Page 41 of Mean Moms

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“Do it now,” said Morgan commandingly. Just her words made Paul want to finish, but he resisted. Then he reached over to Morgan’s delicate neck, warm and soft. He could feel her tendons underneath, her pulse beating fast. He wrapped his fingers around, locking them at the base of her hair. And then he started to squeeze. Softly at first, just a bit of pressure.

“More,” she said. And he squeezed harder, then harder still, to the point that he could feel her windpipe starting to cave, dangerously.

He finally felt her pinch the top of his thigh, their signal that it was over for now. He let go, and as he did, semen gushed into his sweatpants, seeping out, dripping onto the RH cushion, which he’d make sure to send off to the dry cleaner. Paul was nothing if not tidy.

Morgan sat up and patted the space next to her, a signal for him to join, as if he were a child. There was a red ring around her neck where his hands had been, but other than that no indication that Morgan had been very close to dying a few moments before. Maybe that was an exaggeration. She’d been close to passing out, not dying. Paul comforted himself with this thought. He scooched in next to Morgan, nuzzling his face in her tender skin, which smelled of a perfume that reminded him of his mother. She rubbed his head, massaging his scalp. He whimpered in pleasure.

Paul had met Morgan right when he’d started at Atherton. They’dspoken at a welcome-back cocktail reception on one of the first days of school, held in the old auditorium, which had been converted into a grand banquet hall for such occasions. The parents were eager to get his attention; the new, impossibly handsome headmaster of Atherton Academy! He’d succeeded the famous Dr. T. Summers, who’d been at the school for two decades, and who’d led the search that had resulted in Paul’s winning of the job. (Terry Summers had been good friends with Paul’s father—academia was just as susceptible to nepotism as any industry, and Paul, as in many aspects of his life, leaned in to the advantages he was lucky enough to be born with.)

Paul had been standing in a corner of the room, receiving family after family, as if he were getting married, his head starting to hurt from the constant speaking, smiling, and the mental energy of trying to remember everyone’s names. Morgan and her husband, Art, had sidled up to him, a tall, good-looking Indian man and a wife who, on first glance, looked like so many of the others: thin, polished, with blond highlighted hair and expensive jewelry. But there was something odd about this woman that Paul hadn’t been able to place. She kept staring at Paul in a way that was both off-putting and alluring, like sheknewthings about him. But how could she?

“I’m Art Chary and this is my wife, Morgan,” the man had said. He had a deep, smooth voice, a shiny smile, great eye contact. Art Chary, Paul knew, was a cofounder of Welly. Paul had committed the richest and most powerful of the Atherton parents to memory, and the Charys were high on the list.

“I’m going to go grab a drink, but I know Morgan would love to chat. She’s very active on the PA, and I’m sure will have many questions for you! Morgan knows everything and everyone.” He’dgiven Paul a firm handshake and walked off, leaving Paul with Morgan, who’d stepped very close to Paul in her husband’s absence.

“I feel like I know you,” she’d said in a voice so low that Paul could hardly hear her. He’d shaken his head, trying to act normally, but had felt a chill run up his spine.

“Either way,” she’d continued, her voice morphing into that of any overbearing mother, and Paul had met a million of them, “our daughter, Gertrude, is a shy one. She’s in Mrs. Victoria’s class, and I think there are some children who might be acting cruel to her.” Paul had nodded with care, his signature move, and she’d gone on in that way.

Their interactions over the next few months had been more of the same. There was PA business to discuss, and also Morgan’s regular emails regarding Gertrude. Paul had spoken to Gertrude’s teachers about the situation, but nothing had ever come of it—Mrs. Victoria strenuously denied that anything was happening to Gertrude on her watch, and Paul had no choice but to believe her.

Then one day, last spring, everything between them changed. It hadn’t been Paul’s fault. Well, it wasn’t like she’d forced him to do anything. But still… Paul hadn’t been looking to have an affair with a mother. Paul, with his impressive job and kind eyes and perfect hair, didn’t need to resort to that for sex. Besides, Morgan wasn’t even Paul’s type. Paul liked zaftig brunettes, with curves and meat on their bones and large eyes and soft hair, women more like Sofia Perez. Morgan was as taut as a guitar string.

He’d been sitting in his fourth-floor office at school, in between meetings, and heard a light knock on the door. Alice had been out at an appointment—she was in her late sixties, close to retirement, and was recovering from knee replacement surgery. Two times a week, she left for an hour in the middle of the day togo to physical therapy. Anyone familiar with his schedule would have known that.

“Come in,” he’d said, thinking it was likely one of the teachers with a quick question. Instead, Morgan Chary had entered, shutting the door behind her. She’d smiled at him and then, before he’d had the chance to say anything, come around to his side of the desk. She was wearing black leggings and a cropped sweatshirt, which was riding up to expose her flat, pale, nearly concave stomach.

