At eighteen, Heather really, really should have known better. She knew she should know better. But Miss Green had been her absolute favorite teacher in elementary school, and she had always wondered what the petite red-haired woman with the kind eyes and the soft voice did when she wasn’t teaching fifth grade. She remembered, at age eleven, thinking about it for hours and hours: where did Miss Green go when she drove away in the little blue Honda?
To see her go into Georgia’s house with Georgia’s father Mr. Malley, at ten o’clock on a Friday night, clearly after a date, on its own probably wouldn’t have made Heather do something as silly as she finally did. No, it was what she saw through the living room window, by the light of the single table lamp one of them had turned on, that brought on the disastrous part of the snooping. True, in order to see through that window Heather had to creep downstairs and cross the street to stand next to a tree—the same tree where she and Georgia had carved their initials when they were nine. But only the little scene inside the living room could have stolen Heather’s solid rationality away so thoroughly as to produce the terrible events that eventually followed.
Heather had gotten home from college just that day. Her freshman year had gone reasonably well, especially on the romantic front. She had managed to rid herself of her virginity in October, and had hooked up with two other guys by the time summer rolled around. She didn’t like sex that much, but she also didn’t mind it—and she loved knowing that guys wanted to fuck her.
In fact, Joe Spelman, a guy who she could tell very much wanted to fuck her, clearly unable to resist Heather’s invitation, would be coming to visit on Sunday, once her parents had left for Africa, and presumably staying the night. When she and Joe figured out that Joe came from a town only an hour’s drive away from Heather’s, the look that Heather loved to see came into his eyes. She called it the get-some look, and Joe had it bad.
She’d gotten very good at thinking of sexual matters objectively that way, despite knowing that her parents’ generation—even socially moderate members of it like Heather’s own parents—disapproved of it. Heather herself could see her parents’ point: traditional femininity came with certain privileges that she knew she had to dispense with in order to acquire the range of experience for which she felt so desperate on leaving her small suburban town.
When a guy started to touch her breasts, for example, while kissing in her dorm room or his, she felt like she couldn’t fall back on the fifties-esque coy routine and tell him she wasn’t ready, or maybe even slap him like in some old movie. Fine, she had hang-ups. She did feel shame about sex, the same way the girls in the fifties must have. And yes, she could admit to herself, she did have the right to say she didn’t feel ready but mean that she felt ashamed of wanting to have sex. Of course none of the guys with whom she had hooked up had forced her into anything at all. As if to spite the shame and to put it in its place, Heather forced herself to take pride in being the one who took off her own shirt, her own bra, her own jeans—and finally her own panties.
But a kind of battle had gone on inside her on the five occasions she’d had sex so far, with three different guys. I can still count them on one hand, she thought idly, her mouth crooking into a dissatisfied shape as she waited to see what would happen inside Georgia’s house.
It wasn’t a serious, pitched, raging battle, but Heather had nevertheless seen in it two distinct sides: an it’s fine side and a shouldn’t it feel better? side. She had consented, which made all the difference for her. She had turned eighteen the week before she lost her virginity. She had come rather close, with a geeky sometime boyfriend, the previous summer, and maybe if he’d been a little hotter she would have contravened her mother’s frequently expressed ‘expectation’ that Heather would wait until she had reached eighteen.
GSB (Geeky Sometime Boyfriend—Randy, in reality) had been sixteen at the time, just like Heather, and so the sex would have been consensual. Heather remembered thinking that distinctly before she had pulled away and said, “Let’s just kiss, okay?” When, after turning eighteen, she sought out the guy who would deflower her, she steeled herself the same way: “It will be consensual, whatever else it is.”
In her first semester in October, she found a sophomore named Stuart, and put away from the start the question of whether she should have sex with him: she would have sex with him, and it would be consensual. The battle inside her wasn’t some fifties-esque Victorian-flavored struggle between Eve and the Madonna: Heather chose to let him put his cock in her pussy as she gritted her teeth to get through the pain as he ruptured her hymen. She closed her eyes and stopped herself from picturing him above her, his reasonably handsome face gone from get some to got some. She saw got some afterward as she put her clothes back on for the walk back to her dorm still under the cover of darkness. Heather didn’t think she’d mind doing the walk of shame by the light of day, except for the stupidity of the terminology: she had consented—why the fuck should she feel any shame?
