Half Full

by Eva

I suppose I am the luckiest woman alive, or you could say the unluckiest. It depends, as always, how you view these things. Half empty or half full.

I like to think it's more the half full side. I didn't have Sasha before and it's better to have her this way than not at all. And sometimes she is kind. Really she is, and I know that without her I'd be totally empty.

I'd be drained, though she does -- delightfully -- drain me occasionally when I am in her company. When she allows it.

Sasha. My beautiful, intelligent little Sasha. You would, no doubt, like a description of her here. Well, she is not very tall, at least not for her age. She's eleven and in a way looks as if she is nine. Blonde, which I prefer, crystal clear blue-green (that subtle shade drives me mad) and she has the most appealing smile ever. She could pass for a nine year old, maybe even an eight year old, but on her chest she has two small signs that she is maturing; small bumps admittedly and she refuses so far to wear a bra. She likes that I look at her chest and I like her without anything between her puffy nipples and the world, save for a thin shirt or sweater. Sometimes, when the light catches her right, across the classroom, you can see the shape of her small boobs-to-be. Maybe she will be like her mother and have small, high but definite breasts. But that will be some years away, I'm sure.

Looking at her chest? Ah yes, that was how it started. I'm a teacher and teachers see all sorts of things in the course of the job. I am 51, and like all so called veteran teachers we have seen it all over many years. And we have to look for things. You know; behaviour problems, bad attitude, reluctance to be social, plus all the usual education issues such as dyslexia and autism. I know Sasha doesn't have any of those, and she's social and bright and friendly and...

Perfect to look at. And that, as I say, was the start of it all.

My name is Ginny. Short, if you must know, for Virginia, but the kids would have a field day if they knew I had Virgin in my name. Of course the names of grown ups always fascinate kids. 'Tell us your name Miss,' they urge. "My name is Mrs Sonders. That's like Saunders but with an 'o'," I explain. "But you can call me Miss."

Kids do that anyway. 'Mrs' is a foreign country to them; teachers like me are always called Miss. I could explain that it has been many years since I was a Miss. I have been married to Bob for no less than 27 years and I always say I am happily married if anyone asks.

Am I? I don't know what that means; happiness they say is something you only recognise when you haven't got it. When it's gone. The theme of a Joni Mitchell song, if I remember correctly. I am married and Bob has grown old like me. We have both put on a little weight, though I try harder than him to keep mine under control. What do I think of him? Hmmm... Bob is, well, he is himself. Not sure what I expected when I got married but I didn't expect to be thinking of a small girl as we approached our thirtieth year in a relationship. But Sasha occupies all my thoughts these days, and that was why I was caught looking once too often.

I blustered of course when Sasha said she was telling her mother about me staring at her. I told her it was teacher's job to look at all her pupils and make sure they were all okay.

"Even when they have a very thin top on and their little boobs show through?" The little girl even pushed her small, developing chest at me so I got the point.

"Sasha Edmonds! That's silly! And rude," I admonished. Almost said it like I really was offended. "I am your teacher and as such I deserve respect. Now, don't be such a silly thing and let's not say anything more about this."

But she carried on. She wore thin tops even more and seemed to know where to stand so the light from the big classroom windows went through the top and I saw two small but distinct titties on show. I swear she even rubbed herself a little to make her puffy little nipples stand out. And what did that do to my nipples? I am ashamed to say they got hard. My nips always do when I am aroused; it's just that for the best part of twenty years Bob hasn't aroused me.

But little posing, posturing, pouting Sasha was arousing me now. I could feel a dampness in my pants as I stared. And she smiled because she knew.

Oh, and she would wear tight little skirts -- completely inappropriate for a small school girl -- and she would wiggle her little rear as she walked. Even other teachers noticed; Mrs Greenhough, the headmistress finally commented on it. Old Greenie as the kids call her seems usually to be as blind as bat, but she saw Sasha wiggling past her in her tight skirt with her cute arse -- sorry, I am English and there is a basic Anglo-Saxon urge to use such primitive words when you see something so raw -- and commented on it to me. Inappropriate, was the word she used. Inappropriate for a school like ours.

