It was wrong.
This isn’t what therapists do.
In fact, they go to jail for this kind of shit.
But I’m the Master at Forest Hills … and some one-on-one therapy is just what the curvy girl needs.
CHAPTER FOUR
Minnie
It’s been almost a week since I entered Forest Hills. I guess it’s not too shabby. Okay, so it was an upgrade from my old school. After all, that place was grimy. Hazardous even. There’d been the hushed rumor that asbestos lurked in the walls, small particles drifting out each day to lodge in our lungs. Ugh.
So by contrast, Forest Hills was really nice. The classrooms were Spartan but clean, and we were surrounded on all sides by lush forests. Towering trees reached into the air, with sparkling, sunny days and cool evenings. My favorite time came around six p.m. each day, when mist drifted in over the mountains. It reminded me of a fairy tale, elves and other fantastical creatures playing hide and seek in the tall grass.
But school will always be school. It’ll never change. Classes were still boring, the teachers’ words droning in my head. Seriously, when will math and history be fun? I dozed fitfully during some of my classes.
But maybe that was because the call time for breakfast was way too early. They woke us up at six, served breakfast at seven and expected us to be sitting in our chairs by eight. The food was heaven but the eight hours spent staring at a chalkboard were brutal. Often, someone was talking on and on about some hero who won wars with dozens of citations and medals afterwards. But I saw it differently. War was gruesome and bloody, not to mention patriarchal. Where were the stories about women? Surely they didn’t sit around and knit all day. So I was a little skeptical of my history teacher, not to mention the text at hand.
But it got worse. When the bell rang at three p.m., they had us do sports. Sports! Did I look like I did sports for leisure? My girls are Double Ds, my hips sway like a boat. I walk because running isn’t safe. Not for me, and not for the people around.
And yet we had to exercise for two hours. Two freaking hours. I could’ve done my nails and finished my homework with that time. I could have filmed an entire make-up tutorial in two hours. I sighed as I tied my red hair into a messy ponytail. Everyone else was already out in the field, me the only one hanging back.
But then a voice called.
“Hey, new girl.”
I turned my attention to a brunette with a pixie cut. She looked so tiny in her jumpsuit, her small form swimming in the canvas. “We’re doing dodgeball. Again.”
I winced at the thought of balls being thrown directly at me for the sole purpose of hitting the human form. This is a crazy game, for sure.
“Do you have any idea how I could opt out of this?” was my plaintive question. “Seriously, I don’t feel well.”
The pixie grinned.
“I tried feigning a stomach ache once before, it didn’t work. I even tried to act like I had mono but that didn’t work either. They know our game here, new girl. You won’t be getting out of this one.”
“God, why do you put up with this?” I asked, perplexed, shaking my head. “Why?”
She merely shrugged.
“Because I’m stuck here. Plus, give it another week. It’s not so bad. And dodgeball is kinda fun. I see it as a way of venting my frustration. Bam! Pow! Pop!” she said, miming hard throws. “Great stress relief, you’ll see.”
I had to smile. Bam, pow, pop? Were we the Keebler elves or a Batman cartoon? But misery still covered me like a gray blanket.
“But it’s a violent game!” I argued. “Out of all the sports that this fine institution could sponsor, why dodgeball? It doesn’t make sense right? We’re supposed to be troubled girls. Why not something more tame like knitting or crochet?”
The brunette cracked a smile.
“Dunno, homegirl. I say it’s to release aggression, but who knows? They do what they want to do. I’m Toni by the way.”
I shook the hand that she held out. Toni was about a head shorter and fifty pounds less at a minimum.
“I’m Minnie,” came my answering smile.
“So what brings you to Forest Hills? Arson?”
My eyes widened and I shook my head.
“No! Gosh, no! I’m not ….”
I didn’t know how to say the words without offending Toni. The last thing I needed was an enemy in a reform school.
But she knew.
“You’re not troubled?” Toni finished for me. I could only nod. The pixie laughed. “It’s fine. Welcome to the club. It’s something we hear every day, all the time. But seriously, if you’re not troubled, then why are you here?”
