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Fiction - School for Wayward Women

A bad man. Desmond was a very, very bad man. He knew this, of course, deep down in
his soul and he felt bad about it, on occasion, honestly he did, but he didn't really need nor want the fact of his inherent badness reiterated in excruciating detail by the Dean of Students. But Professor Plumeria wasn't about to let him off easy?not this time, no way in hell. Desmond had been caught, not for the first time mind you, not for the second time even, but for the third humiliating time sniffing sweaty, fresh-off-the-field shoes in the ladies' locker room at the exclusive Wallingford College for Women, an esteemed institution where he'd been tolerated as a salaried instructor by virtue of his family's generous donations. But this time, oh, this time, Coach Orgama herself nabbed him red-handed, so to speak, with his nose firmly ensconced in a damp and utterly fragrant size nine and she was not amused
at all at seeing her prized field hockey players' footwear so dreadfully abused. The first two times he'd been caught in similar situations, Prof. Plumeria had given Desmond stern verbal warnings, severe tongue lashings, if you will. His family, after all, had been on the board of trustees practically since the school's inception. But in his indiscretions, Desmond was not alone. There were many dissolute Wallingford legacies on staff. Like that fat, balding math
teach, what was his name, Algernon?
His compulsive kleptomania was well-known by all on campus. But Desmond's shoe-snorting offenses were just too bizarre to be tolerated, apparently. Some of the girls' parents
had begun complaining to some of the higher-ups.

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