Training Teacher

(Part 1 from 3)

*** Summary:
A parent-teacher interview forever changes a teacher’s life.

Note:
This story is dedicated to my beautiful pet Julia. Your smile makes me tingle.

*** A special thanks goes to Cecile who suggested the parent-teacher story and Julia for being the muse of the story. Another special thanks goes to Steve B and Julia for editing and plot suggestions. One last extra special thanks goes to Estragon for his copy editing services.

PROLOGUE
Do you know who you are? I mean really know who you are. I thought I did. But one moment in time, one interaction with a person, can change everything. One person sees the real you and brings out a side of you that you never knew existed. That is what happened to me.

I thought I was happy. I thought I was content. But I never knew real happiness, pure absolute ecstasy until that one moment in time, until that one person. One moment, one person changed everything...

MY STORY

As a fourth grade teacher, I pride myself that many parents request their children be put in my class. As a result, many of my students are siblings of former students. I love seeing the transformation of former students into young adults. For example, I get a great feeling of satisfaction when someone who once was a high energy bratty grade four boy, is now a well behaved young man in his high school years; I take even more satisfaction when he comes up to thank me for what he learned from me 7 or 8 years earlier. It's equally pleasurable to see some of the girls who were catty trouble-makers, become stunningly beautiful high school juniors or seniors.

I don’t teach for the money, obviously, if you know what we get paid; so when I see students turn into mature young adults, it really is a great feeling of achievement.

I have one family, the Petersons, whose youngest child Devon is currently in my class. Devon's older sisters, Elizabeth (Liz) now in the 8th grade, and Karli, a senior (she was in my very first class after I began teaching right out of college), were both well-behaved girls, always doing the most exceptional work and were courteous to their classmates. They were both a real joy to have. I never, ever, had a negative moment with either one.

Devon, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. At least once a week I have to put a note in his folder detailing his misdeeds and asking his parents to sign and return it to me. Truthfully, he's a bright student, but his desperate need for constant attention hinders his learning. He's done little things like breaking classmate's pencils and switching lunchbox contents. He's also done major things like stealing from backpacks and destroying text books.

I believe it's all a cry for the attention that he probably doesn't get at home. Being the youngest child, the only boy, following his perfect sisters is probably extremely difficult. It also doesn’t help that his father is generally out of town, and his mother is heavily involved in her daughters’ schools' PTA, sports, and cheerleading. I almost feel sorry for Devon, except that for each note I send home, I then need to interact with his mother.

Mrs. Peterson. Constance Peterson. Not Connie, but Constance. Ugh. Just hearing her name caused me stress and anxiety. When I had her two girls as students, any of my interactions with her were always mildly pleasant. Good reports on the girls and no problems with Mrs. Peterson, although she always acted as if I wasn’t worthy of her precious time. But this year, it's as if she's a different person and has a personal vendetta against me. All of Devon's issues are my fault, according to her. I dread when my phone rings and I'm notified by the receptionist that Mrs. Peterson is here to see me. She’s yelled at me, cussed at me, and even broken a picture frame on my desk, as she called me a rotten teacher and accused me of making up stories about her do-no-wrong Devon. I don't know what happened to her, or what I did to deserve all this abuse from her, but as a teacher, we're trained to agree with the parent and work out a resolution.

Constance is probably 40 years old now. Of course if you'd ask her, she'd say she's 30 (which would mean she had her first child when she was 12!). Nonetheless, she really could pass for 30. I'm almost 30 and I look older than she does. The male teachers on staff call her a MILF, or at least that is their fantasy of her. They leer after her as she saunters by on her quest to make my life miserable.

Constance is 5' 9", a few inches taller than I am, and she likes to wear 3-inch stiletto heels, which give her an intimidating height. Her long, fiery red hair, which matches her domineering personality, is always (and I mean always) perfectly styled. She likes to drape it over her shoulders, letting it lie on her chest as if to direct your eyes to her cleavage; cleavage she loves to showcase. Even in the middle of winter, when everyone is wearing bulky, crewneck sweaters trying to keep warm, Constance will wear something scoop neck, V-neck, low cut. She's not large breasted, maybe a 36 C, but they still seem very firm and impressive. She also has long, slender, athletic, legs that are the envy of all women her age. Add in the three-inch pumps she always wears and she has a very powerful, sexual and dominating persona.

