Teach Me a Lesson

by Jasmine Haynes

  “Then I think I should tell you the things I used to do with one of my boyfriends.”

  “If you feel it’s necessary.” He felt a little kick, a tightening in his groin. He’d never questioned his wives or girlfriends about their pasts. It was a don’t-ask-don’t-tell society. But as always, she was nothing like other women.

  She licked her lips, shifted her legs, drawing his attention to the creamy smoothness of her thighs. “Well, since you’re dying to know—”

  Yes, he was dying to know. What had this extraordinary woman done?

  “—he used to send me out to have sex with other men.” She smiled, sipped, let him digest, then she added, “Sometimes he liked me to call him right in the middle of the act.”

  “Jesus” was all he could say. It was like phone sex. Only better.

  “We’d go to hotel bars and pick out a man together. Then he’d stay there having a drink while I went upstairs. Sometimes I’d call him. Sometimes I’d make him wait until I came back down.” She smiled a sultry smile. “Then I’d tell him detail by detail. And he’d kiss me, taste the other man on me.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “A couple of times he came up to the room after the man had left and licked me clean.” She emphasized with a sweep of her tongue across her luscious lips.

  He swallowed with difficulty.

  “Have some wine,” she urged.

  He drank thirstily. He imagined her on a bed, her legs spread, her boyfriend between them. He didn’t know why it turned him on. It was the fantasy. The ultimate cuckold. The kinkiness.

  “Take off your top,” he demanded.

  She drew it over her head, tossed it aside, her hair cascading down like a cloud around her face and shoulders. The bra was see-through lace, her nipples dark and tight beneath. He wanted to suck them.

  “What else did you do?” He was embarrassed to hear that his voice cracked.

  “He made me take pictures to show him.”

  Christ, did she still have them? “Get rid of the shorts.”

  She unsnapped the waist and wriggled them down her legs, rolling her panties off as well. She was naked but for the sexy see-through bra. He tossed her the vibrator. She caught it deftly.

  “Now spread your legs, use it on yourself, and tell me the kinkiest thing he made you do.”

  She propped a pillow behind her head so she could still see him, put one bare foot flat on the carpet, and opened her luscious pink center to him. Christ, the woman drove him crazy, and her voice sent him into orbit.

  “We picked out a man together. But we already had the room. While I was coming on to our quarry, he went up and hid in the closet, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could see everything.”

  She held the vibrator straight on her clit and groaned for him. “He’d told me exactly where I was supposed to lay on the bed so he could see the guy enter me. He wanted to see his cock filling me.”

  He couldn’t imagine any man devising such a plan, but his cock was harder than the marble of her fireplace mantel.

  She arched into the vibrator, twirling it slowly, expertly around the turgid button of her clit. She was pink, plump, so aroused that moisture coated her thighs.

  “I let the man fuck me. He was huge. He did me doggy because it was easier to take all of him.” She gasped, panted, moaned, then reached down to shove the vibrator deep inside.

  His ears roared. He needed her bad. But he wanted her story first.

  “My boyfriend took a video of the whole thing. Every second.” She made a keening sound as if she were on the edge of orgasm. Her pussy seemed to pulse. “When the guy was about to come, I made him pull out, rip off the condom, and come all over my ass. Oh God.” She cried out, unintelligible words.

  Christ, she couldn’t stop now. He lunged for the couch. “More.”

  “I—I—” She panted, tossed her head on the pillow, worked the vibrator in, out, back up to her clit, around.

  He tore the condom packet he’d had in his pocket, ripped at the buttons of his jeans. “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice harsh with need.

  She opened her eyes. “I made him leave. And my boyfriend came out.” Her body jerked.

  Lance was ready, the condom in place. He tore the vibrator from her hand and plunged deep.

  Charlotte cried out, clutched his shoulders as he took her relentlessly.

  “More,” he insisted.

  The rest of the story came out between her pants. “My boyfriend hooked the camera up to the TV. He played the video while he licked all the come off.”

