Training Teacher Ch. 01

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

Note 1:

This story is dedicated to my beautiful pet Julie. Your smile makes me tingle.

Note 2:

A special thanks goes to Cecile who suggested the parent-teacher story and Julie for being the muse of the story.

Note 3:

Another special thanks goes to Steve B and Julie for editing and plot suggestions.

Note 4:

One last extra special thanks goes to Estragon for his copy editing services.

Note 5:

Thanks to Tex Beethoven for the new 2019 edit… I hope you like the updated version.

Do you know who you are? I mean do you really know who you are? I thought I did. But a single moment in time, a single interaction with one person, can change everything. One person who’s able to see the real you and who brings out a side of you that you never knew existed. That’s 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 moment in time, until that person. One moment, one person changed everything…

As a fourth-grade teacher, I take pride in myself that many parents request their children to be placed 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, has now become a well-behaved young man in his high school years; I take even greater satisfaction when he seeks me out to thank me for what he learned from me seven or eight years earlier. It’s equally pleasurable to see that some of the girls who had been catty trouble-makers, have become stunningly beautiful high school juniors or seniors.

I don’t teach for the money, which is obvious if you know what we get paid; so when I see diamond-in-the-rough students turning into mature young adults, it’s really a great feeling of achievement.

I have one family, the Petersons, whose youngest child Devon is currently in my class. Devon has two older sisters, Elizabeth (Liz) who is now in the eighth grade, and Karli who is a senior (she was in my very first class when I began teaching right out of college). Unlike many of their classmates, they had both been well-behaved girls, always doing the most exceptional work, and were reliably courteous to their classmates. They were both a real joy to have in my class. 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. In truth he’s a bright student, but his desperate need for constant attention hinders his learning. He’s played minor pranks such as breaking classmates’ pencils and switching their lunchbox contents. He’s also committed major offenses like stealing from backpacks and destroying textbooks.

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, but what makes it worse is that for each note I send home, I then need to interact with his mother.

Mrs. Peterson. Constance Peterson. Never 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, and although her manner always came across as if I wasn’t worthy of her precious time, she never said or did anything to me that was overtly unpleasant. But this year, it’s as if she’s a different person and has a personal vendetta against me. According to her, all of Devon’s issues are my fault. I dread when my phone rings and I’m notified by Alice, the school secretary 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, calling me a rotten teacher and accusing me of making up stories about her can-do-no-wrong Devon. I don’t know what happened to her, or what I did to deserve all this abuse, but as a teacher, we’re trained to agree with the parent and to do everything possible to work out a resolution.

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

Constance is 5′ 9″, a few inches taller than I am, and she likes to wear three-inch stiletto heels, which lend 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 cascade down 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 or V-neck, always low cut. She’s not large breasted, maybe a 36 C, but her orbs 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 the entire package results in a very powerful, sexual and dominating persona.

As we approached Parent Conference Day, notices were sent home requesting preferred times to schedule a conference. We provide time for all the parents to choose from, with the final 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 loose end: Constance. She sent me an email saying she wouldn’t be able to meet me until 7:30 p.m., and that she had already verified that time with my principal, who’d assured her I would be glad to remain late for her conference. I cursed my luck and Ms. Pierce the principal and dreaded the upcoming interview.

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 34 B, and while they aren’t particularly large, they’re very firm. I also have strong legs, although I usually hide them in dress pants. My greatest asset is my smile, one I’ve been told melts hearts.

Because of the late hour of my final interview, and the potential for it to be both long and stressful, I had arranged for 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 penultimate interview was excruciating. The clock ticked by slowly, giving me ample time to consider all the worst-case scenarios of what Constance might say or do. Each one I considered ended badly. The draft in my classroom didn’t 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 some water, the school was almost empty. I was the only person left in the building other than Ms. Pierce. I went back to my classroom and waited and waited and waited.

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

She gave a cough to make me aware of 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 already leaving?” she asked in a condescending tone. She was dressed as she usually did, immaculately pristine, yet this time there was something different about her. 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 later on I saw had seams up the backs of her long legs; her patent three-inch pumps were gone and replaced with three-inch ankle boots. She also was wearing a black choker, something I’d never seen her wearing before, and her red hair was in a bun. She looked ready for business.

I looked over to her, trying to conceal 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 sit beside me, instead of across the table like the setup 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 high, revealing the top of a stocking held by a garter belt. It shouldn’t have been a distraction, but for me it became an obsession.

I handed her Devon’s report card that contained a plethora of Cs and Ds. Constance examined the report card thoroughly, the seconds turning into minutes. I fiddled with my wedding ring (don’t ask me why I was still wearing it) as I snatched quick glimpses bursa escort bayan at her long stocking-clad legs and nervously awaited the impending assault. At one point her ankle bumped against 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 asked sarcastically, “So you hate all your students?”

I stormed to my feet, enraged; my cheeks flushed with anger, furious that my professional integrity was being questioned so unfairly. She knew damn well that I had doted on her daughters when they’d been my students!

But before I could begin to speak in my own defense, Mrs. Peterson also stood up and demanded, in a deliberate don’t-mess-with-me tone, “Sit down, Ms. 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 imposing woman might do next. Amazingly, what she did was step around behind my chair, placing her hands caringly on my shoulders. Her harsh tone vanished as she murmured, almost whispered, “You’re tense, my pet.” Tense was putting it mildly. She then began gently massaging my shoulders.

