buttoning it, she gazes into the mirror once more, feeling deliciously naughty. The cups of the bra just barely reach her rosy buds. With a bit more daring, she yanks off the thick black tights of the school uniform, and luxuriates in the caress of her mother's silk stockings as she slides them on over her legs.

'I'm 18 now, I'm grown up,' she grumbles to herself. 'Why can't I wear grown up lingerie?'

Just as she's about to try on a pair of her mother's high heels, a loud 'HONK' breaks the spell. 'Damn, Jenkins.' With a resigned sigh, she dashes off to hurry downstairs before her driver decides to come to the door. If she's late again, he WILL inform her parents, he'd warned.

This is how Leda went to school that day. Considering what she was meant to wear are you surprised that she longed to look a little prettier, a little sexier? Dare I say it, a little more experienced? But appearances can deceive. She was, by a strict definition at least, still a virgin.

He was, by no definition, a virgin. But this fact caused him no pleasure. His feelings about sex could probably only be described as twisted. It would take too long here to delve into his past, his youth, to discover the causes of this twisting. Suffice to say that he considered sexual urges sinful yet, with a not uncommon irony, they raged strongly in his blood. His ideas of women were 'Old Testament' to say the least. He viewed them as the cause of all sin, a source of temptation. They were to blame for the impulses he felt building inside him. If they didn't dress 'that way', or look suggestively at him, or talk provocatively, then he would not be torn by these torments of passion. Every woman was, in his mind, a harlot and his life was a constant struggle to avoid the snares and lures of these emissaries of Satan.

If not Satan, then it must have been another deity with a devilish sense of humour who brought these two together. Let us see them now, in class. Events are coming to a head.

It's all she can do to pay the slightest bit of attention in class. Unaccustomed to the fine undergarments, she finds herself constantly distracted by the silk's soft caress. Her eyes fall upon Mr. Swanne. Tilting her head to one side, she imagines that he is handsome, in a strange sort of way. His ice blue eyes seem to pierce through her as he frowns in her direction. She smiles to herself.

"He's frowning so none of the other students will know that he likes me," she muses. Her fingers twirl a wayward strand of hair, and she runs it between her lips. Lips. Studying his lips, wondering what it would feel like to...

The subject of the lesson is immaterial. What is material is that Leda is not paying attention. Swanne is a good teacher. His bottled up emotions manifest themselves in an intensity of delivery that is usually gripping. But Leda is daydreaming. Swanne is all too aware that his student is not paying attention. He is all too aware of everything that Leda does, or doesn't, do. Right now, as he strives to continue talking in a normal voice, he is aware of a number of things. For example, he knows that the girl's blouse is not buttoned all the way to the neck. In fact is probably not buttoned half way up. From his raised dais at the front of the class it is all too easy to look into the shadowed crevice of her cleavage, revealed by this state of undress. He curses his overheated imagination for suggesting that her breasts look larger this day. How can that be?

The tugged down mess that is her tie seems to draw his eyes back to where they should not look. He can feel beads of sweat across his top lip, although the day is not warm. As Leda stares out the window her knees have fallen apart beneath her desk. Unconscious of how much of her inner thigh she is showing to her teacher she twirls a finger in a strand of hair. Swanne is also very conscious of Leda's hair. Her wavy blonde tresses resist all attempts at control and restraint. Even today's pig-tails make little difference. To the teacher this hair looks dishevelled by carnal activity, rather than, the true reason, lack of attention. Swanne also knows that the girl's skirt is not the regulation length; nowhere near the regulation length. A hundred times he has pictured just how short is 'too' short. Sometimes, when his control slips, he imagines actually measuring the gap between knee and hem. Resting the cold brass tip of the tape measure against her knee and then running the tape up her downy thigh...up...up....

He stops striding across the front of the classroom, pausing in mid sentence, trying to regain his composure. He can feel one of his 'migraines' coming on. It is as a hot metal band is being tightened around his head.

The chalkboard duster he has been clutching whistles through the air and, barely missing Leda, bounces of the wall.

'MISS LEDA!!!!', he bellows, causing several of the girls to shriek in surprise and fright,

'Can you tell me what I have been talking about for last 15 minutes?'

The scared girl stares back at him, wide eyed, stunned and silent.

'None of your dumb insolence girl! Can you?'

The room stands still, the world stops spinning on its axis. Even the motes of chalk dust, illuminated in the slanting early afternoon sunshine, cease their movement.

Startled into reality, Leda struggles to snatch at words that her ears must have heard but that she somehow can't seem to put together. She stares at him blankly.

