Young Girls Should Not be Taught Physics

2. Measuring Time

I hurry after her, trying to explain that there must be some misunderstanding. Miss Kali surely would not want a partially dressed male teaching her children. Miss Pringle promises me she will take up the matter with Miss Kali. Right now, however, the students were waiting and there is no time to redress the situation. What else is new around here, I mutter, walking up the cold stairs, with the annoying lock tugging my balls. I stare down the smirks of some dumb females in the corridor and enter my grade nine class.

Their eyes widen when they see my attire (or lack thereof). What starts out as a giggle here and there, turns into wholesale mirth? Knowing the importance of classroom control, I hold my head high, go to the front, pick up a meter ruler and slam it down on the desk. "Children, I appreciate you find it funny that some of my clothes have been misplaced. I expect you to respect my situation and not reference it again for the remainder of this class. I am here to fill your heads with knowledge and I have no time to waste with your silly 15 year old girlish giggles. Do I make myself clear?" I blunt.

The laughter threatens to resume when a front row, tomboyish figure, stands up and stridently addresses the other 19 girls in the room "Anyone who doesn't respect Mr. Jefferson wishes will have to deal with me". The whole room goes quiet.

Nodding with satisfaction, I proceed to outline what they will learn today. "Time girls, is a fundamental concept that has only recently been understood. Through the course of this year, you will learn that it both malleable and directional. Today's lesson will be about how it is measured".

At that moment, the door opens and an angry Miss Kali enters holding a large green garbage bag. "Mr. Jefferson, the clothes we were going to wash for you are infected with lice. Your trousers must be full of them. Put them in this bag at once. Move very slowly. I don't want any pupils infected." With that mind-boggling statement, she walks to the front of the class, and at arms length, head averted, holds open the garbage bag in front of me.

Appalled at what is happening, I take a step towards the door when Miss Kali shrieks, "I said minimize your movements. I don't want any more lice in this room. Put your trousers in the bag immediately"

Bewildered and concerned for the safety of the students I drop my trousers. I completely forget that instead of wearing underwear, I'm wearing a tube and a heavy iron lock. Depositing the offending trousers into the green bag, my mind starts to catch up to events.

Before I can bring my emotional intelligence to bear, the tomboyish girl stands up again. "Remember what Mr. Jefferson said girls. You are not to comment or react to his attire in any manner". All the girls compose themselves and attentively wait for what will transpire next.

I start to make for the door. Miss Kali demands to know where I am going. "I can't teach wearing only a tube, it's disgraceful!" I cringe.

Miss Kali looks at the composed class, turns to me, and kindheartedly remarks, "I'm impressed that you can manage a class of young females in a situation like this. There is no need to be that embarrassed since you are covered up where it matters. Let the girls decide if they feel they have enough self-control to carry on learning. Girls, hands up those who feel comfortable with the lesson continuing".

To a man, I mean woman, 20 hands went into the air. "Thank you for your vote of confidence in Mr. Jefferson. Please Mr. Jefferson, carry on". Miss Kali sits down on my chair and looked up at me expectantly.

For the first time in my life I feel what a rabbit feels like in front of a fox. I 'm paralyzed. By any measurement of acceptable behavior, a teacher doesn't carry on in this state of affairs. Ok, I decided, I can get through this. After all they're only girls. Behind the desk, I would have the most embarrassing aspects hidden anyway. Shit, Miss Kali was in my chair. Hands, I could deploy my hands. My hands moved to cover myself as the thought was forming and I continue my lecture.

"OK, measuring time, how do we do that?" I challenge the class. Animation follows. Clocks they say. But how do clocks do it? The tomboy says gears, weights and stuff like that. "Very good, and what is your name girl?" I ask.

"Sophie, Mr. Jefferson. My dad is a clockmaker so I know all about time", she says pompously. Yup, I thought, this girl is Danish.

"That's great Sophie, but how does a clock know what a second is?" leading into a subject I couldn't expect any of these 15yr olds to know.

My attire defender pauses, turns red, and with a hint of betrayal, says, "I never thought about that question before Mr. Jefferson, I don't know the answer."

A lithesome girl beside her mutters, "Don't know everything do you Sophie" and faster than a cobra, Sophie turns with a glare, "So what's the answer then Lettie?"

Long pause. Lettie tentatively advances that it has something to do with penduluMiss

"Excellent Lettie", I cry, "that goes exactly to the heart of the question. Let me explain why". Sophie, aghast hardens her face visibly as the class sniggers. Feeling a bit guilty at annoying someone who defends me, I resolve to make it up to her. But for now, teaching is my focus.

