This Year’s Model

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There’s the possibility of more parts to this story, if inspiration strikes.


“Mr. Hawthorne?” Victoria Sanderson stood in the doorway to my office, timidly knocking to announce her presence. To the outside observer, she would have looked the picture of innocence: white tennis shoes, pink ruffles atop white ankle socks, blue skirt hanging to her mid-calf, white button-down shirt (with only the top button undone), strawberry blonde hair gently curling below her jawline. It was the requisite school uniform here at Cooper’s Branch Preparatory Academy, though certainly she wore hers more prim-and-proper than many of her classmates did. Such a hypothetical observer would see her on the threshold of my office at the beginning of the fall term and imagine her to be a serious student, a graduating senior with good grades and higher aspirations, getting an early start on scholarship applications and lining up letters of recommendation from her teachers.

Our observer could be forgiven for coming to that conclusion, but other than her age, he couldn’t be more wrong. If Victoria were the girl that the image implied, she wouldn’t be here in my office in the first place. I’d noticed her when she started school here as a 15-year-old freshman. Watched her develop and blossom. And I’d harbored a quiet and secret hope that she’d be this year’s model.


I’d started at Cooper’s Branch in the English department eleven years ago, after a mildly-successful career as a teacher, and a wildly-unsuccessful career as a novelist. At the time, my colleagues teased me because I was leaving the Memphis public school system for a private school in the affluent suburbs of Atlanta. For all my protestations about the quality of life in Alpharetta and the quality of students I’d be working with, they still saw a 32-year-old single male teaching at a residential academy for girls as a “dirty old man.” I didn’t mind their mockery. I knew the truth: I wasn’t remotely old.

My first day at Cooper’s Branch, I was called into the headmistress’ office. Radmila Starovic had a reputation for being unforgiving, but that was only her professional demeanor. As we spoke at length for the first time, she apologized for not being available during my interview, but she had been out of the country. I learned that her father had emigrated to the US from Yugoslavia to escape the brutalities of Marshal Tito’s regime, and only since the fall of the Soviets was she able to visit her father’s side of the family in Novi Sad, Serbia. I guessed it was the Serb in her that made her come off as caustic to Western ears; in short order, I found her to be quite pleasant, much more educationally-progressive than I would have expected from a school administrator in what I guessed were her early fifties, and loyal to her faculty.

Pleasant, at least, until our conversation turned to the student body. If she was loyal to the faculty, then she was fiercely protective of the 400 or so girls in her care. I was one of only five men on faculty, and the only one under 60. So, not only did I have to avoid improper behavior, I had to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. I was never to have a one-on-one conference with any of my students unless another faculty member (preferably female) was at least within earshot, and my office door was to remain open at all times barring a compelling reason to close it. I understood. Wealthy parents were giving us 5 figures a year in tuition; they had a right to expect us to protect their girls as much as possible. Caesar’s wife must be beyond reproach and all that.

But something wasn’t ringing quite true for me. Headmistress Starovic (as she insisted on being referred to while on school property) seemed to be going well beyond any sort of in loco parentis role. It sounded hyper-protective to me, as though these girls were hers, and their safety was her first, last, and only responsibility. I merely chalked it up to being raised by over-protective eastern European parents.


Fast forward six years. I’d been the model of propriety, with nary a whiff of scandal. I’d earned Headmistress Starovic’s trust, to the point where we were “Radmila” and “Wes” when we were alone in her office. (“Besides,” I’d whined, “‘Radmila’ is at least 78% easier to say than ‘Headmistress Starovic’.”) My students didn’t hate me. It quickly became clear that I wasn’t passing out good grades to the girl with the shortest skirt or the most cleavage, and word got around: if sex sells, I wasn’t buying. At one point, a rumor spread through campus that I was gay, because the fragile egos of these teenage girls couldn’t accept the notion that a straight man might be immune to the powers of their sexuality. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but … uh … no.

