Mr Blackwell: Teacher Student Romance

by S K Quinn

  My feelings were so powerful they frightened me.

  I didn’t recognise love when it was right in front of me. So I ran …

  25

  Jessica lays on the metal bed. It must be cold on her bare skin, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead she watches me, her breathing getting faster.

  Cassandra is behind me, but she’s not talking.

  My stomach turns over and over.

  I feel my legs walk me forward.

  I look down at Jessica, white underwear, perfect tanned body, and wonder how many times she’s done this before.

  How did she find out she liked being dominated? Did she talk about it with her mother?

  ‘Take your bra off,’ I tell her.

  ‘Yes master.’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Jessica. ‘You’re my master right now. That’s our game. You’re the master and I’m your slave. And guess what? I’ve been disobedient. So you’ll have to punish me.’

  Blood pulses at the word ‘punish’.

  God, I hate myself. Completely hate myself. But I can’t shake free of these urges. I just can’t. And right now, when I’m with a semi-naked woman in a room full of whips and chains … let’s just say it’s not the time to practise abstinence.

  I go to the wall and take down a flogger – a bound leather handle with long leather laces hanging from it. The laces are thick and knotted. I suppose to increase the pain.

  On the metal bed, Jessica smiles and shivers.

  ‘Are you sure you want this?’ I say, fingering the strands of the flogger.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  I throw the flogger over her thighs – whack!

  Jessica lets out a moan of pleasure and writhes on the bed.

  I hate this. I hate that Jessica likes it. And most of all, I hate that – despite every sense in my brain telling me this is wrong – my cock is standing to attention.

  Jessica’s moan is still ringing through my body. It’s doing things to me.

  I hit her again. And again.

  Red marks appear on her lovely suntanned skin.

  I put my hand to the red, feeling the heat of it.

  ‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ I ask.

  ‘This is what she likes,’ Cassandra says. ‘What we both like.’

  ‘Do all women like it?’ I ask, remembering the woman in the shower. And the others …

  Cassandra shrugs. ‘You’d have to ask them.’ She perches on a black chair and runs her hands up and down her thighs. Her tight, black dress is plain, but elegant. Expensive. It goes nearly to the knee, and under it she wears seamed stockings and bright red high heels.

  Very slowly, she moves her thighs apart.

  ‘I love this room,’ she tells me. ‘I think you’re going to love it too.’

  26

  I spent the whole summer with Jessica and Cassandra, but I barely saw the sun.

  It was one hot, sticky mess of confusion, arousal and self-hatred, over and over again.

  I hated myself. Honest to god, hated myself. But at the same time, the stuff in that room did it for me like nothing else.

  I’d never felt so alive. So awake.

  All the torture equipment lying around, Jessica begging me to strangle her as I fucked her, Cassandra asking me to hold a knife to her … anything could happen.

  I could hold it together while I was whipping them or tying them up. But when I came I was afraid.

  Rough sex and light domination – those were the sorts of things you could do to a normal woman, if she was in the mood. But Cassandra and Jessica took me to darker places. I did things with them that were depraved. Wrong. And they loved it.

  I was in demand that summer. My film with Baz had just hit the big screens and I was touted as the next big thing. Maybe even James Bond one day.

  I was invited to all the parties, all the restaurant openings … LA loved me. It was unbelievable. The kid from the broken home was suddenly a star.

  I’d never had any trouble getting a woman into bed, but now they were throwing themselves at me. Screaming my name, telling me they loved me.

  If only they knew what I really was.

  I became adept at spotting the sort of woman who enjoyed being seriously dominated.

  Sometimes I toyed with a normal sort of girl. Tied her hands. Spanked her. She’d giggle and moan, but if I suggested chaining her to the bed she’d run a mile. So I usually stuck to the true submissives – the girls who loved being taken charge of in every way.

  After that summer, I flew to Paris to shoot Neuf.

