by Gigi Thorne
Schooled
Copyright 2018 by Gigi Thorne
This book is intended for readers 18 and older only, due to adult content. It is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this book are products of the imagination of the author.
License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter One
Josie
As I stride through the door of Club Surrender, I pause briefly, then square my shoulders and march on in, ignoring the swarm of butterflies in my belly. Am I pushing my luck, wearing a schoolgirl uniform here?
Sure, I feel a dangerous, naughty thrill strolling through the crowd in my super-short red plaid miniskirt and white Oxford shirt that’s tied in the front, Daisy Duke-style. White knee-socks and penny loafers complete the look.
But I don’t want my target to recognize me…and he does know I’m a student.
I think I’m okay, though. I mean, I’m a college freshman. We don’t dress like this at Briarthorne University—the schoolgirl outfit is just a private joke.
And I’m pretty well disguised. My real hair is as black as coal, and my eyes are amber. I’m wearing a blonde wig with pigtails, blue contacts, and I had the makeup artist at my mother’s salon do me over so completely that when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. She’s changed my skin tone and altered the shape of my face with contouring powder down the sides of my nose and on my forehead, cheekbones and chin.
A muscular, bearded man deliberately brushes up against me and gives me a questioning glance. I scowl and look away, and he looks disappointed. I don’t care. I’m not here to play.
I walk away from him and move to the other side of the room before I settle onto a chair and discreetly look around. I’m on the sidelines, in a small grouping of chairs arranged around a table. I’m fascinated by the different scenes playing out around the room—men and women tied up to weird rack contraptions or lashed into chairs, being spanked and whipped. It smells like sweat and perfume and animal musk, and throaty cries of ecstasy ring through the air. I’m getting shamefully tingly, and I squirm in my seat, biting my lower lip.
I’ve never been in a BDSM club before. Then again, I only turned eighteen last month, so I wouldn’t have had the opportunity.
Of course, I’ve seen BDSM on porn websites before. Who hasn’t?
I’ve never seen it up close and personal, though, even though I’ve had a strange fascination with it for an embarrassingly long time. The two guys I’ve been with… The first one, the quarterback who took my V-card, was incredibly dull in bed, nothing but moving and grunting and then rolling over and falling asleep right afterward. The second guy, a business major whose parents winter with my parents on the Riviera, was insecure and tentative, constantly asking, “Do you like this? What do you want me to do next?”
For the love of God. College boys. I was so turned off by those two experiences that I haven’t even bothered dating for the last six months. That, and I’ve had other things on my mind.
But now isn’t the time to think about that, because I’ve spotted my target. The sight of him sends a zap of arousal sizzling through my body.
He’s striding across the floor through the crowd. He wears a black leather hood, but I recognize him in a heartbeat. The way he walks, like a tiger on the prowl. The raw power that crackles from his body like heat lightning.
Women coo and fawn over him as he walks, and it’s easy to see why. He’s stripped to the waist, and built like something out of a Greek myth. Tall, with broad shoulders and beautifully sculpted biceps. There’s a dusting of dark hair on his chest and a dark treasure trail that plunges from his navel to a spot beneath his black jeans.
The hood could have been a disaster for me, but he also has a pale white appendectomy scar, which is absolutely perfect for my purposes.
I lean forward in my seat, squirming a little. From the moment I first spotted him, I wondered what he looked like with his clothes off. I imagined he’d be lickably hot, and I was right. Now that I’ve seen him shirtless, how will I ever look him in the eye again?
I found out about his secret life when I followed him from his condo to the club, which I’m surprisingly good at doing. I’ve been spying on him because I hoped to find out something, anything that I could use as leverage on him—and I’ve hit the freaking jackpot.
“Master Simon!” a woman trills, and he glances her way and nods…but keeps walking. He doesn’t return her interest.
Master Simon. Interesting.
I wonder how he picked that name. I know his real name, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is capturing his exploits on my tiny spy camera necklace. That’s why the scar is perfect—the hood hides his face, but he can be identified by the scar.
My cell phone vibrates, making me jump, guiltily. I sneak a quick glance at it nestled in my purse next to my Chanel wallet. It’s my friend Savannah. “Hey babe, spent all my allowance already. B at your house in ten, just need $200, pay u back next week.”
Yeah, even though she hasn’t paid me back the five hundred dollars she already owes me. I shove my hand in my purse, because using cell phones in the club is against the rules, and quickly type an answer. “Not home, no $, I spent all my allowance too.”
The phone vibrates again almost immediately. “Where are u? I’ll meet you. Really need the $.”
I feel a surge of impatience. Damn it, does she think I’m lying to her? I’m not. I have no cash to hand out. And it hurts my feelings that, these days, she only hits me up when she needs money. Savannah and I used to be really close in high school. Then she started doing coke, and when I wouldn’t join her and her new party friends, we drifted apart.
When I look up, Master Simon has vanished, and I feel a stab of worry—has he recognized me and left? But then I spot him again.
