26 comments/ 66894 views/ 16 favorites A Little Bit Deeper Now Ch. 01 By: TheWorldSpins Author's Note: I'm putting this one in Loving Wives, but be warned this story contains significant blackmail/NC/reluctance themes. I'm going for dark, direct, and dirty here, since I'm simultaneously writing a romantic series and enjoy the change of pace. This chapter is fairly short, but sets up a multi-part series. All characters are 18+, all rights reserved, etc. -Theworldspins ***** The last thing Paul Whitman wanted to do was deal with some smart aleck brat on a Friday afternoon. While most of his students at Chatsworthy Prep were decent kids, if a little spoiled, he knew of a couple who ought to have their asses kicked. No school, no matter how wealthy and elite its students may be, was entirely free of 'problem cases'; in fact, those problems cases might be even worse with filthy rich parents and trust funds. When Simon Chalfont walked into his office, however, Paul was surprised. It wasn't that Simon was a good kid—far from it. Rather, it was shock that the mastermind had finally been caught. "Hello, Mr. Chalfont," Paul said in a patronizing tone. "Don't see you in here very often." "It's a special day," Simon responded drily, brushing the shaggy black hair back from his eyes. "I allegedly cheated off Connor Halloran's exam." Paul's first thought was "interesting choice." As little respect as he had for Simon, he was no dummy, and Connor was one of the dimmest bulbs at Chatsworthy. Something seemed odd, but Paul buried his suspicions. After all, he was just happy Simon had finally been caught in the act and might face some consequences to the cavalier way he treated the rules and the Headmaster's authority. "I'm surprised this was how we finally caught you, Mr. Chalfont. I've had my eye on you for a while." Simon seemed unimpressed. "I thought I saw you checking me out, Dr. Whitman. I'm glad you were just spying on me and looking for a date." The insolence of the kid was staggering. "You know you can't talk like that in here. I can have you suspended for that disrespect alone," Paul said sternly. With warning, Simon's eyes widened and his head shook a little. If Paul didn't know any better, he'd think the kid was contrite. There was something about the vacancy in his eyes, though, that kept Paul from falling for the boy's act. "Oh no," he said facetiously, "I...I did something bad! What will Jesus say? When it rained last week...was that his tears?" Despite the boy's mockery, Paul knew he had him dead to rights here, and inside he was relishing the prospect of punishing Simon. Paul knew that Simon was responsible for hiring the strippers who came to Mrs. Cleary's retirement party, though he hadn't a shred of proof. The school wasn't going to actually shell out for extensive DNA testing, but the 'unknown gooey residue' he found on the doorknob to the nurse's office last year was probably of Simon's own making. It was always petty, always boundary pushing—not quite truly damaging, but always calculated to embarrass, humiliate, and to test peoples' weaknesses. Since his arrival, Simon had been a constant irritant: cruel, calculating, and two-faced. As Headmaster at Chatsworthy, Paul had spent four years watching over Simon, making sure he never got out of hand. Most of the time, he seemed like a completely normal kid; he'd even fooled Beverly, Simon's English teacher and Paul's wife of three years. Every student at Chatsworthy was expected to participate in extra-curriculars, and Simon had admittedly compiled an amazing track record in competitive debate. Beverly Whitman was the team's coach, and despite her husband's warnings, she continually defended Simon from accusations whenever Paul would mention some horrible thing he believed Simon to have caused. In Beverly's eyes, Simon was a potential national champion and misunderstood genius. "He's so persuasive," she would say. "He just casts a spell on the judges when he's up there. I've never seen anything like it." With the boy sitting in his office, Paul couldn't see what was so special about him. He looked like any other Chatsworthy kid, albeit with a faintly malevolent smile. Well, that and his eyes: they were so...hollow. Simon always seemed to be looking right through people. "Well, Mr. Chalfont, what have you gotten into today?" Paul knew the answer; he just wanted this moment to linger. Simon leaned forward, ever so slightly. He was a little pale, with thick dark hair that hung almost to his eyes. Like the other boys, he was clad in the navy pants and crested blazer of a Chatsworthy student, though the collar of his white shirt betrayed a dark, long set-in rust-colored stain, the trace of a distant brawl freshman year that Simon had lost. "Your wife's pussy." Paul's first impulse, which he just barely restrained, was to slap the little brat right in the mouth. His words jumbled together in his mouth, as he tried to suppress anything that might get him canned immediately. He had to be better than some punk kid. "No, I'm lying, Dr. Whitman," Simon continued, smirking a little. "I haven't fucked Mrs. Whitman since Tuesday. In fact, I've been saving up my load for today." His anger in check, Paul leaned back. He even felt a little glee; he had this little bastard right where he wanted him. Cheating was bad, and made him subject to fail the class. Add to it the gross insubordination and inappropriate language, and Simon would finally get a big black mark on his transcript with a long suspension. Maybe his grades would slip enough as a result to see him forced to attend a slightly less prestigious university. "Well, Mr. Chalfont, you've just bought yourself a suspension and a parent