Teaching Her A Lesson Pt 04

Part Three: Staff Collaboration Initiatives

Nice work, moron. Brainwashed by your own brainwashing victim.

All the confidence I'd ever had in the supremacy of my intellect shrunk by half. Then half again when I considered the level of genius it had taken to outwit me. The goddamn Stern sisters.

So I slept. Hard. What else was there to do? It was going on four in the morning. I couldn't exactly call up Taylor or Abbie even if I wanted to. For one, I didn't know how. I'd deleted Taylor's number after I downloaded the blackmail video to reduce the evidence trail, and I'd never had Abbie's. I could access their parents' contact via SchoolWays, but that would be one hell of a conversation.

Yes, Mrs. Stern, I know it's the dark hours of a Saturday morning, but I need to talk to your daughters about our secret conspiracy. And maybe fuck them.

For two, whatever else our new dynamic entailed, I was still pretty irate with the both of them. Abbie for feeding me Serenex, then cramming these new ideas in my head without any apparent thought to the ramifications; Taylor simply for being Taylor. And, I supposed, for her threats to betray our secret. Abbie had made good and sure I shared her passion for secrecy on that front.

I will keep my relationship with the Stern sisters a secret.

The thought that Taylor had nearly ratted us out had gone from terrifying the night before to positively infuriating now. I had a lot more empathy for the whole kidnapping thing now. But Taylor's copy swearing secrecy had been in my briefcase right alongside mine, so there was no more cause for worry.

Maybe I should be glad Abbie hadn't been stupid enough to have me copy the version of that sentiment I'd put to her, that is, to not let anyone "find out what happened in my classroom." That'd be a hell of a thing for a teacher. God only knew what the Serenex programming would do with an outright paradox.

For now, though, there was nothing I could do about any of it, and I was dog tired. So I slept.

It was mid-day before I woke up. Rock hard. Shockingly, spending a whole afternoon ogling and cuddling a pair of unbelievably hot naked students hadn't done anything but make the dreams more intense. More than anything, I wanted to call the girls back over and fuck the hell out of them. Thanks to Abbie, there was no more reason to hold back. None of us were going to tip anyone off, and I was done being a pussy about my desires. The next time I could get my hands on those bitches, it was time to get to work on that fantasy checklist.

(And when I say "bitches," I swear I'm not the sort to casually use the term to refer to women. It simply happened to be apt in regards to these two particular young women.)

It did occur to me until I stood in the light of day that we lived in the age of social media. I didn't need phone numbers when facebook messenger existed. Taylor was already on my friend list, after all -- for once, a fact that wasn't cause for discomfort and regret. I reached for my phone, already giddy with the thought of the evening I was about to have. As I picked up my phone, I saw I already had two texts, both from unknown numbers. Abbie and Taylor, no doubt. I couldn't wait to see what a hundred hand-cramping repetitions of

Mr. Canon can do anything he wants to me

had done to Taylor. From now on, the sky was the limit.

The first message was from Abbie. She'd opened with a picture of her in a tartan skirt and a tight white blouse, hair flat-ironed and done up in a high ponytail with a scrunchy. She was perched on the edge of her bed with her legs spread wide, hands holding her skirt down to preserve her modesty, or to tease its eventual revelation more like, but the posture had the added effect of her biceps pressing her tits together so hard that I could see skin between some of the buttons.

She followed it with a short text:

ready for my lessons, Mr. C. ;)

It was time-stamped only two hours ago.

If last night was any indication, the girl was every bit as horny as I was. I scrolled to the next message, Taylor's. God, what slutty little thing had she put on for me? From what Abbie had made her sister write, I didn't even know if she'd willingly dress up for me, but she'd sure as hell do it if I told her to. I could kiss Abbie for that alone, leaving the girl's spirit intact for me to break it. Taylor Stern, doing as she was told. Teacher's pet. My good girl. Maybe Abbie'd had her put on--

I KNOW WHAT YOUR DOING.

I dropped the phone. The glass cracked audibly as it hit the hardwood. A spider web of cracks marred the screen, but I could still read it. To my chagrin, the words hadn't changed. Obviously it wasn't Taylor. So who was it?

