========
Message-ID: <172403Z16051996@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: an109288@anon.penet.fi (Kid Dynamite)
Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 17:19:24 UTC
Subject: (*) SS - 4


ss_4.txt

He started saying something about what we were going to do that day.
I barely heard a word he said.  The blood rushing in my ears and
pounding in my heart was drowning everything else out.  I dimly made
out something like "...go ahead and get your underwear off so we can
get started..."

I felt faint.  I was blushing, and perspiring, and my mouth had gone
as dry as a cotton ball.  This was the moment.

He was looking at me.  I turned to face him fully, but then my courage
crumbled,, I just couldn't bear to look him in the face.  I looked
down at the dusty floor.  With trembling hands, I pulled up my skirt
in front, so he could see.  So he could see I'd already taken my
underwear off for him.

His throaty, deep, jolly belly-laugh rang out.  "Ho-ha!"  A laugh of
surprise and glee.  I looked up, and he was grinning at me, his face a
beaming glow of pleasure.  "Wonderful!  Wonderful, Sally!"  His grim
frown was gone, and he snapped his fingers with a smile.  "Let's get
to it, then."

As I posed for him during the session, I felt myself relax, slowly.
He seemed animated, happy, and talkative.  He seemed overjoyed, and a
bit surprised that I'd anticipated him.  He kept shaking his head
slightly, smiling to himself.  My self-consciousness slowly faded a
bit, replaced with that feeling, which was growing more and more
insistent.

Looking back, I should have known.  Looking back, I see that I made a
choice that day.

And the choice seemed to guide me along.  As if I'd come to a fork in
the road, and my choice of paths led me on a journey I could not have
anticipated.

At this point, I should like to offer that in situations such as this,
when one is naked, or nearly so, and aroused, as I was without fully
knowing it, your judgment can be clouded.  I think mine was.

As the end of our session began to draw near, Mr. Howard began asking
me to pose in some of the more embarrassing positions.

I did as I was asked.

As you might guess, they were made all the more disconcerting by my
new state of undress.  I wore only the short and loose wool plaid
uniform skirt, and my earrings.  The tiny skirt was all that stood
between me and the state of total nudity.  It was symbolic, though,
and I suppose that because of it, I didn't fully confronted the
enormity of what I was doing.

The skirt was only a minor impediment to the poses Mr. Howard asked me
to take for him.  You can imagine my shame and embarrassment as I
stretched, strained, and contorted into both the positions that had
become familiar as part of the regime with Mr. Howard, and new, more
improbable and physically demanding ones.  These positions allowed the
cool late afternoon air to fan against parts of my body quite
unaccustomed to such exposure.

The situation and the positions further inflamed the feeling inside
me.  It was palpable.  Throbbing.  More urgent and burning than I had
ever felt on my bed, alone.

As I said, being naked and aroused makes for poor decisions, and the
more the feeling inside me grew, the more willing - perhaps even eager
- I was to obey Mr. Howard's requests for yet more.  I felt drugged,
drunk.

On the ride home with Mom, some of Mr. Howard's questions in those
last few moments, those surreal, trembling, vanishing moments, came
back to me.  I didn't quite understand their precise meaning at the
time, but their intent was clear, and their effect was searing.  If I
had known even just a little more - just a few "health" classes - just
a few moments of explanation from Mom - maybe if I had been allowed
to date - or Mom and Jack had just given me the straight story, I
don't know - I might have been able to respond more rationally.

Instead, as our lesson ended, I found myself pressed against the back
of the couch, Mr. Howard's arms encircling me.

I was shaking with excitement, and couldn't quite catch my breath.

He was behind me.  The rough wool of his blazer was leaving motes of
fire on my skin.  We looked at each other's reflections in the mirror.
I could feel the lump in his trousers pressing against me from behind.

He was so close.  His breath was on my neck.

"Why weren't you wearing underwear, Sally?"

All I could manage was a whisper.  "I - " I fought to catch a breath.
"I don't know, Mr. Howard."

"Yes you do, Sally.  Tell me."

"I wanted to do it for you."

"You want to do alot of things for me, don't you?"

"I don't know."

"Sally, you don't think I'm a monster, do you?"

"No, of course not - " I swallowed again, flustered.  "I like you,
Mr. Howard."

"So you do these things with me because you like me?"

"I don't know."  His questions were making me feel so shameful.  I
felt a blush beginning to creep into my already-tingling cheeks.

"How do you feel, Sally?"

