Flossie's Revenge
Chapter 3

Copyright© 2007 by Lubrican

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - It was 1960, in the segregated South, and Flossie found herself in a situation where, quite unintentionally, she advanced the cause of integration in her one room school house by twenty years. The town banker was determined to ruin her life, while forbidden love entangled both her and her students in its color-blind tentacles.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   mt/ft   Consensual   Reluctant   Heterosexual   Historical   Incest   Rough   Interracial   Oral Sex   Masturbation   Petting   Pregnancy   Voyeurism   Slow  

The next few weeks went better than Flossie would have hoped, had she any hopes at all. She had been around enough racist white people (and black people too, for that matter) that she believed racism was a disease that ran too deep to be “cured” in anything less than generations. And, her teaching methods did not change. Harvey Wilson might eventually get what he wanted, but she was quite sure that, without a new building, and more affluent students, the possibility of them luring a white teacher to this small town was non-existent. And it would take time for Harvey Wilson, or anybody else, to convince anyone that a new building was worth the expense.

It did, in fact, take Harvey two more years to drive through agreement that a new school was needed. By that time, though, his interest had waned somewhat, since, by the time it would actually be built, his own children wouldn’t ever see the inside of it.

But that’s for later in the story. Right now, you want to know what happened during those two years.


That night, when Flossie got home, she wrote a letter to her uncle. She explained the situation, and asked him if there were any documents or other proof he could send her that would establish, beyond doubt, that he had been a fighter pilot in the war.


Flossie’s plan to educate the Wilson children wasn’t really any more radical than what she had planned for the education of all her students. She used her copy of the text book written by Henry Baker to identify a number of Colored people who invented many of the things that almost everyone used in some situations, and which had made striking differences to the way farming was done in Calloway County.

The next bit of what would someday be called “Black History” was about George Washington Carver. There was a grainy old-time photograph of him in the book too, and she showed it to the class, listing how, as an agricultural chemist, he discovered three hundred uses for peanuts and hundreds more uses for soybeans, pecans and sweet potatoes. Among the listed items that he suggested to southern farmers to help them economically were his recipes and improvements to or for: adhesives, axle grease, bleach, buttermilk, chili sauce, fuel briquettes, ink, instant coffee, linoleum, mayonnaise, meat tenderizer, metal polish, paper, plastic, pavement, shaving cream, shoe polish, synthetic rubber, talcum powder and wood stain.

This time, all three Wilson children participated in looking at the book, running down the list of the man’s inventions as if they didn’t quite believe what they were hearing. Seeing has a strong impact on believing.

There was discussion between all the students on how these things had affected their own lives, and the lives of the farmers throughout America, and not just in the South. Flossie capped it off by announcing that, On July 14, 1943, U.S. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt honored Carver with a national monument dedicated to his accomplishments, and that Carver was offered an annual salary of $100,000.00 to work for a white-owned company, making him the highest paid Negro in America up to that time.

“A hundred thousand dollars!” sighed Bernadette. “I can’t even imagine that much money in the whole world. I heard my Pappa talking about a loan he approved - it was to build a whole new house - and it was only for twenty-five hundred dollars!”

Then Flossie switched into a math session, where the children had to cipher out how many houses could be built with a hundred thousand dollars, and how many mules, or cars could be bought with that kind of money. Soon the children were squealing as they thought up other products, most of which cost less than a dollar, which made the quantities seem astronomical to them.


The next day, when Nathan trooped into the room, his face was tense.

“Daddy wants to talk to you,” he said to Flossie. “He said to tell you to get your nigger ass out there, because he ain’t ... I mean isn’t coming in here.”

“All right,” said Flossie.

She went out, passing a subdued Bernadette and Hilda Mae, who looked almost frightened. She walked around to the driver’s door of the station wagon, to find Harvey Wilson scowling at her through the open window.

“What’s all this horse shit about some nigger making a hundred grand a year?” he snarled.