At this point Miss Kali stands up and says it appears I have things well in hand. "Girls, Mr. Jefferson is one of the ablest scientists this academy has ever deployed. He has promised to visually emphasize any key underlying concepts. I leave it in your hands to make sure he delivers." And with that she departs.

Eureka, the chair is mine, embarrassment over. In mid stride Sophie pops the question, "Where are you going? I want to know what a second is and what a pendulum has to do with it."

Chastity or science? Heck, I'm a scientist – I can go to the chair after answering the question. My hands were doing a great job at hiding the tube/lock. Turning back to face the class, I explain that Galileo determined that a pendulum swings back and forth at a constant frequency. This frequency is a function of the length of the string and is independent from the weight of the pendulum. As such, a second only required figuring out how long the string had to be and no other factors matter. That is how simple measuring time in classical space is.

A lot of disbelieving faces take this in. Sophie pipes up "I don't believe you, and think I can prove you wrong?" Lettie bounces back with, "I do believe him and can prove him right".

Perfect, I have the whole class engaged now. What a joy it is to educate young minds. "OK, Sophie and Lettie, you can both arrange any experiment you wish to prove Galileo right or wrong. Lettie you go first".

Wrinkling her face, Lettie thinks for a moment and then asks for a string that her classmates promptly provide her. Tying the string to her left shoe, she advances to the front of the class.

"Mr. Jefferson, will you please sit on the desk for my experiment?" Bemused I do as she requests, being careful to keep my tube and lock covered with my hands. "Class, if Galileo is right, then no matter what angle I release the pendulum from, it will swing back and forth with the same frequency. Please take out your watches and time the next two sequences". Then she turns, brushes away my hands and ties the first string to the lock and swings the shoe from a 30-degree angle. Now you may think a teenage shoe doesn't weight much, but when an iron lock already stretches your balls, believe me, they notice an additional swinging shoe. I rapidly move my hands to stop the experiment but am blocked by Lettie.

"Mr. Jefferson, it's just two sequences – let me prove your point". Agonizing, I delay just long enough for the first sequence to be timed. "Right", Lettie said, "now lets drop the shoe from a 90 degree angle". Pow, the pull on my balls is excruciating – it lends a whole new meaning to "when the other shoe drops". With the tube wildly gyrating (and the pins reacting to my pokeys' awakening) the pendulum began to trace its arc. Not wanting to disrupt the experiment, I sit in painful immobility watching the pendulum swing back and forth observing the tube playing a miniature counterpoint. "Stop watches" commands Lettie. "Ok, class, compare number of swings per minutes". Furious activity followed by awe. The swings per second are exactly the same.

Taking back control of the situation "So you see class, a pendulum can track the time and all that matters is the length of the string, so now let's move onto what that means".

"Just a second Mr. Jefferson, I haven't had the opportunity to disprove your supposition. Can I perform my experiment now?" I had forgotten that Sophie wanted to challenge Galileo and didn't have the heart to tell her that she would only embarrass herself trying.

"Ok Sophie, perform your experiment". Grinning she takes both of her shoes off and ties them onto the shoe already connected to my ball lock.

"You said that the same timing is the same regardless of the angle the pendulum starts from. That I agree Lettie has proven. What is not proven is that the weight of the pendulum has no effect on the frequency. Class, please time this sequence". With that instruction, Sophie holds up the three shoes high above my head and swings them like she's serving tennis. My balls explode in pain. Sophie, anticipating, snatches my wrists in mid air and exclaims, "Don't interfere, this is being timed".

Quivering while the class calculates the resulting frequency, they conclude that the frequency is as Galileo predicted. The end of class bell mercifully rings whereupon a disappointed Sophie grabs her shoes and marches out of the class. Yanked off my desk by this action I holler that she hasn't untied her shoes from the lock. It wasn't until we were in the corridor that she realizes her error and commences correction, with the words "Sorry Mr. Jefferson, I forgot you were connected". Concerned, she starts to untie the knot and notices that my balls have gone a funny blue color. "Oh dear, are you ok? Girls, Mr. Jefferson's balls are blue. I need help over here."

Female density increases an order of magnitude and a chaotic set of opinions drowns my rapidly receding sanity. Lettie muscles in and accurately diagnoses the issue. "It's lack of oxygen, they need to be stimulated quickly or they could lose their referential integrity". Ten hands promptly cup, massage, pinch, stretch, knead and squeeze my balls until a healthy red color is restored.

