This is a translation of an older article.
- Esteemed mistressi Georgescu, it's no use. Your little girl's a whore.
- Oh my, how's such a thing possible!
- My dear lady... these days it's outright probable.
- But she's merely in the seventh grade!
- Eh, plenty start in the sixth even.
The classmaster, a scrawny, lawn citizen with a lengthy, pointy nose extends with complaissance a monogramed handkerchief to Mrs. Georgescu, who is tearing up with a confused expression. The monogram reads F. G. but the classmaster's not named nor was he ever named F, let alone G. His name is Marin Sbolakovski, a circumstance which is not without its disadvantages in a schoolarly environment.
Mrs. Georgescu resembles somewhat a steppe siskin, with her altogether complex hairdo. She's had it done by a stylist, my dear. Two weeks ago. Under the understanding-commiserating gaze of the other parents, Mr. Georgescu intervenes conciliatory :
- Nevermind, dear, what's the big deal. Weren't you also a whore when we met ?
The men look on turbidly and try to hide their boredom. Parent-teacher meeting, fascinating. A few malicious smiles on rouged lips in the audience, with the tendency that you see Mrs. Georgescu was a whore, supposedly, prior to meeting the Mr. But she gave it up. Suuuurely, and they pay the utilities out of their salaries, those Italians that come every day but mostly during the night by their place are friends of the family or something. Not like the entire building doesn't have pictures with the madam spread eagled among dongs since the Internet...
- From now on there's no point in wasting money on panties and that sort of stuff, carries on Mr. Sbolakovski impassibly. Mrs. Georgescu interrupts him with a sharp sigh.
- She's not going to wear them anyway, save your money. Skirts as short as possible, stockings she doesn't need yet as she's young, no point in getting them dirty in the grass and broken in the underbrush for no gain. Blouses as tight as possible, perhaps cut around the collar whatever she was wearing in elementary scool. Overcast the cuts, Mrs. Alexandrescu can help you with the sewing.
Mrs. Alexandrescu smiles lackadaisically. Since those thieves running the lohn business kicked her out she's made her own workshop at home, she does a spot of tailoring for the neighbours. In her free time she sucks off the classmaster. She's a widow...
- Around the house train her bit by bit to be entirely nude as much as possible, and take care she's on high heels all the time. She must be on high heels all the time for her foot to form properly, and in bed also in heels when she goes to sleep, but she should only sleep well spread. Possibly you could tie her ankles to the bedposts at first, until she gets used to it.
- Dear me! But what will become of the little girl, of her future!
- So far it goes well enough, Mrs. Marinescu, in Geography, had her do a striptease routine for a passing grade.
- And ?
- In the end she got an A. The girl's talented, you should see what she can do to an Earth globe... and she's merely in seventh grade!
The eyes of Mrs. Georgescu remain fixed upon an immense Earth globe, a meter in diameter, with a sturdy iron bar on the side. The classmaster notices her interest and answers accomodatingly :
- Ah, no, not that one. A small, table version. We no longer have it.
The meeting continues unabashed on its normal, or at the very least modern, rut. Finally it ends, like ends anything in this world, from the career of whores towards marriage to the career of whoremongers towards classmastership and youthful whores. As the group is departing, Mrs. Georgescu murmurs to her consort :
- But you think they'll loan us the globe ?———
- Yeah, that's what Mrs. stands for. Tough. [↩]