Work Text:
The CCTV video was choppy—only ten frames per second—monochrome, and at an oblique angle to the scene it was filming. Its gaze reached across the library study room, covering all the study cubbies in the place. There were only two cubbies it couldn't film, directly below it—a security flaw; Jonathan would have to have a word with IT regarding the placement of the cameras—while the other two cubbies on the same wall were half-caught by the lens.
Unfortunately for Libby Langley, she'd chosen one of those.
"I can't believe she'd do this," he said to Christina Clark, who snorted. Clearly she didn't share his amazement. "She's been a problem student since she enrolled, but this is—it's brazen."
"That's one way of putting it," Christina said with a shrug, then added, "But wait, there's more."
She unzipped the black backpack she'd dropped on his desk, where it had shuffled and creased his neatly organized paperwork. It was a security-issue backpack made of full-grain leather, like a briefcase with shoulder straps, with the black-and-white crest of Russell Academy sewn to the front pocket. Professional and sleek; Jonathan had approved the design himself. He heard the crinkle of plastic as she reached inside.
Jonathan was expecting drugs. In his day, the teens smoked marijuana and drank ridiculous amounts of good old-fashioned liquor—not that Jonathan would have indulged in those things. But girls these days were different. There was alcohol, of course—not even Jonathan could fully eliminate that particular vice from his campus—but the drug of choice for these kids was Xanax. Doctors would prescribe anything to anyone with so-called anxiety symptoms; he'd had to fire the previous school psychiatrist for diagnosing some of the girls with conditions they obviously didn't have. Libby was one of them.
So it was a surprise to him when Christina pulled not a baggie of little white pills out of her backpack, but a large plastic Ziplock with an assortment of sex toys in it. There were quite a few more than Jonathan would have expected from a sixteen-year-old girl with restricted access to the internet.
"Contrary to our prohibition of sexual paraphernalia," Christina said, and the bag of sex toys joined the backpack on his desk. "As stated in the student handbook."
"Where the hell did she even get these?" Jonathan asked. The toys were colorful and a variety of sizes. There was even one shaped like a lipstick tube. "We check their luggage at move-in. And as for deliveries—"
"No one snuck packages past my team," Christina cut him off. But obviously someone did, and her lips pressed together when he pointedly did not say that into the silence.
"Anyway, she'll have to be punished for this," he said after a moment.
"Another demerit?" asked Christina sardonically. She thought the demerit system was too lenient on the girls and Jonathan was inclined to agree, but it was what he had inherited and the parents would protest if he changed it. He was too new to his role, even three years in. He'd have to prove himself first.
"No," said Jonathan. "Clearly she doesn't care about that. I think I'll have to have a word with her privately."
Christina gave him a sideways look, and Jonathan met her gaze levelly.
"Maybe she'll change her tune if we bring in her parents, threaten to expel her," he added.
"Guess we'll see," said Christina with a shrug. She went to pick up the Ziplock, and paused.
"You want these?" she asked.
"For evidence?"
"Might scare her. So would that." She nodded at the flash drive with the CCTV footage. "If you said you were going to call her parents and show them. So tell her we have these first, and see if she changes her tune."
"That's true," Jonathan said thoughtfully. "Yes, leave those. I'll talk with her tomorrow."
"Good luck," Christina said, slinging the backpack over her shoulder. "I dont say this often, but—she's a bitch."
Which Jonathan well knew, given that she'd racked up eighteen demerits over the past three years. Her parents were major donors to the Academy, which was why she was still there, and she liked to flaunt her status in front of students and staff. It made Jonathan want to backhand her across the face.
The door closed behind Christina, and Jonathan sighed and sank into his office chair.
He did resent these privileged little rich girls. He hadn't expected that when he took the job; he'd taught at private schools throughout his whole career, and knew how to handle the children of the ultra-wealthy. But the claustrophobic environment of an all-girls' school was different. When he walked the halls, he could feel the cross-currents of gossip and rumors brush by him, tugging him ever so slightly into the simmering pool of animosity and viciousness that marked a place full of teenage girls.
The boys at his old schools would solve their problems with fistfights. Girls were worse.
Like Libby Langley.
Jonathan rubbed his temples; she gave him headaches.
She was different, untouchable. She simply did not give a damn about what the other girls thought of her. It was her looks, he thought. She was an exquisite girl, sloe-eyed with dark blonde hair worn in curls, too tall for the standard uniform skirts and far too curvaceous to make the button-up shirts look anything other than obscene. Her classmates still had baby fat and acne. She stood out even when she wasn't trying to.
