There's the possibility of more parts to this story, if inspiration strikes.
*
"Mr. Hawthorne?" Victoria Sanderson stood in the doorway to my office, timidly knocking to announce her presence. To the outside observer, she would have looked the picture of innocence: white tennis shoes, pink ruffles atop white ankle socks, blue skirt hanging to her mid-calf, white button-down shirt (with only the top button undone), strawberry blonde hair gently curling below her jawline. It was the requisite school uniform here at Cooper's Branch Preparatory Academy, though certainly she wore hers more prim-and-proper than many of her classmates did. Such a hypothetical observer would see her on the threshold of my office at the beginning of the fall term and imagine her to be a serious student, a graduating senior with good grades and higher aspirations, getting an early start on scholarship applications and lining up letters of recommendation from her teachers.
Our observer could be forgiven for coming to that conclusion, but other than her age, he couldn't be more wrong. If Victoria were the girl that the image implied, she wouldn't be here in my office in the first place. I'd noticed her when she started school here as a 15-year-old freshman. Watched her develop and blossom. And I'd harbored a quiet and secret hope that she'd be this year's model.
**********
I'd started at Cooper's Branch in the English department eleven years ago, after a mildly-successful career as a teacher, and a wildly-unsuccessful career as a novelist. At the time, my colleagues teased me because I was leaving the Memphis public school system for a private school in the affluent suburbs of Atlanta. For all my protestations about the quality of life in Alpharetta and the quality of students I'd be working with, they still saw a 32-year-old single male teaching at a residential academy for girls as a "dirty old man." I didn't mind their mockery. I knew the truth: I wasn't remotely old.
My first day at Cooper's Branch, I was called into the headmistress' office. Radmila Starovic had a reputation for being unforgiving, but that was only her professional demeanor. As we spoke at length for the first time, she apologized for not being available during my interview, but she had been out of the country. I learned that her father had emigrated to the US from Yugoslavia to escape the brutalities of Marshal Tito's regime, and only since the fall of the Soviets was she able to visit her father's side of the family in Novi Sad, Serbia. I guessed it was the Serb in her that made her come off as caustic to Western ears; in short order, I found her to be quite pleasant, much more educationally-progressive than I would have expected from a school administrator in what I guessed were her early fifties, and loyal to her faculty.
Pleasant, at least, until our conversation turned to the student body. If she was loyal to the faculty, then she was fiercely protective of the 400 or so girls in her care. I was one of only five men on faculty, and the only one under 60. So, not only did I have to avoid improper behavior, I had to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. I was never to have a one-on-one conference with any of my students unless another faculty member (preferably female) was at least within earshot, and my office door was to remain open at all times barring a compelling reason to close it. I understood. Wealthy parents were giving us 5 figures a year in tuition; they had a right to expect us to protect their girls as much as possible. Caesar's wife must be beyond reproach and all that.
But something wasn't ringing quite true for me. Headmistress Starovic (as she insisted on being referred to while on school property) seemed to be going well beyond any sort of in loco parentis role. It sounded hyper-protective to me, as though these girls were hers, and their safety was her first, last, and only responsibility. I merely chalked it up to being raised by over-protective eastern European parents.
**********
Fast forward six years. I'd been the model of propriety, with nary a whiff of scandal. I'd earned Headmistress Starovic's trust, to the point where we were "Radmila" and "Wes" when we were alone in her office. ("Besides," I'd whined, "'Radmila' is at least 78% easier to say than 'Headmistress Starovic'.") My students didn't hate me. It quickly became clear that I wasn't passing out good grades to the girl with the shortest skirt or the most cleavage, and word got around: if sex sells, I wasn't buying. At one point, a rumor spread through campus that I was gay, because the fragile egos of these teenage girls couldn't accept the notion that a straight man might be immune to the powers of their sexuality. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but ... uh ... no.
Having a young-ish man on faculty was paying off for the school as well; the fathers now had someone they could talk to "man-to-man" at the fundraising dinners. Donations were up, possibly as a result. I was getting paid enough to live in comfort, and occasional trips into Atlanta tended to my social and personal needs. (Astonishingly good Chinese food in Atlanta, if you know where to find it.) I even had season tickets for the Falcons, since the team president's daughter was an alumna, and the Matt Ryan Era was giving fans hope for the first time since the Dirty Birds. (We aren't supposed to accept personal gifts from alumnae or their parents, so ... shhhh!). If life was a little dull and predictable, it was at least a high-quality dull and predictable. The English teacher and frustrated novelist in me cannot help but draw your attention to the use of the past tense in the previous sentence. "Was", not "is." It wouldn't stay dull for much longer.