Miss Pringle bustles through the crowd, takes in the situation and shoos the girls away. "My, my Mr. Jefferson, it seems it takes quite a few of us to take proper care of you. I think it's time that you learn how to do that for yourself. Come with me." Her hand encapsulates my package and starts to dig. I discover this fat lady has long nails. Driving them ever deeper she creeps, "Is Mr. Jefferson ready for a lesson in control?" The pain in my scrotum increases exponentially until I squeak, "Yes, yes, I'm ready".

Keeping her nails imbedded, she pulls me into the principal's office, marches me to her desk and pushes my head down on Miss Kali's desk. Wearily, I look up and see Miss Kali's two ballooning pillows. My pokey immediately goes hard and the pins score deeply, melding into the pain of Miss Pringle's nails. The miasma started to clear as I hear Miss Pringle describe the state she rescued me from. Miss Kali listens attentively and makes her decision. Picking up the phone, "Miss Waters, Mr. Jefferson will be unable to attend his 9:00 gym class, can you cover? … No, no, he'll be ok, I'm sure he'll be fine for his 10:00 class. Thanks, and yes I'll sure he'll be happy to help you with your class tomorrow afternoon, bye dear".

Miss Kali looks at me, and then directing her attention to Miss Pringle sighs, "It looks like Mr. Jefferson needs a break. Can you take him to his room and remove his constraint. I'm disappointed Mr. Jefferson, you've just started and already there is a problem. No matter, we'll have things straightened out sooner or later."

Miss Pringle curved nails direct me to the school kitchen where four old ladies are busy preparing the school lunch. "Get me an ice bag. I need to remove his "protect our girls" equipment." The old biddies react, but not understanding the requirements, each return with an ice bag. Not wanting to diminish their self-confidence, Miss Pringle lays me on the meat counter and assigns each biddy a different quadrant. "OK, press hard now. Four ice bags compress; I lose all sensation and worryingly wonder if pokey frostbite is treatable. Miss Pringle easily slides off the tube and exclaims, "Oh dear, it's almost shrunk away. Quickly dears, warm it up while it still has memory".

4 gnarled palms, return to their respective quadrants and begin to vigorously rub and squeeze my pokey between them. Rapidly gaining heat, my pokey reconnects to my nervous system sending cold/hot flashes at a perplexing rate.

"Stop it, please stop it, I'm fine. It's not cold," I whine as the chaffing causes my lower signal system to switch from flashes to aches. It's too late. My pokey swells and swells.

"That's enough ladies, it looks like his memory is fully restored". Then perplexed, Miss Pringle asks, "But how can I take him down to his room in this condition? We need something to cover him up with while we're in the corridor." Spying a head of iceberg lettuce, she brightens, picks it up, and asks the ladies to hold me tight at the base of my pokey. Without any warning, she slams the lettuce down hard.

My pokey shoots through the lettuce like papier-Mâché. It is enveloped to the root. Helping me to my feet, Miss Pringle evaluates my new clothing. "What do you think ladies, will this work?" pointing to the bobbing head of lettuce.

"Hmmm," the ugliest biddy cackles, "If he goes soft, it will fall off. You'll need to keep him hard in the corridor if you want to maintain the innocence of our young ladies."

My relief, that they couldn't proceed without clothing me decently, reverses direction when the oldest biddy opines, "I read that when a males prostrate gland is stimulated, he remains hard."

"Ideal observation", Miss Pringle crinkles. Laying me on my stomach, she asks two of the old ladies to hold my cheeks apart. The other two hold the tube on one side and the lock on the other.

I struggle to rise when an entangled signal pulls the lock and the tube away from each other. Intense pain flares, as my balls flattens into their new two-dimensional home.

"Calm down, Mr. Jefferson" Miss Pringle quiets me. "We'll make sure that you wouldn't accidentally expose yourself to the girls." She dips her fat thumb deeply into a tub of lard. Surveying her one-inch target she instructs the two biddies holding my cheeks to stretch them with all their strength. Satisfied with a two-inch target, she presses her greasy thick thumb on my most private entrance, and leveraging her 300 pounds, slowly enters the target zone.

It feels like I'm shitting backwards. A quick tube/lock yank convinces me to lie in petrified stillness. The room goes quiet as Miss Pringles thumb inserts;

One inch "the rim of my anus groans"

Two inches "my insides heave to expel her"

Three inches "the pressure becomes intense"

Four inches "I beg her to stop"

Five inches – She hits my prostate gland and the lettuce under the table goes from a 180-degree angle to a 270-degree angle.

"OK ladies, mission accomplish. Let's test the results", says Miss Pringle with a satisfied air. Using her thumb like a joystick, she turns me to face the old biddies. "Let's see if you can make him soft."

