The Teacher's Workroom
On the first morning of teaching at the new school, Lydia's department chair entered her classroom while holding his steaming cup of black coffee. "Good morning, Ms. Johnson. Just stopping to wish you well today. I wanted to make sure you didn't need anything." Mr. Richards came across as lucky, like he always got what he set his sights for. He was alarmingly handsome, more in attitude than good looks, but he had those, too.
Her previous department chair barely acknowledged her in meetings, much less offered help with the physical classroom or lessons. But Mr. Richards was especially friendly, for he walked all the way to her classroom on the second floor of building 12; his classroom was across campus in the History wing with the rest of the History faculty. He could have called her on the campus phone. She had trusted him immediately when she met him in the interview for the job; he made her feel comfortable right away, offering small talk and an inside joke about the school.
Her room was modestly decorated for her ninth grade History class. She had placed a few educational posters around the room and had a bust of Caesar on the bookshelf near the back center of the room.. Visually, it was spotless and organized, the classroom of a perfectionist, an OCD personality. All the textbooks had been placed on the bookshelf neatly, the desks aligned in a perfect grid, and every class had a "turn it in" basket near the door.
After the first day of school, Mr. Richards made it a habit of popping by in the afternoon to relay various news to her: grades were due next Thursday by 4pm, the department meeting was every other Wednesday in his room, and other such details she had already gleaned from the Monday memos the principal sent out. She smiled politely and thanked him each time, appreciative of his attention and help. It was touching, for she hadn't had anyone to look after her in little ways for some time. It wasn't unusual for her to work at the school on the weekends, but when he found out, he insisted they exchange cell numbers for safety's sake.
On the drive home that day, she received a text: "Have a good evening. Don't take work home."
After school late one evening, the classroom phone rang. Lydia jumped a little. She'd even tossed the papers she was grading into the air so they landed upside down on the floor. She'd been deep in thought and even deeper in paperwork.
"Ms. Lyons, I was hoping you could spare your lunch period tomorrow and have a working lunch with me."
She had plenty of work to grade and lessons to prepare, but he was her department head and she couldn't say no. She wanted to make a good impression.
"Meet me in my room and I'll bring us lunch."
That night she dreamed about him. He was in mid-sentence about how the History department paired with the English department to create cross-curricular lessons. He came around to her side of the table, his lips met hers, and then he pushed her down on the table. His body pressed against her body, and he felt her breasts over her shirt, then he ran his hand down to her legs, parted them with his knee, and felt up her skirt to find her dripping wet. She remembered he spoke these words: "I own your pussy." When she woke up she was in fact wet, and she had to pleasure herself before getting out of bed.
At lunchtime she walked quickly and with purpose out of her building and down the hallway of the History wing. She wanted to be fast so no one would see her. High school teachers are the worst to gossip. More importantly, she only had a 45 lunch period and tons of papers to grade.
Up ahead he peeked out from his doorway. She smiled big. She had to stop that immediately.
"I've already had two visitors before you arrived. Let's take a walk.We have some very important things to discuss without being interrupted."
