Part 1
"The dean will see you now." The woman set the heavy phone receiver on it base and rose from her desk in a languid walk across the room to where Dakota sat on a fine red leather couch, trying very hard to look cool and composed. The woman—a dusky blonde of medium height and build, with exquisite taste in clothes—waited patiently while Dakota fumbled with her small portfolio, putting her resumé and curriculum vitae in order before standing up herself.
"This way, please," said the blonde in a low, throaty voice, showing her to a large paneled door she swung open easily and without a sound despite its obvious weight. The woman leaned into the room beyond the door and, letting each word roll off her tongue with a condescending drip, said, "Miss Dakota Grange."
The dusky-skinned woman walked into the room and stood beside another large chair—also red leather—placed before an enormous carved wood desk, behind which sat the Dean of Huddlestone Academy. She didn't stand or look up, engrossed in reading something. "Please sit down, Miss Grange. I'll be with you shortly."
Dakota sank into the chair, which nearly swallowed her despite her height and was fashioned so it was nearly impossible to sit upright. She slouched in front of the woman she believed might be her new employer—an alien concept to her—and maintained what she thought was a serious, attentive expression. She congratulated herself on her choice of clothes: pleated slacks with cuffs, open-neck oxford shirt, vest, faintly checked sports coat to complement the slacks, well-shined tassel loafers and socks—not stockings. It made sitting in the chair much easier. If she'd worn a dress, as she fretted about for two days prior to the interview, it would have hiked up above her knees, and if she'd crossed her legs it would gotten very interesting indeed. She was particularly glad of her choice of shoes; she'd nearly decided on appropriating a pair of low-heeled slip-ons, but they would surely have caught and made her stumble on the uneven wood floor, the transition to the rug at the door, or the rug beneath the chair. Part of her wondered if the room was set up to intimidate and confound people into doing or saying things they didn't mean.
The dean closed the folder she'd been reading, looked up, and smiled brightly. She walked with an elegant stride to the front of the desk and held out her hand. Dakota rose smoothly,
really good choice in clothes, kid
, and took the offered hand firmly. The woman was a head shorter but with a trim figure, accented by the well-fitted tweed suit. Her brown hair was short and expertly trimmed, gold highlights sparkling as she moved. It was her eyes that gave Dakota pause. Her face was unlined, youthful, no hint of age anywhere, but the hazel eyes were ancient and penetrating, so much so Dakota flinched inwardly even as she shook the dean's hand. She got nothing from the touch. Very odd.
"I'm Georgia Walter, Dean of Huddlestone Academy. Very pleased to meet you. Let's sit and talk. No need to be so formal, I think." She led Dakota to a red leather couch, a near twin of the one in the antechamber, where they sat facing each other. It was more comfortable than the chair.
"It seems your paperwork is in order," said the dean, eyes friendly. "An interesting CV, if I may say so. I'd have expected a bit more flash, something to stand out and catch my eye. A solid background, though, and varied, too. It's not usual to have experience at so many levels of physical education instruction for one as young as yourself."
Dakota looked directly into the woman's disturbing eyes, nodding as if it were all perfectly normal. Within, everything churned. She'd tried very hard to keep her false credentials believable but without any boasting to cause a deeper investigation. While she'd done a good job manufacturing a credible past, she was sure it wouldn't stand up to serious scrutiny, with only six weeks to put it all together and rehearse.
As calmly as she could, she said, "I believe it's necessary to know how women of different ages approach physical education. Having first hand experience with young women, girls, helped me to better understand the apparent reluctance of older women."
"Really?" The dean leaned forward; Dakota did the same. "How did it help?"
"I discovered many girls were intimidated by the rigor of physical education. The competition, especially with boys, and the all too common authoritarian attitude of the teacher, simply made them lose interest." She had no idea if it was true but she'd read something like it in a journal devoted to PE and it seemed to be esoteric enough to make her appear both capable and scholarly. "I used the knowledge to give both younger and older women a positive experience in physical education so they actually looked forward to exercise instead of dreading it."
"How very innovative, Miss Grange. It's something sorely lacking here at Huddlestone." The dean's tone became conversational. "We pride ourselves on providing the absolute best education a woman can get, but we've paid less than lip service to the needs of a healthy body and a healthy outlook on life. An approach such as yours might do wonders here."
The two women talked for almost thirty minutes, Dakota giving examples of how she'd handled various situation at her fictitious jobs, her answers properly prepared to be believable but not so spectacular to draw special attention. It occurred to her the interview was going far better than she expected, something that set off alarms in the paranoid parts of her psyche, which she decided to ignore for the time being.
Dean Walter stood up and looked at her watch. "My, I completely lost track of time. I have another appointment, but I'd like one of our staff show you around the campus, if you don't mind waiting on me. We can continue the conversation later. It's between terms so it's mostly empty and you can get a good look at our school. Is that acceptable?"
