The Finishing School
Caution: This Young Adult Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, Mult, Teenagers, Consensual, Fiction, First, Safe Sex, Exhibitionism, Teacher/Student, School,
Desc: Young Adult Sex Story: Chapter 1 - a girl's finishing school. there are some lessons that can only be taught by a male.
I had just gotten out of hospital, I had resigned my commission, and was ready to get on with living what might be a more normal life. Oh, I was still whole and healthy, but I had seen enough pain, death and destruction to last me several lifetimes. My wounds had not been debilitating at all, and I was not in any way disabled or handicapped, actually I was lucky and only really had a few puncture marks, mostly from flesh wounds, I had been on the very periphery of an explosion, an IED. I had gotten sliced by some shrapnel, and had lost some blood.
My Sergeant had not been so lucky, he and the Corporal with him had taken the brunt of the full force of a kilo of C4 explosive, and the attendant shrapnel. The worst part, is that it was my fault, somehow the extremists had gotten our radio frequencies, and most likely used a garage door opener or maybe some form of an arduino device with frequency-hopping capability; as soon as I (it could have been any officer and his radioman) was within range (probably only a dozen yards) and I used the radio, the IED was set off.
I had just started my sophomore year, tenth grade in high school, the fall when the 9/11 attacks took place, and I had like so many of that particular generation been ready to enlist immediately. My mother and a school counsellor, as well as a Recruiting Sergeant had eventually convinced me to first complete my education.
Mom, a single working mother, was struggling to pay even the most basic of bills. We just did not have the money to spare, and so as soon as I graduated, I enlisted. That took some of the pressure off of mom.
A month after my high school graduation, I was one-third the way through boot camp, I had always liked the idea of being an engineer. Four years later, as a qualified Sapper / Combat Engineer, a Corporal about to be promoted to Sergeant, and having gained some college credits through night school, my break came, there was an opening to attend university. I would have to attend ROTC classes as well as spending my summer vacations with the Army. At the end of four years I graduated as a Bachelor of Science, Civil Engineering, and got to wear my first gold bar as a Second Lieutenant. As a Non-Com, I had already gained my Ranger and Airborne tabs, thus ensuring greater chances of promotion.
It had quickly become apparent that even after spending four years in school, I hadn't missed the war, and there would still be plenty of opportunities to become a HERO. Except that people at home no longer looked at us that way. I went to Iraq. Somehow, with the assistance of a very worldly-wise old Sergeant First Class, I was able to survive. Over the next several years I did tours to Iraq, Afghanistan, I had gotten to spend time in Europe, in Germany and England, and even returned at times back to the States, mostly on training assignments.
I knew that if I persevered, I might even one day make General, but I had had enough of the constant fighting, because it so seldom seemed like it was in defence of the US, but rather ... I just didn't know, and I was unwilling to speculate.
I had retired as a First Lieutenant, a Platoon Leader in an Engineer Company attached to an Airborne Brigade. If I had stayed in, and with my still healthy body, I wasn't disabled, I could have done, I was due for promotion and would have gotten a post as a Captain JS2 (Intelligence Officer) in an Infantry Battalion in a Mechanised Brigade. There had been rumours of tours to Syria, and possibly even Iran.
But I felt that it was time to move on. My degree of course meant that even in the current recession, I would always be able to make myself a new career. Admittedly my high school math, for instance, was a bit rusty, actually a lot rusty! But that might not even be a major concern; the Executive Officer of the Brigade having oversight over my previous unit, had told me of an opportunity that may just be perfect for me; he had actually already recommended me to the faculty. The job opportunity was at a residential school, and I would also be able to stay on the premises. That was convenient as I had no family, never yet married, and mom had died a year ago, a flu vaccine or something like that, that had gone wrong.
I can't say what I was expecting, I mean my XO had even suggested that while I wouldn't get any pay, I might still qualify for time served as an Active Reserve Officer, while at work. My reasoning had me going to a military school, where I would be involved in the training and educating of a bunch of boys. How wrong I was.