But she usually tried.
Jonathan exhaled and turned to his computer, where the final frame of the video was still frozen onscreen. Libby was a shadow in the lower right, hunched over so he couldn't make out details; this was right when she'd been caught.
Jonathan clicked replay.
Libby entered the study room and paused in the doorway. She scanned the room like a soldier doing a perimeter sweep—making sure she was alone, Jonathan thought—and walked purposefully toward the fourth cubby to the right.
If she'd chosen the third one, he wouldn't have this video. Funny how fate was like that.
He couldn't read the expression on her face at this resolution, but he knew she wore a smirk, a what are you going to do about it? look with an arched eyebrow and a tilt of the head. She wore it every time she stood in his office while he spoke to her parents on speakerphone, and agreed with a clenched jaw that yes, the tennis courts could use some refurbishment, as well as the garden, how kind of them to offer, and of course he wouldn't mind brushing off Libby's little indiscretion, just this once.
It was never just once.
He watched as she set down her school backpack and glanced around the room again. Nervous? He doubted it. Libby thought she was going to get away with it.
She sat down in the cubby and shook out her hair so it flowed over her shoulders. The gesture looked strange and twitchy with the slow frame rate. But when she began to unbutton her shirt, the choppiness of the video didn't matter as much. It was clear what she was doing.
Jonathan knew what she was wearing because it was in Christina's report: crimson lingerie, the type of thing a girl her age shouldn't own. He couldn't see the color of her bra or the detail of the lace—he imagined it was lace, at least—but he got the gist.
Libby ran a hand down her body, over her breasts and down her stomach. She tugged at the hem of her skirt until it was around her waist.
On his initial viewing, he'd looked away at this part, focusing on the collection of his framed diplomas and certificates on the far wall. He couldn't watch this with Christina there.
The angle was wrong and he couldn't see exactly what she was doing, but he didn't need a graphic close-up to know. She slipped her hand between her thighs and her head tilted back, exposing her throat and breasts. The footage didn't capture her tan or the freckles he'd noticed on her arms. Jonathan filled them in mentally; he'd always had a good imagination.
But there were always unanswered questions, things he couldn't decide on. For example, if Libby shaved herself bare like college girls did. She was precocious, after all. And he couldn't fill in the details for any of his other senses: what scent she wore, how the delicate skin of her neck would feel under his fingers—if he touched her, of course. If he had the opportunity. She wasn't old enough to have significant sun damage, so he imagined it would be smooth and soft.
A minute had passed since she'd started to touch herself. He couldn't hear her gasp, but he thought he saw her chest rise and fall. Her back arched, just slightly.
Jonathan swallowed. His mouth was dry. He was so hard it was painful, but he refused to let himself unzip his fly.
And then she was interrupted, the door swinging open as another boarder—who had left her French homework in the library, incidentally—stumbled in. One in the morning. It was a freak chance that anyone else had entered the library.
The video ended on that final frame: Libby ducking her head and covering herself up. He stared at it for a long moment. She would have laughed in the other girl's face if she was caught doing anything else, he was certain. Was she ashamed of what she'd done? Or did it turn her on to know she'd be caught? Or maybe she'd chosen that cubby on purpose; maybe she wanted someone to see her like this, on video forever.
He wondered if she'd known that he would watch this recording.
Jonathan exited the video player and placed his hands flat on his desk, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. He thought about things that weren't Libby masturbating onscreen for him. Latin conjugations. Reciting Ovid in his head. He was mathematically inclined; he liked precision and clarity, and he'd never been good at memorizing poetry, even in English. It was a good way to take his mind off—other things.
When he'd distracted himself to the point where he could stand up and be decent, if he had to, he turned back to the computer and maximized his scheduling app. Tomorrow was busy, but his last slot was open, from eight to nine at night. He created an appointment and added Libby. It was unusual for administration to schedule appointments with students like this, but not unheard of; after all, he'd had to do this with Libby before. Many times. And if it were on her schedule, she couldn't ignore it.
He ticked the box demanding a read receipt with relish. She would probably check her schedule first thing in the morning; the girls were trained to do it. What a nice surprise for her to wake up to.
Before he left for the night, Jonathan put the bag of sex toys and the flash drive in a locked drawer. He didn't know what he was going to do with them, but he didn't want them laying around to be seen before the right moment. Whatever that might be.
