I looked down at my Ramones tee shirt. “Is it that obvious?” I asked.
“No, just other teachers are frumpy as hell.”
I pointed at him. “Don’t swear.”
Another kid chimed in. “Hell isn’t a real swear word—it’s like damn or sucks.”
I handed out worksheets, and shushed them with my secret Domme voice. I was imagining William at home, gagged and bound, and they just wouldn’t shut up so I could daydream.
“Miss N, will you take us to a Battle of the Bands in Boston? We need an adult,” Emma begged.
“Sorry, hon, I don’t think they’d allow a substitute to assemble a field trip, and I’d be liable if I drove you anywhere,” I answered. Five of her friends pouted.
“Do you watch American Idol?”
“Enough with the questions! What’s your deal today, guys?” I asked, exasperated.
They laughed a bit, but more than one of them tried to answer.
“You actually talk to us,” one said.
“Like we’re people,” another retorted.
I went up and down the rows, putting checks or zeroes on their homework as I had been asked to. “You are people. And I do like talking to you.”
“Just tell people that Gunderson tried to look up your skirt and replace him.”
“Enough!” I growled, and the snickering continued, but hopefully I didn’t get their hopes up. It was true, I did love these kids, but I really didn’t want to put roots down in any school.
Especially a school with chatty kids who didn’t let me fantasize about my scenes.
Unlike many lifestyle Dommes I knew, I did my scenes during the workweek. All my friends in the community prefer two or three-day weekends with their subs so they could do what they want at their leisure.
Me? I needed those scenes to get me through the workday. No idea why more people didn’t do it this way. Walking into school on a Tuesday knowing I was gonna get my socks rocked off later on? Amazing. Fridays were fine because I knew that once I went home, I wouldn’t change out of my flannel jams for days on end. Ahhhh, comfort. Cotton, the commercials were true—you really are the fabric of our lives.
As I walked out of the building, I realized I didn’t even wear socks today since I knew William was going to rock them off. Plus, socks with high heels was like wearing white after Labor Day. I shuddered at the thought.
I couldn’t get William’s song out of my head. He didn’t reply to the e-mail. I didn’t expect him to. But back to what had tormented me all day—the haunting piano, the passionate notes. Would he have the CD on when I got in? Did he have a choreographed fuck routine ready that went along with the rhythms of the tune?
Then there were the journals. My mind could not discern anything about them—their origin, that story, when he even got time to write them. The list went on. I put it from my mind as I pulled into the driveway. I noted that there were at least fifteen steps from my car to the door, so if he really were a vampire, he would have fried today. The sun was completely unobscured by clouds, so unless I found a pile of charred handsomeness at my doorstep, he was not a vampire.
I checked inside—no ashes, but my ears were delighted to hear that eerily beautiful tune as I walked through my front door. I smiled and my feet nearly danced their way into the bathroom, where I would find today’s outfit hanging.
I gasped audibly and blushed. There, hanging on my shower curtain, was a ball gown fit for the Oscars. It was a deep gold with layer upon layer of diaphanous material. Some sparkle and shimmer, but nothing over the top. Honestly, it looked like something an opera singer would perform in. Something grand and glorious that could be seen from afar. It even came with long, matching gloves. I had to check the tag. Balenciaga? Badgley Mischka? No tag. Did he cut it out? The Vogue reader inside me was desperate to know.