I felt wonderful and awful.  Throbbing and shivering with that
feeling.  Guilty and ashamed and embarrassed.  I felt so very, very
bad, but I was aching for release. I had no name for what I was
feeling.  "I don't know, Mr. Howard.  I feel..."  I couldn't finish.
I looked down.

"You feel good, don't you?"

I nodded.  His arms tightened around me, pulling me against him.  "I
guess I do, but I feel..."  I hardly had words.  "I'm being very bad."

"But it feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does."  I blushed.  The admission was frightening.  "But I'm
very bad."

"I don't understand, Sally.  Why are you being so bad? - Why are you
doing these things with me?  Because it makes you feel good?"

I turned towards him.  His face was inches from mine.  Our eyes were
locked.  "No, Mr. Howard.  Because you ask me to."

He seemed taken aback, and shook his head uncomprehendingly.  "Wait a
minute.  You're being a bad girl."

I nodded.  A very bad girl.  For an instant, the image of Jack finding
out flashed through my mind.  I shuddered.

"But it makes you feel good."  He smiled at me as he said this, and
gently cupped my chin in his hand, staring into my eyes.

"Yes, it does."  I blushed furiously.

He stepped back a bit, and with a still smiling at me, pulled up my
skirt.  I gasped.  "Mr. Howard..."

"It certainly does make you feel good.  That much has been obvious all
night."

I closed my eyes, burning with shame, and yet engulfed with a wave of
heat.

He dropped the my skirt, and held me at arms' length, his
charcoal-covered hands on my shoulders.

"And you do this because I ask you to?"

I paused, my head swirling.

"Sally?"

"Yes, Mr. Howard.  You told me to.  You asked me - made me.  You're my
teacher.  One of my elders.  I learned at home to do as you're told by
your elders.  They know best."

"It has nothing to do with me?"

I didn't know what to say.

"It has nothing to do with this?"  His hand left my shoulder, and
darted between my legs, brushing lightly against me with an
electrifying shock.

I jerked away, gasping, falling back against the couch.

He held up his fingers, which were glistening.

"Sally, please answer me."  His face was kind, gentle.  His voice had
none of the edge that Jack's had when he had asked a similar question,
not long ago.

It was his smile that got to me.  "It does have something to do with
you, I guess."  I got up, and quickly pulled on my blouse.  He watched
me, still waiting for an answer to the second question.  I knew what
that answer was, but saying the words nearly nude, with my body still
ringing with his brief, fiery touch was too much.

I finally turned to him, and without raising my eyes, said "It has
something to do with how this makes me feel, too."

"So you like being a bad girl, don't you."

"Yes."  I felt so small, so hollow.  Like this dizzy, urgent need in
my body had somehow worked magic, and let him see into my soul.

"You like being a bad girl for me."

"Yes."

"Sally, tell me that you want to be a bad girl."

The shame!  "I want to be a bad girl, Mr. Howard."

"Tell me that you want to be my bad girl."

"I want to be your bad girl, Mr. Howard."

"Tell me how being bad makes you feel."

I bit my lip, trying to hold back the rush of emotions that threatened
to overwhelm me, and make me cry.

I whispered, "Being a bad girl makes me feel... wet."

"Sally, tell me to make you be a bad girl."

I looked away.  "Please, Mr. Howard," I pleaded, hoping he would
relent.

"Say it, Sally.  It's ok."  I looked at him.  His head was cocked to
the side, trying to catch my eyes.  He smiled at me, and reached down
and took my hand in his.

I took a deep breath.  He squeezed my hand.

"Mr. Howard, please make me be a bad girl."

He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, like I was a princess.

    * * *
    
No underwear.  How does one explain the meaning?  The charm?  The
erotic power?

I know that I'm probably not your "average" man, but I know that I'm
not the only one.  There is something about a woman who isn't wearing
underwear, in public, that excites me to my very core.

Ever since I don't know when, I have had a fantasy.  A secret desire.
An erotic ideal.  The woman who goes bare beneath her clothes.  She
has haunted my masturbatory imagination all of my life.

She is my dream of sex.  Sex the way every man pictures it.  Sex
without all of the heavy encumbrance of the real world.  Sex without
premature ejaculation, contraception, venereal disease, or emotional
entanglements.  Where your partner is never too tired, or too shy, or
too thin, or too fat, or not in the mood.  Where sex is fast and
furious, or agonizingly, unendingly slow.  Sex so unlike the frantic,
fumbling, hurry-up-and-wait, complicated stuff of real life.

In this, the man's world of sex, women don't wear underwear.