“We talked about George Washington Carver yesterday,” said Flossie simply. She noticed that Luthor, Johnnie Sue and Jesse were approaching the school house together, and had stopped to listen to the exchange.

“I don’t need my children asking me questions like how much money I make in a year, just to have them tell me some Northern nigger makes ten times as much. You stop filling their heads with hogwash, you hear me?! I will not have some nigger whore telling my God damned children that their God damned flesh and blood can’t do better for his God damed family than some uppity coon who takes credit fror something he probably didn’t invent nohow!” He finished with a scream that left his lips actually flecked with spittle.

Flossie turned on her heel and walked around the front of the car, wondering if he would run her down or not. She walked stiffly back into the building as dirt and gravel sprayed in a half circle that peppered her back, and the front of the school house.

When she got inside, the three Wilson children were standing in a line. They looked anxious.

Bernadette’s voice was shaky as she spoke. “We were just talking at supper, and Hilda Mae asked him what his salary is. Then he wanted to know why she wanted to know and when he found out he just got crazy! He sent us all to bed right then and there! He was yelling at Mamma about how he was going to get rid of you if it’s the last thing he ever does. We were afraid he was going to kill you out there!”

“Well, he didn’t,” said Flossie stiffly.

“He said it ain’t right for a ni ... I mean for that George Washington man to make that much more than a white man,” said Nathan.

“Each person has worth to his fellow man,” said Flossie, as Johnnie Sue and the two boys came in the door. “In some cases that worth is more highly valued than in others. That’s why you want to become the best person you possibly can, so you are worth more to other people, and they’ll reward you for that.”

“I’ve never seen him that mad before,” said Bernadette. “You’d better be careful.”

“I know,” sighed Flossie. “I know.”


That night, a skunk somehow found its way into the Wilson household in the middle of the night, while the family was sleeping. The odor woke them all, and they all got out of bed to investigate. The animal was found in the kitchen, where it was going through the overturned trash can.

The skunk obviously felt threatened when Harvey Wilson decided to eject him. Harvey got a direct shot, some of which got in his eyes.


The next morning, Luthor, Jesse and Johnnie Sue were at school when Flossie arrived herself. They looked so freshly scrubbed that Flossie noticed it. As she approached, she got a whiff of skunk odor.

“Don’t you three know enough by now to stay away from a skunk?” she asked, laughing.

“What skunk?” asked Johnnie Sue, looking around as if there might be a skunk in sight.

“What have you been up to?” asked their teacher, sensing immediately that there was mischief afoot.

“Must have been a skunk that went through some of the grass we walked through,” said Luthor. “I thought I smelled skunk somewhere back there.”

They all turned to see the Wilson station wagon edging down the dirt path that led to the school house. Today their mother was driving. When the car stopped, and the Wilson children climbed out, she got out and stood by her door.

“We had a little trouble last night,” she called out, stiffly. “I did everything I could, but I don’t think it did any good. I’m sending the children to school anyway. You’ll just have to live with the smell. Lord knows we had to live with it all night.”

Then she got back in the car and drove away.

The smell of skunk coming from Nathan, Bernadette and Hilda Mae was overpowering. Their eyes were still red from running almost constantly. They stood in a morose little group, heads hanging.

“A skunk got in the house,” said Nathan. “Daddy had to get the doctor out of bed because he was blinded. We didn’t get no sleep at all last night.”

“Didn’t get any,” corrected Flossie automatically. Her eyes went to find Johnnie Sue and the two boys, but they were gone ... vanished as if they had never been standing there only moments before. She frowned on the outside, but was grinning on the inside. Still, she’d have a word with the three in private. What they had done was undoubtedly a great adventure for them, but it could be very dangerous too.

It was then that she realized all three of them had smelled of skunk, and that Jesse must have been involved too. Her heart shrank as she thought about what would happen if he got caught doing something like that to a white family. She couldn’t wait until later.

