The Cunt of Monte Cristobysoflabbwlvr©
Christine Baron awoke to the sound of her alarm clock's electronic pulse intruding upon the pleasant mood that permeated her dream. By the time that she was able to locate the snooze button and cancel the blaring claxon she had already forgotten what it was in her dream that made her feel so good. She turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but the sunlight peeking through the wooden blinds made that impossible for her. She turned over once again and realized that the good feeling that enveloped her when she first awoke was now completely gone, replaced by thoughts of the hell that her life had become.
Was it only three years ago that I was so happy? she asked herself. Only three years? Three years ago Christine was a tenured professor at a major university. Her husband James, also a tenured professor and ten years older than Christine, convinced her to take an early retirement so that the two of them could move away from the frigid Midwest and retire in sunny South Florida. He convinced her that due to his investment acumen they had acquired substantial liquid assets over the years. His pension would provide them cash for their every day needs, and the income from their investments would allow them to live comfortably until she began to draw on her pension upon reaching the age of 62. So they both retired and moved to the Florida Keys.
Less than a year later everything went to hell. The markets collapsed and their investments were wiped out. "Mr. Investment Acumen" had placed all of their funds in money market funds tied to speculative mortgage accounts, which became worthless over a span of seven months. Over Christine's objection, James went to Key West for a week to meet with an investor who caught his ear with another "can't miss" proposition. One week stretched into two weeks and then two became a month. James continuously insisted that he was "in negotiations," and that he would be back in another few days, but after two months her phone calls were no longer returned, and after three months Christine found that her credit cards were canceled and she no longer had access to their joint bank accounts.
She tried to remain calm, but her anxieties were getting the best of her. She hired a private detective to drive to Key West and find James. One week later the detective returned and gave Christine an address where he promised she could find him. The next day she set out on the two-hour drive to Key West, arriving just before noon. It did not take long to find the address, which turned out to be an apartment in an upscale property. She parked her car and looked for the unit, number 323. She cut across a courtyard with a swimming pool. She saw about a dozen or so people either in the pool or sunning in a chaise on the adjacent deck. Curiously, all of the residents and guests were men of various ages, from late 20s to 70s. Most were nude. Where are all the women? she wondered. Are they nude also? What kind of place is this?
She located an elevator and got off on the third floor. She found unit 323 and rang the doorbell. A slender young man who appeared to be in his late 30s answered the door. He was bare chested, and when Christine looked down she noticed that he was wearing only a silk thong that barely contained his equipment.
"Can I help you?" he asked, very politely.
"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I must have the wrong apartment. I am looking for number 323."
"This is 323. How can I help you?"
"I am looking for a Dr. James Baron. Do you know him?"
"James!" he turned and called toward the back of the apartment. "Someone here to see you."
Tying a robe around his waist, James emerged from the back bedroom, halting in his tracks when he saw Christine.
"I did not expect you," James mumbled.
"I can see that," Christine answered, struggling to control her emotions.
"What the hell is going on here?" she screamed at him, her composure utterly failing.
"Come inside, please. There is something I need to explain to you."
"Explain? That is an understatement. There is something you need to fix."
She followed James into the apartment and took a seat on the sofa across from him. James explained that upon arriving in Key West he was introduced to William, the young man who answered the door. After three days of spending every hour together in meetings and every evening having dinner and drinking in the Key West culture, the two of them partied late into the night to celebrate closing their deal. James awoke the next morning in William's bedroom. William assured James that nothing had happened the night before, but after having breakfast in bed, showering, taking a sauna together and then showering again, the two of them returned to William's room and consummated their relationship.
James suggested that Christine go back to Islamorada while he took a sabbatical from their marriage. She was enraged. Sabbatical? she thought. You call abandoning your wife and sucking cock in Key West a sabbatical? Tearfully she left the apartment, got in her car and drove back to her home.
The next day she met with an attorney and filed for divorce. James contested at first, but quickly conceded. Christine found that their assets were gone, their home had no equity, and their only income was James' pension. The judge ordered James to pay her alimony, but it was not enough to make the mortgage payment on the home. Three months later it went into foreclosure, and she was forced to move.
Christine had always struggled with her weight. Before the disaster she was not really heavy, but no one ever confused her with a swimsuit model. When she and James were married, he called her "pleasantly plump." In her last years of teaching she often heard students refer to her as "thick," "bootylicious," or "stacked," and they mistakenly called her a "MILF." "Thick" she understood; "bootylicious," was just silly and "stacked," seemed kind of old-fashioned; but she never had children, so the "MILF" designation was a mystery to her. Once she and James retired, however, she found herself gaining weight at an alarming rate. When James left her, the weight gain accelerated. She estimated that she was now well over 200 pounds for the first time in her life. In actuality, she was probably closer to 250, but she refused to step on a scale again until she dropped a few dress sizes. Her ass, which was always plump and round, was now huge and dimpled. Her breasts had swollen from a full C cup to an imposing DD. At least they had increased in size enough to distract attention from her belly, which now formed an unsightly bulge hanging over her panty line.
