Schooled 4.0
Page 1
Schooled 4.0
Copyright © 2014 by Deena Bright
Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats
Cover design by LP Hidalgo, Bookfabulous Designs
www.bookfabulousdesigns.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Schooled
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Note to Readers
Accolades in Order of Appearance
The Final Lesson Plan
July 31
Sunday, July 1
Monday, July 2
Tuesday, July 3
Wednesday, July 4
Thursday, July 5
Friday, July 6
Saturday, July 7
Sunday, July 8
Monday, July 9
Wednesday, July 11
Thursday, July 12
Friday, July 13
Wednesday, July 18
Saturday, July 21
Wednesday, July 25
Thursday, July 26
Monday, July 30
Tuesday, July 31
Wednesday, August 1
Epilogue
Accolades
Char Grilled Jasper
1. Char
2. Jasper
3. Char
4. Jasper
5. Char
6. Jasper
7. Char
8. Char
9. Jasper
10. Jasper
11. Char
12. Jasper
13. Char
14. Jasper
15. Jasper
16. Char
17. Jasper
18. Char
Epilogue
Accolades—Again
All Girls’ School
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Accolades
Dear readers of filthy, raunchy, ridiculously witty, erotic smut:
This book is for you!
Everyone says that books are written for the writer to get his/her story out. When I originally wrote Schooled, I never thought in a million years that anyone was really going to read it. Hell, I would have edited it and polished it a little more than I actually did—maybe even paid an editor. I certainly didn’t think that it was going to get splattered all over the media in a shit-storm of scandal and rumors, jeopardizing my job and family. Therefore, when it came time to write The Final Lesson Plan, I held back and didn’t write in a way that I wanted to write for fear of another backlash and derogatory limelight. So, I played it safe.
After all that, I’ve decided to ELSA that shit, and just “Let It Go.”
Ultimately, I always intended to write a series for Schooled-loving readers. Well, Schooled 4.0 is my gift to you, and especially to Tiffany Kaszmetskie and Saskia Kameka, who incidentally are my most loyal and loving fan-friends. So, for all of you, I edited and polished Schooled, added some scenes, and gave you some more giggles. I do hope that you’ll start all the way back at the beginning and reread it all. It’s a lot more fun than it once was. Actually, I implore you to start all the way over at the beginning. I think you’re really going to like this new reading “experience.”
For The Final Lesson Plan, well let’s just say that you can stop “imagining” what’s going on in those bedroom scenes. And remember, I can write some extremely hot and graphic scenes. And as token of my appreciation for all of your support and love these past few years, I also added one novel and one novella for your reading enjoyment, Char Grilled Jasper and All Girls’ School.
Incidentally, it will also be Deena Bright’s exit ticket out of writing. Remember when Seinfeld wanted to end on a high note? Well, that’s what I’m doing. Deena is hanging up her typewriter (aka: Macbook Pro). Now, don’t get those silky, sexy thongs in a bunch (that would hurt anyway and be kind of gross). Deena’s done writing, but Angelisa Stone and Carol Ann Eastman are not. Since we are all one in the same, I am just dropping one of my pen names. It gets tiring being three people.
I hope you enjoy Schooled 4.0, and you finally get your closure to the whole Schooled gang. Don’t forget to leave a review!
Sincerely devoted to my readers,
Deena Ann Bright
PS: Reader, you love your alpha characters, your dominant personalities. Well consider me your ALPHA AUTHOR. For the next 700 + pages, you’re mine. Every giggle, every smile, every tear, every “stirring” and “twitch” belong to me. You’re mine! Hahahahaha—I’m just teasing. Have fun! I’ll see you on the other side.
This work is a work of fiction, fabricated in the author’s mind. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual occurrences or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS? 82 days, 82, as in 8-2??”
“Yes Jocelyn, I never should’ve told you.” Damn it!
I can’t believe I just told her. My sister already hates Marcus. Why in the world would I give her a reason to hate him even more? I’m a dumbass—that’s obvious.
Here’s a lesson for all you idiots out there (much like myself): If you don’t want your friends and family to hate your husband, significant other, or anyone else in your life, then don’t tell them stories that will make them hate said person. It’s common sense 101. Apparently, I have none. I need a remedial course.
“Janelle, you guys should still be doing it like rabbits. What the Hell? You’ve been married like a year.” Actually, we’ve been married for two years, but who’s counting—other than my dried up, barren vag?
Jocelyn continues, “82 days since the last time you’ve had good sex—even bad sex—is way too long.” It’s strange to listen to Jocelyn talk like this. Joz is pre
tty conservative. We don’t have the typical “kiss and tell” sisterly relationship.
