The next day found Charlotte again at her desk before the others had arrived. He was determined not to engage her. She was maddeningly distracting, making each minute of the day torture until he could touch her again.
He walked in and sat down, and she never looked up from her handwriting practice. She easily had the best penmanship of anyone in school. To be fair, she was also the oldest. But her handwriting was a reflection of herself: flowery, feminine, and perfect.
At his desk, he fumbled with his assignments, desperate to avoid looking at her, lest he lose control right then and there. It would be the end of the both of them. She would be sent away, likely to the east, and he would be driven out on a rail, tarred and feathered.
It's hard for a man to come back from that.
To his astonishment, the next time he looked up, she was there, standing directly in front of him. Almost defiantly. Yet she never spoke until spoken to.
“Yes, Charlotte? What is it?” he said, somewhat sharply.
“I'm not a brat, sir,” she said, softly.
“I said I'm not a brat, sir.” Louder, this time. And then she looked him in the eyes.
He was faced with two choices. Succumb to emotion, or answer the challenge she was issuing. Such was the power of her submission that he was compelled to answer with a combination of both.
Softening his voice a bit, he said, “No, Charlotte. I suppose you are not. You're my star pupil. Very obedient.”
“I try, sir.”
“Charlotte...how did you become...this way? Do you know? Was it your father?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose it was. But in the manner in which you might think. I watched, over the course of my years, as he grew increasingly unhappy. As he did, life became poorer for her, as well, until they were both miserable.
So I set out to find out what makes men happiest. Research.”
“And so you-”
“No, Sir! Never! Perish the thought. My own parents cannot be helped. I can't discuss such things with mother. But I decided that I would find a deserving man, and make sure he was the happiest he could be.”
“And, I, Charlotte, am the deserving one?”
“No, Sir. Not exactly. Necessarily.” She blushed. “I needed practice. However, you are a good man, kindly, yet firm. I cannot say that you are not deserving. You have no wife. Sometimes, I feel your loneliness.”
He stood, and walked around to her. She never shifted her position, but remained facing his chair, tensing almost imperceptibly for whatever was coming next.
Placing a solitary finger on the side of her face, he turned her to meet his own. Smiled. Kissed her forehead. “No, Charlotte. You're not a brat.”
She reddened, and a hint of a smile played at the corner of her mouth.
“You are mine, however. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, breathlessly. She wanted to add, “For now,” but she was fearful of the consequences.
He stood behind her and grabbed her wrists, spreading them wider, and moving them away from her, until she was bent over his desk. Then he stood behind her and spread her legs wide as well, until she was rendered somewhat immobile.
Had he time, he would have tied her down. But despite the generous time allowance she had granted him by arriving so early, it couldn't be risked. He was already playing with a particularly dangerous brand of fire as it was.
He raised the hem of her long skirt over her hips, and she shivered. Reaching between her legs, he sought her lips, and squeezed them together. Hard enough for her to know he meant business. Of course she was already wet. Now, almost at once, her panties showed a widening wet spot.
To her credit, Charlotte didn't resist. She didn't move. This, despite the fact that she had no idea of what was to come next. Not to mention the fact that she was now half-naked, splayed across the schoolmaster's desk, seven minutes before her class arrived.
As if to answer her concerns about being half naked, he took out his cock and slapped it lightly against her wet slit through her panties, making sure she could hear it. As he rubbed himself on her, he drew closer, reached around, and unbuttoned her top.
“Get them out, Charlotte. Now.”
She did, and they sat bare, nipples hard, right in front of where he sat each day.
“Pull them,” he commanded her.
Charlotte moved her arms, and began to stretch them, to an almost alarming degree, moaning softly.
It was already too much for him to take for any longer. But he had an agenda. He replaced his cock with his fingers, and wet his thumb.
Then he placed it on her asshole, and she began to climax. Charlotte pinched, pulled, and twisted on her nipples in a most shocking manner as she did so. And as she came, her ass opened slightly with each spasm. Each time, she slipped his thumb in a tiny bit deeper, wiggling it. Her orgasm was amplified exponentially.
By the time she had finished, she had nearly collapsed. Her cotton panties were now soaked. As she lay trying to catch her breath, he removed them. Placed them in his desk drawer.
Charlotte, of course, uttered not a word of protest.
His cock was still engorged, though, and that was a bit of a problem.
“Kneel,” was all he had to say.
She slid off of the desk to her knees, as if she had practiced the maneuver. Perhaps she had, he reflected.
At any rate, there she was. Young, vibrant, voluptuous, beautiful. Her pendulous breasts, nipples still diamond hard, stood out proudly. They begged to be slapped. She looked up at him with large brown eyes, all softness. Her mouth was already open.
Although he wished to plunged the length of himself into her and launch into her throat, a different thought came to him. He took out his cock, and instantly coated her tongue, her lips.
When he stopped, she swallowed, making sure to make her delight known to him, and then licked him off of her lips. But before he allowed her to stand, he wiped his dripping cockhead across her upper lip.
“Leave it,” he said sternly.
“Yes, Sir,” Charlotte said, as though she was far away in a dream.