Libby sauntered into his office at a quarter past eight, which Jonathan had expected. He was waiting for her at his desk, though he kept his eyes on his computer screen for a full minute before he acknowledged her. The drawer was unlocked and the video was cued up; he'd watched it again in the fifteen minutes between her appointment time and when she'd actually shown up.
The door swung shut behind her with a little click. She probably didn't notice that it had locked.
"Miss Langley," he said. He was already irritated with her, by her disregard for his time, her disrespect, but he didn't let it show in his voice. "Thank you for coming."
"Yeah, sure," she said, and sat down in one of the guest chairs before he could invite her to sit. She crossed her legs at the knee—her skirt rode up her thigh and he looked; he couldn't help it. The downside of working at a girls' school was the way they rolled up their waistbands to make their uniform skirts shorter. It was easy to ignore on most of the younger girls, but distracting on the juniors and seniors. And Libby's skirt was already too short.
"So what's this about?" she asked. She was wearing that can't touch me expression, her glossy lips tilted up at the corners. God, he wanted to wipe it off her face. But she'd probably still smirk even as he expelled her.
"I think you know," Jonathan replied, and leaned back in his chair. "The…incident…early yesterday morning."
"Oh, in the library?" Libby checked out her nails as she asked. "I don't know what Emily told you, but she always makes shit up."
"Language," Jonathan said. Libby rolled her eyes.
"Fine," she said. "Emily always makes stuff up. Is that better?"
"Yes, thank you," he said, and reached into the drawer to pull out the bag of sex toys. He dropped it on the desk. Libby's face remained unimpressed, mostly. She'd known it was missing. But there was still a little flicker of something in her eyes. He couldn't tell what.
"So?" she said with a cocky little shrug. "Can't a girl have an orgasm around here?"
Good girls use their fingers, Jonathan thought, but didn't say.
"These are explicitly forbidden in the student handbook," he said, "and in the agreement which you signed when you enrolled at the Academy."
"Okay," she said. "Lock me up and throw away the key."
Jonathan took a small baggie of white pills from the drawer next. He tossed them next to the sex toys and saw Libby's face change, much to his satisfaction.
"Those aren't mine," she said, dropping the insouciance and going for defensive instead.
"Aren't they?" Jonathan asked. "They were found in your jewelry box."
They were, in fact, allergy pills which bore a resemblance to alprazolam, or generic Xanax, and Jonathan had put them in the baggie himself that morning. But Libby didn't know that.
"They're not mine," she said again, emphasizing each word like he was deaf or stupid. "Maybe Jackie put them there."
Jackie being her roommate, who Libby was apparently happy to throw under the bus if it meant she was in less trouble.
"It's interesting you say that," said Jonathan, "since Jackie doesn't have the key to your jewelry box. Or does she?"
"Maybe she hired a locksmith," Libby said. She was reorienting herself, getting cocky again. "Or maybe—"
"Maybe," Jonathan cut her off, his voice icy, "you were selling them."
Libby actually looked taken aback.
"What?"
"Did you really think we wouldn't find out?" he asked. He stood, leaning over his desk to look her in the eye. He was five inches taller than her and much broader; she looked small in his shadow. "When we have reports from your fellow students—multiple reports, in fact—and evidence right here?"
"There's like ten in that bag," she said. There were fourteen, in fact, two weeks' worth, but Jonathan didn't point that out. "That's not even worth selling."
"So you've sold drugs before?"
"What? No!" Anger laced her voice. She stood up abruptly, shaking her head. "This is bullshit. I'm going to tell—"
"Sit the fuck down," Jonathan snapped.
Libby froze. Her mouth opened, then shut. For the first time, he saw her with that daddy's-money composure stripped away, shock on her face. It looked good.
"What did you say to me?" she said after a moment.
"I told you, Miss Langley," Jonathan said, "to sit the fuck down."
Jonathan had expected to be cold when he enacted this plan. He knew he appeared so on the outside. What he hadn't expected was the rush of adrenaline he felt when Libby finally did what he said.
"Good," he said. He almost said good girl, but she wasn't ready for that yet. She might make things messy if he moved too fast. "Now we can talk.
"So, we have possession of sexual paraphernalia contrary to school policy," he said. Libby's eyes darted to the bag of sex toys and back to his face. For once, she was paying complete and total attention to him.