  It was a relief to leave LA and the room at Jessica’s house.

  When I left, I didn’t miss either of those girls and had no desire to go back.

  I didn’t sleep with anyone in Paris. Had no interest in women whatsoever for a while. I threw myself into the movie, and for once the newspapers talked about my acting, rather than my good looks and rumoured girlfriends.

  But before long, I was back in LA again. And what can I say – you can take the man out of the fucked up, but you can’t take the fucked up out of the man.

  They say like attracts like.

  I tried to stay away from my old ways. But they found me. All the fucked-up girls who liked it like I did. And as controlled as I was, my body needed the release. It was like a drug to me. Being in charge. Seeing a woman soften beneath me.

  If they hadn’t have liked it, it would have been easy. But they begged me to take charge of them. Over and over again.

  Christ.

  I couldn’t stop.

  To everyone else, I was someone to be envied.

  Handsome. Young. Talented. Rich. Winning awards left, right and centre. Women throwing themselves at me. Going to all the A-list parties, the clubs … and money, money, money. Free meals, free drinks, free drugs if I wanted them. And millions paid for every movie.

  Nobody knew the hell I was going through. The endless struggle inside.

  Baz was back in the UK at that time, trying to make his marriage work, while serially cheating on his wife. If he’d have been around, I might have been calmer. More restrained. But he wasn’t and I wasn’t.

  I found friends who were similarly messed up. Violent childhoods, drug addictions, jail time … we all found each other.

  Those years were a blur or women, shame, regret, women, shame, regret.

  I can hardly remember any of it.

  Blonde, brunette. Blonde, brunette, redhead. Round and round they went. I barely knew their names, let alone noticed their hair colour …

  27

  There’s a girl at the door of my Bel-Air mansion.

  It’s 3am and she’s buzzing the intercom.

  I can see her on my security camera – a tall girl with brown hair and red lips stumbling around at the gates.

  Her name is Sigourney.

  I believe she’s a model, although she could be an actress. I’m not sure. She’s British. And a car crash.

  I guess you could say we’re kindred spirits. Two fucked-up angry British people in LA.

  Christ.

  This is my life right now.

  I get cold-called at three in the morning by beautiful women.

  Sigourney’s part of the Pump House crowd, and she’s been flirting with me for months. The Pump House is where rich people with bad habits hang out. And Sigourney certainly has bad habits.

  I’ve seen her around many times, but never sober.

  The intercom crackles. ‘It’s Sigourney.’

  ‘I know who you are. What do you want?’

  As if I don’t know.

  The intercom crackles again. ‘You weren’t at the club tonight.’ Her voice is soft and drunk. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

  Of course I’m going to let her in. I’m not about to leave a woman alone on my doorstep.

  I hit the door release.

  Five minutes later, I hear Sigourney staggering around my marble lobby in high heels. Eventually, she finds her way upstairs to my
room.

  Sigourney is as drunk as ever, makeup halfway down her face.

  I think she’s upset. She’s clearly looking for a distraction. Which I am happy to give her.

  I get out the handcuffs and chain her to the bed. It’s all so usual now. Almost routine.

  I skip the prolonged teasing because I judge her drunk enough to fall asleep at any minute.

  When I finally work her up enough to fuck her, she’s nearly asleep, even while she’s coming. It feels wrong. Horrible. I can’t keep going, so I pull out.

  And suddenly, I learn a magic truth.

  I can give pleasure. And then I can stop.

  I can stop!

  I almost laugh out loud – it’s like paradise has just opened up before me.

  I unchain Sigourney and leave her on the bed.

  I head to the guestroom, but I can’t sleep. I lay awake, awash with power and possibilities.

  What if I don’t come? All those feelings of terror. Fearing that I will hurt a girl. That I will totally lose control. Gone. And yet I still have that rush. That rush of being in charge.

  This is a revelation.

  28

  The morning after the night before.