She handled it by announcing that they would have class outside that day, where the wind would help. She ordered Johnnie Sue, Jesse and Luthor to stay inside and “help her get ready.” As soon as the Wilson children had gone outside, she lit into the three best friends with a hushed vengeance. When they started carrying desks outside, the two white children were as pale as ghosts, and Jesse looked almost gray.


Flossie saved L. Frank Baum’s book for the afternoons, when she worked primarily on diction, and language skills. Curtis Lee might as well have been her teacher’s aide, had there been such a thing back then. His reading and language skills so outclassed those of the Wilson children that it was plain, even to them, that his level of intelligence was beyond anything they’d ever seen in a boy his age, white or black.

Flossie didn’t make any assault on the vernacular they used that first year she taught them. Just getting them to practice good enunciation and expand their vocabulary was sufficient for her. Slowly ... very slowly ... the Wilson children lost the knife-edged unrelenting hatred for those that they could no longer deny had talents of one kind or another. There was no friendship extended, to be sure, and their attitude of superiority accounted for other “accidents” that seemed to happen around the Wilson home, or to their property, but nothing could be traced to any intentional act by someone outside the household. Flossie inquired of Johnnie Sue, Luthor and Jesse, but they swore they had given up after her lecture. It was quite possible there were other people in town unhappy with Harvey Wilson. Bankers were never easy to like, it seemed.

Sadly, perhaps the brightest spot of that first year was that the Wilson Children intentionally quit talking, at home, about what they learned in school. When they got questions like “What else has that damn nigger teacher taught you that I have to unlearn you about?” they simply looked at their father with bland faces and said they studied math, or reading. Their father tested them, making them read out loud from the Bible, and do numbers long hand in front of him. And, though he was actually impressed with the advancement of his children, he never uttered a word of encouragement to them. The only reason they even knew they were doing well was when he presented them with the kind of math that was done in the bank.

“Harvey Wilson!” his wife scolded him. “You know well and good that these children can’t do that kind of ciphering! They’re doing quite well and you know it. You’re just itching for a reason to get that woman fired.”

In fact, Bernadette thought she might be able to figure out how to do the math, which involved interest percentages. But she never got the chance. Her father gave out a snort and snatched the paper from in front of her.

“Of course they can’t do proper math,” he snarled. “They’re too stupid from being schooled by a nigger!”

When, the next day, Bernadette wrote the problem she remembered seeing at home, on the board, and asked if she could try to solve it, Flossie was delighted, and gave her free rein. She had to correct the decimal point in two places, but otherwise the answer was correct. Bernadette glowed, and sat back down smiling.

There were tight, tiny smiles on the faces of her brother and sister as well.


That began a process that was built in fits and starts. Flossie was able to go much deeper into math with the Wilson children, and Curtis Lee, than she had dreamed of. The younger students weren’t interested, so that extended learning happened in the afternoons.

But the success of the older students in understanding the concepts led to requests on their part for other deeper learning. The Wilson children became expert at asking just enough at home, about this or that field of knowledge, to get either a partial answer from one or the other of their parents, or a statement that the answer to the question wasn’t important. The latter comment soon became a clear indicator that the adult asked didn’t know the answer, and the children took delight in then getting the information at school.

Children, at least those in their teens, have always thought their parents were clueless about most things. Harvey Wilson’s stubborn pride, and his wife’s meekness ... unwillingness to give an answer that her husband didn’t know (or, heaven forbid, correct him in front of the children, ) just nurtured that belief on the part of his offspring.

They never let on that they were becoming much better educated than their father was. He would snarl, “Ask your nigger teacher!” and then, later question them on what she had said. Their answers always seemed to come back to “I still don’t know, so I guess it’s not important,” and that fed his own feeling of superiority.

Teens, everywhere, have always seemed to have some special desire to make their parents’ lives a living hell, if they can do so without getting in trouble for it. The Wilson children chose to remind their parents often that, in Catfish Hollow, there was nothing for them to do, and no one of their station to visit. Picking at the sore wound that was Harvey’s fate made them feel better, even though, in their own minds, they didn’t actually lack for much. Now that “Miss Flossie” as they had taken to calling her privately, had widened their horizons, and they could all read much better, they almost always had a book hidden away that they could crack open and while away the hours with.

