Warning: Will contain non-con (rape), dub-con (sex with dubious consent), and homosexual pairings. It will also contain some elements of BDSM, with a focus on a d/s relationship. If you don't like this, then go away now and don't flame.
Note: This chapter has been rewritten, and I'm planning on rewriting chapters two an three as well. No major changes have been made, I've just fleshed it out (1000 words added to chapter one).
It's the first day of my new teaching job at Kingswood Boys Grammar School in Almslee, Cornwall.
Its already lunchtime, bright summer sunshine pouring through the little window of the office I've been given, and I'm unpacking my things onto the desk. As I sort out my equipment and various resources, stacking them neatly in the small bookshelf and cabinet that are now mine, I look out over the manicured school grounds and distant river, hoping secretly to myself that this school will turn out to be better than the last.
I've just finished unpacking when there's a confident knock on my door, and uninvited, somebody steps in, shutting it behind them with a soft click.
Looking up I find that it's a student. Irritably, I glare at the tall senior lounging cat-eyed against the door of my office, bleached blond hair standing up in spikes around his head, his strange golden-blue eyes insolently scanning my body from head to toe. I raise my eyebrow at his arrogance, trying not to bristle in annoyance. The kid - man, nearly - crosses his arms and tilts his head up, smirking at my reaction down his sculpted nose.
It only takes me a second to place him. I've only been introduced to my students once, briefly during an introductory session together this morning, but this student, with his charismatic presence and unconventional height which is only exacerbated by his spiked hair, sticks out from all the other well-kept private posh boys like a sore thumb. What child is six foot three anyway? There should be some law about students being taller than their teachers.
Anyway: he's hard to forget. He wasn't wearing a blazer then either, despite the exasperated attempts of the other teachers in attendance to get him to wear one, and he's still not got one on now. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hard arms crossed in a menacing display of tanned, lean skin, and his shirt hangs out from his trousers messily.
I sniff, perhaps a little disdainfully.
Christopher Jenkins. From class B?
"Yes?" I enquire primly. I won't let this caveman know his presence intimidates me, and I draw myself up to my full, rather unimpressive height. Christopher regards me lazily for a moment, golden eyes hooded with amusement, and then he pushes off the doorframe and takes a casual step towards me. One arm uncrosses itself and a hand reaches up to scratch at the short stubble on his chin, his eyes measuring me up silently. I stiffen at this subliminal intimidation, and he smiles again. It irritates me.
Christopher's words, when he speaks, are unexpected.
"You dress like an old man, but you're not that old, are you Mr Collins?" The muscled teenager laughs, and my mouth hangs opens at his impudence. I let out a slight gasp.
"Excuse me?" I say, somewhat squeakily.
What did he just say?
I'm 33, though I don't look it, and I like to wear comfy clothes like sweaters and knitted vests, along with pairs of smart brown shoes and bow-ties. Classy. I've always thought that my clothes, usually seen on an older man, give me that air of dignity and age that my height and youthful round face mean I'm lacking. I'm a short man, only 5"6, with sandy hair and big, owlish eyes which are only enhanced by the thick-rimmed, roundish glasses I wear to help me with my short-sight.
I am unsure as to how to react to his comment, but he solves that problem by making another impudent remark.
The boy tilts his head to one side, smiling. "I think it's kinda cute."
I blush furiously. What? Christopher's eyes slowly travel down my body, and its as if I can sense him stripping me in his head. What is this?! My blood begins to boil with anger at his insolence. I open my mouth and am about to give him a sound telling off when he chuckles, and the light-hearted sound breaks into my anger.
I force myself to calm down. It's my first day at this school, and the young men here are bound to test me before they come to respect me. Boys will be boys, even if this behaviour doesn't corroborate with my usual expectation of how boys act. Maybe boys in private, same sex schools are different? Whatever the case, I don't want to gain anyone's enmity yet.
I refrain from rising to the boy's taunt, and set my face into a smooth expression. "What do you want, Christopher?" I ask. Polite. Maybe slightly dignified. Calmness in the face of adversity, that's the trick.
"What do I want?" Christopher raises an eyebrow, mimicking my earlier gesture, and I try not to flush. "Nothing much." He smiles at me angelically, and I stare suspiciously at him.
I muster my courage. "Well, if you don't have a point to this conversation, then I politely suggest that you leave, so that I can finish my first lunchtime in peace." I take a deep breath. "If not, then I'm afraid I shall have to put you in detention – it's a sunny day outside and students aren't allowed inside at lunchtimes." I say this self-righteously.
