Standard warning and disclaimer: All characters are fictional. If you see yourself, buy a new mirror. Contains subjects some people may find offensive. If you are one of them, why are your reading this? Protect your kids. If you are worried about them reading this sort of material, please censor free speech and use a safe surfing program such as net nanny. Or better yet, teach them early and lovingly to understand and accept different lifestyles. Before they learn they from bad experiences.

All constructive comments are welcome. Please e-mail to me: Sam@pobox.alasaka.net

Finally, this is a piece of adult fiction. If you are underage, or if you find it offensive, please go elsewhere. Quickly. 

 

BDHS          by: Samantha Michelle             © 2000

 

I was getting tired of sending out résumés to help stuff the nation's landfills. It was not my fault I was a fifty-year-old widowed male looking for work. So I used headhunters, job services, and shoe leather. And got the same response. They wanted someone younger, or with a different background, or who was willing and able to work inner-city "last chance" schools. And most of all, who was "acceptable" to the parents. Which, since I was forcibly outed a year ago, meant don't bother to call back. I had a chance if I willing to do things the union way. I refused to wear kneepads, and was vehemently anti-union.

So I searched the net and the ads from several states, and watched my savings slowly disappear. Having a small pension, I would never starve, but I hated to live on a pauper's budget. Finally I found an advertisement for a teaching position at a rural, semi-private alternative high school. They did not require a state teaching certificate, and my general background was perfect for what they wanted. Someone to be a full-time substitute teacher, specializing in technology and shop courses. I was as jack-of-all-trades as they came.

So I printed out another copy of my resume, and sent it FEDEX to them. Then I went fishing. When I got back three days later, there was a message on my answering machine, and an email from the school, asking if I was available for an interview. They were nearly a thousand miles away, so I called to set up a telephone interview. And found they required all interviews to be in person. When I told them I would have to think about the cost of travel, they offered to fly me to their location.

I told them I preferred to drive, and we worked out the amount they would cover. It was enough to make the trip worthwhile. I was really shocked when they told me they had already completed my background and reference checks. I did not ask why they had not rejected me out-of-hand, like all the others. Maybe they missed something; it was the only logical explanation. So I scheduled the interview for early the next week, and notified the motorhome park I was heading out. Living in a motorhome, although cramped, has it's advantages. You can take it with you. Three days later I was setting up in a really nice campground style park, and digging out my interview stuff.

I carefully reviewed the data they had provided, and connected to the Internet again to do a detailed search for more information. And asked a lot of questions of the locals, including the State Department of Education. With all the information, meager as it was, laid out on the table, I sat back and thought.

Benner-Davis High School was a privately owned alternative school for extremely intelligent students who were unsuccessful in traditional environments and/or who had unspecified, but specific types of psychological and adaptational problems. It was a residential school, with no local students unless they lived on-campus. They accepted state-sponsored students, when the state was willing to pick up the entire cost, and meet Benner-Davis's conditions. Minimum enrollment was by contract for a full calendar year, normal enrollment was until graduation. It sounded like some sort of reform school.

The pay was DOE, but was listed as "competitive" by the school. I was really surprised to note that a small portion of the faculty lived on the school grounds, and that additional compensation was provided for these faculty members. I wondered idly if they had motorhome hookups.

I was happy to note that they did not accept dangerous or violent students. But there was no description of the curriculum except that it was highly challenging and designed to prepare students for a successful future and entry into advanced educational programs.

Sunday I got in some fly fishing, and decided the recreational opportunities in the area were quite good. On Monday I hopped in my little tow-behind and headed for the school, which was located way out in the woods. I passed through an automated, "on camera" security gate and fence. And drove another two miles before I came to the main gate.

I quickly revised my opinion of the type of school. It wasn't a reform school. It was a prison. The whole place was surrounded by a concrete wall topped with rusty chain-link and barbed wire. The "labyrinth" type entry blocked direct view of the inside, and was manned by uniformed guards that were carrying guns. I considered just heading back, but decided that I needed the money from the school to pay for my trip. So I drove up to the gate, and was surprised when the guards, who seemed really friendly, told me they would open the gates in a minute, and to drive right on in. They said there were signs to direct me to the administrative building.

Once the massive gate was opened enough for me to enter, I drove the zigzag of the labyrinth, and found the inner gate to be a simple chain-link affair, which was wide open and unmanned. When I looked around I wondered if I had just gone though a time-warp. Instead of a prison, the place looked like a college campus, circa the turn of the previous century. There were several student-looking individuals moving about freely, and I saw no indication of any security other than the inner fence and outer wall. Checking my watch, I decided I had better get moving, and followed the signs around the perimeter to a small brick building with a wooden plaque reading "Administration".

