The Girl Who Cried Wolf 01

Since the whole 'pregnant incident' happened I've been thinking about something. And I've decided that if I go to this new school, and I don't like it, or if their dance program is shit, I'm going to run away. Not far, like not to America or anything, but to London. It's 200 miles away from Sheffield, so it's just far enough for me never to be found by my parents, or anyone else for that matter. I'd change my name, and my clothes and my hair so I'd be unnoticeable, so I'd never be found. I could easily get into a dance company somewhere. Or maybe I'll go into acting. I'd be famous! But first I'd need some plastic surgery, you know, so my parents won't know it's me. I think I'd be an even better actress than I am a dancer. If I'm such a good 'liar', as my father would say, then I'm bound to be a great actress. That's all acting is, lying. Pretending. Pretending to be someone you're not. Pretending things happened to you when they actually haven't. And if worse comes to worse, I could always be an exotic dancer, and buy a house with all the ten pound notes they stick in my g- string. I've got the body and face for it. Who could resist my peachy soft skin? Or my dazzling blue eyes and silky blonde hair? Or my always wet, pink pussy? Nobody! That's who!

Ah fuck! Mum just called. She's on her way back. Sounds like she's been crying. One day I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch I call dad! I better go clean up all the mess I've made, before my dad goes off on one and threatens to send me to military school, for the second time this month. I'll update when I know more about this bloody school I'm going to. Bitterburn Academy. Stupid name for a stupid school! Heehee!

Fern.

Fern Clabberton seems pleasant enough. She was all smiles when the headmistress introduced her to me after she moved in to the dormitory. It's hard to believe she's 19. She's a petite girl, with a very young face. Looks more like fourteen or fifteen. She wears her blonde hair in this feathery, puff cut with a fringe just above her eyes. Reminds me a bit of Princess Diana, to tell the truth. Lovely girl, really. Bluest eyes I've ever seen. Like the colour of the Caribbean. And she's got these wonderful little dimples on her rosy cheeks, even when she's not smiling. Truly, an adorable girl.

But she is a bit dramatic. When the headmistress informed her that she wouldn't be taking dance, she screamed as if her cat had died. But who could blame her? Clearly she loves dance, because she wept openly, and begged on her knees to be allowed to continue. I've never seen such beautiful tears rolling down such a perfect little face. Oddly, looking at Fern on her knees in front of the headmistress, blubbering and crying and pleading, gave me a bit of a woody. Her legs are so shapely, perhaps from her dance training. They just might be the most beautiful legs I've ever seen. And for such a small girl, she does have quite a well developed bosom. Oh, nothing as big as Tale Shakawe, but big enough that as she sobbed, her breasts were heaving like mad under her form-fitting sweater.

Later I replayed the incident in my mind and masturbated. I saw Fern kneeling in front of me, crying and begging as I jerked my cock in front of her ruddy, girlish face, until I squirted juicy jets of white all over her full, open lips, and adorable dimples.

Disgusting. I should be ashamed of myself. Truly I wish nothing but the best for this lovely girl, and I'll definitely try my hardest to give her the education she deserves.

Dear diary,

Sorry I haven't updated in the last few days. I spent nearly the whole of yesterday crying. All went well, or so I thought at first. After moving in with my new roomies, I met my personal tutor and counsellor, Mr. Donaldson. He's an old man, and another pervert who loves staring at my body. I'm not sure why I've been given a personal tutor and counsellor, but I guess I'm just really special! Obviously! Like I was saying, all was going well, until that bitch, Mrs Dollarhyde, the withered hag of a headmistress, told me I would be dropping dance!

You should've seen me when I found out. I screamed the loudest high pitched scream ever and dropped to my knees, begging her to change her mind. It didn't work and I just made an idiot of myself. Dance is the only subject I like, the only subject I pay attention in, and they are taking it away from me! What sort of bullshit is that? I'm the best dancer in the whole of Sheffield! Maybe even the whole of England! And they take it away from me? I could be the next Michael Jackson, I've got a pretty good voice too, but dance has always been my passion! If my parents think I've been trouble so far, wait until they see what I've got planned for them.