That part—the shame part—didn’t have anything to do with the battle. Nothing. The battle concerned whether she was supposed to be getting anything out of sex that she wasn’t in fact getting. The battle had purely intellectual parameters, except insofar as she attempted rationally to deal with the way her body felt while fucking a guy.
One way to look at what happened when she saw Mr. Malley and Miss Green through her childhood best friend’s living room window, she thought, might be that it added a third army to the battlefield—an army with no banners but possessed of weaponry far superior to the armament of either it’s fine or shouldn’t it feel better?. Or perhaps it had a banner emblazoned with a single, ambiguous word: THIS.
That word, though, as depicted on the banner of the new army of perversion, would be spelled of letters shaped into the forms of other things and people. The T, the H, the I, and the S: each of them would be its own pornographic miniature, fluttering in the breeze and displaying to the whole world’s consternation the terrible lewdness of what Heather saw Mr. Malley and Miss Green doing.
The T would be the thing Mr. Malley put into Miss Green’s bottom. The H would be him, standing behind her, fucking her as she bent over a chair. The I would be the cock Miss Green sucked, kneeling before Mr. Malley.
The S would be the belt with which he whipped her.
Kinky. Heather recognized enough of the things she saw through that window from various pop culture venues to know that she was witnessing a scene of consensual kink. Except that when Mr. Malley whipped Miss Green’s bare bottom, which was the first thing Heather saw, Miss Green didn’t seem happy about it. In fact, it almost seemed like Mr. Malley was punishing her.
Miss Green—lovely Miss Green—walked into the living room and started to take off her clothes as soon as she got there. Heather swallowed at that, knowing already that she would see something sexual but wondering why they hadn’t sat on the couch kissing first, or something like that. And the way Miss Green unzipped her dress before letting it fall to the floor… and what she had on underneath…
Miss Green kept her eyes downcast. Heather thought absently that the hang of her head toward the carpet as she reached back to tug down the zipper of the pretty green dress must be what made her look like she didn’t want to take the dress off at all: like she had to. Then the lingerie Heather’s fifth-grade teacher wore, the lacy red things she had just revealed—a bra and panties, a garter belt and white stockings, all matching like in a catalog—dispelled all absent thoughts.
As Heather tried to come to terms with the sight of Miss Green clad only in sexy lingerie, she also suddenly had to deal with the way Miss Green, her head still hanging down, now put her hands up and laid them atop it, over her pretty, wavy red hair. Heather couldn’t make it out from where she stood, but she thought Miss Green had interlaced her fingers to make the strange posture more comfortable.
What the fuck is going on? Heather thought, as the scene took another turn, for Mr. Malley had come into the living room, unbuckling his belt as he advanced. Now things happened too fast for her to do anything but experience the sight of them and the flip-flopping in her tummy as she watched.
Mr. Malley doubled the belt and wrapped it around his fist. He got a dining room kind of chair from a corner and put it in the middle of the room. He pointed to the chair, saying something, a stern expression on his face.
The feeling that it couldn’t happen, the thing that seemed like it would happen. Fear for Miss Green. Heather’s heart, racing. The feeling that she mustn’t watch, and the feeling that she must, so that she could… call the police? Tell Georgia her dad did disgusting things with their fifth-grade teacher?
Georgia’s mother lived in Europe now, and Georgia had gone to stay with her for the summer. Mrs. Malley—who now had some other name Heather didn’t remember—had left Mr. Malley five years before. He hadn’t dated: Heather’s parents had often lamented that fact. Heather remembered now that they had even once suggested that Tom Malley should date Miss Green.
Miss Green laid herself over the chair. She just… did it. Her nearly bare bottom was toward the window, and it made Heather gasp to see it. Mr. Malley said something, and Miss Green adjusted her position forward, so that her bottom got higher. Heather could see how the lacy red panties had found their way inside the valley between the round cheeks of Miss Green’s rear end.
