Posted by Maria on December 26, 2010 at 08:40 [99.129.167.166]
Jill remembered the exact moment that she had learned what freedom meant. She was an M.S. candidate when she volunteered to act as one of the chaperons to a high school girl’s choir that was touring Europe on a bus. It was a pain in the ass, but it was the only way she could afford a European tour on her student budget.
In Venice, she met an “older gentleman” who was the assistant conductor to a chamber music group. It was her night off as chaperon, so she allowed him to get her impossibly drunk, take her to his home, and fuck her lights out. He kept muttering dirty things in her ear all night long, full of phantasmagorical perversities, and she loved every minute of it.
In the morning, she took a shower. She had just finished and put on her panties and bra when she heard voices. She had left her clothing in the bedroom and wasn’t certain what to do, so she wrapped herself in a towel and peeked out.
What she saw brought her striding into the sun room in a fit of jealousy. Her older gentleman sat at the breakfast table. Over him stood a woman of perhaps fifty. She was quite beautiful. Jill hoped that she would be even half as beautiful at that age, but knew, painfully, that she was not half that beautiful even now. The woman was laughing and brandishing a bottle of something. Jill wasn’t sure if it was brandy or cognac, but she was sure that it had cost a lot more than her car. The woman was swilling booze at 9:00 AM, and wearing a dress that didn’t even begin to cover her panties, which oddly enough were light blue above and dark blue below.
But just as Jill was prepared to pound her new-found fuck-buddy for his infidelity, two other men entered the room. One of them was another older gentleman, the other an effeminate but clearly expensive young man whom a middle-class girl like Jill would have described as a sissy. Both men approached the woman and put their arms around her. The older gentleman, apparently not much of a gentleman, snapped the elastic on her panties. The woman laughed. Looking more closely, Jill realized why her underwear was light blue above and dark blue below. She had pissed in her panties and clearly didn’t give a damn.
At that moment Jill understood two things. First, she understood the meaning of freedom. Second, she understood that she was not free.
“Jill!” said her older gentleman. “So delighted to see you. Come meet Contessa Gabriela and some of my other friends. We were just about to have breakfast.”
Jill dropped the towel and went to the table. For the first and only time in her life, she had breakfast in her underwear with three men. It made her feel a bit more free.
But not enough. Not like Gabriela.
But that was about to change.
* * *
Jill’s mother had always told her: “No matter what you see in the movies, men don’t really like or respect women who wear short skirts and high heels.” But ever since Jill had managed to escape from her schoolteacher persona and start dressing sexy at the munch three weeks ago, her inbox had been flooded with e-mails. All of them were favorable.
Clearly, her mother was an idiot.
All the same, Jill had not yet accepted Roy and Marian’s invitation to join them in a threesome. Threesomes were for sluts, pure and simple. And though Jill now had no moral or intellectual prejudice against that word, she wasn’t quite ready to take the emotional and spiritual leap into the lifestyle.
Meanwhile, she had experimented. She had sent a message to the fellow who had paid her a compliment, the one who admittedly had a passion for watersports. Disappointingly enough, his fascination went to the more conventional type of w/s – he was just one more guy who wanted to pee in her hair.
That left Roy and Marian. Jill already knew that they were “into” the same wet and messy fetishes that drove her own private erotic world. Why, then, was she so shy about joining them?
Meantime, she had found a new identity. She owed the inspiration to one of the men from the group who had remarked, in an e-mail, that her panties were “as white as an angel’s wing.” Jill had begun to sign herself as “Soiled Angel.” Thus far, no one but Roy and Marian would know specifically what she meant by “soiled.”
Jill had not been idle these past few weeks. She had been engaged in another type of experiment as well – one which still amazed and bewildered her with its depth and complexity. And now, as the sound of the TV from Mr. Larkin’s apartment slipped beneath her door on this dull Saturday morning, she knew she was about to do it again.
Frustrated, she turned off her computer and walked into the bedroom. Yes, she was going to do it again. Poor Mr. Larkin. Why was he her guinea pig?
Jill stood in front of her full-length mirror in the bedroom. With her frazzled hair, dark brown but streaked with a few wisps of early gray, she still looked like the dorky high school science teacher she had been until three weeks ago. But it would be easy enough to make a few changes. There was no particular reason why she ought not to exchange her nerdish spectacles for some frosted-pink prescription sunglasses. There was no reason not to restore her hair to the soft darkness of her girlhood – and then some. A nice sable touched with chestnut would do nicely.
