Affairs At Huddlestone: Pt. 01

"The dean will see you now." The woman set the heavy phone receiver on it base and rose from her desk in a languid walk across the room to where Dakota sat on a fine red leather couch, trying very hard to look cool and composed. The woman—a dusky blonde of medium height and build, with exquisite taste in clothes—waited patiently while Dakota fumbled with her small portfolio, putting her resumé and curriculum vitae in order before standing up herself.

"This way, please," said the blonde in a low, throaty voice, showing her to a large paneled door she swung open easily and without a sound despite its obvious weight. The woman leaned into the room beyond the door and, letting each word roll off her tongue with a condescending drip, said, "Miss Dakota Grange."

The dusky-skinned woman walked into the room and stood beside another large chair—also red leather—placed before an enormous carved wood desk, behind which sat the Dean of Huddlestone Academy. She didn't stand or look up, engrossed in reading something. "Please sit down, Miss Grange. I'll be with you shortly."

Dakota sank into the chair, which nearly swallowed her despite her height and was fashioned so it was nearly impossible to sit upright. She slouched in front of the woman she believed might be her new employer—an alien concept to her—and maintained what she thought was a serious, attentive expression. She congratulated herself on her choice of clothes: pleated slacks with cuffs, open-neck oxford shirt, vest, faintly checked sports coat to complement the slacks, well-shined tassel loafers and socks—not stockings. It made sitting in the chair much easier. If she'd worn a dress, as she fretted about for two days prior to the interview, it would have hiked up above her knees, and if she'd crossed her legs it would gotten very interesting indeed. She was particularly glad of her choice of shoes; she'd nearly decided on appropriating a pair of low-heeled slip-ons, but they would surely have caught and made her stumble on the uneven wood floor, the transition to the rug at the door, or the rug beneath the chair. Part of her wondered if the room was set up to intimidate and confound people into doing or saying things they didn't mean.

The dean closed the folder she'd been reading, looked up, and smiled brightly. She walked with an elegant stride to the front of the desk and held out her hand. Dakota rose smoothly, really good choice in clothes, kid, and took the offered hand firmly. The woman was a head shorter but with a trim figure, accented by the well-fitted tweed suit. Her brown hair was short and expertly trimmed, gold highlights sparkling as she moved. It was her eyes that gave Dakota pause. Her face was unlined, youthful, no hint of age anywhere, but the hazel eyes were ancient and penetrating, so much so Dakota flinched inwardly even as she shook the dean's hand. She got nothing from the touch. Very odd.

"I'm Georgia Walter, Dean of Huddlestone Academy. Very pleased to meet you. Let's sit and talk. No need to be so formal, I think." She led Dakota to a red leather couch, a near twin of the one in the antechamber, where they sat facing each other. It was more comfortable than the chair.

"It seems your paperwork is in order," said the dean, eyes friendly. "An interesting CV, if I may say so. I'd have expected a bit more flash, something to stand out and catch my eye. A solid background, though, and varied, too. It's not usual to have experience at so many levels of physical education instruction for one as young as yourself."

Dakota looked directly into the woman's disturbing eyes, nodding as if it were all perfectly normal. Within, everything churned. She'd tried very hard to keep her false credentials believable but without any boasting to cause a deeper investigation. While she'd done a good job manufacturing a credible past, she was sure it wouldn't stand up to serious scrutiny, with only six weeks to put it all together and rehearse.

As calmly as she could, she said, "I believe it's necessary to know how women of different ages approach physical education. Having first hand experience with young women, girls, helped me to better understand the apparent reluctance of older women."

"Really?" The dean leaned forward; Dakota did the same. "How did it help?"

"I discovered many girls were intimidated by the rigor of physical education. The competition, especially with boys, and the all too common authoritarian attitude of the teacher, simply made them lose interest." She had no idea if it was true but she'd read something like it in a journal devoted to PE and it seemed to be esoteric enough to make her appear both capable and scholarly. "I used the knowledge to give both younger and older women a positive experience in physical education so they actually looked forward to exercise instead of dreading it."

"How very innovative, Miss Grange. It's something sorely lacking here at Huddlestone." The dean's tone became conversational. "We pride ourselves on providing the absolute best education a woman can get, but we've paid less than lip service to the needs of a healthy body and a healthy outlook on life. An approach such as yours might do wonders here."