Christine realized that she had to find somewhere to live and get a job. She wanted to move back home and resume working at the university, but due to budget cutbacks her position had been eliminated. To make matters worse, due to a statewide budget freeze, there were no job openings for a full professor in any college or university in the entire state. So she expanded her search, sending her resume to every university and college in the Southeast.
The first job offer she received was teaching advanced English at Monte Cristo Community College, a diploma mill on the West coast of Florida. She put that aside, and waited for more offers to pour in. After a month of receiving no call backs and finding her mailbox stuffed with only rejection letters, she realized she had no alternative. She called Monte Cristo to accept the offer.
Christine was stunned when Dr. Simmons, the head of the English department, told her that the position had already been filled. When Christine did not respond after a week, the position was offered to the next qualified candidate. Christine was unable to speak as she struggled to hold back her tears. Just as she was about to hang up the telephone, Dr. Simmons told her that another position had opened that morning, teaching remedial English 100 to students with learning "challenges." Having no other options, Christine accepted the offer and moved to Monte Cristo.
By the end of the first week, Christine realized that her class consisted of three kinds of students: there were a few foreigners who knew just enough English to almost carry on a conversation, but who could not read or write in English; the biggest group consisted of students who had no business being in an institution of higher learning as they lacked the education and skills to complete high school, but the college let them in anyway to collect their tuition; and a small group of qualified students who did not want to be in class and did not care about learning, but enrolled only because their parents paid them to go. The last group, which should have been the most teachable, was by far the most disruptive.
The foreign students, to their credit, did put forth an effort. But her Midwestern ears could not decipher their words through the thick and varied accents. She realized this shortcoming was her own, but that thought gave her no solace and made her job no more enjoyable.
The unqualified students were hopeless. She felt that she would be better off talking to rocks than some of those students. Rocks absorbed just as much as the students, but asked fewer stupid questions.
It was the last group, however, that made her job a living hell. They were never prepared, never paid attention in class, but were always quick to offer a quip about her weight when they thought that she could not hear. Sometimes they uttered their quips even when they knew that she could hear. She despised this group of students.
The events of the past three years had a devastatingly negative impact on her personality. Where she used to engage her students in lively conversations, she now made blanket proclamations and squelched any debate in class. She poured on more and more homework, hoping to make the students' lives as miserable as her own had become. Despite school policy favoring a bell curve grade distribution, she graded on a strict and unwavering scale. No half credits were given for partially correct answers. Without realizing that it had happened, she embarked on a campaign to rid the school of its disinterested and unqualified students by flunking as many of them as possible.
By her second semester at the college, Christine had earned a new nickname: The Cunt of Monte Cristo. She was outraged the first time she overheard that name whispered behind her back and realized that it referred to her. But as time wore on she became enamored of it, and was determined to live up to it. I'll be the meanest fucking cunt these idiot assholes have ever seen.
As she got dressed for work, Christine went over her schedule for the day. Friday, only one class to teach. Go to lunch, then spend the rest of the afternoon grading papers in my office praying that none of those morons shows up for tutoring. She put on her white cotton panties and full-figured support bra, and then crossed the room to her closet where she found a freshly ironed and starched white cotton blouse. After buttoning the blouse she removed a charcoal grey skirt from the dry cleaner's bag hanging in the closet, stepped into the skirt, pulled it over her hips, and zipped it closed. The fit was uncomfortably snug, but she had already let it out once and did not think there was enough fabric to let it out again. She would have to wait until her next paycheck before she could go out and buy any new clothes. Grabbing the hanger with the matching jacket, she left the apartment and headed for her car. She knew that it would be too warm for the jacket, but she took it anyway to cover the perspiration that would inevitably be showing through her blouse by the time that she walked from the parking lot to her classroom.
The Friday morning class was easily the worst of the four classes she was teaching that semester. Friday classes were the last to fill up because no one in his or her right mind wanted to go to class on Friday. Generally, the class consisted almost entirely of students who registered late because they had failed the previous semester and were suddenly forced to repeat, or they were just too stupid to get on line and register during the open registration period. They had to take what was left, no matter how inconvenient.
She drove to work, reviewing her course outline and wondering why she wasted the time preparing to teach. Suddenly, Christine had an epiphany. If I could only weed out the very worst students, I could force the weaker students to fall into line through sheer force of will. I just have to cut off the snake's head, and the body of the beast will wither. In this case, the "snake's head" was Jimmy Cummings.
Jimmy Cummings, she growled under her breath. Just his name is revolting. Is the name 'James' reserved for only the most prolific assholes in my life?
Friday's class was typical. Only about one-half the students turned in their homework assignments. Less than a quarter had read the materials. Christine briefly wondered how the other quarter had completed their homework when they had not read the materials, but then she remembered where she was and with whom she was dealing. They copied the work from other students. They always do.