Fuck her, I thought. I like it so shut up. But she wouldn't and I have my duties. Had them then, anyway.

It was when Sasha was bent over one day and her skirt rode up and I could see the little triangle of her white knickers where they disappeared from view that I was finally moved to speak to her. "Tell my mum, not me," said Sasha with a curious mix of indignation and amusement. "She buys these for me to wear."

I was trapped. I had to tell her mother. The school was noticing and I felt obliged to be a caring teacher. I summoned Mrs Gail Edmonds to meet me after school one evening, and she was sweetness and light. And yes, she knew.

"Sasha tells me you stare at her a lot," said the woman. She was an older version of her daughter in many ways. About thirty, I reckoned. She had her only child young and kept her figure, or nature didn't exact any revenge for bearing a child. I had borne one child, Adelaide, two years after I was married and my figure never quite recovered. Addy as I called her even had a daughter of her own, Mistral, she was called; six years old and cute. But not as cute as Sasha. No one could be.

But now I had Mrs Edmonds sat in front of me and I felt increasingly uncomfortable. I had, in effect, been 'outed' by Sasha. She had, it seems, told her mother about me staring. In some detail, apparently, because the woman had a mental list of dates and occasions. It made it sound like I never took my eyes off the child.

Which was partly true.

I won't bore you with my objections, or my careful reasoning why teachers must be responsible. No matter what I said, and frankly it bored even me to hear it, Mrs Edmonds merely nodded and her eyes twinkled. "I could imagine some people would be impressed, maybe even overawed, by your performance," she said. "But the truth is you are an old pervert who gets off on looking at pretty girls."

I put on a good show of horrified indignation, but she wore me down. My defences were shot away. I must have looked guilty, or lost. But Mrs Edmonds came to my rescue. "You need to hear what my daughter has to say about this. I presume you know where we live," the woman said as she stood to leave. "We will expect you at seven tonight. Alone," she added. "And wear something smart."

I spent the next three hours in some turmoil. Bob, my husband, barely noticed. I was in a quandary: I was being told what to do, and there seemed to be dramatic implications. Sasha's mother had distinctly said that I was expected by more than one person. That was the 'we' she indicated. But while it was unusual for a teacher to go to a parent's house, it wasn't unknown. But why was I told to wear something smart? I always dressed appropriately for my job as a teacher; a formal suit, usually, with below the knee skirt. A clean white blouse, usually one buttoned up to the neck. Sensible shoes, but then I was often on my feet. But I had been ordered, and that was the inescapable feeling that rose in me. The home visit wasn't my choice, and the need to dress better wasn't mine either.

I was in a complete dilemma. Part of me said, 'don't go,'-- but the part that said 'go but be careful' won. If nothing else I thought it would be a chance to see Sasha again, and I could always deny anything thrown at me by the girl or her mother. Teachers are often accused of things they don't do, and my long record was spotless.

I put on black trousers and a new, unworn red and white pattern blouse with a low, scoop neck I was saving for a dinner with old colleagues. Bob was only vaguely interested that I was going out and I drove to the Edmonds house in so much of a state of nervous tension that I was halfway there before I realised I'd left my handbag at home. I didn't even have my mobile phone on me, and no money. This was, I was sure, the one time Bob would actually notice anything and demand to know why I had gone out without the things I always carried.

But at least Bob couldn't call me with my phone at home, and nor could anyone else. As much as I love my daughter Adelaide, I really didn't want a call about Mistral's latest pranks interrupting my evening.

But I had been more than stupid in my eagerness to get out. In fact I was so stupid I had failed to see that I had very little petrol, and the car chugged to a halt a good few hundred yards short of the Edmonds home. Worse, as I walked there it began to rain. I felt utterly miserable. Maybe, after all, I had been completely wrong to even think of this.