“Trust me Joz, I know, I REALLY know.” I’m mortified that I confessed such intimate details of my marriage to her. Now Char, my best friend, I’d probably Snapchat and Instagram messages of my sexual encounters to her. We do have that “tell all” type of relationship. It’s just Joz and I aren’t like that when it comes to sex. We’re close about everything else though. Joz is just so frigid and demure.
“Have you tried, I mean, like really gotten in there and been like, ‘Hey man, we’re going at it tonight?’ Have you?”
Mortified.
Who is this woman? She’s never like this. Or maybe she is and I just didn’t know it—until now.
“Well, I mean, I wore a nightie one evening and came to bed in it. I also tried the whole Pretty Woman thing. You know, wearing just his tie and sitting at the table with dinner ready.”
There is no way I’m going to tell her that he laughed and said, “You ain’t no Julia Roberts.” Then, Marcus ruffled my hair and took his dinner to the den. I ended up sitting at the table alone, scarfing down my dinner, lamenting the fact that I sliced the damn cucumber and put it in the salad—instead of keeping it in the bedside table where it has been known to show up every so often. Or—quite often.
“And he didn’t ram it home right then and there? Unbelievable! He’s such a prick.” Jocelyn screams into the phone, nearly shattering my eardrum. “No, he’s a prickless prick, because if he was just a prick, you could’ve ridden—”
“Alright, listen, I’m almost home. I’m going to talk to him tonight. Something’s going to change or… or… I’m going to own stock in Duracell.”
“Ewww gross. You know I hate masturbation-talk. People shouldn’t have to diddle their own… just gross…” Jocelyn gags. “Just don’t… don’t chicken out. Say everything you need to say.”
“I won’t! The three glasses of Pinot-courage will help,” I say, trying to convince her—and myself as well. “Love ya! Bonsai!” I bellow into the phone. We’ve been yelling “Bonsai” to each other ever since the summer we watched Karate Kid on HBO nearly fifty times.
After hearing her exuberant “bonsai,” I disconnect the call. My sister and I are close. Jocelyn has been married to a dorky family man for nine years. They seem happy enough. Rick is a good guy, but I wouldn’t let him anywhere near my panties—even as horny as I’ve been lately. He is a total neat-freak, a meticulous nut-job. He probably comes right in the toilet as not to sully the sheets.
As I pull into my garage, I realize the house is darker than normal. Marcus knew that I was going to be late, so he usually leaves a light on for me. Plus, I’m a lot earlier than I thought I’d be—by a two full hours.
I told him that I’d be home around 1:00 a.m. after having dinner and drinks with some of my teacher friends to celebrate the last day of school. Every year, we get all kinds of drunk and drown the sorrows of the past school year—especially this year with all the new changes at the state-level with the ridiculous testing expectations and new teacher evaluations.
Our last day hoorah is always a drunken blast of fun: dancing, story-telling, and even a few hookups here and there. However, around 11:00 p.m. tonight, my tension and pending conversation about my diminishing and nonexistent sex life brought me home two hours early. I just hope Marcus isn’t sleeping. Marcus sleeps like a rock, and he certainly wouldn’t get up to talk about our lack of passionate sex.
The house is unusually dark, almost as if Marcus weren’t home yet. Gatsby, our St. Bernard, isn’t in his cage and is chained up out back. Marcus’ car is in the garage. So, I know he’s home. I toss my stuff on the island in the kitchen and start my reluctant climb up the stairs to our bedroom, not seeing Marcus anywhere.
As I walk up the stairs, I hear noises that sound quite familiar, but dismiss what I think they are. As I get closer, I realize that what I’m hearing is definitely satisfied and excited moaning. Feeling my anger begin to boil, I’m just plain pissed and realize that I need a new plan of attack .
If he isn’t sleeping with me, but is watching porn and getting off on his own, then I’m going to blow a freaking, sexually-pent up and frustrated gasket. That bastard! I’ve been nearly begging for it, and he prefers to rub one out without me? I want to be quiet, so I could make sure that I can catch him come-covered, red-handed.
Thankfully, the door’s slightly ajar. I peek my head in quietly and see my husband— Holy Mother Fucking Shit!
No.
No.
No.
This is not happening.
This is a dream. This can’t be real. Look away Janelle!
I actually have to tell myself to breathe. I can feel my heart sink to my stomach and pound nearly out of my chest all at the same time. He isn’t masturbating. His tongue is all the way up his secretary’s ass, as she’s moaning for all she’s worth. I realize then that he has a dildo (my dildo!) inside her vagina too. Lauren screams louder and her whole body tenses, seconds before it begins quaking with pleasure. Her release appears stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced. I watch her finish, knowing I just witnessed the end of my marriage crumble with the help of my Wittle Wabbit Orgasmic Wonder.
