Part Five: Lesson Planning
Last year, I agreed to help chaperone the class trip to Mexico that the Spanish department put together. My own Spanish was negligible but the kids helped get me through it. I dare say I even learned a bit from them, as well as some of the (very patient) locals I interacted with. The whole trip was incredible. Amazing food, fascinating cultural and historic sites, and lots of opportunity to roam and play. I got a first rate vacation and a first degree sunburn. (Yo soy muy blanca.)
Back in the hotel, the kids all slept four to a room. After the first night or two, they even piped down with complaints about "sharing beds with other dudes," as the homophobic dude-bros put it. Some of the chaperones doubled up to save money, but as an introvert about to be thrust into non-stop company nearly every waking hour for over a week, I splurged and got my own room. It did me a lot of good to have somewhere to retreat to at the end of the day, and if I could still hear them down the halls and out the window, at least I could let my hair down, so to speak, and relax. To the extent I could.
I didn't masturbate once the entire trip.
Not for lack of inspiration. We hit up several beaches, thronging with bikini-clad women, and no matter where we went, I was surrounded by scores of horny teenage girls working double-time to advertise their interest in going home without their v card intact. (Or another hole punched in it, at least.) No, Taylor wasn't there; she threw quite the tantrum over her ineligibility, but her discipline record precluded her from going on a field trip across town to the bowling alley, much less international. Still, she was hardly the only pair of mouth-watering tits to be found in Mexico, imported or local.
By the time I got home, my balls had been ready to explode. A mild breeze was enough to induce an erection. It felt like I went through a bottle of lotion in a week while I caught up on lost time. But there's just something about being in an unfamiliar place that makes it hard for me to relax enough to enjoy myself. Always has been.
If Taylor and Abbie had taken thirty more seconds to get to Candy and Isa's house, I would have painted the ceiling of the living room pearlescent white.
I heard them before I saw them, even knew it was them and not Officer Barbour coming back unexpectedly early from the creak of the door opening and closing on that rustbucket car of theirs. I met them at the door, ushering them in quickly and keeping myself behind the door and out of sight of lookers-on. I doubted they were being followed, but I'd been burned enough already.
"What in god's name are you two wearing?"
It wasn't the most cordial welcome, I'll grant, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Abbie was dressed in a bulky sweatsuit. Her hair was still straightened from yesterday's flat ironing, up in the same high ponytail she'd had in yesterday's pictures, and she had a touch of makeup on. Very red lipstick. Otherwise, she looked like she was on her way to a slumber party. An all girl slumber party. Full of girls she felt completely and totally unthreatened by.
Taylor was little better in a baggy t-shirt and her own sweatpants. As they walked into the living room, studying their new environment warily, I saw she at least had the decency to pick a pair of sweats that clung to her behind nicely, even had the word "juicy" written in calligraphic script across the butt to give people an excuse to be looking. Still, compared to what I felt like I had been promised, they were both crushing disappointments.
"Tell me where the fuck we are first," said Abbie, frowning.
Taylor let out an exasperated breath. "I told you, we're--"
But Abbie put a finger to her sister's lips, and Taylor fell instantly silent. Looked like a hundred copies of
my little sister is the boss of me
had produced Abbie's desired results. If nothing else, it made my own commands feel humble by comparison. I was very glad I'd never had a boss like Abbie.
"We're at Ms. Salata's and Officer Barbour's house," I answered coolly. I didn't like her taking control of the conversation, but it was fair of her to ask. We had to keep our relationship a secret.
"So Dick-Breath over there was right." She removed her finger, allowing Taylor to sullenly mumble an I-told-you-I-googled-it under her breath. "All right, so
why
are we at their house?"
Another fair question, but trickier. "First off, let me stress that I have the situation well in hand."
"Situation? There's a situ-fucking-ation now? Pardon my French, but, dafuq?"
"Someone found out about us, see, and--"
Four eyes threatened to pop out of two heads. "Someone...! And we're just now finding out?! Is it Barbour? I will stone cold knife that little piglet!"
"No, and keep your voices down. So when I woke up yesterday--"
"Yesterday! And we're just now hearing about it!" exclaimed Taylor.
"Because like I said, I have the situation well in hand."
Abbie threw her hands in the air. "Well in hand, he says! Like when you were gonna let this back-stabber blab about us to the whole world? That kind of 'well in hand'?"
"Someone saw you at my house and got pictures of it! They want me to pay them twenty-five grand or they'll share them with the world. Now let's see, was it me who climbed out the window naked, or was that you? I forget."
"Don't put this shit on me! I was taking care of business, yo!"
"Abbie, you moron!"
"Kiss my cooch, Tay!"
"BUT!" I roared. These two were unraveling everything I knew about de-escalation. They did turn back to me though. "But, I'm handling it. I, ah, gained the services of Officer Barbour and Ms. Salata. They're going to help me find this son of a bitch, and then I'll make sure our secret stays safe."
They stared at me in silence. It was Abbie who finally broke it. "Now let me see if I got this straight, Mr. C. You're telling me, our secret got out, and your reaction to that was to involve TWO MORE PEOPLE in it?! Is THAT what I'm hearing?!"
"I'm sorry, do you know how to run a trace on a cell phone? Conduct an investigation? If needs be, subdue and detain someone? Because from what I hear, you make your sister's D average seem a work of genius. We needed the help of a professional, and Officer Barbour was the only one I knew!"
Taylor gestured to a photo hanging on the wall of the two residents of the house. It looked to be from the Winter Formal, actually. "And her rug-munching bitch of a girlfriend? What's she bring to the table?"
"Language, Taylor. Now as for Ms. Salata, she was... we..." I sighed. "It was an unavoidable necessity. But she's dealt with. Neither of them can spread word any more than you or I can. So we're fine. Officer Barbour is out right now looking into things for me. For
us
. She seemed confident that she'll be able to trace the communication. When she does, we'll take care of that leak Abbie created, and that will be that. So going all the way back to your original question of why we're here and not elsewhere, since you alerted someone to the nature of our relationship, my house isn't secure any more. I figured your parents probably wouldn't love the idea of me swinging by to spend some quality time with their daughters, so it had to be here. There, now you're all caught up."
The girls glared at me, at each other, at the pictures on the wall, at the house they stood in. Really, though, there was nothing else to say, so I went on. "Let's get back now to
my
question. I believe I asked why you two are dressed like you're heading out on a camping trip. When you professed to be my fantasy slut, Abbie, I have to say, this was not how I fantasized you looking."
Like that, Abbie's glare vanished, replaced immediately by a look so smug she could probably copyright it. I hadn't noticed the high-heeled platform sandals she was wearing, but as the girl stripped out of her sweatsuit to reveal the fetish schoolgirl outfit beneath it, I appreciated how prepared she'd been to get into costume. Thin white blouse tied off beneath her breasts, buttons straining to contain their bounty beneath. A bra, this time, easily discernible through the paper-thin fabric of the top. Navy blue? Black? I wasn't sure. I would be soon. The tartan skirt from the photo, though, that was navy. Once Abbie had adjusted it to where she wanted it, the waist was clear up over her belly button, which meant the bottom was struggling to cover anything it was meant to be covering.
