Prologue

It was in the days when miniskirts were just entering fashion, but were banned from my high school. Nevertheless, the fashion trends made hormone-crazed teenagers focus on legs. In my history class, I had a distracting cheerleader siting next to me and my eyes would wander to check if Carol's skirts were riding high. She also liked to wear wraparound skirts, which, on a lucky day, would fall open.

In the best possible way, Carol was a big girl, tall and athletic but utterly feminine. Her hair, auburn with distinctly red highlights, gleamed, in a short cut, over enormous green eyes. There was no question that she had good-sized, beautifully formed breasts, but they weren't oversized. I had the sense that she kept her bodyfat at the ideal level of soft strength, a challenge since we were all growing teenagers.

I was a nerd, but not an outstanding student, with lots of trouble at home. In my senior year, though, I had managed to get away from home the previous year, and got some valuable physical skills as well as emotional peace. Somehow, I had convinced my mother to let me have some weight training equipment in the basement, although there was no place to keep up my martial arts training. Still, early in the year, after three jocks tried to bully me in the locker room and I put them on the floor, the school was much better. I didn't have the right clothes, but I was no longer a bullying target.

Next to our high school, there was a very good reference library. It wasn't part of the school itself, and had much later hours and more privacy. The reference librarian, Miss McMahon, was really encouraging, and was available for tutoring in pre-Internet library methods and research library skills. She was also damned sexy--small but very intense. With her help, I had been both ordering reference materials on World War II history, but also some obscure things about the evolving conflict in Southeast Asia. I didn't expect to be able to read things in Vietnamese, but I was frustrated that I had studied German and couldn't read relevant things in French.

One day, I noticed a book in the interlibrary loan box. It was in French, but I did recognize the author, Jean Larteguy, and the title, The Centurions. It had gotten impressive reviews about giving insight into guerillas. Miss McMahon came in, and I asked, "have you been reading this? I've heard a great deal about it."

"No, Curt, it's another student. French colonial things interest you too, don't they?"

"Yes. I recognize this title, and, while it's more about Algeria, it is supposed to give insight into the French colonial war in Vietnam. Could I ask who is reading it?"

"Curt, I believe in reader confidentiality. Nevertheless, I'll ask the person if I can share the information. It just might be great if the two of you could work together. You're both very, very smart, and beyond your years. Maybe I can help your studies. Did you know that my family is French?"

"Interesting, Ma'am. I thought your name was Scots, or Scots-Irish."

"Good insight. But have you heard of the Duke of Magenta?"

"Oh yes! A marshal under Napoleon III of France? Thinking for a moment ... was he also a McMahon?"

"You really remember things, Curt. Yes. Patrice de McMahon."

I admired her brilliant red hair and emerald eyes, and smiled. "So that's why you look so Irish." I hesitated, before daring to flirt with a favorite teacher. "Might I say deliciously Irish?"

When she broke out in a silvery laugh, I let out my breath in relief. Knowing intuitively that she would enjoy being admired, I frankly examined her. She was tall, perhaps 5'8" or 5'9". Her hair was a shining cap rather than a longer cut. It was complemented by her dress, which was electric blue rather than the green or warm colors that I tended to associate with redheads. Its color and stretchy material worked superbly. While her bust was distinct, it was not especially large, and her body was generally slim. Her hips did widen a bit out of proportion, but charmingly.

I realized that she was speaking. "Oh yes, Curt. I do know Irish culture well, but I'm more French personally." She sat on the edge of her desk. I became aware she was dressed a bit more provocatively than the classroom teachers were, in a dark green, tight, rather short knit dress. "In France, we have a tradition of mentorship, sometimes among people of different ages. I'd like to guide you in several things. When we are alone, would you call me Marie? Also, you must treat this as secret among us. You are 17, and in our state, the age of consent is 16. Nevertheless, there are special rules for teachers."

In a really awful parody of a French accent, I responded, "I am charmed, Marie."

"Mon Dieu, that accent is horrible! I shall distract you." She smiled differently, and crossed her legs. The hem of her skirt rose higher, revealing the bands of her black stockings. I felt my face flush, but didn't look away. "Ah yes." She crossed them in the other direction, revealing a lacy garter, and then pale, freckled skin above her hose. "Do the freckles make me Irish enough for you?"

My voice was weak when I said "Oh yes. Very beautifully so."

"Come here, Curt. I may teach you many things. "She reached out, and brought me into a soft hug, kissing my cheek, and then lightly on my lips. This was the first time that I had been kissed by an attractive woman or girl who wasn't a relative.