That goes for that creep, Mr. Donaldson, too. While I was on the floor begging to take dance, he was standing behind me, probably staring at my ass. Probably thinking about fucking me on his desk while I beg him not to. And I'm sure as I left I saw a very big bulge in his trousers. Wait until he finds out what I've got in store for him. He's going to wish he'd never met me. I guarantee it...

Fern.

Rotten way to end the week. Some anonymous joker pinned an adult diaper on the front of my lectern during lunch period, and I didn't realise it was hanging there until the end of the day. Oh, I noticed that there was a bit more whispering and snickering than usual in my classes, but I ascribed that to some private jest among the students. Well, apparently the jester is me. The old man. The old incontinent fart.

How old do they think I am anyway? I'm only 40. But to them I must seem a dinosaur. A relic from times past. I'm being foolish I suppose, but I always supposed they thought highly of me. I try to be the fairest and most understanding of the teachers. The most lax with discipline. Always ready to lend a hand or an ear or a shoulder. But now I'm just a silly old man to them. Gray, balding, wrinkled, withered. I don't know why this bothers me so much, but it does. I've never felt so deflated. Damn.

But I don't feel old. My hair's greying perhaps. And I'm a bit jowly. But my sister says I'm getting more handsome every year, and she's not one to throw out compliments willy nilly. Strong chin, piercing eyes, deep voice. And I go hiking every weekend, to keep in shape. Not an ounce of fat in my belly. Though my arms are getting a bit noodly compared to how they used to look. Perhaps I should start lifting weights again. They say that once you build muscles, even if they atrophy, they readily return with regular exercise. I was ripped back when I first got married to Maddie. Biceps as big as a loaf of bread. I'm not old. I'm not ugly. I'm not pathetic. None of these silly girls has any idea how magnificent my cock is. I should whip it out in class one of these days. Then they'd show me proper respect.

Diapers indeed.

I would have thought that one of my favourites would have pointed it out to me. Fiona Windsor, Tale Shakawe, or Ginny Perry. And what about Britta? I thought she had a crush on me. But there she was, snickering with the rest. Of all people to come to my aid, I'm surprised it was the new girl, Fern Clabberton. She isn't half as useless as her parents might imagine. She shyly lingered after class and blushed bright pink when she pointed out the diaper to me. She even pulled the damned thing down herself, holding it as if it were filled with excrement, before tossing it in the garbage, saying, "you mustn't let it bother you, Proffy D."

I've had many nicknames over the years, but never that one. I don't go for abbreviation. The lazy man's language. But I loved the way Fern said it, peering at me shyly from under that low blonde fringe of hers. It's a better nickname than 'old diaper pants', which I heard someone yelling from the dorms as I walked to my car. I wish Fern had pointed out the diaper at the start of class, but I doubt she noticed it. The poor girl barely pays attention to anything. She's ever staring out the leaded glass windows toward the garden below my classroom, no doubt dreaming of faeries and unicorns, as young girls are wont to do.

Professor Lawson, that fussy old queen, says Fern's a lazy, snotty little brat. That's an unfair characterization. Certainly, she is a bit sullen and sarcastic, but that's to be expected. She's an unformed lump of lead, waiting to be melted down and cast into the woman she will one day become. It's a delicate process to mould a girl as delicate and lovely as Fern, so I've been holding back a bit. Mrs. Dollarhyde encouraged me to start cracking the whip, but Fern's been handled roughly her whole life, first by her onerous father, and later by the strict taskmasters at St. Mary's, yet none of it has made any kind of impression on her. Therefore I believe a softer touch is required.

It's for that reason that I've kept my tutoring sessions with Fern superficial. All I've done so far is to give her a few tests, in order to evaluate her academic level. I'm not surprised she failed her exams. She seems to know nothing about any of her three subjects. How she managed to fake her way this far is anybody's guess, and she certainly has no explanation other than some feeble claims of having dyslexia. But I find no evidence of it. She reads with high proficiency and retention, and she's obviously intelligent, considering how well she understood William Blake's 'The Tyger'. She'd never read it before but she immediately understood that it's about how beautiful yet terrifying the natural world can be. Halfway through her insightful analysis, she clammed up as if embarrassed to be caught acting smart. After that she didn't say much. Perhaps I intimidate her. She just stared at me blankly as I gently encouraged her to apply herself more. I've no earthly idea what's going on in that pretty little head of hers.

