On the Far Side of Darkness

by R. C. Graham

  And in my briefcase is her latest challenge.

  I place that briefcase on my desk, lean against the old piece of furniture and clear my throat. The idle buzz that fills the air dies away.

  “Good evening, class. I have your latest assignments marked.” I turn to open my case and pull out the papers in question.

  I walk down the rows of desks, stopping where there is actually a student, hand them their essays and comment on it. Most are disappointed. I’m a taskmaster when it comes to learning. I save Ms. Coburn’s and Richardson’s papers until last. Their efforts need special attention.

  As I place Christy’s paper in her hands, she goes a little white in shock. “C minus?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mademoiselle Coburn,” I tell her. “Actually the essay was quite good, but there are extenuating circumstances that keep me from giving you a better mark.”

  The door to the classroom opens and I know immediately who it is. The way Christy’s eyes light up are a give away. I turn towards the entrance and the extenuating circumstances are walking towards me.

  Mandy Richardson strides towards me, certain that nothing will ever stand in her way. Her brown eyes stare into my blue with contempt and her lip is curled with distaste.

  As she plops into the desk next to her servant I remark, “So glad you deigned to join us, Mademoiselle Richardson.”

  She shrugs my sarcasm off. “Hey, I had places to go and people to do.” There’s a subtle scent about her, too faint for a human to detect, two separate odors of feminine arousal. Apparently Ms. Richardson has been doing more than going.

  My gaze goes to Christy at Mandy’s remark. Dejection flashes through her eyes and chagrin reddens her cheeks. Then her mouth turns downward in a grimace of resignation. She knows what her mistress has been doing, can’t stop it and has unhappily accepted the fact. I wonder why she puts up with it.

  My attention returns to my surly student and I say, “Your timing is perfect. Here’s your paper.” I hold it out to her.

  She takes it from my hand, looks at the mark scribbled on it…and turns bright red with fury. “F!?” She raises her eyes to me and gives a glare that would intimidate any human being. But I’m not human so I don’t flinch at all.

  “If you had written it, I would have given you a very good mark. But you didn’t write it.” I glance back at Christy. “Your, um, compatriot did.” I had almost let their secret out. What they do outside my class is none of my business. What happens inside it is.

  Christy pales, her eyes grow wide and her mouth slits in an unmistakable admission of guilt.

  I face Ms. Richardson once more and continue my criticism. “So an F is all you get.”

  Mandy’s gaze flares at me and her face gets very hard. “Mr. Belleveau, you had better change that mark.”

  I blink at that statement. What I really am stirs inside me. Instead I shove my instinct down to snicker instead. “Mademoiselle Richardson, you don’t give me orders. I might take requests, from the Dean or the board, but not orders from you.” Still chuckling, I start for the front of the room.

  A snarled “Come on,” from Mandy follows me up the aisle. As I face the class, I see The Court trailing out in her wake. Christy is looking at me and her face is blank with fear.

  But once again she’s not scared of me. She’s scared for me.

  * * * *

  The sun goes down and I rise from the earth. Literally. I can sink into the ground as if it were a thick soup. The small cottage where I currently have my haven has an old fashioned root cellar that is perfect for this ability. The coffins and such that others of my kind use are too exposing in my opinion. Resting surrounded by Mother Earth is much safer, and very comforting.

  I go to my bathroom to shower. After that I brush and floss my teeth. I don’t need to worry about rot, but with my eating habits halitosis can be a problem.

  As I clean, I ponder the previous night. I can’t say I’m worried, but there was something about Ms. Richardson and her actions that disturb me. Still, I don’t have much more than a feeling and stop wondering once my toilette is finished.

  I dress and check my messages. Surprisingly there is one. I haven’t given out this number to many people so I rarely get calls. This single missive is from the Dean. “I need to see you,” is all she says.

  The fact that she doesn’t mention a time makes me chuckle. The reputation I’ve been building as a bit of a prima donna is working. Everybody knows I work all day and only show at night. They think I’m writing my next book. I’ve worked hard to create some notoriety as a rather odd, somewhat snobby Eurotrash genius.

