Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Punishing Pamela
By Reese Gabriel
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
ISBN: 0-9766519-3-9
All rights reserved
Ebook Copyright 2005
Print Copyright ©2003, Reese Gabriel
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.
For information contact:
Pink Flamingo Publications
www.pinkflamingo.com
P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083
USA Comments: [email protected]
Chapter One
Pamela slid the stack of midterm exams to the center of her polished oak desk. She needed to grade them, but first she’d allow herself the luxury of flipping through, picking phrases here and there from the pages of the blue covered exam books. The rookie English teacher couldn’t resist a small smile of satisfaction as she gleaned the carefully written essays, noting the precise literary details, the application of technique—evidence of hard studying all the way around.
Talk about a turn around.
The grades were going to be good ones, at last. Certified secondary school teacher Pamela Anne Haley, fresh out of graduate school, had conquered her senior English class. She hated to think of things in such stark, military terms, but it was a fact. There’d been a battle, and she had won. The alternative would have been chaos, no one learning—a completely wasted year.
There were two reasons Pamela had had to fight so hard. For one thing, she was new to the prestigious Ivy Dell Academy, ‘fresh meat’ as the students—the spoiled scion of the region’s wealthiest men and women—liked to call their new instructors.
The second was her age and appearance. Pamela Haley was just twenty-five, blue eyed, and blonde, five-foot-two with a shapely figure not easily disguised, despite her wardrobe of pleated skirts, starched blouses and modest sweaters. From the first day, the pretty young teacher had been all too aware of the awkward shifting of the boys in their seats as they attended her lessons, their cheeks reddening as they sought to disguise their irrepressible hard-ons. And then there were the girlfriends, glaring at her, their eyes telegraphing an ill-disguised mixture of hate and jealousy as they wished her dead with every breath.
What they needed to concentrate on was the likes of Shakespeare and Thoreau, men whose works taught a success based not solely on the privilege of one’s birth but upon one’s own diligence and character. Pamela understood this crucial difference. She’d been born into money, but she’d also suffered, terribly, sinking to a level of poverty and dependency few could understand—not even the handful of lower class scholarship students who came to Ivy Dell on the largesse of its Board of Directors.
Wealth, like physical beauty, was as much a curse as a blessing. This was also something she’d learned the hard way. What a young man, or woman needed, was character, a sense of internal values. It had been a rude awakening when she’d handed back the classes’ first round of papers a month ago. More than half the marks had been F’s. Only one student had attained a B, the rest were C’s and D’s.
Mr. Rains, the ruggedly handsome principal—whom Pamela feared was developing a dangerous crush on his new English teacher—had come to the class himself to quell the ensuing riot.
“Miss Haley is your teacher now; you will mind her in all things,” he’d informed them sternly, raking a hand through his sandy brown hair. “And there shall be no whining to your parents about this. The board and I are one, and we have the trust of your fathers and mothers.”
There’d been continued grumbling, and finally he’d said, “Oh, for pity’s sake, just do your work; you will be graduated by spring, and then you’ll have the fun of torturing your own children by sending them here in twenty years or so.”
Pamela laughed to herself thinking of the principal’s quick wit. Taking a deep breath, she settled down to work. She had just uncapped her red flair pen when the knock came at her door. Private teacher offices were one of the privileges of a school like Ivy Dell, though at times, she wished she could have a quieter, more anonymous space to do her work—like a broom closet.
“Come in,” she called, noting by the clock that there were just thirty-one minutes left until her junior seminar on the Romantic poets. And she’d need at least ten of those to review her notes on Keats’ ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn.’
“Good morning, Miss Haley,” beamed Trevor Canton, the captain of the school’s coveted rowing team. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything?”
Pamela pursed her lips. The red-haired Trevor had that cocky look on his face again, the one she’d thought she’d wiped away some weeks earlier. The three others with him, Mandy Crispin, Blake Trombley and Erica Green were looking just as smug, which worried her, because they were all troublemakers from her senior class.