I'll have to start her counselling sessions soon, but I'm not in a rush to begin unravelling her riddles just yet. I want to gain her trust first. She needs to settle in to Bitterburn a bit. Get the lay of the land, make friends and the like. But there's so much I need to know about her, in order to help her, so I've decided to start following her during my free periods, while observing her from afar. I may be 'old' but I'm still a stealthy fellow.

Dear diary,

I'm a freakin' genius! Remember how I told you that I'd make sure Donaldson would get what he deserves for being such a pervert? Yeah, well I did! A couple of days ago, during lunch, I snuck into his room and pinned an adult diaper to his lectern. When his poxy Western Lit class began, he didn't notice it hanging there, which proves just how old he is. He had no idea what everyone was giggling about. When class was over I pointed it out to him. I told him he shouldn't let it bother him, so he'd think I'm sweet and innocent, which I am, most of the time. It obviously bothered him though, because he had it written all over his wrinkled, yet slightly attractive, face. Wait; did I really just say that?! I think I need to get my eyes checked out! He's as old as a dinosaur!

I guess my stupid roommates have warped my brain. They're both so far up his ass it's enough to make a person vomit. Ginny's an insufferable teacher's pet, who's always begging for "Dear old Donny's" attention in class. And Britta bats her eyes at him as if he were Bruno Mars, and not a greying old know-it-all who lurks and stares. She's always jabbering about his 'piercing eyes', and says he's so fit and manly. I guess he works out because you can see his biceps strain against his shirt. That doesn't mean he's worth two shits. She's absolutely gagging for it over his 'deep and sexy voice'. I must admit, she's not entirely wrong. If he weren't so ancient and pathetic, a voice like that would be such a turn on.

And I guess he does have a nice smile too. But only because he's so eager to prove how cool he is. You shoulda seen him grinning like a regular pouf when I called him "Proffy D". I only called him that because I couldn't remember if his name was Donaldson or Davidson. Now he thinks I like him and admire him. Stupid fossil has no idea how much I hate him. The way he ignored me when I told him about my tragic dyslexia. Fucker. And the way he talked down to me when he gave me those stupid tests, as if I were the useless one. And the way he gushed over my interpretation of that silly nursery rhyme he had me read. And then he had the stones to tell me to apply myself, and I'm gonna! To making him fucking miserable. Oh yeah, I've got a few more tricks up my sleeve to take the wind out of his sails. All I need is some cardboard, a skeleton, and a sausage! Should be brilliant!

But for now I'm just cabbaging in my room while everyone else is still in their boring classes. After Donaldson's class I didn't feel like going to biology, so I went to the school nurse and told her I was on my period and that the pains were killing me, which is total bollocks. My period is mostly over now, but how's she to know? She gave me some paracetamol and told me to go back to my room and take the rest of the day off.

Much nicer here without my spacky roommates anyway. They don't seem to like me. I do try to talk to them, but they're very short with me, that's if they're not ignoring me. It's the same at lunch. I've tried sitting with a few different people, to introduce myself, but they just scurry off. Stuck up bitches. So I decided to keep myself to myself and eat alone for the past couple of days. It doesn't bother me much. I've got my music and I've got my dreams. It's going to take more than a bit of loneliness to get me down. After all, I'm Fern Clabberton! Extraordinary dancer! My bags are still packed so if things don't improve soon, I'll be on my way to freedom, fame and fortune! I'll have fans all over the world begging to eat with me, to be my friend, just you wait. And all these stuck up bitches can kiss my ass.

Fucking Ginny. Fucking Britta. I'm gonna look through their shit and see if they have anything worth nicking.

You won't guess what I just found in Britta's dresser, hidden under her pencil box! A grot mag! This is some seriously banging shit! Who knew that Britta's such a filthy little skank? The pages are all worn out, and the articles have pictures of innocent little schoolgirls getting fucked by their grotty old teachers. On desks, in stables, in piano rooms. And the men are so old and ugly and sweaty. Gag. I bet she masturbates to this, thinking about that geezer Donaldson huffing and puffing over her while he slams his wrinkly cock in and out of her teenage pussy.

