(This is a story which I have posted elsewhere but which I hope you might enjoy. All the characters in this story are entirely fictional and the rights to them are vested in the author. Any resemblance to real persons, living or departed, is entirely coincidental.)
At 35 Anne Sullivan was what one might politely call plain. She wasn’t – and never really had been – what one might call centrefold material. Even allowing for the fact that most of the entrants would be little more than half her age, there would be little point in her entering the “Miss Luton 1967” contest. She’d met Alec, her husband, at teacher training college back in the Fifties. It wasn’t for her looks that he’d married her though. Oh no. Alec was attracted to her wit, humour, cheekily rebellious nature and liberal values which he shared.
Having begun her teaching career at one of Mr Butler’s bright new secondary modern schools, Anne had taken a lengthy break for family reasons, this time returning to the profession in a very different role in the primary school of a sleepy Home Counties village.
Painfully aware of her all too plain features, Anne had decided that with the arrival of the mini skirt the time had come to show off her best assets. Despite the plainness of her facial features and the smallness of her breasts, she had long, shapely, creamy-silk legs and the arrival of the mini skirt (or rather the capacity of her domestic budget to afford one) presented her with the perfect opportunity to show them off to the best advantage. Perhaps the thought that wearing that mini skirt to school might not be the best thing to do, hadn’t entered her head. If it had, she’d dismissed the the thought.
As she handed in the completed attendance register at the secretary’s office that bright, cool, Tuesday May morning, Miss Brown, the secretary, removed her spectacles and gave Anne a sharp look.
“The headmaster has asked me to tell you that he wishes to see you straight after assembly. Miss Eaton will cover your class for you.”
Anne didn’t particularly like Miss Brown but she understood well enough the old maxim about not shooting the messenger.
“Does he indeed? I wonder what for?”
Miss Brown scowled.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Ten minutes later Anne knocked loudly on the door to Bill Carson’s study.
“Come in!” he bawled.
“You wished to see me, Mr Carson.”
“Yes that’s correct. Please take a seat if you will. Mrs Sullivan, I will come straight to the point. We have certain standards in this school and I expect my staff to uphold them.”
“What have I done wrong, Mr Carson?”
“What have you done wrong? Wearing that thing is what you’re doing wrong.”
Mr Carson pointed an accusing finger in the direction of Anne’s skirt as she crossed, then uncrossed her legs, affording him a flash of her clean white maxi knickers as she did so. She detected a slight bulge in his trousers but kept her counsel. Clearly he was enjoying humiliating her.
“It’s disgraceful. You look like a slut in it, not a highly trained professional. You will go home now and change into something more appropriate. I want you back before morning break though. Miss Eaton will cover your class until then.”
Anne rose to her feet and gave Carson a hard look.
“As you wish, Mr Carson.”
She then released a silent but deadly fart which caused Bill Carson’s eyes to water and made him reach for his handkerchief in an effort to mitigate the stench.
“Mrs Sullivan, we do have a staff lavatory if you don’t mind! Professional standards please.”
Anne didn’t consider it any of Bill Carson’s business to tell her whether she should go to the lavatory or not and wanted him to know what she thought.
“Yes Mr Carson. I’m quite aware of where the staff lavatory is and I will use when I want – if I want. If you don’t mind I’ll go home and change. Good day.”
Leaving the building, Anne cut another smelly fart, then another – and yet another. Not taking the shit she’d really needed earlier before school had been a mistake. She wasn’t going to give old Carson the satisfaction of using the staff toilet though – not after the way he’d just spoken to her. “Parrrpp” – an audiable fart escaped from her bottom as she headed for towards the gate – and Anne sensed her desperation increasing. There was no way she’d make it home without shitting herself (it was after all a 20 minute walk) unless she found an alternative.
It was then that she had an idea. Walking over to the staff car park she spotted Bill Carson’s lovely shiny Morris Minor parked by the fence. Discreetly squatting between the car and the fence, Anne pulled down her knickers and lifted her mini skirt. After a quick but satisfying pee, she pushed and heard that familiar, wonderfully satisfying crackle as the turds slid out of her bottom and on to the far side of old Carson’s prized car. Having nothing to wipe with – and not bothering about it either – Anne pulled her knickers up, let her skirt drop and headed for home. That would teach old Carson!