The fumes from my red marker made me dizzy as I underlined important dates and names on a whiteboard for a classroom full of disinterested high school Freshmen, the chemical stink somehow making the figurative rubber band squeezing my head pinch even tighter. If I had to guess, visions of ski trips, lazy mornings, and artfully wrapped gift boxes danced across my student’s imaginations.

I didn’t blame them. A glorious Christmas vacation awaited us at the end of the month.

My headache pulsed at the same frequency as the fluorescent light bulbs overhead. Big, red “X’s” had been drawn through December 23th-31st on the wall calendar by my desk, classes not resuming until January 6th. Long Christmas breaks were one of the perks of working in a parochial school.

I underlined April 9th, 1865 and Appomattox Courthouse, capping my marker with a click. Only two more weeks of classes and three days of midterm testing left and then I could spend my days alone in my apartment with the Bronte sisters and my vibrators.

I turned around, the dead-eyed stares and a lack of note taking frustrating me more than it should’ve. “All of this is going to be on the midterm. I suggest you write it all down before the bell rings. Western Civ I is coming in next period and they have different notes.”

A few of them picked up their pencils and began scribbling, eyes darting between the whiteboard and their notebooks. Anthony Rivaldi, suburban prince, rolled his eyes.

I ran my hands over the front of a long, flannel skirt, the soft fabric somehow a comfort. “All of that will be gone. Erased.”

“Can I just take a picture on my phone?” whined Rivaldi, the contempt on his face maddening. “I don’t understand why you insist on us copying notes. It’s pointlessly tedious.”

His father was generous with the fortune he’d made selling used cars. Ths school put his name over the new computer lab in the school library. Unfortunately, Mr. Rivaldi’s good deed made his son arrogant.

“Did you forget you’re at a Catholic school?” I tucked my hands behind my back.

Someone snickered and Rivaldi sneered, clicking the end of a pen. The little shit-stain was pulling a solid ‘C+’. If he wanted to pull his semester grade up to a high ‘B’ or maybe even an ‘A-’, he needed to do well on the midterm.

The furnace kicked on, the rattle coming from the vents drowning out the click of my heels on the floor. Though very sexy, the lacey black tights I’d worn beneath my skirt itched in the worst ways. They were also crotchless. I stifled a sigh when I sat down at my desk and pulled the notes for my next class toward me. I knew them by heart, but the familiarity of all the dates, names, and places was calming. So did the scratch of pens and pencils as my students dutifully copied notes.

Various office supplies littered my desk and an ancient desktop hummed to my right, email notifications flashing at the bottom of the screen. Parents. I ignored them all, the buzz of my cell phone in my purse far more enticing.

Hypocrisy be damned.

I clenched the butt plug stuffed up my ass as I slipped my hand inside my purse, careful to conceal my rule breaking. A man’s name flashed across the screen when I pressed a button and my heart skipped a beat.

I’d met “Dan” through an app designed to match people based on their fetishes. We planned to meet at the sleaziest motel two towns over after school and have unprotected anal sex. If St. Joseph’s Catholic High School found out one of its history teachers had done something so immoral, they’d fire her in the blink of an eye.

I tapped my messaging app, giddy with arousal. The riskiness and secrecy of such liaisons was what made them so fun.

- I can’t make it -

My heart sank and I closed my eyes, sliding my phone back into my purse. Of course. All that prep for nothing. Up until that point, my butt plug had been a naughty secret; a sexy game I played with myself, but now it was a nuisance; a fun fantasy gone wrong.

I exchanged my phone for a bottle of ibuprofen, wincing when I washed down four of them with ice-cold coffee. A pack of cigarettes peeked out at me from inside my purse. They would have to wait.

Most of the men on the app talked a good game, but when it came time for them to actually follow through on their promises of kinky sex, they disappeared. Anonymous hookups were dangerous, even for men. I couldn’t hold it against him.

The warning bell chimed and my phone buzzed a second time. Students bustled about, chatting back and forth as they gathered up their belongings. I checked my phone, a pang of guilt paralyzing me.

- Grandma asked about Grandpa all day. She knows it’s Christmas and she’s missing him. -

Back home in the midwest, my mother dealt with life’s sorrows by keeping herself impossibly busy with a full-time job, volunteering with her church, and devoting herself to the care of her ailing mother; a ninety-seven-year-old dementia patient. It broke her heart when I told her I couldn’t afford to fly home for Christmas break that year, especially since she couldn’t afford to help me.

I put my phone away and grabbed a tissue from a box on the desk, quickly blotting away tears. I’d done full make-up that morning in preparation for my illicit meeting. More time than I would care to admit had gone into its application, and I didn’t want to ruin it. Even if the only people who saw it were my students and co-workers.