I tried to process this bizarre situation, her sudden anger replaced by a soft voice and this gentle massage, not to mention her calling me her ‘pet.’ My anger still slowly simmered even as I became relaxed from the gentle massage; but I was also confused at the sudden change in this woman’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 realized every emotion I had was at the whim of this unpredictable woman. I was so distracted that 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’d called me that a second time. I was so rattled by such an unexpected and strange approach by this usually frosty woman that I was caught completely off guard. She stopped massaging me and sat back down. I was surprised at the overwhelming disappointment that filled me when she withdrew her touch. I attempted to compose myself as I looked back to Mrs. Peterson. I explained that her son’s grades were greatly impacted by his lack of effort and his constant disciplinary issues. If he applied himself, and behaved himself, he had the potential to be an excellent student, just like both of her older daughters had been for me, and no doubt still were.

Mrs. Peterson smiled as her hand fell ever so carelessly onto my knee. I tried to pay attention to her words, but I was now distracted by her soft touch on my leg and the ample cleavage that was once again staring me in the face. She appeared to be waiting for a response to whatever she had just said and I, slightly flushed, requested that 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. I couldn’t. A fire seemed to be burning inside me. My cheeks flushed, and my loins began to stir.

Now I should mention at this point I’m not a lesbian. Back in college I’d made out with girlfriends at the bar to tease our boyfriends and such, but I’d never been seriously aroused by the opposite sex. Okay, now that I think about it, there was a brief kissing incident with my colleague and best friend Amy, which happened just last week. We were at a bar for happy hour, which turned into happy ‘hours’. With drunken exuberance she’d suddenly given me a passionate kiss, which I’d found myself returning enthusiastically. Immediately following which we’d both gotten extremely timid and nervous around each other. We agreed to just pass it off as a drunken moment of playfulness, though later and even now, I still find it embedded in my mind. In fact ever since, every time I see her at work I get at least a little excited. She’s married and has two children, and as I mentioned, is my best friend in the world. I’m divorced and haven’t had sex in over a year, at least not sex with a man, or to be crystal clear, not even with another person. I admit to frequently seeking out lesbian porn on the internet in recent months, and to using 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 Amy…

“My pet?”

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

What’s gotten into me? I wondered. I forced myself to again perceive Constance as the woman I hated most in the whole world. Thus grounded, 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. “A 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 I felt her warm breath on 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 leap back to my feet, protest, slap her hand away, anything; but I just sat there, paralysed by my fear and hormones. She paused, giving me time to react. When I didn’t, she continued, “You do 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 could get 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 pressed against mine.

She looked into my eyes, her sensual lips inviting me in and her intoxicating eyes summoning me in. My mind was a fog and when she leaned in and our lips touched, I didn’t… couldn’t… resist. My lips parted for her without thought, and Constance took the opportunity to slip her tongue into my mouth. Still reeling from the erotic spell Mrs. Peterson had me under, my own tongue responded. Soon our tongues were doing the taboo dance. The kiss lasted an eternity, one of sweetness, one of my forgetting who I was kissing or where I was. Instead, I was focusing on the thrill of being wanted.

When her hand reached my underwear, I was jolted back to reality. What was I doing? This is a conservative, small town. I could lose my job. My career could be ruined. Frantic to get the situation under control, I hastily stood up, breaking the kiss. As I stood up, I wobbled away awkwardly, my legs weak from the passionate embrace. I looked back at Mrs. Peterson, whose placid face gave away nothing.

“We can’t do this,” I said firmly.

The sphinxlike woman stood up, exuding her usual confidence, walked over to me, and placed a single finger gently on my arm. Her slight touch provoked a shiver throughout my body. My emotional state was sent right back into complete turmoil. Her bright red lips curved into a smug smile. She didn’t ask but she told me, “You’re coming with me for coffee.”

I shivered, and as I tried to regain control of the situation, I struggled to refuse her, “I-I-I don’t think that is a g-g-good idea.”

Her smug smile disappeared, her usual condescending tone returned, as she intoned, “I wasn’t asking if you wished to go for coffee, Hannah. I said you are coming for coffee.”

The statement wasn’t a question, but a demand. The forceful tone had me too nervous to tell her no, but too petrified to say yes. But then I thought about it. It was only coffee, after all. She was far too well known a figure to do anything crazy in public. Going for coffee would be a good way to get out of this awkward position in my unchaperoned classroom. Finally feeling back in control again, I agreed to go for coffee with her. My confident swagger was back. Well, more on the outside than on the inside.

Just as quickly as her tone had shifted from sweet to aggressive, it now returned to sweet. “That’s a good girl, my pet.”

But when I began to remove my heels, she suddenly commanded, “No, don’t allow yourself to be seen in those nasty runners. Keep the heels on, my pet. They really do showcase your sexy legs.”

I blushed at that, embarrassed, yet also proud she’d noticed my legs. I immediately obeyed her, sliding my feet back into my heels. I grabbed my purse, then my marking bag. Just as quickly, I set the marking bag back down, knowing I was past doing any kind of marking tonight. After coffee I figured I would go home, crack open the bottle of wine I’d bought for tonight and soak in a long bubble bath. The thought of having a nice soak and a good drunk sounded so good.

I followed Constance to the parking lot, neither of us saying a word. As I pulled out the keys to my SUV, Constance finally spoke, her tone again warning me this was not a suggestion, but a command. “We’re taking my car.”

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