  I have no class tonight so I can see Dr. Metaxas right now. Leaving my haven, I start walking. I like using my own feet. It’s relaxing and lets me think.

  A half hour later, I arrive at the Dean’s residence. She answers the doorbell and invites me in. It’s then I receive my first intimation of trouble. Her normal mien towards me is friendly and charmed by my eccentricity. This time her face is disturbed. I sense that she is torn on the horns of a dilemma.

  And unlike other times, she leads me to her home office rather than the living room. After closing the door when we enter, she seats herself behind the desk and motions me to the chair across from her. The formality of the gesture deepens my unease.

  As I sit my slim frame down I look her over again. Another thing seems out of place. It’s her clothes I decide after a second’s thought. Helen is wearing a skirt, and a rather tight blouse. Her garments would make an observer focus on her beauty. This is quite at odds with her usual garb, meant to do much the opposite.

  She breaks into my pondering with, “I need to talk to you about one of your students.”

  Let me guess, flashes into my mind.

  “Mandy Richardson,” confirms my supposition.

  “There’s a problem?” I ask.

  The Dean grows flustered. To my wonder she chews on her bottom lip, frowns with her eyes, flushes slightly with embarrassment. I’ve never seen her more uncertain. Abruptly, she takes a deep breath and shivers.

  “Well,” she goes on after that short pause, “I think you’re being unfair to her. Ms. Richardson needs a better mark.”

  Two odors now waft across the desk and tickle my nose. One I’m very familiar with, a sharp tang of fear.

  The other, after a moment’s thought, is also known to me. I encountered it barely twenty four hours ago. It’s the smell of a particular woman’s arousal and it was accompanying Ms. Richardson. I nearly let my surprise show on my features.

  “She’s not passing my class, Dean Metaxas,” I tell her. “She’s always late, isn’t getting her assignments done and her latest was a forgery. I don’t see how I can pass her.”

  Helen’s face pales, her mouth pulls back in fear. “You don’t understand. There’s, pressure, being bought to bear. I, the school, want that pressure lifted. It could mean a lot of trouble. Please, please reconsider.” Her eyes shine as tears fill them.

  An odd surge of sorrow and rage rises in me. I feel pity for her. It would appear that Ms. Richardson has bought ‘stress’ of a particular type to bear. I’m surprised Helen would fall for such a ploy, and I wonder what her husband would do if he found out.

  Some of my anger is at the Dean. I don’t pressure very well. Most though, is directed at Mandy. What she has done is rather cruel, and despite what I am, I loathe cruelty.

  I sit still for a few moments, considering my response. Finally I say, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Helen’s relief is palpable, and the smell of her excitement grows a bit thicker. “Thank you,” she gasps. “I didn’t want to do this, but it needed to be done.”

  I nod as if I understand and come to my feet. She doesn’t stand. Perhaps her legs are too weak. I bid her goodnight and show myself out. Before I close the front door of the house the sound of her weeping comes faintly to me.

  As I walk down the street I think to myself, I don’t have a class tonight. I’ll head for
the library and see what I can find out about Ms. Richardson. She’s raised the stakes and I need information if I want to continue playing in the game she’s started.

  * * * *

  An hour later I’m sitting at a computer monitor. As a member of the faculty I have access to students’ records. I have pulled up Mandy’s file and read it. Then, using the Web, I get in touch with another of my kind. He was a computer nerd when alive. In exchange for a future favor, he puts together a précis of Ms. Richardson’s life and sent it to me.

  I’ll confess I still feel awe at the technology humans have created. I’m still not entirely comfortable or skilled with it. As Diane noted.

  I snap back from the fond memories that my sweet lady evokes and return to my investigation of Ms. Richardson. There seems to be nothing remarkable about her. In high school she did well, except for a stretch at the end of her junior and start of her final years. Her marks climbed back to better than normal after that.

  Her first year in university was the same, weak start but strong finish. And the same this year. Except for my class, she seems to be doing fine now.

  The précis I’ve received fills me in on her family. Nothing stands out. Quite middle class they are. Her father, as it turns out, is a professor here. I haven’t met him. Perhaps that is where the pressure the Dean is feeling originates? goes through my mind. On reflection that’s doubtful. Mandy’s father doesn’t seemed to be placed to exert the influence that can affect a woman like Helen.