Having a young-ish man on faculty was paying off for the school as well; the fathers now had someone they could talk to “man-to-man” at the fundraising dinners. Donations were up, güvenilir bahis possibly as a result. I was getting paid enough to live in comfort, and occasional trips into Atlanta tended to my social and personal needs. (Astonishingly good Chinese food in Atlanta, if you know where to find it.) I even had season tickets for the Falcons, since the team president’s daughter was an alumna, and the Matt Ryan Era was giving fans hope for the first time since the Dirty Birds. (We aren’t supposed to accept personal gifts from alumnae or their parents, so … shhhh!). If life was a little dull and predictable, it was at least a high-quality dull and predictable. The English teacher and frustrated novelist in me cannot help but draw your attention to the use of the past tense in the previous sentence. “Was”, not “is.” It wouldn’t stay dull for much longer.


One Thursday evening during the Spring term, I was working late in my office, grading papers that I’d put off for too long. With my door open (of course) and no one else around, I was able to hear what sounded like crying from a classroom down the hall. I knew that a one-on-one conversation with a student shouldn’t happen, but students weren’t allowed in the classrooms after school in the first place. And moreover, if it was one of our girls crying, someone should do something, and I was the only one around. I hadn’t heard about a family tragedy affecting any of our girls, so it must be a boy that did someone wrong. Shame, but I supposed it happened to the powerful just like the rest of us.

Approaching the classroom, it started to sound like more than one girl sobbing. The presence of multiple voices made me approach more quietly. If it was one friend needing a quiet place to console another, I could look the other way about the late use of the room. Besides, I didn’t want to intrude if the girls needed a moment. So rather than striding professorially into the room, I peeked around the door instead. Huh. Well, I was right about the multiple voices…

Kneeling on the floor was one of our students, stark naked, blonde hair tousled and falling to the middle of her back. I couldn’t make out her face, because it was being pulled between the legs of another girl who was lying on her back on the teacher’s desk. All I could see of the other girl was her legs (long and shapely), hands (scandalously red fingernails), and tits (big enough to rise prominently out from her chest, with an enticing wobble as she thrashed on the desk). A better man would have retreated to his office and called security. Me? I got out my cellphone to record the moment on video.

Whoever the kneeler was, she knew what she was doing. I’d made women cum in my life, but I’d never seen anyone lose control of her body the way this girl was. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see what the blonde was doing; I stifled the impulse to go into the room to get a better look or ask for pointers. When she started shaking her head side to side, the other girl’s breathing got faster, shorter. She was clearly on the verge of a tremendous orgasm, and I just hoped my phone had enough memory to keep recording.

It did. In seconds, the other girl started shouting. Sounded like she wasn’t speaking English, but the language of a soul-shattering orgasm is universal. And then … The only word I have for it is “explosion”. She blew up. Her juices flew out of her pussy like air rushing out of a balloon, covering the blonde’s face and hair. Her entire body convulsed; like a wave traveling up her body, her ass bounced off the table, then her stomach, tits, and graying hair.

Wait. Graying hair? I didn’t know any of our students were dying their hair gray; was this some new fashion thing? Unless… No, it couldn’t be a teacher; Radmila would have a fit! The teacher would be fired in seconds. And now I had to be the one to tell her. This was rapidly turning into a conversation I would not relish.

I stopped the recording, then found a dark corner of the hallway to wait in. I figured I’d get pictures of both their faces, so I’d know who was involved. When I heard one of them say “Class dismissed”, I knew my fears were justified. This was a teacher getting eaten out (and, I must say, expertly eaten out at that) by a student. The school didn’t need that kind of scandal, but I knew Radmila would be up to the challenge of handling it, and we had enough well-placed alumnae and families that the story might get quashed.

The blonde was first to leave. When she looked both ways to make sure no one was there, I got a good picture of her face. Huh. Ellen McCambridge. That was a bit of a surprise, though I honestly don’t know who I was expecting to see. Her father was a big shot in the fashion world; some starlet had worn one of his gowns to an awards show a couple years back, so he was rolling in dough. He definitely did not need to know that a teacher at Cooper’s Branch was “corrupting” his little girl. (Which would have been türkçe bahis bullshit anyway — she knew her way around a pussy, so that couldn’t have been her first time. But Daddy wouldn’t believe that about his baby girl, no matter what.) “At least she’s a senior,” I thought. As bad as this was going to be for everyone, it would have been 50 times worse if she was underage. And she wasn’t in any of my classes either. So, once this got resolved, however it got resolved, I could completely wash my hands of it.

