This is the first installment of a multi-part series. Draft versions of the other chapters have been completed so I expect, although I can't guarantee, they'll arrive relatively quickly. My next project is a mother-son story inspired by the tenth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.
As always, all story characters are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * *
As the other students filed out for lunch Andy Johnson walked towards me, a thick yellowed folder under his arm. He laid it on my desk.
"I thought you might want this."
It bore the logo of Brigham Young University. Someone had written Kaminska/Hunter on it. I'd never seen it before, but I knew exactly what it was. I put on my glasses, opened it, leafed through its pages. My hands were trembling.
* * * *
Steven Hunter had been a high school student taking a class in East Asian history at Brigham Young University. I was a senior, an education major, assisting the professor. Steven seduced me. It was wild; it was insane; it was all-consuming; I was addicted. I did everything he asked; we made a sex tape; there were photographs.
The police walked in on Steven, I, and half-dozen of his pals readying ourselves for a group fuck-fest. The university intended to make an example of me, but John Hunter, Steven's father, said no. He didn't care about me and was far more impressed than angry that his teen-aged son had bagged his hot teacher. But with my looks he knew the press would be all over the story and the disclosure of his son's identity inevitable. That would be a problem for a man of Mr. Hunter's wealth and notoriety. It would be a bigger problem for his wife, whose anxiety, already managed by a medicine cabinet full of pills, had spiraled out of control. The police backed off.
The university insisted on creating a written record. If I ever strayed again it could show it turned over a thorough investigation to the police, who stopped only at the request of the victim's family.
* * * *
"How did you get this?" I tried to make my voice steely and calm, but it was weak and frightened.
"My sister..."
* * * *
Three years ago I'd been hired by a high school in Highland Park, a wealthy suburb of Dallas. It was one of those schools where the students drive nicer cars than the faculty and the biggest problem were the parents, who didn't believe their little darlings were capable of doing anything wrong. For someone right out of college it was an extraordinary position. Emily, Andy's older sister, had been a senior. She was brilliant - class valedictorian, perfect score on the ACTs - and stunningly beautiful. She also seemed to own the place. There were rumors of teachers and staff being fired at her behest, rumors that the superintendent, or her husband, were her lovers, rumors she had videos of all of it. Emily did what she wanted; we got out of her way.
* * * *
"...was auditing a computer lab at Brigham Young. She got bored, hacked into the school's computers, found a list of disciplinary cases, but there was no background information. She figured out there had to be hard copies of the files and, with a little work, located them.
"The university let you down, Ms. Kaminska. I read the agreement in the file, this stuff was supposed to be kept secured, but it was in an unlocked cabinet in the hallway outside the dean's office. The school probably forget it was there. When Emily found the file she remembered you and sent it to me."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"It's your Ms. Kaminska, I'm giving it to you. I have a suggestion, however, don't destroy it. You can't be sure there aren't copies of it, or parts of it, floating around. While most of the stuff in there is damning, there is exculpatory material. Steven Hunter was no novice and I'm betting his father knew all along. You should keep the file, you may need to use it."
How much had he copied? What did he want? Best to address it now.
"What do you want?" I sounded feeble; I needed to get my voice under control.
"I want to see your breasts Helga. You do your best to hide them, but I've admired them all semester..."
* * * *
He was right. After Steven, at work I obscured the assets. I dressed professionally, usually wore my thick black shoulder-length hair up. My make-up was understated. I wore glasses, partly to give me a studious look, mostly because I liked them.
I don't want to sound too modest, I was proud of my looks. I spent an hour-plus in the gym every day and paid close attention to my skin, nails, and hair. When Bruce - my boyfriend - and I went out I loved to dress up and when we went into the city I'd wear, over my conservative boyfriend's sometime objections, something slinky and tight. In school, around town, however, I played down my appearance.
* * * *
"... and from what I saw in the file, they're spectacular."
"No."
He ignored me.
"We'll do it in your office. I'll sit in the chair facing your desk. You'll stand in front of me. If someone walks by they'll see me sitting by myself, they won't be able to see you. If anyone approaches I'll distract them."
He walked into my office. I stared at the file, turned to face him, and in a voice suddenly a whisper said, "Okay, but no touching, you have to promise not to tell anyone, no pictures."
"Helga, you're in no position to bargain, but I didn't say I wanted to touch them, I said I want to see them. I have no intention of telling anyone and as to pictures, well there are plenty of those already. But if you require assurance..." He turned his phone off and laid it on my desk.
"And just this one time?"
"I can't agree to that Helga. What if you wanted to show them to me? No gentleman would be so rude as to say no. Now please, it will be over in a minute."
I couldn't see a way out. I'd do this, go home, figure out what to do. And, hell, what was the big deal? He'd reviewed the file, he'd seen the photographs, watched the movies - he'd seen a lot more than my breasts. I walked into my office, leaned against the edge of the desk and, fingers shaking, unbuttoned my blouse. When done, trying to fill my voice with contempt, I bared my chest and said, "Okay, pervert."
I guess I expected something vulgar, but in a voice not that of a lustful teen, but full of admiration, he said, "Ms. Kaminska, they're beautiful. You should be proud of them, not hide them."
Suddenly I was embarrassed. My breasts flushed a light red, the smallish pink nipples and areolas turned maroon. I said, "You're welcome," before I could stop myself.
"35-23-35? D's, no, large C's."
"That's correct," I said, my voice subdued.
He kept looking at them, they heated up. Their red blush deepened. I concentrated, tried to shut off the flow of blood, but the harder I focused on them the more alive they seemed.
"Put on your glasses."
I did.