The upshot was that, unconsciously, the children knew that their teacher was also better educated than their father and mother. The fact that she was more than willing to give them the knowledge drew them closer to her.

And, every time Harvey got on his soap box about how the town needed a new school, and a decent teacher, he got stony faced silence. As far as the rest of the men in the town felt, he already had all their money in his damn bank ... and now he wanted them to cough up more just so his little darlings could have a nice building to fritter away their day in?

As far as lessons in English went, as it turned out, the Wilson children usually knew the proper usage of a word, but just spoke in the same vernacular of their parents, or other relatives. That caused some discussion about appropriate language.

“You need to know how to speak in different settings,” explained Flossie. “When you’re home, you use one kind of language, but if you’re in another setting, you need to be able to speak that language, to fit into That environment.”

“But it’s all just English,” complained Bernadette.

“Actually, it’s different dialects of the same language,” said Flossie. She dropped into the vernacular that older Negroes often used when they were alone. “I’s fixun to mebbe go fishin’, boss.” she drawled. Then she switched to a high-pitched voice with inflections so typically Southern white male that the children stared at her. “I cain’t unnerstand what all them niggers air talkin’ bout.” She went right on to sound like a typical white woman in those parts. “You know, Ah do declare, it’s just swelterin’ in here! Ah’d just give about any-thin for a breath of cool air!” Not stopping there she changed her voice to a dry, clipped diction that all the children recognized as Yankee. “Well, the fact of the matter is, that not a single one of those relapsed Confederates south of the Mason Dixon Line can speak a word of proper English!”

She stopped to see what the reaction was.

“I understood everything you said,” said Hilda Mae. “And you used that word, too, by the way!” She raised her chin. “That word you said was a hurtful word.”

“It’s a word people use,” said Flossie. “It’s a hurtful word, but I’m sure you’ll hear that word used many many times in your life. The point is that, depending on who you’re with, you may want to be able to change the way you speak so that you fit in better. That Means you need to study language in all of its aspects, and be aware of how you, and others around you, are speaking.”

“There was this man,” said Nathan. “He came to our house selling brushes and all sorts of things. He was from someplace up North. I remember I couldn’t hardly understand a word he said. Mamma wouldn’t even let him in the house.”

“It’s very uncomfortable when you’re around people who speak differently than you do,” said Flossie nodding. “It can be frustrating too. That man would sell a lot more brushes if he learned to speak like the customers he was talking to.”

She got a nod from Nathan, which, to Flossie, seemed like a real accomplishment.

“If you never leave Catfish Hollow, you could speak like you do now for the rest of your lives,” said Flossie. “But, if you’re going to see the world, or look for a job somewhere else, it will pay you to learn how to speak properly so that people don’t stare at you, or make fun of you.”

“I’d just die if I had to stay in Catfish Hollow for the rest of my life,” said Hilda Mae, looking forlorn. “But darned if I know what I could do anyplace else.”


There was one incident, that year, that resulted in intense excitement. When Flossie had written to her uncle, Daniel Pendergast, and had told him about Nathan’s reaction to her re-telling of his exploits in the war, she had asked him to send pictures, or some other kind of evidence she could use to convince the white students that a Negro could fly. He did her one better.

Daniel, after the war, wanted to keep flying. He could find no job as a pilot, since people still wouldn’t hire a black man. But he had made some white friends in the war, and, together with one of them, they started their own crop dusting company. They found an old beat up plane, renovated it, and went into business. The white partner was the “face” of the company, dealing face to face with customers, most of whom were white. Daniel flew the plane. Nobody on the ground knew the difference. The business prospered, and they bought more planes. Eventually, Daniel flew because he wanted to, and not because he had to.

