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I awoke from the nightmare feeling a groggy uneasiness that stayed with me through breakfast and the entire walk to school. A dull ache had settled between my breasts where my heart had been. My vagina ached as well, and not in a good way. I feared to conjecture why.
For a few moments, I considered calling in sick, but I was certain that the school had ways to deal with students who ditched. I wondered what they were. I'd heard of students being forced into extended bouts in The Program, but I wasn't sure exactly for what.
Didn't matter, though. I'd put too much effort into staying in the damned thing to ditch. Let it come. After yesterday...
I decided not to think about yesterday. Instead, I paid attention to putting one foot in front of the other, watching my breath puff out like I was smoking a joint. Despite the cold, I was glad that I lived walking distance from the school. It kept me off one of the School Buses. Which was good for two reasons. One, I could be alone with my thoughts. Two, Program kids were expected to be naked for everything school-related. For me, that meant removing my clothes once I reached the flagpole. I felt sorry for the unfortunate ones who had to take it off when they got on the bus.
The mere thought of being subject to a ride on the bus, with the only adult around forced to focus more on driving than keeping watch, made me certain that whoever had come up with that rule was a complete and utter sadistic bastard. Hell, they didn't even do that back at my old school. So it can't be mandatory, right? Some sort of "open to interpretation" thing? Meaning somebody on the local school board must be righteously fucked in the head.
"But I'm not ON the school property!" I heard a vaguely familiar voice crying out in protest. "The property line ends at the driveway!" I looked over.
Oh what the fuck is *this* noise?
Felicity Robensen and Principal Tillerman were standing (Felicity was right-- just off the school grounds) inches apart, having a loud dispute. Felicity was awkwardly holding, oh perfect, a protest sign stenciled with the words "Stop The Program, Save Your Children!" She had a satchel hung over her shoulder that was bleeding pamphlets.
I shut my eyes; blackness was preferable. And continued walking towards the school. (After a few steps, I decided it would be best to open my eyes again, if only to not run into anybody. But I was wrong. They were still there.)
Mr. Tillerman was threatening to call the police. My gut thought was "Just hurry up and do it!" Too late! Felicity apparently recognized me in the crowd. She started shouting out my name. I stopped, halfway between the curb and the flagpole.
"AMANDA! Amanda Warren! You shouldn't have to do this!"
I turned. She was thrusting a flyer in my direction. Yeah, like I needed any more anti-Program propaganda to go with my pro-Program propaganda. Screw that! "Read about the program, you'll..."
Mr. Tillerman interrupted, staring at the flyer. "Where'd you get that?"
Felicity stood herself up straight, turning to give the principal a vainglorious grin that glowed idiotically in her eyes. "My mom! She works for Senator Halverman!"
Principal Tillerman seemed to ponder the boast a moment before critically deflating it. "I've seen your mother, Miss Robensen. She works at Floyd's Laundry and More on Vernal Street, doesn't she?"
Felicity shot back defensively. "S-she does his dry cleaning." Then wrecked even that comeback with a lamely added, "Sometimes."
"Doesn't Senator Halverman live in Washington D.C.?"
Felicity stammered, her face redder than I was at any time yesterday. "When he's at his summer house for vacation..." She was looking for an out, and I was losing my last shred of interest in the girl.
"Amanda!" Oh, don't *even* drag me into this. "The Program is CHILD ABUSE! It..."
I spun around, cutting her off with a snap. "YES! Yes it is! Not like you'd know, having been in it for all of, what, FIFTEEN SECONDS?!?" I strode to the flagpole, followed by silence. As I undressed, one thought shot through my mind: Could Felicity be any more of a tool?!
I pulled off my shirt and *fuck* was it cold!
I finished undressing without any thoughts of Felicity or Tillerman. I did entertain the idea that everyone behind creating The Program was from Florida or Texas or some other place that doesn't have winter. (Which is crap, I know, but it was fucking cold.)
I removed my skirt and panties right over my socks and shoes. Damned if I was going to walk barefoot in the freezing.
| *** | *** | *** |
Inside.
You never really appreciate the wonder that is "indoors" until you've had to walk around naked in below freezing weather. You might think you do. But you're fucking wrong.
I spent at least three minutes just reveling in not being on the other side of the school entrance. I could feel eyes crawling all over me, knew I was getting those "is the new Program girl hot?" appraisals that is a staple of Tuesday mornings' Commons. And I just didn't care.
I contemplated my shoes and socks instead. Outside, there was a pressing need for them. Now, however, wearing just socks and shoes was somehow making me feel even more naked. Without really thinking about it, I decided to take them off, passing them to the Program Guard who would whisk them away to the Locker.
Okay, after about half a minute, I cared a little. Enough to listen in on the oh-so-subtle not-really-whispers. Apparently, I rated high enough that I would certainly have my own place of honor somewhere on one of the boys' restrooms' walls.
Thank you oh so much everybody for the rather creepy level of attention being paid to my ass.
One exchange bothered me a bit more than that. Some loser who certainly had no other chance of seeing a girl naked beyond pornos or The Program had to ask, "Think she has a boyfriend."
I rolled my eyes. (I'd say I was expecting nothing less, but honestly, had already heard a lot worse, and wasn't expecting anything that genial.)
"Hell no, dude! She doesn't have *any* friends. She's a total freaky loner. Like a goth without the black."
My head froze. I felt a burning in my cheeks. Fuck, why should I care what these idiots thought anyway? I focused instead on paying attention to the wall. As I did, it hit me that I had been standing here like an imbecile for at least a couple minutes. I must look completely retarded. Worse, naked and retarded. Fuck.
Everyone, I was certain, was staring at me. I looked about, trying to act casual, searching for some excuse to be standing here. The air seemed to silently scream that my act was bullshit. As luck would have it, just inside the school doors was a pamphlet stand. As fate would have it, it belonged to The Program.