First things first, I researched the number and came up empty. One site claimed the number was registered in Mexico City, but when I clicked on that, it put up a paywall. Google confirmed it was a scam site -- not that I'd worried my escapades had gone transcontinental. Several confirmed the number was serviced by Verizon, but nothing useful. Nothing I could find put a name or address on it, no bullseye for me to... I didn't know, but to do

something

. I had to keep my relationship with the Stern sisters a secret!

Was it a burner phone? I only even knew the term from watching crime shows on TV. Regardless, the fact that it didn't come up like most random numbers (or the occasional student prank) with immediate confirmation of location said something was up. Or maybe it didn't. What the hell did I know about this sort of thing?

But one thing was for sure: that message had come from somewhere. My shattered screen wasn't letting me forget.

I KNOW WHAT YOUR DOING.

Who the hell were they, and what did they know? And were they trolling my grammatician sensibilities with that spelling error or what?

My mind raced through the possibilities, but there were too many. Abbie had been in my driveway yesterday in plain sight of anyone who might drive by. The incident at school could conceivably have been overheard as well, if somebody had been walking by my room and eavesdropped at the door, or easier still when I'd dragged Taylor down to the women's room to make the video. That could easily have carried out into the hallway. Any student who'd been in school late, any faculty member in the right place at the right time... fuck, anybody with a car and strong peripheral vision! The whole damn town was a suspect!

So what did I do now? I couldn't let anyone find out about my relationship with the Stern sisters! Except... it looked quite possible that someone had. Shit! Shit shit shit! Every goddamn time I was about to get a taste of one of those Stern girls, something came along and fucked it up!

Something needed to be done. But what? I considered reaching out to Abbie, who more than anyone paralleled my passion for concealing our secret, and having an ally might if nothing else take some of the edge off. Only then I remembered her stuffing Taylor in a trunk, threatening to kill her. Drugging me when I didn't give her what she wanted. Rewiring my thoughts on a whim. No. I was going to figure this out, but Abbie was volatility personified. Besides, I was a grown man. I didn't need a teenage girl to fight my battles for me. I am not a pussy.

Dammit, Abbie.

I had no leads. I had no investigative tools or skills to use. All I had was a phone number. Well, whoever it was, if they'd meant to turn me in, they would have done it. Instead, they'd sent me a message. Let's see what they wanted.

Who is this?

I pressed Send. And I waited.

What followed was one of the longest hours of my life. Abbie tried me again, this time with a less seductive

where the fuck u at Mr C, we're bored and I'm horny

. But I told her I was busy taking care of some things and that I'd contact her when I was good and damn well ready.

u fuckin better

, she answered succinctly.

Not long after that stimulating exchange with the absurdly hot and desperately horny girl I ought to be fucking right that minute, though, I got the text I'd been relegated to waiting for. All caps again.

SOMEONE WHO KNOWS WHAT YOU'RE DOING

I stared for a moment, waiting for the follow-up.

And waited.

Nope. Seriously? That was it?

You already said that,

I answered with an eye roll.

I don't know what you think you know, but you better start making sense.

ABBY STERN

MAKING SENSE NO

*NOW

?

"Fuck!" I almost dropped the phone again. So much for that faint hope that it was just someone screwing with me. Still, they'd only mentioned Abbie, not Taylor. And hadn't spell her name right, though that may or may not mean anything. Hmm.

I don't know what you're talking about.

I HAVE PROOF

DON'T BS ME

I considered. They said they had proof, but they hadn't proven it. Maybe they thought they'd seen something inappropriate and hoped I'd admit to it in writing? I would confess nothing. Smart. Maybe. Please let that be smart.

Proof of what...?

It took my phone a few seconds to download the attachment in their next message, but once I saw there was a picture incoming, the only question was which incriminating act they'd caught me. Then there it was, Abbie, naked and straddling my lap in my living room last night. It had been taken through the gap between the curtains in my living room from the looks of it. My face wasn't visible, obscured by the mountain of flesh jutting forth from Abbie's chest, but the tattoo along her spine left no doubt who was photographed here. Plus, while I may not be identifiable, it was obviously my living room, my furniture.

"FUCK!" My shout was louder this time, but was equally effective in solving the problem. I looked up; the curtains were still split just so. I stormed across the room and threw them shut. Dammit, I had to be the stupidest man to ever get inappropriately involved with a student!

