The teacher

She walked into the school hall. She was the first one there, as always. She scrumpled up the pack of salt and vinegar chipsticks she’d had for breakfast and threw it in the waste bin. She sat down with her back against the dark green radiator, those old-fashioned ones with tubes. It wasn’t on, but didn’t need to be. She crossed her legs straight out in front of her, black tights and navy skirt, of a modest length. Above her there were three shutter-edged windows to the corridor above, each with two gold safety bars running across. She knew that the woman above was watching her, as always, as she did every morning. Shuffling and stapling papers, preparing for her class. The girl knew she was being watched, and the woman knew she was being as not-watched as possible as the girl struggled to remain aloof. The girl could feel her teacher smirking. Not actually smirking, but… thinking it. She was sure she was smirking inside. The sheer exhibitionism of it all, in this grand hall. Wood panelling giving warmth to a dull grey valleys day. Dents in the floor from stilettos worn by pupils in years gone by. The girl liked the balance, the power balance. She knew the teacher respected her, liked her. The gelling of two personalities under such a social construct, quite fascinating to both. Both, trapped. One by a job, a wage, though granted she did enjoy it, was a natural teacher who got pleasure from teaching, mainly those who wanted to learn. And the girl, who enjoyed learning, but preferred not to be told what to have to learn. And who was frequently distracted by the sensations she felt, usually generated by the intelligent older women that taught her, daily, what it was to want to fuck someone.

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