All my life I've looked at women in public, and wondered, "Is she
wearing any?"  Every woman I've ever met socially or otherwise, I've
wondered about.  I'll be saying "Oh, so nice to meet you, Ms. or Mrs.
X," and all the while, I'm trying to gauge her.  Plumbing the depths
of her eyes to see if I see the image of my pantiless woman.  I'm
surreptitiously checking out her ass for a panty line.  I've always
hoped.

I've always hoped to meet, and get to know, a woman that didn't wear
panties.  If I never do, I at least hope that someday I'll be treated
to the rarest, most sought-after up-the-skirt glances a man can see -
the woman going bare beneath her clothes.

The woman who goes bare is my sexual ideal.  She is confident about
her body.  She revels in the simple sensual pleasure of going without
underwear.  It turns her on.  The truth of it is that this woman loves
sex.  Longs for it.  She secretly hopes that men will see up her skirt
and get the thrill of their life.  The possibilty - the danger -
excites her.

The woman who doesn't wear panties is proud of her body.  She's a
hedonist, an exhibitionist.  But she doesn't flaunt her exhibitionism,
though I know that's a contradiction.  She's has too much style.

She loves to masturbate.  She loves the look, the feel, the smell and
the mystery of her body.  She knows its power, and doesn't try to
control or hide its magnetism or its power.

I thought that perhaps this lascivious creature of my overworked
subconscious was unattainable.  That she would remain forever a dream.

That was, up until the day Sally pulled up her skirt for me, and
showed me that she wasn't wearing any.  I was stunned.

It wasn't until later that night, as I sat up, yet again, with my
feverish, furtive thoughts, that the impact Sally's simple act hit me.
I began to ruminate.  I thought back to our conversation at the end of
the lesson.

I realized that perhaps, I had met the match for my sweet imagination.
Sally could become the woman I dreamed of.  I felt it.

Though the full implications of this day's events, our conversation,
and Sally's actions would not dawn on me for some time, they began to
have some effect.

The next day was Thursday, and Sally and I were not scheduled for one
of our special sessions.  I was desperate for more, though.  More of
this glorious creature.  I wanted to drink her in.  I jittered the
morning away, waiting for our regular hour-long class in the
afternoon, the anticipation of seeing her building inside me
relentlessly.

I felt no relief until she was inside the studio, and I had closed the
door behind her.  I turned and watched her as she walked across the
room, and started getting ready.  The sight of her body was
intoxicating.  I stared at her behind, watching the delicious roll of
her hips.

She looked over at me as she got settled, a sheepish, embarrassed blush
coloring her cheeks.  I shook myself from my fugue, and smiled back.
I was thrilled to see her.  I was bursting with joy, and yet still
there was the yet smoldering fire inside me.

"No model today, Mr. Howard?"

"No, Sally," I smiled, waving my hand at the model's platform and
chair dismissively.  "How about just a still life?"

"That'd be great, Mr. Howard."

I set up the still life, unable to keep myself from humming a bit as I
did.

Sally still seemed a bit shy.  Skittish, maybe.  "Can't really blame
her, I suppose," I thought to myself.  The previous evening had been
rather intense.

She got started, and I wanted to give her a few moments to relax.  The
last thing I wanted between us was any sort of distance, or
discomfort.  I found myself drawn to the back of the studio, towards
the converted supply room where Sally had given me my most unexpected
and pleasant surprise.

Inside, I replayed the previous night.  The images and feeling came
flooding back, vivid.  I could almost feel our presences in the quiet,
dusty room.

Back in the studio, Sally was finishing up her first study of the
still life.  Her work was steadily improving.  Her talent was obvious.

I pointed out the problems she was having with perspective and shadow.
She seemed more relaxed.  We even joked a bit.  But, as the hour drew
closed, she seemed to get quieter.

"Mr. Howard?"

"Yes, Sally?"

She paused, her fingers nervously kneading a gum eraser.  "I...
...About last night, Mr. Howard."

She seemed more agitated than ever.  "What about last night, Sally?"
A sudden dread for what her answer might be flooded inside me.  I
could imagine her next words being, "I've told the police."  I fought
my rising panic.

She stammered, seemed to struggle for words.  Then, shaking her head,
she finally managed only, "I don't know, Mr. Howard."

"Last night, Sally - those things you said - were you telling the
truth?"  I looked at her, searching her face.  I wanted to take her in
my arms and hold her so tight, squeezing the doubt from her mind.  She
looked down at the floor, blushing again.

I took her hand.  "Sally?"

She looked at me, her confusion obvious.  "I don't - I'm not sure, Mr.
Howard."

I don't know what happened next.  What I did was probably the least
rational thing I could have thought of, under the circumstances.  I
led her away from the easel, and picked up a soft, round, sable brush.
A brand new one.  Without even trying to hide somewhere in the studio,
I said, "Sally, pull up your blouse."