'No Sir.'

The answer is a whisper, but in that silence a pin drop would be akin to thunder. Leda sits, head downcast. Swanne studies the top her head, breathing deeply with the effort of bringing himself under control, his thoughts buzzing through his mind like deranged wasps.

'In my office NOW Miss Leda. The rest of you, wait here until the bell rings and then you may go to lunch.'

He strides to the door and holds it open, waiting for Leda. Slowly she rises from her desk and makes her way out of the room, unable to meet the glances of her classmates.

'He wants to be alone with me!' Her heart beats excitedly and her face burns hot. She wonders what he will do. Will he pretend to be so angry until the door is shut behind them? And then, will he suddenly smile at her? Will he touch her? Hold her in his arms? 'Imagine Mr. Swanne and me! Me, on his arm on New Year's Eve. Cooking for him and taking care of the house. And all those other things that mummy said only married people can do!!'

Outside in the corridor Swanne, unable to trust his voice, gestures for Leda to precede him to his office. Their path takes them upstairs and as they climb the teacher's eyes are drawn to the girl's legs. As his gaze moves up he notices again how short her skirt is. Almost without conscious thought he slows his pace to allow her to get further ahead on the stairs so ..that... he... can..... see....... her.........STOCKINGS!!! Swanne sucks in his breath with lust at the glimpse of stocking tops. The sound causes Lead to look over her shoulder at her teacher. As she catches his amazed eyes she instantly realises what he has seen; this major, major infraction of the Uniform Code. She had forgotten about the 'panty raid' on her mother's lingerie drawer that morning, until now. (Good thing he can't see 'those' panties and bra she thinks to herself and shivers at the thought.) For a moment she holds Swanne's gaze and experiences a tumult of emotions. Shame causes her to blush pink to the roots of her hair. But at the same time a strange excitement causes her knees to tremble and her nipples to harden.

For a second, she ponders the strange expression on his face. Then, slowly, she begins to think,

'He wants me! He's looking at me like Daddy looks at Mummy!' With a bit more sauciness than she should have displayed, she takes the stairs jauntily, letting her tush swish, just a little, for Mr. Swanne. She can't understand the sudden stiffness of her nipples; she certainly doesn't feel cold!

She pauses at the entrance to his office, eyes downcast and still pink, till he catches her up. He is stunned to silence at the way she had just wriggled her ass at him on the stairs.

'Like a common street walker' he thinks to himself, 'in stockings no less.'

He shakes his head in anger and amazement.

'That one so young should be fallen so low in the ways of sin and temptation. Trying to lead astray God-fearing men by displaying her sinful body. She must be "saved from herself", he thinks.

But his mind runs on. 'Oh I'll save her all right. In a way that will make that bottom a little more difficult to gyrate by the time I've done with the tart.'

As he opens the door all he can manage in the way of speech is to grunt, 'In' and she stumbles across the threshold. The noise of the heavy door slamming behind her resounds with finality.

As the door thuds closed, Leda's mind stops wandering and she begins to tremble, finally having some sense of the enormity of what a 'trip to the office,' might mean.

Swanne strides across the room to the window and stares out onto the playing fields. An impromptu hockey game has started and 20 or so girls are squealing and laughing in their gym-slips. Yet no sound penetrates the double glazed windows. Swanne, as the only male teacher in the school, enjoys the luxury of an office to himself. The room had previously been a servant's quarters and is tucked away under the roof of the main school building. It even affords the luxury of an en-suite bathroom, to save the school having to build additional toilets for just one man.

Swanne tries to compose his thoughts, but the recent vision of this little strumpet's stocking clad upper thighs is imprinted on his mind, making concentration difficult. Eventually he finds his voice and starts talking, still looking out the window.

'You are my worst student Miss Leda. You never pay attention in my classes. This would not be so disappointing if I did not believe that you possessed some modicum of intelligence. On top of this you continue to flout the school's Uniform Code....in,...ah,...ahem,....a number of ways. I feel you need something to motivate you to concentrate, something to remind you that breaking the rules here is not acceptable. I have no alternative but to punish you. Corporal punishment is the only answer I believe.'

Finally he brings himself to look at her. 'Do you understand?'

He watches her as the words sink in. He can see her fear, the unshed tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, and it makes him feel powerful.

Raising his voice he asks again, 'DO YOU UNDERSTAND?'

The slight nod of her head dislodges a single tear to trickle down her cheek. This sight causes a feeling of tightness to spread across Swanne's body. He actually stretches to relieve the tension he feels building within. That old, familiar tension.

