Friday afternoon.
“Good evening, Dr. Jeffries."
She sniffed. My day was complete.
On the way home to change, I thought about her. The little dynamo was both a mystery and source of amusement to me. She was cute as could be, but she hid behind a tough, brainy exterior that had the students, faculty and staff either on their toes or back-pedaling out of her way all the time. Just over five feet tall, and not one to bother with foolish and uncomfortable high heels to compensate, she could still silence a rowdy assembly or faculty meeting with one steely look. Most of the teachers, especially the men and not a few of the women, would have killed for a smile from her. No one stayed on her good side for long. No one was perfect enough for Lynn Jeffries, BA, M. Ed., Ed. D., Fulbright scholar, published author and sought-after lecturer. Did I mention she wasn't married? When would she have had the time?
I think if she had been nice to me, I would have adored her. I could have adored her. She was just my type, someone who would overwhelm me with her accomplishments, her money, her brilliance; the kind who would have brought out the submissive in me until I was defenseless, and who would then have dumped me for any or no reason. Fortunately for me, I was well along as a domme-in-training by the time I landed the job at Windy Ridge High. Had meeting her preceded my discovery of the dungeon, I would have pined away for her quite uselessly.
In any event, Lynn Jeffries wasn't that nice to anyone, not really. She was superficially pleasant but never honestly involved, never caring. Her infrequent smiles never reached her clear, China-blue eyes. Because as a janitor I was virtually invisible, people talked in front of me as if I weren't there or didn't speak English. It was easy to just wait and collect information. I never had to ask anything around that place. Rumors flew. Standing around, being a sponge, I soon learned all I needed to know about everyone in the place, but especially about Dr. Lynn Jeffries.
She was famous for saying things like, “Since there'll never be anyone to buy me things, I buy them myself,” and, “Since no one wants to go to these places with me, I go on my own,” and, “Since no one can stand to live with me, it's a good thing I have a dog.” It was a wall she put up, forestalling disappointment and rejection. I could almost sympathize. I mostly made do on my own, too, because when I allowed people to get close to me, I lost so much of myself; it wasn't worth the companionship, the comforts, the goodies. She must have had similar experiences. People don't just forswear all companionship all of a sudden for no reason. Human beings are social animals; we have to get hurt before we can make that decision.
When I was interviewed, and it certainly wasn't by Dr. Jeffries, I was told to steer clear of her and never to go into her office for any reason as I was the junior of the six janitors and obviously not to be trusted. Her office was so barricaded there wasn't much danger of that anyway. Two fat, grim secretaries sat guard almost all day long, and behind them was a wooden barrier reminiscent of a courtroom. Her office door was almost always shut, and just in case it wasn't, there was a folding mahogany screen in front of it.
This was not to say the principal was inaccessible; Dr. Jeffries just guarded her privacy, coming out or letting people in strictly on her own terms. She was always in evidence in the halls, especially between periods. She showed up everywhere, always without notice, even in gym classes and the cafeteria. Substituting in the social sciences was among her most effective methods of striking utter terror in the hearts of students. She had favorites among students and faculty alike, but not among staff. We were invisible to her. A doctoral candidate among the faculty or a kid headed to an Ivy League school was often found nestled securely beneath her Talbot-suited wing, only to be replaced by another temporary favorite before much time had passed.
In short, I didn't have a chance. It didn't keep me from fantasizing about spending the day under her desk, which I had never even seen, or of just hearing her say, “Thank you, Jane,” after I picked up an armload of books she dropped on her way home. The sniff was the only acknowledgement of my existence I was ever likely to wring from her, and I would be wise to let it go at that.
I was whipping a submissive, my mind on Lynn Jeffries as usual, my eyes more on the crowd than on the slave writhing against my boots. Soon she would beg to come on them, and after teasing her mercilessly, and interrupting her frenzy to make her pleasure me, I would give in, and she would go home happy, whoever the hell she was. If I got off, great. If not, I could go see Beverly, or maybe I would just go home and do myself, thinking of those big blue eyes, that dusting of freckles on unblemished skin.
I always watched the galleries. We had bets going all the time about who would cross over and participate, and when.
While my fourth slave of the evening was polishing my combat boots, Beverly happened by with a sub on a leash crawling beside her. The instant Beverly stopped, the sub attached herself to Beverly's left heel and started sucking. Beverly ignored her. “Upper left, in the long blond wig and shades,” Beverly remarked casually. “Been watching you all night."
“How much?” I inquired. I had seen her, too.
“Ten bucks on the next night she shows up. Not tonight, but soon,” Beverly predicted with a wink.
Personally, I thought this new sub-wannabe had a more hesitant attitude than most. I didn't think so. “You're on,” I agreed.
I won. The woman in the wig came back the next two nights but remained in the farthest corner of the largest gallery, sipping something non-alcoholic (you could tell by the color of the go-cup) and just watching. She watched all the dommes at first, finally settling on me, but she still didn't budge.
Beverly paid up without complaint. “I still say she wants you."
“Maybe, but I remember being right where she is. Making that first move takes a lot of nerve. Just coming here does,” I reminded my colleague.
“She's yours,” Beverly insisted. “Why don't you thrill her and talk to her?"
“Nah, she'll never come back,” I said.
“Just look at her directly a few times. She'll get the message,” Beverly prodded. “Wanna get it on, after?"
I looked at her jackboots, remembering. “Yeah,” I agreed.
I did look up at the woman, not that she could see my eyes behind my glasses, any more than I could see hers, but by the end of the night, she was gone. I stripped down to lick leather and Beverly's pussy and forgot all about the blond wig.