Mastering Melanie Page 4

  “Please,” she whimpered, clenching her ankles helplessly. “Do not disgrace me in this way.”

  An icy finger plunged inside of her sex. Melanie felt the gushing moisture as her womanhood betrayed her, silently beckoning her own violation.

  “Most despicable,” Van Der Mere muttered retrieving the wet finger. “You are a wanton woman, Miss Jones. I dare say, a trollop. And yet you consider yourself fit to teach? I, for one do not. Nor have I time to waste rehabilitating in such matters. No, no. This will not do at all.”

  Melanie’s heart skipped a beat. He was contemplating her termination.

  “P–please, sir. Do not let me go. I am – I mean, I can be corrected.” Swallowing the last vestiges of her pride, scarcely knowing for what she was asking, she began to wiggle her behind in a way she hoped would be suggestive.

  Van Der Mere’s hand cracked loudly across her arse, accepting the invitation. Melanie cried out from the sudden sting.

  “That’s a bad girl, Miss Jones,” he growled, unleashing a second blow.

  Melanie nearly toppled forward. Van Der Mere put a second, stone cold hand on the small of her back to steady her.

  “You are a wanton slut, Miss Jones. The whores at the saloon are better suited to teach than you are.”

  “Y–yes, sir,” she sniffled, fighting back the tears. Humiliating is what it was, shocking; treatment utterly unfit for a grown woman.

  “This is most irregular,” Van Der Mere complained, increasing the rate of his assault, the grunted phrases punctuated with fresh attacks upon her creamy, white globes. “I have never – had to get up – from my seat – to begin – correction – the very—first morning.”

  Melanie’s behind was lit like fire. The heat was spreading, across her thighs, between her legs and down to her ankles. She was feeling so aroused and needful. If the man weren’t so old and pathetic she might almost wish for him to...

  “Stand up, Miss Jones.”

  Melanie arose, woozy, the man’s abrupt command preventing completion in her mind of a most immoral thought. Not to mention a disgusting one.

  Van Der Mere towered above her now, a scowl imprinted on his long face. “Smooth your skirts, Miss Jones,” he told her, his voice a mix of paternalism and contempt.

  For several moments he merely glared, till she felt compelled to lower her eyes to his shoes, like a scolded little girl.

  At last he spoke. “Are you willing to submit absolutely, Miss Jones, in all things?”

  Blood pounded her cheeks, the red flooding down her neck to her chest. In her mind’s eye, she saw a picture of herself, stripped for the marshal's pleasure, bending for him, taking his hand upon her pert buttocks, taking the fill of him, between her legs and in other, forbidden places. “I am, sir.”

  “It shall be a daunting task, Miss Jones,” he assured her, wiping the offensive liquid from his hand onto a handkerchief. “You shall come to me now not once but twice a day. Morning and night. In addition, I shall employ the help of a godly minister, the Reverend Fortesque in your re-education.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She forced a grateful smile.

  “The Reverend Fortesque is a dear friend,” he added with more than a hint of malevolence. “And we are of like mind on all things.”

  Melanie felt a pang of dread in her gut. She could well imagine what a friend of Judge Van Der Mere’s might be like.

  “And we shall have to do something about your clothing. I do not find this convenient.” He waved a finger idly at the underwear bunched at her feet. “You will dispense with such garments in the future. Henceforth, everything you wear shall allow complete access for your correction, by means of a single sweep of the hand under your skirts. Is this clear?”

  Melanie felt her knees buckle. Van Der Mere was forbidding her the decency of nether coverage. How would she ever manage such a thing? “Yes, sir,” she said soberly. “I understand.”

  “Leave those with me,” he inclined his head.

  Melanie stepped from the bloomers.

  “You will go at once to the classroom. You are late as it is.” He pulled a round silver watch from the pocket of his vest. “Ten minutes late already,” he noted. “This will be cause for correction this evening.”

  “B–but, sir,” she stammered. “I do not even know where to find the school yet.”

  “Ask anyone, Miss Jones,” he waved a hand dismissively, “anyone at all.”