**********
One Thursday evening during the Spring term, I was working late in my office, grading papers that I'd put off for too long. With my door open (of course) and no one else around, I was able to hear what sounded like crying from a classroom down the hall. I knew that a one-on-one conversation with a student shouldn't happen, but students weren't allowed in the classrooms after school in the first place. And moreover, if it was one of our girls crying, someone should do something, and I was the only one around. I hadn't heard about a family tragedy affecting any of our girls, so it must be a boy that did someone wrong. Shame, but I supposed it happened to the powerful just like the rest of us.
Approaching the classroom, it started to sound like more than one girl sobbing. The presence of multiple voices made me approach more quietly. If it was one friend needing a quiet place to console another, I could look the other way about the late use of the room. Besides, I didn't want to intrude if the girls needed a moment. So rather than striding professorially into the room, I peeked around the door instead. Huh. Well, I was right about the multiple voices...
Kneeling on the floor was one of our students, stark naked, blonde hair tousled and falling to the middle of her back. I couldn't make out her face, because it was being pulled between the legs of another girl who was lying on her back on the teacher's desk. All I could see of the other girl was her legs (long and shapely), hands (scandalously red fingernails), and tits (big enough to rise prominently out from her chest, with an enticing wobble as she thrashed on the desk). A better man would have retreated to his office and called security. Me? I got out my cellphone to record the moment on video.
Whoever the kneeler was, she knew what she was doing. I'd made women cum in my life, but I'd never seen anyone lose control of her body the way this girl was. From my vantage point, I couldn't see what the blonde was doing; I stifled the impulse to go into the room to get a better look or ask for pointers. When she started shaking her head side to side, the other girl's breathing got faster, shorter. She was clearly on the verge of a tremendous orgasm, and I just hoped my phone had enough memory to keep recording.
It did. In seconds, the other girl started shouting. Sounded like she wasn't speaking English, but the language of a soul-shattering orgasm is universal. And then ... The only word I have for it is "explosion". She blew up. Her juices flew out of her pussy like air rushing out of a balloon, covering the blonde's face and hair. Her entire body convulsed; like a wave traveling up her body, her ass bounced off the table, then her stomach, tits, and graying hair.
Wait. Graying hair? I didn't know any of our students were dying their hair gray; was this some new fashion thing? Unless... No, it couldn't be a teacher; Radmila would have a fit! The teacher would be fired in seconds. And now I had to be the one to tell her. This was rapidly turning into a conversation I would not relish.
I stopped the recording, then found a dark corner of the hallway to wait in. I figured I'd get pictures of both their faces, so I'd know who was involved. When I heard one of them say "Class dismissed", I knew my fears were justified. This was a teacher getting eaten out (and, I must say, expertly eaten out at that) by a student. The school didn't need that kind of scandal, but I knew Radmila would be up to the challenge of handling it, and we had enough well-placed alumnae and families that the story might get quashed.
The blonde was first to leave. When she looked both ways to make sure no one was there, I got a good picture of her face. Huh. Ellen McCambridge. That was a bit of a surprise, though I honestly don't know who I was expecting to see. Her father was a big shot in the fashion world; some starlet had worn one of his gowns to an awards show a couple years back, so he was rolling in dough. He definitely did not need to know that a teacher at Cooper's Branch was "corrupting" his little girl. (Which would have been bullshit anyway -- she knew her way around a pussy, so that couldn't have been her first time. But Daddy wouldn't believe that about his baby girl, no matter what.) "At least she's a senior," I thought. As bad as this was going to be for everyone, it would have been 50 times worse if she was underage. And she wasn't in any of my classes either. So, once this got resolved, however it got resolved, I could completely wash my hands of it.
After Ellen left, I heard the rustling of clothes, so the teacher was on her way out. When she paused at the door to turn the lights out, she unwittingly gave me a perfect profile to catch on camera. And I could not have been more surprised to see Headmistress Starovic's unmistakable features. Well. This next meeting I was planning to have with her just got a lot more interesting.
