Isabelle loved her job. She loved working with kids. It was stressful, yes, but satisfying. It was hard teaching young kids, in general, but add disabilities, and it was a new level of worry. Still, she collected the smiles she received from her pupils, and cashed in on the days when she made an honest break through. It was rewarding. She felt good.
It also made it easier to be bad when she got home. After work, she shed the good teacher role and let her sexual side loose. She loved her body. Loved the way it felt to be touched or to touch herself. She had a whole life online. A secret she led in view of anyone who knew her web address. Just as she loved the way her job made her feel good, she loved the way strangers' eyes made her feel bad.
There were some days she didn't know who the "real" her was. And maybe she didn't care. Or maybe she felt the real her was both sides. The light and dark. Safe and dangerous. The saint and the sinner.
Of course, it was hard to keep them separate. Hard to hold back one for the other.
At work, she'd find herself talking to the dads after school. They loved her. Loved her youthful looks. Loved the way her blouse hung to her curves. Loved the way her skirt fit around her tiny waist. Loved the way her sandy blonde hair always swayed when she walked. Fathers are notorious for avoiding school, but for some reason, when they were fathers to kids in her class, they always found an excuse to be there. Always had one question.
Isabelle didn't mind. She liked the eyes. She loved men, even the dads with the bellies and the cheap suits. She loved knowing they wanted her. She had fantasies about their lives, married to women who were older and less sexual. Women who had kids and settled into the "mom" role. Isabelle was not the mother. She was the youth. The spark. The fantasy. The thing the men thought about when they locked themselves in the bathroom and jerked off before family dinner.
It started innocently enough. She'd smile and talk to them. Sometimes, if they said something funny, she'd reach her hand out and pat them on the arm. She'd always run to the restroom before the final bell, just to touch up her makeup. Check her hair. Straighten her skirt or pants. She'd take her time leaning over to pick up a toy or a piece of paper or her pesky keys, which always seem to fall right when the men showed up. Their eyes bore into her. She relished the stolen glances, the nudges from one man to the other.
Mr. Johnson was different, though. He was a little older than her average dad. In his early 40s, probably. But he still was in good shape and carried himself with that youthful gait of an athlete. She had seen him at her gym and sometimes in her yoga class. She admired him, thought he was handsome.
She'd try to flirt, of course, but he never seemed interested. He'd always nod hello, but he rarely talked to her. And when he picked up his daughter, he'd never linger. Never stare.
The school year ended, but Isabelle still had a week of work before she had the summer off. Some teachers used this time to get ahead or catchup, but most just goofed off. Isabelle brought her laptop and, with a closed classroom door, she let her bad girl visit the school, with the occasional posting or photo on her blog.
She was sitting at her desk around noon when someone knocked on her door. She shut the laptop closed. Stood up. Adjusted her jeans and tank top -- her favorite; it was red and hugged her body just right.
Come in, she said. It was Mr. Johnson. He must have come from the office, because he was wearing a nice suit. Most of the dads wore clothes bought off the rack, but Mr. Johnson always had a tailored suit, cut just right to show off his athletic build. Today he was wearing a dark blue one, with a white dress shirt and red tie. The dark color highlighted his salt and pepper hair. Isabelle found him very sexy.
"Hi Mr. Johnson. What are you doing here? Is Lisa OK?"
"She's fine. May I come in?" She said of course, and sat behind her desk. He leaned against one of the small desks.
"I wanted to see you, actually."
"Oh?"
"Yes." He stared at her in a way that she found exhilirating. He had light blue eyes that penetrated her. This was the most she had talked to him the entire year.
"I am a fan of your work."
"Thank you. Lisa is great to work with. She came a long way this year."
"Yes. You are a great teacher. ... But I meant your other work."
"I'm not really sure what you mean."