  Holy hell. Lance felt himself losing his mind, losing himself in her. She was crazy. Kinky. He couldn’t get enough.

  “Then he entered me right when the guy was coming all over me on-screen. He fucked me until we passed out.”

  Her body contracted around him, dragged him deep, pulled him under, and Lance shouted his release. The woman made him lose his mind. And he didn’t give a damn.

  Though he was crushing her, he couldn’t move for long moments afterward. He wanted to stay inside her forever. He was hooked on her.

  “You are the dirtiest girl I have ever met, Miss Moore.”

  Her chest quivered with silent laughter. “I most certainly am,” she said, only a slight strain in her voice from his weight on her.

  He moved, pulled out, asked, “Bathroom?”

  She pointed down the hall. Opposite the living room through an archway was a small dining room with a table and four chairs and a door into the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of black-and-white tile. The bathroom was the first door on the left, while farther down lay another opening to the kitchen.

  The bathroom was tiled completely in pink and gray, the floor, countertops, the walls above the bath. It was probably the original scheme, but had been kept in immaculate shape. He got rid of the condom, washed his hands. And looked at himself in the mirror.

  He’d be fifty in less than a year and a half. She was still a couple of years shy of forty. He bore years of lines on his face. She was still smooth and supple. He didn’t let his thoughts drift to the inevitable conclusion. She was amazing, unlike any woman he’d had, probably unlike anyone he would ever have in his bed. She was changing his view, opening him up. God, she was even teaching him things. It didn’t matter how much older he was.

  He found her sprawled on the sofa exactly the way he’d left her. Only Charlotte could have lain there so unself-consciously. Her skin was creamy and smooth, her dark makeup sexy, her breasts mouthwatering, and the trimmed thatch of red hair between her legs beckoned him.

  She smiled when she saw him. “Did you like my story?”

  “Fuck yes.” He liked the ability to use dirty words with her.

  “It made you hot, didn’t it?”

  “Were you in doubt?”

  “No.” She shook her head, her hair flowing across the cushion. “What if it was just a fantasy? Would you still have liked it?”

  He grabbed the wineglass off the table and sat on the end of the couch, his hand on her leg. “Were you lying, Miss Moore?”

  He drank the wine. He should have known. Even Charlotte would probably draw the line at that level of kink.

  She widened her eyes. “I didn’t lie. I made up a story. And it got you incredibly hot.”

  He wasn’t sure if he preferred that it were true. The thought of this wild woman picking out other men with her boyfriend, yes, God, it had made him hard. But he was already recharging simply with the thought of the other things her mind conjured. She was one surprise after another.

  Yet she had lied.

  “Lying is a punishable offense.”

  She pushed herself up on her elbows. “Fantasy, not lying.”

  In a quick move, he grabbed her ankles and flipped her. “Lying requires a spanking.”

  He wanted to spank her. Badly. He wanted to feel her body tremble when he followed a swat with a delicious foray into her wet heat.

  She cried out with the first smack on her pert ass. He pulled her to t
he edge of the sofa until her knees were on the floor and her pussy exposed, her ass high, tempting. Then he began the spanking in earnest.

  * * *

  CHARLOTTE CURLED HER FINGERS INTO THE COUCH CUSHIONS and moaned loudly.

  “You never learn, Miss Moore.”

  Oh, she learned all right. She knew exactly how to goad him. “It’s not my fault, Principal Hutton.” It was all her fault. She loved the slap of his hand, the ripple of it all along her flesh, the sting, the bite. And the scent of his sex all over her.

  “This hurts me more than it does you, my dear.”

  The tremble started in her legs, rising up. He swatted her, then slid down to play with her pussy, manipulating her. She closed her eyes, buried her face against the pillow and muffled her cries. He smacked once more and she came, whimpering, crying, spasming, until she seemed to hang off the edge of the sofa, just flesh, just bones, and utterly satisfied.