Jonathan tapped the baggie of allergy pills with one finger.
"And we have possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute," he said. That was the key phrase; that made it sound like the police might get involved. The Langleys wouldn't want that, and their daughter knew it.
"I told you they aren't mine!" Libby said, aiming for assertive but sounding desperate instead. Just you wait, Jonathan thought.
"Can you prove it?" Jonathan asked coolly.
"I—that's not, that's your problem. You have to prove they're mine," she snapped, and then ruined her defense by adding, "Right?"
"That's not right, actually," Jonathan said. It was, more or less, but he wasn't playing by the rules now. "I see you didn't pay attention in Civics."
She glared at him and said nothing.
"Lastly," Jonathan continued, "we have this footage of that incident in the library I mentioned."
"But the camera wasn't—" she said, and shut her mouth.
"Here's proof," he said, and turned his monitor so she could see it.
Jonathan didn't watch the video; instead, he watched Libby's face as she realized exactly how screwed she was. She'd gone pale and rigid in her chair. She was afraid. Jonathan enjoyed that.
"You didn't even cover your face," he said as the video played. He couldn't see the screen, but he thought this was about the time she'd thrown her head back so the camera could catch a glimpse of her, one that could be easily identified. "That wasn't very smart of you."
"What do you want?" she whispered. Jonathan was silent, enjoying the moment, and she kept talking nervously. "Is it money? My parents can give you that. If you want—I don't know, a fucking seat in the House, they can get you that too—"
"Language," he chided again, and her jaw clicked shut. She stared at him mutely. She was, he thought, just about ready for the next step.
"I don't want money," he told her. "And I don't need influence."
She opened her mouth to offer him more empty words, and Jonathan said, enunciating carefully, "I want you to show me exactly what you did in this video."
Libby's head jerked to the side like she'd been slapped.
"You're not serious," she said, and oh, all that confidence, all that disdain, all that fucking Langley power had been stripped out of her voice, leaving only fear and, in her wide eyes, the dawning realization that no one was going to get her out of this. Not this time.
"You have no idea how serious I am," Jonathan said. His pulse was pounding in his head, and he was hyperaware of every movement she made, from the way she bit her lip to the slight tremble of her shoulders.
This was the deciding moment; if she were a smart woman, she'd laugh in his face and point out that the video was technically child pornography, a lab could confirm those pills weren't Xanax, sex toys weren't a crime regardless of their status as contraband, and she was going to leave now, thank you.
But Libby was just a girl, and Jonathan was her headmaster, and she didn't know she had any leverage.
"Okay," she whispered, defeated. Her hands rose to the neckline of her shirt. They were shaking. "Like this?"
"Exactly like the video," Jonathan said. He sat down, leaned back in his chair, and savored the moment when she loosed the first pearlescent button of her shirt. Another, and another, until her bra was bared. It was just a beige foam thing, nothing like the lingerie in the video, but Jonathan didn't mind the inaccuracy.
When the shirt was completely open, she glanced up at him, looking for instruction. He arched an eyebrow at her and waited.
Slowly, Libby hiked up her skirt and spread her legs for him.
She was wearing underwear with polka dots, and her fingers hesitated over the fabric without dipping under it.
"This was all I did," she said. "I was just joking."
"I don't believe you," Jonathan said. "Show me everything."
Libby turned her face away and he added, "And look at me while you do it."
She jerked her head back around to face him, and slipped her fingers under her underwear.
"Pull it to the side," Jonathan told her.
"Please," she whispered.
"Do it, Miss Langley."
She shuddered and did.
Libby shaved just like the college girls did, as he'd suspected. She wasn't completely smooth right now, with maybe a day's worth of stubble, but Jonathan liked that. It made her less than perfect.
"Is that really how you touch yourself when you're masturbating?" he asked when she didn't move. She was clearly hoping that a glimpse of her—Jonathan grappled with words and settled on cunt, suitably obscene—her cunt was enough for him. Of course, it wasn't. "It looks a little dry to me."
Libby was blushing now, her head ducked down to her chest, but she lifted her hand to her mouth and licked her first two fingers without being prompted.
"Suck on them," he told her, and she closed her lips around them. "Deeper."
She did as she was told, nicely obedient.
"Now touch yourself," he said. "Get yourself wet."
"Oh my god," she said under her breath, and put her glistening fingers on her clit.
