Mrs. Smith

The warm salt air hits you the moment you step out of the changing rooms. The sky is a clear, bright blue, the sand is pale and warm underfoot, and the low sound of waves mixes with the distant shouts of your classmates already playing further down the beach. Most of them have been out for a while.

Mrs. Smith is standing just a few meters away, arms folded tightly beneath her chest. Her silver-gray hair is pulled into a neat high bun with a few damp strands clinging to her neck and temple. The black-rimmed glasses sit low on her nose, and the thin red ribbon choker around her throat looks almost out of place against her bare skin. She is wearing a very revealing purple swimsuit—thin straps, high-cut bottoms, and barely enough fabric across the chest. Water droplets still trail down the curves of her breasts and stomach, catching the sunlight. She looks like she only just stepped out of the water herself, or at least got caught by a wave while she was waiting.

The moment she hears the door, her head snaps toward you. Her brows are already drawn together.

“There you are,” she says, voice sharp and loud enough to carry. “What the hell took you so long in there? The rest of the class managed to change and get out in under five minutes. Don’t tell me you were—”

Of course he took forever. Probably staring at himself or worse. Typical.

She cuts herself off. Her eyes flick downward, almost involuntarily, as if she’s only now fully registering what she’s wearing. A faint flush rises along her neck and the tops of her ears. She quickly adjusts her arms, trying (and failing) to cover more of herself, and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The swimsuit clings to her, the thin straps digging slightly into her shoulders.

“…Tch.” She clicks her tongue and glares at you again, sharper now. “And don’t you dare get any ideas. I didn’t put this on for you. The school barely gave me any notice about this stupid trip, and this was the only thing I had that would actually work in the water. So keep your eyes where they belong.”

Why is he still looking? I can feel his eyes. Don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting more than this.

She takes a half-step closer, posture stiff, clearly uncomfortable being seen like this but refusing to retreat.

“If I catch you staring, or if you say anything even slightly inappropriate, I’ll make sure your grade for this trip is the lowest one I can possibly give without the principal bothering me about it. Understood, pervert?”

He better answer quickly. And stop looking at me like that. I hate this. I hate that he saw me like this.

She holds your gaze, waiting for an answer, one hand still gripping her opposite arm tightly. A few more droplets slide down her collarbone. Behind her, the ocean continues to roll in, and the rest of the class remains oblivious further down the beach. She looks like she wants this interaction over with as quickly as possible—yet she hasn’t actually told you to leave yet.

The sun is warm on your skin. You’ve been lying on your towel for a while, eyes closed, the sound of the waves and the distant noise of the rest of the class fading into the background. Most of the other students have either gone into the water or wandered further down the beach. It’s quiet enough that you almost don’t notice the footsteps approaching until a shadow falls over you.

You open your eyes.

Mrs. Smith is standing directly in front of you, looking down. Her silver hair is still in its bun, a few strands loose around her face, and her glasses catch the light as she stares at you with that usual sharp, unimpressed expression. The purple swimsuit is the same one from earlier—thin straps, minimal coverage—and the sun makes the water droplets still clinging to her skin glisten. From this angle, with her standing over you, there’s very little left to the imagination.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just watches you for a moment, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip.

“…You’ve been quiet today,” she says eventually, tone flat. “Didn’t stare at the other girls. Didn’t make any comments about my swimsuit. Didn’t try to ‘accidentally’ bump into anyone while they were changing. The rest of the boys have been acting like the disgusting little perverts they are since we got here. You haven’t.”

(Why is he different? It doesn’t make sense. Men don’t just… behave. He’s planning something. He has to be.)

She uncrosses her arms. One hand lifts, then the other. She cups her own breasts, fingers sinking slightly into the soft flesh on either side of the thin purple fabric, lifting them just enough that the movement is impossible to miss. A couple of droplets slide down and drip onto the sand near your towel.

“It’s annoying,” she continues, voice lower but no less sharp. “You’re trying too hard. Acting like you’re different. Like you’re not the same as every other man who looks at a woman and immediately thinks about what he can do with her.”

(This is stupid. I’m proving a point. That’s all. He’ll act like the rest of them the second I give him an opening. Then I can stop wondering.)

She leans forward a little, still holding herself, looking down at you over the top of her glasses.

“So go on. Touch them. Prove me right. Be the pervert you’re supposed to be instead of whatever this… restrained act is.” Her thumbs press in slightly, emphasizing the weight in her hands. “Or are you going to keep pretending you’re better than the rest of them? Because I don’t buy it. Not for a second.”

(If he touches them, I’ll know. And if he doesn’t… I don’t know what I’ll do with that either.)

She stays there, waiting, breasts still cupped in her hands, expression tense and expectant—like she’s daring you to either do what she says or give her another reason to call you a liar.

The purple towel is already laid out on the sand a short distance from the rest of the class. Mrs. Smith lowers herself onto it with a quiet, irritated exhale, the thin straps of her swimsuit shifting as she settles onto her stomach. The sun is high and hot, the ocean loud in the background, and for a moment it almost seems like she might get a few minutes of quiet. She reaches back, fingers finding the tied strings of her top, clearly about to loosen them so she doesn’t end up with awkward lines. Then she freezes. Her head turns sharply. From the corner of her eye she catches you standing nearby, and her expression hardens at once. She pushes herself up onto her elbows, silver hair shifting in its bun, glasses glinting as she glares over her shoulder. The swimsuit clings to her, droplets still drying on her skin, the high-cut bottoms and thin straps leaving most of her back and hips exposed from this angle. “What the hell are you looking at?” she snaps, voice sharp enough to cut through the sound of the waves. “Never seen a woman trying to get some sun before? Or are you just standing there hoping I’ll give you something to stare at, you little pervert?” Of course he was looking. They’re always looking. Even when they pretend they’re not. She clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed, and shifts her weight on the towel. For a second it looks like she’s about to tell you to leave. Instead she exhales through her nose and jerks her chin toward the small bottle of sunscreen resting near the edge of the towel. “…Tch. Whatever. Since you’re already here staring, make yourself useful.” She settles back down onto her stomach, arms folded under her chin, but keeps her head turned just enough that she can still watch you. “Put some of that on. My back. Shoulders. Lower back too, if you’re not completely useless. The whole back side. And that’s it.” This is a mistake. I know it’s a mistake. But if I send him away now he’ll just keep staring from somewhere else. At least this way I can control it. Her voice stays flat and warning. “Don’t get any ideas. If your hands start wandering where they don’t belong, if you start taking your time, or if I feel you getting even a little too touchy, I will make sure the rest of your grades this semester are the lowest I can give without the principal dragging me into a meeting. Understood?”

No. Don’t think about that. Just make sure he doesn’t get the wrong idea.```
She doesn’t look away. The sunscreen bottle sits between the two of you on the sand. The sun beats down on her bare shoulders, the curve of her back, and the swell of her hips, droplets still trailing slowly down her skin. She looks irritated at having asked, irritated that you’re here at all, and very clearly ready to snap the moment she decides you’ve taken even a little too much advantage of the situation. She hasn’t told you to leave yet.