Jill slipped off her sweat pants and ordinary green cotton panties. She pulled on her fetishistic white nylon full-briefs, and slipped on the little black dress she had worn to the last munch. She looked in the mirror again, fiddling with her hair. Jill knew that elderly Mr. Larkin had a passion for a certain conservative political celebrity. Jill had been told that with her prominent nose, glasses, and dark brown hair, she was a dead ringer for the well-known comedic actress who often portrayed the political celebrity. In fact, the computer skills teacher at the high school had kept telling her so, over and over again at the faculty Christmas party. She knew he was only saying it because of campus rumors that the lonely science geek was so desperate for male companionship that she would gladly give a back room blow job to any guy who said nice things about her. Because the faculty party had been crowded, they’d ended up in his car rather than a back room.
With her hair fixed properly to resemble Mr. Larkin’s idol, Jill stood before her door. There was one more thing she needed to do before walking down the hall to Mr. Larkin’s apartment. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and relaxed. She had been holding on all morning, waiting until she knew old Mr. Larkin was awake, waiting for this moment. It was easy now. She had done it four times during the last three weeks, since Marian’s little parking lot performance had awakened her to the knowledge that she was not alone.
Jill felt a thick, solid brown log squeeze its way into her enormous white panties. It felt marvelous – really, the most erotic sensation she had ever experienced. She pushed a little harder and a second log joined the first, like two old friends nestled warmly in her underwear.
Jill opened the door and walked down the hall. She felt as if she were in some sort of surrealistic film, entirely divorced from reality. This was completely unreal, but at the same time it was the single most “real” thing she had ever done. She was herself now. Her real self. The Soiled Angel.
She went to the mailbox panel in the middle of the hall. Mr. Larkin, in his seventies, had difficulty walking, and relied upon the assistance of his neighbors. Jill had had a key to Mr. Larkin’s mailbox for quite some time. Now she stood at his doorway.
“Hi, Mr. Larkin. I brought your mail.”
The wizened, elderly man sat in his armchair, as always. The TV was blasting; Mr. Larkin was a bit hard of hearing. He watched Fox News all day long, pounding his armchair and raging against “them goddamn liberals.” Sometimes he reached over and pulled a thick blanket across his lap.
Jill walked into the room. “Where shall I put it? How about over here on this little table?”
“That’s fine,” wheezed Mr. Larkin, already reaching for his blanket.
The old Jill, supremely stupid in her innocence, would have imagined that poor old Mr. Larkin pulled the blanket over his lap even in summer because his frail constitution became easily chilled. The new Jill, alert to human perversity, knew better.
Two weeks ago, she’d been tidying up his house in her helpful way. His favorite political celebrity was appearing on a talk show which consisted of a number of women sitting on couches and discussing boring topics. Because Mr. Larkin was a bit deaf, he didn’t know that Jill was right behind him when he muttered “Oh my God....”
Jill looked at the TV. Mr. Larkin’s favorite celebrity had accidentally crossed in her legs in a somewhat undignified manner.
“Oh my God, darlin’... I can see your PANTIES!!!”
Jill watched as Mr. Larkin quickly grabbed at the blanket and pulled it over his lap. Even above the blasting TV, Jill could hear him gasp, could hear a hissing sound. Then she caught the faint ammoniac smell that told her, in no uncertain terms, what Mr. Larkin was doing underneath the blanket.
And that was why he was the perfect audience for Jill’s excursions into perversity. That was why she was now walking across his living room, made up to look like his darlin’, a pile of letters in her hand and a pile of poop in her underwear.
She bent over from the waist as she placed the mail on a low end table. She knew exactly what he could see.
Mr. Larkin gasped and pulled his blanket over his lap.
“Look at all these dishes in the sink. I can put them some of them away for you. Where does this salad bowl go? Shall I put it here, way down in this lower cupboard?”
“Fine,” wheezed Mr. Larkin, his voice quivering. Then Jill heard him muttering, “Oh..... oh.....” and she knew what was happening under the blanket as he gazed wonder-struck at her rear end, at the four or five inches of gleaming white panties, bulging and turning brown, that must surely be visible every time she bent over in her tiny skirt.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Even from the kitchen, she could detect the odor of urine.