Christine lectured anyway, even though she had to talk over a low hum of conversation that flowed from the back of the room to the front. Students toward the front tapped away on laptop computers, sipping coffee and sending text messages on their cell phones. The entire back row wore headphones framing their blank faces, blatantly tuning her out. She asked questions to the class, but the same three hands rose in response each time. Finally, she started calling students by name. Surprisingly, the first four students provided answers that were not entirely correct, but were not that far off, either.
After randomly calling five names from her class list, she decided to put her plan into action.
"Mr. Cummings, please discuss the development of the author's theme in chapter seven, and how it builds upon the revelations in chapter six."
There was no response.
More silence. This is working perfectly, she thought. The whole class is witnessing this insubordination.
"Someone please awaken Mr. Cummings."
A slutty looking blonde in the back row named Megan Hughes nudged the thin, scruffy blonde male seated next to her and pointed toward Christine. Jimmy Cummings shook his head, pulled his headphones from his ears, and looked forward.
"Forty-two!" he blurted.
The class broke out in laughter.
"Mr. Cummings please report to my office at 3:00 this afternoon. We are going to review your progress in this class and your placement next semester."
"No can do Dr. Baron. My weekend starts in 47 minutes. I'm off the clock until Monday morning."
"Mr. Cummings, you will be at my office door at 3:00 sharp. If you are even one minute late I will have you referred to the Dean of Students with a recommendation of dismissal. Do you understand me?"
"Dr. Baron, I have plans for the weekend. I have to be on the road by noon."
"Three o'clock, Mr. Cummings. Do what you wish."
Jimmy stood up, packed his bag, and stormed out of the classroom.
The rest of the class proceeded without incident.
* * *
When class was over Christine hurried out of the classroom and headed toward the admissions office. She cajoled a secretary into pulling the application file of Cummings, James, and took it with her, promising to return it after lunch. She then went to the student records office and obtained a copy of Mr. Cummings' transcript. She walked to the parking lot, got into her car, and drove to a restaurant/lounge several miles from campus. She did not want to run into any students or faculty members while she did her research.
Feeling a rush of enthusiasm and determination for the first time in nearly two years, she ordered a martini while she waited for her lunch. She sipped the drink, marveling at the utterly revolting taste and wondering how anyone could drink such a concoction. But the act of ordering the cocktail for lunch and drinking it down made her feel powerful, fueling her determination to rid the school of Mr. Jimmy Cummings. Hell, I would rid him from the universe, if I could.
Looking at his transcript first, she found that he achieved a D in every single course he had enrolled in over the first three semesters of his college career. The little shit's a fucking genius, she laughed to herself. This will be even easier than I thought.
But something bothered her. How could he have three semesters of consistent D grades? He should have been on academic probation after one semester, and dismissed after two. But here he is, in his fourth semester and possibly about to earn an associate degree? Strange.
She then opened the folder containing his application materials. The first thing she saw was a copy of his high school transcript. Graduated in the top fifty percent of his class at Monte Cristo Senior High. Surprising. SAT scores would have qualified him for a major state university. Hmmmm. She looked more closely at the transcript. Halfway through his senior year he was in danger of not graduating. Then suddenly, all A's in his final semester. She started reading the application. Father - David Cummings, owner of Cummings Construction; Mother, Loretta Frances Cummings, CEO of Frances Pharmaceuticals. Her jaw dropped. Loretta Frances, the single biggest donor in the school's history? Hell, the chemistry building that was erected the year before she joined the faculty is named The Loretta Frances Chemistry Building. This was going to be a problem.
She ordered a second martini and continued to focus on the conundrum before her. But it was no use. She concluded that there was no way she would ever be able to get Jimmy Cummings expelled. The administration simply would not let him fail. Think, damn it! There has to be something else. What is it?!
If she could not get him expelled or dismissed from school, then she had to punish him some other way. What is important to him? All he seems to care about is pussy. Skanky, slutty, skinny, blonde, teenage pussy. And then it hit her. I'll take away the only thing he cares about. I'll make him unfuckable.
Christine finished her lunch, downed her second martini, paid the check, and left. I have some shopping to do, she thought.
* * *
Jimmy Cummings stormed out of the classroom, slammed the door behind him, and stalked off toward his car. God damn fucking whore! Fat fucking cow! That fucking wrinkled bag of cellulite! She's going to fuck up everything!
He did not really care all that much that his weekend was ruined. He was not upset about having to give up his reservation at Berne's Steakhouse. He had eaten there so many times that it was really no thrill at all, just an easy way to impress his slutty little girlfriends. It did not really bother him that he was going to lose his prepaid reservation of a suite at the Tampa Westshore Hyatt Regency. His dad's company would charge the room to "business development" anyway. He had not given a thought to the fact that he was going to miss seeing the U2 concert from his family's skybox at Raymond James Stadium. He could get tickets to see them in Atlanta the following week. Hell, he did not even care that he was not going to spend the rest of the weekend locked up in his hotel suite with Ashley Bennet and Sandra Gomez, feeding them a diet of champagne, marijuana and ecstasy while he violated their sweet young bodies in ways they had yet to imagine. He did not have to drive them 5 hours up the coast to have his way with them. Those sluts would suck his dick in church if he told them to.