The two women talked for almost thirty minutes, Dakota giving examples of how she'd handled various situation at her fictitious jobs, her answers properly prepared to be believable but not so spectacular to draw special attention. It occurred to her the interview was going far better than she expected, something that set off alarms in the paranoid parts of her psyche, which she decided to ignore for the time being.

Dean Walter stood up and looked at her watch. "My, I completely lost track of time. I have another appointment, but I'd like one of our staff show you around the campus, if you don't mind waiting on me. We can continue the conversation later. It's between terms so it's mostly empty and you can get a good look at our school. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, of course. I'd love to see the rest of Huddlestone. Thank you."

This is a good sign, thought Dakota. If there wasn't any interest, the appointment would have been an excellent excuse to end the interview and giver her a reason to get out of St. Louis, probably down the Mississippi, looking for other, less difficult marks. But she found herself intrigued by this job, something she'd had just twice before and only for long enough to realize she didn't like actual work and to con her boss out of enough money to get her to the next town.

The dean picked up her phone and spoke briefly to her secretary. "Professor Freyasdotter will be along shortly," she said after finishing the call. "You can wait for her in the gallery along the quadrangle. It's shaded and has very nice chairs. I should be but an hour. Have Ingrid bring you back here when you're done." She showed Dakota though a set of French doors onto a wide covered porch running the length of the building, dotted haphazardly with wicker furniture.

Not long after she'd plopped herself down, a woman strode across the manicured lawn between the buildings—the quadrangle—and stopped in front of her. She stood to meet the woman, who was strikingly handsome: short, pale blonde hair; incredibly deep blue eyes; aquiline features and high cheekbones. She was an inch taller than Dakota but not stout or heavy. Her tailored suit clung to a svelte body, well-muscled, if her long legs were any indication, breasts high, with a hint of nipple protruding thorough the silk blouse. She held out her hand in a manly fashion, odd for a woman who looked athletically feminine. Dakota took the hand, felt the strong grip and was suddenly awash in emotion. Hunger, but not for food; fear, but of appearing foolish or silly; a strong undercurrent of repressed urges; incredible strength. The ferocity of the sensation nearly knocked her over and only her hand held tightly in this strange woman's grip kept her upright. The blonde seemed totally unaware of the effect she was having on her guest.

"Ingrid Freyasdotter. Professor of Mathematics. Pleased." She dipped her head in a sharp motion and Dakota half expected her to click her heels much like a Hessian officer.

"Dakota Grange. I'm applying for the Physical Education position. Very nice to meet you. May I call you Ingrid?"

The blonde blinked rapidly, still holding Dakota's hand in her vise-tight grasp. "Oh, of course. Yes. I shall call you Dakota. Is that a Sioux name by chance? This way," she said letting go of Dakota's hand, who struggled to keep up as the woman marched down the gallery.

She followed Ingrid as the woman pointed out buildings and landmarks in a staccato rhythm, only occasionally turning to see if she was too far ahead. If she was, she waited for Dakota to catch up then swept away at her previous pace. It was becoming a workout to stay within the sound of her voice. The larger problem for Dakota was she was unable to shake the feelings she got from Ingrid when they shook hands. Usually, the sensation lingered for a few minutes and then faded, unless she was in close contact with the other person, but this time she still felt the hunger, the need, the excitement, even at a distance. She was seriously aroused, her cock straining at her slacks, her pulse high, her face flushed. Ingrid seemed not to notice, which was a good thing. Finally, Ingrid waited in a tunnel through a tall berm. Dakota hurried to meet her as she paced back and forth.

"This is the way to the arboretum. It has a field and a jogging path. But it's not used much because ..." Ingrid stopped and peered intently at Dakota, blinking rapidly trying to focus. She opened her mouth to speak but Dakota stopped it with her own mouth, her desire erupting beyond her control. As she wound her tongue inside the blonde's mouth she felt the other woman's tongue doing the same, pale hands around her ass, pulling her in close. A very small part of Dakota warned this wasn't the way to get a job, but it was quickly rolled to a far, dusty corner of her mind by the rapidly rising heat and lust between the two women.