The ringleaders, in fact.
“I was just getting ready to go over your exams,” she informed them. “They look quite good. You’ve obviously been doing your homework. You should be proud of yourselves.”
Trevor was pulling a manila envelope from his backpack. All four of them wore the school uniform of blue blazers, the boys with khaki pants and the girls with short navy skirts that showed off their pretty legs.
“Funny you should say that, teacher. We have some more ‘homework’ right here. Maybe it will get us some extra credit.”
“Extra credit,” giggled the tall and slender Mandy, flipping back her silky golden hair. “That’s funny.”
Pamela eyed the group warily. She didn’t care for their tones, or their attitudes. “May I ask what this is about?”
Erica, a shorter girl with dark hair and saucy bangs, had her hands on her curvaceous hips. “Just look in the envelope, Teacher.”
Right on cue, Trevor tossed the manila envelope callously, landing it on top of the pile of exams.
Pamela fingered the edges. They hadn’t bothered to seal it.
“Open it,” commanded muscular Blake, coming up behind the languid Mandy to wrap his arms round her waist in a blatant violation of the school’s physical contact rules. “Now.”
Pam’s heart was racing. Their behavior was way of out bounds. Something was very wrong. Using her plum-colored nails deftly, fingers cold and trembling, she opened the flap. A sick feeling gathered in the pit of her stomach. There were photos inside, glossy black and whites. The blood drained from her face as she saw the subject matter. It was just as she’d feared. Her worst nightmare, come true.
Mandy leaned back against her boyfriend’s powerful chest. Blake—who was both a wrestler and quarterback of the football team—had unbuttoned her blazer and now he was cupping her full breasts blatantly through the silk of her blouse. “What’s the matter?” the five-foot-seven cheerleader and model wanna-be breathed huskily. “Seen a ghost?”
“Look at them, Teacher,” the crew-cut blond Blake told her, taking time out from nuzzling Mandy’s arched neck. “All of them.”
Pamela eyed the photos with a strange, eerie calm. She’d always known her past could come back to haunt her, and yet it was so very long ago…another lifetime. The colorless, raunchily posed female was so young, so vulnerable and these spoiled kids in front of her couldn’t begin to understand the circumstances her earlier self had been through to lead to that place.
“These,” Pam said at last, indicating the lot, “aren’t what they seem.”
“Really?” Erica folded her arms over her generous breasts and turned out her hip insolently. “They
‘seem’ to me like they’re photos of you, performing disgusting sex acts.”
“Ooh,” Mandy pointed shrilly, aiming a two-tone nail, frosted pink and metallic turquoise nail at the picture on top. “That’s my favorite. What’s that on your neck, Miss Haley? A dog collar?”
Pamela spread her palms, trying to cover the horrific evidence, so starkly and literally rendered. “It…it shouldn’t be this way,” she stammered foolishly.
Mandy giggled, her gray blue eyes lit with cruel lust as she let Blake slide his hands up under her blouse. “Poor Teacher.”
The room was spinning. Pamela was losing control.
It was Trevor who leaned forward to give her a reality check. His mop of red hair spilled over from the top of him as his strong fingers splayed insolently over hers. “Well it is this way, Teach, so deal with it.”
Pamela forced herself to look up into his handsome young face. “I suppose you’ll want to blackmail me,” she said, scarcely believing the sound of the words coming from her mouth. Any second now, she prayed someone would pinch her and she’d wake up, safe at home in her princess four poster bed, her single woman’s bed earned with the sweat of her own hard work.
Erica snorted, answering for the group. “Yea, right. Like we would bother to blackmail you. My allowance is bigger than your whole stinking salary.”
“We will want some things, though,” Trevor interjected, running his fingers over her cheek.
Pamela recoiled. The touch was unwanted, unasked for and outrageous. And yet…it had warmed her strangely.
