Chapter 6

One.

The fall of Ellen McCarthy came in a most unexpected way. But so did her rise.

The perky, thirty-something blonde principal of Brookville High School was about as well-liked as any administrator ever can be. Personable, she showed up at nearly every campus event, and with a great sense of humor, she seemed a perfect match for the many cross-currents that boil through a typical American secondary school.

If I were ever worried about how she might lose her job, it would probably focus mostly on her habit of "counseling" students, especially male ones. She found the business of being around 2000 or so young, sexy bodies incredibly arousing, and the knowledge that every one -- every single one! – of those male students had a potentially stiff dick in his pants just drove her nuts, no pun intended.

She had come to the local school district from a job as a college administrator. The school board folks were so impressed to have a former university bigwig apply for a principal's post they didn't inquire too closely into the circumstances surrounding her leaving the college job.

I was one of her favorite students, and she trusted me. I trusted her, certainly enough to let her tie me to a chair in her soundproof office with the opaque windows while she "provided guidance."

Your typical teenage boy might not regard a 37-year-old lady almost into middle age as a source of erotic desire, but Ms. McCarthy was an exception to any assumptions. She had a ravenous sexual appetite. Her firm B-cup breasts had almost no sag at all, and her nipples were a delicious dark brown and almost always erect.

She was no more than five or six pounds over her college weight, which just added enough to her cutely-rounded rump to make it even more voluptuous. All her body hair was shaved off, and the sight of that cute vertical slit was always enough to block out any other thought I might have in my mind. I loved the brushing of her honey-blonde hair on my shoulders or belly, the enthusiastic vulgarity of her couplings.

She loved to be on top, and I can remember clearly some of our conversations – usually rather one-sided – as she humped her always liquid and ripplingly snug "womanliness" all around and up and down my incredibly vertical, uh, boyhood. "God, Jack, can you believe it! I get to be a principal with all these lovely, firm young bodies ... I'm in charge of all of them," she would grunt as she rose and fell on top of my swollen cock. She was usually wearing a short, wide-hemmed or pleated skirt to make it easy for her to strip off her panties (when she wore them!) and mount some lucky male student for a quick session of serving as a human dildo. "I can just ... pull any of them into my office and, you know, have my way with them! All kinds of cocks and balls and such! So much wonderful variety! And why young men? Well, older men are OK but when they cum, they're done for a while. But young men, like hot studs like you, you can fuck and fuck all day, and when you shoot, you shoot like firehoses, Jack! I can feel your sperm blasting deep into my hot puss or in my tight winking little butthole. It's positively thrilling! Makes me feel so alive!" It was true, I guess. In a typical hour "counseling session" Ms. McCarthy would writhe on my body, or tie my hands behind me and bend over, demanding that I sodomize her cute, firm buns, and the result would be two or three strong, ball-emptying ejaculations at least. If she were especially needy, she would demand to not let me to return to class until I had serviced her a fourth or fifth time, and I could usually rise to the occasion. Of course, this was a pretty good deal for me, and also for the 100 or so other male students at Brooksville High that – at one time of another – she had "guided." She also, when the mood moved her, took under her wing (and between her legs) a dozen or so female pupils during her tenure.

I remember one time – on a rare instance when she actually listened to me, and didn't have me gagged and my mouth covered with duct tape – asking her about how, well, risky, it was to spread herself so thin, so to speak. "Oh, Jack," she said, clenching her talented anal muscles on my rock-hard teenage erection, "no one would ever rat on me. All my students love me ... especially the ones who REALLY love me," she said with a giggle. "Now stop talking and pound that spike deep in your poor needy principal's butthole and give her a nice hot load of boysperm to keep her warm until sixth period!"

Just what made Ms. McCarthy the kind of closet nymphomaniac she rarely did more than hint at. Looking back, I guess I could come up some kind of BS psychobabble theory about needing love. She remarked a couple of times about not having many dates in high school and college, but I think it's simpler than that. Once she finally did get "fulcrum" (as she sometimes called it, oddly) filled, she simply learned that she loved it, loved to fuck and would do anything she could to get herself "serviced."

"Yes, Jackie baby, that it's IT. That's fucking IT, you hard-cocked stud! SHOOT IT! RIGHT UP MY FULCRUM! Show me how much you ... OH GOD! YES! Christ, I love YOUNG COCKS! Lord help me, but I do I ... AHHHHHH ... I do!!!!!'

But it wasn't her perpetually itchy middle-aged "kitty" that got Mrs. McCarthy bounced from the job as principal of my high school. It was an addiction of another kind, entirely; the craving of power.

Two.