When he got Flossie’s letter, he simply chose the plane he wanted, got into it, and flew off. He had grown up in Catfish Hollow, and gone to the same school his niece was teaching at, so he knew exactly where he was going, and exactly what the terrain was like, assuming no major changes had been made. He didn’t expect any.

He buzzed the school house, grinning behind his goggles, and then worried that the air turbulence and vibration of his passage might have just knocked the building down. He went into a tight left turn, climbing steeply and looked down to see the building still standing, and small dots of people running out of it. He buzzed them again, this time going well clear of the structure itself, and coming to within twenty feet of the ground. He wagged his wings and went through a series of acrobatics that were second nature to him now. He ended up with a few low level barrel rolls as he flew directly over the heads of the people in the yard. He had already noted which direction the dust drifted after one of his low level stunts kicked some up, so he lined up and landed, rolling to a stop twenty feet from the cluster of people.

He hopped out, pulled off his goggles, and strode over to give a grinning Flossie a hug.

“How’s my favorite niece?” he asked.

“I’m your only niece,” she grinned, slapping his arm. She turned. “Children, I’d like you to meet my uncle, Daniel Pendergast. I told you about him during our session on the air war.”

The reaction was all that either Flossie or Daniel could have hoped for. Nathan was stunned, completely speechless. When the plane had rocked the whole school building during that first pass, and dust and plaster had dropped from the ceiling, accompanied by a roar that shook their bones, there had been general panic. Running out into the yard had been instinctive for all of them. Then the plane came by again, wind from its passage washing over all of them, flipping skirts up, making hair fly and generally scaring the pee out of them. Shouts of “Who is it?” and “What’s he doing?” rang out. Then, as the acrobatics commenced, Nathan had uttered the fateful words.

“Now that’s a pilot!” His eyes had never left the dipping, turning aircraft as he went on. “That’s the kind of thing no nigger could ever do!”

When Daniel landed, and got out of the plane, Nathan’s world had fallen apart.

Flossie didn’t rub it in. She acted, in fact, as if he had never said anything.

“Anybody want to take a ride?” asked Daniel, grinning.

For poor children in the South, even getting to see an airplane up close was a treat of the first magnitude. The thought of getting to be in one, and off the ground caused bedlam.

It wasn’t much, in terms of how we’d think about a ride today. He packed two or three kids in the extra seat, belting them all together, took off, flew in circles for a few minutes, and then landed. When the first group, which consisted of Curtis Lee, and two eight year olds, got back safely, and Curtis Lee couldn’t wipe the almost painful looking grin off his face, Bernadette and Hilda Mae insisted on going next. They went together and were chattering non-stop upon their return. Daniel didn’t do anything radical with the kids on board. He just flew them around for a bit, banking sharply so they could see the ground. That was more than sufficient. Nathan objected when his sisters went up, but they ignored him. In the end he and Flossie were the only ones left who hadn’t flown.

“Anybody else?” Daniel said, looking around as if there were tens of others who hadn’t gone yet. All of the children who had already ridden jumped up and down, their hands in the air, begging to go again.

“I couldn’t leave the children,” said Flossie, looking yearningly at the airplane.

Curtis Lee stepped forward. “Ruth Ann and I can watch them,” he offered. “And Nathan too, if he doesn’t want to go.”

Curtis Lee’s statement could be received in two ways, if someone tried. It could be received as “Curtis Lee, Ruth Ann and Nathan will watch the others” or “Curtis Lee and Ruth Ann will watch the others and Nathan”. The second way, of course, suggested that Nathan needed watching, and that’s how Nathan heard it.

“I don’t need to be took care of by the likes of you!“ he said angrily.

“If Nathan wants to go, I’ll stay here,” said Flossie, ignoring the outburst.

“You can go fly in that thing if you want to,” said Nathan sulking. “I’m staying right here on the ground where it’s safe.”

So Flossie got her ride, during which Daniel put the plane through its paces again, doing barrel rolls as it flashed over the screaming kids. Flossie could also be heard, very faintly, screaming at her uncle. When they landed, a laughing Daniel had to help her walk because her knees were so shaky. As they approached the children, she was heard to say “I think I need to change my pants!”


