Chapter 6: The Accidental Blackmailer, Part Three

As I cycled to the school late on Sunday morning, I was starting to have doubts about whether I was going to be able to survive this entire weekend. Laura had left at eleven last night, and I had finished tidying up and airing out the room just before my parents breezed back into the house. In fact, I had only spotted Laura's handcuffs underneath the bed less than twenty seconds before my mother showed up at the door to my bedroom. Laura had obviously forgotten them in her departure. In any event, I had quickly stuffed them in my bookbag. I could cycle by her house on my way home from school and drop them off. The only potential problem with that plan was that Laura might want to make it hard for me to leave. Or just make it hard, period. After my upcoming meeting with Pam Lee, I wasn't sure whether anything, even Laura Stone, would be able to make it hard that quickly.

Pam was waiting for me outside the school, nervously switching her weight from one foot to the other. A cold front had come through overnight, the first real sign of fall. She was looking the other way when I approached, studying the other cars in the parking lot. I had a nice, long look at her black, leather motorcycle jacket and skin-tight jeans. She finally turned as I coasted toward the bike rack.

"It's about time," she hissed.

I gave her a sideways look as I locked the bike to the rack.

"Phone call for you, Ms. Lee."

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and tossed it to her. She opened it with a quizzical expression on her face, and then shut it just as quickly as a deep flush spread over her dark complexion. It was a full, uncropped picture this time. She was reclining on a sofa, naked of course, her legs spread but with her hand between them. She had an eager expression on her face that clearly evidenced her desire for something. It wasn't the best picture of her "College Spread" spread, but it was my favorite caption: Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement. A little tit for tat? Or how about a little tit for a nice, big that? The phone's screen wasn't big enough to let her read it, and I'm sure she didn't remember what it said. But I would be happy to remind her. She followed me, silently, into the school, only speaking once we got closer to the computer science room.

"Are you sure you can do this, Terry?

I found her tone annoying, the way she emphasized the word "you."

"Well, gosh, let's hope so, Ms. Lee," I smiled. "Cause if I can't, I'm gonna have to start sharing you with assholes like Tony Carboneau and Mikey Portman, the guys who flunked shop last year. Or little Joey Turner — you know, the kid with the big glasses who hands out the water at the football team's timeouts. I bet all three of those guys are surfin' the net, lookin' for porn, every day."

"I'm sorry, Terry. I'm just nervous," she confessed as we reached the computer science room. "I had to steal the key to this place from Mrs. Carson's desk and the old battleaxe could come in any minute."

"On a Sunday?"
"What else has she got to do?"

Evidently Ms. Lee shared the student body's opinion of our principal's secretary-slash-gatekeeper-slash-guard dog. She was really more like one of those bridge trolls because there were times when she would let you pass. We just had no idea when those would be.

Pam unlocked the door, and I located one of the newer, faster computers and sat down to get to work. I was going to be there a little while, setting my program up, testing it, actually running it, and then removing it from the computer without leaving any footprints. Pam, on the other hand, was going to leave a very definite set of footprints. She spent the first fifteen minutes pacing from one side of the room to the other. At first, she would glance over my shoulder when she passed, but after she realized that what was on the screen was as incomprehensible to her as, say, French is to some other people, she went back to straight pacing.

"Didn't you bring a book or something?" I asked, trying without success to hide my annoyance.

"I thought it would only take like fifteen minutes," she explained.

"It's gonna take even longer if I have to listen to you walking around like that."

"I'm sorry," she said as she pulled out a seat.

She just as suddenly got up and announced she was going down to the teacher's lounge. She returned in 15 minutes with a magazine and took a seat behind me. That lasted maybe another fifteen minutes, until she started drumming her fingers on the desk.

"You're not helping," I said as sweetly as I could.

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

I turned and gave her a big smile.

"Don't you have an office? A room of your own? Shouldn't you be there, getting ready to show me how grateful you are?"

"Here?" she squeaked. "At school?"

"Here," I nodded. "At school."

"But there are other people..." she started to protest.

"Who could come in at any minute and see me using the school's computer for something highly unethical and possible illegal," I interrupted her.

I watched her think about it a minute, and then she smiled.

"Okay," she chirped.

"Now go," I said over my shoulder as I turned back. "Put the key back in Mrs. Carson's desk. I'll lock the door when I'm done and then I'll meet you. Room 218. Oh, and here, take my bag."

It took me another half an hour, but by the time I was finished, I was satisfied that the only inappropriate pictures that a Google search for "Pam Lee" would turn up would be the blonde former Playmate and home video star. I was also satisfied that there was no way anyone would know that I had been here today. Slipping the disk into my pocket, I pulled the locked door shut behind me and headed upstairs.

I peered into her darkened room through the window in the door to her room on the Language Arts hallway.

"Pam?" I said softly as I pushed open the unlocked door. "Ms. Lee?"