She rubbed small circles around it with practiced fingers, and as Jonathan watched, she did exactly what he said and got herself wet. Her cunt flushed pink, and she pressed down a little harder. Her thigh twitched.
It was a simple biological response to stimuli, he knew, but that didn't really matter.
He licked his lips and said, "Now put a finger inside yourself. Just one."
There was a slick noise when she obeyed, and he said, mockingly, "Interesting. I didn't think you'd like it this much."
Libby flinched and said shakily, "This is all I did in the video. Can I stop?"
"What do you think?" he asked. Another opportunity for her to call it off, to say yes, I can stop, and walk out.
"I don't know," she said instead. He waited. Her dark eyes were wide and frightened. "I…don't think so?"
It was a question, so Jonathan answered it for her.
"No," he said gently. "You can't stop."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Take everything off," he ordered, and stood. Her eyes flickered over him and to his groin, where his erection was obvious in his trousers. She bit her lip.
In the voice he would use on a lazy student, stern and a little sarcastic, he said, "Any day now, Miss Langley."
Libby stripped for him. She didn't intend it to be erotic, her movements quick and jerky, but Jonathan couldn't think of anything sexier than this. He walked behind her as she did, checking out her curves from every angle.
She unclasped her bra and tugged down her underwear, stepped out of her shoes, and she was naked in front of him, wearing nothing but her socks. They were white cotton, schoolgirl socks. He decided to have her keep them on.
She was facing away from him, her shoulders hunched, and he stepped forward so he could slide his hands around her torso and cup her breasts. From this angle he could smell her shampoo, fruity and artificial. He would remember that for later.
Now, he glanced over her shoulder to look at her breasts in his hands. They were full, the nipples pinkish brown and stiff. Curiously, he rubbed his thumbs over them—sensitivity really varied between women, he'd discovered—and she squeaked and twitched in his arms. He did it again, then starting tracing little circles over them, just like she'd done to her clit.
"I've never known anyone this sensitive before," he told her, when she was good and squirmy. He licked her ear and made her jump. "You're quite unique, you know."
Libby shook her head but didn't say a word.
"You are," Jonathan insisted, and this time he pinched her nipples hard. She jerked away from his touch but couldn't go far, succeeding only in rubbing her buttocks against his cock. "You don't believe me?"
Silence, and he said, "Answer me, Miss Langley."
He liked calling her that, as if they were chatting in the hallway, headmaster to student.
She inhaled like a sob and said, "I don't know."
"Sir."
A pause, then she whispered, "I don't know, sir."
"Well, let me show you," he said, and pushed her forward gently until her thighs bumped against his desk. Jonathan put his hand between her shoulder-blades and bent her over. She buried her head in her arms, embarrassed. Humiliated, even.
Jonathan took a step back and took in the view. He had the luxury of touching her all over, now, and he ghosted his fingertips along her spine, raising goosebumps on her skin. He ran his hands over her ribs—she was slightly ticklish—and down the curve of her hips, finally coming around to spread her cheeks apart and look. He ignored her anus for now and pressed the very tip of his index finger inside her cunt. Whatever she might say or do, she'd responded to his touch beautifully: she'd gone from damp to soaked.
It occurred to Jonathan that she might genuinely enjoy this.
"Are you a virgin?" he asked her. Libby shook her head without raising it. Bad girl. "That's too bad. Can't win them all."
He didn't need to be gentle with her, then. But he hadn't been planning on it anyway.
He thrust two fingers inside her and Libby yelped, her hips jerking forward. Jonathan pinned her with his body weight against the desk and said, "You can't get away, Miss Langley. It's too late for that."
"Please," Libby begged. Jonathan didn't bother with responding. He fucked her with his fingers, slowly, savoring the wet sound. His breathing was rapid and he was hot all over, his tie choking him, the fine linen of his shirt prickling his skin, his trousers too tight. His world was reduced down to this girl, this room—he'd never been this aroused before.
"You see, Libby," he said in her ear, striving for a conversational tone and mostly making it. "Can I call you Libby?"
"…yes?" she said, and whimpered and twisted when he curled his fingers inside her.
"Thank you. You see, Libby, I'm indecisive."
He took his fingers out of her and spread her fluids down her cunt, focusing on her clit, but without the delicacy she had shown. She gasped and quivered, but she had nowhere to go, and she knew it. So she simply stood there with her legs spread for him and took what pleasure he gave her.