Her eyes widened.  She opened her mouth to say something, but didn't.
Slowly, She pulled up her shirt.

"Over your tits, Sally."

I pulled up her bra and started stroking her with the brush.

We didn't speak.  Less than five minutes later, she was softly
gasping, her breathing quick and shallow.  She was biting her lower
lip, her eyelids heavy, and had started to perspire slightly.

Her eyes finally rose to meet mine.

We stared at one another, our gaze locked, as I continued.

The sound of the bell jolted us both, and I jumped, dropping the
brush. I quickly pulled down her bra and blouse.  She straightened her
clothing out, returning to look of the chaste, innocent young woman.
She picked up her books, and as she turned to go, she gave me a look.
I'm not even sure I can describe it, except that it nearly knocked me
over.  Her pure, sweet face had a touch of trepidation, or perhaps
even fear, and she looked a bit embarrassed, but more than anything, it
was a look of longing.

I snatched her hand up and gave it a squeeze.  She squeezed back.  I
held it, and drank in her eyes for another moment.  "So, Sally, do you
still..."  I could hardly say it, but something pushed me on.  "...do
you still want me to make you be a naughty girl?"

She blushed crimson, and looked at her shoes, but she didn't pull
away.

"Like just now, Sally?"  I waited.

After a long moment, during which I swear my heart had stopped
completely, she answered, in a tiny whisper.  "Yes."

I lived for our next meeting.

It was Friday afternoon, I waited anxiously for Sally in the converted
supply room.

When she arrived, I closed the door behind her and locked it.  She
bent over to put down her books, and as the sight of her lovely, long,
nude legs, and her rising skirt met my eyes, I was seized with raging
heat.  Unable to restrain myself, I pulled up her skirt from behind.

To my disappointment, a triangle of white cotton underwear met my
eyes.  Sally made a little "Oh!" of surprise, and started to
straighten up.

I guess it was my disappointment made me a bit cross.  "No," I said,
putting my hand on the small of her back as she tried to rise.  "Bend
over."

I took more liberties with Sally during that session than I ever had
before.  I was driven.  Possessed.

But by the end I realized that I was expecting too much for her to
know and understand, just like that, all of my perverted desires.  She
didn't have ESP, after all.

As the hands on my watch swept faster and faster towards the end of
our session, the heat which had made me visit these heady new excesses
on Sally suddenly cooled with a draft of doubt.

And yet, to judge by young Sally, I had nothing to fear.  She was in a
state unlike I had ever seen her.  It was a stunning transformation.
And entrancing.  Her beauty was never more overwhelming.  Physically,
there was no doubt of the effect of the afternoon's activities.
Moreover, there seemed to me a change in her demeanor nothing short of
miraculous.  She was, if there was anything on the planet even close,
the woman of my dreams.

As she had told me two nights prior, being a bad girl had a
electrifying effect on her.  And she seemed only too willing to be as
naughty as I desired her to be.  Each new low I prompted her for
seemed to make her cringe with shame and embarrassment, and yet they
inflamed her.

Watching her, I resolved to make my dream reality.

As we parted, I told her, "Sally, on Wednesday, the day of our next
lesson, I want you to do something special for me.  You are to come to
school without any underwear on..."

    * * *

Mrs. Buskerman stormed into my office, sputtering.  Another student
disciplinary problem.

It seemed that Mrs. Buskerman had apprehended a student in a, as she
described it, "flagrantly disrespectful violation of the uniform
rules".

I sighed.

My position of authority at the Academy was not without its
disadvantages.  Responsibility for meting out discipline for unwelcome
behavior, which seemed all too common among the rowdy girls and young
women of the Academy, was one such drawback.

If the Academy were anything like the Society, it wouldn't be such a
chore.  No, on the contrary, it would be most interesting.

Sadly, and fortunately, my two worlds had never collided in reality.
I had often considered the possibility, and thoughts about one would
rarely stray into my head while I was involved with the other, but by
and large, my life was well divided into these two separate boxes.

In fact, my life was so well compartmentalized that I hardly even
considered it that way.  My personas were so familiar, so perfect,
that I no longer gave them a second thought.  When I was at the
Academy, I was Dean Pierce.  I became her, totally.  My attitudes,
beliefs, likes and dislikes instantly transformed themselves into that
of the efficient, businesslike, conservative school administrator.
When I was on Society time, I was, well... you can imagine who I am
then.