“Gasp... wheeze... on the counter....” He could barely speak, only point.
“And what is this? Oh, I see. It’s your heart medicine.”
Mr. Larkin gasped while nodding his head.
“Okay, but let’s not leave it out here where the cat might knock it over. How about way down here in this cupboard?” said Jill, bending at the waist again.
“Uh..... uh....!”
“Okay, here’s your nice medicine. See you in a few days, okay?”
“Uh!”
As Jill walked back to her apartment in a daze, she shook her head in wonder. She couldn’t believe she’d just done that. And twice this week! She was finally becoming free. Truly free. Like Gabriela! She couldn’t wait to send an e-mail to Roy and Marian!
* * *
Jill pulled into the faculty parking lot on Monday morning and got out of her car. As she began to walk toward the school buildings, she was shocked to see a tear-streaked face gazing at her from a car window.
“Amanda? What’s wrong?”
The car window rolled down, and Amanda Morgenstern, the high school English teacher, peered out.
She raised her hands in despair while staring down at her skirt. “Why on earth do I do these things? Why?”
Jill looked at Amanda’s skirt. “Oh my God,” she said.
Amanda Morgenstern was a gifted intellectual with an I.Q. of 160 plus who lived and worked in a working-class industrial city. At forty-five, she was also stunningly attractive, with blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and a body that most twenty-five-year-olds would kill for.
Today, however, Amanda was a total mess. Jill slipped into the passenger seat next to her.
“Good Lord, Amanda. Have you ever heard the phrase, jumping the shark?”
“I understand the context but deplore the syntax. What am I going to do? It’s too late to go home and change. The morning bell is about to ring.”
Her combination of high intelligence and sexual attractiveness had been Amanda’s downfall. Unable to relate to anyone in her immediate environment, she found herself showing up for work in obscenely short skirts, sitting on top of her desk, crossing and uncrossing her legs in a frantic passion to express herself.
The former principal of Flood High, Mr. Adamson, had been a high-school student in the sexually liberated 70s and had seen and enjoyed his fair share of panty-flashing schoolteachers. He didn’t see anything wrong with Amanda’s behavior. He knew that all her male students worshiped the ground she walked on, while all her female students were too busy texting each other to notice that there was anything unusual going on.
But when Mr. Adamson transferred to a different school, he was replaced by Ms. Binder, a doctrinaire 80s-style feminist who went thoroughly ballistic over the subject of Ms. Morgenstern’s classroom attire. Several tearful heart-to-heart talks had come to nothing; by her own admission, Amanda couldn’t control her actions. Rumor had it that she had been given an ultimatum last week – receive counseling for her “sexual dysfunction” or lose her job.
“Why do I do these things? Even if I hide behind my desk during class, someone will see me when I have to go to the bathroom. Unless I just poop in my panties and become even more scandalous than I already am.”
Jill’s fetish radar leaped into action as she wondered why Amanda should bring up such a topic, as well as why a woman so precise and careful with the English language should use the exact same terminology that a fetishist would use. She filed it away for later contemplation. Right now Amanda needed help before she ended up splashed all over the front page of the local news rag. “Schoolmarm Slut Strides Down Main Street in Panties.”
“Listen to me, Amanda... Did you go to a shrink like you said you would?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I have the credit card receipt.”
“If anybody fucks with your head, just tell them you’re working it out in therapy.”
“Okay.”
“Are you doing anything Thursday night?”
“I’m never doing anything any night. That’s the problem.”
“I want you to come with me and meet some friends.”
“What kind of friends?”
“We should take separate cars in case we decide to... uh, leave in different ways.”
“Oh... THOSE kinds of friends.”
“Does that bother you?”
“It’s what I need.”
“Okay. Good. And until then...” Jill looked at Amanda’s skirt again. Good Lord! “Until then, have fun.”
As Jill walked through the parking lot, she found herself thinking that for Amanda, salvation was still possible. For poor Mr. Larkin, ecstatically flooding his trousers to express the spiritual purity of his love for a distant celebrity who would never know his name, it was too late. But Jill had reached herself in time. Over the grave where the science nerd had buried the real Jill, a Spoiled Angel in white nylon fetish panties, torn nylon stockings and extreme high heels now stood guard over the empty tomb from which Jill had emerged – sable hair, frosted shades and all.
Soon, Amanda too would be released. Very soon. It was not too late.