  Her butt tingled. Sitting on the couch beside her, he stroked the hot flesh. His touch seemed to burn.

  “So,” he said. “Where were we? Oh yes, you were about to tell me how on earth you came up with that kinky fantasy.”

  Ah, the fantasy. It had come to her in a moment of genius. She’d told Jeanine to fantasize with her husband and see if that could work for them both. It certainly generated spectacular results with Lance. But she couldn’t move yet. “I haven’t recovered enough to talk,” she mumbled into the pillow.

  He slapped her butt. A delicious tingle rippled through her, like an orgasmic aftershock.

  “Sit up and answer my questions, wench,” he demanded.

  She rolled over to find him seated in the corner of the sofa drinking the wine. He was fully dressed. Charlotte bent down for her panties and shorts. Lance put his foot on them.

  “Don’t put them on. I want you just like that, only the bra.” Instead of a demand, it was almost a plea.

  “All right.” But there was a sense of vulnerability in it, all her flaws revealed while all of his were covered up. Not that she’d noticed any flaws about the man. Unless it was his autocratic attitude. Of course, that worked perfectly for her when she wanted to be punished.

  Picking up her wine, she pushed back into the opposite corner of the couch. She couldn’t help tucking her legs beneath her and holding a pillow to cover her stomach.

  “Tell all, dirty girl.”

  His words eased the slight tension. “A client told me about it.” She would not reveal Jeanine’s name or her situation, and Charlotte didn’t consider it breaking a confidence to say she’d heard of this kind of thing in her practice. “Her husband wanted her to be with other men. It turned him on.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know if anything was wrong with him.”

  He raised a brow. “So she did it?”

  “She didn’t want to. My suggestion was that she create a fantasy and see if it satisfied her husband.”

  “You’re a sly one,” he said, a half smile of admiration creasing his lips. “Did that work?”

  She evaded an actual lie. “You tell me. Did it work on you?”

  He laughed. “Hell, yes. It was fucking amazing, Miss Moore, but part of the high was that it came out of your imagination, not something a client told you.”

  Charlotte began enjoying the conversation. “She didn’t give me any details. Those were all mine.” She tapped her temple. “Right out of here.” Now she had to somehow convey to Jeanine how well it could work.

  “Would you ever want to actually do it?” He was eyeing her with a darker gaze.

  “I’m not sure. In a way, it’s very sexy, the idea of having your husband watch you.”

  “What if he turned the tables and had sex with another woman in front of you?”

  That had been Jeanine’s fear, that her husband was suggesting it only so he could have the same freedom. “Now you see the problem. What about you? Could you let your wife be with another man?” She raised a brow. “After all, you did suggest it.”

  “Weren’t you giving me a hand job at the time?”

  Charlotte laughed. “I have no idea. I can’t remember how it came up in conversation.”

  “It was a fantasy. Something you say in the middle of a heated moment, to make it better, hotter, sexier. But I’m too territorial to let another man touch my woman.”

  The words sent a thrill through her. As if she were the woman he was territorial about. It had nothing to do with wanting a relationship, of course. It was that elemental desire to feel like you were owned, body, heart, and soul. She decided against saying any of that.

  “But you like the role playing, fantasizing. A lot of men don’t.” Here was another of Jeanine’s fears. That her husband wouldn’t be satisfied with pretending. But if he was willing, fantasy was amazingly potent. She’d just proven it.

  Lance leaned forward, setting his now empty wineglass on the table. “My dear Miss Moore, we’ve been role playing all along. I’m your principal. You’re my student.”

  She twisted her lips, shooting him a cheeky look. “It’s pretty kinky.”

  “You don’t advocate kinkiness to your clients?”

  “I don’t tell them not to be kinky. Kinky is good if it works for both parties. I say embrace your kinkiness as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. The problem is that many times one partner is coerced into playing the other partner’s kinky games, and in the end, that can only spell disaster.”