Damn. Now I'm getting wet. Can't believe I'm still a poxy virgin! I can't wait to be fucked long and hard and cummed over like this blonde girl! I guess there isn't much chance of that happening now, not here. The only men in this miserable prison are three old teachers, two of which are prissy queens. The only chance I have of being de-virgined is if Mr. Donaldson rapes me!

Hee hee. As if. But he doesn't have the guts. Or the strength. If he took one look at my naked hot body he'd pass out. He'd have a coronary. I bet he hasn't had a good fuck in years.

All this thinking about sex has got me so fucking horny! Luckily my roommates are in class for another hour, so I'm going to play with myself until I cum all over Britta's magazine! Fuck her. It's my magazine now!

I'll write soon. Fern.

The anonymous prankster has not been identified yet, and they show no sign of stopping their annoying activities any time soon. Yesterday they painted R.I.P. on my car window with white boot polish, and this morning I arrived at the school to find a group of girls laughing in the garden, looking at a cardboard grave marker with my name on it. One of the skeletons from the biology lab was lying there, dressed in my overcoat, and wearing a pair of glasses just like mine. I laughed, quipping, "Well, I've never looked so fit in my life". The girls giggled, thank god. I refuse to give whoever it might be the satisfaction of knowing how deeply these pranks are affecting me.

But then I noticed that the prankster had inserted a dried up wrinkly old sausage into the crotch of the skeleton. On impulse I reached down and snatched it up, which only drew everyone's attention to it. While everyone laughed, I looked up and my eyes met Britta Collier's deep brown ones. Her olive-hued cheeks burned a livid red, and I knew she was thinking about my cock in that moment, probably wondering if it was actually as small and shrivelled as the sausage in my hand. And all I wanted to do was whip my monster out and show her, show all of those tittering schoolgirls that it wasn't true. Even flaccid, my old fella puts most men's cocks to shame.

Lord. When did I become such a dirty old man? I remember a time when a thought like that would never have crossed my mind. I have to remind myself daily that I'm a teacher, and no matter how inappropriate my thoughts might be from time to time, I still have a calling. I still have students who need me.

Particularly Fern Clabberton.

Following her the last few days has given me scant insights into her baffling personality. When talking to teachers, she's almost always rude and sarcastic, but when she's alone, she seems blissful and content. She walks about the school grounds with a flittering gait. Almost skipping. She always listens to music through her iPod, and often breaks into little impromptu dance routines. The other girls think of Fern as an oddball, but I don't think she cares in the least. She appears to be a bit of a loner. She sits alone in the lunch room, and rarely chats with any of the girls. She doesn't have much of an appetite. She eats like a bird. She gently cradles her food in those delicate, pale hands of hers, nibbling at it slowly, almost sensuously with those adorable, rosy lips. I must say, I do enjoy watching her eat.

I suppose I should have been satisfied with simply following her. But today I foolishly paid a visit to her room, while the whole school was out watching the field hockey match against St. Christopher's. I've never been in the girl's dorm before, and technically, I'm not allowed to go there. But I know the school's routines inside and out, so I was confident I'd have an hour and a half without fear of discovery. I was afraid it might be difficult to find her room, but her name was on the door, with those of her roommates Ginny Perry and Britta Collier. I entered cautiously, breathing in their girlish perfume.

The room appears to have been designed to house four girls, though only three beds are occupied at the moment. I felt a bit like Goldilocks, examining the beds of the three bears, as I poked around. The occupant who sleeps nearest the door, Ginny Perry, is an uptight and very tightly wound English Literature scholar. Unsurprisingly, her bed is meticulously made, and her books are lined up in proper order on her book shelf. And on top of her dresser, she has quite a large collection of lollipops from my class, arranged by colour in a ridiculous little shrine. For years now I've been awarding them to girls who get A* grades on their exams, and nobody tries harder to earn lollies than Ginny Perry... to my everlasting annoyance. That troublesome freckle-faced ginger is constantly raising her hand in my class, and tirelessly pestering me for extra credit homework. I looked through her drawers and was amused to note that all of her clothes are neatly folded and organized by colour, including her panties. As a little joke, for the many times she annoyed me in the past, I rearranged her panties, knowing it would probably drive her crazy!