I can’t move. I’m frozen in horror. Marcus has never gone down on me. He said that oral sex was sloppy and dirty, and only whores allowed that. What did that make Lauren? Was she a whore for letting him suck her asshole? Definitely a whore for doing my husband. My husband! And using my vibrator! What the Hell? Who does that? I even feel betrayed by own chemically-charged hare that never let me down and always got the job done.
Why couldn’t I move?
While they start to change positions, I duck further into the hallway. Lauren, his sweet secretary who I bought Coach sunglasses and scarves for at Christmas, was about to screw my husband right in front of me. Lauren took out a pair of handcuffs, securing him to the bed. My bed. The greatest bed ever. Handcuffs? Who were these people? What happened to my good, wholesome family man? The man who stood before a priest and vowed to love me until death do us part? Well, something’s dying tonight, our damned marriage is dying tonight.
An eerie calm creeps over me. I don’t scream. I don’t slam doors. I just walk out of the house and thank God that we never had children.
Marcus was the second man I ever loved. It was a typical, everyday relationship, courtship, engagement, and wedding. We both went to THE Ohio State University. He was a business-finance major, two years older than I. He said that he always wanted to marry a teacher; it was the perfect job for a woman and wife. Fucking chauvinistic slut-sucker.
We met at one of his fraternity parties; he walked me back to my dorm. His drunk- ass slob of a friend puked all over me. I’d just bought new shoes after donating plasma for cash. I’d sell anything for some sexy stilettos. I remember it vividly. He looked at me, cracking up, and said, “Better you than me,” as I stood horrified looking at my ralph-covered heels. Marcus and I hooked up that night—sort of. I wanted it badly. God, so badly. Seems like I’ve always been the one wanting him, begging him, persuading him.
The second we entered my college suite, I was on my knees, taking out his penis, stroking and licking him. I should have known then that I wasn’t enough for him. He asked if we could leave my dorm room door opened, so people could see us when they walked by. I was so toasted and turned on at that moment, I didn’t care who saw me suck off this hot frat guy. Nobody walked by. Once I sucked him off, and he finished in my hands, he patted me on the ass and said, “Thanks Janet.”
I remember thinking, “Damn, my name is Janelle.” Then, that was it. He didn’t return the favor or even attempt to return the favor. He checked his watch and walked out.
He left. He really left. I despised myself for being such a slut—even though I’d only had sex with one other guy at the time. I felt like such a tramp. I saw Marcus at a few parties after that. He would nod to me like an old baseball buddy. Then, one night
, summer semester, we ran into each other at a local dive bar. He looked at me and said, “Let’s go.”
I went. We went back to his place. We had sex all night long and even the next day, making him the second man that I ever slept with. I asked him the next day why he finally wanted me. Marcus looked at me, smugly, and said that his “Plan A” fell through. His plan A fell through! What was wrong with me? I accepted that answer, which was asinine. Where was my self-respect? Where is it now?
Looking back now, I must have been, must be, some crazy glutton for punishment. I let his words roll off my back and started seeing more of him. If I’d only known that I couldn’t tame that son of a bitch prick. We women are ridiculous. Why would I think that it would be different if we were in a relationship, in love? I cannot believe that I went ahead and married that dickless cheating bastard.
Based on what I just witnessed in my own bed, Marcus and Lauren have been hooking up for quite a while. They were so in sync, tuned in to each other’s every need and want. Marcus and I didn’t come close to having that. When we were going at it, still, it seemed like we were fumbling through the motions. I couldn’t get the scene out of my head. I’ll be forever haunted by this image. Marcus “hath murdered sleep.”
I slowly walk down the stairs, out of the house, slump into my car, bailing without saying a word or making a sound. Once in the car, I start to dial Jocelyn to tell her everything. Seconds before I press the last digit, I throw the phone on the passenger’s seat. I’m not ready for that conversation, all of those “I told you sos.”
I toy with the idea of calling my brother, Jasper, but know his business, Garrity Advertising, is sponsoring a Cure for Cancer Marathon the next morning. My brother would be in bed to “rest up for the big run.” I really can’t deal with him yet either.
Char!
I could call Charlene, my dearest friend. Relaxing, I ease my sadness and worry just by dialing her number.
Voicemail.
SHIT.
It’s Friday night; she’s certainly out with this week’s man of the hour. Char has never met a cock she didn’t want to ride. Except for Marcus’. I didn’t know who hated him more, my sister or my best friend. I am so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I decide right then and there that I’m not going to deal with this tonight. I want to get drunk-er. I want to wallow in self-pity and self-detestation, planning the demise of one Marcus-Fucking-Flowers.