I nod, as if that concludes the matter, and then I feel self-conscious under his unmoving gaze, so I turn and organise the papers on my desk, aligning them with the edge, and pointedly ignore him. I can feel him laughing behind me and I feel a red flush of heat steadily creeping up my neck and behind my ears, but I stubbornly cling to the false hope that he'll go away.
When he doesn't go, I give a loud, annoyed sigh, huffing, and turn to him, spinning smartly on my heel. Inside my head I am both surprised and faintly impressed that I didn't fall over whilst doing that.
I ignore his eyes, creased in laughter. Apparently, everything I do seems to amuse him.
"If you would please leave my office, I have-"
Chris's voice, cool, calm, and so different to the mirth he displayed only a few seconds earlier, cuts through my exasperated sentence "Your previous school was St Peter's Secondary, wasn't it, Mr Collins?" An eyebrow twitches. "In Bristol?" His voice is steady, his words perfectly formed, as if he knows the exact impact every syllable he drops from his mouth will have on me.
I look up, terrified. His gaze is lasered onto my eyes.
How does he know?
There's no other word for it. I freeze. My mind is a whirlwind of panic. Christopher, deceptively nonchalantly in front of me, relaxes his pose, taking a few casual steps in my direction. Unconsciously, I back away until I'm pressed up against the edge of the desk. This lean, golden boy seems to have the falsely relaxed position of a large animal, maybe a lion, that in any second's time is going to pounce.
Finally, I'm able to spit out one word, my gaping mouth opening and closing pathetically like a fish. "What...?"
My hands grope for the edge of the desk, clinging to it for support, and Christopher grins when he sees my defencelessness. it's a grin that shows a lot of teeth. It's the grin of a big cat who knows it has cornered its prey.
He stops a few feet from me. "How's Tracey Salmon?" he asks.
He cocks his head to one side with insincere curiosity. My blood runs cold, and my heart keels over and dies just there. If there had been any hope before it was certainly gone now.
How could he know that? My fingers turn white. I had thought that I was safe when I'd moved here - halfway across the country - to escape the stain on my reputation. Clearly I had been wrong. I feel dizzy as I wonder at how this boy wants to use this information. How much does he know? Does it even matter how much he knows? Just one whisper and I would be gone from this elite establishment just as fast as anyone could say "old money."
"How…?" I whisper.
"A friend of mine used to go there," Christopher drawls amiably. "He left in the summer." He winks, and I shiver. "We met up over the holiday, and he told me some pret-ty interesting stuff." A wicked grin stretches over his face, and he leans into me, almost conspiratorially."He didn't tell me how cute you are though." I flinch.
The blond boy steps closer, invading my personal space. I could reach out a finger and touch him, he's that close, and my body's shaking with impending doom as I picture the collapse of my teaching career falling around my shoulders. The years I'd spent teaching, studying, striving to be better and better in my lessons. Were they all for nothing?
Christopher's presence overwhelms mine as if it were a tangible aura. I'm crowded into the desk, and I'm too intimidated to move. What does he want with me? I look up at him fearfully, brown eyes wide behind my glasses.
Putting his arms on either side of my trembling body, resting them on the surface of the desk, the boy leans into my face, inhaling deeply. I nearly squeak in terror. He's sniffing me. He is a cat.
I can't quite manage to control the worried whimper that escapes from my throat and I close my eyes and imagine that he's a lion about to rip into my flesh, about to eat me. Above me Christopher chuckles, and I startle at the noise, eyes widening in shock, and cringe back into the desk at the sight of his broad chest in front of me. He follows me, pressing closer, his predator eyes narrowed to smirking slits.
I'm scared. My heart's beating at the rate of a hummingbird's, 1,260 beats per minute. Tracing a finger up the side of my cheek and ignoring my flinch, Christopher's surprisingly gentle fingers wind into my hair and then shock me, causing a little cry to escape my lips as he tugs roughly on the roots. He smiles devilishly at my reaction, pleased, then pets me on the head, ruffling up my hair in a blond halo around my head like a child's after bath-time.
One look at Christopher's chilling face prevents me from objecting, and I'm left cowed and humiliated, his careful management of me working to such a point that I'm confused and don't know how I should be responding anymore. I'm a teacher, for crying out loud!
Pushing away, Christopher suddenly gives me space, and chest heaving, I gasp at the abrupt withdrawal. But Christopher's face is smug, and I know that he's achieved what he wanted - to frighten me.
But what is it that he really wants to accomplish here?
