Author's Note: I'm putting this one in Loving Wives, but be warned this story contains significant blackmail/NC/reluctance themes. I'm going for dark, direct, and dirty here, since I'm simultaneously writing a romantic series and enjoy the change of pace. This chapter is fairly short, but sets up a multi-part series. All characters are 18+, all rights reserved, etc. -Theworldspins
*****
The last thing Paul Whitman wanted to do was deal with some smart aleck brat on a Friday afternoon. While most of his students at Chatsworthy Prep were decent kids, if a little spoiled, he knew of a couple who ought to have their asses kicked. No school, no matter how wealthy and elite its students may be, was entirely free of 'problem cases'; in fact, those problems cases might be even worse with filthy rich parents and trust funds.
When Simon Chalfont walked into his office, however, Paul was surprised. It wasn't that Simon was a good kid—far from it. Rather, it was shock that the mastermind had finally been caught.
"Hello, Mr. Chalfont," Paul said in a patronizing tone. "Don't see you in here very often."
"It's a special day," Simon responded drily, brushing the shaggy black hair back from his eyes. "I allegedly cheated off Connor Halloran's exam."
Paul's first thought was "interesting choice." As little respect as he had for Simon, he was no dummy, and Connor was one of the dimmest bulbs at Chatsworthy. Something seemed odd, but Paul buried his suspicions. After all, he was just happy Simon had finally been caught in the act and might face some consequences to the cavalier way he treated the rules and the Headmaster's authority.
"I'm surprised this was how we finally caught you, Mr. Chalfont. I've had my eye on you for a while."
Simon seemed unimpressed.
"I thought I saw you checking me out, Dr. Whitman. I'm glad you were just spying on me and looking for a date."
The insolence of the kid was staggering.
"You know you can't talk like that in here. I can have you suspended for that disrespect alone," Paul said sternly.
With warning, Simon's eyes widened and his head shook a little. If Paul didn't know any better, he'd think the kid was contrite. There was something about the vacancy in his eyes, though, that kept Paul from falling for the boy's act.
"Oh no," he said facetiously, "I...I did something bad! What will Jesus say? When it rained last week...was that his
tears
?"
Despite the boy's mockery, Paul knew he had him dead to rights here, and inside he was relishing the prospect of punishing Simon. Paul knew that Simon was responsible for hiring the strippers who came to Mrs. Cleary's retirement party, though he hadn't a shred of proof. The school wasn't going to actually shell out for extensive DNA testing, but the 'unknown gooey residue' he found on the doorknob to the nurse's office last year was probably of Simon's own making. It was always petty, always boundary pushing—not quite truly damaging, but always calculated to embarrass, humiliate, and to test peoples' weaknesses.
Since his arrival, Simon had been a constant irritant: cruel, calculating, and two-faced. As Headmaster at Chatsworthy, Paul had spent four years watching over Simon, making sure he never got out of hand. Most of the time, he seemed like a completely normal kid; he'd even fooled Beverly, Simon's English teacher and Paul's wife of three years.
Every student at Chatsworthy was expected to participate in extra-curriculars, and Simon had admittedly compiled an amazing track record in competitive debate. Beverly Whitman was the team's coach, and despite her husband's warnings, she continually defended Simon from accusations whenever Paul would mention some horrible thing he believed Simon to have caused. In Beverly's eyes, Simon was a potential national champion and misunderstood genius.
"He's
so
persuasive," she would say. "He just casts a spell on the judges when he's up there. I've never seen anything like it."
With the boy sitting in his office, Paul couldn't see what was so special about him. He looked like any other Chatsworthy kid, albeit with a faintly malevolent smile. Well, that and his eyes: they were so...hollow. Simon always seemed to be looking right through people.
"Well, Mr. Chalfont, what have you gotten into today?"
Paul knew the answer; he just wanted this moment to linger. Simon leaned forward, ever so slightly. He was a little pale, with thick dark hair that hung almost to his eyes. Like the other boys, he was clad in the navy pants and crested blazer of a Chatsworthy student, though the collar of his white shirt betrayed a dark, long set-in rust-colored stain, the trace of a distant brawl freshman year that Simon had lost.
"Your wife's pussy."
Paul's first impulse, which he just barely restrained, was to slap the little brat right in the mouth. His words jumbled together in his mouth, as he tried to suppress anything that might get him canned immediately. He had to be better than some punk kid.
"No, I'm lying, Dr. Whitman," Simon continued, smirking a little. "I haven't fucked Mrs. Whitman since Tuesday. In fact, I've been saving up my load for today."
His anger in check, Paul leaned back. He even felt a little glee; he had this little bastard right where he wanted him. Cheating was bad, and made him subject to fail the class. Add to it the gross insubordination and inappropriate language, and Simon would finally get a big black mark on his transcript with a long suspension. Maybe his grades would slip enough as a result to see him forced to attend a slightly less prestigious university.
"Well, Mr. Chalfont, you've just bought yourself a suspension and a parent conf—"
"Fuck off, Dr. Whitman," Simon interrupted coldly. "My father isn't going to waste his time talking with somebody like you. I mean, honestly, do you not see where we are? You're not in control here."
Paul reached for his phone to call the school resource officer. It would serve the little shit right if he got frog-marched out of the office where everyone could see him. Maybe a little shame would keep him from pulling shit like this.
"If you don't want everyone knowing about Beverly's little butterfly, put that fucking phone down."
That got Paul's attention. His darling wife, in her college days, might have been a little...wild. All that remained from those days, though, were a few racy stories she'd shared with Paul to get his motor running and a small tattoo of a butterfly about an inch or so northwest of her pussy. He set the phone back down, unsure how Simon knew about that.