What do you want?

It was hard typing with the glass like this. Maybe my lucky streak would continue and right before I was about to stick my fingers in Taylor's pussy I'd cut them to hell on my damn phone while Abbie knelt down to suck me off and landed on a shard of the broken glass and screamed so loud the cop who just happened to be driving by at that moment stopped in to see what was up.

GIVE ME WHAT I WANT OR I WILL SHARE THESE WITH THE WORD

, they replied, this time not bothering to correct their typo.

YOUR FRIENDS, YOUR FAMILY, THE POLICE, PRINCIPAL HOREN

EVERYONE

Hmm. That was interesting. This person knew me enough to know where I worked and the name of my boss. A student, likely, given the proficiency of their communication. Or maybe a dimwitted neighbor? Randi? My custodian had always seemed so nice, but not like I really knew her that well, and finding out I was up to this kind of thing with some students might have soured her despite the tip I'd left in my Christmas card.

I'm willing to cooperate, but you have to tell me what you want.

I hated caving so easily, but what choice did I have? I was not about to let anyone find out about my relationship with the Stern sisters. Sure felt like I was being a pussy, but my rage would have to remain impotent for now.

Ultimately, the response was not especially surprising aside from the total amount.

$100,000

, they answered, including several money emojis. Perhaps they were there to make sure I took them seriously.

Are you insane? I'm a single teacher with a mortgage. I don't have anywhere near that kind of money,

I replied. What kind of idiot was I dealing with here?

WATCH HOW YOU TALK TO ME MR. CANON

Mr. Canon. Not my first name. That didn't mean much though; like most teachers, I was Mr. so-and-so to most of the people I interacted with. I waited for them to continue. Was I supposed to apologize? I was about to when there was finally a follow-up.

FINE, $50,000

, it read.

With a sigh, I took a moment to pull up my bank account balance only to realize my phone was too busted to screenshot, so I had to use my laptop instead. Any details I didn't want shared were covered over in Paint, and then the pic was sent.

That's my balance. That's all I have.

Revealing so much stung, but with less than two grand left in my savings account, I needed them to get realistic about this. My father would be rolling over in his grave to see his son openly sharing financial information like that. Though perhaps he'd be pretty impressed to see me about to nail those Stern girls. (My dad was a complicated guy.)

As it turned out, they disagreed about the nature of realism.

YOU BETTER GET CREATIVE THEN

$25,000

YOU HAVE TIL MIDNIGHT

I grit my teeth as I furiously hammered out a reply, not caring if I scratched my thumbs or not.

Well it's 5:15 on a Saturday night, so even if I could come up with it, the bank's closed for the weekend. So if you'd rather get some $ instead of going to jail with me for blackmailing me -- as that is a felony, btw -- then you'll just have to be a little patient.

There was a long pause, over five minutes this time. Were there more than one of them, talking out my rebuttal? Did they think they were going to sweat their money out of me, like I had a trunk full of cash buried in the yard? Who knew with this idiot.

MONDAY?

they proposed at last.

I'll do my best. Is this the best way to contact you with updates?

YOU'D BETTER IF YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR YOU

I sighed.

I'll take that as a yes. Just be patient. I am cooperating. You'll get your money.

A couple imbecilic taunts later, our conversation concluded. So that was that.

Time to figure out how to find this mother fucker and burn them down.

Abbie was damn impatient. By that evening, she was already openly regretting that she didn't just make me her slave. I gently reminded her that being dominated by her or anyone did not feature into my fantasies, and that if she wanted to be a good little fantasy slut, she'd stick to looking pretty and waiting to be called on.

Brainstorming was slow going, what with losing my train of thought a hundred times thinking about what I could and by all rights ought to be enjoying right then, namely being tag-teamed by Taylor and Abbie. No, I was having to keep at a distance, not knowing who might be watching me, tailing me, looking for more and juicier blackmail. I at least made sure to get Taylor's number. When I was finally done with this dickhead, I wouldn't have to waste another solitary second before I took my satisfaction.

However, first the dickhead.