“Oh, no,” Heather whispered, as Mr. Malley pulled the panties down and adjusted the suspenders to either side, to bare Miss Green’s bottom completely.
“Oh, no,” she repeated as he raised the belt.
The belt came down. Miss Green’s bottom squirmed, but Mr. Malley kept whipping her. Why? Why did Mr. Malley do it? Miss Green’s tiny left hand tried to shield her backside, but Mr. Malley bent it behind her back and kept whipping the round little bottom over and over.
Very faintly, Heather thought she could hear Miss Green’s voice, choked with sobs, begging him to stop.
She had laid herself over the chair. She had laid herself over the chair.
Why? Why did she…
Why did Mr. Malley tell her to do it? Why did Miss Green need to be punished like a little girl with a strict daddy who had come home late? And Heather surely would have known if Georgia herself had ever been spanked or whipped, but she had never seen or heard anything.
But what had Miss Green done, so that Mr. Malley had to teach her a lesson, with his belt, until her bottom bore a tracery of curling red welts from the thick black leather? Why did sweet Miss Green need a whipping?
But she didn’t need a whipping—she couldn’t need it, or anything like it. Miss Green was, what, thirty or thirty-one, wasn’t she?
The whipping ended, but Miss Green stayed over the chair. Mr. Malley disappeared down the hall toward his den for a moment, but came back immediately, carrying two things: a little plastic bottle of something clear and what Heather recognized with a tiny gasp as a butt-plug.
The urge grew to run away, back into the house where her parents slept, which Heather would soon have to herself for the whole summer as they went on the safari to Africa they had promised themselves for so many years. But she stood rooted to the spot.
The butt-plug was pink, and had a diamond shape and a flared base. Heather knew what it was because she had seen a blue one in a raunchy movie, and her suitemate had screamed “Ohmygod, it’s a butt-plug.” A moment’s hot-faced cognitive work had told her everything she wanted to know about the object, and she had buried the knowledge away, intending not to unearth it. As Mr. Malley advanced with the pink one he clearly intended for Miss Green’s bottom, though, the heat came back into Heather’s face with a vengeance.
She watched him lube it and put it in Miss Green’s well-whipped backside. She watched Miss Green’s bottom cheeks clench around it, as if in discomfort. What had she done? Why did she have to have a plug in her anus? Why did Mr. Malley have to put it in there so deeply? Why did demure Miss Green let him? Heather didn’t think she could bear to watch any more.
But it got worse, because Mr. Malley lowered his pants and his underwear, and although Heather couldn’t really see it very well—thank goodness—there stood her best friend’s father’s cock, and Miss Green had to kneel in front of him and suck it. Heather had given three blowjobs, and had succeeded in them, she supposed, in that the cocks she took in her mouth had stayed hard. She hadn’t swallowed or anything, because the blowjobs had all served as a prelude to actual sex. None of them had involved what Mr. Malley now did to Miss Green, holding her head still and pumping his cock deep into her mouth, looking down in apparent satisfaction at his possession of her that way.
None of that seemed as troubling, though, as the look on Miss Green’s face as Mr. Malley raised her up and turned her around, back toward the chair. As he bent her over and positioned his cock in his right hand, to enter her pussy—her bare, shaved or maybe even waxed, pussy, Heather saw with embarrassment—from behind, Heather tried to process the expression, glimpsed only for a fraction of a second.
Miss Green’s eyes were streaming, her eye makeup running, from the effort of taking the hard penis so deep for so long. But on her face, as she looked up at Mr. Malley before he turned her and positioned her for fucking, shone a radiant, adoring smile. As he held her hips, now, and fucked her hard, the pink butt-plug still inside her anus clearly made the sex a mixture of pleasure and pain, from the way she threw her head back and from the cries Heather now heard again very faintly through the window. When at last he appeared to come inside Miss Green, and turned her around to hold her close in a tender way that seemed to Heather very strange after everything she had seen, that same radiant smile resumed its place on her face as she pressed her cheek against Mr. Malley’s chest.