“Oh my fucking-“ began Dhyanna as she read, before turning to Miss Gonzales. “You need to tell us everything about this.”

“I’ll make the tea,” I offered, watching as Miss Gonzales slipped a robe over her naked frame.

As I handed her drink, tea with a hint of margarita, Miss Gonzales pulled the robe she was wearing over herself for comfort. She sipped her drink as if to build the atmosphere. Dhyanna and I had both read a paragraph that, in the headmaster’s handwriting, simply read: “Marie worked as a sex-slave for a year. Dressed in totally degrading outfits. Phwoar.”

“How do you pronounce ‘phwoar’?” asked Dhyanna. I informed her of etymology and pronunciation. “Wow. Is that what it means? Oh my. Must have been a damn degrading outfit.”

This was where I, as Miss Gonzales’ main squeeze, could show my true colours. I sidled up to her, had her lean her head on my shoulder, and hugged her tenderly. “Tell me all about it, honey.”

“Me too,” added Dhyanna, helpfully.

“It was at my last school,” began Miss Gonzales. “An all-boys’ school, similar to this only back in the States. Everyone was over eighteen and all that, but they had to wear the uniform, just like here.”

Dhyanna squirmed in her seat. Clearly the thought of being amongst dozens of sex-starved nineteen year old men was getting to her. Miss Gonzales seemed to half-smile at the memory.

“It was fun, at first. I knew I had power over these men. I used to walk into the classroom in my short skirt and high heels, sleek black stockings and tight white blouse, topped off with a pair of spectacles that I perched on the end of my nose and used to look down at any snivelling little schoolboy who couldn’t spell ‘apotheosis’. But there was one young man, eighteen. Played third base. He could spell ‘apotheosis’, you bet your sweet ass he could.”

She paused, and sipped her margarita.

“I first fucked him after fourth period, when he hung back to ask me about photosynthesis. But that lowdown son of a bitch turned out to be a lowdown son of a bitch. I got a note the next day from the headmaster saying that I had corrupted one of our pure and virtuous pupils, and that he could make it very sticky for me. He... he invited me to his office, and told me what I would have to wear to school each day. It... it was a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader outfit.”

She buried her head into my shoulder at this comment. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was. I don’t know much about American football – though I pretty sure it’s a sort of hybrid of cricket and tiddlywinks – but I knew how the cheerleaders dressed.

“You’d look great in that sort of outfit,” I said helpfully.

She punched me in the throat, and moved her aim to my arm and stomach as she stressed, “I (punch) hate (punch) the (punch) fucking (punch) Dallas (punch) Cowboys.”

“Wow,” I said, taking hold of her fists, and seeing the humour in the situation. “That must have been degrading. To have to wear the tight uniform and pom poms of your least favourite team. Midriff showing to all these lusty boys.”

“But what about the sex-slave bit?” asked Dhyanna.

“Oh,” sighed Miss Gonzales. “I had to earn my uniform. Whenever I saw the headmaster, all he had to do was click his fingers and I had to be on my knees before him, hands behind my back, mouth open and eyes looking up at him. One time, we had a fire drill and the whole school was in the car park. He clicked his fingers. I... well... in the uniform and everything, I was so ashamed.”

I couldn’t resist it. I clicked my fingers.