As they kissed—Dakota felt their teeth clash a couple of times—she pulled Ingrid's suit jacket down past her shoulders and hiked the skirt up to her waist, one of the seams tearing at the last tug. The blonde's hands moved from her ass to the fly of Dakota's slacks, getting it all open with surprising ease and her cock jerked roughly from the lacy boxers Kat had given her—didn't seem at all bothered by the extra genitalia. Dakota marveled remotely at the skill, it was a French fly, with a couple of buttons, as well as the belt and zipper, and it was all open, slacks drooping around her thighs. She freed a red-brown hand from the tangle between the two of them and jerked the crotch of Ingrid's panties aside, feeling them tear as well. She guided her dark cock instinctively to the blonde's dripping pussy and thrust deep inside. Ingrid responded by lifting a leg and curling it around Dakota's waist. Locked in a tight embrace, her hands in the blonde's short and now sweaty locks, Ingrid wrapping her dark braid around strong fingers, they rocked together, lips still locked, breathing into each other's mouth. Dakota was vaguely aware of Ingrid's erect cock—cock? she has a cock?—slipping underneath her loose shirttail to twitch against her stomach muscles, cum flowing into her navel. But it was secondary to the ferocious urge to fuck Ingrid long and hard, mostly hard, and the distinct realization as their bodies ground against each other, it was exactly what the blonde wanted to do to her.

An impending orgasm radiated from the deepest part of Dakota's brain and wound down around her entangled limbs to her cock, balls, and pussy. There was the briefest, yet infinitely long, sensation of hanging over a dark abyss. She came, cum erupting from her into Ingrid's pussy, the reflection of the orgasm bouncing back from her crotch to ring like a bell in her head. The blonde sobbed, her pussy spasming around Dakota's cock as her own orgasm shook her, the muscles of her body twitching uncontrollably, cum from her cock spurting along Dakota's abs, soaking her shirt, cum from Dakota's cock leaking out of the blonde's pussy and down her thighs. There seemed to be a lot more of it than usual. They melted against each other, only their entwined arms and legs keeping them generally upright.

Cold reality set in like water from a fire hose as Dakota sensed someone else nearby. Dean Walter stood at the tunnel entrance, arms folded, watching them, her unlined face expressionless, eyes hidden in shadow. Ingrid gasped and flung Dakota away from her to slam hard into the opposite wall. She pulled ineffectually at her rumpled and disarrayed suit, dragging the skirt down to some semblance of order before running away past the dean toward the main campus. There was the briefest instant where Dakota thought the blonde ran really well in heels, and it made her ass sway ... she pushed the thought away. The dean looked at her with a penetrating stare.

"Perhaps you should come with me, Miss Grange." She turned and walked toward the main campus.

Dakota pulled her slacks up, tucked her limp cock away and tried, unsuccessfully, to put herself back together. Two buttons were popped off her vest, one of the sleeves of her jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and there was a huge wet spot on her slacks, even after she got the fly closed and her belt buckled. She bent to gather the scattered contents of her portfolio, noticing with regret and sorrow that many of the papers were stained with footprints and splotches of cum. As best she could, she gathered her composure and followed the dean out of the tunnel, for all the world looking like a child caught in the act of masturbating. It was a long walk back.

"Sit here, please, not on the couch. I've just had it cleaned." Dean Walter waited until Dakota sat on a wooden chair—which hadn't been in the office earlier—and seated herself behind her desk. She opened the folder she'd been looking at when the interview began and leafed through several pages in silence while Dakota tried very hard not to squirm. It didn't help that as she sat, she felt a fair amount of cum squelching around in her boxers.

"I have to say, on the whole, this is best set of forgeries I have ever seen." The dean looked up. If she'd worn glasses she'd have peered over them. "You have done incredible work here. I especially like the letter of recommendation from a former teacher, written six months before her unfortunate death. And the school where you worked for the last four years, forced to close due to arson that, tragically, destroyed all the employee records. Here at Huddlestone, we use computer tape to store our records and keep backup copies in a safe, fire-proof location. But, still, an excellent job. Most convincing, except, of course, it's all lies."

Dakota stood, keenly aware she'd left a smear of cum on the chair and turned to leave.

"Where are you going, Miss Grange?"