I must have looked like a drowned rat as I arrived at the Edmonds' front door. My new blouse was soaked, probably ruined, and I couldn't blame them if I was the last person they wanted in their home. Walking the three miles home in this weather filled me with dread.

To her credit, Mrs Edmonds did nothing more than raise an eyebrow as she opened the door. "You had better come in," she said, 'before the weather gets worse."

I mumbled my gratitude and entered, aware that I was in danger of leaving puddles on their polished hall floor.

Then I got my next shock: "You were told to look smart," said the woman, a tad coldly as she eyed me up and down.

"I know," I began, "but the rain caught me out--"

"Well, never mind, it's just you and me. I will get you a towel to sit on while we talk." The woman turned away before I could finish my protestations.

Above all I felt a crushing disappointment; Sasha would not be there and while I was ready to defend my corner against allegations of staring at a child I only came because I hoped to see her. I felt angry with myself. I had been monumentally stupid, and I opened my mouth to ask if I could use her phone and call Bob and ask him to pick me up.

Mrs Edmonds didn't look as if she wanted to be asked anything and she lay a towel on the sofa and gestured to me to sit on it. I felt small and humiliated. Here I was, a mature, respected teacher who had been caught staring at a small girl (and I wasn't sure why I couldn't take my eyes off her in class) and from then on I had done everything wrong. I was sure that one day I would laugh about this but I wasn't sure how many years off that would be.

"So, you seem to be in a bit of a state," said the mother as she settled opposite me. She had a light, sunny (and dry) dress on and she looked relaxed and attractive. Everything I didn't feel.

"I can't help the rain," I mumbled.

"Apparently not. Nor can you help looking at my daughter."

"I think," I took a deep breath and shivered, and perhaps not entirely from being wet and cold, "we cleared that up earlier. I told you as a teacher I have to study the children in my care to make sure they--"

"Bullshit," said the woman, curtly. "You stare at Sasha because you lust after her. You won't be the first and probably not the last. Women teachers are so easily swayed by a pretty girl."

I gasped in shock. "I beg your pardon? I do not, and I must repeat most firmly, do that. I never stare at the children in anything other than a professional way."

"So you do stare?"

"What? No! I mean, of course I look. It would be remiss of me to not look. But as for long looks, well..." I gulped and my throat went dry, or maybe the other way round. I managed to croak a bit more: "Sasha is pretty but so too are lots of other girls."

"So you want them too?"

"No," I felt like crying. This was going far worse than I could possibly have imagined. I felt cold and lonely and trapped.

"Listen, Mrs Sonders." The woman was leaning forward. "There is no point in beating round the bush. Whatever Sasha has in spades appears to be some sort of a hold over older women; some kind of power to make them want her. I do mean want, and not some sort of platonic friendship. Im talking about desire. But as I say you are not the first." I began to object that was certainly not the case for me but the woman waved my words aside. "The truth is several women have, for a number of reasons, desired my daughter. Her looks, the way she acts, the clothes she wears--"

"I-I was going to ask you about that," I cut in. "Her mode of dress... They seem, not right in the classroom."

"Her choice," said Mrs Edmonds, and for the first time gave a small resigned shrug. "She won't listen to me."

"You mean, she chooses clothes that..." I couldn't think of the right words.

"Turn women on, yeah," said the mother, again in a resigned way. She passed a weary hand over her brow, then cheered herself a little. "But that is how she is. None of us can help how we are ourselves, let alone demand others ought to behave as we might wish." "She's just a small girl," I said.

"And very attractive. And very wilful. You may not be surprised to learn that she does not take orders easily."