He has a braided whip in his hand, and he’s leading a beautiful blonde by the leash clipped to her collar. Like she belongs to him. A strange feeling prickles inside me—it feels a lot like jealousy. She’s gorgeous. Pouty pink lips, huge green eyes. Black leather straps wind around her body, exposing her huge, perfect tits.
I stuff down my feelings and casually play with my heart-shaped necklace, pressing the little button on it that activates the camera.
Master Simon leads the blonde over to a padded bench and bends her over it. She spreads her legs apart and arches her back, pushing her butt up high in the air, and he runs his hand over her back. I hate her right then.
But I can’t look away as he draws his arm back and flicks it. The whip unfurls and makes a cracking sound, and a microsecond later it snaps across her butt. I flinch when it strikes her flesh, but she cries out in pleasure.
The air suddenly feels hot and stifling. I pull a bottle of water from my purse and take a sip as Master Simon continues lashing her.
His arm moves so quickly that it’s a blur of motion, and the whip is like an extension of his arm, swirling gracefully through the air. As I watch, he paints lines of red across her big, round buttocks. Is she bleeding? No, it looks like it’s just marks on her skin. With every snap of the whip, she utters a loud, hoarse cry. Finally she throws back her head, and I could swear she’s coming, shrieking, “Oh, oh, oh!”
I sip my water and wonder how he chose her. Does he prefer bleached blondes? She has big boobs; mine are small and round. Then I shake my head impatiently. What does it matter?
Simon curls u
p the whip as the blonde looks at him with a dreamy expression. He hands the whip to a tall, slender black guy in leather shorts, then turns and walks off.
“Asshole.” It’s a woman’s voice; a woman just plopped down in one of the chairs next to mine and I hadn’t even noticed.
“What?” I glance at her, startled. I nervously fumble with my necklace and turn off the camera. I am only here to record Master Simon, and only because I’m desperate—I don’t want to invade anyone else’s privacy.
The woman has masses of big brown curls, light brown skin, and big chocolate-colored eyes. She’s wearing a black leather dress adorned with straps and buckles. She looks at Simon, scowling and shaking her head. “He’s really a dick. He should be providing her with aftercare.”
“What’s aftercare?”
She smiles at me sympathetically. “Newbie, huh?”
Crud. I’m trying to blend in here, and failing spectacularly.
I manage an awkward smile, and shrug.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about; we all were scene virgins at one time or another.” She inclines her head at the blonde. “A scene like that can raise pretty intense emotions.” There’s a man leading the blonde away, a good-looking guy, buff, wearing leather pants and boots and a scary-looking leather harness for a shirt. He has his arm around the blonde’s waist, and she seems a little weak-kneed.
“It’s important for the Dom to spend some time with the sub after a scene, while she basically comes down off her emotional high. Sit with her a while, talk to her, check in with her, ask how she’s doing. Master Simon never does, though. He’s a selfish A-hole. It’s all take, take, take with him.”
My eyes flick back to her. “Did he do that to you?” I ask.
She throws her head back. “Oh, honey, no. I’m a Domme. And I’d never treat a sub like that.” She holds out her hand. “My name is Mistress Sara.”
“I’m…Mary.” Wow, that sounds lame. I glance at Master Simon.
“What’s his deal, anyway?”
“I don’t know that much about him, except that he subs for the bouncers sometimes, and he’s an asshole. He can be fun to play with, from what I gather, but he never does a scene with a woman more than once.”
Then she sees someone across the room and smiles at him. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I have to run now—I have a naughty sub whose bottom needs tending to—but if you have any questions, find me later.” She walks across the room to a skinny hipster dude with a man-bun and snaps her fingers at him. He sinks to his knees in front of her.
Well, I’ve got what I came for.
I stand up and start for the door.
But my treacherous feet steer me toward Master Simon, who is standing by the bar chatting with the bartender, and somehow I stumble and bump into him, jostling his arm and making him spill his drink.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Instantly, I summon up the fake English accent that I mastered from “My Fair Lady” in theater camp and countless shopping trips to London.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and turn away.
He grabs my arm. “Excuse me. Who did you come with?”
“Nobody.”
His heated gaze roves over my body. His eyes are ocean-blue, with little flecks of black in them. “So you’re not claimed.”
“Claimed?”
“And you bumped into me on purpose.”
“No, I didn’t, I…”
“Tell me what a safeword is.”
“If I say the word, you have to stop doing whatever it is you’re doing.” I recite the instructions that were given to me when I entered the club. And I still maintain my accent.
“Very good, little girl. Your safeword is tangerine. Now bend over.”
“What?”
“I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
He spins me around, grabs my right arm, and bends me over a chair. Then he flips up my skirt with his hand. I’m wearing a thong, so my butt is now hanging out for the world to see. He draws his hand back and swats my right cheek.
I cry out in surprise. It stings, but it also sends a shock of ecstasy riding in a straight line down to my pussy. Oh God. I’ve never felt anything like that before.
