Your Servant, Abigail - Sex Stories

Your Servant, Abigail

The Headmistress' office was a classic wooden paneled affair. Lovely desk, tall arched windows with stained glass on the top. The walls were lined with several cupboards hiding mysterious things, and elegantly framed photographs from past classes and events. It was warmly lit yet oddly colder today. Abigail Ferguson stood in front of the desk and waited. She had been waiting for almost ten minutes. She was, of course, early for the post-dismissal meeting; punctuality was something Headmistress Swan insisted on, and a strong habit of hers from her days at school on Shetland. Her five foot three fit and busty frame was adorned with the official green jumper for the Hatley School complete with crest. It should have afforded sufficient warmth. No, the chill that the twenty-four-year-old first year teacher felt was from within.

Abigail was half-way through her first year at Hatley on Trent and felt she had fit in quite nicely. A brilliant student at Uni in Edinburgh and then Oxford after for her Masters made her an ideal candidate to replace the retiring Literature teacher here at the all-boys school. From day one she had enjoyed her time. The staff were social and supportive, the Headmistress was stern yet fair, and the boys, well...they adored her. Her striking ginger curls combined with her striking green eyes, made her a perfect teacher fantasy for raging hormones.

"It comes with the territory," Sandra Greystone, her mentor and Sciences teacher had told her during her ...

... orientation days last July. "They will stare and make jokes and may even a pass, the sixth forms for certain, but they know who is in charge."

And that was Headmistress Marta Swan.

The formidable woman stood a stunning six foot one. And with her trademark heels she towered over the entire staff and most of the students. She had stern yet elegant features and a dirty blonde hairstyle that hinted at her Nordic heritage. At fifty-seven she looked forty. Her eyes told any observer she was not to be trifled with.

It was a Friday in early October. The leaves were well on their way and the boiler had been stoked. A lovely blue sky hinting at earlier sunsets, was a normally comforting view. So why was Abigail so nervous? The note had been delivered by Mr. Carson, the administrating secretary and Headmistress' right hand. It simply said, "Office, 5 pm."

Abigail looked at the stately mantle clock that was at least one hundred-years-old and saw it was now five past. To the relief of her butterflies and sweaty palms the door to Headmistress' rooms opened and she strode in, perfect black suit and skirt ensemble impeccably non-wrinkled, black hose and heels completing the look. She sat in her large leather chair and checked a file she was carrying. After a pause Abigail sensed was a powerplay she looked up and said, "Oh sit, please, Ferguson." Abigail nodded and took the green upholstered chair and sat on the front with excellent posture.

"I imagine you are a bit anxious to ...