“Back on the desk,” he told her. He had to move quickly, now.
She resumed her position on her own as best she could. As she did so, he grabbed his quill and ink bottle, writing 'Good' on one breast, and 'Wife' on the other, so that she could read it. When the ink had set a tiny bit, he wiped it off again, leaving a faint inscription that wouldn't be visible to others.
She, of course, couldn't see it yet, but the very act thrilled her, whatever he had written.
The only real roughness came when he grabbed her hair from behind and stood her up. She practically came again right then.
He buttoned up her top, leaving one undone, so she could see what he had written, all day as she sat at her desk.
“Find your seat, Charlotte. As I will be finding it later...”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, and moved to do as she was told.
But she knew what he meant. She only hoped she was ready.
The school day was tortuous for them both.
Her headmaster, she observed, had wrapped her panties in his ink-stained handkerchief, and seemed to have acquired a bad cold. He couldn't resist smelling her for more than five minutes at a time, a fact which delighted Charlotte to no end.
Meanwhile, both of them simmered slowly all day, thinking about what was to come.
It was perhaps worse for him, although he had no idea of this. He struggled with the gestalt of what he was doing. He grappled with the minutia of the coming afternoon. Certainly he had never done anything so shocking in his entire life. But the situation, and Charlotte itself, it seemed, demanded it.
For the most part, however, he worried about her well-being, mentally and physically. Academically, he knew that such acts were, by some standard, perfectly acceptable, even common in some cultures. But with an unmarried schoolgirl? He had never attempted such a thing with even a dancehall girl, who would have slapped his face at the suggestion.
Or so he had presumed.
Yet, here he was. Committed to sodomizing her that very day. The fact that she knew ate at his conscience. But that didn't diminish his growing excitement.
Charlotte, to a lesser degree, shared his anxiety.
Taking her own virginity was the one act she nearly regretted, simply because it was such a valued commodity. Expected, in marriage. Nevertheless, it had to be done. She had even learned how to fake such a thing in the event of a marriage.
Her self-training and experimentation did lead to her penetrating herself anally. Starting with a finger, she worked herself up to two. Then she began to use a warmed raw carrot, going deeper. Her favorite became a slightly larger half-boiled sausage.
Still, it was nothing compared to what she knew was coming. His wordplay was subtle, but at the same time, pointed.
After some time dwelling on the subject, Charlotte feared she would wet her skirt. Sneaking a few items in her pockets, she excused herself at the proper moment to visit the privvy. Once inside, she gave herself much needed attention, rubbing herself to orgasm as she desperately tried to stretch her asshole.
It didn't take her long to orgasm.
She sat back, breathing heavily, and mopped sweat from her brow. Hopefully that would allow her to focus on her schoolwork a tiny bit, rather than be driven wild for six more hours. Charlotte attended to one more small matter, and then went back to her desk, taking some extra tissue in case her moisture problem persisted.
“Glad to have you back, Charlotte,” he said, not looking up.
“Yes, Sir,” she said. “I wouldn't want to fall behind.”
It was the only interaction that she allowed herself with him, until day's end. He immediately contacted an enhanced case of the sniffles.
As usual, when three o'clock had arrived, she remained in her seat, despite having received no punishment that day. But when the classroom emptied, she undid another button of her blouse, displaying his handiwork from earlier.
He, of course, focused on grading papers. But what he was really doing was waiting for everyone to leave the area so that he could abscond with her unnoticed. The students were on foot, and he, a buggy, so he erred on the side of caution.
That half hour was more arduous than the previous seven combined.
Charlotte spent that time completing her homework for the next day, despite her wandering thoughts.
But at three-thirty, she noticed him beginning to put this things into his satchel, and her heart began racing. She packed her own, as well, and waited for direction.
At last, he stood, and said, “Come, Charlotte.”
She almost did.
He extended his elbow, and she held it, every bit the lady, as they walked to his wagon.
He helped her get up, and she noticed that his hands gave extra attention to her ass.
Between them sat a gingham covered picnic basket. When she impertinently opened it and looked inside, she found only a blanket, and a small bottle of olive oil.
Intriguing. How could he have possibly known in advance? Charlotte determined that their minds were more closely connected than she had suspected.
As he drove the horses down a side road to more abandoned farmland, Charlotte spread her legs and hiked her skirt high. Casually, she drizzled a bit of oil on her fingers, though she never needed it, and began to caress herself in full sight of him.
His eyes left her only to scan the countryside nervously and to insure they remained more or less on the road.
He flicked the top button of her blouse, and she responded by opening it entirely. It was shocking to him, seeing the feminine form on full public display in the open air and sunlight. At the same time, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Sunlight glistened off of the beads of oil that clung to her modest patch of short hairs. She occasionally stopped rubbing herself and pulled her labia apart, showing him far more than any textbook ever had.
He eventually looked up long enough to spy the abandoned barn he sought in the distance, and doubled the horse's speed.
He pulled around behind it, opposite the road, and dismounted. Rather than helping her down immediately, he unhitched and staked the animal where it could graze, intensifying the moment by stretching it out. Her dress was now quite wet. Not that she cared.
