Mastering Melanie

by Reese Gabriel

  “Well, well,” she heard a man call up from one of the tables. “If it isn’t our little Sleeping Beauty.”

  It was Sheriff Harkin, sitting in the middle of a poker game, his street duty from a few moments before having apparently been dispatched.

  “Too bad she done woke up on her own,” said the deputy, who was sitting to his right. “I was fixing to wake her up with a little kiss.”

  There were guffaws about the table.

  “Homer, you shut your mouth!” the blonde woman chided, delivering a slap to the back of his thick neck. “Show some respect. She’s the new teacher, not some floozy. Besides, if you put your lips on her, you’d darn near kill her with your breath.”

  The laughter shifted now, its tide turning squarely against the portly deputy.

  “Don’t worry, Gretchen, Homer doesn’t kiss women on the lips,” taunted the little black haired woman, her voice husky and teasing. “He kisses ‘em somewhere’s else.”

  Fists pounded at the tables and palms slammed Deputy Homer’s back as the saucy little thing hopped down and commenced a series of gyrations indicating precisely where the portly lawman liked to kiss his women.

  “Go to hell,” Homer grumbled throwing down his cards. “The whole lot of you.”

  Half of them were still doubled over as the man stormed out the double, swinging half doors onto the night street.

  “By the Halls of Valhalla,” said one of the men at the poker table, a smartly dressed cavalry officer with a thickly waxed mustache and goatee of yellow. “The poor devil had a full house!”

  He held up the deputy’s abandoned cards for all to see.

  “Tarnation,” the sheriff howled. “That boy’s thin skin just saved me half a month’s pay!”

  “Half a month’s pay?” Drawled a thin be-speckled man in a rumpled suit. “More like half a day’s graft in your case.”

  “I resent the implication mightily, doctor,” the sheriff retorted taking mock offense. “I’ve half a mind to interdict the next whisky wagon thereby shutting down your entire practice.”

  The doctor beamed, raising a shot glass. “Here’s to the perquisites of doing one’s civic duty. Speaking of which. I give you a toast to Old Man Van Der Mere, the prince of perquisites.”

  The doctor was looking straight at Melanie, whose hands were white knuckled on the railing.

  “To Old Man Van Der Mere,” said the rough voices in unison, the speakers doubtlessly unable to pronounce let alone define a word such as ‘perquisites.’

  Melanie blanched. What on earth was this degenerate doctor and his cronies hinting at where she was concerned? The looks and snickers reminded her uncomfortably of the response she’d gotten from the stagecoach robbers when she’d told them about her posting in Big Rock.

  “Leave the poor woman alone,” Gretchen warned, moving purposefully to the stairs. “Can’t you see she’s frightened half to death?”

  “She should be,” crooned the raven-haired girl. Melanie looked at her open mouthed. The girl was hissing at her, her hands raised like claws, her teeth bared in an imitation of some feline predator.

  “Look out,” someone shouted. “Lyla’s got her fangs out.”

  “Reckon she needs to be tamed,” another said in a manner most salacious and suggestive.

  “Promises, promises,” Lyla retorted.

  The piano player took that as his cue and the saloon was soon back to business as usual.

  “Don’t mind any of them,” said Gretchen, taking Melanie’s arm. “They’re nothing but a bunch of wind bags.”

  Melanie dug in her bare heels at the door to her room. “I–I don’t want to go back in there,” she said foolishly.

  Gretchen reached for the oil lamp on the wall, lighting the wick. “Don’t be silly. A school teacher can’t be scared of the dark, can she?”

  Melanie swallowed. “No, of course not,” she said thinly. Of course, it would help if Melanie actually were one instead of a mere poseur. Uncle Martin had assured her with her education she was easily up to the challenge, but she had her doubts.

  Gretchen lit two more lamps inside the room. “All right,” she said determinedly. “Take a good look and get it out of your system.”

  Melanie put her hand to her breast. In the pale, yellow light her room looked more like a torture chamber. In addition to the chains on the bed, there were others mounted on the far wall, right next to a mounted display of various whips and flaying devices. The contraption she’d tripped over appeared to be some kind of restraining device resembling a wooden horse. There was a leather pad on the cross piece, over which a body could be secured.

  “Wh–what kind of place is this?” Melanie stammered.

  Gretchen sighed. “It’s a playroom, honey. Some of the men like to take us saloon women here. Lyla, in particular. Why on earth Cyrus Van Der Mere and the sheriff put all the new school teachers here is beyond me.” Gretchen gasped, putting her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve let the cat out of the bag, haven’t I? About there being so many teachers, I mean.”

  Melanie looked at her strangely. “What is it that no one is telling me?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “I am such an idiot,” she lamented, closing her eyes. A moment later they popped back open. The girl was bright eyed, intelligent, full of life. Melanie decided she liked her at once.

  “Melanie, if I agree to help you get through things a little better and deal with these pig headed, lecherous fools, will you help me with something?”

  Melanie took her hands. “Anything,” she said sincerely. “Anything at all.”

  A tiny tear formed in the corner of Gretchen’s eye though she was smiling when she asked her next question. “Will you teach me to read?”

