"Look at me," he snapped, and her eyes leapt toward his face again.
"Yes," he grunted, "yes." The tip of his member brushed her cheek accidentally as his hand traversed its length in spastic jerks.
"Ughhhh," she heard him groan, and he arched his back and thrust himself toward her. He masturbated himself in her face, and she caught the flash of gold on his finger as his hand flew under her nose. Her jaws ached with the effort of holding herself open for him to finish. The unyielding cold stone of the floor sent waves of stabbing pain through her knees, and she waited miserably for him to satisfy himself.
"Ughhhhhh," he screamed at last, and bent nearly double. She felt the wet spray of his passion on her cheeks and lips and shut her eyes in shame. His aim was erratic and his sticky discharge spewed randomly onto her delicate features, some in her mouth and some on her face and hair. She held her mouth open and felt his hot drops splattering on her tongue and fought the urge to spit his seed in his face. Drops of his semen showered her eyelids, nose and lips. They coalesced and dripped onto her breasts and thighs, and she clenched her fists and resisted the image of a dog lifting his leg to a fire hydrant.
The shower passed, of course, but sunshine did not follow. "Get up," he grunted, when his lust had run its course. She staggered to her feet and tried to blink, but her eyelids were glued together and refused to open. He thrust his handkerchief into her hand, and said, gruffly, "There, cumslut, clean yourself up with this."
She turned away in humiliation, and sobs racked her body as she dabbed angrily at the viscid substance covering her face. His venomously triumphant words followed her and slashed at her back.
"You didn't really think you could get away with it, did you, my dear?"
Her shoulders shook; she didn't respond.
He continued. "Did you actually think you could prance around here in those tight, low cut blouses and short skirts, flaunting yourself like some hooker on the street, and not attract attention?"
She mopped her face and her shoulders sagged. She shook her head, aghast at his words, but couldn't muster the strength to respond. Her mind recoiled from the image his words invoked. She had tried her best not to be provocative, to always be professional. She hadn't known what to wear or how to dress. She had never had many clothes, and at the orphanage, the less she wore, the better they liked it. Nobody had ever taken her shopping for clothes, but she had done the best she could. The sales clerks hadn't helped much either; they would tell her that with the body she had, she'd be crazy to cover it up, and they would bring her the skimpiest, most revealing clothes on the rack. She had sent those back and tried to stick with more conservative things, even to the point of being matronly at times, she thought. The chemistry teacher, Mr. Bilbrey, must have agreed, because he had chided her for being too proper and started calling her the "school marm."
"And, in the lunchroom, you slut, all those times you sat there alone at the table pretending to be preoccupied, writing in that book of yours, with your skirt hiked up nearly to your waist, crossing and uncrossing your bare legs and flashing everybody. You knew every eye in the room was looking at you, trying to look up your skirt and you loved it, didn't you. Sometimes, you didn't even wear panties and gave everybody a real good look, didn't you."
Nooooo, she cried silently. It had been hot and her classroom wasn't air-conditioned. She hadn't meant anything by it; it was just too uncomfortable to wear hose and pumps and long, heavy skirts. She turned to confront him, to explain how some skirts accentuated her panty lines and made her look fat, but he continued ranting at her without giving her a chance.
"Oh yeah, and all those times you would sit there with your legs crossed and swing your foot, while your sandal dangled from your toes. You knew how sexy it was to dangle your shoe like that, and you were doing it deliberately, weren't you?"
She shook her head in denial. Nooooo, she thought, it hadn't been like that at all, not really. Of course, she knew it was sexy sometimes, that it turned guys on to do it, but she hadn't done it like that in the lunchroom. It had just been a reflex, something subconscious; it wasn't aimed at anybody at all. He was wrong about that, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he slammed the door to her rebuttal and continued.
"And what about that cheerleading stunt at the last football game. Jesus H. Christ, you and those players' mothers all dolled up in cheerleader outfits and jumping around shaking your tits and asses at everybody. That was your idea, wasn't it, and you weren't even wearing a bra, so your tits and nipples stuck out plain as day. Imogene wanted me to fire you on the spot, and I would have, too, if the mayor's wife hadn't been right beside you in the front row, and she was nearer to being naked than you were."
