Getting away

There they are again, she thought. My breasts. Getting in the way.

Chrissy Dallatore straightened up slightly and the 15 boys sitting arrayed before her in desks shifted with her, with some exchanging wolfish grins and whispered jokes. Her loose v-necked sweater had opened just enough to flash a little cleavage as she bent over, and her history lesson was once again grounded by teenage hormones.

Little was a very relative term. Her breasts measured as 38-D, huge on her tiny frame, and though she covered them with loose blouses and sweatshirts, it seemed a neverending game at Fieldings Academy among some of the more licentious boys to see just how they could get her to inadvertently flash them. Fucking tits, she thought with equal measures of self-disgust and pity.

Of course she had heard of the nicknames. Mrs. Tits. BC -- for big chest, she supposed. Christina Cleavage. She found herself gripping tighter in frustration one of the string of pearls she habitually wore around her neck. It was never Chrissy’s idea to get implants. They had been foisted upon her 18 years ago by her first boyfriend, Ken. A large, abusive lout of an older man, he had paid for them himself a year after her daughter had been born, just as Chrissy turned 18, legal age in her state, as part of his insidious but relentless and ultimately successful effort to break her down. Her mother dead and her father frightening to her, she acquiesced to Ken’s suggestions gradually, over months, in equal parts to get her freedom from a terrible homelife and his approval. Now the dead, sagging weight of them at age 36 caused her regular shoulder and back pain and made bathing suits impossible in the heat of San Robles, a small town on the Texas panhandle she and her 16-year-old daughter had recently moved to as part of her latest attempt to renew herself.

Chrissy stood up straight and stared blankly at the students before her until their self-consciousness finally created silence.

“We’ll take a five-minute break,” she said tonelessly.

The class relaxed as she turned her back and walked to her desk and resumed grading papers. A few of the boys grinned and two high-fived, a gesture she saw but chose to ignore. Score one for ignorance, she thought. She ran her fingers idly through her bobbed blonde hair as her mind irresistibly flashed back to another scene, more than a decade old, of another high-five she saw from the corner of her eye, except this little celebration wasn’t as hidden. This celebration came as Chrissy felt the pressure of the hand pressing down on the back of her head and the head of a cock slipping into her throat as the three boys around her in the convertible laughed and cheered. Her shirt was open, her panties and skirt down around her ankles, and her lips were tightening as the boys laughed. One of them sprayed beer from a bottle onto the back of her blouse, causing her skin to chill and her nipples to harden even more, as another reached from the front seat to guide his hand along her ass, which even then was dangerously overdeveloped for such a young girl. Still another hand snapped her bra strap across her back and she knew that sooner or later, like her panties, that piece of clothing would come off, and be gone like a trophy to one of the boys for whom she had waited patiently on the sidewalk before her home that night.

“Keep sucking,” one of the boys said, and she ran her lips along his shaft. That settled him, like it usually did. When he finally came, he pulled her head away from his crotch and sprayed her face, causing more laughter, before making her lick him clean and start over again on his replacement in the back seat. And so it went all night until, she suspected, she had earned the money Ken kept from her.

Just a whore, she thought bleakly, looking down at the papers she began to grade. A useless whore, even before Ken found me. At the time, she thought it sexy, dangerous, and made her cool. Chrissy also knew how much it turned her on, even then. She rubbed her legs together quickly, her pulse quickening with that queer longing she always felt, and just as suddenly regained self-control. I am not that person any more, she declared firmly to herself, and I never will be again.

“Unless you gentlemen want more homework,” she called out to the class crossly, “you had better settle down.”

With that came another classroom wide plunge into silence and a grim sort of satisfaction. Find your power center, she recalled her psychologist telling her, that place deep within you from which all good things flow. Find that, remember that, and no one can ever harm you again. She pulled her shoulders back in pride, suddenly not caring whether they caused her breasts to thrust outward. I am the boss here, she thought.

In her own case, her power center was her daughter, Danica. Just having turned 16, Danica was naturally beautiful in every way her mother was not: wide, soft lips, inviting smile, and natural 34-D breasts. She was even about three inches taller than her mother, with long legs and an impish nature that belied her mother’s solemnity. Her pride, her joy, Danica was to her mother the greatest cause for going back to school at age 22, finishing at age 25 with a teaching degree, and finally years later setting aside the lucrative but degrading life as a sex worker in Los Angeles.

Chrissy was pretty sure that Ken was Danica's father. He always said so, and the timing was right. Danica attended the academy as a relatively rare female student. There were about three girls for every 10 boys at Fieldings, but she seemed to be well-respected as an athlete -- she was a swimmer -- and student. Having a mother on the faculty, even as its most junior member, probably helped too, Chrissy thought with a smile.

At least Danica can feel secure, her mother thought. One year of probation, one more year as junior faculty, a review board examination and letters of recommendation from three faculty members separated Chrissy from that security. The tension of the school was constant, pervasive, and at times Chrissy wondered whether high academic standards and moneyed students and patrons were the only reason for it. She knew well from her time on the street that secrets wove their way like tendrils through everyday existence, that the things that often appeared normal were often deviant, and that which looked deviant could be shockingly normal. She wondered if she would ever feel at home anywhere.

Chrissy hated to admit it, but the wealth and aristocracy of the place sometimes excited her. It reminded her of all the things she had spent her life trying to achieve, and sometimes she found herself accepting the latent snobbishness, the curious detachment and the secret smiles sent her way by the richest and even youngest members of the school’s inner cliques without complaint. Sometimes she wondered if she deserved them. For who was she, really? That’s why she made sure that teachers whom she felt knew her well enough to call her by her first name called her Christina, never Chrissy. Chrissy was a name from her past, like the character she once was who so often found herself naked in back seats or bedrooms, kneeling and holding up her breasts like offerings to be cum or spat upon, lost in the weird haze of the moment that overcame her whenever she saw the looks in their eyes.

Her breasts again. Chrissy decided then and there to determine whether the small raise she would get during Christmas break would be enough to allow her to pay for the surgery that would rid her of those implants, the last reminders of the life she had left behind.