You want “schoolgirl”?
Ok.
Let me tell you what I know about schoolgirls.
Going to boarding school is certainly not about cultivating good behaviour. It’s about accruing worldly charm and baking baseless self-confidence into the sprog-elite. Her teachers only task: to produce cumdumps who can crack filthy jokes about international affairs on demand.
By 14, Lizzy was blagging her way into bars with her barely-there titties, getting yuppies to buy her babyshams and shoplifting deep-plunge brassieres when adults weren’t doing fun stuff like making terrible decisions with large pots of money. They were just people who told her what to do, but prodding their weakness was fast becoming her area of expertise. Lizzy was growing into a hybrid of occasional orphan and part-time predator. She needed a target, so she set her sights on Mr Kristek her music teacher; music afforded privacy and it encouraged emotional expression which rendered him low-hanging fruit. Mr Kristek wasn’t cut out to train racehorses like Lizzy. Those who “can’t” seek out a girls’ schools for an easy ride. That is until they experience 50 hungry eyes sizing up the inside leg of their suit trousers.
Whenever possible, Lizzy would go to the music block to spell chaos. The music block was a heinous composite of asbestos and pebbledash. Within the grounds, it stood farthest away from the bucolic main school. The cobbles that bridged the two buildings were wavy from the hordes of young hussies grinding them away year upon year. She would book the practice room with the grand piano and drag her foot up and down the keyboard:
CLANNG
DOING
DONK
…until Mr Kristek banged the wall.
Attention-seeker said the associated paperwork.
But schoolgirls have crushes all the time which was an excellent decoy for “acting out.”
Mr Kristek and Lizzy made their first transgression by merit of truancy.
She was bunking off Home Economics with her best friend, the both of them stuffing their faces with the raw ingredients of a banoffee pie. She was licking the dregs out of an open can of condensed milk when he walked in.
“Are you going to tell on us, Sir?” she said, holding gaze.
He hesitated, watching her lick the can like the prize pet she was. Rolling around on the carpet all wayward, her existence pure jouissance.
“Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.”
She kept going, wiping her finger around its inside and messily spooning it into her mouth. A stuffed toy with a honeypot.
“I told you to stop that.”
She deliberately ran her tongue over the rough edges of the can, lapping at the thick cream on the lid. She continued this act until her bottom lip got cut on the jagged metal. He watched the blood mix with the saliva and milk. Blood collected into a droplet that hung in the corner of her mouth before running down her chin.
She knew in this moment she was splitting her first sexual atom.
“Get to class!” he barked.
*****
The following week she was (not) doing her homework in the very same practice room. It was her haunt and she’d threaten to slam the piano lid on the fingers of any other girls who attempted to use it.
Mr Kristek entered under the pretence of asking her to partake in a Friday evening piano recital.
Lizzy declined: Once school was out, she played men not pianos.
“What’s more important than Friday night chamber music?” he asked.
“I’m busy flashing my knickers to strange men so that they’ll buy me a shandy, Sir.”
He flushed from his neck to his ears and backed out of the room.
*****
Filling his head with indecent thoughts became her favourite game. A wayward incubus embroiling him in the plot. Monday came round and Mr Kristek wanted to ask about her weekend but didn’t dare. His mind became transfixed on how mucky Lizzy was. Puddle-water splashed her shins and she had toothpaste on her collar. More farmyard animal than princess-and-the-pea. Awkward growth spurt, chin acne, make-up on the wrong side of her eyelids.
…by the afternoon he caved in.
“Did you taste that shandy after all?” he asked.
“I did better than shandy,” she responded teasing her skirt just a little higher.
“I met a man who wanted to touch me through my panties and see if he could make a wet patch.”
Short story / Sweet aftertaste.
“What would your parents say about that?”
“My father says all work and no play makes a dullard and I’d loath for him to think me dreary.”
“And what if I inform them?”
“Audentes fortuna iuvat, Sir.” She giggled.
“Mr Kristek, will you buy me shandy?”
*****
A pattern developed. On Mondays Lizzy would idol about the department and eventually Mr Kristek against his better judgement would come-a-knocking. He’d ask how she spent the weekend, and she would tell him just enough to render his acting-authority ineffectual.
2 tin cans and a piece of string makes a mock-telephone for little girls to tell big secrets:
Dring-dring, dring-dring… Pick up the phone Sir!
*****
“Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Shouldn’t you pick on someone your own size?” She answered, drawing her knees up to her chin.
“Who’ve you been cajoling this week?”
“Well, Saturday, we went to a hotel bar…I was smoking on the patio when this silly old man came up. He said I was too pretty to be without a gentleman-friend and he’d like to buy me a rum and coke.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said mine’s a White Russian, thank you. He bought us a couple of drinks and we watched him lose an arm wrestle (yawn)—Then I asked him all serious…”
She batted her lashes gratuitously.
“‘…would you like to do it with me?’”
***Pause***
“And?”
“He said yes, silly!”
“Then I said…”
“‘You know I’m underage, right?’ and he spat his lager right out.”
“‘But since you’ve been sooooo nice, I’ll let you take a look.’ But he bottled it, leaving me legs akimbo on a barstool.”
“We thought it was hilarious.”
*****
Lizzy would go out of her way to make sure she had something to tell Mr Kristek. She could’ve made it up, of course! But she didn’t want to. She was spurred on to be every inch as corrupt as his fantasy of her.
*****
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Wendy.”
“Wendy who?”
“Wendy’you think we can go on a date?”
“I have a fiancé,” said Mr Kristek.
“BOOOOO.”
“What wholesome activities have you been up to this week?”
“I went to a nightclub, Sir.”
“What kind of a club lets underage girls in?”
“We told the bouncer he could watch us kiss if we got free entry. So, we went round the side of the club and frenched for him. He got a right horn.”
“Later on, we saw him again. He must’ve been half-cut ‘cos he waved two twenty-pound notes in our faces and pulled his willy out. He said he’d give us the money if we licked it. We bit the bullet and went down on him together. It was so turgid and veiny! We caught each other’s eyes midway and just cracked up. Then all of sudden he jizzed on my tongue. I spat it out in the drain.”
*****
In a dream he saw Lizzy playing on stilts made of tin cans. Tottering around the playground on these homemade high heels like the school was her stage.
He spat the image out in the sink.
It was hard to shake.
*****
“Knock knock.”
“How’s your fiancé?” she asked, miming a hangman’s rope around her neck.
“You’re cruising for detention young lady.”
Would you like to hear a story?” she said.
“No,” said Mr Kristek.
“Suit yourself.”
“Are you a gambler, Lizzy?”
“What’s the bet?”
He produced a crisp fifty and a can. A tin can like the one she’d licked clean on the day they first crossed paths.
“I bet you can’t piss in this, exactly to the brim, and not spill a drop.”
Lizzy loved a challenge and this one seemed absurd. She crouched over the can and lined up her aim using the piano stool as a crutch.
She pulled her knickers over and began a trickle into the can. The trickle became a stream as she eased into it. Alas, a rogue drip trailed past her knees dribbling onto the carpet tiles.
He picked it up and drunk it in one gulp. It tasted sweet like sherbet dib-dabs.
“A drip,” he observed, pointing at her wet sock.
“Shall we try that again?”
“Easy-peasy. I could do it with my eyes closed now I know the drill.”
“Ok then do it.”
She reached for the can.
She shut her eyes.
She thought long and hard and then emptied her prize-winning piss-stream into the can.
“Bullseye!”
She snatched the fifty out of his hand.
…And, that’s what I know about schoolgirls.
You wanted an innocent one?
That’s tough titties, Sir.