Sighing, I answered her question as we neared the field of girls throwing balls at each other. I still didn’t see the appeal of the game as I watched from afar, those giant rubber spheres bouncing crazily everywhere. One woman got hit so hard there was a giant red splotch on her leg.
“My father hates that I’ve been getting bad grades. I mean, they’re not that bad, but he expects that I get straight A’s.”
“Ah.” Toni mused. “Daddy troubles. Well, I’m not sure if a reform school is gonna fix what you’ve got, but you’re here anyway. Just enjoy it. Could be worse.”
We’d finally reached the crowd of girls. Toni flashed me a grin and a thumbs up before jogging to the other side. A moment later, a ball was whizzing straight at me. My eyes widened as I tried to dodge.
Oh god, who in the world created this game?
Save me please!
Oh god, oh god, another one is coming!
Because dozens of spheres were being hurled across the tarmac now, a whirlwind of flying objects. It was so ironic. We’d just done this yesterday. My body was still in recovery mode, yet here I was again, trying to run for my life. Really? Really really?
And frankly, the game was starting to scare me. It hurt where I got hit yesterday. I could still feel the bruise on my leg, aching and uncomfortable. The pink mark had turned into a nasty rainbow of yellows and purples on my skin afterwards, looking like a mottled squash.
Thankfully, we were just about done.
“That’s it for today girls!” Coach Henderson yelled, clapping her hands to round us up. My lips whispered a silent prayer to any god who was willing to listen. I couldn’t have taken another minute of the damn contest. I would have been toast, squelched into the ground in no time.
So we lined up in formation, marching back to our dorms. Dinner would be served at the main hall and then after that, some free time. Not that it was real “free time,” where you could do whatever you wanted. More like “supervised time,” where you were expected to behave and be quiet. Most girls just used it as a study hall, it was pointless to try to do anything else.
It sucked. I could have been filming one of my make-up tutorials, but there was no equipment here. No cameras, no lighting, and for sure I’d get busted for talking. Unfortunately, my viewers would have to wait until I figured out how to break out of this joint. Or graduate. Whichever came first.
But tonight, I didn’t even have my free time to fume and sulk. I had a scheduled therapy session with a counselor. Yuck. It was mandatory for everyone, even if you didn’t really belong here like me. Sigh. Tonight would be my first appointment.
I headed to the cabin where my counselor was waiting. It was a beautiful night, the breeze balmy, just a shadow of moonlight painting the log walls. Were these real? Did they really build the cabin from wooden logs, or was it just fake decorative stuff? Who knows?
Knocking sharply, I waited.
And then a deep male voice sounded.
“Come,” it growled.
Oh god. I had a male counselor. I was hoping to get a female therapist because really, all I wanted to do was talk about make-up. At least a woman would be able to relate better.
Quietly, I opened the door quietly and slipped inside. But that’s when I got the shock of my life. Because the person sitting there was Master Thorn. That ma
ssive figure sat in an armchair, a tiny notebook balanced incongruously on his knee. What? What was the headmaster doing here?
Of course, he looked calm and collected, just like the first day when I met him. As my curvy form slipped in, the alpha greeted me.
“So we meet again,” he said smoothly. “Good to see you Minnie.”
Oh god, oh god. Because the truth is, the moment I set eyes on the Master, my pulse jumped to a hundred miles an hour. For the past week, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head. When I lay down on my bunk at night, those blue eyes seemed to burn in my brain, body going hot all over again.
But Thorn was cool as a cucumber. He motioned to the chair in front of him and I perched gingerly, a wave of shyness consuming my form. I’ve never been shy around boys but then again, Thorn was totally unlike the boys at my old school. He was a man. Not just any man, but an alpha male with a commanding aura and inescapable presence.
I wish I’d known beforehand that he was my counselor. At the very least, I would’ve washed and changed into a cleaner jumpsuit. But it was too late now.