I parked in one of the visitors' slots, grabbed my briefcase, and went inside. The place looked like any of a number of well-run private schools I had visited, and out of which I had been tossed. A small, pretty girl, wearing what was apparently the school uniform, was at the desk. She hopped up, I swore I heard a metallic clank, and she came over to greet me. She was smiling, and seemed happy.

"Hi, I'm Cindy, and you must be the Mr. Adams they are expecting." She proffered her hand, and I shook it, noting the strange, thick metal bracelets on her wrists. "The director and her assistant were called to the main hall for a minor emergency, so they said to offer you some coffee or a soda, and to answer any questions I can until they return." I continued to stare at her. Around her neck she also wore a wide metal band that was engraved 'Cindy Porter, G23B-4, 2001. There was a cadeuceus, and 2 stars after the last entry.

She saw me staring, and giggled. "Wondering about the hardware?" I nodded cautiously. She pointed to her neck-band. "My name-tag and leash. It gives my name, bed-space, and class." I was still looking confused. "G23B-4 means I live in building G, room 23, space 4. And I'm a junior, which is the class graduating in 2001." That made sense. "The snake and staff symbol says I have special medical requirements, 'cause I'm allergic to bee stings, and the two stars show I have completed two full years here. The collar also contains a little transmitter that lets them know where I am at all times. Mine is special." She pointed to what looked like two small covered buttons "If I press both of these at the same time it sends out an emergency signal. Probably saved my life last year when a wasp got me."

"Are all the students required to wear one?" She nodded.

"We each get one when we arrive, and updates when we change rooms. Or get promoted to the next grade."

"Does everyone wear theirs?" She looked at me funny, and then giggled again.

"Forgot you are new to this place. Wearing one is not an option." She turned around and lifted her hair. The band was connected at the back by a formidable looking lock. "They don't come off."

"Oh." I looked at the heavy bands on her wrists.

She looked a bit embarrassed. "My obedience bracelets. I used to run away a lot, so my parents wanted to make sure I wouldn't disappear from here. The school gave me several options, and these seemed to be the best for me. So I agreed to wear these darned things until I graduate. My look said 'more information'. She continued. "They just remind me to follow the rules."

"Sort of electronic handcuffs?" She nodded. "You said they remind you?"

"Ever stick your finger in a light socket?" I cringed. They played hardball, that was for sure.

I changed the subject. "They said this was not a reform school. But there are armed guards, walls with barbed wire, and security gates. I've seen prisons with less formidable barriers."

She looked uncomfortable. "Well, I guess it's not officially a reform school, or a prison, even though none of the students can leave the campus without an escort until they graduate. Or till they decide to quit trying." She looked really uncomfortable, and asked if she could sit. I pointed to one of the soft chairs in the waiting area, and she sat carefully.

"See, this is like a last chance for a lot of us. Some of us were on our way to regular reform schools, some to jail, and some to locked wards, like me." I stared at her. She didn't look like she was a psycho, and they said they didn't take violent or dangerous students. "Others were suicide risks or social outcasts with no place where they could grow and learn." She looked at me, and I saw her eyes were wet. She took a deep breath and continued.

"When my parents brought me here I was running away from everything. Home, school, my counselor, my self. Anything that scared me, or tried to make me face my problems. I was going to be involuntarily committed when one of my mom's business associates, who just happens to be a Benner-Davis graduate, finally butted in, and asked why. When she learned what my problems were, she suggested they try this school. A week later, sedated and hobbled, they brought me here." She was sniffling, and I pulled some tissues from my briefcase.

"The school insisted that I be given a chance to get the drugs out of my system before they interviewed me, and they told my parents that they would keep me secure until they had finished assessing me to see if their program would work. So I spent three days in a tight room, wearing a straightjacket and diapers. With someone to talk to. Then I was cleaned up, dressed, trussed back up in a straightjacket, and given a tour of the campus, and a chance to meet the other students and faculty. I thought it was a hospital or prison. But instead of blank looks and anger, I got hugs and encouragement. So after being given the tour, and the standard briefing, I was temporarily bunked in the dorms, and only lightly restrained.

And told I had a week to decide if I wanted to stay. It was the next day when I bumped, alone, into a tough-looking guy. I went ballistic, and tried to run away. He finally chased me down, and carried me, kicking and screaming, to where the staff could take over." She smiled "They don't use drugs here, unless to treat a chemical imbalance. So I wound up back in the straightjacket, in the tight room, talking to one of the resident counselors. Instead of tossing me out on my butt, the next day I was fitted involuntarily with an additional security device to make it easier to face my problems. And told my escort for the rest of my trial stay was the guy who scared me so badly.