"Better," the smarmy kid said. "Now we can talk like men. Paul—can I call you Paul?"
Paul's mouth hung open, but no sounds escaped.
"I'll take that as a 'yes.' Paul, for three weeks now I've been fucking your wife. That's how I know about the butterfly. That's how I know how she squeals out 'Daddy' when she comes—which, by the way, is hilarious. Anyway, I'm trying—"
With a low rumble, a voice finally emerged from the pit of Paul's stomach. It was a simple, raspy, animalistic growl: "GET OUT!"
Simon merely smiled, though Dr. Whitman's face was bright red and he appeared to be trembling with a barely concealed rage.
"Can't do that. See, I'm not leaving here until someone sucks my cock."
Simon let his words hang there, without further explanation. When Paul reached once more for the phone to call security, Simon reached out and deftly pulled the cord from the back of the large black phone receiver.
"Paul, I've got more than just stories. I've got pictures. Videos. I could get my phone out and show—"
Without thinking, Paul grabbed Simon's hand, pulling him violently over the desk. Simon made not so much as the faintest cry of pain, even as Paul used his other hand to press him flat into the desk, hard. He was violently restraining a student, alone in his office, and it was going to get him fired if he didn't settle down.
"Good man," Simon said with a laugh, as if he were still in charge and not pinned to his headmaster's desk. "It'll be a shame, though, when everyone Googles your name and finds out you were the chump whose wife fucked a student. You'll be the Steve Letourneau of a new generation."
With that, Paul released Simon, who rubbed his sore arm. Paul's head was spinning. Could the bastard really tell everyone? Have everyone know about his wife? Simon's reptilian smile had not gone away.
"I won't hold that against you. I figured you wouldn't have any balls at all, I mean, losing your woman to an eighteen year old kid?" Simon said. "Hey, look, that's good news, right? At least your wife won't go to jail. I guess they'll fire her ass, though, put her on the news and shit. I mean, you can't fuck your students, even if they're legal age and all. And it will be pretty hard for you to stick around here, everyone laughing behind your back at how your whore wife loved to suck off students. And the pictures! I'd hate to be you in that situation, Dr. Whitman."
Paul was sweating now, lightheaded and nauseous. He was in a state of panic and felt the sudden, irrational urge to begin begging Simon not to tell anyone. Nothing about what he knew of Simon suggested that might work.
"I apologize for monologing, Dr. Whitman. Shit, I said I'd call you Paul. Paul, I apologize—not for fucking your wife, because, let's be honest here, she is one sweet piece of ass—but for not getting to the point. Sometimes I ramble...well, the point, Paul, is that I haven't blown my load in three days. You don't know how hard it is to hold out when you've got a hot little teacher who'd love to let you just shoot off inside her. Or, shit, maybe you do! We do have something in common, after all."
Paul was doing the math in his head. The bastard was right: if he went public, not only was his wife's career and life over, but also he would go down with her, even though he was totally innocent. He had too much pride to show his face at work after everyone had learned what a whore his wife had turned out to be.
"What do you want?" Paul asked defeated.
"Someone's gonna suck my dick. Now, it could be your wife. You could call her in here—she's on study period. You could lock that door and tell her to get on her knees and take my cock down her throat. Believe me, Paul, she's already come really close. I'm sure with a little encouragement, we could get that cute nose of hers buried in my pubes."
Despite himself, Paul's mind flashed to an image of his wife's mouth stretched around a huge cock. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered what she would look like with a strange dick in her mouth, though he'd never share that thought with anyone else, especially not her.
"But then she'd know you know," Simon continued. "It'd be real, for everyone. See, right now, it's just you and me. You can dump the bitch. You can go cheat on her yourself. Or, if you're a worthless piece of shit, you can just forgive her, sweep it under the rug, and just ignore the fact that another guy is gonna have your wife's pussy whenever he wants it."
Paul couldn't believe the audacity of this kid. A voice in the back of his head kept urging him to just leap across the desk and strangle the kid. If he was going to lose his job, might as well lose it for killing the shitty little brat and not just slink away out of embarrassment. A real man would go down swinging. On the other hand, Paul had to consider that the punk was bluffing. If he was ballsy enough to talk like this, maybe he was ballsy enough to fake it all.
"I don't believe you. I don't believe Beverly did anything with you, and now your ass is mine, you fucking punk—"
Paul was silenced by the image of his wife, riding another man, on Simon's phone. Though the man's face wasn't visible, it didn't much matter if it was Simon or someone else. She'd cheated. With a few swipes, Simon began playing a video of his wife's face, contorted into a mask of pleasure as someone plowed her from behind doggystyle.
"C'mon Paul, you didn't really think I was bluffing, did you? I think you just wanted to see what it looked like when your wife felt a real man's cock inside her. Now the ball's in your court. You call her in here and the game's on for real."
Paul was dumbstruck. He knew, for certain, that his wife had betrayed him. The image of her, propped onto her elbows, her long auburn bangs bouncing in front of her eyes as her mouth, transfixed in an 'O' shape, let loose a long moan of ecstasy.
He'd always felt lucky to have a woman like Beverly: she was curvy in all the right places, and at 5'3" she was a petite, sexy package. Her full tits and yoga-sculpted legs always got him hard immediately. If anything, she was too hot: just staring into her piercing green eyes and touching her smooth bare skin when they made love would send him prematurely over the edge.
"Paul, still there?"
He took a deep breath.