“Uh, Mrs. Chary, what can I do for you?” Paul had said. She’d kneeled next to his chair, her chin perched on its arm, as if expecting him to plop a dog treat into her mouth. Had she lost her mind? Then she’d taken his hands in hers and placed them around her neck. Paul, who’d been on the verge of calling the police to report a crazy mother, had immediately gotten hard. Morgan had looked down at his pants with amusement. “There you are, Mr. Squeezy,” she’d said teasingly.

Like everyone else at this school, Paul had a secret. His was an uncontrollable penchant for erotic asphyxiation. In simpler terms, he liked to choke women during sex. It was something he’d discovered about himself gradually. In his twenties, he had a girlfriend who’d been into rough foreplay. She liked when he’d held her arms down, pulled her hair, bit her hard. He’d found himself extremely turned on by these acts, thinking about them constantly. He’d started to fantasize about doing… more. But when he’d touched her neck while they were in the throes, she’d balked. “What iswrongwith you?” she’d said, sitting up in bed, naked and scared. He’d been so ashamed that he’d buried the impulse for years, satisfying himself with standard lovemaking in real life and strangulation porn online. He’d created a digital alter ego—Mr. Squeezy—to discuss the ins and outs of erotic choking on Reddit,plus as his log-on to OnlyFans, where he paid to watch women get choked by other men.

He didn’t know what it said about him that this murderous act was his ultimate turn-on. He’d grown up in a pleasant, calm, intellectual household. Nothing to give hints that the good-looking, bright son might suffer from some sort of deviant kink. Over the past couple of years, he’d read the trend stories about choking during sex with interest. Women’s magazines were now saying it was “normal” and that “everyone was doing it.” Everyonewho? Paul had often wondered. None of the women he fucked, that was for sure.

And somehow, Morgan had found out. He’d never figured out how. Morgan wasintoit. “Mr. Squeezy.”

They’d started seeing each other regularly, mostly at Paul’s apartment, and occasionally, thrillingly, in Paul’s office when Alice was out. He’d installed a lock on the inside of his door, claiming his need for privacy, that he didn’t want teachers and parents bursting in when he was trying to focus. Morgan would arrive when she wanted to, holding all the power in the relationship. It was always the same. They’d lie parallel to each other, on the couch, on the bed, on the floor of his office, and Morgan would initiate foreplay. When she was ready, he’d put his hands around her neck and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, until she pinched his thigh. Then he’d orgasm.

Afterward, if the mood struck her, which wasn’t that often, Morgan would hand him a small, egg-shaped vibrator that she kept in her bag. It was a happy pink, the color of Easter candy and babies’ bows, and he’d turn it on and push it on her firmly, under her leggings and over her underwear, until she was warm, shaking, biting her lips, and done. Then she’d leave, sending Paul into a panic that she’d decide to never come back. The thought that she could take everything away made him itchy with anxiety.

Was he even attracted to Morgan? Not in the traditional sense, no. But he was obsessed with her, that was for sure. She’d given him something that no one else ever had, the license to be open about his darkest desires.

So, when she’d started occasionally for asking for things—Gertrude to be with a specific teacher the following year, his support on whatever PA initiative she was pushing—he’d obliged. It was never anything that was outrageous, particularly compared to the requests he got from other parents.

One day, toward the end of the school year, they were lying on the floor of his office after the act. Paul was on his back, looking up at the ceiling, completely relaxed. Morgan was next to him, massaging his hand with her own. He’d never met anyone like her. He was bewitched. He wondered if Art appreciated her as much as he did. They’d never discussed him.

“I have something else I need from you,” she’d purred.

“Anything.” He wondered if he could choke her one more time before she left. He had ten minutes until Alice returned and Morgan could sneak out before anyone noticed.

“There’s a mom I know who needs to get her children into Atherton. Messy divorce. She lives in Miami but is moving to New York. It’s a boy and a girl, nonentry grades, but they’re a lovely family and, well, you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”

Paul continued to stare up instead of looking at her. He didn’t answer for a moment. That would be breaking all the rules. He didn’t even know if it was possible. His head of admissions at Atherton took her job very seriously, and spots in nonentry grades were extremely limited and generally went to enormous donors.

“I don’t know, Morgan…” said Paul slowly. He wanted to helpher, he really did. But this was a big one. People would start asking questions.

“Do we have a few minutes? Do you want to have another round?” she’d asked sweetly, changing the topic. Paul silently vowed to do everything he could to get this woman from Miami’s children into Atherton. He couldn’t let Morgan down.

And he hadn’t. He’d contacted Sofia Perez out of the blue, telling her a friend had suggested he get in touch, that the best place for a family like hers was Atherton. He could get her two spots, he said, not letting her interrupt or ask questions. He knew she’d accept. They were the hottest school in Manhattan.