Three days later, and a dozen sessions with the counselor, I agreed to sign a student contract and stay." She looked at me. "They put the collar and bracelets on that afternoon. And assigned me to the same bunk I have now. I've tried to run a half-dozen times, but the bracelets keep me honest, and I'm looking forward to next semester, when they remove my extra security stuff and I can finish healing old wounds."

Her eyes were wet, but calm. I still wondered why she had been sent here. "You still haven't told me why you're here."

She blushed, then straightened. "Our stories are not secret, they say it helps in learning to handle our problems. I was gang-raped when I was thirteen, and was scared of everything, especially any guys. This place is forcing me to face my fears. And they made it possible by doing something no one else had even considered." She smiled, and said she hoped I didn't get embarrassed easily. And lifted her skirts.

She was wearing a fitted, metal chastity belt. She dropped her skirts. "That was the extra security device. I am working, slowly, to feel safe and confident in myself without it. So far I've only managed three days in a row. But it's getting easier." She got up and went back to where I first saw her. "Everyone here knows I wear the belt, and no one makes fun of me for it. Tolerance and respect for others and their differences are the most important rules here. Along with honesty."

I was beginning to like this place, weird as it was. My question of why the great security still was not answered. "But why the incredible security, guards, barbed wire"

That made her laugh. "They say this used to be come kind of fancy government spy center back in World War Two. They just keep up the appearance because it discourages nosy people, and protects us from the real weirdoes, the ones outside." I nodded in understanding.

She asked why I was considering the job, and I looked at my feet. She came over and gave me a hug. "I know about your being a cross-dresser. They gave me a full briefing before you arrived." I gave her a horrified look "It often takes someone who has been on the receiving end of prejudice to help others recover from it. You could wear pants one day and a skirt the next, and no one would laugh." she paused "Unless you have no fashion sense."

I managed to sit before my knees gave out. She looked worried. "I'm okay, it's just that no one other than my shrink has ever told me it was okay to be who I am."

"Yeah, there are gay kids, and kids like you here with the same problem."

We stared at each other in silence for a while, until the door opened and an older woman came in wearing an outfit similar to the students', but of a different color. She looked at us, and lost her smile. "Cindy, is there something wrong?" She sounded worried.

"Mr. Adams is a bit, well, overloaded on information right now Ms. Crawford. I guess I sort of told him too much too fast."

She looked at me. "I'm Amanda Crawford, Chief Administrator for the school. I apologize for not meeting you when you arrived, but there was a small electrical fire in the main building which required my immediate attention. I hope Cindy has not scared you too badly; she is rather outspoken."

I nodded. "I just didn't expect the students to know my history, especially certain parts, before I even arrived for the interview."

She chuckled. "I see Cindy has a big mouth." Cindy tried to disappear into her chair "but in her case it was necessary, because we didn't know how you would be dressed when you arrived."

"Oh."

"Anyway, have you decided to leave, or do you want to take a tour of our campus?"

I had to think for a bit. The place was so weird it was scary. But apparently they were accepting of different lifestyles. And it was the only potential job offer I had in over a year of searching. "I think I want the tour..."

She chuckled softly. "This is not Pleasantville. Just don't be judgmental about anything you see here. Some people might call our techniques barbarous, or inhumane. But we have a tremendous success rate, and our biggest supporters are former students." She told Cindy to keep watch on the phones, and we headed out the door.

She was easy to talk to, and went over my background in detail as we traveled around the grounds. I soon saw why she had warned me not to be judgmental. Some of the students were physically restrained. Several were gagged. And one muscular girl was hitched to a pony-cart full of other students, and was pulling them around like a she was a horse. A closer look told me she was wearing a bridle, complete with reigns. And smiling. I started checking for little people in the trees with cameras.

Amanda saw my searching, and laughed. "That was Mona, who has this, well, what even I would call a weird hang-up about being a pony. Which got her tossed out of three schools and thrown in a locked ward. The psychiatrists can't figure it out, but it's actually harmless, so we let her play out her fantasy every so often, and now she's a model student. It looks like she must be getting a reward for something, because that's the most passengers I have ever seen." She chuckled again. "If you are still here at dinner, I bet they are planning something special for her." I wondered when the hallucinogens would wear off, and I would start screaming.

The dorms were old military style barracks, modified into four-bedroom suites sharing a large bathroom. Each student had a tiny private room, and there was a big communal living/study area. A huge, well-stocked library had lots of computers. There was also a fully equipped gym with an indoor pool and circular swim "track", a large open floor area, weight rooms, and locker areas.

The gym was really impressive. I saw several instructors working out along with the students. The men's uniform was similar to the women's. Loose, comfortable pants and short-sleeved shirts. Or long jumpers and soft blouses for the girls. All in a similar pattern, but of a different color than the students'.

