It wasn't actually my first day at the school but it was my first supposedly normal day. The range of my dad's nomadic lifestyle meant that records from my previous schools weren't really much help in assessing the state of my progress in various subjects, so I had visited the school several times the previous week to undergo a barrage of tests. I had already been shown around and allocated my timetable, a pile of textbooks and a locker ready for today, plus I had been assigned the help of a mentor, Claire Reynolds, who was supposed to be my shadow for the first week or so until I was acclimatised.
Claire was waiting for me at the school gates. I recognised the chubby girl immediately from her school yearbook photo, although she had added yet more weight in the intervening months. She was holding a card with the name 'Mister Natalie' on it, as though at an airport. Claire had an open, honest face and seemed genuinely pleased to meet me when I introduced myself. We both had a good laugh when I pointed out my name was Natalie Minster, and I soon decided that I liked her.
We walked up the school driveway together and entered the main school building through a side entrance because it was the quickest way to the lockers. Braving the throng and the hubbub, Claire introduced me to several girls, all of whom matched the label 'misfit'. It seemed I would be joining the misfit clique at this school, although that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. In my experience the misfits were usually ignored.
Opening my locker, I sorted out the books I needed for my first lesson and put the remainder on the shelves in my locker. I reluctantly added my smartphone to the pile. According to the copy of the school rules I had thoroughly digested over the weekend, phones weren't allowed in lessons and my locker seemed the safest place for it.
My dad and I had matching phones from when we lived in Japan. They were a generation ahead of anything currently available in America. Although there were no laws against it, traditionally their latest tech isn't sold to foreigners, but the Japanese were so grateful for the work my dad did for them that they made an exception. Fortunately the phones weren't as ostentatious as, for example, iPhones. But even if someone did steal my phone, the remotely activateable GPS tracker should enable its retrieval.
Suddenly the hubbub died away, much as birds stopping singing just before a thunderstorm. My dad had taught me situational awareness but just how dangerous could a school be? The answer came when a large, meaty paw reached round me and landed on my right boob.
Knowing that nothing good was going to come from the situation, I tilted my phone to an appropriate angle and set it to record. Then I turned round to face my assailant. The boy with his hand on my boob was a least a foot taller than me, built like a tank and had a large, stupid-looking face, as though endowed with too many recessive genes...
"Seriously?" I asked, indicating the offending hand.
The boy grinned then squeezed.
My boobs are pretty small and I haven't had them long but they're my boobs and they're very tender. So slightly less than two seconds later, the retard was lying flat on the floor with his offending hand pinned as far up his back as I could manage without dislocating or breaking anything. Then I sought out his balls with my free hand and squeezed hard; if he could squeeze my tender bits, I could certainly squeeze his. The retard squealed like a pig, which was followed by a spontaneous cheer and round of applause from the onlookers.
"Fighting is not allowed on the school grounds. Go to the Principal now!" barked a man's voice.
"If I were fighting, I'd have broken something by now," I replied, then I looked up to see who had spoken.
The man was effeminate looking, probably gay. Dramatic Arts, Music, Art or possibly English I guessed. I realised he was standing absolutely motionless so he hadn't just arrived.
"You were watching the whole time," I accused. "You saw him grope me and did nothing."
"I thought it was an accident," said Mr Effeminate, not meeting my eyes.
"He's done this before, hasn't he! You're afraid of this retard, aren't you!"
Mr Effeminate looked down at his shoes.
"Well here's what's going to happen," I announced. "The retard will apologise for groping me, and he'd better make it sound as though he means it. The retard will also promise not to molest any more girls on school property. Then we're going to go our separate ways and, as usual, you're going to say nothing, aren't you Mr Three Monkeys!"
Mr Three Monkeys continued to stare at his shoes.
"Time to apologise, retard."
"Fuck you, bitch," the retard whispered.
"Wrong answer, retard!"
I gave his balls an even harder squeeze and was rewarded with a very loud and satisfying squeal.