I studied the conversation, looking for any detail that might give them away, but it was futile. A dunce, yes, but that narrowed it down not at all. It could be anyone who'd seen Abbie in my driveway and decided to get nosy. Hell, it could be a neighbor who'd seen her darting naked out of my bedroom window and into my garage. There were houses close by on either side of me, and half a dozen more across the alley behind my house who might have had a view of my yard. Assuming it wasn't merely someone out walking their dog who'd seen a naked girl and gone Peeping Tom.

If this were on TV -- and if I weren't the bad guy in all this -- I tried to think what the police would do. Trace the number, probably. Dust my outside windowsill for prints. Set a trap for them during the exchange? How the hell was I supposed to know how to do this sort of thing?! I'm an English teacher, not a PI! Plus even if I hired one, with my luck, I'd wind up owing yet another blackmailer when they got their hands on the pictures!

Where was an honest, hard-working cop who wouldn't object to my sexual relationship with a pair of teenage students when I needed one? I laughed despondently. Maybe Officer Barbour would be willing to do Taylor yet another favor and help her hide her soon-to-be-affair with me.

Wait a second.

Could I...?

No. NO. That was a terrible idea. It was wrong. Risky as hell. Immoral! Pure lunacy! I couldn't possibly do something

that

stupid on top of all the other stupid I'd done so far.

I mean, I

could

. It was

possible

.

But no. Just... no!

NO, Canon.

But...

No.

"Louisa, hi!" I waved her over to my table. It was rare, seeing her like this in her civilian garb. I'd never been much for women in uniform, but weirdly, her plain clothes alter ego wasn't bad at all. Psychological, I guess. In her uniform, she was a cop. Full stop. But like this, she was a woman, and an attractive one at that. I was a terrible judge of racial background, and her Anglicized name did less than nothing to help me figure it out, but if I had to guess, I'd go with Pacific Islander, or maybe that diluted with something else. Olive skin, hair that was dark at the roots but dyed a brownish blonde throughout... beat me. As she drew closer, I wondered if her uniform had some sort of minimizer in it, because her bust was not entirely unimpressive. She was no Abbie Stern, but few women were. I had to say, without the intimidation of her job on display, she was doing it for me.

Not that I was going to have her do anything for me. This was definitely not about that.

Louisa Barbour waved, then made her way through the Sunday morning Starbucks crowd. She managed a smile, yet although I was not a detective, I could tell it was rather forced. "Hey, Mr. Canon. Sorry I'm running late. Had to circle the block looking for parking."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I got here early, beat the rush I guess. And hey, thanks again for meeting me like this on such short notice. I know it's--"

She held up a hand. "I think if you thank me or apologize one more time, I'm going to have to issue you a citation for it."

I laughed, though it felt like it came out a little crazy. I'd rehearsed this in my head a thousand times since I'd gotten her to agree to meet me, but I was still almost paralytic with anxiety. Most of what I'd done up until now had been accidental or spur of the moment. Premeditation made me decidedly more anxious. "Sorry." I winced. "There's my citation. But hey, can I bribe you with some coffee? My treat, of course."

She shrugged. "Sure."

"What's your poison?"

"You know what? It's Sunday, and I'm working, so let's go nuts. I'll take a caffe mocha, no whipped cream."

"Done and done. Settle in, and I'll be right back."

I put in our order -- a black coffee for me, just so I'd be getting something and not look suspicious returning with only one cup -- and waited. It didn't take long; the baristas were in the zone, moving the line like the pros they were. I took our drinks over to the counter, grabbed napkins, straws, cream and sugar to give me something to do with my hands so my shaking didn't give away my panic, and oh yeah, half an eye-dropper of Serenex for Louisa once the hipster at my left vacated the area and gave me a window...

It was all a lot easier than I'd worried it would be. Once I sat down, it only took a couple minutes of small talk about my concerns for Taylor, some fabricated bullshit that she'd opened up to me about some disturbing things in her home life but pleaded I not tell the school counselor. "But I know you two have sort of a connection, so I thought if anyone could help..."

She finally took a sip. Licked her lips, took a nice long drink.

"It would be you."

Louisa began a response, and I could see it hitting her as she tried to get the words out. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Kids who, um, cause as much trouble as Taylor tend to... you know... tend to be... um..." She shook her head. "Taylor probably..."

And she trailed off. Like that, I had her. Now I'd just give her a command to follow me out to my car, plant the necessary suggestions, and I'd have my very own investigator. Easy as--