I realized I had never paid attention to it. Painfully ironic. The top of the stand, above the basket, was a big, bright poster extolling The Program. Front and center were two unusually good-looking kids, presumably students, a guy and a girl. Naked, except for smiles and a cheery expression in their eyes that sat at severe odds with my personal experiences. Surrounding them at a polite, non-intrusive distance, were teachers and students, some of whom were smiling promotingly, others going about their mock-daily routine as if they didn't notice. Nobody intruded on the two icons' personal space. There were no lewd looks. The lockers in the background was unrealistically free of graffiti, putting the finishing touch on the fantasy.
The poster was a mess. Artistically-minded students with permanent markers had given him glasses, her horns. Both had mustaches. There was a crudely-drawn vibrator sticking out of her pussy, with drips coming off of it. And all over the poster were lewd comments, including "She'll fuck anybody, just call 1-888-SCR-EWU2!" and "The Program: how to get a head in school!" On the bottom, someone had scrawled helpful instructions, complete with arrows to the students' crotches: "Insert Plug A into Slot B." Great. Geek graffiti.
The pamphlet bins were mostly empty. The students in the images were hot enough that the school had a hard time keeping the bin stocked. What was there was in scattered disarray. I snagged one that had been partially wedged in the wire mesh, taking a closer look.
The students' images, this time free of "art enhancements" struck me again. I looked in their expressions for some sense of fakeness. Some weariness or forced look, like they were being made to pose for the photo. Maybe a falseness that suggested they were doing this for money. I found nothing. Why should I? Sure, they could be good actors, and The Program would have psychologists pouring over mock-ups to insure the message. But...
But why not? The Program has always gone out of its way to promote the supposed good it was doing. To boast about all the kids it was helping, holding up shiny examples. And fuck, it had to be doing some good, right? Otherwise, you would think it would have totally self-destructed years ago. All these kids they show off as examples, I'm sure, are real kids whom they've really helped. Bet it's just like the lottery. They always show the Big Jackpot Winners, and people flock to buy tickets because they could be just like them; nobody shows the millions of people who fucked themselves out of their money.
For I think the first time, I considered the flip side: doesn't mean the Big Jackpot Winners aren't real. And hell, if you believe even half the propaganda, The Program has a significantly better success rate than your local casino. There are schools all over the place that rally behind The Program as the best thing since teacher salaries. The government can't have pressured all of them into cheering, can they?
There were two kinds of pamphlets left, some brown and some blue. I had taken a brown one. I was hardly surprised to see it was a prettied-up version of the pamphlet Ms. Palmers had handed out. Terrific. I remember when the assholes decided it would be a good idea to make the mechanics of what Program Students were forced to do publicly available to the student body. Hell, why not? It's available on the web, right? Things got bad for the Program Students after that. I tried not to notice, but how could you not?
Chalk that error in judgment to the fucknuts on the School Board though.
I tossed the pamphlet onto the floor with the others, and looked for a convenient blue one. I was only making myself mad, and I knew it. But it was effectively drowning out the lewd comments and ridicule of the students around me. I considered grabbing one off the floor, but ruled that right out with the mental image of bending over, or even squatting, with my audience. I found one blue pamphlet with half the inside pages missing buried amongst a number of brown ones in the basket.
The students again. Different school surroundings. Almost unnoticeably different poses. Inside the front flap was another image, this of the guy with a full erection looking porno-riffic. I could make an educated guess at the images in the missing pages. Below, in bold, the pamphlet boasted: "With the help of The Program, you can learn to enjoy it."
"Fuck that," I hissed under my breath. "It's my fuckin' body, assrods. Where the fuck do you get off deciding what I should enjoy?" Then again, they probably did get off making that decision for kids. And with that thought came a mental image, and ew!
I dropped the damaged pamphlet onto the floor as if it was covered with the writer's cum.
I heard laughter. I felt myself burning all the way to the eartips. Somehow, the whole school knew the thought I had just reacted to! Then I heard a voice proving me wrong. Todd (the Anarchy Then boy, I remembered) shot back hotly at his laughing peers, "It's COLD outside, you morons!"
When I realized what the laughter was about, I wanted to laugh too. Not at Todd, but just out of silly relief. Todd was storming by, warning "Just you wait! When it's your turn, I'll be right here in the Commons to laugh my ass off at you!" I didn't look, but I could imagine. I knew how the cold had hit me. And with that imagining, I wanted to laugh again.
My gentle angel kept me from doing it. Out of respect for my fellow Program Student. The other angel kept prompting me to laugh anyway, to show I could take a joke in this horrible situation, but I ignored it.
The Frankie voice, low and dangerous, told me that I was just as bad as the rest of them. That I deserved to die for that. I resolutely attempted to ignore that voice too. But it didn't stop a pit of self-loathing from forming in my chest. Fuck, girl, this isn't funny. It's cruel.
Almost on cue, a wail caught my ears. It sounded like... I spun around, frantically looking. Elizabeth! She was surrounded by guys, some of whom looked dreadfully familiar. They had her down on all fours, and were making her bark. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet with tears. She was shaking.
The boys were laughing, getting off on it. One of them ordered, "Now moo, bitch!" Cruel, heartless laughter. It turned my stomach. My self-loathing morphed into anger. I wasn't as bad as these guys. I wasn't even close.
I looked around. Other students were staring from the balcony above. I saw Ms. Palmers in the office through her window, busy on the phone. Then, amongst the crowd, I saw a teacher. I don't know his name, never had a class with him. But he stood there, fully aware, a look of disapproval on his face. And. Did. Nothing!
And why should he. As far as Reasonable Requests go, this shit wasn't considered even close to an abuse.
"You're not a bitch any more! Now you're a cow! Moo!"
Another: "Yeah, shake those udders!"
Fuck. I watched her give her chest a shameful shake. Her pretty breasts dangled, swaying like pendulums. She choked a sob and couldn't bring herself to make bovine noises for her tormentors' amusement.
My heart bled for Elizabeth. My body hurt watching her made to degrade herself like that. I felt her suffering; it was coming off her in waves. She was crying so much she couldn't see anymore. Weakly, I hear her call out to anyone, "Help me!"
