It was when the heel of my shoe clicked firmly against the wooden ankle of the bench for the tenth time that Mrs Hemsley, the school secretary, finally looked up at me with complete exasperation. I smiled politely, as you should, but the old woman simply frowned and shook her head.
“Charlotte Reid, why can’t you sit still?” Mrs Hemsley finally spluttered. I shrugged as if it really was a question too difficult to ponder at this given moment, before making the conscious decision that humming loudly would be a far more beneficial past-time instead. The old woman shook her head a second time and muttered incoherently before returning to her paperwork.
The wait had seemed eternal; I had been sat outside the Head-Teacher’s office for at least forty minutes now. I imagined that my friends were already making their way to afternoon lessons without me, tired of the long wait. I sighed dramatically and returned to tapping the heel of my black shoe on the ankle of the wooden bench.
This was my forth visit to the Head-Teacher’s office in as many weeks, and I wasn’t entirely expecting a pleasant outcome. Despite my nonchalant attitude there was a deep, dawning realisation that my tenure at the Highgate Private School for Girls
might well be coming to a rather abrupt end once this meeting had concluded.
The phone rang on Mrs Hemsley’s desk breaking the relative silence. She answered it briskly, speaking in a low inaudible tone before returning the handset to its cradle. Without looking up the old woman addressed me once more:
“Charlotte, the Head-Teacher will see you now.”
I picked up my bag which was sitting beside me and stood up, straightening the hem of my grey skirt over my thighs. All bravado had finally ebbed away and I was all but certain that an hour from now I would be on a train back to London, my disapproving father waiting for me at the station.
“For goodness sake, dear, that skirt is hardly regulation length, is it?” Mrs Hemsley continued gesticulating wildly towards my lower body. She was right of course; it was kind of the done thing at Highgate
to be honest. A lot of the girls spent their evenings in the dormitories customising their clothing. To be fair the ‘regulation length’ was an inch above the knee which, I’m sure you’ll agree, was ridiculously long. However, Mrs Hemsley did have a point I suppose; my skirt was currently an inch below my nether regions and in no way regulation length. It was a good look though, and I can only reassure you, dear reader, that I carried it off perfectly.
“I – I guess not,” I replied slipping my bag over my shoulder, “I’ll fix it once I’ve seen the Head-Teacher … promise.” I smiled weakly, took a deep breath and knocked on the large red door that paved the way to my inevitable departure from the school. The wait was excruciating. Despite my behaviour, I loved it at Highgate
and the thought of leaving prematurely made me feel terribly, terribly sad.
The voice was loud and powerful. I was only afraid of one person in the school, and that person was our Head-Teacher, Mr Francis. Gnawing on my lower lip nervously I turned the brass doorknob and pushed the door inwards. My heels clip-clopped
playfully on the old Victorian floorboards as I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. As was expected I stopped on the spot just inside the entrance and clasped my hands in front of my skirt. I lowered my head and waited to be addressed.
“Please, Charlotte, come and sit down,” Mr Francis’ tone was worryingly calm and I made sure I kept my eyes lowered obediently as I crossed the spacious room and sat in the empty chair, placing my school bag beside me. I straightened the pleats in my short grey skirt and waited patiently for my reprimand to begin.
Mr Francis was a broad shouldered gentleman in his mid to late forties. He wore a dark grey suit and a finely pressed blue shirt and tie. He was smoothly shaven with dark hair which he’d combed back immaculately.
I could feel him watching me as I sat in the chair in front of his desk. I wasn’t a particularly tall girl, I guess about five foot five with shoulder length curly blonde hair which I’d kept tied out of my face with a hairband (another regulation at Highgate
). I considered my bottom my best feature, I was curvy around the hips but my bust was small and boyish. My eyes were, and still are a striking blue in colour.
My rebellious streak had finally deserted me and I was dimly aware that my hands were shaking a little as I sat quietly in his presence. Mr Francis was infamous throughout the school; he had the reputation for keeping no prisoners and was not to be trifled with under any circumstances. Some of his punishments had drifted into the realms of legend, and it was often difficult for the girls at the school to separate the facts from the fiction.
“Here we are again,” Mr Francis said mournfully. It was a statement and certainly not a question.
“Yes, Sir,” I replied. My hands were placed palms down in my lap, the tip of my index finger nervously fingering a small hole in my black tights just below the hem of my skirt.
“Charlotte, you are now seventeen years old, when will we start to see some responsible, lady like behaviour from you?” Mr Francis’ tone was steady and measured. I lifted my eyes a little and shrugged helplessly.
“I – I don’t know, Sir.”