He does it again, and again, his large, firm hand delivering slow, stinging slaps to my exposed flesh. Everyone else disappears, and the world narrows down to just him and me and the white hot sensation that flames up from my skin. I gasp in arousal with each smack, and I can feel moisture pooling between the lips of my heated sex.
Then he flips my skirt back down and releases my arm. Trembling, I stand up and stare at him, my mouth an O of astonishment.
What just happened? How did he have that effect on me? If he’d spanked me much longer, I think I might have come on the spot.
He looks down at me, amusement quirking his lips. “Class dismissed.”
A wave of fear swamps me. Does he recognize me?
“What?” I stammer. But I still maintain the accent.
“I said, class dismissed, little schoolgirl.” He strokes the skirt, and I realize he’s just making a comment about my schoolgirl outfit. Isn’t he?
And more importantly…he’s sending me away now? Really? After getting me so hot and excited that I’m ready to come on the spot? “Oh. So…that’s all?”
He looks amused. “Did you want more? You’d have to beg me for it.”
I suck in a gasp of outrage. That’s like a slap to the face. Me, Josie Caldwell, beg for it? I don’t think so. The Caldwells may be a lot of things—very bad things, in fact—but we’re not beggars.
“Sod off,” I sneer at him, and I storm off. My drama teacher would have been so proud; I didn’t break character once.
When I climb into my car, I don’t head home to the manicured mansions of Royal Oaks Estates. Instead, I head south, over the tracks. My parents would faint if they knew where I spent my time every weekend.
But then, if they really gave a damn where I laid my head at night, they wouldn’t spend half their time travelling the globe drinking, drugging, and cheating on each other.
Chapter Two
Josie
The next day, Monday morning, I’m practically falling asleep from exhaustion when I stumble in to my English Literature class and take my customary seat at the back in between my friends Savannah and Melody. And I’m ten minutes late.
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Caldwell.” Professor Carter Lowe’s voice is laced with sarcasm.
“You’re very welcome.” I wouldn’t normally sass a teacher like that, especially a hardass like Professor Lowe, but I’m irritable from being so tired, and I have a sterling-plated “get out of trouble free” card.
In the form of a video of Master Simon, also known as Professor Lowe.
His cold gaze fixes on me. “I’ll be seeing you after class. My office.”
A chorus of immature “ooohs” rises through the air.
Professor Lowe sweeps the classroom with a bored glance. “You’ve all just earned yourself a five-hundred-word essay on the importance of kinship in Hamlet and the Odyssey. Due Wednesday.”
When the class starts protesting loudly, he raises his voice. “Would you like to make that a thousand-word essay? No? I thought not. Now open your textbooks to page two-three-seven...”
I settle back in my seat and hide a yawn.
Savannah writes in her notebook and shows me the page. “What the hell happened to you last night?”
Oops. Forgot to turn my phone back on after I left the club and went to the home of Louise Miller, my former nanny, the woman who actually raised me while my parents drank themselves stupid and banged anything with a pulse.
I scribble a reply. “Forgot to turn my phone back on.”
She scowls at me and scrawls an angry answer. “I need that money. I owe my guy $1000 now, and I can’t pawn anything else or the ‘rents will notice.” Her “guy” is code for her dealer.
I quickly scribblea an answer. “I
told you I spent all my allowance, and I’m not your bank. These days you only call me when you want money.”
And I lean toward Melody. She’s a talented artist; she’s majoring in graphic design. She’s sketching a picture of Professor Lowe with his clothes off, and she’s added a comically enormous dong.
I could tell her that based on the outline of his hard cock against his jeans last night, she’s not far wrong, but of course I don’t.
Savannah is scribbling furiously.
“u did not spend all ur allowance in 2 weeks, if u don’t want to help me just say so. And we’ve been bffs since day 1 in high school so obvi I’m not just friends with you 4 $!”
She slides out of her chair and moves to a seat across the room.
I feel a sharp stab of pain at that. I’m so tired, stressed out and distracted these days that I can’t tell who’s the bitch here, me or her.
I turn on my phone and send her a text. “Sorry Sav, some unexpected expenses came up.”
Her phone is on vibrate, but she hears it. She glances at her phone indifferently and shoves her phone back in her purse.
My oldest friend. Could she at least ask how things are going with me? Why I look tired all the time these days?
I feel a chill creeping over me, and I hug myself even though the classroom is warm. Louise is the only person who really cares about me.
Yeah, Melody likes to make me laugh—we’ve been friends for a while; we went to high school together too—but she’s got a new boyfriend she’s so wrapped up in that she hardly comes up for air these days. She doesn’t call me very often anymore. She’s like a fun, casual friend, not someone I could spill my guts to.
People think I’m the luckiest girl on campus, with my megabucks parents and my Insta-worthy wardrobe and my Porsche, but sometimes I feel so invisible that I have to keep checking my reflection in the mirror to remind myself I’m real.
Is it me? Is there something wrong with me, something ugly inside? What kind of girl is so unlikeable that her parents go weeks without checking up on her?