At thirty-four, middle age nipped at heels. Teenage boys typically preferred their classmates, but I still caught a few of them trying to sneak a peek at my cleavage when they approached my desk. I could tell who preferred older women.

Jayden Duchovney rushed toward me with a maniacal grin, his gaggle of cronies watching him with reverence by the door. If I had to guess, I would’ve said Duchovney’s type was older brunettes with big tits and tight up-dos. Dread welled up within me as he approached.

“‘Tis the Season!” A vacant expression fell over his face as he clenched his fists, raising his right leg off the floor.

Duchovney was a husky youth; sweaty and sallow-skinned with greasy black hair. He wobbled as he brought his leg down, the slap of his shoe on the tile floor nothing compared to the epic fart he ripped an arm’s-length away from my desk.

The foulest, rankest stench I’d ever smelled assaulted my senses. Wicked laughter filled the room as I sat, horrified. Duchovney giggled, his stupid, piggy eyes meeting mine for a moment before he bolted for the door.

Rivaldi laughed louder than anyone as he waved his hand in front of his face. “This is a Catholic school, so I won’t swear, but my goodness. Jayden. Poor Ms. Donnegal’s mouth was open!”

And with that, the little fucker winked at me.

His mother was a fitness instructor. Long, dark hair. Pretty body. It was probably a sin to hate a child, but God would’ve forgiven me if I’d have taken a pencil and shoved it into Anthony Rivaldi’s eye socket. Fuck his Dad and all the shiny desktops in the new computer lab.

The bell rang as I leapt to my feet, my body trembling with emotion. “You have it so easy! I graduated from a tiny little Catholic school in Milwaukee. My ninth-grade history teacher was a fifty-five-year-old nun with rheumatoid arthritis and a general disdain for life. If I would’ve farted at her -”

Rivaldi threw his head back, mocking laughter awakening something dark inside my soul.

He and a few like him hung around while the others tried to escape.

I drew myself to my full height, righteous outrage making me bold. “She would’ve thrown me to the ground and kicked me til I couldn’t move. But I’ll do her one better.”

Rivaldi sneered and two boys behind him darted out of the room.

“Essay questions,” I yelled. “My American History midterm will be three essay questions. Spelling and grammar count.”

Rivaldi leapt to his feet, face flushed scarlet. “That’s not fair! Duchovney’s the one who farted. Group punishments are cruel and unusual.”

I stomped around the front of my desk, channeling my inner nun even though I had a butt plug up my ass. “Take it up with the Geneva Convention.”

Rivaldi was a shit, but he wasn’t stupid. He strode out of the room with a wounded look on his face, the injustice done to him and his fellow classmates too great a burden to bear. He and the others still remaining filled out without another word, Western Civ students coming in.

Precious seconds slipped away from my coveted forty-five minute lunch break as students hurried out of my classroom. I needed a cigarette.

The door finally closed with a click and I lunged for my purse, fingers shaking as I grabbed it and rushed toward the door. The ibuprofen took care of my headache, but only nicotine would relieve my anxiety. I needed to quit, but I didn’t want to gain weight. Or find a healthier way to deal with bad feelings.

The hallways were clear, rows of green lockers reflecting my distorted figure while I hurried along. Students bragged about vaping in the school basement. They thought they were sneaky, but I’d been listening to them giggle and cough while I silently smoked Pall Malls in a doorless room with copies of “The Book of Common Prayer” stacked to the ceiling.

I let them have their fun. The only people they truly hurt were themselves and I remembered what it is to be young.

I rounded a corner and pushed open a heavy door with a bang, a single bulb flickering overhead illuminating a dingy stairwell.

Let’s go to the dungeon.

That’s what the kids said when they needed a hit.

The access door on the landing below slammed open as I ran by, making me jerk with alarm.

Matt McClellan, the chemistry teacher, stepped inside the stairwell with a severe expression on his face. He clasped his hands behind his back as he approached, tall and imposing with broad shoulders and a lean, muscular frame. Thick, dark hair and big, dark eyes made him popular with our students. Matt wasn’t really my type, but up close, his heavy brow strong and roman nose only added to his masculinity.

I smiled, guilty even though he hadn’t caught me. “You scared me.”

He scowled. “Did you hear the same rumors about vaping and smoking I did?”

Fuck.

I couldn’t think of a better lie fast enough. Besides that, McClellan struck me as a man that was difficult to fool.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just kids trying to get each other in trouble,” I said. “There’s some serious beef among the Sophomore girls. Addie Sinclair really seems to want Peyton Locklear thrown out of school for some reason.”

He scoffed. “You couldn’t pay me to go back and be a teenager all over again.”

I forced a laugh, hoping he couldn’t detect its fakeness. “I’ll head down and see what’s going on.”