After Ellen left, I heard the rustling of clothes, so the teacher was on her way out. When she paused at the door to turn the lights out, she unwittingly gave me a perfect profile to catch on camera. And I could not have been more surprised to see Headmistress Starovic’s unmistakable features. Well. This next meeting I was planning to have with her just got a lot more interesting.


I called in sick on Friday. It was the first day I’d missed in two years, so while Andrea the school secretary worried over me, she didn’t bat an eyelash over it. My students were working on papers anyway, so they could use the extra time. And I needed the three-day weekend to think about what was going to happen next.

A scandal like this, if it ever got out, would ruin the school’s reputation. Which would mean I’d have to go back out on the job market, and that would be tough, particularly since I wouldn’t have much hope of getting a glowing recommendation from the same administrator whose career I’d just ruined. Probably have to move away from Alpharetta. Short-sell my house. Give up my secret Chinese restaurant, my Falcons tickets. Going public with this would wreck my life, despite the fact that I did nothing wrong. And that just wasn’t fair. Right?

A better man would have pulled Radmila aside, privately told her he’d seen everything, admonished her about how dangerous that was, and dropped it. For the second time in as many days, I realized I wasn’t that better man. And the seeds of a plan started to germinate in my mind.


Come Monday morning, I checked in with Andrea. I assured her I didn’t need any chicken soup, it was just allergies acting up, and did the Headmistress have an open spot in her calendar after school? Her afternoon schedule was clear, so I asked Andrea to block out some time for us — I had some Homecoming ideas to run by the Headmistress. It was semi-true: if my plan worked, there’d be a lot of cumming, and at least some of it would be happening at home…

I coasted through the day distracted, in a haze. I let the students lead the discussions we were having on Magic Realism and take it pretty much wherever they wanted to go. In my last class, Maria Cortina noticed my laissez-faire attitude. If anyone would have noticed, it was probably her. I’d taught her for four years now, and I liked her both as a student and as a person. After class, she lingered until everyone else was gone.

“Mr. H., what got into you today?”

“What do you mean, Maria?”

“This was the most free-wheeling I’ve ever seen you. Normally, you structure the discussion, so we don’t go off on tangents. Today, all we did was go on tangents. And you’ve been grinning all day.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“It is to me, Mr. H. You know, I think of you as a good teacher, and a neat person as well, someone I want to keep in touch with when I’m in college and beyond. I’d like to believe that we could be friends outside of the classroom too. So, my hopefully-someday friend, just between you and me…” She paused, and in a conspiratorial whisper that barely restrained a giggle asked, “You get laid this weekend?”

I winked at her. “Formally, young lady, that’s none of your business. I will neither confirm nor deny.”

Maria laughed. “That’s good enough for me. Way to go, Mr. H.! You deserve to uncork every now and then.”

I smiled as enigmatically as I could. “Again, while neither confirming nor denying your interpretation of hypothetical events, I nonetheless appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“Do me a favor? Call her up again right before you grade our term papers!” We shared a deep, belly laugh as she danced out of my classroom. Yeah, she had a great future ahead of her. But now, I was off to the Headmistress’ office, to see about my future.


Radmila was chatting with some students in the main office when I got there. “Hello, Mr. Hawthorne. I hear you have some ideas to share with me about Homecoming festivities. Come on in so we can discuss them.” She closed the door behind us, offered me a seat, then went behind her desk. “So, what’s on your mind, Wes?”

I paused. In my head, I’d rehearsed this speech a dozen times over the weekend. Call it stage fright or what you will, but I knew that the next 15 minutes were going to be a turning point in my professional career. So this had to come out right.

“Radmila, how is the school doing, financially?”

“We’re güvenilir bahis siteleri pretty much okay. Doing better than breaking even, once you take charitable contributions into account. Why do you ask? Got a big purchase you want to make? It’d be nice to get a major request from someone other than the science department.”