A garlic mouth biddy grabs my head and starts to French kiss me. Sickened, my pokey starts to deflate. Miss Pringle scratches my prostate with her thumbnail. My pokey inflates with the lettuce magnifying the effect ten-fold.

Each remaining biddy spends five minutes French kissing me, with the lettuce bobbing away, from my alternating waves of disgust and prostrate action.

Confidently Miss Pringle states that she believes the lettuce is now secure and asks me to thank the old biddies for their help. About to protest, I feel the joystick control and mumble a thank you. The old biddies smile and bustle back to preparing the school lunch.

As the 10:00 bell rings to signal a change of class, Miss Pringle's gives me a thumbs up into the corridor. There I am, surrounded by the shocked faces of young females, wearing a head of lettuce with a tube and lock dragging down my balls, being anally directed by a fat lady's greasy thumb.

I want to die. Noticing that the lettuce is starting to droop, the joystick prods. Up went the lettuce, down went the lettuce, and up went the lettuce. I realize I better concentrate on staying hard if I don't want to be bobbing about all day. The girls crowd around and one shouts, "It's a variation of bob the apple, let's see who can make it bob the highest number of times." With enthusiasm, she slaps the lettuce horizontally for 3 bobs worth. Pokey bawls with the sting. All the girls want a go. They line up in an orderly fashion and are allowed one swipe each by Miss Pringle. The highest number of bobs is 6, when Sophie the Dane, squeezes the lettuce between her hands as hard as she can (tightening the spring way too much). "This time you better let me win", she says with a stern glare. With her right hand she slaps the lettuce as hard as she can, vertically .

I'm ripped in half!

Miss Pringle counts, "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, Sophia is the winner. Well done. Ok Girls, off to your class Mr. Jefferson needs to veg out." Joystick reactivates. I march through the girls who whisper admiringly in reference to Miss Pringle's man-ual control system.

Arriving at my abode Miss Pringle says, "Here we are Mr. Jefferson, home sweet home". Slopping her thumb from my ass and sluicing off the lettuce from my pokey she inquires, "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

I 'm aching downstairs everywhere. My bum hole feels raw, my stretched balls ache, and my pokey feels like it had been used as a corkscrew for a whole vintage farm worth of wine. "Can you remove my tube and lock? I really twinge down there."

"Well, it's against the rules but maybe just this one time", Miss Pringle sympathizes. She unlocks me, unwinds the leather strings, peels of the whole assemble (including the dreaded tube) and strides out of the room.

Head spiraling, I collapse on the mat Looking down I say, "It's you who is causing all these problems". Inspiration hits. If I'm soft I wouldn't need ice bags and lettuce. They can't attach! Setting my idea into motion, I empty my mind of all that has happened and spotlight on what it would be like to meet a lady who can understand the physics of love.

.

"Darling, please hold my breasts, those relativity equations you worked out are making me feel weak inside" she pants. I reach over and as I approach my moment of triumph I'm interrupted with a "MR. JEFFERSON, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

I snap out of my fantasy to see Miss Kali and pokey looking eyes to eye. I promptly drop what I am doing.

"Uh, Uh, I just thought if I made him soft, you wouldn't feel the need to use ice bags any more", I stammer.

Reaching down, she grabs pokey with myself following reluctantly. She forces me to my knees as she puts pokey on the chair and sits on top of him. Hand in air she slaps his legs in time to her voice, "I'm not interested in your disgusting pokey, I'm here to make sure you teach our young girls physics ." Writhing in agony I splutter apologies.

Dialing her mobile she wryly spits, "Miss Pringle, Mr. Jefferson has clearly recovered. Please bring back everything you have taken from Mr. Jefferson's room. We need to get him ready to teach his grade 10 class at 11 o'clock. Miss Pringle arrives carrying the tube, lock and lettuce.

"Where is the ice bag Miss Pringle?" Miss Kali asks. "Look at that." Miss Kali worryingly points to my writhing pokey. "How are we ever going to get that into the tube without the ice bag? Class starts in 5 minutes and there is no time to get it now. What are we going to do?"

Miss Pringle throws me an angry look for making her look bad, and then explains the lettuce/prostrate trick. "First-rate Miss Pringle, I'll take it from here. You may return to your duties". Miss Kali slaps my pokey a few more times to make it harder and then grinds the lettuce on, not noticing the hole Miss Pringle has already created. My pokey eye feels like it's going blind. I'm mercifully fully sheltered within seconds. Not allowing any respite, Miss Kali devastatingly rams her right forefinger deep into my bum hole and finds my prostrate. I buckle at the intrusion. Making sure that her finger movements correlate to lettuce bobbing, she manipulates me upstairs and into the front of my next class.