“You’re my therapist?” I managed to squeak out.
He nodded coolly, brows raised.
“Expecting someone else?” came that drawl.
Well yes. Because I asked the other girls about the counselling sessions here, and they told me that there were just two therapists on staff. One was a lady in her late thirties while the other was a young woman fresh out of graduate school. So I didn’t even know Thorn was an option.
But the man wasn’t fazed at all.
“I’m a licensed therapist,” he growled. “Ph.D. in psychology plus a master’s in social work. I’ll be conducting your sessions, Minnie. Every Wednesday night you’re stuck with me,” he said with a gleaming smile.
I wasn’t complaining. But still, it confused me.
“But you’re the headmaster,” were my tentative words.
Thorn merely shrugged.
“I’m a lot of things, Miss Evans. I’m a therapist, a headmaster, and a disciplinarian, to name a few.”
“Disciplinarian?” I squeaked again, eyes wide. Oh god, why did I sound like a mouse? Because the description was just strange. Disciplinarian called to mind an old hag in a stiff-necked black dress, cane in hand.
Thorn nodded coolly again.
“Yes, I’m a disciplinarian. This is a reform school, Miss Evans, in case you’ve forgotten. Our mission is to create and sustain model citizens. We use corporal punishment if it’s truly needed.”
I blinked. I knew it was a reform school. That wasn’t new. In fact, my nose was rubbed in it day in and day out what with the jumpsuits and rigid schedule. But still, what did Thorn mean by physical discipline? Were there extra chores? Restricted access to things like library books? Even food rations? I had no idea.
Meanwhile, Thorn flipped opened the notebook on his lap, big fingers agile and casual. I assumed it held information about me.
“Let’s begin, Miss Evans. So why are you here at Forest Hills?”
He already knew the answer but I guess this was part of the process.
Slowly, my lips answered.
“Because I’d rather be a beautician than go to any prestigious college. And my Dad doesn’t like it. He loathes it.”
I sighed and ran a hand through my red mane, beginning the flow of words. It felt good to let them out, the big man listening intently.
“My dad doesn’t understand. He doesn’t see the passion I have for cosmetics. He doesn’t see the talent that I possess because he chooses to turn a blind eye to it. He claims that I’ll never get anywhere in life. I’m sure he’s mortified with the fact that I will never leave home and he’ll have to take care of me forever. He doesn’t think that doing make-up is a real job. Maybe he’s scared that I’ll have to repeat another year because my grades aren’t that good. But maybe he just wants me gone, period,” I concluded miserably, laying my personal turmoil out in the open.
I’d babbled for a few minutes straight, but it felt good to get the load off my chest.
Thorn nodded thoughtfully. Of course. He’d heard this all before. In fact, he’d talked with my dad and gotten his side of the story.
But the man didn’t judge. Instead, as a therapist, he tried to open the process, to look inside and explore.
“What did you do to anger him?” was his mild question. “Or what do you think you did?”
My mouth dropped at the question. Like I even knew why my father suddenly hated me.
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything wrong,” was my curt reply.
The alpha scribbled something in his notes. Okay, so my defensive tone spoke volumes. But this time, Thorn asked me the same question again, persuasive and commanding.
“Think hard, Minnie. What did you do to anger him?”
And my mind turned in on itself. I thought back to the day I’d come home to see Pat surrounded by empty beer bottles, the man slobbering drunk, lolling on the couch. That’d been the day my mother left.
And in my heart of hearts, I knew why he hated me so much. Because the answer was right there in the mirror. Each day the woman before me looked more and more like my mom, that pretty, frivolous nincompoop. It was an uncanny resemblance for sure.
But it wasn’t my fault I looked like her. That was DNA and chance more than anything. So how could Pat blame me for that?
But I wasn’t getting into this with Master Thorn. No way. This was my private family business, and I’d be damned if I shared them with some stranger.
So my response was vehement when it came.
“I have no idea,” I said. “I swear, Mr. Thorn, I have no idea why my dad hates me. I didn’t do anything.”