However, this particular afternoon, the story that the peeved Mrs.
Buskerman told me broke through the mold of Dean Pierce, and touched
my other side.

When I finally calmed her down enough to get the full story, my alter
ego, the mistress who led the Society of Silk, was intrigued.

Mrs. Buskerman had caught a student who wasn't wearing any underwear.

I took a few moments to soothe the irate matron's nerves, promising
that I would bring the offender to justice, and that swift and
appropriate punishment would deter any such further behavior.  I
finally managed to whisk her out the door.

I sat down at my desk briefly, as my Society mind savored the




ss_5.txt

tantalizing possibilities.  I snuck a look through the blinds on my
door into the lobby of the office, where the offender was waiting for
punishment.

"She's a looker", my nefarious mind said.  "She's definitely your
type.  Make her wait a bit.  Make her sweat it out."

I asked my secretary in for a moment, and bade her to get me the
girl's file.  When she returned with it, I told her that the young
woman was to remain seated until I had time to deal with her, but that
she would, of course, be responsible for making up the work she missed
during the two classes that remained in the afternoon.

Imagine my surprise when, as I began reading the girl's file, I
discovered that she was none other than the daughter of my would-be
Society members, Jack and Connie.

Isn't life funny?

The circumstances made me chuckle.  But, I began to feel a bit
uncomfortable with the unexpected collision of my worlds - my
personas.  So I squelched the lovely, lewd thoughts that had begun to
run through the Dean's mind, and returned to the work at hand - school
administrator.

I reviewed her file, and then finished up some paperwork I had left.
Just as the day's second-to-last bell was about to ring, I asked the
young woman into my office.

She got up, but her eyes remained contritely downcast as she walked
past me into my office.

"Linda," I said, "why don't you knock off, hmm?  Go home early, it's
been a long day."

Linda was a good secretary, and she knew when to make good on such an
offer.  Five minutes later, she was gone.

I shut the outer door to the office behind her, and then returned to
my office, shutting the door behind me.  Inside, Sally was standing in
front of my desk, waiting.

"Please sit down, Sally," I said, indicating one of the two leather
chairs in front of the desk.

Experience had taught me that a little uncomfortable silence before
dealing with a discipline problem like this was a wonderful tool.  So
I sat down behind my desk, and reread the first couple of pages of her
file.  When I finally looked up, Sally looked properly contrite.  She
was staring at the floor.

If experience was any guide, most students were miserable by this
point.  I had a reputation for swift, harsh punishments.  I didn't
fool around.  The power of deterrents is not to be underestimated.

At first we talked about school in general.  How she was getting
along, how her grades were, what classes she liked, etc.  I did this
with all my students.  It helped me keep my finger on the school's
pulse, from their point of view.

Eventually, I broached the real subject at hand.  "Sally, Mrs.
Buskerman has made a very serious accusation."

She only nodded.

"Is it true?"

She paused, and I waited.

Finally, she nodded again.  I wasn't sure, but I thought I could see
her fighting back tears in her eyes.

"I see."  I scribbled some lines on a pad of paper, as if this were
something important.  Another subtle little trick.

She definitely noticed, and she seemed to be getting upset.  She
sniffled.

"Why, Sally?"

No answer.

I gently offered some explanations, including the obvious - that she
had an accident, or had gotten her period and had a mishap, or
somesuch, but she shook her head at each one.  I began asking some
questions, with concern, about her family life.  More sniffling
ensued.  I had hit a nerve.

But, Sally still wasn't speaking much.  I guessed, mostly on a hunch
and the familiarity I had with her stepfather, Jack, that her family
woes were related to him, but "normal".  Something told me that this
incident was unrelated.

Over time, in a job like this, one can develop a sixth sense.  I liked
Sally.  I doubted that she was a real trouble maker, or had serious
problems, like drugs or booze.

Sally's grades were good, especially for a transfer student.  She had
already earned some complimentary remarks from her teachers and other
students.  She was smart, and pretty, nice, and well-liked.  She
seemed very polite, and very respectful.  I was surprised that she was
in my office, and for the nature of the offense.

My sixth sense was twitching, but I didn't have anything concrete.
Why was she here?  Why was she running around like Lady Godiva?  And
why wasn't she coming clean about it?

One doesn't get to be who I am at the Academy by following the rule
book.  You have to have more.  You have to think, and to be creative.
I decided I'd take a chance.  I decided that I'd just have a nice,
long chat with Sally, let her off the hook with an hour's detention,
and ask her to return for another chat.

And in the meantime, I'd poke around a bit more, and see if I could
find out what was going on.

When I told her, she seemed to relax, but only slightly.  "What about
my parents?" She said.