Blackmail? Is that what he wants? I stare at his trainered feet, forcing myself to remain quiet and not to point out that they are against the school's rules. I chew my lip nervously, fingers clenching and unclenching in paroxysms of fear.
I had been teaching at my previous school for seven years before this one, and perhaps it was out of that misplaced sense of loyalty that they had kept the reason behind my dismissal quiet. I had been able to escape to Cornwall gratefully. However, I'm under no illusion that if the 'incident' comes to light and another school questions them about it that they will support me.
Is Christopher planning on getting me fired?
I look up at my student with fearful eyes. As if reading my mind, Christopher's eyes narrow and his low voice breaks into the taut silence. "I'm not going to get you fired, so don't worry." The golden boy eyes me thoughtfully, considering. "Not if you do exactly as I tell you to, anyway."
I gaze up at him, conflicted. So it is blackmail. I sigh in some misguided sense of relief as I realise that the destruction of my career isn't quite imminent.
A weight lifts off my chest, and then it sinks again a little. What is he going to blackmail me to do? I naively ponder the thought. Give him better grades? I stare at the boy, somehow trying to assess his academic prowess by staring at his head. He grins, flashing at me the sharp tips of his canines. I wince.
I suppose I can somehow cope with that, if it prevents the loss of my teaching career; I'm not the one marking his final exams anyway, so if he wants to fail through lack of proper feedback from me then that's fine.
I glare up at Christopher suspiciously, trying to gauge his intentions, only to find that he's watching me with a look of mixed curiosity and amusement on his face. Anger pricks at me as I realise that this boy thinks that this is all a game. This is my life he's playing with!
"Christopher, what do you want?" I say. I'm trying to get him out of my office as fast as I can. His eyes darken and narrow.
"Call me Chris," he says.
"Chris," I stammer, colour flooding my face. I clear my throat, and tug on my knitted vest. "...Chris...what do you want?" I say again. He grins, satisfied.
Rubbing his chin, he looks down at me with the devil's own eyes. "Tell me, Mr Collins… wait, no…" - he paused, smirking - "...Daniel…" I gasp at the impertinent use of my Christian name, "How did a guy like you ever manage to hook up with a girl like her?" Grinning, Christopher uses his hands to indicate a pair of big breasts and curves. I turn beet red at what he is saying, and my colour is only added to when I remember the real reason why Tracey first approached me, claiming she wanted to sleep with me.
Angrily, I shake my finger at him, all fear gone as I struggle with my own feelings of embarrassment. I am a teacher! He shouldn't be talking to me like this! I leap up off the edge of the desk I'd been holding onto for support, hating that standing tall I'm still over a head shorter than him. "Now look here-" I start to say.
A tick in Chris's eyelid is the only thing that warns me of his anger before he lunges at me. He bangs his hand down hard on the desk on one side of my body, causing me to flinch in shock. He shoves his face in mine, breathing hard, his expression a contortion of fury and attempted calm as he struggles with his emotions. My mouth snaps shut like a clam. Why had I thought I could stand up to this boy?
"No, you look here, Mr Collins," Christopher breathes, struggling to maintain his control. "I don't know what you think is happening here, but I don't think you quite understand the situation. I'm the one who is in charge here, not you, okay? From now on, you do as I say. And I won't tolerate this sort of back talk from you." He pauses, body trembling with restrained anger. "Or there will be consequences." His piercing blue eyes bore deep into mine as he stresses the seriousness of his words. "Got it?"
I'm shell-shocked, stunned. Terrified, I nod. What on earth is going on here? All I know is that this student holds my teaching career in the palm of hand, and that, for the moment at least, I have to risk going along with it, or else lose my teaching job.
Cupping my chin in one hand, and grabbing it firmly when I pull away, Christopher tilts my face up to his. All I can do is stare at him. "Now answer my question," he says, eyes hard. "Why would an A-list girl like Tracey Salmon put out for a stuck-up, midgety swot like you? Hmm?" His eyebrows rise inquiringly, but his fierce expression remains.
My face burns as I recall Tracey Salmon, the girl with the quickfire smile and the figure of an Amazonian queen. She was the sort of girl with the commanding presence and the husky, low voice that immediately got every guy in the room waiting on her hand and foot. She could have had them all - and she probably did - but the reason she chose me is not one that flatters the little pride I have...
When I don't immediately answer Chris shakes my head in his hand, and I glower at him unhappily. He glares back.
I close my eyes. "She said…I was…cute," I whisper, humiliated. When Chris drops my face I stare fixedly at the ground, embarrassed to the very core of my being. Everything is silent for a minute, and when I look up at him fearfully I see that his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.