Trevor winked, reading her ambivalence. “We all get A’s to begin with,” he informed her. “You’ll be doing other stuff for us, too. Personal stuff.”
Pamela swallowed, realizing for the first time that there might be something at stake besides money or even her job. “W-what do you mean—personal stuff?”
“Don’t be naïve,” the highly intelligent and therefore dangerous Erica snapped contemptuously. “We’re all adults in here. All over eighteen. Use your imagination.”
Pamela rose to her feet, the fight in her suddenly coming to the surface. It was a long buried emotion, but one she remembered well from her…other life. “You have no right to talk like this—to, to come in here and accuse me. Take these,” she snatched at the disarrayed photos, trying to push them all at once into the envelope. “And get out of here!”
Erica was the first to put her hands together theatrically. The others followed, initiating a slow, unison applause, as sarcastic as it was daunting.
“Bravo,” the sinewy Trevor grinned, giving a hammy bow. “Good performance.” A moment later he straightened himself, all business. “Now let’s talk reality.” He took the photos from her. The one on top showed a young Pamela Haley—Pamela X in those days—collared and chained on her knees, a man’s cock in her mouth, his hand in her hair, forcing her head into place. “We show these to Rains and you’re history. Here and at any other school in the country. Is that what you want?”
“Maybe it is,” teased Mandy, pushing her behind against Blake’s pelvis as he pawed his way up under her skirt. “Then she can go back to being a whore, or whatever she was before.”
“Not a whore,” Erica shook her head, her button nose wrinkling slightly as she affected a superior, cat-like smile. “Whores don’t do things this low, do they, Teacher? I can’t imagine a mere prostitute being whipped like a dog or prancing around on all fours like a pony.”
Pamela looked at her defiantly, the makings of tears in the corners of her eyes. Little Erica was just a spoiled child in a woman’s body; she didn’t know what she was saying, but it hurt nonetheless, more than any of them could ever know. “I hope someday you have to make the choices I did, Erica. Maybe then you’ll grow up a little bit.”
“Ooh,” crooned Mandy. “The Teacher just dissed you good, Erica.”
Erica shot her a glance. “Shut up, you stupid little slut. Look at you! Talk about being lower than a whore. Why don’t you just lie down and spread it for Blake right here? We all know you’re his little pet.”
“You’re just jealous,” Mandy retorted, though it was clear the girl’s words had gotten to her. “Blake that’s enough!” She tried to slap his hands away from her crotch where he’d hoisted her skirt and was now trying to slide his fingers into the front panel of her plainly visible pink panties.
Satisfied at Mandy’s embarrassment, Erica stormed round the side of the desk to confront Pamela. “Now take back what you said about me being immature.”
For her silence, the teacher was rewarded with a crisp slap across the face from the furious student. “I said take it back.”
Pamela held her smarting cheek, mouth open in shock as she looked up at her abuser. “You…hurt me.”
“I’ll do a lot worse than that if you don’t apologize.”
“Better do what she says,” Mandy advised, still trying to shake off the amorous quarterback. “Erica’s got PMS big time this week; you don’t want to piss her off.”
Pamela’s lip quivered. Erica was a bully, a mean spirited little bitch; she should be put in her place, and yet there was something in those emerald eyes, the way she was looking at her, like she had the right to tell her what to do…like she owned her.
“I’m s-sorry,” Pamela whispered, cowering before the eighteen year old. “I didn’t mean to…upset you.”
“Actually,” added Trevor significantly, “you don’t want to piss any of us off, do you, Miss Haley?”
She shook her head no.
“Screw the ‘Miss Haley’ crap,” snapped Erica. “She’s just plain ‘Pam’ to us now.”
“How about ‘little doggie slut?’” suggested the flushed, aroused Mandy who had all but surrendered to Blake’s roving fingers, which by now had opened two fronts, unbuttoning her blouse and front clasp bra to work her breasts like he was the folds of her pussy. “We could get you your own collar.”