"Sally, I'm willing to let this slide - no phonecall - but only this
once."

She literally sagged with relief.

Hmm.

After I'd delivered that verdict, we had a very nice, hour-long chat.
Sally seemed much more relaxed.  The final bell interrupted us, and I
got up and showed her to the door.  She seemed eager to go.

As I followed her to the outer office door, I, or rather my dark side,
noticed the way she was self-consciously holding her skirt closed.

A bit later, I was on my way out.  It was only by chance, after the
halls were clear and mercifully silent, as I was getting ready to
leave, that I saw her.  At the far end of the main corridor, Sally was
just disappearing out of sight, up the stairwell, her free hand still
clutching her skirt.

A tiny bell went off in my brain.

"Where could she be going?" I wondered.  Her detention wasn't until
tomorrow.  There were no after-school activities upstairs.

I followed her, carefully, mostly by listening to the sound of her
penny loafers on the linoleum floors.  I paused on the landing between
the second and third floors, listening to her walk down the corridor.
I heard a door open and then shut - a bathroom door.

I snuck a glance - no sign of her.  She must have gone into the
bathroom.  I waited, and momentarily, I heard the door reopen, and her
footsteps once again.  Listening, I could tell that she was heading
away from me, towards the far end of the hall.

I snuck another look.  Something was different.  Then it hit me - her
legs were bare.  Now the bell in my brain was clanging.

I watched her open the door at the very end of the hall, and she
disappeared.  I waited a few moments, my brows knitted, chewing my
lip, wondering what to do.

Finally, I took off my shoes, padded in my stocking feet to the end of
the hall, and saw that she'd gone into the art studio.  The door had a
pane of frosted glass, and I couldn't make out anyone inside.
Strange.  I listened, and finally made out a muffled voice - hers, I
think.

One of the perks of being Dean was that I had keys to everything.  The
Dean and the janitors were the only ones with this privilege.  I
quietly slipped into the art studio, half expecting to be caught, or
to catch whoever was inside, but it was empty.  Then I heard voices
again.  They were coming from the back of the studio.  There was
another door at the back of the studio, with a lit "exit" sign above
it - the back staircase, used only as a fire escape.

I padded up to the door, and slowly, quietly turned the handle.  There
was the staircase landing, and another door.  A door with light
spilling out from underneath.  The door was labeled "supply", and it
had a clear pane of glass, over which newsprint had been taped, from
the inside.

But there was a tiny strip of light at the bottom, where the paper and
torn away.  I crept forward, and put my eye to it.

I nearly fell over with shock when I saw what was happening inside.
My Dean's heart nearly stopped beating.  My jaw fell open, and I
stepped away from the door like I'd seen a ghost, covering my open
mouth with my hand.  My God! Sally!  Bill Howard!

    * * *

I drove home in a daze, the sight in the supply room seared onto my
brain.  In shock, I'd crept away silently, locking the door behind me,
leaving Mr. Howard and young Sally behind.  I just couldn't bring
myself to do anything else.

As the Saab speared through the rain and mist on the drive to home
James, the cats, and the money pit we called our home, the Dean in me
fell away like a snake's unwanted skin.

I began to see the debauched scene in the art studio supply room in a
different light.

I started to laugh.  I laughed all the way home.  My laughs echoed in
the Saab's plush cockpit right up until I pulled it into the garage.

After dinner, although James bored me with yet another tale of our
accountant's pessimism, I was too bemused to even care.  I kept seeing
them together, up there in the studio.  It was a sight worthy of any
Society scene I had ever attended.

I didn't tell James.  Not that would have cared or understood anyway.
My involvement in the Society, no longer a new problem for us,
remained on of our great Unresolved Issues.  It was probably better
that I kept my little joke to myself anyhow, because any mention of
the Society seemed to throw James into a black rage.  Being the
Mistress was one of our greatest financial burdens, and as if he
didn't already resent my involvement, the cost made it all the worse.

I had little trouble falling asleep that night.  But I woke from a
slumber so deep it was like unto death with an explosive thought.  A
thought so wild it jerked me into total consciousness immediately.

We needed money.

We really needed money.  We needed money so much we'd even talked
about insurance policies and their implications.  We'd talked about
more get-rich quick schemes than you could shake a stick at.  We'd
talked about James embezzeling from Universal.

Jack and Connie had an enormous amount of money.  Buckets of it.
Their application to the Academy included a very, very interesting
financial disclosure report, which I had studied while checking
Sally's file.

Jack was a reckless, horny bastard.  A Satyr, if ever there was one.
The man's penis had more brain cells than the thing between his ears.