The headmaster remained silent, just taking me in, cool and calculating. His blue eyes gave nothing away. And to my shame, my body grew hot, squirming uncomfortably in the seat.
“I swear Master Thorn,” I repeated in a low voice. “I have no idea why Pat hates me.”
Of course, that was a lie. But again, I wasn’t about to get into it. That was my private family business. Would Thorn push me to talk about it? I vowed to resist.
But he remained unperturbed, blue eyes assessing.
“Minnie,” he said casually. “Do you see that box over there?”
I glanced over and then back at him. There was a wooden box near the door. It looked like a hope chest, made of solid wood.
“Yes,” was my one word.
“Open it.”
His voice was deep, commanding and hypnotic. I stared for a moment, but his expression didn’t change. And standing slowly, I crossed the room, knees trembling as I made my way to the box.
But a gasp escaped me when the lid opened. Because this wasn’t a hope chest. There weren’t assorted clothes and linens inside. Instead, the contents were straight out of a BDSM fantasy. Whips, chains and cuffs and various other things I didn’t recognize filled the container almost to the brim.
What the hell? What was this doing here? Why did Thorn have these things? Were they supposed to be used on me ?
Oh god.
Was this what he meant when he spoke about “discipline”?
Was I a bad girl who deserved a beating?
Corporal punishment?
But the alpha was unperturbed.
“Hand me the cuffs, Minnie,” his voice came, slow and smooth.
Thorn hadn’t moved. He sat there still as a rock, those blue eyes watching my every move. A frisson passed down my spine. The handcuffs looked like the kind that cops would carry, gleaming steel, shiny even under the low light. Why did Thorn want them?
Suddenly , Fifty Shades of Grey flashed in my mind. I bit my lip. Was he turning Christian Grey on me? The thoughts of how Christian pleasured Anastasia made me shiver. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Then again, a book is a book. This is real life.
“Hand me the cuffs, Minnie,” the Master repeated.
And as if in a trance, I pulled the metal cuffs out of the
wooden box and turned to face him. Walking the distance between us, my heart beat wildly in my chest.
Could he hear?
Because the rapid thumps were part fear, but part anticipation too.
The headmaster rose slowly, that massive form unfurling, dark head almost reaching to the ceiling. He wore a perfectly-tailored suit, and his black hair was carelessly brushed back, blue eyes gleaming.
“Give them to me,” his voice was hypnotic. Slowly, as if in a dream, I handed him the metal cuffs.
And then before I knew it, I was cuffed to the windowsill. What? I stared down at the metal clasp around my wrists before jerking my head back up to stare at the Master.
What the hell was he doing? What the hell was going on? Was this part of the program?
“Hey,” I gasped. “I don’t think this is –“
My words were cut off.
“Kneel,” came that cruel command.
“What?” I sputtered. But then a sharp, stinging sensation lanced across my bottom, making me jerk and shudder.
Did Thorn just slap me on the ass?
Did that really just happen?
And of their own accord, my knees bent, breathing growing heavier by the second. My ass still stung but it didn’t hurt. No, the initial pain had given way to rippling pleasure, my ass warm, even slightly burning now.
“I don’t like it when I’m not told of the truth, Miss Evans,” he rasped behind me. “You will learn to tell me the truth, Minnie, and nothing but the truth. There are no lies in this institution, not between these four walls. Am I clear?”
“Y-yes,” I stuttered.
“As punishment for lying to me,” he intoned. “You will receive five blows.”
Punishment? Blows? What was I? A five year old? But before I could voice any words, Thorn pulled a knife out.
Now I was seriously scared, the gleaming metal bright in the gloom of the cabin.
This was crazy.
This is reform school, but knives? No!
But Thorn didn’t use it on me. He used it on the jumpsuit. With swift, careful strokes, the knife tip tore through the canvas with audible rips. And soon, the jumpsuit was pooled around my body, left in shreds.
Taken by the Dom: A Light BDSM Bad Boy Romance Page 5