Something clicked in my head. Some switch was thrown. Before I knew what I was doing, I marched into the center of the crowd, right up to the boys. One of them was demanding "I said MOO!" The jackass was angry; Elizabeth was taking too long. "You have to!"
"That's ENOUGH!" The fuckwads all turned to stare at me. My skin felt cold and hard as steel. My hands were clenched and felt dangerous. There was a dark red cloud in my head; I felt a burning behind my glare. My vision was sharp, my senses clear as knives.
I think I scared them. But not enough. One of the boys, the ringleader I was betting, shot back, "Get lost. She's in The Program. She has to obey any Reasonable Request." Then with a nasty sneer, he added, "Don't worry. It will be your turn soon enough, whore."
It didn't faze me. I was so not capable of caring about their threats at that moment. With a razor in my voice, and a calmness that belied the tension that was hitting each of my nerves like my body was a high voltage line, I replied.
"So am I. And where I'm standing, 'help me' is a pretty fuckin' reasonable request." I felt galvanized. Elizabeth's cry had liberated part of me, and set it on holy fire. "Now I can do that with or without your blood all over my fists." I lowered my head a little and burrowed into him with my glare. "Your choice."
There was a moment of unnatural quiet. As if the whole school was watching intently in rapt silence.
One of the bullies broke it with a dismissive "Screw this, I'm going to class." The crowd quickly and unceremoniously dissolved. Leaving Elizabeth and me.
My body was alive with a nervous excitement. Relief flooded me, making me feel like I needed to pee. I started panting, feeling like I had just jogged the distance to school. All I could say was "They're gone." And, with a breath, "You can get up now."
It sounded lame. Anticlimactic. But when I offered her my hand to help, she took it. And the grateful look in her eyes made my heart skip. My mind tossed about for something appropriate to say. Elizabeth spoke first.
"Thank you."
Suddenly, I was a giant. Ten feet tall. The irony wasn't lost on me. The Program is a nasty, destructive thing that can't possibly live up to its own fantasy. So why did I suddenly actually feel so empowered? Yesterday, I was victimized, molested, and I couldn't fight back. Now I just did. Elizabeth's request obliterated the barriers.
And I acted.
I kept myself from laughing. Elizabeth wouldn't understand. But I felt awesome inside. Somehow, I don't think this was what The Program had in mind for empowerment. Or for Reasonable Requests. I didn't give a shit.
Smiling gently to Elizabeth, "Let's get you to class." No way in hell was I going to make her walk to class alone. Not after that.
She nodded. I suspect she was contemplating some of those boys hanging about in the shadows of the hallways, behind the support arches. I know I was. The thought wasn't without fear. But fear was taking a back seat in my emotional roller coaster now.
We walked. My arm ached, wanting to rise up and wrap around her. To hold her against me, to comfort her. But I remembered my own reaction to Brad's touch, and I kept my arms carefully at my side.
I could feel her nakedness like a palpable aura. She ran her arm across her eyes. I wished I had a cloth to help her wipe the tears. I felt my hand twitch, almost acting on the impulse to pull off my shirt and hand it to her. Yesterday, I couldn't have imagined being willing to expose myself in order to help a crying student. Naturally, now that I did want to, I didn't have a shirt to remove. Stupid Program.
"Elizabeth, I..." I had no idea what I wanted to say. But there was an insurmountable urge to break the silence before I drowned in it.
"Call me Lizzie," Elizabeth... Lizzie... was looking about like a frightened rabbit. I felt my heart flutter. There was a softness there I couldn't describe. She gave me her nickname like a precious gift. I was touched.
Then, without warning, Lizzie took my arm and leaned against me. As her skin touched mine, my nerves exploded into butterflies. I jumped a little, a small break in my step. She let go, looking at me.
"I'm sorry. I just..." Her eyes, wet with tears, told me more than she could say. And strangely, there was nothing I wanted more at that moment than to give her the comfort and sense of safety I could guess she was seeking.
"Don't be. Here." And this time I let my arm wrap around her, hugging her close against my side.
My body tingled. I found my breathing heavier than before. I didn't want to admit it, but I was a little aroused. My gentle angel was smiling, pleased as peaches. My more vocal angel was telling me to let myself be the heroine. I had earned it. Saved the damsel in distress from the hungry dragons. Somehow, I'd always yearned more to be the hero in those kinds of stories than the princess. And now, for at least this moment, I was.
Let people stare as they scampered to their classes. Let the boys be hiding in wait. With Elizabeth's permission, I felt ready to take on anyone. I was a fuckin' goddess.
And besides, I had a great ass.
| *** | *** | *** |
I was late getting to my own class, but I was so on top of the world as I entered Homeroom that I didn't realize something was off until Mr. Butte called me over to his desk. Only then did I become aware of some of the uncomfortable looks directed my way and the utter lack of any teaching in progress.
The glory of the last ten minutes began to fade as I made the walk across the classroom. I wasn't sure what to expect, but dreaded that this was going to become one of those disturbing Use-the-Program-Student-as-a-Prop classes. And everyone was waiting for their pointedly tardy specimen of flesh. Mr. Butte never struck me before as the kind of teacher to do that. But actually being in The Program changes how you view people. Makes you aware of just how many people are a lot uglier than you normally allow yourself to suspect.
Mr. Butte spoke to me in a lowered voice as I reached his desk. "There has been an emergency faculty meeting called," he informed me. Huh? Of all the things I was ready for or dreading, that wasn't even close to on the list. Immediately, I knew something was out of place. Faculty meetings are usually before or after school. Sometimes at lunch, I guess. But never interrupting class. Beyond that, though, I was confused. Why tell me privately?
Mr. Butte cleared that up quickly. "It should be brief, but if you don't feel comfortable being in class without a teacher until I return, I can give you a hall pass."
Fuck. Cold water of reality right in my face. After the display of human foulness in The Commons, it took my mind no time at all to conjure horrifying possibilities. My skin broke into a cold sweat at the first one. Any arousal I had been feeling before class was vanquished.
That whole empowerment thing was sliding away, replaced with that vague drowning feeling. The Program giveth and The Program taketh away.