And then there were Sally and Mr. Howard.  The thick, conservative
shell of Deanness must have dampened my instincts while talking with
Sally.  Looking back on the conversation, her disciplinary offense,
and finally, the scene with Mr. Howard, things began to add up.  She
was a submissive.  I could tell.  You don't become Mistress of the
Society of Silk without knowing your sexual genus and species
backwards and forwards.  As I've said, I'm an unerring judge of
character.

It all fell together.  I saw it happening before my eyes.  The scenes
unrolled in my brain like a movie.  The young submissive, Sally, in a
very, very, untoward situation with her stepfather.  The whole thing
captured on videotape.  Me, presenting the blackmail letter and a
demand for a huge amount of money to Jack.  The transfer of funds.
The triumph.

The more I thought about it, the more excited I got.  It was so far
beyond anything I had ever considered in my life that it seemed
completely plausible.

I would maneuver the submissive young woman into a state of perpetual
hypercharged sexual arousal and willingness.  I would release the
obvious barely-checked lust in Jack. I would capture their forbidden
union as evidence, present it to him, and demand a check.

The instrument that I would use to bring Sally to this state was none
other than Mr. Howard.  It would distance me from the liberties he
would take with Sally.  No, I corrected myself, from the liberties he
was already taking with her.

The thoughts, images and possibilities were dazzling and intoxicating.
I could see it.  I could feel it.

I lay back down and fell instantly to sleep.

The next day, during first period, I set about putting my plan into
action.  I went to see Sally.  I interrupted the class she was in,
apologizing to the teacher, and asked Sally to step into the hall for
a moment.  She followed me into the hall, a look of sheer terror on
her face.

"Sally, I'd like to have that chat with you this afternoon, after
school.  You are excused from your detention.  Be in my office at four
o'clock sharp."

By the time four o'clock rolled around, I had re-checked Jack and
Connie's financial statement.  It was just as impressive as I had
remembered it.  Perfect.

I had only to confirm my appraisal of Sally's nature.  A submissive.

She stood as she had the day before, in front of my desk, her eyes
glued to the carpet.

There was something about her body language.  She was leaning forward
slightly.  Trying to emphasize her upper body - or hide her lower.

I sat down behind my desk.

"Sally, pull up your skirt and show me that you are wearing
underwear today."

She started to cry, silently.  Big, tears were rolling down her face,
and her chin was trembling.  She pulled up her skirt.

Bare.  She was bare as the day she was born, beneath her uniform.

My hunch was dead on.  Bill Howard, the foggy old lech, was behind
this, I knew it.

She stood there, sobbing, her charms on display.  It was quite an
alluring sight.  Very enticing.  I let myself enjoy it.

Crying harder, though still quietly, she started to lower her skirt.
"Uh-uh, Sally.  I didn't give you permission to cover up," I said.

She yanked it higher again.

"Turn around, Sally, in a circle."

I watched her.  Nice ass, too.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."  I shook my head.  "I'm very disappointed, Sally."

Submissive.  Without a doubt, Sally was ready, willing and able.

    * * *

"What!?!?"

That was all Bill Howard could manage, though it was fairly
convincing in its feigned shock and disbelief.

He was seated on the same chair that Sally had perched in the
afternoon before, when my suspicions were confirmed.

I'd "dropped by" his office, early this morning, and told him, with
grim brevity, that "I needed to speak to him about his relationship
with one of the students".  I knew that from the moment on, he'd been
on the rack.  His day was a living Hell.

He thought he'd gotten caught.

I began our conversation by telling him that Sally had been caught
going underwear-less.  That she had a significant discipline problem.
That it was causing trouble.  That it was probably caused by a
"deviant sexual relationship".  Bill Howard was sweating up a storm.

Just because I could, I twisted the knife a little harder.  With all
the gravity I could muster, but without sounding accusatory, I asked
him "Bill, you seem very close to Sally.  Do you know anything about
this?"

His voice quavered shrilly as he answered, "No, Dean Pierce, I had no
idea."

It was cruel, but it was fun watching him squirm.

"What!?" was all he could say when I told him that he was being put in
charge of a "special disciplinary curriculum" for the young woman.

The relief on his face was so obvious I had to stop myself from
laughing.  Just as he thought the curtain was about to close, I'd
given him Broadway.

I outlined the part of plan that he needed to know about, which wasn't
really much, and his role in it.  The carrot.

I told him that I was going to open the old school building on the
back of campus, and that he and Sally would be alone there every day
after lunch, for her special instruction.  I told him that he would be
responsible for correcting her "disrespect for authority", her
"rebellious attitude", and for giving her a "thorough sexual
education."  I let the double entendre hang there.

