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deal of screaming and threatening, for she had not yet reached that level of maturity which elicits spontaneous respect from children. Also, she felt she had to uphold the official educational dogma, and so dutifully taught the uncomprehending urchins all about the French and Indian War, the formal structure of the United States government, and other bits of esoterica.
    Were it left to her, she would ground them firmly in the scope of the English language and mathematics, and devote the rest of the time to music and dance and games. Yet she was too unsure of herself to be so daring, and in any case, such radicalism would have cost her her job. So, like all her colleagues, she acquiesced in the stupidity.
    After classes, she’d returned home and spent the afternoon literally fluttering about, bathing, getting a bit high, staring out the window, playing with her cat. She was going to see Julia at eight, and until then had nothing to do but think about the extraordinary event of the night before, Eliot’s proposal of marriage.
    It had been a year since she’d met him in Julia’s office. She’d been somewhat put off by the short, squat man with his blunt fingers and vulgar staring at her breasts. But at the same time, something in her had tingled. Perhaps it was the wealth he controlled, or some unworked-out fantasy about being whisked about the world in a private jet. The speculation about prostitution, which visits most people who are honest with themselves, had struck her sharply, given that fact that it could become a reality, and it carried more clout than she’d expected. She was old and knowledgeable enough to understand that her probable destiny, given the way her life was moving, held nothing more fascinating than becoming a spinster schoolteacher, or the wife of a high school principal. Unless she were rescued by some utopian adventure or a pleasant bit of wickedness, she had many dull years to look forward to.
    When Eliot came on to her, directly, strongly, holding out a promise of promises, she found herself responding to the potential behind the invitation. He took her number, called her two days later, and that night she was lying on his bed, looking at herself in the mirror fastened to his ceiling, as he reamed her wildly and piled into her like a fullback blasting into a line. That much she was prepared for, but what took her totally by surprise was the tenderness that followed. Her orgasm had been hard and fierce, a grinding affair which had her tucking her cunt down between her thighs, contracting her buttocks until they were rock hard, and offering Eliot nothing but a simple hot hole to fuck. Her pelvic resistance was offset by the wealth of expressiveness showing on her face. He had to fuck her for more than an hour to get past all the obvious defenses she threw up around letting go. It was a game he enjoyed more than any other. It was always a bit strange for him when beautiful women went to bed with him. He knew that they were usually mesmerized by his wealth, but he didn’t understand how that translated into the odd forms of abandon they manifested once they were both naked. He did not have the capacity for abstract thought which would have uncovered the connecting factor: the same force which drove Eliot to power and money revealed itself in his love-making, a kind of sensitive brutality almost irresistible to vulnerable women.
    Gail’s attitude had been, “Let the son of a bitch work!” She found herself curious about what he would be like, what it would feel like to have all that energy exploding inside her. But she wasn’t going to give anything away. Ironically, by holding back, she gave everything away. For Eliot knew how to go after a woman, how to punish and how to caress, how to thrust and how to hold back, how to tease and how to satisfy. And he was tireless. And a true enjoyer. He moved into her from a score of different angles, moving until he could feel the juices flowing in her and