The Headmaster

Gentle reader, this story will make more sense if you read the first two chapters. Thanks to members of the Lit community who encouraged a romantic ending for these characters. I greatly appreciate your friendship. :) L8.

*

Saturday morning I wake in my lover's bed. He isn't here. That's because I pick him up at the airport this afternoon.

It's been three weeks, a long 22 days to be exact, since we saw each other last. He gave me a key so I could water the plants, bring in the mail, and keep the bed warm. He said he would be pleased, thinking about that last.

I stretch my arms wide and then hug myself. I cuddle my breasts and run my fingers through the curls at my groin. Within 12 hours, someone else will be doing this. I can't wait. The regions around my nipples are tender. Hecate is sending her warning. I figure three, maybe four days. My belly isn't bloated yet, though. My emotions aren't doing the rollercoaster. That's a mercy.

Gently I stroke the hidden pink flesh, just for a moment, then wiggle and bound out of bed. There's a lot to do. All the laundry has been done for a while now, but groceries and fresh flowers need to be bought. The bedroom needs to be set up for a special welcome home.

The errands don't take long. Back in the bedroom I set out the flowers and cue the music.

Music for Airports

. Perfect. New sheets go on the king-sized bed; I'm picky about organic cotton. I lay out my weapons: baby oil, a non-penetrating cream, and a lotion of liquid silk. Each has a different purpose. Lastly, I take a shower. Memories of another shower bring me a smile. I touch myself a little bit more, enjoying the tease, the anticipation.

On the way to the airport I remember the last night I saw him.

* * *

It was a pretty natural decision for the students, myself among them, to take the headmaster out for a little dinner before he left. About a dozen of us attended. We picked a restaurant called the Lone Star. The steak was supposed to be good.

Things started out pretty much as planned. We shared good conversation and talked shop a little. Our teacher described what he would be doing out west, judging tests and tournaments, helping the black belts out there improve their teaching. Due to his rank, he makes this trip about every other year.

I got up to go to the ladies' room, and Miss Greene stood up, too. As we left the table, somebody made the same old joke about why do women always pee together. Ha, ha.

On the way through the bar, a tall fellow swiveled around on his barstool. He stood in front of us, blocking our way.

"Well aren't yew a pretty couple of fillies," he drawled. His accent was fake and his breath was bad. I think he was overserved.

We tried to go around him but he didn't take the hint. He stood on my right and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I felt a nervous shock run through my system.

At that moment things started happening in slow motion. The

gatta

ran through my head:

Breathing in, I know I'm breathing in. Breathing out, I know I'm breathing out

. Despite the man's ugly grip, my shoulders relaxed.

Calmed, I looked him in the eye. "Take your hands off me," I said clearly.

He didn't. Instead he gave my shoulders a squeeze. "Now, darlin', don't be that way. Give us a kiss." He leaned down toward my face.

As if I were standing on the mat, I stepped through the movements. I put my right arm around his waist. He smiled and stood closer, utterly failing to realize he was dancing his rôle. With my left hand I got a good fistful of his upper right sleeve. I tugged on the sleeve and gave him a little push. The back of my right ankle hooked his left, and he tripped easily, and went down.

He took down three or four barstools with him. Some glasses broke and a couple of women shrieked.

My assailant was surprised and mad as hell. "YOU BITCH!" he roared. He made an effort to get back on his feet.

He was too slow. The barkeep sailed across the bar and the bouncer appeared as if by magic. I'll never forget the sight of my classmate, Rick Burke, sprinting like an Olympian toward the scene. Close on his heels were the rest of the artists. Everybody was shouting at once.

"What happened?" the 'keep demanded. He spoke with authority.

"She pushed me!" blustered the drunk.

I stood still, just being myself, a petite 5'4" woman wearing a dress. The bartender made his decision. "You want me to call the cops?" was the next question.

"No, that's okay. But I wouldn't mind if the gentleman left."

"Okay, you're outta here," grunted the bouncer. He did his job.

"Sorry, lady," said the bartender. "Your table's next round is on the house. Show's over!" he called to the rest of the patrons. "As you were."

Gradually the noise level returned to normal. People stared and the place was buzzing about what they had seen, or what they speculated. Nobody bothered us as we made out way back to the table.

My hands began to shake. I sat down and took a deep drink of beer, since there wasn't any water on the table. Water would have been better.

"So what happened," asked our teacher.