I saw the recognition in his eyes.

He more than readily agreed.  His relief made him affable, and we
talked for a long time.  I kept him there until the janitor came by,
and was locking up.

We finally wrapped up, and I made a subtle, but pointed show of taking
out my keyring and locking my office door as we left.  "You know,
Bill, I have the key to every door in the Academy," I said casually.

I knew Bill well enough to know that he wouldn't miss this, or its
implications.  This was the stick.

The carrot and stick were more than enough to get Mr. Bill Howard
interested.  I had even more effective ways of getting him to play
exactly the sort of game I wanted.  But that could wait for now.

    * * *

I hung up the phone angry, disappointed, and a little worried.  I was
worried both about what Sally had done, and about what Jack would do.

I was also a little bit shocked.  I was shocked to learn that the same
woman who was the Mistress of the Society was the head of Sally's
school.  Jack and I had met Allison, first at the restaurant, and
several times since.  I had become, well, let's just say that I'd
become familiar with her indirectly, because of the "trials" that this
Society was making me go through.  I'd found out that she was the one
who dreamed them up.

If my "tests" were any indication, then this Allison Pierce was one
wicked woman.  "But," I told myself, "then again, so are you, Connie."
It was possible for me to go through these tests, not to mention all
of the other kinky things Jack and I had been involved in down through
the years, and still function as a perfectly normal member of society.
Why isn't it possible that the head of the Society of Silk was a
school administrator?  Still...

I shook my head as I picked up the phone again, and started to dial
Jack's number at work.  He was going to be pissed.  Really pissed.

"Jack, Sally's in trouble at school.  We have to go down and meet - "

He cut me off.  "I'm on my way.  I'll be home in ten minutes."  Click.
The line went dead.

Funny.

He was in a silent, black fury on the drive to Sally's Academy.
Stomping on the accelerator at every opportunity, and swerving in and
out of traffic like a racecar driver.

I didn't even try to say anything.  Sally had really done something,
this time.  But what?  She had been acting a bit strangely last night.

I wished that I hadn't been spending so many nights "out".  It seemed
like I was spending more time "auditioning" and going through the
Society's tests than I was at home.  No wonder I hadn't seen this
coming.  The creeping resentment I had been harboring for Jack came
flooding back.  He was the one who'd gotten us so involved in this
humiliating, obscene experience with the Society.  For a moment, I
felt like crying, thinking about all of the things I'd been doing -
all the things done to me - over the last few weeks.  I was in deeper
than I ever thought I would, or could be.  I guess I was finding
something out about myself that I wasn't sure I understood, or liked.

But this thing with Sally was just the icing.  I started to get angry
with her, too.

The school was empty by the time we got there.  We found the office,
and went in.  Inside, Sally was sitting on a leather couch, next to a
frumpy man with greying hair.  She looked like she'd been crying.  My
anger softened with a touch of tenderness.  I wanted to sit down and
hug her.

Allison Pierce was there, too.  She looked so neat - so put together.
I could see that she was wearing a very expensive suit.  It felt weird
seeing her.  Especially in this context - at my daughter's school.  I
wondered what she thought of me.  I wished I had been done up a little
better - some makeup, or a nicer dress.  Too late.

We sat down, in the chairs in front of her desk, which had been turned
towards the couch.  Sally didn't look up.

"I'm glad you could make it, Connie, and Jack."  The Mistress seemed
very schoolteacher-like.  Crisp, and efficient.  She pulled up a
smaller chair, and sat across from the couch, facing us.

I looked at Jack.  He was staring at Sally, his jaw clamped shut, and
the cords in his neck straining.  God, was he pissed.

"This is Mr. Howard," she said, pointing to the man on the couch.  He
stood up and we shook hands.

"Nice to meet you both," he said, and then sat back down.

"Now, Jack, Connie, we have had a little problem.  Sally has, that
is," began Allison.  "Sally is a very good student.  She has excellent
grades, seems to be a hard worker, and is doing well in all her
classes.  She also seems to be getting along with other students and
the faculty quite well."  Allison looked from me, to Jack, to Sally,
and then to Mr. Howard as she was talking.

"But, recently, Sally has been having some disciplinary problems."
Sally looked down at the her hands, folded in her lap.

Without looking at him, I could hear Jack's angry breathing.  If he
were a bull, he would have been snorting by now.

The Dean continued, "In fact, these infractions have been rather
serious.  I'm afraid that we are going to have to begin to address
them."

Jack muttered, "Damn right."