"Oh wow! I mean, enchanting ... isn't that what I'm supposed to say?" Just then, the warning bell, before end of the class period, rang. We had 10 minutes. She tossed her hair and rearranged her dress.

"Don't worry; we will continue this part of your learning. I do have an English version of an outstanding book for you, Bernard Fall's Street without Joy. It's my personal copy, so take your time with it." As I caught my breath, she reviewed the table of contents. "Let's meet again, in the same free period, tomorrow. I have an appointment after school today."

Miss McMahon, after school, waited a while for an athletic practice to end, before her student showed up. She packaged the Larteguy book along with that of Roger Trinquier, Modern Warfare: A French View of Counterinsurgency, and looked through the student's evolving research proposal -- was it to be French counterinsurgency in general, which, if so, would encompass both Indochina and Algeria, which both books addressed? Alternatively, would it focus on Algeria or Indochina alone? "Come in," she replied, to a knock.

Still in her cheerleader outfit, Carol greeted her mentor, speaking fluent but accented French. They hugged one another and exchanged cheek kisses, but stayed in an embrace. Marie broke the embrace briefly to lock her office door. The office, which was also used to preview audiovisual material, had light-tight drapes, which Marie and Carol closed. Carol was a head taller than Marie was, and, while utterly feminine, was also visibly athletic. She swept Marie into another embrace, slipping her bare thigh between those of her teacher. As Carol's teacher n a very special curriculum, Marie moaned as she rubbed her crotch against Carol's strong thigh, with Carol pushing back as she grasped Marie's buttocks in both hands, and kissed her roughly but passionately. Carol had been taught to dominate erotically, yet return, in due time, to the role of student. Carol's study with Marie was more advanced than mine.

"Move your legs together, little one," Carol whispered; as she reached down to remove Marie's panties. She turned Marie around, so Carol could brace herself against the desk, and rub Marie against her. Marie actively cooperated in rubbing back, as they frantically and deeply kissed. Marie shuddered in a climax, and the two, now in a practiced dance, shifted again. Carol lay on the desk, her amazing legs spread, as Marie's mouth descended to her core. Soon, Carol stifled a scream of ecstasy, glad that the audiovisual preparations for the room had included soundproofing.

They rested, as Marie served iced tea. "Ah, Carol, I so hope we can someday get away for more time. I know your schedule is busy, and I may need to share you with boys. Do they still lust after you?"

"Oh yes. It's funny, though. As a cheerleader captain, it's traditional that I be at least somewhat sexually available to the varsity. I'm a bit wistful when I notice admiring glances from nerds, who are probably very fine people."

"Oh? Any in particular?"

"In my honors history class, there's a guy named Curt, who is great in discussion. I think he's one of the few boys that respects my intelligence, yet he gets embarrassed if I catch him checking out my legs. If I don't change out of cheerleader uniform before class, it may be because I don't have time, but it also may be because I like being checked out. "you bastards, you left us here to die. The least you could have done is sent us ammunition so that we could die fighting as men.

"Other times, I've watched him really get steamy if I'm wearing a wrap skirt with stockings, and the skirt unintentionally falls open. There have been times where I realize that's happened and suddenly pull it closed, and I may look embarrassed -- I guess I am, but it's really not fair to expect someone to admire the view. If the school dress code expands to the new miniskirts, I don't know how some of these guys will survive!

"The varsity at least gets opportunities to feel me up at parties. That can be fun, but I don't trust them to have self-control. To be honest, I've had gangbang fantasies, but with these guys, I'm scared I could get seriously hurt. It would be so great to have a guy with your discretion, and acceptance I'm a very sexual woman."

Marie sighed. "Is your Curt named Curt Clancy?"

"Why, yes. Do you know him?"

"He's doing some independent research related to yours--and I'm also getting close to him. With you, my dear, I've never assumed either exclusivity, or even that once of us is only attracted to women. That's a very mature attitude."

"Dammit, Marie, I'd like to explore that -- but I also feel trapped in the school cliques and don't want to jeopardize my status. In an ideal world, I could have every kind of relationship and be honest about it, but senior high school isn't ideal. You know it's a close race for valedictorian, between a boy and girl -- I'm not sure they have time even to be nerds rather than grinds. I don't know of them being involved in hobbies that aren't part of their push for status and scholarships."

"Well, it's well into your senior year, and if you haven't done final college applications, you need to do so soon."

