scheherazade_79
Steamy
- Joined
- Aug 5, 2003
- Posts
- 9,677
God's Little Songbird
I’d just taken my place in front of the class when she walked in. She was a woman in her late 30s, replete with unadventurous hairstyle, calf-length skirt, and the kind of radiance that only belongs to a certain type – the diehard born-again Christian.
She wanted to teach the lesson, and I had no real objections to her doing so. The amount of work set was meagre, and after about quarter of an hour it was likely that the kids would be crawling up the walls. I was right, but before the pupils had the chance to draw breath from their efforts, the Born-Again sprung an unexpected and rather unwelcome surprise. For the remainder of the lesson, which was to stretch into a Biblical eternity, the children were going to sing.
Of course, they weren’t just going to sing any old song. What the Born-Again had in mind was a religious composition, brimming over with Hallelujahs, Glorias, Praise bes and so many other devout interjections that the first few lines alone made me feel like a whore in a convent.
For a while, the children stared at the words as though they were brussel sprouts, struggling to digest them, yet knowing that any resistance would result in damnation – if not from the Almighty, then at least from His most ferocious advocate.
Once the lyrics had been chanted through in a monotone, the Born-Again fetched a tape recorder from the cupboard and proceeded to fill the small classroom with wholesome guitar sounds. It was excruciating in a ‘Cliff Richard meets the Girl Guides’ kind of way, but the worst was yet to come. After a couple of bars of innocuous strumming, the Born-Again suddenly opened her mouth and emitted a high-pitched wail that threatened to perforate my ear drums. There was a series of sharp crashes around the room as a dozen or so jaws hit the desks. In light of the fact that their teacher making noises akin to a farm animal in labour, the self-control of the children was commendable.
Five minutes of shameless exhibitionism passed before the rest of the class was ordered to join in. It took several verses before they were secure with the tune, but even at full lung capacity they were unable to drown out the death cries of the Born-Again. It was only when the first rendition screeched to a merciful close that the woman finally came clean about her intentions. She may have been a teacher by profession, but by calling she was a recruiter with a talent that would put any Jehova’s Witness to shame. This beautiful song, she exclaimed with starry eyes and a cherubic smile, was just one of many that were sung at her local chapel… which just so happened to be looking for new members to indoctrinate.
The children eyed her warily. She’d have to do a lot better than this if she were to succeed in her quest for new disciples.
“We meet on a Sunday and on a Wednesday,” she explained, “and we always buy chips for children who come along to the Wednesday evening singalong!”
There was a murmur of interest which, as it was happening, put me in mind of the witch in the Hansel and Gretel story. This was bribery – barefaced and shameless, but it seemed to be working.
“We also have guitars – and drums!” she continued, not so much dangling the carrot as hitting the children across the heads with it, “And you might even get the chance to play them, but only if you keep coming to chapel on a regular basis.”
The long-term implications drifted over the pupils’ heads like clouds of opium. I don’t quite know what the musical set-up was in that particular chapel, but somehow I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the hard rock and head-banging that she seemed to be promoting.
After securing a couple of empty promises from the diehard chip-eaters of the class, the Born-Again returned to her song with renewed zeal, swaying along to the beat and adopting expressions of pure orgasm for the more devout passages.
High above me there was a gentle scratching sound in one of the panes of glass. I looked up and saw a crack beginning to form, slowly working its way across the window and branching off into a spider’s web of impending doom. I watched and waited. The highest note of the song was just seconds away, and I managed to dart out of the way in the nick of time. When it happened, there was an earshattering smash that sent small shards of glass raining down like confetti. The lunchtime bell rang a few seconds later - soft, sweet and completely melodious by comparison.
I have no idea how successful the Born-Again was in her recruitment drive, but can only imagine that if she continues to teach, school maintenance bills will rival those of the ancient building that she was trying to fill.
I’d just taken my place in front of the class when she walked in. She was a woman in her late 30s, replete with unadventurous hairstyle, calf-length skirt, and the kind of radiance that only belongs to a certain type – the diehard born-again Christian.
She wanted to teach the lesson, and I had no real objections to her doing so. The amount of work set was meagre, and after about quarter of an hour it was likely that the kids would be crawling up the walls. I was right, but before the pupils had the chance to draw breath from their efforts, the Born-Again sprung an unexpected and rather unwelcome surprise. For the remainder of the lesson, which was to stretch into a Biblical eternity, the children were going to sing.
Of course, they weren’t just going to sing any old song. What the Born-Again had in mind was a religious composition, brimming over with Hallelujahs, Glorias, Praise bes and so many other devout interjections that the first few lines alone made me feel like a whore in a convent.
For a while, the children stared at the words as though they were brussel sprouts, struggling to digest them, yet knowing that any resistance would result in damnation – if not from the Almighty, then at least from His most ferocious advocate.
Once the lyrics had been chanted through in a monotone, the Born-Again fetched a tape recorder from the cupboard and proceeded to fill the small classroom with wholesome guitar sounds. It was excruciating in a ‘Cliff Richard meets the Girl Guides’ kind of way, but the worst was yet to come. After a couple of bars of innocuous strumming, the Born-Again suddenly opened her mouth and emitted a high-pitched wail that threatened to perforate my ear drums. There was a series of sharp crashes around the room as a dozen or so jaws hit the desks. In light of the fact that their teacher making noises akin to a farm animal in labour, the self-control of the children was commendable.
Five minutes of shameless exhibitionism passed before the rest of the class was ordered to join in. It took several verses before they were secure with the tune, but even at full lung capacity they were unable to drown out the death cries of the Born-Again. It was only when the first rendition screeched to a merciful close that the woman finally came clean about her intentions. She may have been a teacher by profession, but by calling she was a recruiter with a talent that would put any Jehova’s Witness to shame. This beautiful song, she exclaimed with starry eyes and a cherubic smile, was just one of many that were sung at her local chapel… which just so happened to be looking for new members to indoctrinate.
The children eyed her warily. She’d have to do a lot better than this if she were to succeed in her quest for new disciples.
“We meet on a Sunday and on a Wednesday,” she explained, “and we always buy chips for children who come along to the Wednesday evening singalong!”
There was a murmur of interest which, as it was happening, put me in mind of the witch in the Hansel and Gretel story. This was bribery – barefaced and shameless, but it seemed to be working.
“We also have guitars – and drums!” she continued, not so much dangling the carrot as hitting the children across the heads with it, “And you might even get the chance to play them, but only if you keep coming to chapel on a regular basis.”
The long-term implications drifted over the pupils’ heads like clouds of opium. I don’t quite know what the musical set-up was in that particular chapel, but somehow I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the hard rock and head-banging that she seemed to be promoting.
After securing a couple of empty promises from the diehard chip-eaters of the class, the Born-Again returned to her song with renewed zeal, swaying along to the beat and adopting expressions of pure orgasm for the more devout passages.
High above me there was a gentle scratching sound in one of the panes of glass. I looked up and saw a crack beginning to form, slowly working its way across the window and branching off into a spider’s web of impending doom. I watched and waited. The highest note of the song was just seconds away, and I managed to dart out of the way in the nick of time. When it happened, there was an earshattering smash that sent small shards of glass raining down like confetti. The lunchtime bell rang a few seconds later - soft, sweet and completely melodious by comparison.
I have no idea how successful the Born-Again was in her recruitment drive, but can only imagine that if she continues to teach, school maintenance bills will rival those of the ancient building that she was trying to fill.