  She curtsied, mumbling her thanks. The motion caused the material of her petticoat to graze her bare legs. Her buttocks continued to throb. It was a singular and arousing sensation. There was more of the same, much more, as a result of her walking from the building out into the street. The entire affair had her so flustered, in fact, that she scarcely noticed the man in her path just outside the doorway. He was a portly fellow standing directly outside the combination bank and courthouse where Van Der Mere’s office was housed.

  Melanie mumbled her inquiry, unable to make eye contact. The man pointed down the street, telling her she couldn’t possibly miss it. Hastily, she thanked him, hoping he could not in some way guess she was without underwear, having just been spanked by the town’s founding father.

  Van Der Mere was correct, the schoolhouse was easy enough to find. It was a building separate from the main line of shops, a white clapboard, single room structure with a tiny bell tower and green shutters. It was roughly a half a mile behind the saloon, at the edge of a canyon. A thin coat of sweat was pasted on Melanie’s forehead by the time she reached the half open door. She was more hopeful now, having hummed a little tune on the way over. Though she might have but one pupil, she would make the most of her opportunity by pouring herself into a most salutary pedagogy. Van Der Mere might treat her as a child, she decided, but she would make up for that with this charge of her own. The men she might not be able to handle – either the town’s vile occupants, or the horde of savages that might even now be poised to attack. But a child, now a child she could manage easily enough no matter what anyone said.

  Melanie froze when she saw the building’s single occupant. There must be some mistake, she thought, eying the six foot tall specimen of manhood occupying the third desk in the second row, hands folded across the top of it, neat as could be. Was this some joke, perhaps? She blinked twice, hoping she’d been seeing things. The clothes on the ‘student’ looked right enough, she thought, noting the suspenders, black trousers and white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. But the age—no, this was completely wrong.

  “Good morning, Miss Jones,” boomed the low voice, that of a nineteen or twenty year old at least.

  “G–good morning,” she managed. “I wonder if you could tell me if there is a…pupil nearby for me? A child?”

  “That’s me. I’m the pupil.”

  “Y–you are my student?” she stuttered, unable to recover her full voice.

  He rose to his feet. She had to crane her neck to make out his full height. He was one of the tallest males she’d ever seen, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist and shoulder length black hair, thick and curly.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I am Zechariah Christopher Van Der Mere.” He bowed low, the picture of childish gentility.

  A Van Der Mere. She should have anticipated as much. The question was, what was he doing in a one-room schoolhouse when he was old enough, and certainly virile enough to have a family of his own. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she replied steadily, trying to keep from looking at the deep blue eyes, dreamy and captivating as some faraway ocean. “But, if you don’t mind my asking, aren’t you a little bit...that is to say...”

  “Too old?” he supplied. “I know, but Grandpa says I have to stay here till I have satis—satisfied him with my knowledge.” The boy had grimaced getting out the multisyllabic word. “I don’t learn real fast. Grandpa says it’s on account of my having so many teachers. I liked it better when there were other kids. But they all left to go back to the fort.”

  Melanie nodded. She certainly unde
rstood about the teachers. “You mentioned your grandfather. Have you no parents?”

  “No, ma’am. They were killed. By the Indians. Will you teach me a lesson now? I can write a lot of words.”

  Melanie looked about, nervously. What exactly would she do with him? There was an alphabet above the blackboard and that gave her an idea. “I would like you to write your letters. And for each of the letters, write for me a word you know, beginning with that letter. Can you manage that, Zechariah?”

  He nodded solemnly, pulling a composition book from under his desk. “You can rely on me, ma’am.”

  Melanie moved to sit behind her desk, but then she remembered the tender state of her hindquarters. “Very good,” she nodded, remaining on her feet. “Let me know when you’re done, then.”

  Zechariah scribbled for barely a moment before raising his hand.

  Melanie blinked. “What is it, Zechariah?”

  “I need you to come look at my work.”

  She cast a puzzled glance. “But you’ve only just begun.”

  He shook his head. “I know but I am having trouble. My grandfather said you would help me. Aren’t you going to do that?”

