For several weeks after my school field trip to France I did my best to avoid Charlotte Evans. I'm a teacher at the school, and Charlotte was an 18-year old pupil who caught me unawares in France and masturbated me, in a very public place. Keeping away from her wasn't easy: even though she wasn't in any of my classes, she seemed to be dogging my every step, almost like a stalker. Any time I ate in the school refectory Charlotte seemed to be at a nearby table, trying to catch my eye; when I walked along the corridor, with girls rushing between lessons, Charlotte seemed to be there; she even seemed to be hanging around outside my classroom every time I left it. It was starting to get freaky.
Charlotte was the most attractive female in the entire school, teaching staff included, but I just wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with her. If anyone had found out about it my entire future would be buggered up for good, and at 26 I wasn't prepared to risk that. One day, I suppose it had to happen sooner or later, she did manage to catch me alone. It was 8.15 in the morning and I'd got in early to plan my first lesson of the day. As I entered my empty classroom I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Charlotte standing in the doorway, shuffling her feet awkwardly. Her deep blue eyes locked on me and she asked, "Rob, are you trying to avoid me?" She'd never called me anything but 'Sir' or 'Mr Peters' before.
I sighed and sat at my desk, motioning Charlotte to sit at one of the pupil desks. Instead she parked her bum on the edge of my desk, and sat there with her long legs swinging. I decided I had to address the issue head on. "Look Charlotte, what happened in France was a mistake. I can't pretend that what you did to me wasn't pleasant -- at the time -- but I didn't want you to do it, and it was very wrong of you. You know that. I'm really not interested in us getting close to each other. Apart from anything else, I don't think my girlfriend would like it." I hadn't had a girlfriend in over a year, but there was no way Charlotte could know that. "Now, you're a lovely young girl, I'm sure you don't have any trouble getting boyfriends. So I suggest you forget the childish crush you have on me, and go and get on with the rest of your life. Okay?"
For a few moments she sat stock still, staring silently at me. Then her bottom lip began to quiver. Slowly she eased herself off my desk, her skirt riding high up her thighs. Her eyes glistened with tears. She sobbed one word -- "Bastard!" -- and ran out of the door. I sighed again, feeling a bit of a shit. I hadn't seen Charlotte as the vulnerable type, and I hadn't expected her to get quite so emotional over it. The old phrase about a woman scorned ran through my mind, but even if she told someone she'd wanked me at Mont Saint Michel it would just sound like a young girl's fantasy about a teacher, and I'd laugh it off. I didn't think I had anything to worry about.
Except maybe Yvette Mouthillon. She was our French language teacher, who'd been on the French trip with us, and I was pretty sure she strongly suspected something had gone on between me and Charlotte. But she had an even bigger crush on me than Charlotte -- an equally unwelcome one on my part -- and I was gambling that she wouldn't do anything which would force me out of the school, and away from where she could gaze at me with big, sad cow eyes. Shaking myself mentally and physically, I tried to get on with my day.
It was more than a week later, on a Friday, that things came to a head. I'd barely seen Charlotte in the intervening period, to my relief, just the odd glimpse in the corridor, or across the school playground. Blonde and five feet eleven (two inches taller than me), she was difficult to miss, even at a distance. I was just walking out to my car in the deserted school car park -- on Friday afternoon most of the teachers clear out as soon as they can, but I have one of the last classes of the day. I suddenly heard pounding feet and gasping breath, and I turned to see Jeanette Adams running towards me. She was a sixth former, 18 years old but looked more like 14 -- small, skinny and quite immature in her ways as well. "Sir, you've got to come", she gasped, "Inderjit's hurt herself, really badly, there's blood and everything. Please Sir."
At the time it didn't occur to me to wonder why Jeanette had come to me -- I couldn't have been the only adult left in the place -- I just followed her as she turned on her heels and dashed away. I have first aid training, and Inderjit Kaur was one of the star pupil's in my sixth form geography class, and a girl with whom I had a really good relationship. Her father is an elected member of the local county council, a huge, physically intimidating Sikh with a bristling beard and a challenging manner. It did occur to me to get my mobile 'phone out and call for an ambulance, but I thought it would be prudent first to see how bad her injury really was.
Jeanette led me to a rather ancient building, behind the new school gym, which is used to store sports equipment. I vaguely wondered what the girls had been doing there in the first place: it's supposed to be off limits to pupils, and I thought it was padlocked shut, with only the caretaker and a couple of sports mistresses having keys. But that wasn't my main concern at that point, and I charged through the door behind Jeanette. Inderjit was lying on the floor moaning, her forearm covered in a sticky red substance. As I started to move towards her I felt an arm reach around my neck, someone stuffed a sweet smelling rag over my mouth and nose and everything went black.
When I awoke I felt cold. I was lying on my back and, not sure what had happened to me, I gingerly raised my head -- to find I was stark bollock naked! I appeared to be lying on a pile of rubber gym mats. I tried to move my arms to get up, and found I couldn't. The reason was that they were manacled to metal equipment shelves bolted to the walls either side of me. It wasn't the usual type of handcuffs that were holding me: they were the pink fluffy type you get from shops like Ann Summers, but they were just as effective as the real thing. I sank back onto the top mat in despair. A harsh, naked light bulb glared in my eyes. My initial thought was that this had to be some kind of terrible dream -- this sort of thing just didn't happen, not in real life. Then a flash of movement caught my eye. I raised my head again, and Jeanette and Inderjit both walked into the room, stripped down to their bras and knickers. To my complete lack of surprise, there appeared to be nothing whatsoever wrong with Inderjit's supposedly injured arm.
They both stared at me, Jeanette giggling behind her hand, Inderjit gazing intently at my groin. I was just about to ask them what the hell was going on when a third figure entered the room, and I suddenly understood at least who the evil genius was behind this little scheme. Charlotte Evans was stripped down as well, to a semi-transparent black bra and a minute matching pair of thong panties. She had a sweet, triumphant smile on her face, and a scary looking craft knife in her hand, no doubt stolen from the art department at the same time as the paint for Inderjit's 'wound'. Seeming as if she was trying to sound like Marilyn Monroe, she half-whispered "Hello Rob."
I glowered at her, trying to assert my teacherly authority, and asked, "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" My voice came out as a terrified squeak -- so much for my authority.
