The Headmaster's Fall

On my honor, I do solemnly swear that no innocents, underage women, or Regency rakes were harmed in the making of this story.

Best regards,
Laurel Bennett

PS. This is a very short erotic tale. Not a full length novel.


A rake, a virgin, a fantasy...

Our heroine is sent to the headmaster's office for punishment. Will he punish her? Or pleasure her? Or can the lines between the two blur?

Excerpt:


Excerpt:
“She is a disgrace to the school, my lord,” she chirped. She didn’t even wait for his lordship to speak. She just began her diatribe. But he held up a hand to cut her off.
He was a man of means. And he didn’t hesitate to display it. His waistcoat and jacket were of the finest quality, and I wanted very much to run my hands over the fabric. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders, and I found myself jealous. How ridiculous. Jealous that his jacket got such intimacy? His blond hair was slightly over-long. It brushed the top of his neckcloth and a lock of hair fell across his forehead.
“But sir,” Miss Houghton began. He held up his hand again, and she pursed her lips, as though creating a dam to hold back the words.
“You may go,” he clipped out. Then he dropped into a chair behind his desk. He looked a bit… weary.
I turned toward the door, my heart hurting a little at the thought of not having my talking-to.
“Not you, Miss Winters.” He pointed his quill at Miss Houghton. “You.”
“But my lord, I need to tell you what she has done. It’s unseemly. She influences all the other girls. And if she’d not expelled, she’ll ruin them all.”
He raised his eyebrows at her as he repeated, “You. May. Go.”
She huffed for a moment, which reminded me of a peacock I’d once seen as he darted about the yard after a bug. “Wait.” He said. She turned back with glee. He held out his hand. “I’ll have the birch stick.” She placed it in his hand with a disappointed sound. Then quit the room.
I turned to him slowly, not quite sure how to address him.
“Close the door,” he barked.
Close the door? If there was one thing I was certain of, a lady should never close a door and be alone with a man.
He lowered his head and cupped his forehead in his palm for a moment, massaging gently. “Close the blasted door, Miss Winters,” he barked again as he righted himself. He ran a hand through his hair, a mark of frustration. He sighed heavily.
I scurried to close the blasted door and approached him on legs that shook.
He pointed to the chair across from his desk. “Sit, Miss Winters.”