"I have two options available to me," he continued. "Well, more than two, but these are the ones I like best. I can get you down on your knees and see what a good cocksucker you are—you've done that before, I assume?"
"Oh god," she said. She was twitching, bending her knees to escape as his fingers on her clit brought her closer to the edge. "Oh god, oh god—"
"I'll take that as a yes," he said. "I can do that, or I can flip you on your back and fuck you until you cry." He paused. "On your back so I can see your face, of course.
"So which would you prefer?"
"I'll get on my knees," she gasped. "Please just—"
"Then do it," Jonathan snapped, and stepped back to give her room. Libby fell to her knees like a marionette with cut strings, her head bowed, and Jonathan had an idea.
"Kiss my feet," he told her, and she looked over her shoulder at him in surprise. "Go on, do it."
She shuffled so she was facing him. Hesitantly, she pressed that pretty mouth of hers to the Italian leather of his right shoe. This wasn't a particular fetish of his, but she was so deliciously submissive and pathetic, on her knees with her ass in the air, kissing his shoe like a well-trained odalisque.
"When you walked in here," he asked, "did you think you'd end up like this?"
"No," she whispered.
"But you've thought about it, haven't you?"
A pause, and then she said in a weak voice, "Yes. Yeah. I've—I've thought about this."
"Tell me what you thought about."
"Sucking your cock?" she tried. So pretty but with so little imagination.
"What else?" he coaxed.
"I—you fucking me," she said, still nervous and breathy. He could have disciplined her for language but he chose not to mention it. Maybe next time. "Holding me down. Pulling my hair."
"Do you fantasize about coming on my cock?"
"Yeah," she whispered, and then in a stronger voice, "Yeah. All over it. I want—I want you to make me come. Will you please?"
"Fucking hell," Jonathan said, with more force than he intended. "Yes. Suck my cock first."
She undid the belt in one try but fumbled with the button and zipper. He let her take her time, watching her narrow her eyes in concentration. Her mascara was smeared a little, which he found unexpectedly attractive.
Then she tugged his trousers and boxers down and his cock was there, right next to Libby's face.
"Good girl," he said, and she shivered. "You know what to do."
She didn't, really—she was clumsy and couldn't take him in all the way, but her lack of technique didn't matter. He wasn't planning to come from this anyway. Jonathan just liked the way she looked with his cock in her mouth.
Libby ran her tongue around the head of his cock and lapped at it, little kitten licks that drove him absolutely fucking crazy. He wanted to ravish her, wreck her. And he could.
Jonathan marveled at the thought and wrapped her curls around his hands, since she'd said she wanted him to pull her hair. Even if she was lying, the fact that she had thought of such a thing at all made him want to do it.
"Open wider," he said, and Libby did. "And look at me."
Those beautiful dark eyes, wide with fear—or maybe arousal— and fixated on him as he thrust gently into her mouth, using her hair to hold her in place. Then he was less gentle, and she tried to yank her head away. His grip was firm; she wasn't going anywhere.
His cock bumped the back of her throat and she gagged, teeth scraping along his length. He hissed and jerked her away.
"If you use your teeth, I'll have to hurt you," he said. She flinched. God, she was so afraid of him. "I don't want to do that, Libby."
"I'm sorry," she gasped. Her eyes had watered, leaving mascara streaks on her cheeks. "I'll do better. I'm sorry."
"I know you are," he said kindly, and began to fuck her mouth.
For a moment, she tried to hold him back, hands on his thighs, but he grabbed her wrists and held them above her head with one hand, the other fisted in her hair.
God, it was good. Not so much because of physical pleasure, since she really wasn't good at blowjobs, but the sight of her on her knees, the adrenaline rush of doing something this depraved to a girl like this, the knowledge that he could hurt her, kill her—not that he had any intention of that—but the power—it was so fucking good.
"Okay," he said, breathless, and tugged her away from his cock. She turned her face away, but Jonathan didn't let her go; he dragged her up by the hair, and she let out a thin shriek of pain.
"Sorry," Jonathan lied, and shoved her onto the desk. She went sprawling on her back and he immediately stepped forward and grabbed her by the legs, yanking her forward until her ass was at the edge of the desk.
It was a good thing he'd had the forethought to clear his desk in advance.
She tried to close her legs but he already had his hands on her thighs, prying them apart.
"Please," she whined, "please no, please—"
"Look at you," Jonathan said, and slapped her hard across the face, like he'd daydreamed of doing so often. Her head jerked to the side and when she looked back at him, there was nothing in her face but shock. She'd never been hit like that before.
