“Mrs. Mower…” Mr. Simmon said sternly through her classroom’s doorway. The woman erasing the whiteboard turned around when hearing her name. “… in my office now.”
Before she could respond, he cut her off. “Yes, now.” And he ducked out.
She wanted to object because her husband was off work for an evening, which was rare for him, and all four of their kids were gone. They had reservations for dinner at Le Chef de L’Etat at 6. She had planned to leave school as soon as classes ended and doll herself up to make an impression on her man.
She passed through the hallways and down the flight of stairs, her mind spinning in the confusion of such a sudden call to the principal’s office. She filed through her recent actions that may have caused this meeting. She had offered constructive criticism to Mrs. Wetmire’s four-year Math Department strategy at a meeting that week. The department chairwoman had been peeved, of course, though not enough to rouse Principal Simmon. She hadn’t pissed off any students to the point they would have their parents call the school. An unexpected pay raise was an absurd notion.
Mrs. Mower knocked lightly on the principal’s office door.
Mr. Simmon called her in as if he were a crotchety old man. Though crotchety he was not, he was quite the opposite.
She pushed open the door and saw him in his desk chair, reclining. He wore a starched white shirt with gold cuff links. His tie, a stoic light blue with dark blue stripes, reflected his attitude that late afternoon.
He was staring at the florescent light bars overhead, but he turned his chair toward her. It reminded her of a crazed scientist. However, like a gentleman, he offered her a seat on his leather couch that faced his desk.
“We’ve got an issue.”
She sat and adjusted her skirt to hide her legs. He tapped the tips of his fingers together. Then as if breaking from his thoughts, he spoke gentler. “Mrs. Mower, I appreciate you meeting me on such short notice.”
“It wasn’t a problem, Mr. Simmon,” she lied, wondering how long this would take.
“You know I appreciate your enthusiasm for school, for teaching, for students, and your desire to meet the Math Department’s goals. Nevertheless, I’ve come across startling news of you doing something inappropriate inside our facility.”
Mrs. Mower felt her forehead and cheeks heating up and her eyebrows contorting by what she was hearing. Inappropriate?
“As you know, whether it is within school hours or on campus anytime, we have acceptable behavior. Our teachers and staff must abide by the highest and strictest of standards.”
“Sir,” she interrupted, “I’m confused.”
He walked to the front of his desk, directly in front of the seated Mrs. Mower. To make room on his desk, Mr. Simmon pushed aside his nameplate and the picture of Mrs. Simmon with a large black dog nuzzled under her chin and set a laptop on his dark oak desk. He tapped the keyboard and a black-and-white image appeared. He crossed his arms.
“This was recently brought to my attention.” He was silent for a moment, letting the statement settle on her.
She recognized herself and, of all people, Mr. Rungard. They were sitting across from each other, both in student desks. It must have been the night of their wild parent-teacher conference.
Her eyes darted from the screen to the edge of the principal’s desk. She noticed the edges were sharp except for a section in the middle. It was worn down so much the polish was gone.
Mr. Simmon continued, “I want you to confirm that it is you. The image was taken the night of the conferences and the timestamp is 6:37 p.m.”
She covered her mouth and sat back on the couch. Worry made her throat dry and she coughed. “Yes, I was here at school. I don’t remember the exact time though.”
“What’s more astounding, Mrs. Mower, is the video.”
“Video? I didn’t know my classroom was being recorded.”
“Closed circuit television for safety purposes. It’s protection for teachers and the school administration.” He answered flatly once again. “Watch the video, so you can recall what happened. Legally, Mrs. Mower, I want to give you an opportunity to see what was recorded and let you explain it to me.”
Mr. Simmon pressed the Play button and a silent video began. She leaned forward, putting her wobbly elbows on her shaking knees. She adjusted her blouse to conceal any hint of sexuality. Hiding herself in full.
Disconcerted, she watched as she jotted the math problem on the white board, and then, when Mr. Rungard was attempting the problem, she walked to the back of the classroom, closed and locked the door. She saw herself step behind him and twist his head toward her. She remembered his hands slithering up her legs and beneath her skirt. It was the start of a fabulous night. One she hadn’t forgotten. In fact, it warmed her body quickly even this long after that night.
Soon, his head was under her skirt, making her look pregnant. If she had been, the baby was very, very active. A few minutes later, the video showed her shout wildly and then stumble back into her chair. Knowing the circumstances, she noticed her panties were caught around one of her ankles. Mr. Rungard sat on the floor, leaning against the whiteboard.
Mr. Simmon paused the video.
“Is this you in the video?” he asked simply.
Her shoulders slumped forward and her head fell. She nodded. “Mr. Simmon, I don’t know what to say.”