I let Andrea tell it. "That guy came up to us and put his arm around Stephanie. She was real cool about it, she just asked him nicely to take his hands off her.

"He wouldn't do it so she did it for him. She didn't hurt him though," she added quickly. "Just tripped him." Andrea mimed the movements.

I spoke up then. "I still have to pee!" The table erupted in laughter. The rest of the evening, I stayed by my lover's side.

* * *

I'm right there by the gate when he gets off the plane. I'd like to leap on him and wrap my legs around his waist, but we aren't officially dating. I settle for a big smile and a hug. That's reasonable. He gives me a demure little peck on the cheek. I give him a peck back.

"So how was your trip?"

"It was fine, it was fine. I'll tell you all about it later, but right now I'm really tired. That's a six-hour plane ride."

"I have just the thing."

"Not a surprise party, I hope. No kidding, I am really beat."

I grin and pluck his bags off the carousel. "Hey, I can do that," he protests.

"Oh no. You are really beat, n'est-ce pas?" It's an impish pleasure to make other people stare a little. Here's this big strong guy and he's making the woman carry the bags.

One woman is pretty bold about it. She looks us up and down. I can't resist a little fun so I walk right up to her. I pant a little for effect.

"Terrible farming accident," I say. "Hurt his back."

"Oh, that's awful!" She eats it up. She puts her hand on my forearm. "You want some help?"

"Oh, you're so sweet, but it's not far. I got a pretty good parking spot." The master is cringing, standing a little ways away. I smile at the nice lady and we move on.

"I can't believe you did that," he hisses.

"Oh, why not? Can't you see how boring her life is? She just needed some entertainment. You know me, I try to help when I can. Aren't I helping you right now, carrying your bags like such a nice person?"

"I don't know how much more of your help I can take."

He's asleep by the time we get on the main highway. I don't even steal an adoring glance. I keep my eyes on the road, protecting my precious cargo.

The noise of the garage door wakes him. I let him carry one of the bags. Inside he stretches and yawns. "God, it's good to be home."

He looks around the room. The plants aren't dead and the mail is neatly stacked on the dining room table. "Place looks nice."

Then he takes me in his arms. "Thank you for watching my house," he says in my hair. "Sorry I'm too tired to thank you properly."

"I told you I have a special plan."

"You aren't going to 'help' any more, are you?"

I look innocent. "No, uh-uh, not me." I lead him a little ways toward the bedroom.

"Now here's the deal. You go in there and get undressed. I'm not going to undress you because I'm just going to give you the nicest massage you ever had. How's that sound?"

"Sounds great," he agrees. He heads down the hall. I call after him, "Lie face down, please!" He waves a hand over his shoulder.

In the living room, I hum a little tune to give him some time.

Hm, hm, hm, hm, Hm, hm, hm. Hm, hm, hm, hm, Hm! hm, hm, hm, hm.

Hm, hm, hm, hm, Hm, hm, hm. Hm! Hm, hm, hm, Hm....hm....hm. Baum, baum.

Gleefully, then, I whip off my clothes. I put on the short cotton robe that I hid earlier in the coat closet. I don't know if real geishas wear underwear, but I sure don't.

Quietly I enter the bedroom. There is that gorgeous man, spread out like a meal upon which to feast. I click the remote and the largo notes stroll broadly into the room.

Gently I take a seat on the edge of the bed and begin with his hands. Every little muscle gets a tender but firm massage. I use a professional grade goop designed for physical therapists. It makes a nice lubrication but won't sink into the skin, thus protecting those sexy calluses. People with calluses usually want them to stay the way they are.

I roll the base of his fingers between my own. Then my thumbs dent into his palm. I make wing-shapes and stroke the energy down, away from the body. The wrist is next. I use both my hands to wrap around the post, squeezing and stroking. My fingers comb the hair on his arm, brushing it the way it grows.

My lover makes faint noises of pleasure while I work. I take my time, enjoying his happiness. I want these moments to last... When I reach the elbow, I move to the other side and start over there.

It's time for some liquid silk. I warm it in my hands before applying it to his triceps. Long, smooth strokes, hand over hand I go, stopping before the sensation gets too repetitive. I knead the muscles with my thumbs, keeping us in a pocket of infinity.

I maintain the same slow pace through his shoulders and neck, focusing on relaxing my partner and thinking about how he is feeling. "Are you cold?" He is naked, after all. "You want a towel?"