"Libby Langley," he said, and slapped her again, because he could. Years of bottled-up anger were roaring in his ears. He was breathless and couldn't tell if it was from arousal or rage.
"You've spent three years walking around my school like you're the fucking queen of the world," he hissed, "with your rich fucking parents and your happy fucking life. Are you happy now?"
She gaped at him. Jonathan rubbed his cock against her wet cunt and said, "You know what? I don't care."
When he drove his cock inside her, Libby cried out—he couldn't tell if it was pain, fear, or pleasure. Or perhaps a mixture of all three. For a moment, Jonathan couldn't move; she was so deliciously tight and hot around him that he knew he'd lose it as soon as he started thrusting.
He gave himself until Libby tried to squirm away before he gripped her by the hips and pounded her into the desk.
What he enjoyed most wasn't her cunt clenching around his cock, though the sensation alone almost took him over the edge, or even the knowledge that he was hurting her. No, it was that each time he thrust inside her, Libby's back arched—just like the video—and she moaned, low and guttural. No squirming away now; she was trying to push his hands off her hips, but she couldn't hide the way she rose to meet each thrust.
"You're a little whore, Libby Langley," he panted. "A little—fuck—you whore, I knew you wanted this—make that noise again, yes, like that—who knew how much you'd fucking love it—"
Libby was incoherent, writhing on his cock. He could feel her cunt spasming around him. God, she was coming. Coming for Jonathan, impaled on his cock.
What a bad, bad girl.
So he bent her in half, pushing her knees to her chest, and made good on his promise to fuck her until she cried.
Oh, she begged him not to, whimpering and shaking under him, but he wanted to see real tears drip down those pretty cheeks. He wanted her ashamed, devastated. He wanted to leave his mark on her.
Jonathan slipped his hands underneath her ass and changed the angle. She shrieked and thrashed, so he grabbed her wrists with one hand and held them down with enough force to bruise.
"It hurts," she whined, wriggling and gasping. It might have been from pain, yes, but she was too wet to pretend it wasn't pleasure, too. The slick sound of his cock pumping into her cunt was evidence enough. "Please stop, it—it hurts—"
"Then why do you like it so much?" he taunted, and she clamped her thighs around his waist, arched her back, and started to sob.
What a perfect picture she made.
Jonathan came inside her. It was a stupid thing to do, but it felt like he hadn't truly claimed her, hadn't ruined her, until his come was dripping out of her abused cunt. His orgasm felt ripped from him, like he didn't have it so much as experience it. He buried himself inside her and groaned, shuddering, until he was done.
After that, he laid on top of her, drained. She was weeping quietly and rhythmically, one arm thrown over her face, and her thighs were still tight around him, trembling.
"Good girl," he whispered in her ear, and stood. He pulled his trousers up, straightened his tie, and looked at Libby, spread eagled across the desk, covered in come and tears and sweat.
"You're a mess," he said disdainfully. The stern headmaster, chastising a wayward student. Next time, he would make her wear the schoolgirl skirt. "Clean up and put your clothes on."
There were paper towels under his desk, which he offered to her. She took the roll and stared at it blankly. Jonathan sighed. She'd figure it out.
While she wiped herself off, Jonathan went to the bookshelf perpendicular to his desk. He hadn't bothered to get a nanny cam or something subtle—it was just a regular camera that recorded in 4K resolution.
He checked to make sure the event had been captured, and turned to face Libby, who was looking at him white-faced. Her clothes were mostly on, if crooked, and she'd cleaned the makeup off her face.
"What is that?" she asked hoarsely.
"This, Libby," he said, "is insurance."
When she didn't reply, he continued, "I'm going to upload this to the cloud. I won't tell you which site. I've written a program that will share the link if I don't reset it every eight hours."
Jonathan didn't know if that was possible, but Libby wasn't a strong student—she wouldn't know better.
"I'll share it with everyone," he emphasized. "Porn sites, Facebook, it will be everywhere. And your face and your name will be in it."
"They'll arrest you," she whispered.
Jonathan looked her in the eye and lied.
"I don't care," he said.
When he had planned this, he had known he could be destroying his life in every way—he would be lucky to get a life sentence in solitary, especially with the lawyers the Langleys could hire. But he'd spent enough time at the Academy to know what teenage girls were like, and Libby would value her reputation more than anything.
