Thrice Rescued - Sex Stories

Thrice Rescued

... intimidating as Gunny Hopkins was, he didn't hold a candle to Mrs. H when she got wound up. She was a freaking force of nature when that happened. I would also subsequently learn that Gunny and Mrs. H were qualified as foster parents, a legacy of their caring for a niece whose parents had been addicts and lost custody of her. They had successfully finished raising her and the niece was now married to a Marine NCO and had two children.

I had arrived at the latest foster family a few weeks before beginning my freshman year of high school. They were not one of the better families into whose care I had been deposited. The father was an alcoholic, short-tempered and quick to lash out. The family had just had two foster children age out and they had depended on the monthly revenues from those children for their care to make ends meet. Between the alcohol, the temper, the financial strains, and the short time I had to adjust to latest living arrangements, I expected trouble. It came about two weeks after I started high school.

My unstable foster care history had left me woefully behind my peers educationally. On my initial high school assessment test, I'd scored as a fifth grader in reading and a fourth grader in math. That guaranteed me a meeting with Mrs. H shortly after I arrived at her school. The meeting was intended to map out an individual education plan to bring me up to grade level. It turned out to be a great deal more than that.

The morning before I met with ...

... Mrs. H, my foster father had gone off on me. He'd misplaced his wallet and accused me of stealing it. When I couldn't produce it, he'd beaten me, leaving me bruised from shoulders to waist, splitting my lower lip and blackening an eye. I'd managed to escape and had gone to school, expecting a normal day. I'd either forgotten or never known about the meeting with Mrs. H. When my homeroom teacher told me to report to guidance in place of my first period class, I walked down the hall and entered her office. The next thirty minutes changed my life completely.

I'd done the new student drill so often that I could narrate both sides of the conversation. As a foster kid in a new school, I was accustomed to a cursory interview and an immediate relegation to "hopeless, don't waste time on this one" response. Perhaps it was cynical of me, but the last thing I expected when I walked in her door was for Mrs. H to actually care about me.

I had taken a seat with the chair turned to hide the side of my face that my foster father had hit. She opened our conversation by asking me to look at her. When she saw my face, she gasped. "What happened to you?"

I was well acquainted with the need to conceal foster care failings. "I fell."

"Bullshit. There's no way those injuries resulted from a fall. Don't lie to me. If you don't tell me who hit you, I'm calling the police."

I hesitated. She glared at me. She picked up her phone, hit 9 for an outside line and dialed 9-1 and held her finger ...