She had clearly been there. Her leather jacket was draped over the back of her chair. Maybe she had to visit the ladies' room. After about five minutes I was starting to get worried. I went back into the hallway, and when I pulled the door closed behind me, I realized my mistake. This was Room 221. I had a very distinct recollection of telling her that I would meet her in Room 218. But I also remembered telling her she should be in her office, "getting ready." Well, where the hell was Room 218? I walked down the hall. Room 222, across the hall, was Mrs. Valentine's room. Room 220 was Ms. Nelson's room. Room 219 was Miss Sanchez's room. There was the little boys' room. Room 217 was Mr. Storey's room. Oh, shit.

I walked back to the boys' room, still not quite believing that the school administration had actually assigned it a number. Other than Freddy Richardson, who had cornered all the drug-dealing at the school, who needed to identify a specific bathroom? But there it was in small numerals, two-one-eight. I hesitantly pushed the door open and saw my bag beneath the two sinks.

"Madame?" I said quietly.

"Fuck, Terry," she hissed, "what the fucking hell were you doing?"

She came out of one of the stalls, wearing nothing but the tiniest of thongs. Damned if Laura Stone hadn't pegged that.

"I, uh, I thought you were going to be in your office," I stammered.

"No, I'm here in fucking room 218 where you fucking told me to be. How do I get these fucking things off?"

I had actually been so surprised to find her in the boys' room, wearing a thong and nothing else, that I hadn't noticed that her wrists were handcuffed together.

"How did you get them on?" I was desperately trying not to laugh.

"I opened up your book bag to put my clothes in to get ready, like you, um..."

"Requested."

She gave me a snippy smile.

"And these things just fell out. And opened up. I saw the catches on them and I figured they'd be really easy to get off, but they're fucking not."

"Actually, they fucking are," I said, pushing myself off the door and walking toward her. "You have to press them at the same time."

She tried to twist her wrists around to press the two catches simultaneously, but by that point I was already across the room. I grabbed hold of the little chain between the two cuffs in one hand and backed her up against the wall.

"Terry," she murmured, squirming helplessly as she felt my other hand exploring her body, caressing her stomach, squeezing her breast, tickling her thigh, and then finally diving inside her thong. "Terry, yes."

I pushed her hands down behind her head, and lowered my mouth to her chest. I would like to think that just the touch of my lips on her nipple sent a shiver through her body. On the other hand, the fingers of my right hand could have accounted for that, too. My index and ring fingers were gently squeezing her labia lips together, while my middle finger slowly stroked the inner lips that pressed through.

"Oh, God, baby," she whispered, as I pulled back to look at the wet, hard nipple of her left breast.

I stood up again and raised her arms over her head, this time turning her around. I gently pushed her forward to the wall, flattening her breasts against the cold tile. I slipped my hand under her thong again, noticing how much of her nice little ass it left exposed. I held her in place and slid my fingers down between the two round cheeks until I could once again touch her wetness. I slowly pushed my middle finger inside her, and then let go of the cuffs to free my other hand to work her thong down her legs. I pocketed the thin cloth and reached up for her cuffs again. It was at that point that we both became aware of somebody whistling in the hallway.

The parking lot had had very few cars when I arrived, and there was nothing scheduled at school that day, so the odds of somebody walking all the way up to the Language Arts hallway to use the boys' room were infinitesimal. Even so, they were probably higher than the odds that a high school senior would have been in that same boys' room with his naked French teacher. And they were probably higher than the odds of any of the, er, incidents that seemed to plague my life. Like the time that the woman with the baby stroller knocked me off the bridge and into the lake in Prospect Park.

So the whistling was good enough for me. I hustled us into a stall and locked the door. I quickly pushed my pants to my ankles and took a seat. Pam climbed atop me, standing on my thighs and leaning back against the door. At my suggestion, she looped her handcuffs over the clothes hook on the inside of the door to help support her and keep her motionless.

The whistling stopped when the mystery whistler pushed open the door, probably about the time that he saw my bookbag and realized that he wasn't the room's only occupant.

"Bonjour?" he asked in a hideous French accent that made the word sound more like "conjure." "Qui est là?"

I looked up to see Pam rolling her eyes.

I cleared my throat.

"Why are you speaking French, man?"

"Sorry," he laughed as he unzipped himself. "Who's that?"

"Terry Martin," I said.

"Martin!" he acknowledged me cheerfully. Pam and I listened as he started to relieve himself. "Chris Cannon."

Chris Cannon was one of the football players in my French class.

"Yeah," he spoke up again. "That bitch has me trained, buddy. Every time I get anywhere near the pleasure palace I start thinkin' up French conversation in case I meet her in the hall. I saw her little Tranny in the parking lot, so she must be around somewhere."

I couldn't help but ask the question that both Pam and I were thinking.

"The pleasure palace?"

"Pammy's pleasure palace," he laughed.

"I didn't think you were having that good a time in French," I said.

"Hell, no. Except for the scenery, that place is the closest thing this school has to hell, dude. Naw, that's Jack Cranston's name for it. You know those go-go girls that Pammy's got?"