"Mr. Justice," she wailed, "you put me in charge of the Pep Squad. You said we were losing cause nobody cheered, and we needed to put a little life into the crowd."
"I sure as hell didn't mean for you to organize a cheerleading squad with a bunch of football moms and do a striptease at halftime."
"But, but, this is a boy's school; there aren't any girls here to be cheerleaders, and, besides, it was Mrs. Farber's idea, not mine."
"Mrs. Farber? The mayor's wife!" He was incredulous.
"Yes sir, it was Mrs. Farber. She thought it would be great fun to surprise everybody in the stands and said it would bring a little school spirit back to the crowd. She's the one who had the cheerleader outfits made up, but it was such short notice they could only make them in one size, and they sort of used an average. Not all of them fit too well, I guess."
"That was Imogene's observation as well, but it fails to explain the lewd dancing, or why you weren't wearing a bra."
"It wasn't lewd dancing, Mr. Justice. Those were cheerleading routines Nancy, I mean, Mrs. Farber, taught us. She's the only one who was a real cheerleader, so she taught the rest of us what to do. And, as for the bras, I can explain that. Somebody found out about the surprise and snuck into the ladies dressing room during the first quarter and stole all our underwear, bras, panties, the works. When we discovered they were gone just before half time, it was too late to do anything about it. Nancy, I mean, Mrs. Farber, said we had to be troopers, that the show must go on, and told us not to worry about it. She told us to look on the bright side, that since we weren't going to be wearing underwear, the fans probably wouldn't notice how bad we were at cheerleading."
"I expect she was largely correct in that assessment." Mr. Justice's tone was more conciliatory. Perhaps, he acknowledged to himself, his desire had colored his perception of her behavior. Certainly, he had no idea that the mayor's wife was behind "the spectacle on the gridiron" as Imogene insisted upon describing the ladies’ half-time performance. Maybe, when she learns that "the spectacle" was all Nancy Farber's doing, she'll shut up about it. Imogene had been angling for an invitation to play bridge with Mrs. Farber's Wednesday afternoon bridge club since she first set foot in town. She said that would be her entrée into the upper crust of local society, so she wouldn't dare to imperil that advancement of her social standing by letting her opinion of "the spectacle on the gridiron" become public knowledge.
Anne's ire subsided immediately upon his change in tone. The accusation was not entirely misdirected, for she did enjoy the admiration of men, and boys, she added. It was her reward for all those hours spent sweating in the gym, all the lonely miles on the track. It pleased her secretly, what Rufus had said about the lunchroom, to think of all those eyes turned on her, watching her as she ignored them and caressed her memories on to the blank pages of her journal, and to imagine those watching boys thinking wistfully of holding her, caressing her. She could imagine the sensual effects of the display of her shapely curves and the arousal she had caused. She could remember feeling their eyes following her, looking at her legs and the expanse of smooth, tanned thigh she exposed to them. She blushed, slightly, remembering how she had turned in her chair to rise and allowed her knees to part revealing her nakedness to a group of boys at a nearby table, who had been so taken with watching her that their faces were nearly lying in their food trays.
"Oh my," he muttered glancing up at the clock above the door, "it's getting late, my dear, and I must be getting home. Imogene will be waiting with supper, and I mustn't keep her waiting or she'll be cross."
She dropped his soggy handkerchief to the floor and bent to retrieve her panties. Her brain was spinning. Shame, humiliation, remorse, anger roiled like boiling water in her mind, and above all that simmered there rose a thick column of rising frustration. He had used her, abused her, threatened her and accused her, and all her struggles to resist him had done nothing but thrust her deeper and deeper into the cesspool of her own depravity. Like quicksand, her degenerate desires were sucking her under, pulling her remorselessly into the fathomless depths of her desire.
"Not so fast, young lady, you haven't finished looking at those." Mr. Justice was pointing to the stack of photos on the floor. "You just look through them and tell me if I missed any of the really good ones," he chuckled.