  “I’d be honored, Gretchen.” Melanie embraced, as both girls began to cry.

  “What’s your name?” Gretchen whispered. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Melanie,” she replied, feeling a little stab of guilt at having to lie to her new friend. “Melanie Jones.”

  Gretchen took Melanie by the shoulders. “Welcome, Melanie Jones. Welcome to Big Rock. And I can promise you, you’ll be the first teacher to survive a full year.”

  Melanie smiled weakly. She was grateful, though the words terrified her. “And I promise you, Gretchen, you’ll be reading by the end of that same year.”

  “It’s a deal, then,” said Gretchen thrusting out her hand like a man. “Let’s shake on it.”

  Melanie took her hand, feeling warm and secure for the second time today. The first time, of course, was with the marshal. A man whom she already missed more than words could say.

  Chapter Two

  Cyrus Van Der Mere scratched feverishly with a quill pen, applying his signature to yet another document as Melanie stood waiting. The man had kept her a good quarter of an hour so far without so much as looking up from his stately oak desk. Van Der Mere looked to be at least sixty, though according to what Gretchen had told her he was probably closer to a hundred. As the chief architect of the town of Big Rock and the owner of tens of thousands of acres surrounding it, Cyrus was as close to a god as one could be in this territory.

  Gretchen did not know exactly what the man’s motives were in keeping a teacher on salary. While she would not divulge in details, Gretchen did say, with more than a modicum of amusement in her voice, that there was only one pupil at the present moment. Gretchen had her suspicions as to why so many teachers had come and gone in the process of the boy’s education, but again she was rather vague. All she would say was that none of her predecessors had seemed to be much wronged or abused.

  “Why, then, did they leave?” Melanie had pressed at last.

  “False accusations,” was her only response.

  As if Melanie hadn’t had her share of that already. She looked longingly now at the single wooden chair in front of the desk. She would very much like to sit, though her new employer had yet to invite her. She did her best to stand tall and
ladylike, exuding as best she could the proper aura of an educator. When she’d awoken this morning, after a good many hours of chitchat with Gretchen, she’d found her trunks waiting for her. Choosing a long, pleated skirt and a white ruffled blouse, she dressed, after a long bath. Wearing the cameo pin that had belonged to her deceased mother was a nice touch, she thought.

  Only one pupil Gretchen had said. And not a normal pupil at that. How odd.

  Cyrus cleared his throat. His gray hair had vacated the center of his head, putting up a last ditch fight round the edges of his prodigious skull. He’d let it grow long and wild to compensate. Equally unruly were his white sideburns. He had no mustache and there were visible sags and pouches hanging from his throat. The long fingers curved round the quill like claws.

  “You are Miss Jones,” he announced, still not looking up.

  “Yes,” she replied, though it was hardly a question. “Miss Melanie Jones. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Van Der Mere ignored the genteel curtsy. “How old are you, Miss Jones?”

  “I am twenty-two, sir.”

  “Hmm.” The man still hadn’t bothered to look her in the face. “Do you think that’s old enough for practicing the noble art of pedagogy?”

  “I am told I have maturity and bearing beyond my years, Mr. Van Der Mere.”

  This was the truth, at least according to her uncle.

  Cyrus looked up, finally, over the edge of his spectacles. “Have you a fiancee, Miss Jones?”

  “No, sir,” she replied, trying to keep her tone neutral. “At least not yet.”

  And she never would if she had her way.

  Cyrus frowned, the motion appearing to occupy the bulk of his facial and neck muscles. “You are a healthy young woman, no?”

  “I believe so, yes, sir,” she concurred, not liking the direction of the conversation.

  He leaned back in his seat, templing his fingers over his chest. “Are you aware, Miss Jones, that the truly great philosophers have held without exception to the belief that rationality cannot come to fruition in the female due to her sensual shape and unwieldy passions?”

  Melanie tried to keep her concentration off his provocative words and on the rows of leather bound books, ceiling high behind him. There must be well over a thousand volumes, she thought. “My studies may not be as thorough as yours, Judge Van Der Mere, but I have done my share.”

  “Do you believe in punishment, Miss Jones?” His voice had risen in pitch, the focus changing so fast she was beginning to doubt the man’s sanity.

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child, sir,” she said cautiously.

  “Indeed, Miss Jones.” He cleared his throat again. “Would you be so kind as to turn about for me.”

  “Turn about, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, turn about,” he repeated with an impatient twirl of his finger. “You do understand the meaning of those words, do you not?”

  She did understand, and it spelled in her mind nothing good.

  “Again,” he said when she’d completed a turn.

  Melanie hesitated. She was loath to continue, but then again, if she were to lose this job, where would she turn for aid? She lacked the money to return to New York and even if she did go back, thanks to Cavanaugh’s treachery, it was a prison cell and certain gallows that awaited her and not any normal sort of life.

  “Stop,” he commanded when she had her back to him a second time. “Stop right there. Lift your skirt, Miss Jones. Show me your buttocks.”

  Melanie whirled about, her cheeks flushed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your butt-ocks, Miss Jones.” He said the word in two syllables, his craggy, time etched face maintaining its stolid, unemotional veneer.