  I have so many of them I’ve lost count.

  Full of shame. Regret. Recrimination.

  But this morning is different. I feel excited for the first time in years.

  As I sip coffee by the swimming pool, Sigourney stumbles out onto the patio.

  ‘You didn’t sleep next to me,’ she accuses. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘I don’t do that,’ I say. ‘Relationships aren’t my thing.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she says, mascara grey and gritty under her eyes, lips obscenely nude without makeup.

  That night, Sigourney came back. And the next. She told me she’d never felt this way about anyone.

  The sex got wilder and wilder. At times, she completely lost it. She barely even noticed that I didn’t come, and I was in no hurry to point it out.

  After a particularly intense evening, when Sigourney had rubbed her wrists raw against the rope and screamed every swear word under the sun, she told me she thought I’d made her pregnant.

  Somehow I managed not to laugh. Aside from the fact I hadn’t come inside her, I’d used a condom every time anyway. She’d just been too drunk and coked up to notice.

  I realised then it was time to end things. I never liked seeing one girl for too long anyway – the longer we were together, the more attached they got.

  I know that sounds cold. Inhuman almost. But it’s not like I didn’t care. I just didn’t love those girls. I couldn’t give them what they wanted, so it was best they found out sooner rather than later.

  When I told Sigourney that I never came with her, she flew at me – clawing at my face.

  I told her it was over and ordered her a car.

  The press got a few pictures, and Sigourney phoned me the next day – telling me she’d tell the paparazzi everything unless I took her back.

  I told her to go ahead. No one threatens me. It’s as simple as that.

  I really thought she’d do it. I was braced for my career to be over. But instead, she got together with another actor – Leo Falkirk. America’s blond, blue-eyed hero. And she phoned me incessantly from his house, telling me how much she still loved me, and how could I let some other guy fuck her after what we’d had?

  I felt sorry for Leo. I’d worked with him before and knew he was a good guy. Open. Likeable. The opposite of me. How Sigourney ended up with him, I’ll never know. But she could work magic on men when she wanted to. I saw it happen. She just couldn’t work magic on me.

  In the bed, Sophia stirs.

  Light and dark.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Sophia asks, and I see that she’s watching me, her eyelids soft and half-closed.

  ‘Bad things.’ I stroke her hair. ‘Horrible things.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Go to sleep now.’

  ‘I was dreaming,’ Sophia murmurs. ‘About when we met. Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  29

  Summer

  Ivy College

  When I First Met Sophia …

  ‘Sophia Rose.’

  Her name is just a biro scrawl on an audition sheet. Nothing more. One more young actor I’ll have to watch trying too hard.

  Denise and I are in the Ivy College audition room, having just sat through ten so-so performances.

  ‘This girl will be good,’ says Denise. ‘I watched her audition tape.’

  ‘They’re all good on the audition tapes,’ I say. ‘Then they see me in person and lose the ability to stand. Christ – how many more of these do I have to sit through?’

  ‘You’re the head of Ivy College,’ says Denise. ‘You have to audition the students – it wouldn’t be right not to.’

  ‘I own the college.’ I flex my fingers. ‘Which means I can do whatever I like.’

  ‘Come on Marc. You’ll be teaching these kids. You have to see their auditions.’ She pats my hand. ‘You’re a good boy really. Much as you try to hide it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  ‘I would. Ah! This must be her.’

  I hear soft footsteps outside.

  ‘No high heels?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘This is a first. She must be tall.’

  But the girl who walks into the audition room isn’t especially tall. She’s the most ordinary girl I’ve seen all day. And yet I can’t help staring at her.

  Soft, wavy brown hair. A slim, willowy body. Jeans, t-shirt and Converse. Ordinary. But utterly exceptional.

  Sophia returns my stare with large, brown eyes and I’m nearly knocked off my chair.

  There’s an innocence and goodness to her that is captivating. Just captivating.

  I feel my jaw tighten.