As I reached for the offered wooden plaque with the words Hall Pass and the class number burned into it, part of me balked. My loudmouthed angel was singing a strain of some old song I couldn't place. "...when danger reared it's ugly head, she bravely turned her tail and fled..." I wasn't ready to give up being the hero yet. Hell, I was in The Program because I wanted to be. Nobody enters The Program on their own terms. But I refused to not enter it at all.
I felt determination-- not brave determination, rather it felt indistinctly diseased-- but determination nonetheless. I flipped up my hand, refusing the pass. "I'll be okay." My words had an assurance that I did not.
Mr. Butte nodded. I think he was pleased. Maybe impressed. "All right." With that, he stood and addressed the class.
"Students, attention here. I have to leave class for a few minutes. I should be back shortly. While I am gone, Amanda Warren is in charge."
He said the what?? I was floored. Talk about unexpected! I only dimly heard what the teacher said next, my mind wrestling over the implications.
"Look to Miss Warren as if she were me." Mr. Butte finished.
"Well, that's unerotic!" came a voice from somewhere in the class.
Mr. Butte stared down the giggles, then turned to me. "Now Amanda, you're in charge. I expect you to run things responsibly in my absence. If you have any problems, you will report them to me."
Mr. Butte left class, leaving me feeling both naked and armed. I took a deep breath and sat down in Mr. Butte's chair. My thoughts were briefly sidetracked by how much nicer his chair was than ours. The faux-leather stuck tackily to my bare ass and back, otherwise the chair would have been sweet.
Naked and armed. A stray thought struck me, the image of me as one of those insulting cheesecake fantasy women charging into battle with a ridiculously large and nasty weapon, wearing "armor" that couldn't protect (or conceal) a damned thing.
Again, where the hell do thoughts like that come from?
Didn't take long. The boy sitting nearest the teacher's desk raised his hand and, without waiting for acknowledgment, asked "Hey, we can still give you Reasonable Requests, right?"
I groaned.
I closed my eyes at that a moment, then opened them again, screwing my face into a smirk. "Absolutely. I'm in The Program; you can make me do anything 'reasonable'. Just like, as the teacher, I can make you do anything 'reasonable'." I tried to put a dangerous edge in my voice.
It was effective. His eyes widened in horror and he dropped his hand quickly. The thought of being subject to what he wanted to do to me was apparently a significant deterrent.
One of the girls: "But, as a teacher, you can't make us do sexual things! Right?"
From the looks some of the guys were giving, there was a lot of desire to have me make her do something sexual. Boys. I ignored them. "I think you would be surprised at what the school considers 'reasonable'."
I sat forward, all too aware of the sound of my skin peeling from the leather. "Just because you aren't in The Program doesn't make you immune to sexual demands by the school. They make you attend Monday Assembly, after all."
I lost a lot of them there. But not all of them. There were a few looks of recognition. Even a couple nods of agreement. One student, I think his name is Billy, spoke up. I knew him only in the way everyone else in class did -- earlier this semester, he'd been forced through The Program.
"The Program Students are humiliated, disgraced, turned into nothing but sex objects, even punished when their only crime is wanting a shred of human dignity. And the vile act of wanting to be treated with respect." The bitterness and sarcasm in his voice were as subtle as a sledgehammer. Thinking about it, I realized this was the first time I'd heard him speak in class since The Program. He didn't look at anyone as he talked. I was half-aware of his previous flinching reactions to being passed in his seat. I had no idea how withdrawn he may have been before, but there was no denying that Billy-post-Program was insular if not downright xenophobic. "The Program mistreats your 'fellow' students terribly. And the school tries to force you to watch."
Wow. Fuck. Sure, I'd been thinking along the same lines: it isn't just the Program Students who are being subjected to something sexual during Monday Assemblies. But I'd never considered how being forced to see it happening to others would affect people who had been through hell in The Program already.
I knew how angry I was seeing Elizabeth, Lizzie, abused after what those boys did to me yesterday. Feeling helpless, not allowed to intervene. Not, that was, until Lizzie cried out. I remembered Lizzie's panic in Assembly. How will Lizzie feel being forced to watch it happen to others next Monday? Unable to keep from empathizing. Helpless to do anything about it. Will each Monday be an exercise in fear, rage and personal horror? The reopening of wounds so that they can never begin to heal?
The Program, I realized, doesn't stop stripping us of power and making us helpless at the end of the week. In a horrific flash, I understood what Frankie did just a little bit more. Part of me wanted to vomit. My nostrils ached with the phantom scent of old, dried blood.
| *** | *** | *** |
Mr. Butte didn't return after ten minutes. He didn't return after fifteen. By twenty, I was becoming anxious.
Somebody RR'ed me to sit on the teacher's desk, facing the class. I did as I was told. I figured that somebody higher up would probably rule that sitting behind the desk was "hiding" anyway. I contemplated ordering the lot of them to sit on their desks in return, but decided that would be pointless. The hard top of the desk wasn't comfortable, but at least it wasn't sticky. It even had a nice felt deskmat. I succeeded in getting most of my ass on that, so only my thighs rested on the hard, cold metal.
"Fondle your tits," one of the boys called out, hand raised. I let out a sharp laugh. I couldn't respond in kind; the boy didn't have breasts to fondle. But I could come close.
"If you want me to do that, then I want you to fondle your dick."
Another boy shouted out, "Girl, if you fondle your breasts, I will be fondling my dick!" Laughter. Well that was poorly thought out on my part. Great call, Amanda. I frowned and rolled my eyes. Shaking my head, I raised my hands and cupped my breasts. Hell, it was better than some stranger touching me. A lot better. I'd be gentle.
I rolled my breasts slowly for my gawkers. I stared them in the eyes, one at a time. Some turned away, a few blushing in embarrassment at what they were making me do. That's right, I'm your fucking sex slave and I don't like it. Fuck you for taking advantage. I felt trapped in a porno mag.
The disgust faded as arousal grew. Well, fuck. Here I was, playing with myself. Doing in public what I (occasionally) do in the privacy of my bedroom for just that purpose. Big fuck surprise.
