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Allison

EXTRACT FOR
Allison's Detention 
(Argus)


Allison's Detention

Allison's Detention

 

I didn't go to university because I like school. I've always hated school, to be perfectly honest. I hate just sitting there and doing boring stuff. I want to be out and moving! I love moving! I love dancing, the faster the better! Sitting in a chair for hours bores the living shit out of me!

But at the same time I have the same desire for money as anyone else. I had pondered, as the end of high school loomed large, what I was going to do once I had to actually go get a job. I already had a closer acquaintance with boring-as-shit jobs than I really wanted. I'd worked in restaurants and as a receptionist and as a cashier.

Ugh! BORING!

Not only boring but really low paying.

And it seemed to me that the only way to get a better job was to go to university. There were two problems with that. The first was that I didn't really want to go to university and sit in boring classes listening to boring lectures about boring stuff I had no interest in. The second was that I had held the same attitude through high school, so didn't exactly have great marks.

The first thing I had to do was figure out what I wanted to do. Become a lawyer? Ugh! Too boring! A doctor? Ugh! Too gory! A nurse? And deal with bleeding people!? No thanks! A vet? I saw a documentary on a vet once where he had to shove his hand up a cow's ass. No thanks!

A scientist? Well, there were a lot of different kinds, but frankly, they all seemed boring to me. And I didn't think I was that smart anyway. Become a teacher and put up with stupid sulky brats like me? Nu uh! If there was a way to make money dancing I'd do that, but the only way I could think of was to become a stripper.

Now I didn't have anything morally against being a stripper. But while I wasn't exactly a virgin the thought of taking my clothes off and spreading my legs in front of rooms filled with men did not exactly appeal to me except on a fantasy level. I mean, I'm not shy, and I have a lot of confidence in my body and looks, but come on!

I leafed through the college and university catalogs trying to get inspired, trying to find something that would pay decently and not bore me out of my mind. What I eventually settled on was Physical Therapy. I could get a well-paying job then where I hardly ever had to sit at a desk and work on a computer. That sounded cool! And unlike others it didn't require I have super high grades in math or science.

I thought I had a decent chance of qualifying to get into the four year course. The problem was I had to submit stuff like volunteer experience and a submission letter about why I wanted to be a physical therapist. Which was a pain. I wanted to do it because it sounded like I'd kind of like it and would make a lot of money. What more did they want?

So I cheated. I do that a lot at school. Big deal. The courses are easy anyway. I zip through the books in nothing flat. Sticking around and listening to the boring lectures and then doing the boring homework takes time away from dancing and other stuff, like guys. Doing homework is usually easier if some friendly guy lets you copy his – and most guys are pretty friendly to me.

So I made my submission, which included a submission letter largely made up of stuff I'd found on the internet, and some imagined volunteer experience, and I got accepted. I felt pretty good about that! And everything was working fine until June when Mr. Connors, the Vice Principle, called me into his office.

He and I had a bit of a history. He was always yelling at me for skipping school, or being caught doing things I wasn't supposed to be doing and being places I wasn't supposed to be. I'd been given detention any number of times, along with extra homework I usually got some guy to do.

Have I mentioned I'm pretty good looking? I am. I have a really nice body, too. Put those together and boys, I had discovered, pretty much always did whatever I hinted I wanted them to do. The trick is to give them a little, so they're always wanting more.

For doing a homework assignment I could usually get away with giving a guy a hand job. If it was really complicated or time-consuming I might have to do a blow job, but those were easy. I have a knack, and not much gag reflex, if you take my meaning. And it's fun to see guys turn into gurgling rubber when I play with their little man.

Mr. Connors had accused me of having guys do my homework a number of times, but he couldn't prove it. I did read the books, at least, and I have a really good memory, so I could usually answer the questions he challenged me with. I figured this was something similar.

Whenever I had to see Mr. Connors I wore my hair in a pony tail, because I had heard through the grapevine he had a thing for pony tails. I don't know whether it's true or not but I never miss a chance to get an advantage.

Besides, I like flirting. Especially dangerous flirting. You had to be real subtle if you were flirting with a teacher, especially one of those stern, no-nonsense types like Connors. I mostly do it with guys like him to taunt them, to tease them, and to see if I can get any kind of reaction.

I mean, they sure couldn't show one! Not if they wanted to keep their jobs! So I knew he would ignore whatever I did, or try to. But I liked the feeling that even while he was glaring at me he was thinking I was hot. And I was pretty sure that had an influence on his punishments too.

Anyway, I liked it and it didn't cost anything, so why not? He was even a kind of attractive guy in a weird way. I mean, he was tall, thick chested, and had broad shoulders, all of which I like. He wasn't bad looking and had decent hair. He was also more than twice my age, and very much a stern kind of guy, too, which made the very thought of teasing him deliciously dangerous.

Okay, it was bratty too. So? You know there used to be a thing called bear baiting? People would taunt bears that were in cages, poke them with sticks and stuff, just to hear them roar. Of course, they never did that if the bears weren't in the cages! But Mr. Connors was in his cage. He was a teacher, and couldn't possibly show any sort of physical reaction to me, nor even express any thought that I was hot looking.