  So my first hypothesis still seems the most likely.

  Paging back to Mandy’s records, I check her address. This raises my eyebrows slightly. It’s the house I had been offered when I first arrived. It’s a domicile for visiting dignitaries such as myself. That Mandy, and Ms. Coburn as another check reveals, are accommodated there seems another example of Ms. Richardson’s ‘influence’.

  I erase the history I’ve created as well as the précis and then shut the computer down. It’s time for a personal reconnoissance, I decide.

  * * * *

  The place I want to check out isn’t far. So I walk there. I’m one street away when a feminine voice catches my attention. “Excuse me?”

  I turn to the woman who spoke and survey her quickly. She is in her mid-thirties I estimate, of medium height and almost heavy set. Hazel eyes look at me from under a mane of black hair. She is busty and the plum colored blouse she wears displays that fact. Her nipples are poking visibly at the material of her garment. A short, night hued skirt is wrapped around her wide hips. Dark stockings with a green vine pattern running up the inseam encase her shapely legs. Her shoes match the hosiery in shade and have five inch stiletto heels. The third finger of her left hand shows depressions where rings have been.

  There’s a dichotomy to her. The woman strikes me as being dressed for an assignation, but there is an air of discomfort surrounding her. Somehow she reminds me of Helen. She seems torn by an internal struggle.

  I reply with a heavy German accent, “Ja, can I help you?” It’s habit when speaking to a stranger. I often misdirect. It’s safer that way.

  The woman takes a deep breath and then asks, “Do you know where 75 Elm Street is?”

  A piece snaps into place. That is where Ms. Richardson currently resides. A woman visiting her is not likely to be going for tea. It seems Mandy has quite a string of lovers.

  “Ja,” I tell her then. “It is the next street up. I am going that way. You will accompany me.” My tone is almost commanding. The woman falls into step beside me without hesitation. This give me yet more insight to Mandy’s victims.

  “I am Heinz Guderian,” I tell my companion, “I teach physics here. And you?”

  “Cyn…Cynthia Moran. I’m visiting a, a friend,” she answers back. I can catch what is becoming a common scent coming from her. Cynthia is getting aroused.

  We come to Elm Street and I check the number on the street sign. “Four houses that way, on this side.” I point in the direction she needs to go.

  “Thank you, Mr. Guderian,” she tells me and heads where I’ve directed.

  “Bittë, Fraü Moran,” I echo to her. She doesn’t pick up on the fact that I know part of her secret.

  I cross the road, continuing past Elm Street, then double back. Keeping to the opposite side of the avenue I stay about ten meters behind Mrs. Moran and follow her, using the trees that line this urban boulevard for cover. She soon heads up the walk to the rather large house Ms. Richardson and her chief bed warmer reside in. I stay in the lee of a trunk to watch.

  Mandy answers the door. “Hey, teach,” I hear from her, “right on time. And you walked here, just as you were told. I bet my neighbors liked the show.”

  Another morsel of knowledge floats to the surface. Mrs. Moran had been Mandy’s English teacher in her final year of high school. It would appear my opponent has been at this game for some time.

  Cynthia enters the house and the front door closes behind her. I slip from my cover, cross 75 Elm Street’s lawn and place myself against the wall of the house, away from the streetlights. With a small power expenditure I wrap a veil of shadows around myself.

  I can hear people moving inside, going up the stairs. As I slip from window to window of the ground floor, I check rooms, just glancing over each sill. All are dark and empty. The furniture in each is very good, both tasteful and comfortable. The university treats its guests well.

  There is a back deck, with a sliding glass door leading into the kitchen. Just as I peek in the light comes on. I duck back, then ease my head so one eye can peer into the room. Not much illumination falls on me so my cloak should hold.

  A trio of women enters the room, Mandy first, trailed by Cynthia and then Christy. Mandy is dressed in her usual T-shirt and jeans. The shirt is loose and covers her crotch. It almost hides that there is something in Ms. Richardson’s pants, something that makes a shape similar to a large erection. Christy is wearing only a short, clingy and transparent blue robe. As all her clothes are it’s very feminine and display her attributes to good effect. If I were still a man my reaction would be instant and extreme.