I squirmed a little, playing my fingers gently over my nipples. Stoking the effect. If I was going to do this, damn if I wasn't going to do it right. My breathing quickened.
The mental image of Lizzie on all fours, her breasts swaying beautifully, burst into my mind. I flushed. And, as fucked up as I knew it was, I felt my arousal grow at it.
I tried to think of something else. Remember that old imagining game "Don't Think About Pink Elephants"? Well, it was a lot like that. Don't think about Lizzie being tormented. No problem. My mind quickly conjured the image of Lizzie walking with me to her class to replace it. Then the memory of how her skin felt against mine. Oh bloody fuck.
I was totally aware of the giggles from many of the girls. My state was becoming alarmingly obvious. I was getting wet in front of the damn class. One of my angels cried out for me to stop. The other purred, "Fuck that."
Without warning, the memory of those boys pawing all over me yesterday leapt forward. The humiliation, the terror. The way they stank. The crawling sensation where they touched my skin.
Tac-nuked my arousal. Left me in a cold sweat, a dull sickness twisting in my stomach.
I felt the eyes of the class on me. I had just frozen. Many hadn't noticed, but a few were picking up on the change. Their gazes made me feel like I was being smeared with garbage. I jumped up, and walked back around behind the desk. A few confused voices followed me.
I looked to the clock. There were only twenty minutes left of class. Mr. Butte was nowhere to be seen. The others were beginning to talk, some beginning to protest. "Shut up."
I growled at myself and corrected, "For the rest of the class, or until Mr. Butte shows up, everybody just be quiet. Read your book or something."
Maybe it was something in my voice, but nobody decided to push it.
After ten minutes of quiet, I was feeling less shaken. My pussy was still damp, and I ached sexually. Maybe one of those allotted 'bathroom breaks' was in order.
"Can we just go?" one of the boys asked. I looked at the clock again. Mr. Butte wasn't coming back.
"Okay everyone. If you want to go, go. Anyone who stays can sit quietly for the next ten minutes until the bell rings."
Abrupt mass departure. A few dawdled probably afraid that Mr. Butte would return the moment they left. Soon, there were only three other students in the room with me. Then two. Then one.
And then I was alone. With five minutes before the bell rang. And I was seriously contemplating masturbating until it did. I touched myself experimentally. My angels argued against it, reminding me that the memories might come back, especially the worst one. They also reminded me I was sitting on the teacher's seat, and it would be (at best) bad form to mess it up. Especially since I had nothing to clean it with.
A door closed somewhere out in the hall. I jumped, pulling my hand away, staring at the door. The sound was completely wrong, but for a moment I was afraid someone had just walked in.
That clinched it. I got up, walked back to my own chair, grabbed my books, and headed out the door.
| *** | *** | *** |
I realized as I walked down the mostly empty halls on the way to second period that the five free minutes weren't going to waste. I stopped at the water fountain, unobserved and thus free to bend over for a drink. (The water was cold and made my lips itch.) I still made it to Mrs. Habberly's classroom before the bell rang.
I waited for the door to open. When it didn't, I looked inside. The class was empty. That's right. It was a teacher meeting. It wasn't just us without a teacher last period, and apparently my class wasn't the only one to play hooky. Judging from the lack of people in the halls, those who did probably didn't wait until the last ten minutes either.
I opened the door, and walked in to find several students had already gotten there before me and were waiting for class to start. The looks began. I knew the Reasonable Requests were only a breath away.
That breath was choked off when the door opened behind me. Mrs. Habberly was standing in the doorway, finishing a conversation with another teacher, not yet even looking into the class. Her voice was heavy with disapproval.
"...They say the cops found her covered in the blood of another student."
Well FUCK!!!
No fucking need to guess what the fucking "emergency meeting" was about. It was fucking about me!
Wonderful fucking mouth too, Mrs. Habberly. Tell half the class. Why don't you just hang a neon sign above my fuckin' head and paint my naked body with red and white like a target.
Mrs. Habberly turned to enter the room and found herself face to face with me. The look on her face was one of horror. I wondered if it was because of what she learned in that meeting, or if it was because she realized I had heard her. Or maybe it was because she could tell just how much I wanted to punch her in the face.
I didn't think of myself as a normally violent person. I'd only thrown a punch once in my life. And that was that Pignotti bitch, so it hardly counted.
"A-amanda Warren," she stated with surprise.
"Yeah," I responded flatly.
Her voice hardened. "You're out of my class."
What? The fuck? "Excuse me?"
Mrs. Habberly had managed to pull herself into a teacherly glower. "After your little display yesterday, I was worried about having you in my class. From what I've just learned, clearly I was right. I won't have you endangering my students."
"Endangering...? The hell...?" I could see her expression tighten. "You can't just kick me out of your class!"
Mrs. Habberly pursed her lips. Her eyes were cold as steel coated with winter frost. "Your assignments will be sent to your student account. If you leave now, and don't make a scene, you may return next Monday." She didn't bother to outright say that my return would be probationary. Her tone spoke clearly enough.
I grabbed my books. Fuck! Like I wanted to be in her fucking class anyway! Maybe a week of second period study hall would be better anyway. The library is virtually an RR-free zone, and nobody will be asking me to play globe with my globes.
I strode out, trying to not make a scene, but righteously pissed all the same. This was exactly the sort of shit that I was most worried about. I didn't do anything wrong. It's fucking prejudice, pure and simple.
| *** | *** | *** |
I pushed through the crowd of kids flooding into their classes like a swimmer clawing against the tide. The library was just off The Commons, behind the first floor lockers. Mrs. Habberly's classroom was on the far end of the Shoope Wing. The bell rang before I got there.
I slowed my stride. I was still steaming. My eyes burned. But I realized that despite my hurry to go, I wasn't hurried to get anywhere. I looked around. It struck me how much time recently I had been spending in empty halls. I wasn't sure if it made me feel more naked or less.
I passed a side hall without glancing down it. But stopped when I heard voices. Ugly, bullying voices. A soft, hurt moan.
