Eleanor Wilkes was a life-long educator. Straight out of college she’d been hired to teach seventh-grade history, and she had never looked back. She had taught at four different schools across the state, and finally settled in here, at Littlefield High. She’d worked her way up from teacher to department head to, now, assistant principal. She missed the daily hands-on classroom work, sure, but she found she could do a much larger scale of good on the administrative end. She very quietly had her eye on the principal’s position.
She had to admit, getting out of the classroom might have been best. It was getting harder and harder to relate directly to the students. She was getting older, and they were getting more foreign. Between the internet and the smartphones, she barely understood what they did all day anymore. It made it very challenging to really connect with them and build a rapport.
Eleanor had discussed this with the principal, and he was sympathetic. “All of us go through that,” he reassured her. A few weeks later he signed her up for some conference in the city – Fundamentals for Refinement of the Education of Adolescents. FREA, they called it. The name felt awkward to Eleanor, like somebody worked a bit too hard to make it fit that acronym, but the description was pretty appealing. Apparently it was all about techniques for learning how to communicate with the current generation of high school students. Exactly the sort of thing she needed.
The first day of the seminar was held in some semi-depressing anonymous hotel conference room. Beige walls, grey carpet, fluorescent lights. The other attendees – all women, all around Eleanor’s age – shuffled in. Everyone seemed reluctant to break the stifling hush that hung in the room.
The man who was apparently running the seminar was in his late twenties. He wore a nice suit – nicer than you usually saw on anyone in the education game, Eleanor thought – and had an easy confidence about him. He didn’t say much as he started up a video display on the screen behind him.
It wasn’t anything, just a test pattern. A screensaver, probably. Sliding blocks of primary colors, shifting around, bouncing off one another.
“Forgive me,” he said, “the A/V stuff takes forever to get going. The visual component isn’t for a while yet, but I’m just going to leave this running while we chat, alright?” The women in the room murmured their assent.
And so they chatted. They played hackneyed get-to-know-you games. They talked about their schools. They talked about challenges they’ve faced as educators. They talked about conflict resolution techniques.
About an hour in, Eleanor was exhausted. She found herself staring into space, watching the colored blocks slide around inexorably. The discussion in the room sort of faded out of focus for her. God, she thought, I’m acting just like a poor student, not paying attention in class.
Suddenly it dawned on her – she didn’t just lose track of the discussion. It had stopped. Nobody was talking. They were all just sitting there, staring straight ahead, watching those blocks of color, drifting off, and…
“So let’s talk about the girls in your classes,” the guy was saying. “Imagine you’re one of them. 18 years old, stuck at school all day – you don’t want to be thinking about schoolwork, do you?”
The women in the audience muttered weakly. It was a generally negative sound.
“Of course not. What would you rather be thinking about?”
They were quiet for a moment. Eventually, a single voice spoke up.
The man nodded. “Yup. Good example. What else?”
After that first one, it was easier. “Parties,” one person said. “Friends,” chimed in another. Eleanor added “Shopping” to the mix.
Hair, makeup, clothes. Having fun. Sunbathing. Suggestions were flowing free and easily now.
“Boys,” somebody said, and the guy held up a hand. Everyone fell silent.
“Very good,” he said. “What about boys? Be specific. What sort of things are you spending time thinking of?”
There was no hesitation this time. The answers came fast and furious now, words called out free of embarassment or context. Kissing. Dating. Making out. Touching. Feeling. Hands. Muscles. Tongues. Grabbing. Caressing. Stroking. Warm. Hard. Wet. Cocks. Stiff. Sucking. Jerking. Fucking. Coming. Needing.
Eleanor felt light-headed. This sort of desire – she hadn’t felt this way in years. Decades, really. She felt amazing. The man at the front was smiling – jesus, he was good-looking – and talking, but she couldn’t understand him anymore. Couldn’t process his words. She felt like she was going to black out, she couldn’t calm down, couldn’t think, couldn’t…
Ellie didn’t quite get what the second day of the orientation meeting thingy was all about. Part of it was, like, exercises and stuff. Lots of running on treadmills, and some weird stuff, like balancing on one foot or whatever. The doctor guys said it was cuz their bodies were, like, still adjusting to the… recession? Regression? Some weird word like that. Ellie didn’t understand it, so it probably wasn’t important.
She was so excited to be going to college, though! She couldn’t believe she got in. She barely even remembered applying. In fact, she barely even remembered high school, whenever she thought about it, she had the same few thoughts, real bright and clear:
I was the school slut.
I was a dumb schoolgirl bimbo.
I fucked my teachers for good grades.
I love getting fucked.
Which, y’know, all of that seemed right, but… wasn’t it weird she couldn’t remember anything else? Oh well, whatever.
She was kinda nervous about college – she wasn’t a good student! – but the guys at her special orientation made her feel better. Her and all the other girls had a special, secret major – Advertising and Marketing. They were supposed to find boring, smart girls and tell the orientation guys about them. And they were supposed to seduce the rich boys and fuck them, and then give them FREA business cards. They didn’t say Fundamentals of Re-whatever, though. They said ‘Female Re-Education Academy’, whatever that was. Didn’t matter – Ellie was just so excited for her first day!
Oh I miss the days of Summer