Outrage bubbles up inside me. I feel myself, not for the first time today, begin to boil over with anger.
"Cute? She said you were cute?" His laughter spills over, and backing away, he doubles over and guffaws loudly to himself. I stare at this sudden appearance of a lighter side of the man. "I like this girl!" My face turns an increasingly deeper shade of red.
The lid on my anger explodes.
"It's not funny!" I shout, clenching my fists to my sides. I feel like a little kid who's throwing a tantrum. Chris carries on laughing. "Shut up!" I yell. He holds out a hand, asking me to wait for a moment as he laughs, and I stand there, fuming.
Eventually he recovers, coughing, and stands up straight. "Sorry," he says, wiping a tear from his eye, "I wasn't expecting that." I cross my arms over my chest defensively. He snorts. I shouldn't be discussing something like this with a student! Curiously, he looks at me, and I blush at his sudden scrutiny. Why do I blush? "So you don't deny it then? That you slept with her?"
Stiffly, I twitch my head in an estimation of a nod. "No."
She was the first girl I had ever slept with, and if I was being honest with myself, was probably the last I ever would sleep with, too. I was not the sort that attracted girls. I wasn't the sort that attracted anyone.
With Tracey it had been amazing, an offer I couldn't resist, even if the reason it had been put to me in the first place was so demeaning. During the sex she was in control in a way that excited me, controlling the rhythm, the movement, the speed. I hadn't needed to worry about anything, except if she was satisfied.
I was embarrassed when I had admitted to her after, when it was all over, that she had been my first. But instead of being put off like I'd expected, she'd grinned with delight and declared that it only added to my 'cuteness'. She'd seemed proud of the fact that she had been my first: "popped your cherry and ruined an innocent and all that," as she put it, and if we hadn't have been walked in on at that exact moment, I'm convinced that she would have invited me for a second round some other time...
"Daniel…" Chris's voice jolts me from my reverie, and I start when I realise that he's standing directly in front of me, close. Too close. The laughter is dying from his eyes, and at the resumption of his intent expression from before I'm tempted to take a step back. When his hand reaches out for me, I do nervously.
"Daniel," Christopher's warm hand tilts my chin up so that I'm looking directly at him. His face is serious now, with no trace of laughter left upon it. "You do understand what it is I'm asking of you, don't you?" I blink my eyes in confusion, wetting my lips in my nervousness. His eyes flick to follow the movement, focusimg in on my lips. He wants more than a higher marked paper?
Without warning Chris's hand slips down the length of my back, pulling me close to his warm body, and I jolt. What's going on here? I push against Chris in panic and try to dodge his thumb as it slides up to caress my lower lip, but he grips me chin in his hand. His eyes are hard. My heart begins to run a marathon.
"I…" I mumble, heat rising to my face as his thumb resumes it's caressing. "Chris…" I protest, feeling the teacher-student boundaries, already battered, start to disintegrate and my control of the situation, nearly gone already, begin to slip. His face is too close. My hands come up to grab his wrists in fright as gently, he removes the thick glasses on my face and places them on the desk.
Fearfully, I tug at his arms. "Christopher…" My voice is high and pleading, frightened. Chris takes a slight step forward, and protesting, I stumble back so that I'm pressed between his body and the hard edge of the desk. The confined space, the contrast between the hard, cold desk and his hard, hot body makes my breath hitch, and I begin to tremble desperately as panic rises in my throat.
"Chris, I, no-" My hands shake where they're clutching his wrists.
"Ssh," Chris murmurs. I can't see very well without my glasses. I squeeze his arms tight. My head twists from side to side as I try to focus on the blurred mass of his face looking down at me, and I let go and push at Christopher in terror to try to get some space between us, but instead of moving he captures my arms with one hand and draws my encircled wrists them to cradle them gently between our two bodies.
He presses into me, and one leg subtly nudges between my thighs, parting them and sliding up to push up against them higher up, pinning me. A surge of blood rushes to my face and groin, and I cry out in fear, blinking fuzzily.
This isn't right!
"No! Chris-" I wiggle feebly in his arms, helpless against his muscles of steel. I look up at Christopher with frightened, long-sighted eyes to see the blurry shape of his head slowly descend towards my face.
Chris presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "You are mine," he breathes simply. One hand tilts up my protesting chin while the other arm holds my squirming body tightly. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek and my lips. I don't want this!
Then his face slowly comes down towards my face. His lips press down softly on my lips, and my body is suddenly overcome by a wave of heat.
His mouth pushes open mine, and I gasp as his hot tongue is slipped through my lips.
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