Teach Me a Lesson

by Jasmine Haynes

  She’d saved the shadow girl for last. Melody Wright. A pretty name that, at this moment, didn’t suit her at all. If possible, the teenager had curled even further in on herself, her feet up on her toes, her body hunched over. Charlotte almost asked if she was feeling sick, but she didn’t believe the malady was physical. She was loath to question the girl, to even call attention to her, but to leave her out at this point would only make her stand out more.

  “Would you care to tell us why you’re here, Melody?”

  3

  “IT SAYS ON MY SLIP” CAME MELODY WRIGHT’S SOFT REPLY.

  “All I see is that you had some issues with aggressive behavior.” The girl was a freshman, the complaint made by her science teacher, but Charlotte still didn’t read the scrawled comment. She wanted Melody’s version, just as she had with the others.

  “I dumped—” The rest was a mumble of words Charlotte couldn’t make out.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.”

  Melody raised her head, her hair falling aside, and Charlotte saw her face for the first time. Angry, festering acne mottled her skin. It was painful to see, and Charlotte’s empathy rose. The bane of a teenage girl’s existence, the physical and emotional scars it could leave in its wake. Poor kid.

  “I dumped,” Melody enunciated, “a beaker of sugar water on my lab partner’s head.”

  Tyler snickered. Charlotte shot him a menacing glare. “Why did you do that, Melody?”

  “Because it felt good,” the girl answered, a scowl further marring her features.

  “You go, girl.” Jamal punched a fist in the air.

  Charlotte silenced him with a look, too. “Did your lab partner do something to make you angry?” She had a fairly good idea it had to do with her acne.

  “He existed,” Melody said, then she dipped her head, letting her hair fall back into place to hide her face, like a turtle pulling its head back into its shell.

  Emma and Brittany began whispering.

  “Brittany, are you having trouble hearing again?” Charlotte called out loudly.

  “No, ma’am,” Brittany shot back, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  “Then don’t make me write another detention slip.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The two girls smiled at each other, a knowing, mocking smile that could have been directed at her or at Melody.

  Her charges became restless, leaning down to touch their backpacks, adjust their jackets, and Charlotte glanced at the clock strategically placed on the back wall where the teacher could see it and the students could not. Unbelievably, the forty-five minutes of detention hall were up, and some inner teenage alarm clock had gone off in each and every one of them. Except Melody.

  “Class dismissed,” she said.

  Tyler was the first to stand in front of her desk. “You have to sign the slip so I can get back into class.”

  “Oh.” She signed with a flourish, tore off the top two sheets, and handed them back. One for the teacher, one for the student, and the last to be turned in to the Administration office.

  She’d signed the slips, and the portable was empty except for Melody. She was still hunched in her chair. Charlotte scrawled her signature on the last slip and split the pages.

  “Melody, you’ll need this to get back into class.”

  “I don’t want to go back.” She spoke clearly despite the curtain of hair draped across her face.

  Charlotte rose, strolled slowly down the aisle. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’d like to talk about it.”

  “I have to go home now. My mom will be worried.” Melody was back to mumbling, but Charlotte understood her nevertheless.

  “All right. But I’m going to write you down for a meeting on Thursday. When’s your study period?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Then I’ll see you in my office at eleven on Thursday. I’m in the Admin building.”

  Melody didn’t argue. She simply reached out for the slip and tucked it into her sweatshirt pocket. Sliding out of the desk chair, she circled behind it so she didn’t have to push past Charlotte and shuffled to the door at the front of the class. The pant legs of her jeans dragged on the floor, the hems frayed and dirty from the wet ground outside. The door closed with a thud behind her.

  Charlotte sat in the chair Melody had vacated. She realized that every detention slip awarded was done so to maintain order in the classroom, and that teenagers, even high school students, needed to respect authority and submit to discipline, but the infractions today were all rather minor. Melody Wright, though, worried her. The girl was battling demons. She was a freshman, her first year of high school, new people, greater challenges, and a skin condition that could scar a young girl for life. It felt good held a definite edge of hostility. He existed was even scarier. Her lab partner had done something. Charlotte needed to figure out what it was. She needed to help Melody.

  The door opened. Melody had come back. Maybe she was ready to talk.

  But it was Principal Hutton’s tall form framed in the doorway. A smattering of raindrops glittered in his salt-and-pepper hair and dotted the shoulders of his suit jacket.

  Seated at the student desk, Charlotte could well imagine what it would be like to have him as her detention hall monitor. Her heart fluttered like she was one of his adoring female students. Despite being in the same building, she rarely saw him. Now it was twice in one day.

  Oh, Principal Hutton, I’ve been very, very bad. Whatever will you do to punish me?

  She could think of a lot of things the principal could do to her.

  * * *

  CHARLOTTE MOORE’S SMILE WAS PURE CLEOPATRA WHEN SHE SAW Marc Antony for the first time. And it made Lance hard.

  He needed to take control. Or he’d lose it completely. He strolled down the length of the side aisle to her seat in the back. “I trust your students didn’t completely demoralize you and make you sit in the corner.”