He held her gaze and knew he'd bet correctly.
Libby looked away first. She deflated, her posture slumping.
"Okay," she said. A wet, shaking breath. "Okay. I won't tell."
"Good girl," he said again. He crossed the room and unlocked the door before turning around and crossing his arms.
"You're dismissed," he said.
Libby took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Then she turned to face him. Her expression was lifeless, the spark in her eyes gone. Jonathan smiled and turned away.
"What language?" she asked.
"What?" Jonathan turned back, annoyed. She was ruining his afterglow. He had dismissed her, after all.
"What language did you use to write the program?"
Jonathan hadn't planned that out. He scrambled for a programming language, any programming language, and dragged one out of his brain.
"COBOL," he said. That was outdated, since he recalled it from an undergrad history class, but surely she wouldn't recognize it—when would she have heard of it?
Libby took two steps backwards, out of reach, her eyes narrowing. Her heels echoed in the hallway, the noise carrying now that she was out of his office with its many layers of drywall and insulation. Anything she said would echo too.
If she screamed, security would come running, and even Christina would never cover this up for him.
His heart rate picked up. Mouth dry, palms suddenly sweaty, Jonathan gripped the doorjamb. He had the sense of balancing on a precipice, a dizzying drop below him, death if he made one misstep.
"COBOL, huh," she said. He didn't like the skepticism in her voice. She licked her lips, raised her chin. Her hands at her side were shaking. "Want to tell me more about the program? Exactly how does this reset switch work, sir? And I've got to know, where'd you get the fucking punch cards?"
He thought, fuck, and said nothing.
"I thought so," she said, and tilted her head to the side. She curled her lip in disdain and gave him that look, that Libby Langley go-fuck-yourself look he loathed so much. Then, as Jonathan tensed his muscles to spring out and grab her—what did he have to lose?—she unzipped her backpack and pulled out a phone. It was a clunky little burner phone, definitely not the iPhone he'd seen her use in the past, and definitely not something he'd thought she'd have. Maybe she really was a drug dealer.
"Students are supposed to leave their electronics in their rooms," he said, frozen to the spot.
"Yeah, I know," she said. She was bruised, tear-stained, ruined, and laughing at him. "It's in the handbook."
He lunged forward and she skipped backwards, tapping the screen with her thumb without looking—these fucking kids today—and when he didn't seize her, he stumbled, and caught himself on the wall.
"Hi," Libby said into the phone. Her voice was inexplicably steady, like he hadn't fucked her senseless—like he'd made no impression at all. "My name's Libby Langley and I need the police."
She'd failed computer science. He'd checked her transcript. That was why he'd chosen the fake program routine; she wouldn't know any better.
Here was the precipice; here was the yawning void; Jonathan had misstepped.
Not a surprise in retrospect, he thought bitterly. He should've known better. Libby Langley always came out on top. The bitch always won.
Jonathan considered his options, which were to run, to kill himself, or to give himself up. The grounds covered forty acres; he wouldn't make it before the police caught him. And suicide? How the hell would he do it here, in his office? He certainly didn't keep guns around. They weren't allowed on campus.
He could destroy the video, so he could say she was raped elsewhere—yes, raped, because no one would understand how she wanted it—and she came to him for comfort. Not that anyone would. Jonathan wasn't the best at reassurance.
But no. He'd ejaculated in her like a fucking fool. She'd be spreading her legs for a rape kit soon. After all, the Langleys would take her straight to the hospital. Anything for their precious daughter.
Jonathan exhaled and ran his hand through his hair.
He was a logical man, a pragmatic man. So he leaned against the wall, slid down to the floor, and tried to recall the names of lawyers he knew. They slipped through his fingers like dust.
And while he was on the floor, hearing the distant shriek of sirens, realizing the magnitude of his mistake, and starting to panic, he looked up at the girl who was going to destroy his life.
Libby Langley, half-silhouetted by the dim hallway lighting. She had a hand on her hip, her head cocked.
"Anything to say for yourself?"
He inhaled shakily, and said, "We—we can work something out, Libby. You and me. No one else has to be involved."
"That's Miss Langley to you," she said, and he winced.
Libby stared at him for a moment. Was that pity in her eyes? For a moment, he hoped—
Then she shook her head and snorted. She turned on her heel, her back to him; he wasn't a threat. She walked away. The echoes chased her down the hallway.
Jonathan closed his eyes and didn't say a word.