  Once she sits down in a chair at the kitchen table Mandy asks, “So? What do you think of my new digs, teach?” Christy stands just behind her and to one side, eyes down in a submissive posture.

  Mrs. Moran leans against the counter, arms holding her torso as if for warmth. Her face is a light red of embarrassment. “It’s very nice.”

  Mandy snickers. “Yeah, it’s good to have friends.

  “So how long’s it been, teach? A month?”

  Cynthia licks her lips and shivers. “Twenty seven days.”

  “Mommy’s little girl has been counting the days. How sweet. I guess you missed me.” Ms. Richardson’s mouth twists in a wicked smile. “Have you been using the toy I gave you?”

  Her victim closes her eyes and a bigger shiver passes through her. “Every day, like you ordered.”

  I can see Christy’s skin flush a little and she rocks on her feet. Her ass clenches. I guess this is a game played before. One that all the participants enjoy.

  “But you only come once, on Sundays, the Lord’s Day, right?” Mandy asks with mild contempt in her voice.

  Shame crosses the face of the femme leaning on the counter. Her eyes also slit in pleasure at a sweet memory. She nods her head in confirmation.

  “You must be just gagging for it now, aren’t you?” presses Ms. Richardson.

  Cynthia’s lips part in a silent gasp. Her nod is barely noticeable. She squeezes her eyes shut and I suspect that if I were closer, I would see tears would glisten at the edges of them.

  Mandy picks her lovers with skill. So far all are rent between intense humiliation and just as extreme lust. That must make for an fascinating melange of emotions.

  “Well,” announces Mandy, “mommy’s little girl has been good. So she gets a treat.

  “Bitch,” she orders, turning her head in Christy’s direction, “get naked and loosen my little gir
l up. She needs to be relaxed before she gets her reward.”

  Without a word, Christy sheds her garb and pads on bare feet to Mrs. Moran. In an instant they’re in each other’s arms and their mouths are working ravenously. I can see Cynthia squeezing the nude woman’s ass, all hesitation gone from her now.

  “Enough!” orders Mandy. “Get my little girl out of her clothes, bitch.”

  Christy’s hands move to the buttons of the plum blouse. She plucks them loose quickly and pulls the garment open. Cynthia’s large breasts appear, shoved up and displayed by a black underwire bra. The panting blonde undoes the front hook and the luscious orbs fall free, jiggling with the deep, rapid breaths of the chest they rise from. Mrs. Moran shrugs her shoulders back and her upper garments fall from her. Christy pulls the shirt free and both pieces of clothing hit the counter.

  A babbling moan sounds from both women as the blonde takes one of her dark haired playmate’s nipples in her lips. Cynthia’s eyes roll back, her mouth opens and closes as bliss runs out from her sensitive peak.

  “Hurry it up!” Mandy demands. “I’m not waiting all night.”

  Christy’s shaking hands pull down the zipper of Mrs. Moran's black skirt. Kneeling, she draws the soft fabric over silk encased legs. Mrs. Moran’s mound is full, meaty and shaved bare. I can see it glisten and trails of her lubrication have run down her thighs, soaking the tops of her hold up stockings.

  Mandy coos at the erotic sight. “I see mommy’s little girl has gotten tired of washing her panties.” She laughs softly.

  Cynthia’s reaction is again mixed. Her face quirks with a mixture of debasement and passion. Then her eyes start and her mouth gapes as Christy places her lips on the older femme’s wet womanhood and starts to work. Random moans, grunts and sighs tremble from Mrs. Moran. They grow louder as the golden blonde plays with her. The standing woman’s hands wrap in the yellow mane between her legs and pull that tireless mouth close.

  Mrs. Moran screams as she falls over the edge. The shout is shrill and piercing, letting everyone within earshot know how utterly overwhelming her orgasm is. Her legs buckle and she moves her arms to the counter to hold herself in position. Her head jerks back and forth, left and right as muscles trigger in haphazard patterns under the onslaught of her rapture.