“You don’t know?” he mocked before sighing and opening my permanent record which sat centrally on his large desk. “The information I have been given today states that this morning, during first period, you swore and punched a fellow classmate. Is this true, Charlotte?”
There was no putting it off any longer, I cautiously adjusted my gaze and looked at him. It was like starring into the sun. I nodded slowly, my finger widening the small hole in my tights. “Yes Sir, I – I hit Chloe Knight and I … I swore at her … but, it just came out … I – I didn’t mean it … I am sorry.”
I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to cry no matter how bad things got, yet here I was, not five minutes into the proceedings and I could already hear my voice beginning to crack under the pressure. My bottom lip quivered as Mr Francis leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. I knew that I had to get a grip of myself otherwise I would be finished at Highgate
“And what was it you called Chloe Knight, Charlotte?” he coolly continued.
“You want me to – to say it, Sir?” I spluttered, absolutely certain that he really didn’t want me to repeat my verbal misdemeanour.
“Yes Charlotte, I want you to say it,” he muttered, there was a growing impatience to his tone now.
I took a deep breath as the first tear trickled from my eye. It carved a delicate river down my cheek before finally coming to a halt on my upper lip. I could taste the salt. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and sobbed. I had to get a grip of myself!
Mr Francis waited unflinchingly, his muscular arms still folded.
“It – it was during netball practise,” I began, “Chloe h-had called me a cheat … s-so I – I slapped her and called her …”
“What did you call her?”
“I – I called her a … fucking silly bitch, Sir,” I lowered my head, genuinely ashamed of my actions and terrified of the inevitable repercussions.
“I’ve given you so many chances to correct your delinquent behaviour, Charlotte,” his voice was sympathetic and pleading as he picked up the phone on his desk and started dialling. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, I’m notifying your father and you will be permanently excluded as of today.”
“N-no, please … please, Sir … I – I can be good,” I begged.
My next action was one drawn from desperation I suppose, but I was willing to try just about anything to change Mr Francis’ mind at this stage. I stood quickly, almost knocking over the chair I’d been sitting on. With no more thought or consideration I started to unbutton my crisp, white blouse. My fingers were shaking terribly as they worked the buttons; despite my reputation I was relatively inexperienced, but I wasn’t going to let that hinder my plan.
Mr Francis paused, and for the first time since I’d known him, a look of genuine confusion swept across his face. I’d unbuttoned my blouse to my chest by now; the white cotton of my bra was clearly visible as it cupped the soft curve of my small breast. I was still sobbing a little, but by this point most of the tears were purely for show as a way of underlining my ‘fragility’.
“Charlotte Reid, w-what on earth are you doing?” Mr Francis finally exclaimed, the phone still pressed to his ear, his fingers had paused mid-dial.
The lowest button on my blouse finally squeezed through its eye and I let it fall open seductively. “P-please don’t call my father, Sir” I purred quietly.
I suppose retrospectively, dear reader, you could view my strategy as being somewhat questionable in its morality. Despite my wayward nature, I was a clever girl at heart and I understood only too well the power I had over men.
My eyes were locked on his as he slowly lowered the phone and placed it neatly back on its handset. It was like magic and I grinned at my own genius. I walked slowly towards his large oak desk, rolling my hips a little as I moved. I pressed my groin against the edge, feeling it hard and cold against my pubic bone. The game I was playing had already made me a little wet, and I was enjoying my swift turn of fortune.
“I – I want you to fuck me, Sir,” I pretended to stammer, and pouted deliberately as I finished my sentence.
With some grace I dropped to my knees and shuffled under his desk on all fours. Mr Francis leaned back in his chair and watched me between his legs as I approached like some predatory wild cat. I parted his knees with my hands and slowly let them slide up his trousers, his muscular thighs taut underneath the material. I smiled up at him and he swallowed sharply as I licked my lips, letting the tip of my tongue linger playfully in view for a second.
My index finger traced over his groin and he shuffled uneasily in his seat. His cock was already fairly hard, and I squeezed it between my fingertips, encouraging it into life. I unbuckled his belt and steadied my hands long enough to open his trousers and drag his zip down over his quickly swelling penis.
“Ch-Charlotte, p-please … you really need to stop,” Mr Francis stammered as my eager fingers pulled at his belt. Despite his protests, he willingly lifted his bottom and allowed me to drag his underpants and trousers down to his hips. “I … I have a wife and family,” he pleaded.
I didn’t fucking care to be honest, dear reader; I just knew what had to be done.