As we approached Parent Conference Day, notices were sent home asking for preferred times to schedule a conference. We provide time for all the parents to choose from, with the last conference supposed to end by 6 p.m. (we allow late times for the working parents) and I had a full day planned with one exception; Constance. She sent me an email saying she wouldn't be able to meet until 7:30 p.m., and that she had already verified that with my principal, who suggested that I would be glad to stay late for her conference. I cursed my luck and dreaded the upcoming interview with her.

Before I continue with my story, I should tell you a little about myself. My name is Hannah Hawkins. I am recently divorced and have a six year old daughter, Elaine, who is my pride and joy. I am 5’6”, a brunette, with brown eyes and weigh a typical 137 pounds. My breasts are also rather normal, at 34b, and while they are not really large, they are very firm. I also have strong legs, although I usually hide them in dress pants. My greatest asset is my smile, one I have been told melts hearts.

Because of the lateness of my last interview, and the potential for it to be both long and stressful, I had my ex-husband, now forever known as Asshole, to keep Elaine for the night. I figured I might need a glass of wine when I got home...maybe even a bottle.

The day was long, as Parent Conference Days always are, but having to wait two hours after my last interview, was excruciating. The clock ticked by slowly, giving me ample time to consider what Constance may say or do. Every scenario I considered ended badly. The draft in my classroom did not help either, as I was cold in my conservative black skirt, black pantyhose and white blouse. When I went to the staffroom at 7:00 to get water, the school was empty. I was the only teacher left, other than my Principal. I went back to my classroom and waited and waited and waited.

At 7:40, I was pissed. She made me wait two hours and decided to not even show up; the fucking bitch. I got up to leave, packed my bag, and slid out of my heels. I had one foot on a student’s desk chair and I was just about to put on my runners when Constance walked in.

Constance gave a cough to make aware her presence; I immediately stood up straight, stumbling a bit, realizing my skirt had lifted carelessly, revealing way too much of my pantyhose-covered leg.


“You were leaving?” she asked in a condescending tone. She was dressed as she usually was, immaculately pristine, yet there was something different. She had on a business suit with a white silk shirt, two buttons open, to, as usual, showcase her breasts; a black skirt, just above the knee, with matching stockings that had seams up the back of her long legs; her patent three-inch pumps were gone and replaced with three inch ankle boots. She also had on a choker, something she had never worn before, and her red hair was in a bun. She looked ready for business.

I looked over at her, hiding my anxiety, I ignored her question and asked her to come in. I slipped back into my heels and sat down at the table. To my surprise, she moved her chair to be beside me, instead of across from me like the set up is meant to be. In an instant I had lost my power position. My apprehension increased, as I prepared to start the interview from Hell. As she sat down, she crossed her legs, her skirt riding up rather highly, revealing the top of a stocking held by a garter belt. It should not have been a distraction, but it became an obsession.

I handed her the report card that had a plethora of Cs and Ds. Constance looked at the report card thoroughly, the seconds turning into minutes. I fiddled with my ring as I patiently took quick glimpses at her long stocking-clad legs and nervously awaited the assault. Her ankle bumped my leg and lingered there longer than socially acceptable.

Putting the file down, she leaned towards me, her two open buttons giving me a clear glimpse of her fleshy cleavage. Her voice was stern, “Why do you hate my son?”

My eyes broke away from her hypnotically inviting breasts as I defended my dignity, “I don’t hate your son. I treat him the same as I treat all my students.”

She gave a smug smirk as she said sarcastically, “You hate all your students?”

I immediately stood up, enraged; my cheeks flush with anger, furious that my professional integrity was being questioned.

Before I could speak and defend myself, Mrs. Peterson stood up herself and demanded, in a deliberate don’t-mess-with-me tone, “Sit down, Miss Hawkins.”

Her commanding voice, her uncompromising eyes, her towering figure all caused me to immediately plop back into my chair, all my rage disappearing in a flash, replaced by fear of what this woman might do next. She walked around my chair, putting her hands on my shoulders. Her harsh tone vanished, as she whispered, “You are tense, my pet.” Tense was putting it mildly. She then began to massage my shoulders gently.