“Now, it’s not my business what you do outside of school and off school property, it’s your life, not mine.” He walked around to his desk chair and sat. “Here on campus though, it matters to me. It’s my job to have a school that functions well and provides a safe and appropriate atmosphere for students and faculty. We have policies to abide by and, when someone, staff or student, falls short, I have to address the situation immediately. And there are consequences. What consequence? Well, that is your decision to make.”
She looked up. Suddenly she noticed Mr. Simmon’s light green eyes and the same animalistic gaze as Mr. Rungard had that night. A fierceness, an uncontrolled desire. His elbows rested on the armrests of his chair and his fingertips pressed together.
“I don’t—” she started. “It’s just—”
She could only attempt to gather her thoughts, and he let her fumble in the light of the terrible circumstances. She was in need of mercy.
Finally, he raised his hand to stop her. “There are several options. First, you could accept unpaid leave indefinitely or, secondly, you could be relieved of your position.”
Mrs. Mower’s spirit dropped with fear because of the options. She placed the palm of her hand on her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. Her mind was muddying up. Her vision was going blurry.
Mr. Simmon waited for a few moments before he continued.
“However,” he said intentionally and tried to hide a dirty grin, “I want to say that those are not your only two options to reconcile for the acts committed on school grounds.”
She raised her head abruptly. “Another option?” A ray of hope.
He leaned forward in a fatherly way, placing his elbows on the desk. She had an urge to pull away from this man. She looked into his eyes. The worry and fear eased.
“Mrs. Mower, I want to provide help for those who need it. One of my goals is to support the staff, my staff.”
“I won’t be staff any more though.”
“You’re still on staff,” he reassured her. “I know how long you’ve been with the school and what you’ve given. I’ve seen your experience, your love of teaching and your students. You are one of the brightest and best teachers we have.” Mr. Simmon then took both of her hands in his hands, stronger and warmer. Calm. “I don’t want to see you go. I also want to see you get paid for your tireless work.”
Mrs. Mower didn’t move, didn’t lift her head. She only asked very quietly, “What else can I do?”
He exhaled. “Well, we must make a decision on how, in fact, to proceed. Your answers are a formality and necessary before we move forward.”
Mrs. Mower began shivering again nervously.
“Do you wish to forfeit your position as a teacher at the school?”
“I don’t want to.”
“The second option is indefinite suspension without pay. Do you—”
She interrupted. “What is the third option, Mr. Simmon? The first two are ones I cannot take.”
A base smile crossed his face. “The third option is one I rarely ever offer my teachers. It complicates your life and mine. Nevertheless, I want you to continue teaching here, so I am willing to carry it through.”
“I’m willing too,” she said quickly.
“You haven’t heard it yet.”
“But I’ve heard my first two options.”
In a kind voice, he said, “Come over to my desk.”
She stood, wobbly-kneed, and walked over. Her hand ran along the edge of the worn desk to maintain her balance.
Behind the desk, she saw Mr. Simmon’s pants unbuckled and his long dick laying deflated on the seat of his chair.
“My god, Mr. Simmon!” Mrs. Mower was astounded. She was unsure if seeing the dick was what astounded her or its sheer size.
She pulled her eyes from the cock to see him stare at her with his light green eyes. He led her eyes back to his dick. “You like this option?”
“What are you talking about?”
Considering the third option, she almost objected because she may not make it to Le Chef de L’Etat without reddened cheeks and smeared mascara.
She ran her hands across her chest. Her heart was thumping so fast. Then her mouth started watering, saliva.
Mr. Simmon’s dick still laid there. “To your knees,” he said smoothly.
She knelt, penitently, before him. She slid his pants over his knees and down to his ankles. Her hands slithered up his legs and gripped his thighs, spreading them. Her face lowered to the level of his seat, her chin on the cushion. She leaned forward and flicked the tip of his dick with her tongue as if her tongue wanted his cock to wake up and play. She flicked it again. And his dick awakened. Slowly erecting. Seeing the movement, her mouth opened wide and she swallowed his dick. Her lips stretched around its growing girth and length.
Mr. Simmon leaned against the back of his chair. His head lapsed to the side and he smiled.
Her knees dug into the scraggy industrial carpet, rubbing raw and starting to burn, but she worked hard with her mouth. She bobbed and sucked feisty enough though that her boss soon gripped the arms of the office chair.
He began to moan her name softly, complimenting her know-how. “You are amazing. No wonder Mr. Rungard …” Then his hips bucked, his butt cheeks tightened, his jaw clenched. He blurted out, “Mrs. Mower! Mrs. Mower!” and repeated frantically between heaves.
She only responded by gagging herself, sucking louder. He jerked and jerked again. With a loud groan, he shot his load of cum into her mouth. Glob after glob. Mrs. Mower swallowed it all and soon straightened herself with a proud smile.
Mr. Simmon’s relaxed in the chair. She dabbed a bit of cum from the corner of her mouth.
