Wilma took note of his hungry stares. She would purposely seat herself so that her dress rode high up over her limbs. She would cross and uncross her legs, push her skirt high with feigned innocence as though to scratch an itch, and smile to herself as Mr. Birdwell stammered over the problem he was setting the class.
Wilma was doing very badly in Algebra-1. Somehow, she couldn’t seem to memorize the necessary formulas. So, there came a day, a week or so before the term finals, when Wilma wore no panties under the short, cotton skirt playing hide-and-seek with her legs in the front-row seat of Mr. Birdwell’s class.
That day Wilma found itches to scratch in the damnedest places. Birdwell’s eyes were dancing pinballs behind his rimless glasses. My God! That naked pussy! All red and trembly and clamp! God! His lecture wandered all over the place, and once or twice the class even tittered as he completely lost the thread of what he was saying. Finally, mopping his brow, he dismissed his students. The room emptied out -- except for Wilma. She stood very close to him, her small, pointy breasts almost grazing his cheek as he sat at his desk.
“Mr. Birdwell,” she said, “I’m having an awful lot of trouble understanding this course. I wonder if you could help me.”
Embarrassed by her closeness, the teacher pushed his chair back. “Of course, Wilma. What seems to be giving you difficulty?”
“You.” She whispered the word softly and let it hang in the air a moment before continuing. “It’s the way you look at me,” she explained at last. “When you stare at me that way, I just can’t keep my mind on algebra.”
“W-w-what?” Mr. Birdwell was completely taken aback by her effrontery.
“I can tell how you feel about me from the way you keep looking,” Wilma went on brazenly. “I know what you want.” She put her arms around him and pressed her breasts very close against his face, wriggling slightly so that he might feel their heat. “I want it, too,” she murmured, bending so that her lips tickled his ear.
“No! You’re mista-” he started to protest, but Wilma quieted him with a kiss on the lips. She moved her legs wide apart, took his hand in hers and guided it under her skirt, pushing it upwards until it was touching the spot she’d intended it to touch. Her clitty was erect and sticking out boldly.
“I want you,” she said.
But Birdwell reacted as though his fingers had grazed a live wire. He pushed her away roughly and stood up, upsetting his chair in his frenzied retreat. “Stop that immediately, Wilma!” he said sharply, trying to keep the desk between them. “Have you forgotten that I’m a teacher here and you’re a student?” Then, almost to himself, “I’d be fired on the spot if anybody saw us.”
“Nobody has to see us,” she crooned. “Nobody has to know. I’ll meet you later. Anyplace you say.”
Birdwell stared at her disbelievingly. Fourteen years old, he thought to himself. Only fourteen years old! How can she know so much? He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on making his voice firm. “No!” he said. “Absolutely not! You’re a wicked girl. The only excuse I can find for you is that you’re too young to realize the evil of what you’re suggesting. I want you to go now, Wilma. Right now! I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to forget this ever happened. And I want you to do the same.”
Wilma looked at him coolly, disdainfully even. Then she turned on her heel and started from the room.
Being a pedant, Mr. Birdwell couldn’t resist a parting shot. “I’d advise you, Wilma,” he called after her, “to put such unclean thoughts out of your mind and concentrate on memorizing your algebra equations.”
Wilma didn’t answer. But she did bend over and slip her skirt up in back; her naked behind wiggled hot, erotic disdain at the teacher. She knew she didn’t have it in her to master algebra. The subject baffled her. But men didn’t. Neither did women, for that matter. Her plan to seduce Birdwell in order to pass Algebra-l had failed, but Wilma had a substitute plan. Now, immediately, she put it into effect.
She went to the office of the assistant principal of the high school. The assistant principal was a woman. Wilma chose her, rather than the principal, who was a man, because she felt the female point of view would prove more sympathetic and helpful in regard to the delicate matter she wished to raise.
“It’s Mr. Birdwell,” she told the assistant principal candidly -- imposing a woman-to-woman intimacy upon the school official. “He’s always looking up my dress.”
The lady understood. She also understood that the reputation of the school must not be smirched. Wilma’s accusation, even though it wasn’t backed up, was enough to make her take certain precautions.
She had a talk with Mr. Birdwell. He was instructed to keep his eyes above waist level where his students were concerned. He was also instructed to change Wilma Malden’s seat to one in the rear of the classroom where, presumably, she would no longer distract him from his teaching.
Thus, when the final examination in Algebra-1 was given, Wilma was able to refer to the crib cards she’d inserted in her stocking tops without fear of being caught. Even if Mr. Birdwell saw her, he wouldn’t dare admit that his eyes had once again fallen on forbidden flesh. She passed the test with flying colors. . . .
And again, when she was seventeen. Fully developed now, tall and slender, a hot-eyed girl with flaming red hair and a strange, insistent allure. She had a summer job as a salesgirl in Joe Ambler’s General Store
“That yellow organdy we got in yesterday is beautiful.” Wilma’s fingers trailed lightly over the back of Joe’s neck.
“You like it, huh?” He patted her behind.
“Oh, yes!” She didn’t flinch.
He reached under her skirt and gently pinched the warm flesh of her buttocks. “It’s yours,” he said when she didn’t move.
That was the end of June. In mid-July, Wilma asked him for a raise.
“Well, I don’t know.” His voice was teasing. His hand closed over the peasant blouse she was wearing.
“Please, Joe. Another five dollars a week would make all the difference.”
He reached inside the low-cut peasant blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. His hands were hot and sweaty caressing the hardening tips of her breasts. “All right,” he agreed, breathing fast.
Then August. A shortage in the day’s receipts. “Wilma!”
“I took it,” she admitted calmly. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“Fifty bucks? That I mind!”
Guiding his hands over her body, “Do you, Joe?” “Come in the back.” Hot kisses, bodies pasted together and moving in rhythm, flesh-swelling excitement. Then, “Take off your clothes, sweetie.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“Just that. No. I won’t take off my clothes.” Wilma’s voice was calm.
“Now look, kid, I overlook fifty bucks missing, I want more for my money than a quick feel and a couple of kisses. Now come on, you’re gonna come across.”
“No.”
“If you don’t wise up fast, Wilma, I’m gonna call the sheriff and tell him you been stealing from me.”
“No you won’t.”
“I won’t, huh?” Joe Ambler was getting angry. “And why not?”
“Because if you do, I’ll tell him about these.” Wilma pulled open the drawer of Joe Ambler’s desk and took out at handful of four-by-four photographs backed with cardboard. She tossed them face up on top of the desk. “You know what he’d do if he found out you were peddling dirty pictures?”
“Now, wait a minute -”
“And to high school boys, too,” Wilma continued. “You could go to jail for that. I’ve seen you bringing them in back here to sell them. And you an elder of the church, Joe. Aren’t you ashamed?”