I tried to process this bizarre situation, her sudden anger replaced by a soft voice and this gentle massage of my shoulders, not to mention her calling me “my pet.” My anger was slowly simmering as I became relaxed from the gentle massage; but I was also confused at the sudden change in Constance’s demeanour. My mixed feelings had me reeling. I couldn’t speak or move. I was both petrified and yet oddly relaxed. It made no sense, but I was at the whim of this harsh woman. So distracted, I barely caught the soft, tender voice she now used as she inquired, “So, what are we going to do about Devon’s grades, my pet?”

‘My pet’ she said a second time. I was so rattled by this strange approach of this usually despicable woman that I was caught completely off guard. She quit massaging me and sat back down and I was surprised at the overwhelming disappointment that filled me. I attempted to recompose myself as I looked back to Mrs. Peterson. I explained that her son’s grades are greatly impacted by his lack of effort and his constant discipline issues. If he applied himself, and behaved himself, he had the potential to be an excellent student, like both her older daughters.

Mrs. Peterson smiled as her hand fell ever so haphazardly onto my knee. I tried to listen to her words, but I was distracted by her soft touch on my leg and the ample cleavage that was staring me in the face. She seemed to be waiting for a response to whatever she had just said and I, slightly flushed, requested she repeat her question.

Her smile never faded as she asked, “Are you distracted, my pet?”

I should have pulled back, but I didn’t. A fire seemed to burn inside me. My cheeks flushed and my loins began to stir.

Now I should mention I am not a lesbian. I had made out with girlfriends at the bar to tease our boyfriends back in college and such, but never had been seriously aroused by the opposite sex. Okay, now that I think about it, there was a brief kissing incident with my colleague Colleen, which happened just last week. We were at a bar for happy hour, which turned into happy ‘hours’. With drunken exuberance, she had suddenly given me a passionate kiss. We both just passed it off as a drunken moment of weakness, though later and even now, I find it still embedded in my mind. In fact, ever since, every time I see her at work, I get at least a little excited. She is married and has two children. I am divorced and have not had sex in over a year, at least sex with another man. I admit I use of my seven-inch dildo or my back massager many times. That one has a pointed attachment, which makes it convenient to use when I want penetration as well as clit stimulation. In fact, I think last time I used it I had flashes of Colleen…. “My pet?”

Constance’s voice and the smell of her perfume brought me out of my self-analysis. I noticed her hypnotic smell, a blend of sweetness, spice, fruit and floral. I was further intoxicated when I looked at her lips, with her bright red lipstick, a scarlet slash as if to tease. I briefly thought to overcome my fear and kiss her out of curiosity. At that moment, a sudden gust of wind shook the window, startling me back to my situation again.

‘What had gotten into me?’ I wondered. I forced myself to again look at Constance as the woman I most hated in the whole world. Thus, I tried to get the conference back on track.

“So,” I began, trying for business-like, “What are we going to do to improve Devon’s behaviour?”

Her hand, still resting on my leg, moved up just slightly, as she turned my question back onto me. “The better question, my pet, is what are you going to do to get on my good side?”

I froze. What was she implying? She saw the confusion in my expression and took it as an opening as her warm breath hit my cheek. Her lips moved past mine, lingering for a moment in time, and moved to my ultimate weak spot, my ear. Using my first name for the first time ever, she whispered, “Hannah, I know what you want.” Her hot breath and seductive tone had me turning into jello. Then her hand moved under my skirt. I knew I should back away, protest, slap her hand away, but I just sat there, paralysed by fear and hormones. She hesitated, giving me time to react. When I didn’t, she continued, “You want to please me, don’t you, Hannah?”

Her hand was only a couple of inches from my vagina, as she again waited for a verbal response from me. I attempted to speak coherently, yet all I got out was a mumbled and not very convincing “I don’t know.” I no longer had any clue what I wanted. I hated this woman, she was the bane of my existence, and yet, right at this moment, I wanted nothing more than to taste her lipstick, to feel her lips on mine.

She looked in my eyes, her intoxicating eyes pulling me in, her sensual lips inviting me in. My mind was a fog and when she leaned in and our lips touched, I did not resist. My lips parted and Constance took the opportunity to slip her tongue into my mouth. Still reeling from the erotic spell Mrs. Peterson had me under, my tongue responded. Soon our tongues were doing the taboo dance. The kiss lasted an eternity, one of sweetness, one of me forgetting who I was kissing or where I was. Instead, I was focusing on the thrill of being wanted.

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