It was those bullies again! I was sure of it! Those bastards were hurting Lizzie again, and I was going to totally fuck them up! With thoughts of Lizzie and bully blood in my head, I jumped around the corner. "Hey!"
It wasn't the same jerks. But they had the same countenance. It was a whole different batch of jerks. They turned to look at me, backing away from their cornered victim.
It wasn't Lizzie. It was Todd.
"Hey, it's Miss Program Girl. Here to protect Mister Program Boy." I didn't see the humor they apparently did. Todd was shivering. There were tears in his eyes. His dick was hard and hell if it didn't look bruised.
"Hey," one of the bastards jeered at Todd. "Your girlfriend's here to save you!"
Another voice called out to me, "Come to save your boyfriend, huh?" I was startled that the voice was female. My veil of expectation tore away, and I realized half these bastards were bitches. Males don't have a monopoly on being garbage.
I wasn't ready for a catfight. Sure, throwing a few punches would feel really good right now. But a couple of those girls had fingernails that were more like richly painted claws.
Instead, I challenged, "Didn't you hear the bell?" Apparently, I wasn't fully out of pseudo-teacher mode.
"Oh fuck, oh my, she's gonna tell on us if we don't leave her prettyboy alone," one of the girls taunted. The group laughed. But they started to walk away as they laughed. They threw jeers and taunts, as well as a few really disgusting suggestions, our way before they moved out of clear hearing range. I think I heard a door open a moment later and the sound of an adult. It felt good to imagine he was berating them for the noise.
It was a piss poor victory, but I was willing to take it.
I moved towards Todd. He was leaning with his face against the wall, his hands apart on it in an "under arrest" position. As I approached, he turned a tear-streaked face my way. The look in his eyes made me freeze.
"Thanks a fucking lot!" Shame raged a battle with anger in his voice. "I didn't need your help!"
The fuck you didn't, I thought. But I was too shocked to say anything. Todd's hands clenched into fists. He began to sob, no longer holding back the pain, frustration and humiliation he was unwilling to let the mob see.
Todd drew back a fist and punched the wall. Hard enough to punch a hole in it! He drew back a hand covered in sheetrock dust and blood.
I retreated. My pace even quicker than before, I drove myself to the library. Yesterday, I had made a mental threat assessment of my fellow Program Students. Now, I made a mental note to put Todd on the top of the list.
| *** | *** | *** |
When I arrived in the library, Mike looked up from a cart of books and greeted me with friendly surprise. He could tell from my countenance that I was in a foul mood, so he didn't ask what brought me here during Second Period. At the moment, I didn't feel like saying anything to anyone.
What the HELL was Todd's problem? What, did he actually like getting abused? Was he getting off on it? Had I interrupted his orgasm, or climax or whatever the fuck boys have when they spew?
By Todd's emotional reactions to the ordeal, I severely doubted even Todd was that fucked up. So what then? Juniors can't help Sophomores? Who the fuck else then? There wasn't another Sophomore in The Program this week. Partnerless Todd didn't even have an officially designated shoulder to cry on.
For a moment I considered pondering the extra emotional stress Todd must be under being sans-partner. Then reality kicked in. He didn't really have it any fuck different than the rest of us. It's not like I saw Brad more than a few times yesterday. And in a school this size, I'd be lucky to see him at all today. Especially since we weren't sharing Mrs. Habberly's class anymore. (Fucking bitch teacher, Mrs. Habberly.) No. Principal Tillerman might have some official paper somewhere that lists Brad as my Program-appointed confidant, but the truth was, none of us really had partners.
Return to: What the fuck was Todd's problem!
I stewed on that for a while, letting my anger and horror at Mrs. Habberly and the terrific content of the teachers' meeting disguise themselves as frustration towards Todd. I went into one of the "Quiet Rooms" of the library, and ranted for most of the period. It was, in the least, cathartic. Partway through, I stumbled on this gem:
Fuck, this isn't a macho thing, is it? Like I emasculated him or something!?
The dichotomy in emotions between helping Lizzie and helping Todd were hurting my head. I asked Mike for aspirin.
"If you want to talk," he offered gently, spilling a couple oval, green pills into my palm. I thanked him, but didn't. Not then, at least. Perfect. Mike the Librarian is more of a partner to me than my "partner".
Somewhere towards the end of the period, it occurred to me that I hadn't exactly made any effort to be Brad's partner either. Well, it was only Tuesday morning. I had time to change that.
| *** | *** | *** |
I exited the Library into the mass of students and headed for the lockers. By the time I reached the Commons, I was sore from all the people "accidentally" bumping into me. One kid got me in the arm with the corner of his book while trying to cop a feel. A dull pain still twinged through the muscle and I could tell it was going to bruise.
I was beginning to severely dislike large numbers of people.
There was a crowd gathering in The Commons. Unusual between Second and Third Period. Normally, I wouldn't have cared, but being in The Program was making me more apprehensive of student hordes. At the center of every pack of wolves is a Program Victim being devoured.
So I climbed up one of the stairwells towards the second floor lockers. Not all the way, just enough to see over the heads.
Everyone was gawking at a girl. A clothed girl. A pretty hot girl, admittedly, and wearing an outfit that was so tight it should have been illegal, but a clothed girl nonetheless.
A totally irrational spark of jealousy flared within me. Hello! Actually naked girl over here! I went back down the stairs, pushing my way through the crowd, far more oblivious to the fact that I was pushing against people with my naked skin than they were. I wanted to see what earned this level of commotion.
I couldn't see it. Yes, she was good looking. And she was flaunting herself, posing sexily for the throng. And yes, the outfit was wow. I mean, cut-off blue jeans and a yellow top were not normally something this provoking, but she made it wow. Mostly "how the fuck does she breathe?" wow. I mean, fuck, was it painted on?
I got a closer look. Now I could hear the girl over the crowd. She was laughing happily. "My father is an artist..."
Holy FUCK! It was painted on.
It took me a moment to recognize her. After all, I hadn't paid any attention to the Seniors in The Program this week.