"Okay, I apologise," he panted, after I relaxed my grip.
"And you're not going to molest any more girls, are you?"
The answer was slow in coming, so I gave his balls another little squeeze as a reminder.
"No, I promise."
"There, that wasn't so hard was it! Now off you go."
I let the retard get up and returned to my locker. The hubbub started up again then instantly died back down. Feeling the timbre of the air change and catching a partial reflection from the metallic locker, I shimmied out of the way of the retard's haymaker. Hearing the crunch of bones as his fist hit my locker full force followed by his subsequent screaming, I knew the retard had done himself serious damage. Fearing the inevitable, I sent copies of the video to my home computer, my cloud storage and my dad.
An hour later I was sitting outside the Principal's office, still waiting for him to see me. His secretary, a blonde woman who appeared little older than a schoolgirl herself, kept throwing nervous glances at me. A buzzer sounded on the secretary's intercom.
"Mr Dobringer will see you now," she announced.
I entered the Principal's office and took the seat he indicated. Mr Three Monkeys was also in the office.
"I'm very disappointed in you Miss Minster," said Mr Dobringer. "Your first day at school and you assaulted and injured another pupil. Mr McHughton here has given me a full account. I am suspending you for a fortnight."
I got up and made for the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Mr Dobringer.
"To my lessons."
"Don't you get it? You're suspended."
"No, I'm not, because you haven't fulfilled the school rules for a suspension hearing. I have the right to a hearing at which I have the right to representation and the right to call witnesses. Did you know that Mr Three Monkeys here has been turning a blind eye to sexual assaults by the retard who attacked me today? It's all on video on my phone."
"Don't call me that," muttered Mr McHughton.
"Show me the video," demanded Mr Dobringer.
I uploaded the video to Mr Dobringer's computer and he hit play. Mr HcHughton's eyes dropped to his shoes again. He seemed to spend a lot of his time staring at his shoes.
"Thank you Mr McHughton, you can go now," said Mr Dobringer.
Mr Three Monkeys bolted from the room.
"Give me your phone," demanded Mr Dobringer.
"Because I said so."
"There's nothing in the school rules saying I can't have my phone with me, except in lessons. Therefore you're trying to steal it and I am entitled to resist. The only way you're getting this phone is by prising it from my cold, dead fingers."
Mr Dobringer made a sudden grab for my phone. We ended up on the floor with Mr Dobringer on his back, immobilised in a headlock. I was shocked when I saw the tent in his pants. I immediately thought of a way I might exploit it, although I'd never done anything remotely like it before.
"My God, you're getting off on this, aren't you!. Stand up and drop your pants then lean over your desk."
As soon as I released him, Mr Dobringer did as I had commanded. Underneath his pants he was wearing a pair of cotton boxer shorts covered in cartoon characters. I considered making him drop the boxer shorts too, then decided the sight would be too gross. I put my phone on a filing cabinet and started to record.
I couldn't see any convenient object I could use for my purpose so I had to resort to using my hands. By the time I had given him twenty hard spanks on each flabby buttock, my hand was stining and needed a rest. I groped between Mr Dobringer's legs and gently squeezed his balls. Suddenly he stiffened and grunted and the air became tainted with the bleachy smell of fresh semen. And I hadn't even touched his cock.
"Get out," he whispered, more a plea than a command.
I collected my phone and left Mr Dobringer to his sore butt and soggy underwear. I winked at his secretary and she blushed. I wondered whether she had overheard everything that had happened in the office.
I copied the video to my home computer and my cloud storage. No need for my dad to see this one.
I made it just in time for the start of my third scheduled lesson of the day, Advanced French. The teacher was a Miss Sylvester, who looked as though she'd barely finished college. She seemed to know her stuff but her accent was dreadful. She fired a question my way and I answered in quickfire French.
"Please could you repeat that?" she asked.
I repeated my answer, only more slowly.
"Yes, that's right, but why aren't you pronouncing the words like me?"
.... There is more of this story ...