  Sophia watches me, but not in the usual way women do. Her eyes aren’t large or flirtatious and she isn’t smiling suggestively. She looks … surprised. Like we’ve met before and she isn’t expecting to see me.

  I introduce Denise and myself.

  Sophia tells us her name.

  She looks so vulnerable, all alone in the audition room.

  Some crazy part of me wants to take her in my arms.

  Christ, what is wrong with me?

  Sophia tells us she will play Lady Macbeth.

  ‘Ah,’ I say. ‘The evil lady of Shakespeare.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Sophia says. ‘She’s not evil. No one is wholly evil. Even bad characters have light in them.’

  I feel a flicker in my chest.

  Light.

  People so rarely talk back to me. And certainly never anyone I’ve auditioned for the college. I feel a swell of respect for this sweet, young actress.

  Sophia does her audition – a beautiful rendition of Lady Macbeth. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen, as a matter of fact.

  I am mesmerised. I don’t want her to leave.

  At the grand age of twenty-seven, I thought I knew myself. But I don’t. Because I’ve never felt like this before.

  When Sophia finishes her audition, I hear Denise clapping.

  I don’t clap. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I am rooted to the spot.

  I sense Sophia takes this as disapproval, and she heads towards the door, thanking us for our time.

  ‘Miss Rose,’ I bark.

  Sophia’s hand falters on the door handle.

  I want to tell her the audition was beautiful. That I’ve never seen so young a woman add such depth to a character. That her ability to show emotion is incredible. And … and …

  ‘Light and dark,’ I say. ‘Is that what you believe? The good in everybody?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  I grip my pen so tight I can feel my pulse racing.

  ‘Thank you for your performance,’ I say. ‘I enjoyed it very much.’

  When Sophia leaves, there is emptiness. And I become me again. Dark. Em
pty. Alone. Exactly the way it should be.

  30

  ‘You liked her, didn’t you?’ asks Denise.

  I snap my eyes from the door, chasing away images of Sophia Rose surrounded by light.

  ‘She was … good. But they’re all good.’ I’m still gripping my pen. ‘When does the next one arrive?’

  Denise gives me a knowing smile. ‘Good Marc Blackwell? Who are you fooling? Not me. She was exceptional and you know it.’

  ‘She’s too young to be exceptional.’

  ‘Oh stop it. You must have seen what I just saw in that girl. The openness. The vulnerability. That raw emotion. Quite outstanding.’

  ‘I already told you she was good.’

  ‘So she’s in?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Marc—’

  ‘She’s far too young, for one thing.’

  ‘It’s not about age. It’s about maturity. Which she had in spades. She reminded me of you, as a matter of fact. Old beyond her years. And Marc – if you only knew about her family. Her mother died when she was young. She’s had to care for her father and a young brother. She needs Ivy College more than anyone.’

  ‘That girl is never going to go hungry.’

  ‘Then why wouldn’t we want her?’

  ‘Because—’

  But I can’t answer. There is no reason. Except for the emotions that exploded when she walked into the room. I can’t explain to Denise that this girl is someone I could lose control over.

  Denise shakes her head. ‘I think you’re forgetting how hard the acting world can be,’ she says. ‘Sophia is very beautiful and talented. But it’s not enough. She has no connections. No theatre background. Nothing that could give her a leg up. Without us she could get lost in the crowd. You know what it’s like out there. All the girls with rich fathers get the parts.’

  I close my eyes, feeling pain behind my forehead. When I open them again, the world is swimming with light.

  Maybe squashed in with the rest of the class I won’t notice her. Or maybe she won’t even accept the place …

  ‘I’m still not convinced we’re the best university for her,’ I say. ‘You saw how she was dressed. This is London.’

  ‘Marc Blackwell! What has gotten into you today? Look, I don’t care what you say. I’m signing this girl up. She deserves this place and I’m not letting your bad mood take it away from her.’