Still with her back to Dean Walter, she said in a soft voice. "I've taken enough of your time, and I've severely embarrassed myself. Not with the papers, but the, uh, other thing. Thank you for seeing me. I'll let myself out." Time to go, cut my losses, get the hell out of St. Louis. Maybe Cape Girardeau will be good this time of year. Or Memphis.

"Sit down, please. You seem to have the impression I'm angry or upset. Quite the contrary, I am extremely intrigued. Please, sit down, I have one or two quick questions."

Dakota sat in the chair, squelching as more of Ingrid's cum dribbled between her thighs, curious in spite of herself. What harm could it do to listen? The dean collected all the papers into the folder and very deliberately dropped it all into her wastebasket. She leaned forward on her desk, fingers steepled together.

"You are everything Kathryn said you were, and more, if I'm not mistaken. Your credentials were good enough to get you hired at almost any place other than here. We like to think of ourselves as extraordinarily thorough. If Kathryn hadn't told us you were coming, I think I would have believed you were who you claimed to be. It looks like you did a great deal of research and preparation in a very short time. Could you do it again? With as much detail?"

"You mean make up a life?" The dean inclined her head slightly, encouraging Dakota to go on. "Yes, well ... yes. Though the more detail that's needed, the more time it takes and it can get kind of pricey for all the right documents and ..." She stopped suddenly, realizing she was telling this woman, this stranger, almost everything. It was as if she was under some kind of spell. She sat back, wary.

"I thought so," Dean Walter nodded thoughtfully. "You keep yourself in good physical condition?"

"Yeeesss ..."

"Excellent." The dean's ancient eyes sparkled. "Dakota Grange. I am pleased to offer you the position of Physical Education Instructor at Huddlestone Academy at a salary of two hundred dollars. What do you say?"

"Two hundred a year?" It wasn't a lot, but it was steady. Dakota felt pulled in two directions. No one had ever offered her so much money for steady, law-abiding work. Yet she didn't want a regular job. She'd have to become a ... citizen.

"No, two hundred a month. We pride ourselves on ensuring our staff feel they are adequately compensated."

Dakota did the math in her head. It was a small fortune! Most citizens, most particularly teachers, made barely over a thousand dollars a year. "There's a catch, right? No offense."

The dean laughed, a pleasant sound; it reminded Dakota of small bells. "Yes, there is a catch. An employee of Huddlestone is expected to uphold the long and honored tradition of this school. As such, there are certain agreements you must make with us." She took a folder with several sheets of paper in it from her desk and walked around to hand it to Dakota. "Please read these carefully. If you agree, sign them, and we will talk further."

All the alarms in her head went off at the same time; it was too good to be true. Dakota stood again and turned to leave. She had her hand on the brass door knob when the dean spoke again.

"Perhaps you misunderstand, Miss Grange." The voice was soft but with an edge to cut steel. "This offer isn't negotiable. You aren't going to get a better deal."

"I don't want a better deal, Miss Walter. I want to leave. I'm not interested in what you have. I made a mistake in coming here. So, goodbye. Again, I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

"This is not a game, Miss Grange, at least not one you can win, or even play competently. I want you to sit down and stay in the chair until I'm finished. If you don't sit down, I will ask Diane to help you." Dean Walter's voice grew cold and she put a finger to a button on the phone. The secretary, Diane, was in the office immediately and held Dakota's elbow in a grip both firm and showed she knew all about nerves and pressure points. Dakota sat, waiting silently.

The dean nodded to Diane, who left quietly. She continued to stare at Dakota, much as Kat had stared. As the silence grew, Dakota became more calm. This was something she could handle, not the Kat-like stare, it was creepy, but the you-will-blink-before-me routine. She was very good at waiting.

Eventually, the older woman spoke, this time in a conversational voice. "This can be simple or this can be hard. I am offering you a safe place to stay, with a good salary, and duties that really aren't that difficult. You don't have to run anymore, just stay here."

"And if I don't? I can't be kept, you should know. What if I decide to leave one day?"

The dean sat back in her chair and looked at the ceiling, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Yes, yes, you can leave if you want, I am sure. But know this," she leaned forward and her eyes glowed with a frightening ferocity. "I have your face, your scent. No matter where you go I can find you."