  She thought he’d ask if that’s what happened with her client, but instead he directed his question at her. “Am I coercing you?”

  She leaned forward, hugging the pillow tight to her. “Am I coercing you?” she countered. “Because if I recall correctly”—and of course she did—“I was the one who told you I needed to be punished.”

  His mouth moved. She thought it was an answering smile. “And as I recall,” he murmured, “you keep using inappropriate language and exhibiting lewd behavior so that I’m forced to punish you.”

  “I could stop if you want me to.”

  He moved in fast and grabbed the pillow, tugging it away to leave her naked from the waist down. “One of the things I like best about you is your filthy mouth, Miss Moore. Don’t stop using it on me. In every way, shape, and form.”

  He took the wineglass from her hand and set it on the table, then hovered over her, a hot blaze in the depths of his gaze. “All this sex talk has gotten me worked up again.”

  He put her hand on his jeans. Good God, the man was already hard. At his age. Amazing.

  “Before the clock strikes midnight and I turn into a pumpkin that has to roll out of here, I have a feeling you’ll say something for which I’m going to have to teach you another lesson. Right, Miss Moore?”

  God. She wanted to giggle. He actually remembered her stupid metaphor. And hell, yes, he was right. She would do something that would earn her one of his delicious lessons. “Cocksucker. Is that inappropriate enough, Principal Hutton?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

  “Actually, it’s the most appropriate thing you could say.”

  That was exactly the lesson he taught her. Not that Charlotte had a whole lot to learn in that particular area, if she did say so herself.

  12

  LANCE COULDN’T GET ENOUGH OF HER. IT WAS CRAZY. BUT HE adored her unconventionality. She always did something that managed to surprise him. He needed more of Miss Moore, no pun intended.

  It was a Friday afternoon, the November day outside his office window blustery, the last of the students rushing to their cars or the buses or waiting for their parents to pick them up. Though it was the end of the school day, it was not the end of his day. He had work to do, but his mind kept returning to Charlotte, to last night in her house, on her couch.

  In addition to his growing obsession—and not because of it—he had to admire her as well. She didn’t automatically condemn her clients. He’d always thought of sex therapy as the psychologist helping the client overcome kinky tendencies, becom
ing normal. From what she said, he surmised that she was more into helping her clients accept their kinkiness as long as it hurt neither them nor their partners. The attitude was refreshing. If more people believed that, could more marriages be saved? He thought of his two failures. They had not died because of sex or a lack thereof. They had died because of an inability to talk about needs.

  Charlotte allowed him freedom to explore. She loved games. Nothing was out of bounds for her. He wanted her to fulfill his fantasy. He needed it. He’d never fantasized about any student in his office. The thought had never occurred to him and never would. But he fantasized about Charlotte. He wanted the scent of her in this room. He wanted olfactory reminders of her. He wanted to sit in his chair with the door closed and remember.

  He gave in to the urge he’d been holding off all day. Sending her an email, he typed out a brief list of instructions. He gave her a time and a place.

  Then he buzzed Mrs. Rivers—she was always Mrs. Rivers, never first names, he wasn’t even sure she had a first name—and asked her to phone in a sandwich order for him because he’d be working late.

  * * *

  CHARLOTTE PARKED IN THE FAR LOT OVERLOOKING THE FOOTBALL FIELD. AT THIS LATE HOUR, THE SCHOOL WAS DESERTED. SHE made her way through the dark, empty halls to his open office door. The blinds were closed, only his desk lamp was on for illumination. In the light of it, his swarthy face was as dark as the devil. The shadows gave his brow the cast of a satyr.

  “You’re insane,” she said.

  “But you’re here, Miss Moore, so you must share my insanity.”

  She did. In the email he’d told her that the security service drove by every hour. She’d seen the small truck leave before pulling in. The clandestine nature of their meeting excited her. So did the risk.

  This was not a fantasy she would advocate for clients, and she wouldn’t tell Lola about it. But as soon as she’d read his email, she wanted it.