  She laughed, and the musical sound sneaked beneath his ribs. The tiniest of lines at her eyes and her mouth testified to a lot of laughter. She was at least ten years younger than him, if not more, but he was sure she’d done twice the laughing that he had. She made him want to do more of it.

  “Oh no, it was marvelous,” she said, amusement sprinkled in her voice. “A truly unique experience. I’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been in detention before.”

  “Never.” She leaned forward, hands cupping her chin as she gazed up at him.

  “Not even in grade school?” From his vantage point above her, he could make out the creamy swell of breast in the vee of her blouse. Charlotte Moore had magnificent breasts. He shouldn’t be noticing, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “My teachers said I was a perfect angel. They gave me gold stars, not detention.”

  He wagged a finger. “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating? I’ve never had a student who was never bad.”

  She placed the flat of her hand to her chest. He wanted to touch his tongue to the skin between her fingers. “You never did anything to get sent to the naughty corner? Never received a spanking?”

  “Not even once.” She was smiling again. The Cleopatra smile. The one that brought Julius Caesar and Marc Antony to their knees before her. “But I’ve been thinking,” she said in a singularly innocent, angelic voice.

  “About what?” he was compelled to ask.

  “That maybe I missed out by never being spanked.”

  Her brilliant green gaze mesmerized him. “Corporal punishment like spanking has been deemed to damage a child’s psyche,” he advised her.

  Oh, that smile. Soon he’d be on his knees, too.

  “But I’m not a child, Principal Hutton.”

  “No, you most certainly are not.” Not with those breasts. Or the lush curve of her hips. Or the plump, beckoning mouth. Her scent rose to him, the hot, sweet perfume of arousal. It swirled around him, ensna
red him, whispered to him. Despite the cold, damp day outside, his temperature was rising. As were other parts of his body. No woman had ever gotten to him so quickly. Especially not an employee. And they were on school property. He had a strict rule. A code.

  She made him forget all his rules and codes, where they were, who she was, who he was. Made him want to forget all of it.

  “Maybe I should do something really bad, Principal Hutton.” She fluttered her lashes at him. It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. “Something for which I’ll deserve a spanking.” And somehow that was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.

  He’d been married and divorced twice. He’d had lovers before, between, and after his ill-fated marriages. But with her words, every sexual thing he’d ever done seemed vanilla in comparison, damn near missionary. Or maybe it was just her. As if she’d somehow tapped into something he’d never known was buried deep inside him.

  Now all he wanted was her delectable derriere beneath his hand.

  Lance backed up three steps and turned. At the door, he punched the lock. Then he looked at her.

  “So what have you done, Miss Moore, that’s really, really bad?”

  * * *

  HEAT FLASHED ACROSS CHARLOTTE’S SKIN. SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE what she’d said. She should have been talking to him about Melody. She should have given him the signed detention slips. She certainly shouldn’t have goaded him into locking the portable’s door.

  Actually, she couldn’t believe that had worked. Principal Hutton’s reputation was sterling. There’d never been even a hint of a salacious rumor. But when his gaze had dipped to her chest, she couldn’t help herself. And now she was very glad for the fact that the portable classroom had no windows.

  Charlotte rose, strolled down the row of desks to the front of the class, her hips swaying seductively. Then she turned, propped herself against the teacher’s desk. And put a finger to her lips.

  She could feel his eyes as if he was actually touching her.

  “Fuck,” she said softly.

  “Fuck?” he questioned with equal softness.

  “Inappropriate language in the classroom.”

  Something started to blaze in the depths of his brown eyes. They almost glowed. She wanted his hands on her. She was wet and ready for it.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispered in the quiet room, the only other sounds being the tattoo of rain on the roof and the harshness of his breathing.

  “That is very, very bad, Miss Moore.” There was a new huskiness in his voice. “This goes far beyond after-school detention.” He was at the desk in three strides, towering over her, his height making her knees buckle. “This calls for drastic measures.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, pleading. “I didn’t mean it, Principal Hutton.”

  He shook his finger at her. “Too late for apologies, Miss Moore. I’ll have to spank you. It’s the only way for you to learn your lesson.”

  Yes, yes, yes. It was exactly what she wanted. “But I’ve never done anything to earn a spanking before.”

  “You certainly deserve it now. Turn around, bend over, and put your hands on the desk.”

  She did as he instructed, her skin tingling, heart racing, legs weak with desire. Going down onto her elbows, she fully exposed her bottom to him. If she was naked, he would surely have seen the dewdrops of arousal on her. Lola was so right; the whole experience was overwhelmingly erotic. She watched him over her shoulder as he unbuttoned his suit jacket, slowly removed it, and threw it across the desktop of the first seat in the row.

  Charlotte’s gaze dropped to his waist. Lord. The evidence of his desire was outlined against his slacks. He wanted to spank her as much as she wanted it.

  “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, Miss Moore.” He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, revealing corded muscles and a light dusting of dark hair on his forearms.

  “I doubt that, Principal Hutton.”

  He circled her, coming up on her left. Bending down to her ear, his body heating her to her core, he whispered, “You’re right. I’m going to enjoy it.”