  Melanie forced a smile. “Yes,” she agreed, her voice a bit strained. “Of course.”

  The gorgeous young man handed her his composition book. Melanie read the word and gasped aloud.

  “Zechariah,” she gasped. “What is the meaning of this – this perversion?”

  Zech grinned up at her. “You don’t know what that is? You have one don’t you, right here? All girls do.”

  Melanie released a cry of shock and leaped backwards as Zechariah poked a finger dead center, just below the top of her skirt. “How dare you!”

  Zechariah was on his feet, the look of a man in his eyes. Melanie ran for the door, but he got there first, his huge shoulders blocking it utterly.

  “I won’t hurt you, Teacher. I’m just curious. Won’t you teach me about the birds and the bees?”

  Melanie’s heart thumped like a rabbit’s. The boy was unstable, and dangerous. Her only hope was to appeal to the side of him that was still a child. “Zechariah, you know it is wrong what you are doing. I will have to tell your grandfather, straightaway. You wouldn’t want that would you? I think he would be very cross with you.”

  Zech laughed. “My grandfather says all my teachers are sluts. He said I should tell him if they ever do anything bad or naughty. Maybe I should tell him you did something to me. Maybe I should tell everyone that you did something naughty to me.”

  Melanie shook her head, fighting the panic. If she weren’t careful she’d end up in jail. Then it would only be a matter of time until the authorities back East caught up with her. “No, Zech! You mustn’t do that!”

  The boyish grin turned leering. He was sensing her fear, her willingness to be blackmailed. She had a sneaking suspicion he had been down this road before.

  “I might not tell my grandfather,” he shrugged, looking down at his boots. “Or maybe I will. Would you be nice to me, Miss Jones, so that I won’t have to tell him any bad things?”

  He was looking her in the eye now, that hypnotic blue glare that did things to her insides. Though he might be a boy in his mind, he was all man where it counted. “I–I’m not sure what you mean, Zechariah.”

  He licked his lips hungrily. “I want you to kiss me, Teacher.”

  Melanie swallowed hard, her lack of underwear weighing heavily on her mind. And on her loins. “That would be a very bad idea, Zechariah.”

  He shrugged again and turned to leave.

  “No, wait,” she cried, grabbing his arm to stop him. It was like trying to move a tree. “Please?” she wheedled, touching the arm lightly. “Stay and I’ll kiss you.”

  Zech closed the schoolroom door and turned back around.

  Fearing she might lose her nerve, Melanie leaped on tiptoes, delivering a large wet kiss on his lips, her arms draped around his neck. Although Zechariah neither moved nor kissed her back, she found the experience to be unexpectedly erotic. After a few seconds, she felt her lips parting, a moan escaping them. Her breasts against his huge chest were stimulated as well, the nipples rising to tiny peaks. With sudden alarm she realized that she was craving even more, much more than could be delivered with her clothes on.

  “Teacher?”

  Melanie broke the kiss, breathless. “Yes, Zechariah?”

  “You know the kiss I was asking for?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide, her face slack with pleasure.

  “I didn’t mean it to be on my mouth.”

  Melanie stepped back, feeling like a small animal caught in a trap. “Wha–what do you mean, Zechariah?”

  He lowered his head shyly, shuffling his feet. “You know, Teacher. I want a kiss down there.”

  His crotch. The man-boy was indicating his crotch.

  She shook her head fiercely. “Oh no, Zechariah, that is quite out of the question. Completely and totally out of the realm of all possibilities.”

  Zechariah began to open his trousers, his eyes unwavering from her face. “You have to do it, Teacher,” he told her, his tone suddenly grave, “or I’ll tell them who you really are.”

  Panic jumped to Melanie’s throat. “What do you mean? What will you tell them?” she demanded.

  Zech’s teeth flashed like a wolf’s. “I will them what a slut you are, Teacher. Grandpa spanked you, didn’t he, like he does all the new teachers? And I’ll bet you enjoyed it, too. Didn’t you?”