I nodded. If I was honest there were few times she ever did what I said directly; I had learned to try and persuade her rather than demand as a normal teacher might. "So what are you telling me?" If we were being honest there was indeed no point in beating around. "For some reason, and forgive me being blunt, but the strangest thing of all is Sasha is attracted to you. You are a little plump, heavy busted. A bit of a double-chin. A few lines and grey hairs." I felt embarrassed my flaws were being laid out so easily but said nothing. "Of course, there have been women. Other teachers, social workers, even relatives who have wanted to get to know her better, shall we say." Once more the woman looked weary. "We had to move house a couple of times to try to end unwanted interest in her."

I gulped. "Attracted to me? How?"

"Oh, she thinks you are cute." Gail Edmonds waved her hand dismissively. "Can't say I can see it myself, but for whatever reason she chose you."

"I don't understand. Chose?" My heart was pounding in me and I felt hot. Hot enough to make steam rise off me as I dried, I was certain.

"She wants you. That's about it."

"I still don't know what you mean."

The mother laughed. "You really don't know? Goodness, what do they teach in schools today?"

I stared blankly, hardly daring to think the child was somehow attracted to me.

"Look, Mrs Sonders -- do you have a first name?" Gail looked at me as if she couldn't believe ancient teachers had first names.

"Ginny," I said, and blushed. "Well, Virginia, but the kids ought not--"

"Then Ginny will do. Look, Ginny, all this may or may not be a shock to you, but there is in the world a condition where small girls take control of adults. Girls taking control of vulnerable women. It may have some mumbo-jumbo name, but I am pretty sure that even if it has it will be a source of either deep controversy or official silence. Most likely the latter."

"W-what control?" I stammered.

"A sort of deep and hypnotic compulsion in mature females to be owned or governed by a small girl. Trouble is, the feeling exists because that is what girls like Sasha do." The woman regarded me carefully, her eyes level. "I did not raise Sasha to do this, but she told me what she wanted. She told me how she was and told me to do something about it."

"When?"

"Oh, she was about six or seven. One day she breezed in and told me she wanted to own women."

"I don't understand what you mean, what own means."

"I am sure you do. Like a person owns a pet."

"Pet? This is wrong," A horror filled me and I swallowed noisily and realised my throat was dry again. "She can't... I'm a teacher. I'm... I'm old enough to be her grandmother."

Gail laughed. "Ah yes, the fact that you are respectable and mature. Reliable, a pillar of society. Oh spare me; the truth is we are what we are, and Sasha is a controller. When she came home and said she had found the woman, I knew what she meant. When she told me it was you she wanted, well... You can imagine how surprised I was."

I felt my face redden. "I am not that bad," I snapped.

"No, you're not, Ginny. Forgive me. But Sasha's last teacher wanted her so badly and she was just twenty four. Fresh out of college. Pretty, with sweet little boobs and a narrow waist but Sasha said she didn't have what it took. Not up to her requirements."

I felt dizzy. Whatever I expected from this had changed direction several times and I was lost. Now the evening of disasters was plunging towards a new chasm. For a reason I can never define, I asked: "What requirements?"

"Patient, loyal, willing, eager, submissive, able to learn."

"Submissive?" I felt like fainting. "No one's ever done that to me."

"Probably not. Not until now."

"You're making this up," I said, determined to salvage some dignity from all this.

"Hardly. But if you are unsure, get up and leave. It may even have stopped raining."

I didn't move. Nor did I when Gail went to make us two cups of tea. To help me get over the shock, she said.

--

We sat and talked. I was feeling better, in one way, but still confused. What is it they say? If you are not confused, you're misinformed? I was trying to get to the moment when I wasn't confused.

Gail talked a lot to me about control, how one person can control another. Make them do things they never expected. Perhaps even that they didn't want. The trick is though to recognise that they only think they don't want it. Really, she said, they do.

And really, she said, I did. I just didn't know it yet.

Sasha was out, visiting some friend. She didn't want to be around when her mum told me I was about to be controlled. That, I was assured, was part of the plan. Yes, there was a plan. Sasha wanted it this way, that the next time I saw her I would obey.

