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Buffy entered her history classroom apprehensively. God, the last thing she wanted was to see Professor Bloodsworth after he’d walked in yesterday when she’d been enjoying…uh, alone time.



God, he hadn’t heard her moan his name or anything, had he? Bad enough that he caught her jacking off, but if he knew she was imagining of him pounding into her when she did it, she’d curl up and die.



She was slumped down at her desk, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, when a middle-aged woman walked into the room and greeted the class, then instructed the students to open their textbooks to chapter four.



“Who is that?” Buffy hissed in the ear of the mousy girl sitting in front of her.



“The teacher, Miss Babcock,” returned the girl in a whisper.



“What about yesterday? Mr. Hottie?” whispered Buffy.



“Miss Babcock had strep throat,” the girl muttered over her shoulder. “That was just ‘til she got better.”



Buffy smothered a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t be seeing that sadistic—and hot!—teacher again any time soon. Something was finally going right! “Things are looking up,” Buffy murmured to herself. Maybe this miserable school wouldn’t be so bad after all. Her roommate had said the boys in town were pretty cute, and there was always that gardener or whatever she had talked to the day before. As long as that creepy teacher stayed away from her, everything would be fine.



~*~*~*~



“Go on in, Miss Summers. The headmaster is expecting you.”



Buffy trudged into the headmaster’s office, not looking forward to the interview. Included with the class schedule she received when she arrived had been a note informing her of an appointment with the school’s headmaster, who greeted each mid-year student personally so he could ease their transition at the school.



My parents are paying so much for this school I should be eating fatted headmaster for dinner, thought Buffy crankily. Maybe I’ll mention that teacher to him, see how fast he cans his ass.



Then memories of yesterday sank in and she decided to say nothing, lest the teacher decide to say something for himself.



“I’m Buffy Summers,” she announced, walking into the sizable office and closing the door behind her. The headmaster didn’t bother to look up from his desk as he continued marking in a notebook, and she looked around for a moment, blinking at the bright light streaming through the windows. The office was larger than her bedroom at home and nearly half the size of a classroom, richly appointed in dark woods and hunter green.



Buffy looked her fill before glancing back at the man at the desk, still bent over his notebook. “A-hem,” she said loudly, disguising it as a cough. Jeezus, what was with these people?



The headmaster stopped his writing, and finally looked up. “Good morning, Miss Summers,” said William Bloodsworth softly. “I’m glad to see you wearing more clothes today.”



~*~*~*~



Liar. Who was he kidding? He’d loved the brief glimpse he’d gotten the day before, her body sheened with perspiration, her fingers gleaming with her juices, her face rippling with the very beginnings of orgasm. The scent of her arousal permeating the air like a ripe peach, making his mouth water despite himself.



But it really didn’t do to tell a student how much you’d enjoyed watching them get off, and that you would have stayed for the whole show if it wasn’t morally reprehensible and completely inappropriate of you.



No, instead you go back to your quarters and wank off ferociously, dreaming about pounding her into the wall. Or your mattress.



Or your desk.



Buffy’s jaw dropped. “Where’s the headmaster?” she demanded.



“That would be me,” he told her wryly.



Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You—no, you’re too—too young, and too—”



“Too what?” he asked in surprise. Many people had expressed surprised that he was headmaster at only twenty-eight, but that was the only protest he’d ever heard about his position.



“Too mean!” she blurted out.



Now it was his turn to be shocked. “Mean?” he repeated in astonishment. “Exactly how have I been mean?”



“You hit me!” she said furiously.



“You were rude to another student and when I told you to apologize, you laughed at me,” he pointed out. He was a little startled by her obstinance; surely her parents hadn’t neglected her manners so badly that she thought what she’d done was acceptable. When she’d shot off a demeaning remark to Willow Rosenberg—a shy, studious girl who tried not to attract attention to herself—he’d immediately reproved her for it. He didn’t stand for bullying at his school, and if Miss Summers persisted in yanking his chain, she’s be surprised by just how hard he’d yank back.



“I don’t know how things were handled at your previous school, but our charter allows for us to discipline students as we see fit,” he told her. Buffy opened her mouth to interject a comment, and he cut her off. “And your parents, being graduates of Brighton, are well aware of this. There are few students, Buffy, who go through their years here without experiencing a taste of the ruler or worse. I suggest you resolve to make yesterday your last. I think you’ll find that was the least objectionable means I could have used.”



Yesterday, thought Buffy, cheeks pinkening. “And you’re a peeping tom!” she accused wildly.



Now William’s face darkened with a flush as well. “I wasn’t planning to address that matter,” he said stiffly. “But since you bring it up, we expect our students to remain celibate on campus.”



“Celibate!” exclaimed Buffy. “I was by myself.”



“That’s sufficient!” snapped William. “What if your roommate had come in? Or your dorm matron? Or more to the point, what if your parents had dropped by for a surprise visit?”



“More to the point,” mimicked Buffy, “what if the headmaster is a perv?”



William was still for a long moment. “What did you say?” he said finally.



“You may have seen me, but I saw you too,” she shot back. “Or maybe you just stuck your ruler in your pants?”



Score! Guess that was it for this little interview. Buffy turned to the door and put her hand on the door. It had been embarrassing, but it could have been worse. A lot worse.



Before she could get the door open a hand slapped against its edge and a lean, tight body pressed against her backside. “Miss Summers,” he breathed softly, right against her ear. “I can see you didn’t take what I said about punishment seriously. But if you keep pushing me, believe me—you will.”



He let the door go and eased back from her. She pulled the door open and slipped out without a backwards glance, outwardly calm.



But inside, she was trembling. She was spooked, she told herself, that was all. Not excited. Not turned on.



Really.





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