I let out a breathy laugh. I turned to push my way back through the crowd, my thoughts splattered like a watermelon at one of those shows by that old guy who smashes watermelons.
I exited the crowd and my eyes fell on the principal. He was staring at the crowd with flabbergasted appearance. I looked back over my shoulder. The Senior had climbed up on something (I hesitated to guess what) and was mimicking a pole dance against one of the pillars of the balcony. A passing thought told me that she must have shaved down there in order to get the jeans to look like that. I shook the thought off. Part of me wanted to stop and stare. A much bigger part of me shuddered and cringed.
I neared the principal and he glanced at me. "Paint," he commented bemusedly. He shook his head with a chuckle and shrug. "I have no idea whether this is supposed to be acceptable by The Program or not."
As I passed, I commented back, "She's flaunting her body and liking it. I say go with it."
| *** | *** | *** |
I encountered Brad halfway to Third Period. He had been waiting for me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He had a hard look in his eyes. Despite all his glorious nudity, my gaze was immediately drawn to his eyes. Must have been because one of them was blackened.
Apparently, wrestling team or not, even Brad wasn't getting through The Program unscathed. I moved towards him, reaching a hand upwards. "Brad, are you okay?" Stupid question. Of course not. "What happened?" Better question. Time to make good on that partner role.
And while I'm at it, I reminded myself, I have to thank him for the rescue yesterday.
Brad took a step back. My hand stopped in mid-air.
"I'm going to Principal Tillerman. I'm going to make him give me another partner."
Suddenly I felt cold. "W-what?" What did I do? Obviously, I wasn't there for something. But could I have been? Was he blaming me for it?
"I know about Baneridge. Mrs. Habberly told us."
Oh.
Oh fuck.
He seemed suddenly uncomfortable. If the world wasn't falling out from under me, I would have thought something about how he deserved to be for this shit. But I was too busy trying to maintain my own equilibrium.
"Look," he said, his voice part conciliatory and part blameful, "This Program thing is turning out to be a lot less easy than I thought. I've got my own problems. I can't deal with yours too."
Stunned. And getting upset. "Can't deal with my what, Brad?"
He spread his arms in an exaggerated expression. "What shit do you think?" Throwing up his arms defensively, he announced, "God, it's hard enough to be in The Program. I need a partner who is worth something, not a chick with your kind of baggage."
He walked off, hands in the air.
Well fuck Brad too.
I stared after him for quite some time. The bell rang, and I barely noticed it. The rug had been pulled out from under me. I couldn't even manage a proper level of upset at Brad.
At least somebody had actually said it.
I'd been in The Program since yesterday morning, and nobody, not the principal, not even my Dad, had managed to use the word. Like everyone was doing this awkward dance around it.
"Everyone goes into The Program with baggage, Brad." Mine just had a name.
Baneridge High School.
| *** | *** | *** |
I was late for Third Period. My tardiness was getting to be a habit. Not one that I liked.
"Is this going to be a problem with you, Miss Warren?" Mr. Sharklin. Trigonometry. Wanted everybody to call him Rick. There was an unusual coolness in the voice of the man who wanted to be everyone's bestest buddy this morning. I guess I do that to people. With a little help from a teachers' meeting, of course.
"No, sir." You're not my buddy, 'Rick'. You're the guy who is currently giving me a C+ in his class because you put shit like "The SIN of X over 6 equals N (True/False)" on your tests, and then actually deduct points when I don't get the joke.
Sin x. Six. Cross out the S's, the I's and the X's. You get N. Ha ha ha. Math humor. Yeah, that one still annoys me.
As I took my seat, I had a transient image of Mr. Sharklin writing "Put Plug A into Slot B". I'm sure he didn't, but damn if I didn't think he would have if they had The Program back when he was our age.
I buried myself in trig for a period. It was nice to get lost in the perfect world of numbers, where everything fits and everything makes sense. One plus one always equals two. Doesn't matter what week it is. You can't strip two naked and make it something less. It just is.
| *** | *** | *** |
The banshee wail of the bell cried out an end to Third Period. I blew out a breath and closed my book, stowing my mechanical pencil and calculator in the Zip-lock pouch I'd clipped to it. Not the most elegant solution to a lack of pockets, but it got the job done. I sat and waited for the other students to file out.
Mr. Sharklin noted that. "You're going to make yourself late to your next class if you don't hurry." I gave a soft snort. Any other day, any other student, he would be asking if I wanted help or something.
"Yeah, well, I don't really feel like getting jostled around between everybody else." I rolled my eyes. "I've been getting bumped into more than usual when leaving class recently. I don't know why."
Mr. Sharklin ummm'ed. He was right though. I'd probably be late to Mr. Stephan's class as well. Especially since I had to return to my locker between each class. No covering up means no backpacks. You can't even carry many books with you, not enough that you would have to carry them across your torso in both arms. That would be covering up, and that's not allowed. Hello, you Program fuckers! It's a school!
Not only are we going to put you though a week of psychological torture, but we're also going to make it incredibly inconvenient too.
I rubbed my arm. It was still sore. I looked. Yep, it was bruising. A cursory scan of my body revealed a handful of other dull, discolored patches. I hadn't even realized how many little aches I'd been ignoring. It was manageable now, but I wondered how I would be feeling by Friday.
And this was supposed to be erotic?
I tried to remember what other Program Students looked like on Friday. No images came to mind. I cursed myself for not paying attention. I supposed there was a reason The Program didn't do a Friday Assembly.
Enough time had passed, so I stood up. Most of the other students were already out of the classroom. Some early bird was actually coming into class for Fourth already. I took my book and walked down the row of mostly empty desks towards the door.
As I passed by one desk that wasn't empty, a hand stretched out to block me. Must be Reasonable Request time. I turned to look at the girl, "Yes?" I'd yet to be abused by a girl; I was half curious what she'd make me do.
"Hi, my name's Misty," she said matter-of-factly. I nodded. Another first. Most RR'ers didn't bother with introductions. After all, you don't bother to take a prostitute to dinner and a movie. Besides, if they had any sense of shame at all, they probably preferred to remain anonymous.