When we visited the dispensary, which Amanda said was equipped better than many hospitals, I noted some permanently mounted restraints. She commented that when they were needed, they had to be secure and available. We were talking to the nurse in charge when five students rushed in. Or more correctly, four beat-up looking students were dragging a kicking and screaming boy in with them. One of the students hollered "flashbacks, real bad."

I was pulled to the side by Amanda, and the chief nurse hit an alarm. Moments later two more medical types appeared, and helped the four students pin the struggling boy to a gurney. They quickly secured the restraining straps, and told the students to hold him in place. Several minutes later a totally restrained boy, now crying and apologizing, was being wheeled to the back, and the nurses were attending to assorted scrapes on the students. Amanda talked with each one, and looked relieved when she escorted me outside.

"They'll all be okay. Michael, the boy they brought in, suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. We've been working with his medications and therapy, but something must have triggered this episode. So tomorrow, his therapist will interview the other students for their ideas, and then work with Michael. For tonight, he gets a straightjacket and a quiet stay in a tight room. One of the nurses, or a friend if he requests, will keep him company. He knows he's not being punished. We just need to make sure he is safe. He will probably be restrained for a few weeks to make him easier to handle should this happen again."

I got the feeling she really cared about the students. We spent another couple of hours just mingling with the students and other faculty. I met three cross-dressing students that I could read. And one faculty member with a rip-van-winkle beard who was wearing a dress. He/she was thrilled to find out that I was a fellow cross-dresser. When I asked about the beard, she said it was the clothes, not passing, that she craved. That I understood. She said there were two other male-to-female transgendered staff, and one female-to-male. As we separated, she said she hoped I took the vacant position.

I stayed for dinner. Their food service employed a real chef, and student labor. The place looked like a commercial cafeteria, with bus-your-own tables. The students that who heavily restrained were assisted by others. I was surprised when a very thin young woman approached the line, and one of the serving people brought her a complete tray from the back. Amanda told me she was on a very special diet because of food sensitivities, and was finally gaining weight. The meal was really good, and I was relaxing when Mona, still wearing her bridle, was led in to a chorus of applause.

One of the faculty I had not met got up on a table, and made an announcement. "For those who have not heard, today Mona received notice she has received a full scholarship to the State University School of Medicine. Where she plans to study psychiatry." There was a massive round of applause and cheers. As a special treat for her, we have decided to let her eat her fill tonight."

Two students unveiled what looked like a hitching post, and led her to it. She was secured, her bit removed, and given a feed bag. Everyone laughed and cheered, and when I looked, she looked incredibly happy, despite the tears running down her face. "And for anyone interested, her feed bag is filled with strawberry shortcake, courtesy of the chef." That got a lot more cheers. When we left, she was still munching happily, her eyes closed.

Amanda looked at me. "Well, you've seen the good, the bad, and the weird. I'll give you a copy of the employment contract, and school rules to take with you tonight. We really need to hire an additional instructor before start of the regular school year, so we need to know by tomorrow if you are interested." We went back to the office, and she gave me a pile of paperwork.

"There was something about faculty living on campus." She looked at me.

"Yes, we try to have several staff constantly available for emergencies. There are several two-bedroom private suites, and five houses, but the houses are currently occupied. If you stay on campus, room and board are free, and we pay an additional fifteen percent, because you would be on 24-hour call every third week when not in class."

"Is there a place on campus where I could keep my car and motorhome?"

"We actually have a large equipment barn that would probably hold your motorhome in one of the unused bays."

"When can I move in?"

She stared at me. "You haven't read the contracts yet."

"I have seen enough. You and the staff care about each other and the students. Is there anything hidden in the documents I need to know about?"

She looked at me. "You know, I really don't think so. Other than the salary, exclusive of our full benefit package, only pays a basic wage of twenty-five thousand for the first full year, with three weeks vacation. On-site differential is in addition."

It was a pretty small salary. But what the hell did I need a lot of extra money for, anyway. "How long is a contract period?"

"Three years. And there is a significant penalty for leaving before the end, except for medical concerns."

"Where do I sign, and should I move in tomorrow?"

She gave me a hug, and a far-from neutral kiss that made my ears wiggle. She paged for four faculty to witness the signatures, and welcomed me officially to the staff, saying I would get fitted for my uniforms the next afternoon. And to be there, ready to work, no later than eleven in the morning.

As I drove back in the twilight, I wondered what I had just done. Then I looked at my life so far, and realized it felt right.

I pulled up stakes the next morning early, dumped my tanks, and headed out. I wound up parking everything out by the equipment barn while the maintenance staff tried to get an old tractor started and moved. I told them I'd do it after work, and they thanked me. I had a good feeling about this place. I hoped it had a good feeling about me.

End of Chapter One

 

© 2000
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