Something twisted inside of Nathan as the plane rose from the ground, bumping over the ground of a fallow field next to the school house, and lifted into the air one last time. He had wanted badly to get in that airplane, and see what the world looked like from up there. His pride had kept him from it, though, and he was quite aware of that. As the plane wagged its wings one last time in farewell, and lifted higher, he wondered if that pride was worth it.

About then the constable drove up in his battered 1938 Chevrolet. He got out, hat firmly on his head, and waddled over to the group.

“Saw the plane from town,” he said shortly. “Thought there might be some problem.”

“Not at all,” said Flossie, still a little breathless from her ride. “The pilot was helping the children understand how airplanes work. We’re studying flight in school this week.”

She lied right in front of the children. All of them knew that they weren’t studying flight at all, and never had. Most of the children knew why she lied. If the townspeople found out she had let the children go up with a Negro pilot, all Hell would break loose. It wouldn’t matter that everyone had gotten back safely. All that would matter was that the pilot was a nigger.

“Quite some pilot,” commented the constable.

“Yes,” said Flossie as if everything were completely normal. “I met him while I was in college. He was nice enough to show the children all about the plane. He flew in the war.”

“Thought so,” said the constable. “Flew like my nephew talks about. He was a fighter pilot in the war, Harry was. He might know the feller that was helping you out. What’s his name? I could ask Harry.”

“What theater did your nephew fly in?” asked Flossie, instead of answering the question.

“Flew Corsairs in the Pacific,” said the constable.

“I don’t think this man would know him then,” said Flossie calmly. “He flew Mustangs in Europe.” She turned around. “Well! Now that the fun is over, I ‘spect we’d best get back to work! Inside, children.” She turned to the constable. “Thank you for your concern. I’m sure that if there had been a problem we would have needed you. It’s good to know you are vigilant as usual.”

The man grinned, hitched up the belt around his waist, upon which hung a .38 revolver, and actually tipped his hat. Then he got in his car and rolled away. Flossie faced the receding car, waving, until it went out of sight, while Curtis Lee and Ruth Ann started herding the children back into the building. Nathan hung back.

“Why did you lie to him?” asked Nathan.

“I lied to him because he’s just like you ... or like you were before Daniel landed here. He would never believe that a Negro could fly a plane, or take the children for a ride safely. Had I told him the truth, it would have caused a lot of trouble.”

“Oh,” he said, unsure what to say. He was seeing things from a black perspective for perhaps the first time in his life. “I guess so.”

“It would still cause problems if you told your parents about it,” said Flossie, her heart in her mouth. She went on, despite her nervousness about taking this chance. “That would give your father everything he needs to have me fired.”

Nathan thought about the last few things she had said. She had just assumed that he thought about things differently now than he had in the past. That was true. He couldn’t deny that. When he said “no nigger could fly like that” he was aware that he had used a word that he was trying to stop using. Then, when he was too proud and embarrassed to take a ride, she had gone, even though it was clear the idea frightened her. He had heard her screams in the plane ... heard that she was clearly terrified ... yet she had clamped down on that terror, and recuperated quickly. She had stood and lied bald faced to the law, which put her in danger, and had trusted all the students not to betray her. And they hadn’t. Not a one. Not even himself! Every one of them knew it was wrong to lie, yet not one of them had said a word to gainsay her. Yet, she had lied only as little as she had to. That too was obvious. Many of the things she had said were carefully true. She had just left out the things that would cause trouble. And he knew that he lied sometimes, and that, when he lied, it was usually for the purpose of staying out of trouble too. He also thought about how wrong he had been. Even the constable had seen how skilled the pilot was. Nathan Wilson felt something very close to shame.

“I won’t tell them,” he said finally. “I’ll make sure my sisters don’t either.”

“Thank you, Nathan,” said Flossie gently. She didn’t remind him that he owed her an apology.

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