Mrs. Mower raised up off her red and burning knees to sit on the couch. She reoriented herself after gagging on the engorged dick.
“So, I’m still on staff and the video will be deleted?” she asked.
He stood and pulled up his pants. “Consider it never seen.”
She was, relieved. Proof of that night—the images of Mr. Rungard in her classroom and later fucking her in the girls restroom on the sink, then cumming in her tits—was only in her memories.
She redirected her comment. “You are, my goodness, a large man.”
Mr. Simmon prowled across the room to the couch where she sat. He leaned down and looked into her dark eyes. “So I’ve been told.”
He put his hands on her legs this time. She didn’t turn away from his stare as he slithered up her legs to the inner thighs. “I’ve been told more.”
“What have you been told?” she asked, charmed.
“Let me show you.” He made her stand before him.
She let him take off her skirt. He pulled down her panties and flung them across his office. They knocked over the picture of Mrs. Simmon. She was bare from her waist down. Then dinner reservations with her husband ran through her mind briefly. They left her, when Mr. Simmon ran his hands over her butt cheeks and inside every inch of her ass. He spread her cheeks wide, opening her ass to let light strike her hidden place. Her asshole stretched until taut.
She lay back again on the couch and opened her legs wide. Her pussy presented itself. Two fat outer lips in a perpendicular smile that slowly peeled apart. He ran his finger the length of that smile and entered his middle finger. He ran it in and out, wetness slickening his finger. She loved the feeling.
He put his face into her naked lap. He flicked her clit and swirled around it. His mouth sucked on her lips. His tongue stretched deep inside of her. The sensations became enough that she had to put the palm of her hand on his forehead to push away his mouth.
She heaved, “You are … Wow! I need a break.”
Mr. Simmon sat on the floor and leaned against his desk. Glancing at him, Mrs. Mower thought of Mr. Rungard at the end of the video, leaning against the whiteboard.
She looked at the clock and decided she had a little more time before dinner. This tryst wasn’t done and she had some power to wield over him. “I want more.”
Coming off the couch, she pushed Mr. Simmon on his back and maneuvered herself directly above his face. “You going to give me more?”
She felt his arms snake around her thighs and pull her down. She sat back into his face. He sucked and lapped her pussy. He stuck out his tongue as she rocked slowly forward and backward. Soon the feeling had her bobbing on his face.
His hands on her ass pushed up. He had to power-press her hips because she would not move. And he gasped for air but went under again. The next time though, she didn’t let him raise her up until he gathered all his strength.
“Is this pussy worth the air you breath?” she asked. As much as a question it was a power-play.
He gasped and drove his tongue deeper between those lips. It was his active answer. She felt his rough tongue rub her clit until she raised to all fours.
Finally he came up with his face reddened, a vein on his forehead pulsating, and his face glistening. A mix of his perspiration and her pussy covered from the bridge of his nose to the cleft of his chin.
He climbed into his office chair. She too regained her senses, sitting with her back against his desk.
“You are a master and you never say die,” she told him.
“Time spent off the Army base taught me valuable lessons. Most important: Leave no pussy behind.”
“Must’ve been a medic off base,” she said. “No woman would die in your arms, or, I mean, on your face.”
His eyes squinted as he grinned proudly. His weariness, however, would not allow him to do more.
She saw the time. Nearly 6. “Thank you for the third option. I’m so glad you offered it. But I need to leave for another appointment.”
She gathered herself and her belongings.
She pulled her SUV into a parking spot at Le Chef de L’Etat. It was five minutes past 6. Her husband’s car was already there. He wasn’t in it. He must have been inside, waiting for her at a table.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she checked her makeup and hair. Sex made her more radiant, gave her a nice glow, but sex wore off her makeup and flattened her hair as well.
She jogged across the lot in her heels. She felt the carpet burn on her knees. She also remembered she’d left her panties with Mr. Simmon in her need to leave for dinner.
Hers and Mr. Mower’s eyes met across the dining room. He stood up next to a small booth with a single candlelight. He kissed her on the lips. “You have that lovely glow.”
She patted her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Thank you for noticing.”
“I’ve been waiting here,” he said. “Everything going all right?”
“A rough day at work,” she said. She felt her knees hurt, as she scooted into the booth. “It was a day of kneeling and sitting and no break in between.”
Mr. Mower scanned her, studying her. “Something good happened to you today, something very good. I can see it.”
“You’re the best thing that happened to me today. I’ve waited all day for dinner with you tonight. It could not come fast enough.”
He smiled. “I’ve ordered a bottle of Pino Grigio.”
“You know what that does to me.”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
Claire Woodruff is a clerk in a legal office in Washington, DC. She began writing fiction in junior high out of summer boredom and never lost the love of it. She offsets a legal world with her imagination about risque aspects of life. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband.