Heather Cleans Up

Mr. John Doe leads a hurriedly dressed Heather by the hand, guiding her out of the building towards the front parking lot occupied by a platoon‘s worth of sedans and SUVs . Mercedes and BMW are well represented in all their sparkling glory. The audible beep-beep of a horn startles the blonde, who casts her eyes up at her instructor.

“Where’ we goin’?” Her voice quivers as he opens the passenger door to his green VW station wagon.

“My place.” His confident demeanor reassures her.

“I thought it’s just a one-time thang.”

“I said I’d help you improve your grades. I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“What are ya gettin’ at?”

“There are three other sessions I require of you.” His voice is direct. “That’s twenty percent of your grade.”

“So I have to fuck you three more times ‘fore it’s all said and done.”

“That’s about the size of it.” The teacher motions for her to climb in.” But judging from your performance today, you don’t seem to mind.”

Mr. Doe glances at the crotch of Heather’s jeans en route to his house, imagining her pleasant agony at having to endure the entire drive in her stained underwear. She’s probably getting a rise from it all, he wonders.

They barely speak as the vehicle barrels through a series of winding road, the only sound the calm, steady voice of the newsreader on the local public radio station.
At last he pulls into the driveway of his modest one story, one of many of white-stucco houses in the unremarkable subdivision.

“This where ya live?” Heather is dumbstruck. “I imagined yer livin’ in one of them fancy apartments uptown.”

“Nah.” Mr. Doe chuckles. “Too poor for that.”

She follows him as he walks toward the front door, lugging her heavy book bag. Images of secret dungeons and **** rooms flood her mind. She’s seen enough made for TV movies to know how sick guys like him could be. But to her surprise the only kinky “toys” she spies are artful nudes and several issues of Playboy and Penthouse lying in plain view on his coffee table.

By Court TV standards, this guy is tame.

She plops on the couch, glancing at the spread of lad mags. Blondes, brunettes, Asians, Hispanics…this guy definitely has a type, and it’s called hourglass. Maybe she can show him what a real girl is capable of she smirks. Her instructor stumbles out of the master bedroom, carrying what appear to be track pants and a plain white tee. A pair of boxer shorts—his, most likely.

“Sorry.” He apologizes. “They’re my wife’s—er, ex-wife’s. It’s all I have.”

“You’re divorced?”

“Happened a three years to the day. She got half my stuff, naturally.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Heather’s startled to hear the authenticity of her own words.

“S’kay. Just promise me you don’t get hitched until you’re forty, alright?”

The student giggles.

“Ah prahmoise.” She raises her right hand and mock-swears in her best imitation of an exaggerated Southern accent.

“Why don’t you get washed up while I fix sandwiches for the both of us, okay?”

“Anything you say, Mr. Doe.”

While Heather makes herself more presentable, her teacher busies himself as he pops in two slices of whole wheat in the toaster, bacon and condiments at the ready. He whistles as he smears the mustard and mayonnaise on the BLTs. His stomach gurgles. It ain’t much, but at least it’ll tide them over for the time being.

He flops on the couch and turns on the TV. He flips through the various channels, stopping every so often to check the six o’clock news or a sports program. Time flies by. He forgets about his charge in the bathroom. Before he knows it, thirty minutes have passed and still his mind is somewhere else.

“Heather.” He summons up the warmest voice he can muster. “You done? Your food’s almost cold.”

Silence.

“Heather?”

Suddenly he grows afraid. Has she fallen? Is she hurt? He walks toward the bathroom and jiggles the knob. Locked, damn.

“Heather, are you alright? Answer me.”

Still, nothing.

“This isn’t funny, Heather.”

He quickly retrieves a skeleton key and forces himself in, surprised at the sight of the blonde Texan drying herself off. He steals a glance at her peach fuzz of an ass and breasts. Beautiful doesn’t do her justice. No wonder she’s so self-conscious. His heart breaks for her.

She’s taken aback as he coughs, spinning around to notice him staring at her.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

For a moment, he swears he sees something behind her sparkling blue eyes? Innocence? Infatuation? Love? A combination of the two Mr. Doe can’t quite place it. He quickly shrugs it off.

“Nah, just wanted you to know you’re food’s almost cold.”

“I’ll be out.” Heather smiles. “It’ll only be a minute. Are you okay? I heard someone on the other side of the door. Was that you?”

And I’m the one worrying about you, he muses.

The wait isn’t long. She quickly steps out of the bathroom, her breasts peeking through her tee. He forces himself not to stare, feeling it impolitic on such a casual afternoon. They sit side by side at the wrought iron table outside, enjoying the cool breeze as they sip Coke from the can.

“It’s getting dark.” Mr. Doe glances at the purple sun descending into the sky. Where do you live?”

After a few awkward moments, she finally gets the courage to tell them. She bags her dirty clothes in an old grocery bag and follows him back towards the car, disappointed that the day is over yet glad to have spent her time with such an awesome—and sexy—teacher.

The ride to her home is uneventful, neither saying much as they listen to the recitation of the evening’s news. The outline of a trailer park looms over a hill as the car nears its destination, the gloominess of it striking Mr. Doe as both stereotypical and depressing. He lets her off a half-mile from the entrance, not wanting the residents to get a glimpse of the foreign car—and him.

“Are you going to be okay?” He asks her as she shuts the door. “I know these places can be pretty rough.”

“Aww. It’s okay. You just have to ‘member not to let your guard drop ‘down.”
As she walks away, he speeds up, the image of her perfect buttocks flashing in his mind.

The screen door slams as Heather walks into the living room. She glances at her father passed out on the couch, beer cans scattered everywhere. She bristles at the familiar stench of ****. He startles awake, glancing at his daughter as she shakes him.

“Where’d you been?” His voice is gruff.

“Had to stay over after school.” She half-lies.

“Why ‘you dressed like that?” He points toward her pants. “You’re not a lesbo are you?”

“Dad, just ‘cuz women play sports don’t make ‘em Lesbos.”

“Well Billie Jean King plays sports and she’s a lesbo.”

“Billie Jean King is 66.”

“Doesn’t matter, all ‘them women athletes I see on TV are in my opinion.”

Heather rolls her eyes and walks into her room, incredulous at her father’s comments. She unzips her book bag and retrieves her American history book as she slips on her headphones, drowning out the sound of her father’s blaring TV with the airy notes of…classical music.