I pondered what to wear. I did keep a few extra things in my locker, after all. But then I had a thought that maybe this was related to my physical trainer thing. The school, of course, knew about it, as they did about every student's application. They went over all the applications with you and often sent along recommendations with your marks.

So I hurried to the gym and my locker there (seniors had their own permanent locker) and quickly changed into my sweat pants and tank top. I would use the excuse that I had been in the gym exercising! Puurrrfect! And if the sweat pants were kind of low on my hips – which was certainly the way I wore them, and the tank top revealed a nice amount of my toned belly – which it did, so much the better!

Then I hurried to the office and was shown in to see Mr. Connors.

I put my patented innocent look on my face along with a perky smile like I had no idea I'd done anything wrong and had a completely free conscience. Of course, as far as I knew I actually hadn't done anything wrong, recently anyway, so I felt reasonably innocent.

“Hi, Mr. Connors,” I said in my perky voice.

He glowered at me.

“Miss Stewart,” he said. “I've been going through the college applications.”

“Oh that's all finished,” I interrupted. “They already accepted me.”

He glowered again. “Lips closed until I say otherwise,” he said.

I shrugged and made a bit of a face like “Oookaaaaay!”

“You've got a number of volunteer jobs listed on your application,” he said, reading it, and then looking up at me. “But you've turned down every opportunity for volunteer work which the school has offered you.”

The school thought kids should get 'life experience' doing all sorts of volunteer shit, most of which sucked ass, really. Why should I volunteer at some seniors’ center or go feed icky poor people at a soup kitchen, let alone cut grass for shut-ins?

“Uhm, yeah, I uh, did those on my own time,” he said.

“Really,” he said in a very doubtful voice.

He came around the desk and then propped his butt on the edge.

“Are you aware, Miss Stewart, that we have a very sophisticated system for picking up on cheating?”

“Uhm, oh?” I said.

“Yes, it can do some amazing things. It searches the internet for phrases from submission letters, for example, looking for plagiarism.”

Uh ooooooh.

“Uh huhhhh?” I asked innocently.

“Most of your submission letter was plagiarized, Miss Stewart.”

“It was not!” I said indignantly.

“It also scans and compares phone numbers.”

“Huh?”

“This place you volunteered at – .

He turned and snatched up a paper on his desk, then turned back to me.

“St Joseph's summer children's program,” he said, reading it.

He looked up at me. “The phone number happens to be that of April Foster, who, by stunning coincidence, is on your volleyball team.”

“It is!?” I gasped, wide eyed. “Well, I must have just put down the wrong – .

“And this one, the Joint Reaction Health Center, the phone number matches that of Brent Thomas, who is also a student here and who I've seen you eating lunch with on a number of occasions.”

“I... know Brent,” I said cautiously.

“In fact, every phone number is one of your friends, Miss Stewart. Because you didn't volunteer at any of these places. You're too selfish to volunteer your time for free.”

“I am not selfish!” I said indignantly.

“You plagiarized your cover letter and lied about your references. It's my responsibility to inform the college of this.”

I stared at him, my jaw dropping as I suddenly realized the implications. If he told the college they'd probably take back their acceptance!

“You can't do that!” I blurted.

He raised his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest.

“I mean... I mean why would you do that, Mister Connors?” I asked, making my voice sound more, uhm, pleading.

“Because it's my job and my responsibility,” he said, glaring at me.

“But... but... if you do that they might not take me!”

“Oh there's no if. They will definitely retract their acceptance and give it to some other applicant who really did volunteer work and really wrote their own submission letter. Which would seem quite fair to me.”

I opened my eyes to protest, but felt a wild rush of emotion and confusion. If that happened... how would I explain to everyone, including my parents!? What would I do now!? It was too late to apply anywhere else!

“But... but isn't there some way I could... make it up!?” I exclaimed.

“By volunteering in all kinds of things you claim here to have done for the last several years? I don't think you have several years’ worth of time to build up your reputation as a nice person, Miss Stewart.”

“I am a nice person!” I said indignantly.

“You,” he said, “Are an arrogant, selfish, smug, entitled little brat with no respect for anyone but yourself.”

I stared at him in outrage. The problem was, there was probably a few kernels of truth in that but shit, why did I owe my time to some people I'd never even met!? And so maybe I was a bit... bratty but hey, there are lots worse!

“I'm not smug,” I said lamely.

He snorted. “You know you're a beautiful girl and you use that to get what you want. You presume it entitles you to be treated differently, to get special treatment and favors you don't have to pay for.”

He paused. “Although from what I've heard you do pay for some of those favors.”

I opened my mouth indignantly again!

“Yes, just that way,” he said.

I was just working out what I was going to say when he said that. That threw me for a loop because it made it even more obvious what he meant! Should he be saying that to a student!?

“Come now, Allison, you're eighteen now. Not a child. You're an adult... well, technically, even if you act amazingly immature. Adults have responsibilities as well as benefits. And they get the full weight of punishment. Children might be spanked. Adults go to prison. You see the difference?”

“People don't spank children anymore,” I said sullenly.

“Oh sure they do. Maybe not your progressive liberal parents, but lots still have this old-fashioned notion that if you don't give your kid a few smacks on the ass now and then it might become a spoiled brat.”

“I am not a spoiled brat!” I protested.

“You're also an adult now. So, suppose you tell me why I should let you get off scott free?”