"Yes, of course. I'd love to see the rest of Huddlestone. Thank you."
This is a good sign
, thought Dakota. If there wasn't any interest, the appointment would have been an excellent excuse to end the interview and giver her a reason to get out of St. Louis, probably down the Mississippi, looking for other, less difficult marks. But she found herself intrigued by this job, something she'd had just twice before and only for long enough to realize she didn't like actual work and to con her boss out of enough money to get her to the next town.
The dean picked up her phone and spoke briefly to her secretary. "Professor Freyasdotter will be along shortly," she said after finishing the call. "You can wait for her in the gallery along the quadrangle. It's shaded and has very nice chairs. I should be but an hour. Have Ingrid bring you back here when you're done." She showed Dakota though a set of French doors onto a wide covered porch running the length of the building, dotted haphazardly with wicker furniture.
Not long after she'd plopped herself down, a woman strode across the manicured lawn between the buildings—the quadrangle—and stopped in front of her. She stood to meet the woman, who was strikingly handsome: short, pale blonde hair; incredibly deep blue eyes; aquiline features and high cheekbones. She was an inch taller than Dakota but not stout or heavy. Her tailored suit clung to a svelte body, well-muscled, if her long legs were any indication, breasts high, with a hint of nipple protruding thorough the silk blouse. She held out her hand in a manly fashion, odd for a woman who looked athletically feminine. Dakota took the hand, felt the strong grip and was suddenly awash in emotion. Hunger, but not for food; fear, but of appearing foolish or silly; a strong undercurrent of repressed urges; incredible strength. The ferocity of the sensation nearly knocked her over and only her hand held tightly in this strange woman's grip kept her upright. The blonde seemed totally unaware of the effect she was having on her guest.
"Ingrid Freyasdotter. Professor of Mathematics. Pleased." She dipped her head in a sharp motion and Dakota half expected her to click her heels much like a Hessian officer.
"Dakota Grange. I'm applying for the Physical Education position. Very nice to meet you. May I call you Ingrid?"
The blonde blinked rapidly, still holding Dakota's hand in her vise-tight grasp. "Oh, of course. Yes. I shall call you Dakota. Is that a Sioux name by chance? This way," she said letting go of Dakota's hand, who struggled to keep up as the woman marched down the gallery.
She followed Ingrid as the woman pointed out buildings and landmarks in a staccato rhythm, only occasionally turning to see if she was too far ahead. If she was, she waited for Dakota to catch up then swept away at her previous pace. It was becoming a workout to stay within the sound of her voice. The larger problem for Dakota was she was unable to shake the feelings she got from Ingrid when they shook hands. Usually, the sensation lingered for a few minutes and then faded, unless she was in close contact with the other person, but this time she still felt the hunger, the need, the excitement, even at a distance. She was seriously aroused, her cock straining at her slacks, her pulse high, her face flushed. Ingrid seemed not to notice, which was a good thing. Finally, Ingrid waited in a tunnel through a tall berm. Dakota hurried to meet her as she paced back and forth.
"This is the way to the arboretum. It has a field and a jogging path. But it's not used much because ..." Ingrid stopped and peered intently at Dakota, blinking rapidly trying to focus. She opened her mouth to speak but Dakota stopped it with her own mouth, her desire erupting beyond her control. As she wound her tongue inside the blonde's mouth she felt the other woman's tongue doing the same, pale hands around her ass, pulling her in close. A very small part of Dakota warned this wasn't the way to get a job, but it was quickly rolled to a far, dusty corner of her mind by the rapidly rising heat and lust between the two women.
As they kissed—Dakota felt their teeth clash a couple of times—she pulled Ingrid's suit jacket down past her shoulders and hiked the skirt up to her waist, one of the seams tearing at the last tug. The blonde's hands moved from her ass to the fly of Dakota's slacks, getting it all open with surprising ease and her cock jerked roughly from the lacy boxers Kat had given her—didn't seem at all bothered by the extra genitalia. Dakota marveled remotely at the skill, it was a French fly, with a couple of buttons, as well as the belt and zipper, and it was all open, slacks drooping around her thighs. She freed a red-brown hand from the tangle between the two of them and jerked the crotch of Ingrid's panties aside, feeling them tear as well. She guided her dark cock instinctively to the blonde's dripping pussy and thrust deep inside. Ingrid responded by lifting a leg and curling it around Dakota's waist. Locked in a tight embrace, her hands in the blonde's short and now sweaty locks, Ingrid wrapping her dark braid around strong fingers, they rocked together, lips still locked, breathing into each other's mouth. Dakota was vaguely aware of Ingrid's erect cock—
cock? she has a cock?
—slipping underneath her loose shirttail to twitch against her stomach muscles, cum flowing into her navel. But it was secondary to the ferocious urge to fuck Ingrid long and hard, mostly hard, and the distinct realization as their bodies ground against each other, it was exactly what the blonde wanted to do to her.