Pamela closed her eyes, forcing back the memories. “Please,” she said weakly, “there’s no need to humiliate me any further. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“No need to humiliate you?” Erica scoffed. “But that’s the name of the game, Sweetheart.”
“You belong to us,” Blake declared, suddenly thrusting the over-primed Mandy into the arms of Trevor. “You’re our plaything now.”
All eyes fell on the muscular, square jawed football player. His legs were apart and he was cupping the swell in his crotch. “You’ve teased me with that hot little body long enough, Miss Haley. From now on, you’ll be taking care of me, and Trevor, too.”
“And us, too,” the half naked Mandy squirmed away from Trevor to drape herself onto Erica.
“Out from behind that desk, Pammy,” said Erica abruptly, jolting Pamela from her numbing shock. “Let’s get a closer look at you.”
Pamela’s legs were shaky. She was pretty sure they wanted to do more than just look at her, and yet she was powerless to resist their call, their firm commands.
“Nervous, Teacher?” grinned Mandy as Pamela faced the four of them, less than a foot from them now.
“Take off your shoes,” Trevor told her in a tone which brooked no resistance.
Pamela obeyed, slipping off the beige heels, further reducing herself in height. Trevor towered over her now at nearly six feet. Blake was five ten, and wide shouldered, and even Mandy had several inches on the teacher’s five-foot four-inch frame. Only Erica was her equal, though Pam would give anything to avoid the leveling stare of those fiery eyes of hers—every bit as green as her name.
“You’ve given us a lot of shit this term,” Blake noted, his hand still on his crotch, massaging.
Pamela tried to keep her eyes off the tempting swell. The young man was attractive and well built. She’d fantasized about him and she was sure all the other females at school had, too. Mandy was his girlfriend of record this term, though Pamela seriously doubted the empty headed young blonde could satisfy him, despite her killer body.
&nbs
p; “I only wanted to make you better students,” she observed ironically. “Better human beings.”
“Listen to the pretentious little cunt,” Erica laughed, “pretending to be all high and mighty. We can see you looking at Blake’s dick, Pammy. We know what you really want.”
This time it was Mandy’s turn to slap her. “Don’t look at my boyfriend,” she pouted. “You dirty little doggie slut.”
“Apologize,” commanded Erica to the stunned teacher. “Tell Mandy you’re sorry for wanting to suck her boyfriend’s dick.”
Pamela gasped at the gross distortion of her intent. “But I…”
Mandy raised her hand as if to strike her again. “What did you say, Teacher?”
“I’m sorry,” Pamela mouthed hastily, the shameful phrase rolling a little more easily off her lips the second time.
“Not that way, Pammy,” Erica interjected with dark glee. “Get down and kiss her feet and then say it.”
Pamela looked down at the gray, institutional rug and then at Mandy’s shiny black loafers. She felt the panic welling up. So many memories, so many emotions. They hadn’t ever given her a choice. Not Lorenzo, the man who’d purchased her as a young woman from her mother’s boyfriend, and certainly not any of the clients, the men who paid for the use of her enslaved flesh for a few hours at a time—or a few days in the case of the more diabolical ones—and yet, she’d eventually felt things from them all. Indeed, she’d learned to orgasm on command, to lay alone at night, to crave the abuse she knew would come with the next opening of the door, the next plundering of her enslaved body.
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me…”
“We’re asking you to cooperate with us,” said Trevor reasonably. “We want to help you keep your job and stay out of jail.”
Pamela went to her knees. The feel of it made her tingle, the prickling fibers, through the thin skirt, invading her flesh.
“All the way,” Erica demanded, the girl’s voice coming from far above her now.
“Yes,” she whispered to no one in particular as she lowered herself onto her hands and silk-covered elbows. Funny, she thought, that her nipples should be so hard, like little bullets under her conservative, moderately priced blouse and breast-crushing bra. And that little moistness between her legs—that wasn’t sweat, not at all like the perspiration forming above her lip or under her arms.
Punishing Pamela Page 1
