“Very good,” Ms. Swanson said approvingly. “Very nicely done. You are a dancer, aren’t you, dear?”
They watched each other as Claire took a step toward the door. Abruptly her head snapped slightly to the right when she saw something in the corner of her eye. It was a large rectangular mirror attached to the coat closet door. It was filled with a reflection of her.
Claire stared at herself. Her beautiful breasts were bobbing free. Her shirt was like a vest now, hanging by her sides. Her skirt was still managing to lay on her loins. Her boots were still on her feet. Now she was totally aware of her amazing chest, waist, rear, and legs. Suddenly she knew how remarkable she looked to them.
She bolted, bending from the waist as her hand flailed for her mouth. The assaults, sweat, and saliva had loosened the adhesive. Her fingers got under the edge first try. She twisted her torso so her other hand could swing for the front doorknob – dreading that it would be locked. To her astonishment, it wasn’t. She ripped off the tape at the same moment she threw open the obstruction. One step and she was outside.
Ms. Swanson’s claw was in her hair, the other slamming a small sodden cushion over her nose. Al’s arms were around her chest and waist, dragging her back.
He kicked her legs out from under her, and then they were all in a pile by the door – the deliveryman kneeling on her ass, holding her wrists, while the teacher leaned on her back, dragging her head up by her hair and lower face.
But still, the front door wasn’t closed. “Look, look,” Ms. Swanson urged. “Mr. Liebman from across the way is walking his dog!”
Claire stared in wonderment from the doorsill. It was true. A middle-aged man was across the street, walking behind a leashed beagle. She screamed and heaved and kicked with all her might, but the man didn’t look.
“C’mon, Clairey,” the deliveryman chided, slapping her on the ass. “You’re gonna hafta do better than that!”
The girl went crazy beneath them as they bore down on her, laughing. No matter how youthful and vital, her hundred pounds was no match for two grown psycho's. Claire’s fingers clawed in Al’s grip as the anesthetic clawed into her head. She lost consciousness, head drooping, just as Liebman looked over.
“Hey there Dotty, Al,” he called, waving. “How you doing?”
“Great, Sy,” the teacher called back, nimbly shifting to her feet so her body blocked the view of most of the girl. Al noted that, with her head down, Claire’s hair blended neatly into the carpet. “And how you doing this fine day?”
“Fine, fine,” he assured them before returning his attention to the squatting dog.
Swanson stood for a few moments more, allowing Al to drag the girl back all the way inside by her ankles, before she stepped up, in, and slowly closed the door.
TO BE CONTINUED