"I've got a couple of months, even with schools where I've made preliminary applications."

"Depending on where you are applying, some would look favorably at independent research, maybe in a small team that isn't part of a class. Obviously, you know to keep our relationship confidential. I trust you to do that as well, with what else I say. Curt, it turns out, is also interested in French colonialism and anticolonialism. I think he's more deeply into Indochina, now Vietnam, than you are, while you know more about Algeria and the French soldiers that went there after 1954. Wouldn't it be great if the two of you could team up, with most people thinking it's just nerd work?"

"Are you suggesting that he and I could work together on a real project, but maybe also have some private time together in your offices?"

"Exactly -- although I might invite myself, if everyone's willing". They hugged. "Let yourself feel lusty about it. The cheerleader outfit might be a bit much for a first meeting."

Carol grinned. "Yes, I'll change. Maybe, though, we can set up a couple of chairs, so if it feels right, I can show off. In the meantime, could you recommend some readings about ethics in war?"

"Carol, you might indeed be able to relax more if you overtly showed off, in a private place where no clique is aware of it. We are thinking, you realize, of the ethics of flirtation. Our culture demands women act as virgins unaware of sexuality, while presenting themselves in a rather sexual way. It confuses boys especially, and the less sensitive of men. In privacy, you can really act on the teaching that no means no, but that you can also be saying a very nice yes.

"Going back to the ethics of war, there is much wisdom. I have to be careful to use certain references as philosophical, not religious." She turned to her personal bookcase. "Here's a copy of St. Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologica. Let me look up something ... yes, Part 2, question 40, on War. Read the section and we will discuss it tomorrow."

The next day, I arrived first at Marie's office. When I knocked, she moved quickly to climb a stepladder, and then called for me to come in. Today, she was in suntanned stockings, and, when she lifted a foot to the higher step, her skirt rose, on that side, well above her stocking tops. She had selected red panties. I sucked in my breath.

Marie laughed. "I thought I'd give you a nice view. It's the end of the day, and perhaps you are a bit tired, eh? This should encourage you. While I'm not part of the school, the law may treat me as a teacher. Yes, teachers do know when they are admired, although they cannot reveal that other than to the most trusted students. I trust you." I smiled briefly, and looked happy -- and then my face changed as I pulled out a book.

"Thank you! I'm not so much tired, as somewhat shook up by my reading. Do you remember the French GCMA, the behind-the-lines guerillas?"

"Yes, I believe"

"Trinquier mentioned training and commanding them. Fall, however, quoted their last radio messages, after they apparently were abandoned by the cease-fire:

"you bastards, you left us here to die. The least you could have done is sent us ammunition so that we could die fighting as men."

"I can't get that out of my head."

Marie looked softly at me. "Yes, Curt, that is war fought to the extremes. It is incredibly depressing, but if you are to be a student of real war, you need to recognize that things like that will happen." She had a thought. "Might we review a couple of things first, and then go back to your feelings there? Actually, you are getting into the ethics of war. Have you studied that?"

"Not really. I know there is a thing called just war theory."

"That comes, especially, from St. Augustine of Hippo. I find it more readable to start with St. Thomas Aquinas. While both are Catholic saints, the discussions of ethics are not especially theological. I really believe in keeping religion out of school, but I'm comfortable with these points. While he speaks of God, the matter would make sense without it. Right now, though, I'd like you to study kissing me, and I have plans for other ways to learn later in the day." They were sitting at a table, side by side. Marie turned his face to hers, licked her lips, and then pressed them to his.

I was a sufficiently instinctive lover to wrap an arm around Marie, and then pull her onto my lap, without breaking the kiss. He stroked her back, and she issued a soft moan, and darted her tongue between his lips. He gasped, and reciprocated, his hand sliding to her bottom.

"Squeeze my butt gently, dear ... and you may want to pull up my skirt if it hinders you." Carl was no fool, and his fingers soon were sliding under her panties. Marie shivered, and pulled her mouth free. "Let us rest for a few minutes. I promise not to leave you teased. For reasons you will soon understand, I want to make tea for us."

Curt was slightly puzzled. "Tea?"

"If for no other reason, think of it as a Vietnamese custom to go with our discussion." She stood, and turned on an electric teakettle. When the water boiled, she rinsed a clear glass teapot to warm it, and then refilled with loose tea and boiling water. The scent of a fine oolong wafted, peach-like, from the spout. "Tea has a meditative quality. Look at the rising steam, and clear your mind." I was a little dubious, but took deep breaths and relaxed.

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