I starred up at him and rested my cheek on his bare knee as I let my right hand circle the base of his hard cock. I let out a long sexy moan, the kind you only hear in adult movies, and let my hand run up his length, my soft fingertips massaging his swollen purple head. He closed his eyes and breathed out sharply as I let my fingers smoothly run back down his cock. I repeated this motion a few more times before lifting my head and squeezing myself between his knees.
I starred at Mr Francis’ twitching cock as I continued to milk it in my right hand, my eyes leaving his for the first time since my dramatic striptease a few minutes earlier. His rough fingers stroked my right cheek gently before lifting my face to look up at him. My fingers continued their errand.
“C-can I suck it?” I cooed.
He groaned at my words. Mr Francis’ right hand held the back of my head, his fingers weaving into my hair, and he pulled me onto his erection. It throbbed wildly as I let my lips wrap around the head and I sucked on it hungrily, my fingers working his shaft with greater enthusiasm and firmness.
“Jesus Christ!” he panted, his words only serving to encourage me further. I bobbed my mouth shallowly on his length and my fingers caressed his heavy balls as he urged me to take him deeper. I pulled away momentarily and looked up at him as I ran my tongue down his shaft, kissing him lightly around the base. I flicked my tongue playfully at his swollen head until I was sure there would be no more protests. Mr Francis moaned and bucked his hips a little as I teased him, and I knew that if I wasn’t careful the poor man would peak too soon.
Taking me roughly by my pony-tail he guided my mouth back onto his cock, grunting loudly as he bucked his penis between my full lips. I was aware that my knickers were soaking between my legs, and the wetness had more than likely seeped through to my tights. His cock had now grown to an impressive length and width and I gagged a little as he pushed it into me with greater force and depth.
Using all of my strength I pulled my mouth from his cock, a thin line of warm spittle dripping from my lower lip. I panted breathlessly for air before looking up at him innocently and pleading, “N-not in my mouth, Sir … please … please, fuck my pussy.”
Dear reader, I would not blame you for considering me a wicked, wicked thing. But, I had to make him mine. If he was mine, my place at the school and my reputation with my father would remain intact.
Mr Francis pushed back his chair and stood quickly, the chair’s feet noisily scrapped against the old Victorian floorboards. In one quick motion he took me by my wrists and pulled me from under his desk. It’s surprising how strong one becomes when the need is great. I looked up at him and he looked down at me, his eyes were burning with lust.
He spun me like a top and pushed me onto his desk my bottom elevated. I could feel the cold of the oak against my exposed skin as my face rested on my permanent report. Mr Francis tapped his foot against my inner left ankle in order to spread my legs, his hands lifting my skirt over my bottom exposing the gusset of my black tights and my pink, damp knickers underneath.
I yelped in mock surprise as he tugged my panties and tights down to my knees and rested his left hand on my cool, soft bottom. Silence followed, and for a moment I was sure he was beginning to change his mind.
“Please Sir, fuck me … fuck me with your long, hard, sexy cock,” I whispered.
It was all the encouragement Mr Francis needed. With his free hand he guided his swollen head to my wetness and wiped it playfully against my slit. I moaned loudly and closed my eyes as its tip brushed my hard clit.
“Do you want this?” he grunted, tracing the head back to my opening and pressing it there for a moment.
“Yes, Sir … pl,” my final word turned into a long animalistic groan as he pushed forward and his cock squeezed into me.
His right hand clasped my bottom firmly as he bucked his hips towards me a second time; a pencil pot fell over next to me. His left hand was between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the desk as he pounded into me a third time.
“Yes!” I spat, finding enough traction to push my pussy back onto him, greeting his forth forceful thrust. He was incredibly big and I could feel him swelling and twitching inside me.
Mr Francis’ grunts became louder and closer together as his thrusts increased in speed. My thighs felt a little bruised, trapped between his weight and the edge of the desk as he sped up his assault. The pace became relentless and I squeezed my eyes closed as I felt my own orgasm beginning to build. He placed both hands on my hips and pumped into me with greater purpose, our bodies slapping together loudly.
Common sense seemed to suddenly return to my Head-Teacher, and as his orgasm peaked he stepped away from me, his slick warm cock falling free of my privates. Warm cum splashed against my bottom in four thick, gooey spurts. Mr Francis’ semen slowly slid down my rump and the crease of my bottom. I lay there panting for a moment as he collapsed back into his chair behind me.
Once I’d regained my composure, I pulled up my panties and tights and straightened my pleated skirt over my thighs.
“Go back to class, Charlotte,” Mr Francis said quietly.
I silently walked back to my chair, retrieved my bag and left the room.
I never went to the Head-Teacher’s office again, and my father never knew how close I’d come to being expelled.
It is true to say, dear reader, that rich girls tend to know how to get what they want.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.