It was towards the end of September, and so the school year had already started, on a Tuesday morning that I climbed out of the E-350 bus that had been sent to the airport to collect me. The school's security would never have allowed a normal civilian cab to advance very far up the school's access road. I found out later, that most parental visits were organised beforehand, and for those able to, there was a helicopter landing pad. Otherwise the students were often actually ferried into a number of the closest towns, to be taken home at vacation time; that road really didn't have a lot of traffic at all.
I was dressed in a navy blazer, club tie, grey flannel trousers, and was carrying a battered brown leather briefcase that identified me, by that very generic uniform, as what I now was, a civilian. And now, also a prospective school teacher.
I walked up the stairs, where a receptionist directed me to the principal's office. I was surprised, I have to admit, that the woman who stood up to grasp my hand in a firm grip, looked to be the embodiment of many of the stereotypes regarding school principals, at least the female ones – she was in her late forties, maybe early fifties; she had her steel-grey hair done in a severe bun; black poly-framed spectacles; a zaftig body encased in a tweed suit, sensible flat-soled shoes, and while I had never thought about the look as being very sexy, something about this particular woman caught my eye. "Mr McDonald, Michael, welcome. Can I call you Mike, or do you prefer Michael? It's good to meet you, please sit down," she was babbling, I got the impression that she was very excited. I couldn't make out why.
I replied, "Mike or Michael, either will do!"
What was less surprising, at the time, since I still had my presumed idea of the school, was the fact that she had my DOD file (or a close facsimile thereof), just like my new commanding officer would have done. The following interview reminded me of a Commanding Officer's interview, as I had already experienced previously, where he was getting to know the new guy in his unit. "My name is Gloria Morrison, and I am the principal of this establishment. Won't you tell me a bit about yourself in your own words?"
I gave her a brief rundown of who I was, where I came from, told her that I was a veteran, I would not give her any more information about my military career, but she told me that she already had that information in my file.
She then asked me how much I knew about this job that I had been recommended for, I admitted to total ignorance, my XO had basically been all for the element of mystery, and had told me the bare minimum. She found that amusing. I found it less so.
She invited me to join her in a tour of the school. My next surprise was ... finding that the students at this school were all girls, and the youngest looked to be only about twelve or thirteen, while the oldest were possibly eighteen or nineteen.
Ms Morrison gave me a general run-down on the school and its origins; the school had been the idea of a now ex-senator, whose daughter was going through a tough time in high school, and he had decided that a very elite school, where only politicians and the like would be able to send their daughters, to be educated as the prospective wives of the next generation of leaders.
A 'Finishing School', the girls would be educated in all aspects of the life of a wife and hostess, or possibly even a civic leader herself; while they would also earn a high school diploma, and possibly also college credits. The school was situated in rural Pennsylvania, fairly centrally placed in regards to the major political (including intelligence and military – Washington DC), financial (New York), academic (Boston) and at least until recently, the industrial (Detroit) hubs of the US; it was also remote, and few even knew of its existence, let alone how to find it.
I pointed out that I was neither an educator, nor well-equipped for teaching a bunch of hormone-filled girls. I seriously didn't know, nor understand why I had been recommended for this job.
"You are reasonably good-looking, extremely discreet, and according to your medical file you are disease-free, you do in fact tick all of the boxes on our list of necessities for a cherry-popper," Gloria told me.
"Cherry-popper?" I probably sounded as stupidly perplexed as I felt.
"The girls are very ... let's just say, sheltered here. They do not get much opportunity to meet boys, and sometimes when they return from vacations, some of them have had what may best be described as bad experiences," Gloria replied.
"Umm ... are you saying what I think you are saying?" my next stupid question.
Gloria had led me back into her office, by this time, and she asked me to disrobe, as she thought that a test-drive would be in order. I stammered, "ugh ... er ... are you sure about this?"
"You really can be quite cute, when you are pretending to be..." she was saying, when I grabbed her and kissed her, taking her breath away. She had been leaning over towards her intercom.