Swanne's words cut deeply. She hadn't expected him to take this severe tone. She wonders how far he will take it before he starts showing her or telling her how he REALLY feels about her.

He moves close to the trembling girl and begins to circle her. Standing behind, out of sight he inhales deeply and catches a mixture of aromas. Soap and cheap perfume, shampoo and chewing gum. Cherry flavoured lip-gloss? To his senses the combination is very exciting. It smells like...innocence. Knowing that standing behind her makes the girl uncomfortable also excites him; so he stays where he is, revelling in her fear. The more scared and weak she becomes the stronger he feels.

Leda can feel his presence behind her, before her, beside her. The feather light graze of his breath on her exposed neck makes inexplicable goose bumps cascade across her shoulders and arms. She suddenly feels very small.

Swanne leans forward till his mouth is beside her ear. 'I saw what you are wearing, as we climbed the stairs. The Code says that you must wear tights at all times. So why are you wearing the apparel of a prostitute?'

Leda is too scared to answer. 'Are you a prostitute Leda?'

The girl flinches as this question hisses into her ear.

'Nn...n...ooo Sir.' She finally manages to answer.

The teacher moves in front of her, still very close. He takes Leda's quivering chin in his hand and raises her face so that she must meet his gaze. Studying her from a foot away he drawls,

'Lipstick........... mascara... ...rouge. You wear make-up like a whore as well.'

He roughly runs his thumb across her full lips, smearing the girl's lipstick across her cheek, bruising lips against teeth. This minor abuse, this first contact, makes Leda tremble with emotions that she is unable to recognise.

She is stunned, unable to comprehend what is happening to her. It wasn't like she thought it would be, but, he did touch her lips. It was the first time that a man had touched her lips. Relatives don't count. She moves her legs slightly, trying to loosen the wet silk from between her legs. Wet. How did that happen she wonders? Worried that in her fear, she might have..."leaked."

The exaggerated slowness of Swanne's speech does nothing to mask the pressure building within his body.

'You look like a whore Leda.'

She shakes her head.

'Is that what you would like to be Leda? A street walker?' Head shake. 'Would you like me to treat you like a whore Leda?'

Voice growing louder and rising in pitch.

'IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?'

The schoolgirl is too scared to cry and merely shakes her head, trying to articulate the huge 'No' that is stuck in her throat.

Leda's eyes grow as big as saucers. He said the 'H' word! He called HER the "H" word! Leda may be unsure of the meaning of the word (or it's spelling), but she has a pretty good idea. She struggles to take it all in.

'Is this what a whore feels like?' she wonders. 'Am I?? Am I a whore?'

The question is too big for her. This isn't what she expected at all. A flurry of thoughts flies through her head as she recalls...impure thoughts, mostly about Mr. Swanne. Her tongue seems to have been suddenly fastened to the roof of her mouth.

Swanne turns away, satisfied. His enjoyment of this control over his pupil manifests itself in an erection that strains against his trousers and a continuing desire to stretch away his tension

By now it is already too late to change the course of events. Swanne has stepped onto a path that permits no turning back. Were we able to stop him now, to question him, he would deny that what happened was pre-planned. He would believe his own words. Despite this belief, his fate, and that of Leda, have already been decided.

Swanne takes up a four-foot length of bamboo from his desk and bends it theatrically. Leda is unable to tear her eyes from this terrifying sight. It makes her feel very 'strange'. Feeling 'strange' is how Leda thinks of the new sensations that have been assaulting her adolescent body. In her bed at home after her mother has switched off her light, she has been having trouble sleeping because of these 'strange' feelings. She has found, upon waking from troubling dreams, a dampness in and around her private parts. But she has been listening to the older girls whispering and has an idea what causes this 'strangeness'. Hearing more gossip, and aided by some surreptitious experimentation in the bath, she has taught herself how to relieve these strange feelings. But now she is feeling VERY 'strange', all sort of 'tingly'.

Her eyes are riveted to the bamboo rod. Swallowing dryly, the strange mix of feelings make her feel like a deer caught in the headlights. A part of her wants to run and keep running to the safety of her room. But another part of her needs to stay and discover what causes these strange new feelings. This part wants to surrender responsibility and complete the journey that has begun, having no more say in the final destination than a leaf in a stream.

Swanne swishes the cane backwards and forwards in the air as Leda watches, fascinated.

'I think the cane might be a little severe under these circumstances.' He says before placing the device, reluctantly, back on the desk.