  She laughed. “Sir, I cannot imagine that—“

  “You can and shall imagine it,” he interrupted. “I run a disciplined town, Miss Jones. You shall keep discipline in my classroom, and I, in turn, shall keep discipline over you. Each day, at the close of business, you shall come to this office and you shall confess to me your wrongs and we shall correct them. Firmly. With these very hands.”

  Melanie’s mouth was dry. Her heart was pounding. The man was showing her his dried, ancient palms. Surely he was not intending to spank her as an errant child?

  “I am waiting, Miss Jones.” The hands were back in his lap. “You will signal now your intent to enter under my contractual discipline by baring yourself to me.”

  He was serious, then. He actually intended to spank her. And for what – his own perverse pleasures? Angrily, Melanie set her jaw for a confrontation. She couldn’t afford to defy him and risk unemployment, but she could certainly give him a well-deserved piece of her mind.

  “Mr. Van Der Mere, you are no gentleman.”

  “As it were,” he acknowledged pointing to the door. “You are free to leave at any time.”

  Melanie swallowed hard, the fight seeping from her. Utterly defeated, she turned to show her back.

  “Your conscience will make you regret this,” she told him, her hands already clutching the material of her skirt and slip, inching them higher with each passing word.

  “You shall have to take those down,” he ignored, referring to the white frilly pantaloons now coming into view.

  Melanie flushed hot at the commanding, perverse voice over her shoulder. He intended to reduce her to virtual nakedness from the waist down. This was an outrage, moral and otherwise, and yet she had no choice. A small shudder passed through her as she seized the waistband of her undergarment, moving it slowly, deliberately downward. No man should ever see this part of her save her future husband, and yet here she was, in nearly as bad a predicament as she was yesterday with the stagecoach robbers.

  “Bend over,” said Van Der Mere when the pantaloons had slipped to her booted ankles. “Hold your skirts over your head.”

  Melanie gave a gasp of distress, but did as she was told. The skirt covered her face and head as a tent even as her soft, exposed rear end and womanhood yielded its delights to the old man’s eyes.

  “The number of blows on any given occasion,” he declared didactically, “shall be concomitant with your errors. Their number shall be no fewer than ten, no more than a hundred.”

  Melanie blanched at the exorbitant number, but vowed to keep her dignity, what little was left of it. “Yes, sir,” she breathed, the blood rushing to her head as she inhaled the scent of the rich, red carpet, a mix of tobacco and dust.

  The combination of smells made her think of the desert and with it the ill-fated stagecoach ride and the handsome marshal. Would he come again even now to rescue her? Given the number of teachers who had left before her, Melanie doubted it highly. It occurred to her now with wonder why Gretchen was helping her. Had she helped the others, too? And why—if the marshal knew as much as he seemed to about Big Rock, hadn’t he warned her in advance?

  “You will maintain a vigorous schedule of teaching,” Van Der Mere lectured, moving into a slow, pedantic style far more suited to addressing a seated person and not one bent over at the waist and intimately exposed, “which shall include a range of subjects each day, commencing with mathematics and terminating with history. I shall expect the rudiments of music and harmony to be included as well, though I do not expect virtuosity from the pupil.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In time, with the increase of your discipline, I expect to imbue in your pedagogical style a range of more rational, masculine qualities. Naturally, you shall in no way exercise any sort of passion, nor will you in any way display yourself, in a vulgar manner.”

  “No, sir.”

  As if anything could be more vulgar than the current position she was enduring.

  “Spread your buttock cheeks, Miss Jones.”

  “S–spread them, sir?” She nearly choked on the words.

  “With your hands,” he said impatiently. “Is the meaning of this unclear to you?”

  Melanie felt the heat of shame as she groped with her fingers, seekin
g to affect the desired opening. It was a humiliating gesture, one that opened her both fore and aft. The worst part of it was that she felt a strange heat, dark and throbbing between her legs. It was the same thing she had felt on the saddle of the marshal.

  “Yes,” Van Der Mere said, as though engaged in some private conversation. “It is as I feared. Your loins are potently, blatantly sexual, Miss Jones. They practically beg for the harshest discipline. It will take, all together many hours over my lap. Hours of writhing punishment, your quivering buttocks screaming out their redness before my slapping, smacking hand.”

  A moan escaped Melanie’s throat. She should be repulsed and yet the idea held a perverse thrill, a dark joy deeply imbedded in her own fear.

  “What was that?” Van Der Mere’s voice held sudden alarm. “What is that I hear? Is it passion?”

  “No, sir,” she said quickly. “It is only the lack of air, sir; my head, it feels so light.”

  She heard the creaking of a chair. The old man was getting up. Her muscles screamed for release. Could she make it to the door if she ran? If so, where would she go? If only she could faint; even that would be preferable to being like this, helpless, an object of abuse and scorn.

  “God help us if we find what I think we shall find,” Van Der Mere was saying.

  Melanie cried out when he touched her. His hand was ice cold.

  “Remove your hands to your ankles, Miss Jones. Hold them fast, if you please.”

  Melanie complied, even as the clammy, clinical hand began sliding over her smooth round flesh and across to her intimate openings.