At last, he walked over to her and extended his hand. She took it in her own, slick with oil, and warm with her heat, and stepped down.
To her surprise and delight, he said her name, and kissed her, hard, at first, and then tenderly.
Unable to say more, but having silently conveyed volumes, he reached around her for the basket.
“Please allow me, Sir.”
He grabbed her wrist as she grabbed the basket, and pulled her a few yards from the buggy.
To her surprise, he began undressing himself. Despite having been given no orders, Charlotte took the blanket out and spread in on the flattest part of the ground in front of them.
Then she began to help him finish undressing, unfastening the buttons on his trousers, and pulling them down. When they were around his ankles, she knelt and untied his shoes, removing them. His now fully-engorged cock brushed against the top of her head.
Still in the grass, she stayed in that position until he stepped out of his pants, hoping to take him in her mouth right then and there.
“Stand,” he told her.
“Yes, Sir,” she said.
He looked Charlotte in the eyes, and his hands went to her breasts as he kissed her neck. She grabbed him and pulled him closer, until he began to poke her mound through her dress. He began to kiss her mouth deeply, his fingers working her nipples as he had observed her doing.
Shocked by her own audacity, she eventually broke free, grabbed the bottle of oil, and placed it in his hand. As he watched her, she took the dress off over her head, and stood naked and proud in the afternoon heat.
Beneath her breasts were written two more words, in her own unmistakable handwriting, 'slut' and 'whore'.
Noting his stunned approval, or what she had to assume was approval, Charlotte got down on her hands and knees on the blanket, facing away from him. She lowered her head and shoulders to the ground, and arched her back most provocatively, her vulnerable femininity on full display.
He knelt behind her and rubbed himself up and down the length of her slit. Charlotte moaned. But when he made to enter her, she said, “Please, Sir. Not there...”
It was a reversal of what he had expected to happen.
Despite her eagerness, he found it difficult to bring himself to take her this way, so savage it seemed. Instead, he lay down beside her, and pulled her back to him. She giggled, and turned her head toward him as he kissed her neck and shoulders, and eventually, her mouth.
He pulled on her nipples, even harder than before, then took her left hand and placed it on her right breast, so she could continue doing so on her own. Her right hand, he brought behind her back and placed on her cheek.
Without further prompting, she spread herself wide. So wide, she actually opened up a bit, making the display she had put on earlier seem tame by comparison.
He fumbled with the bottle of oil, applying some first to himself, and then to her. Cautiously, he entered her with one slick finger, like a diver toeing the water before jumping in.
“Oh, thank you, Sir!” she said, trying to encourage him without frightening him off of his task.
Charlotte pushed back against him, and his finger was engulfed.
“Wiggle it, Sir. I beg of you.”
He did, although he never would have thought of that on his own, and her moans intensified. She started to buck against him until he took the hint, and began to slide his finger in and out of her. He took it all the way back out, and then slid it fully back in, repeating the process until it became easier each time. But one finger was all he allowed himself. Or her.
Finally, he removed it, and Charlotte tried to brace herself for what was coming. She felt his swollen cockhead rub against her entryway.
To her surprise, it went in somewhat easily. Surprising, because he was at least twice as big as anything she had ever used on herself before. But, to his credit, he was careful and slow. Almost too careful and slow for her liking.
She found that his head was the hardest part to get in. After than, he picked her leg up, and she began to rub herself. Rather than charging in as she had hoped and feared, he applied steady pressure, and slowly inched his way into her recesses.
As he slid into her at a snail's pace, Charlotte accented his efforts with staccato bursts of pushing back on her own. Soon, he was in her to the hilt. She had never felt such a fullness in all her years of research.
Mentally or physically.
In the interest of experimentation, she took her hand from between her legs and focused on both of her nipples. The sensations changed, but remained maddeningly pleasant.
When he began to slide in and out of her, she felt a wave of pleasure building. Slowly, at first, but it matched his increasing pace. Within a minute or so, she was taking the length of him, all the way in and out, as he had done with his finger.
Charlotte couldn't last much longer, and neither could he.
But when he whispered in her ear, “Slut,” her pleasure raced ahead of his slightly, and she began the process of orgasm. By the time he said, “Whore”, she was screaming.
Instinctively, perhaps, he slammed his hand over her mouth, and then increased the pace and severity of what he was doing to her. When he pushed himself fully into her and held it, she knew he was arriving, also, which only increased her own excitement.
She felt him pulsate as he pumped what felt like an ounce of semen into her.
When he had finished, he remained inside of her, but kissed her on the cheek, and said more quietly. “Wife...”
Her heart soared. Perhaps he was the one, after all. He did seem to understand her well.
He pulled her close against him, and they dozed, as he slowly lost his firmness and eventually fell out of her.
They awoke at dusk, and he kissed her with delicate passion.
“May, I, Sir?” she asked him, glancing at his cock.
“Yes, you may, Charlotte. Tomorrow. You're to stay after school and wash the floors.”
“No fair, Sir,” she said, smiling. It was as close to rebellion as she would ever allow herself.