But what did I have to do? I must admit I was shaking slightly when I asked that. You see, it's one thing to accept the theory as it were. The principle is fine when it's remote, but another thing to actually be confronted with it.

Gail shrugged. "That's down to Sasha," she said. She couldn't guess, wouldn't try to. It might be not much, it might be a lot.

"I am a teacher," I pointed out. "I have a family."

"So?"

"So it makes it hard at times to do anything but what has to be done." I felt overwhelmed, like I was about to give up my life.

"Don't worry," said Sasha's mum. "Better if you just accept what you can."

That led me to the big question: Had her child done this before?

Yes, twice. I was number three.

I felt alarmed and reassured at the same time. I wanted to be first. I wanted to be first in Sasha's life. I also felt cheated, that someone had experienced before what I was about to.

Stop.

Stop right there. You will be saying; at what point did you accept what was on offer? The answer is, I really don't know. Part of me thought I had always accepted it. That the first time I saw Sasha in my class, the first time I saw her smile at me. The first time I got a glimpse of her puffy nipples through the thin shirt, the first time she bent in her tight skirt was the moment I knew. But then maybe I was just waiting for someone like her to appear in my life. Replace Bob, put Addy and her silly daughter Mistral -- Christ, the damn kid's named after a wind, for fuck's sake -- into perspective.

And with it I knew I was free, free to be me. I didn't have to pretend any more.

Sasha came in two hours after I had arrived, maybe longer than that. She came up behind me and I saw her mother tense slightly, maybe worried what I would do. But there was no need for her to worry. I sat on the towel on the sofa, leaning against the back of the couch. I didn't turn round. Sasha came up behind me without a word, placed her right hand over my mouth and reached down with her left hand down my now dry blouse, down into my top and held my right breast. Not tight, but enough to let me know it was hers. I simply knew I had to sit and let her do it.

She ran her hand over my boob, then felt inside the bra cup. A new bra, specially put on for tonight, though I wouldn't have easily admitted it. Try to look smart. Sasha didn't say a word either; no comment on the shape or weight of my tits or the fact that my bra felt nice. If she knew I had been wet and dried out, she didn't say. Never asked why I was sat on a towel. But then that was what Gail said: Sasha won't ask anything of me, she will just do it.

Now the girl was feeling me up, and I knew I wasn't required to say anything. Acceptance, that was the key element. I was accepting.

She pinched my nipple. Not hard, but enough for me to know it was what she did to women like me. And hey, there was no problem: I could breathe through my nose. I even waited while she switched hands and felt me up with her other hand.

Pinched my other nipple that little harder.

--

I walked home that night in the rain. Sasha said I had to, or rather told her mum to tell me. There was no need for her to talk to me at all. According to Gail even if I'd driven to their house, or only part of the way to her house, I would still have to walk home. It gave me thinking time as I walked and I didn't care about being wet. I may have been getting wet all over, but the most important dampness was in my knickers.

Bob had gone to bed and was snoring when I got in, so I silently peeled off my wet, ruined clothes in the spare room. I sniffed the damp crotch of my knickers and was satisfied I had made the scent in them because Sasha had handled me. Then I went to bed on my own, remembering being used by Sasha. She would be at school tomorrow, and I knew nothing would be said. Not by me or by my owner.

It was as Gail had explained; you just accept that someone owns you and does what they want. You accept it and are grateful for whatever comes your way.

As I finally went to sleep -- excited and aroused and not daring to touch myself because I knew I didn't have Sasha's permission -- I just hoped that the most beautiful girl ever would smile at me tomorrow in class and wear something thin and a short, tight skirt and show me her panties. Just a hint, please.

And I would wait for the next call to go to her house, or show myself to her or make myself available. I would be patient outwardly but inwardly in a froth, locked in a state of tremulous excitement. Wanting like I have never wanted before. I needed Sasha and I just prayed she needed me, in anyway she wanted. Whenever and however she wanted me.

Half full, like I say, is so much better than always empty.