  Melanie bit her lip, confusion flooding her mind. For a moment she thought he knew her real identity, but now she saw it was something potentially as bad or worse. “No, I didn’t,” she protested, “I mean...” The words died in her mouth even as she began to back across the floor, intent on putting as much distance between the two of them as possible.

  Zechariah pulled out his manhood from the opening in his trousers. It was as huge as the rest of him, and impossibly beautiful. “Yes you did, Teacher. They all do.” His voice was carrying authority now, along with a new energy, strangely hypnotic. “You’re a bad little girl who needs to be punished. You should be on your knees, Teacher. I make Lyla go on her knees. When I take her up to her room she has to take all her clothes off and be my slave. She likes to do that. Sometimes I even whip her, Teacher. Did you know that?”

  Melanie thought she might faint. The power in his voice, in his stance was too much to bear. “You should go home, Zechariah. You should go now before I–before we do something we both regret.”

  “Get on your knees, Teacher. Crawl back over here and kiss me.”

  Melanie felt herself sinking, the boy looming larger and larger over her. Reason told her this was insanity, that no good would come of it, and yet she found herself unable to resist. What was it about this town, about these men? In the course of two days she had been groped at gunpoint, made to strip herself for a spanking and now this.

  “One little kiss,” Melanie croaked as she slid across the floorboards on her knees, scarcely believing she would to negotiate such things. “And that is all.”

  Melanie’s lips were hot and dry and numb. The knob of Zechariah’s prick was silky and pulsing. The moment she made contact, something took over inside her and she knew she was lost.

  “Put it in, Teacher. Put it all the way in like Lyla does. Like the others did.”

  Zechariah’s voice came from above, impossibly far above her like the intonations of a god. Obediently, against her own will, Melanie’s lips parted. She took only the head of it at first but the taste was so pungent, salty, sweet she had to have more.

  “You’re not allowed to choke, Teacher,” he warned. “If you do, I will have to punish you.”

  Melanie tried to relax her jaws, allowing the hot, helpless slack feeling in her limbs spread up her neck so she could take him deeper. She had been punished once already; her ass still stung, in fact, and it was not an experience she wished to repeat. On the other hand, just thinking about it, about ho
w she could be made to do things and being treated worse than a whore, was making her crave a fresh spanking. And that was only the beginning.

  “Mmm,” said Zechariah. “That feels good. Pretty soon that stuff will come out of me, Teacher. The thick stuff. Lyla always swallows it. You have to swallow it, too. If you don’t, I will punish you, Teacher. With my belt.”

  Melanie moaned, throwing her head against him. Desperately she sought to claw at her skirt with her hands, to touch herself. Thanks to the lack of decent underwear, she could gain easy access to her own sex, to her forbidden hole, hot and wet, impossibly thirsty. She knew it was wrong. Back home she had never even thought of such a thing, and yet out here, after all she had been through, she felt so wild and wanton. Was it the open, wicked air of the west? The hard and brutal men, making her feel like a tramp? A floozy?

  “Bad Teacher!” Zech said sharply, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her off of him. “You were trying to play with yourself and that’s a bad thing!”

  Melanie’s mouth was agape. A line of drool dangled from her chin. She was speechless. Truly, she hadn’t intended to go that far. She was not that kind of girl; didn’t he see that?

  “Now I have to do something else,” he continued, sounding like a comic version of the Judge. “Now I have to shoot all the sticky stuff onto your face. To teach you a lesson.”

  Zech had one hand on top of her head, pushing her down like a dog. With the other he began to rub himself, up and down at a feverish pace. He was grimacing, his face locked in an expression of painful joy. Melanie could do nothing but watch, her sex open and burning, her mouth hot and needful, her body aching for touch, any kind of touch.

  “It’s coming, Teacher. Get your dirty face ready,” he grunted.

  It came in a spray, hot and fast. Globules landed upon her cheeks and nose and hung from her eyelashes and from her chin. In a matter of moments, she was covered across the entirety of her face. Zech continued pumping himself and grunting, milking a last few drops. When he was done, he straightened himself and reached for a handkerchief.

  “That will teach you,” he said, wiping the end of his organ with great delicateness. “Now maybe we can have a school lesson.”