He declines, so I move to the next course: his feet. This is where baby oil is a divine gift to the species. It warms easily, and a little bit goes a long way. The light, gentle scent inspires tenderness.

I kiss the arch of one foot and rub a thorough coating of the slippery stuff from the ankle on down. It's a treat for me as well as him. He groans and says something unintelligible. One by one I pull the toes, pop, pop. He groans again and this time I catch the words: "That feels really good."

I kiss him again, the back of the knee this time. Then I lace my fingers together and use the heels of my hands like a nutcracker to press the heel of his foot. From the sounds of things, this is well-received.

The ankle is next. Thumbs go around the knobs of bone. The joint loosens up just as sweet as you please. I only permit myself one distraction: the sight of his beautiful ass, soon to be lashed by my tongue. I shiver in anticipation. Little does he know...

bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!

I think. I am starting to get a little giddy.

After the other foot, I dig into his calves, getting a bit nearer to my destination. Having scooted up a little bit, I lay my lips to the back of his thigh. I exhale on his tender skin and dare a quick taste. He parts his thighs a little and my control slips a notch. The view is arousing. Can a girl help it if she gets ideas?

I work hard not to rush. My fingers wrap around his shin, thumbs kneading the calf in a woven pattern. I work my way up to the knee, then smooth down the skin from knee to ankle.

He twitches a bit when I get to his thigh. Parts of my anatomy are twitching, too. "Do you mind if I sit on your heel?" "Go ahead," is the answer.

Sigh. I open my petals and ride the wedge. The hardness is a delicious torture. I'm getting some, but wanting more. Patience. My natural lubrication greets the baby oil. It is a slick, whispery feeling.

The liquid silk is right for the backs of his thighs. I use my knuckles on the larger muscle groups. I lean forward, enjoying my clit against the back of his heel. He says things like

Oh

and

Ah

. This is encouraging. I feel around a little, probing underneath to get at his quads, continuing to shift his legs a bit further apart.

In order to best pay attention to his inner thighs, I leave my perch. With just a tiny drop of oil, I lay the pads of my fingers on the delicate skin. With slow, careful circles, I avoid touching his balls, which are clearly on display. I let him feel the warmth of my breathing. I tease him this way a little while. He makes incoherent noises and shifts his hips. Could it be he needs to ... adjust? If so, the fun is only beginning.

Softly I holler, "Ah-ooga! Ah-ooga! Dive! Dive!" He snorts a laugh into the pillow. This is the moment I've been fantasizing about for weeks. I coax his thighs even farther apart and bury my face in his crack. I swab him with my tongue from stem to stern. I explore the crease where his legs meet his torso, sweeping the length of that horizon.

No baby oil this time; it tastes awful. No worries. I hold his smooth pretty cheeks apart and shamelessly lick his sphincter. He seems to like it. Over and over I groom him like a mother cat. I praise his perineum and tickle the base of his balls. I leave a little love-bite on one beautiful ass cheek.

He rolls over before I'm really finished. His magic wand looks ready to cast a spell. He looks a request. The lust in his eyes is tempered with warmth.

Smoothly I glide into push-up position. This, too, is part of my wicked scheme. I can do 45 push-ups without stopping. I bet I can outlast him. Balanced on my palms and toes, keeping my back a 2x4, I go down, going down on him. My man groans and his eyes close. He leans back. If I could speak, I'd encourage him to let me do the work, to just lay back and enjoy the ride. I think he understands.

Up and down I bob, swirling my tongue around, tasting every inch. Every so often I pop his dick out of my mouth and lean in to assault his scrotum. I lick his balls like they're made of caramel. Then I go back to the main event. I'm careful with my teeth. I give him just a little scrape. If he wasn't my love slave before, he sure as hell is now. Yes it is true -- I am eeeeeevil.

Humming, flicking the hard/soft ridge around the top, I look up and meet his eyes. I smile with my mouth full and that's the last straw. He catches me by surprise and I gasp. As fast as I can, I catch the cream and spread it all over my neck and breasts. The moment of joy leaves us both breathing hard.

"Come here, you." He hauls me up by his side. We hug and kiss like a couple of teenagers. I nibble on his ear a little bit and run my fingers through his hair. It's gotten a little longer. Fleetingly I wonder how often he gets it trimmed. I wish I had the skill; I'd offer to do it.