  She scented him like a bitch in heat, the purely male perfume, thick and salty. Her mouth watered for a taste of him. “Oh, Principal Hutton, please—”

  He cut her off with a delicious swat right on the juncture of her thighs. Sensation flashed through her, from the site of his touch straight up to her throat and every organ in between. All she could think was that Lola hadn’t exaggerated: There was nothing quite like a spanking. Especially when it was Principal Hutton. Maybe because it was Principal Hutton.

  The second time he swatted her, she almost came.

  * * *

  EVEN THROUGH THE WOOL OF HER CAMEL-COLORED SKIRT, HIS palm tingled with the heat of her flesh. With each slap across her ass, he caressed her, learned the feel of her contours. Her moan of pleasure reached deep inside him. He burned for her.

  She laid her forearms flat on the desk, flexed her fingers, her head arching back. The action gave him a better angle, and this time his fingers slid along the crease of her pussy. He felt her contract. She balled her hands into fists. A sigh of ecstasy escaped her lips.

  “My dear Miss Moore, you’re not supposed to be enjoying this.” He swatted her again, his fingers lingering, touching, probing, caressing.

  “Oh”—she groaned—“I hate it”—she gasped—“this is awful”—she sucked in a breath—“Oh, Principal Hutton.” Her voice rose on his name.

  “Liar,” he said softly. He cupped his palm and delivered a harder blow.

  She pushed back against his hand, her body begging for more.

  He wanted to bury himself inside her. He wanted to take her right there on the desktop. Simply roll her to her back and plunge deep. But taking anything more would change the event, distort it. He wanted to savor this, the feel of her skin. And his power over her.

  “Say it again, Miss Moore.” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears.

  “Fuck.” She groaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chanted.

  He rewarded her with another slap for each time she said the word. Her legs began to tremble, her body quivered, she panted, and despite the wool skirt separating his palm from her bare ass, he felt her heat and moisture, and scented the sweetness of her come as she climaxed. Her cry was long and low, from deep in her throat. He caressed the soft, warm spot between her legs until he felt her muscles relax, her body going prone on the desktop.

  She was amazing. She made him feel amazed with himself. She’d come without even skin-to-skin contact.

  Breathing in, breathing out, she sighed. “Oh. My. God.” Each word was a separate sentence. She turned her cheek to the wood and looked up at him from one eye. “I never knew being bad could be so good.” Then she levered herself slowly up off the desk, blinked, and finally smiled. “So that’s why they’re always lining up at your office.”

  He could have pulled her into his arms, kissed her. He could have demanded that since he’d gotten her off, she had to get him off. But the moment had been spectacular just as it was. He wouldn’t alter it. He wanted to fully savor it before he took more.

  “You’re my first, my dear Miss Moore.” Despite her heels, she was still a head shorter, and he wanted to lick the column of her throat as she tipped her head back to look at him. “But that,” he said softly, “is not going to be the last.” He leaned down enough to put his lips to her ear, her hair soft against his cheek. “Because I’m absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent sure you’re going to be very bad again”—he pulled back to lock eyes with her—“and again.”

  Grabbing his jacket off the student desk, he strode to the door, unlocked it, stood with his hand on the knob. “When you choose to be bad, you have to suffer the consequences.”

  “I’ll never do it again, Principal Hutton.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling like jewels.

  He knew she was lying. She couldn’t wait to do it again. Neither could he.

  4r />
  “I’VE BEEN VERY REMISS IN MY DUTIES TOWARD MY CLIENTS BY NOT checking out other possibilities,” Charlotte told Lola at lunch the next day. Sexual possibilities, she meant; spanking in particular. After that announcement, she savored a bite of her pastrami on rye. She didn’t regularly indulge in fatty foods, but when she went out for lunch, she savored every bite. The Dutch Bakery had the best pastrami on the San Francisco Peninsula. And the marzipan cakes tempted her from behind the glass-fronted display case, not that she’d allow herself one of those.

  Charlotte had a two-hour break between sessions. Thank goodness they’d arrived before eleven thirty because the line at the counter was now ten deep, seating was scarce, and the noise level had risen to mind-numbing. Servers delivering lunch plates dashed to and fro, tossing down crockery, grabbing up empties.

  “I wouldn’t call it being remiss,” Lola said. She was enjoying the other half of Charlotte’s pastrami. The sandwich was way too much for one person, so they’d shared. That’s what best friends did, divide the fat intake. “You’ve simply had your eyes opened.” She patted her napkin on a wayward dot of mustard at the corner of her mouth.

  Charlotte pointed her finger. “You opened my eyes.” She lowered her voice in deference to the lunch crowd around them, and for Lola, though the noise level would cover anything, she said, “If you hadn’t gotten naughty with that hunky coach of yours, I would have discounted the whole spanking business. And I’m a psychologist, for God’s sake.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  Not really. Charlotte was overdramatizing, but she had to admit she’d only considered the negative psychological aspects of BDSM, as in when a client became obsessed with it or used it to act out childhood traumas. There were, however, a lot of fun, sexy aspects that could be incorporated into a healthy love life and used to add variety and spice.