George Bell wanted to be a Congressman. I'm not sure if that is in his favor or against it, but the portly car dealership owner had his sights set on Washington, and getting elected to the local school board was Step One. Not especially bright or wise or public-spirited, Bell was at least aware of the fact that unless he did something really newsworthy, being a school trustee wouldn't give him much of a boost towards Capitol Hill. So he decided to become the voice of Education Reform. Now, don't get me wrong. There's a lot that's wrong with public schools today (and has been for years), but what George Bell was after was Publicity, not Public Service. He started ranting at board meetings about test scores. He began to hammer on the themes of "accountability" and "metrics" and obsessed (at least on stage) about the relative scores on standardized tests taken by students. Brooksville has three high schools. The oldest, of course, is Brooksville, the other two being Tidwell (a founding father of Brooksville) and Harrison (William Henry or Benjamin? We wondered if maybe it was named after George Harrison). One year, when the test scores came out, the three schools were all pretty close (within 10 points of each other, and all above the state average) but Brooksville was in last place.

Bell used that as an excuse to start complaining about Ms. McCarthy. He even visited the campus a couple of times to speak with her, and each time, he stalked out red-faced and angry.

He not only had spent a lot of his own money to finance his school board campaign, he had contributed to the war chests of two other successful candidates. So when three of the five members of the board voted to "reassign" Ms. McCarthy to an administrative post at the district and replace her with a new principal, it was a surprise to us students, but not to people who followed politics in town.

It wasn't just that I was losing a convenient (and incredibly willing) outlet for my teenage lust; I genuinely liked Ms. McCarthy and thought she was a good principal. Sure, she didn't push the teachers to bear down on students when test time came around, but she was otherwise a "right guy," so to speak. What moved me from anger to outrage was her replacement, Peter Gardener. He was the polar opposite, a big, straight arrow guy who thought it was his task to clean out the stables that McCarthy had left behind. He was brusque, narrow-minded and quickly aroused the contempt of students and faculty alike. But what could be done?

Three.

I was slamming my fingers down hard on the keys of my typewriter (remember, this was before everyone had a computer at home), muttering and cursing as I battled my way through another essay that my increasingly harried English teacher had assigned.

"Hate your typewriter then, do you?" said Uncle Mike, sticking his head in the door of my room. He stood there looking bemused, pausing now and then to take a sip of beer.

"Hate the new principal!" I replied. "He's got all the teachers piling on the homework so he can show the school board what a big man he is. It's all just for show. He's a dick!"

Mike smiled. "So Peter is a dick, eh? Well, I shouldn't wonder. A little taste of power, and getting his strings pulled by some hack piece-of-shit used car salesman, and here's the result. You waking me up at 3 a.m. from pounding on that ridiculous thing."

I shrugged. "Sorry. Can't be helped. I gotta do all this totally pointless busy work so that the new principal can show off about 'higher standards.' New broom sweeps clean. What a jerk."

That surprised my uncle. "Such fatalism from the Robin Hood of Brooksville High," he said, walking into my room and sitting on the bed. "I thought you were the self-appointed fair deal sheriff down there. What happened to your confidence, boy-o?"

Another shrug. "There's nothing I can do," I said, pausing in my typing. "Sure, I was able to push a few buttons with kids and such, but this is different. This is way out of my league. I'm just one skinny high school kid. They'd step on me like a bug."

"So what you're saying is you can't do it all by yourself, that you're no Superman," he said, paging idly through my American Lit book. "The Lone Ranger is outgunned and outflanked."

"Pretty much," I said, shoulders slumping. "I feel like I am letting Ms. McCarthy down."

I sighed and went back to my typing when the literature anthology, "Heritage of Liberty" flew through the air and smacked my in the side of the head. "Ow!" I said, a little shocked but not all that surprised. Uncle Mike liked to make his opening arguments non-verbally.

"You are, you little prick," he said, not meanly. "So you can't take these bastards Gardener and Bell all by yourself. Is the only way to solve a problem? A one-man charge? What's that old Simon and Garfunkel song, 'You Are a Schmuck, You Are An Island'."

"With all the asses you've saved at that sorry pile of bricks you call a 'high' school, you don't have any friends, any allies? It's just you and nobody else?" he asked. "Maybe you're not just letting that little tart of an ex-principal down; I think you're selling other people short, too!"

I rubbed the lump on my head and started to reflect on what he's said. Maybe I could try something if I could pull some people together, make a plan and pull off one last caper. The wheels in my mind began to whirr...

Four.

The creation of a revolt always starts with a few people. That's what I learned in history class. The Founding Fathers of the Brooksville Revolution actually featured as many Mothers as Fathers...

There was Hassam, who turned out to be a whiz with electronics, both video and audio. Amanda Powell worked in the front office of the school, and had access to all kinds of records and lists, as well as the switchboard. And Joanne Russell was the star of the girls' basketball team, and a minor campus celebrity.

And, of course, there was me, who wheedled a key to Mr. Gardener's office out of the thoroughly depressed Ellen McCarthy.

I held it up to my little cabal of co-conspirators and grinned. "Gentlemen and ladies at Brooksville High now in bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks that fought with us, upon..." – I looked at the calendar – "March 10th"!" I said, to mostly blank stares.

"It means that what we're about to do will forever be a legend in the history of Brooksville High. And here's what we do..."