"I thought I was too tired." He lays his chin on top of my head. His arms feel wonderful around my body. "Thank you."

"Oh, no, thank you..."

"Oh, no, thank

you

..."

We giggle, and share playful kisses. He holds me in the crook of one arm, my head resting on his shoulder, and he falls asleep. He really is tired from the journey. I cover him with a sheet, kiss his forehead, and go make dinner.

* * *

One week later is the annual awards banquet. It's a big hoopla at a nice hotel, with dinner and dancing. It's funny to see everybody in their clothes. I mean, not wearing uniforms. I like looking at the women. A lot of them wear sleeveless or strapless dresses. Their arms give them away. They all look like they could drop and do twenty. And they could.

The highest ranks are at the head table, the main teachers from all the schools in the region. The married ones have their wives up there, too. The headmaster is by himself at the center; decorum forbids that we sit together. The rest of us serfs are at round tables, eight or ten apiece. The hotel staff scurry around with plates of food and pitchers of drinks.

After dinner is the giving-speeches part. It is pretty much the same every year. There is a litany of accomplishments and all the thank-you's to you and you, and you, for all your support. We couldn't have done it without you.

Then is the awards part. This part takes a really long time. I applaud the people being honored, and try not to look bored. Every teacher at the head table gets to say a few words, and give a few awards. I cheer on my friends and admire the plaques that come back to the table. I sneak out to floss.

Finally is the dancing part. The hotel has set up the big room across the hall. There is a dance floor, a deejay and a cash bar. The deejay is pushing some hip hop stuff that nobody is paying any attention to.

My friends and I get drinks and take a table, yakking about who got what awards, and how nice it is that somebody got that honor. "Now if we could only get Ron Santo into the Hall of Fame," someone remarks, and there is universal agreement.

Suddenly a familiar guitar riff comes ringing in through the speakers. Everybody slams down their drinks and rushes en masse to the center of the room. "

Swe-e-eet Ho-ome A-la-bama

," warble the banshees, "

where the skies are so blue

."

Everybody is dancing with everybody and having a good time. The deejay is pleased with himself and wants to stay in the zone. When the tune winds down he segues to another Lynyrd Skynyrd chestnut and nobody minds at all. Mr. Joe Capitelli appears in front of me and grabs my hands. I can tell he is singing "

Gimme three steps, gimme three steps, mister

," but it's so loud I can't hear a thing. The noise and the laughter help me forget that it is impolitic to dance with my partner of choice.

Joey is twirling me around the floor so fast I can hardly keep up. I'm laughing and breathless when I see Rob. He is seated by himself about twenty feet away from the action. His look of anger wipes the smile off my face. Irrationally I shake Joey's hand, bow, and thank him for the dance before I make a break for it.

Like the song says, I get about three steps down the hall. "Stephanie!" I keep moving fast. He catches up with me and grabs my arm. "Stephanie!"

"I heard you!" I try to yank my arm away but he's too strong. "Let go, you're hurting me!"

Instantly he loosens his grip. People are staring. He lays his arm at the small of my back and firmly guides me out of the building.

"What was that all about?" he hisses. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I might ask you the same question! What are

you

doing! Listen, I love you, but you don't --" I can't believe I just said that and I falter -- "Own me," I finish weakly.

I hang my head and try not to cry. He is holding onto my upper arms. He gives me a little shake.

"Say that again," he demands. "Look at me. Say it."

I look up and sniffle. It's the second day of my period, which he cannot possibly know, but I'm very thin-skinned at this time to begin with. I'm not exactly at the top of my game.

"You don't own me," I say in a tiny voice.

"Not that part, the other part."

"I'm sorry," and I sniffle some more. "I didn't mean to."

He sighs. He guides us to a low stone bench so we can sit down. It's a beautiful May night. The moon is about three-quarters full, and rising. The petunias offer their fragrance.

My throat is completely constricted. I am miserable. I have lost a friendship with someone I really care about and respect. I can never go back to the school again. Every Saturday morning, from here through 2055 or whenever I'm dead, will suck.

He sighs again and slowly, heavily, begins to speak. "I'm sorry I yelled at you ... and I'm sorry for making a scene. I got jealous when I saw you dancing with Joe. I didn't know -- I didn't realize -- how much I think of you as mine."

He pauses and rushes forward. "And I want you to be. I don't want you to dance with anyone else, or sleep with anyone else, or do anything else with anyone else."