“But, if something were to happen, something that might cause those contributions to dry up, things would get bad?”

“In a hurry. Wes, either you’re paranoid, or you know something I don’t, which is making me paranoid. What’s going on?”

I took a deep breath. Now or never. “Radmila, I like and respect you. And it isn’t in anybody’s interest for this to get out, but … I saw you and Ms McCambridge Thursday night.”

The color drained from her face as fast as her juices came out that night. “I don’t suppose it would do any good for me to say ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ would it?”

“Listen to me and please believe me. I do not want this to affect our relationship at all. I don’t care who you’re involved with; that’s none of my concern. Legally, she’s an adult, and from what I saw, she certainly wasn’t an unwilling participant.”

“Ohhhkay. So, we’re just going to forget what happened? For the good of the school and all that? Somehow, I don’t think that’s what you have in mind.”

“It’s not. But I don’t want a raise or anything that might cause the Board to ask questions. I just want one thing…” I tried not to look too lecherous, but I don’t think it worked, because Radmila braced herself. “Wes, if you’re asking what I think you’re asking, the answer’s no. I … I’m not into…”

“No, Radmila. Like I told you, as desirable as you are, and as … enthusiastic as I saw you to be on Thursday, I don’t want this to change our relationship at all. I just want something akin to what you’ve got.” She looked at me quizzically. “I want you to choose a student assistant for me, each new school year. And my relationship with her will be just like your relationship with Ms McCambridge: nobody else’s business.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Wes, do you know what the students think of you?”

“Um… the same way they feel about every other teacher? The ones who get good grades think I’m fair and kind, the ones that don’t think I’m a dick.”

“Interesting. Wrong, but interesting… Assuming I’m willing to go along with this, how do you want me to choose your new assistant?”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. “I have three requirements, and three preferences. One, she must be 18. Two, she cannot be signed up for any of my classes. And three, she has to be able to keep a secret. With me so far?”

“I am, though I’m a little terrified of how much thought you’ve put into this. Three preferences?”

“Personally, the bigger the breasts, the better. Yours, by the way, are magnificent.” She blushed, though I couldn’t tell if that was from the compliment or the reminder that I’d seen them. “I’d like it if she had a submissive side. And, I would definitely prefer wild and slutty to sweet though corruptible.”

“How on God’s green and verdant earth do you expect me to tell which the slutty girls are?”

“You get their disciplinary reports. You know who’s gotten demerits for breaking curfew. Besides, you figured Ms McCambridge out. I reiterate: I like and respect you, Radmila. Part of that is trusting your judgement.”

“But, how do I know you’re deserving of the amount of the trust I’d be affording you here? That’s a really big sword you’ve got hanging over my head.”

“If this gets out, I’d have a lot to lose as well. You protect my secrets, I protect yours, and the balance keeps us away from mutually-assured destruction.”

She took a moment, clearly trying to process all of this. “Wes, I need a few days to think this through. In the meantime, can I trust that this conversation does not leave this room?”

“Of course. Take all the time you need; I’d want an assistant for the whole year anyway, so we have the summer to work this out.”


A couple of weeks passed. Busy time of the year with midterms to grade. There wasn’t any outward change in Radmila’s demeanor, though I could tell she was being colder to me; we were back to “Headmistress Starovic” and “Mr. Hawthorne” now.

The Tuesday after the students came back from Spring Break, there was a note in my box. “Wes, I need to discuss your plan with you. Dinner and drinks tonight, Julie’s, 7:30. — R”. This was an odd turn of events. Julie’s was a nice enough place in the next town over. I suppose it would have made local tongues wag if the Headmistress and her younger male colleague were spotted drinking together. The lecher inside me thought that we wouldn’t be having this conversation if it weren’t for a wagging tongue…

When I got to the restaurant, Radmila was already waiting at the bar, dressed nicely but conservatively. Judging from the smirk she was wearing, she’d probably already fended off two or three offers to buy her another round. Hey, who was I to judge? Getting hit on is a nice boost to your ego, even if, as was surely the case here, it was the wrong gender on the offensive.

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