“If it’s a group of boys, come back up and get me,” he said. “I’ll deal with them.”

I froze, hair standing on the back of my neck as he turned toward the door. The grown-up thing to do would’ve been to walk away, but maturity had never been my thing. It took every extra effort to keep my voice firm. “What do you mean?”

He smirked back over his shoulder, looking me up and down. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, you did.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “And I don’t understand what you meant. I’m simply asking for clarification.”

“It’s not even really your fault.” Dark eyes lingered over my chest as he pulled open the door, metal hinges creaking as light from from the hallway spilled into the stairwell. “It’s hard for pretty women to command authority. Especially with teenage boys.”

He headed off without another word and I tore off down the stairs, fuming as I fished my cigarettes out of my purse. Maybe I’d smoke two. Maybe I’d burn down the whole building.

The basement was a labyrinth of small, doorless rooms chock full of broken desks, chairs, old athletic equipment, and janitorial supplies. An old furnace rumbled as it pumped heat up through the ducts into the school, various tools and parts neatly laid out on a towel on the floor.

I paused, wrinkling my nose at the stink of burning oil. “Mr. Frazier?”

Robert Frazier was a funny man with the slightest hint of a Scottish brogue and a bad limp. His official title was “janitor”, but from what I’d seen, his expertise made him more of a groundskeeper. He smoked cheap cigarettes and swore with an expertise that would’ve made a comedian stop and take notes.

I slipped off to my familiar haunt, a small basement window letting in dreary light. Prayer books had been stacked to the ceiling along the back wall. A musty smell called forth happy memories of childhood afternoons spent in the quiet solace of a library, but the pious nature of the texts shamed me. Perhaps smoking in there was some kind of self-inflicted punishment. If I diminished my enjoyment, maybe God wouldn’t find my sin so egregious.

I lit up and took a long, deep drag, precious nicotine flooding my system. So did all the toxic chemicals. I chucked as I exhaled and a pleasant buzz filled my head. Something would eventually kill me, whether it be lung cancer or a horrific car accident.

Guilt lurked at the edges of my subconscious, but I took another drag. If it wasn’t for life’s small comforts, I’d lose hope.

I shifted from foot-to-foot, the butt plug teasing my sensitive insides as it shifted. Desire uncoiled within me while I smoked. An affectionate man’s touch could soothe even the most anxious of minds.

I finished my cigarette and stuffed the incriminating evidence into my purse, holding my breath as I listened for the usual sounds of giggling and coughing.

Silence.

I set my purse on the ground and lifted my skirt to my hips, giddy excitement making me shiver. Crotchless tights were the best. The cool air against my bare pussy lips made me gasp. A quick release and I’d be fine.

I dropped to a squat and reached between my legs, the butt plug sliding out of me with tantalizing slowness. A moan of pleasure escaped from between my lips as I gripped the end and pushed it back inside. I brought my other hand to my pussy, the delicate skin there slick and smooth with wetness.

My calves and thighs burned as I worked the plug in and out of my asshole, the pleasure blooming from my tight anus making my clit throb and pulse beneath my touch. I’d grown up believing anal sex was dirty; that the women who professed to love it were lying. Needless to say, I was shocked when I discovered how much I enjoyed it myself.

“Christ, Donnegal!”

I cried out, my legs giving way beneath me.

Mr. McClelland stood in the doorway, eyes wide as his hands curled into fists. If not for the severity of the situation, I would’ve laughed at the shocked expression on his face. I pulled the plug from my ass, throwing it away as I scrambled backwards. Shame and fear made me panic. My career was ruined.

“I smelled the smoke, but I never expected to find you down here like this,” he said, voice low. “Do you think the school will call the police? Or simply fire you?”

I held up my hand, desperate. “I don’t know what came over me. I got caught up in the moment. Please don’t turn me in.”

His eyes lingered over my legs, the dark lace stretched tight over my skin. “You’re gonna have to make it worth my while.”

My jaw dropped, desire mingling with my terror. That was, by far, the most humiliating thing to have ever happened to me, but the growing bulge in Mr. McClelland’s pants made me lick my lips. If I was going to keep my job, I had to keep cool.

I rolled over and pushed my ass in the air, my skirt falling over my hips as I rested my head on my arms. My clit ached as I rocked my hips side-to-side. “I can’t control myself. I need you to punish me.”

His breath caught in his throat and the bottoms of his shoes scraped against the concrete.

Arousal leaked from my pussy and trickled down over my folds as he approached. Somehow, my situation had turned into something incredibly sexy. Mr. McClellan knelt behind me and I gasped when he laid his palms over my lace-clad buttocks, rolling them in his hands. I leaned back into his touch.

He pulled my cheeks apart, a long sigh making me feel so sexy and powerful. “You take it up the ass?”