"Hello, Misty," I said perfunctorily.
"We're in Fourth Period together. I want you to carry my books for me." She smiled the way you might smile at a dog you are teaching a new trick. "Reasonable Request."
Right. I sighed heavily. My shoulders slumped. I held out my hands for her books. As far as RR's go, it was unusually decent.
I should have expected this. If Wesley can figure out how to use Reasonable Requests to keep from being blown off, if they could empower me like they did with Lizzie, then it was only a matter of time before someone used them to get slave labor out of us.
"No, pick them up," Misty insisted.
I rolled my eyes and nodded. Then squatted down to pick up her books, which she had graciously leaned against the leg of her chair. I couldn't keep myself from making a snide "Yes, Mistress."
Misty made a tsk-ing sound. "That's going to cost you tomorrow."
Great. Not entirely unexpected, but now I had something else to look forward to tomorrow. How nice that The Program didn't make me everybody's sex slave... for Misty, it just made me her, well, slave.
| *** | *** | *** |
We were crossing The Commons when by sheer chance I spotted Lizzie. She was up on the balcony next to the second floor lockers. I could only see the top third of her thanks to the railing. But I could tell she was distressed. Her arms were crossed over her breasts protectively.
As I watched, one of the teachers walked up to her. By his gestures, I could guess he was telling her to drop her arms. No covering yourself allowed.
Lizzie was shaking her head. You go, girl! Tell him to fuck off! Of course, I knew she couldn't. Then the thought occurred to me: shit, I could! Lizzie wants to cover her breasts? I could damn well go up there and give her an RR to do just that. And the teacher couldn't do fuck shit about it.
I had taken about two steps in the direction of the nearest stairwell when I felt Misty's hand land on my shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"
I turned towards her. She was shaking her head. "I'm not going to allow you to make me late."
"But..." I looked back towards where Lizzie was, but line of sight was blocked by a wave of students. Misty started walking, making impatient noises. After several agonizing seconds, a gap opened in the flood, allowing me to look up at the lockers where Lizzie and the teacher had just been standing. They were gone.
A sadness settled across my body like a fine dew. I felt an undefined loss. And that vague sense that I was drowning returned. I turned and followed Misty, humiliatingly aware that I must look like a disciplined puppy.
| *** | *** | *** |
Social Studies.
By all rights, it is the class that Program Students had the most to fear from. Except maybe P.E. The sheer gruesome number of ways the teacher could make a Program Student the centerpiece of Social Studies class was terrifying. I knew about some of them, things I heard back when The Program made everyone at Baneridge go through their touchy-feely healing process crap. Bad things.
So it was with a small kernel of dread that I went to Mr. Stephans' class. I wasn't too scared; I got through Fourth Period yesterday without any problems at all. Mr. Stephans hadn't seen any need to humiliate me then. Of course, there was a dark world of difference between then and now.
My touch of fear was justified when Mr. Stephans called me to his desk the moment I arrived. I nodded, and began walking directly across the room to him, but Misty coughed and pointed at the bare top of her desk.
Oh yeah. I detoured just enough to unceremoniously dump her books on her desk. Part of me warmed inside when one of them slid onto the floor. Misty let out an outraged squeak. Sorry Mist, can't pick it up for you, teacher's calling.
Mr. Stephans' chair was totally unlike Mr. Butte's. It was large and wide, very sturdy, of darkly stained wood that was hand crafted. Even the large wheels were wood. It was something Mr. Stephans had brought to school for himself. A gift made by his brother. And it creaked as Mr. Stephans sat back in it like some jolly black Santa.
"So she's got you carrying her books, does she?" he asked amiably as I reached his desk. He had a deep baritone voice, and I swear I was expecting to hear him go "Ho Ho Ho" any moment. I nodded even though it was so obvious that I didn't need to. "You're not the first," he informed me.
"Mr. Stephans?" I asked, wanting to push the conversation past the not-so-pleasant pleasantries. Unlike Mr. Sharklin, who was never going to rate more familiarity than a 'sir' (and I'd be in hell before I called him 'Rick' when talking to him), Mr. Stephans made me feel comfortable enough that I could have used his first name but didn't out of respect. I really, really hoped I wasn't about to lose any of that. I had a sinking dread that I was.
Mr. Stephans smiled, but it was a business-like smile. "Amanda," He always called us by our first names, and (unlike some teachers I could name) it never came across as fake or forced. Or condescending.
"I want you to participate in class today."
My face fell. Oh this was so not good. I stared at the ground. Damn, damn, damn!
He chuckled. "Don't worry. I'm not going to make you stand in front of class or do anything humiliating." I looked back up at his reassuring face. "I just want you to be responsive." He looked at my expression and blushed, admitting "That was poorly phrased."
I nodded, mouthing a "yep". But I was smiling. My smile faded as a thought snared in my mind. "Will this... will class be about..."
Mr. Stephans turned charmingly solemn. "About what we learned in the teachers' meeting today? So you know about that?" I nodded, swallowing hard. Dark clouds had rolled in ominously about me. I was scared. On the verge of trembling. I couldn't handle this. Then Mr. Stephans shook his head. The clouds parted and the sun warmed me again as he said sympathetically, "I was going to warn you."
Mr. Stephans leaned forward, much to the loud protest of his chair. "Amanda, you've never said anything about those things before. I can only accept that you have good reason. When you are ready, you will talk about it. In your own time, and to the person you choose. There is no cause for me, or for anybody else, to drag that part of you out for public dissection."
Relief flooded through me. I wanted to hug Mr. Stephans. Right then and there, naked and all. I didn't. That would have been totally inappropriate. But I couldn't help walking back to my seat with a little bounce in my step. I didn't care that most of the male students were reveling in the secondary, higher bounce that caused. And I savored the rather displeased look of little Miss Misty.
I took my seat, still feeling relief, but the relief was tinged with a less pleasant note. Mr. Stephans' words, I realized, were uncomfortably close to what that lady Pignotti said the last time I saw her.
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