conf—" "Fuck off, Dr. Whitman," Simon interrupted coldly. "My father isn't going to waste his time talking with somebody like you. I mean, honestly, do you not see where we are? You're not in control here." Paul reached for his phone to call the school resource officer. It would serve the little shit right if he got frog-marched out of the office where everyone could see him. Maybe a little shame would keep him from pulling shit like this. "If you don't want everyone knowing about Beverly's little butterfly, put that fucking phone down." That got Paul's attention. His darling wife, in her college days, might have been a little...wild. All that remained from those days, though, were a few racy stories she'd shared with Paul to get his motor running and a small tattoo of a butterfly about an inch or so northwest of her pussy. He set the phone back down, unsure how Simon knew about that. "Better," the smarmy kid said. "Now we can talk like men. Paul—can I call you Paul?" Paul's mouth hung open, but no sounds escaped. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' Paul, for three weeks now I've been fucking your wife. That's how I know about the butterfly. That's how I know how she squeals out 'Daddy' when she comes—which, by the way, is hilarious. Anyway, I'm trying—" With a low rumble, a voice finally emerged from the pit of Paul's stomach. It was a simple, raspy, animalistic growl: "GET OUT!" Simon merely smiled, though Dr. Whitman's face was bright red and he appeared to be trembling with a barely concealed rage. "Can't do that. See, I'm not leaving here until someone sucks my cock." Simon let his words hang there, without further explanation. When Paul reached once more for the phone to call security, Simon reached out and deftly pulled the cord from the back of the large black phone receiver. "Paul, I've got more than just stories. I've got pictures. Videos. I could get my phone out and show—" Without thinking, Paul grabbed Simon's hand, pulling him violently over the desk. Simon made not so much as the faintest cry of pain, even as Paul used his other hand to press him flat into the desk, hard. He was violently restraining a student, alone in his office, and it was going to get him fired if he didn't settle down. "Good man," Simon said with a laugh, as if he were still in charge and not pinned to his headmaster's desk. "It'll be a shame, though, when everyone Googles your name and finds out you were the chump whose wife fucked a student. You'll be the Steve Letourneau of a new generation." With that, Paul released Simon, who rubbed his sore arm. Paul's head was spinning. Could the bastard really tell everyone? Have everyone know about his wife? Simon's reptilian smile had not gone away. "I won't hold that against you. I figured you wouldn't have any balls at all, I mean, losing your woman to an eighteen year old kid?" Simon said. "Hey, look, that's good news, right? At least your wife won't go to jail. I guess they'll fire her ass, though, put her on the news and shit. I mean, you can't fuck your students, even if they're legal age and all. And it will be pretty hard for you to stick around here, everyone laughing behind your back at how your whore wife loved to suck off students. And the pictures! I'd hate to be you in that situation, Dr. Whitman." Paul was sweating now, lightheaded and nauseous. He was in a state of panic and felt the sudden, irrational urge to begin begging Simon not to tell anyone. Nothing about what he knew of Simon suggested that might work. "I apologize for monologing, Dr. Whitman. Shit, I said I'd call you Paul. Paul, I apologize—not for fucking your wife, because, let's be honest here, she is one sweet piece of ass—but for not getting to the point. Sometimes I ramble...well, the point, Paul, is that I haven't blown my load in three days. You don't know how hard it is to hold out when you've got a hot little teacher who'd love to let you just shoot off inside her. Or, shit, maybe you do! We do have something in common, after all." Paul was doing the math in his head. The bastard was right: if he went public, not only was his wife's career and life over, but also he would go down with her, even though he was totally innocent. He had too much pride to show his face at work after everyone had learned what a whore his wife had turned out to be. "What do you want?" Paul asked defeated. "Someone's gonna suck my dick. Now, it could be your wife. You could call her in here—she's on study period. You could lock that door and tell her to get on her knees and take my cock down her throat. Believe me, Paul, she's already come really close. I'm sure with a little encouragement, we could get that cute nose of hers buried in my pubes." Despite himself, Paul's mind flashed to an image of his wife's mouth stretched around a huge cock. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered what she would look like with a strange dick in her mouth, though he'd never share that thought with anyone else, especially not her. "But then she'd know you know," Simon continued. "It'd be real, for everyone. See, right now, it's just you and me. You can dump the bitch. You can go cheat on her yourself. Or, if you're a worthless piece of shit, you can just forgive her, sweep it under the rug, and just ignore the fact that another guy is gonna have your wife's pussy whenever he wants it." Paul couldn't believe the audacity of this kid. A voice in the back of his head kept urging him to just leap across the desk and strangle the kid. If he was going to lose his job, might as well lose it for killing the shitty little brat and not just slink away out of embarrassment. A real man would go down swinging. On the other hand, Paul had to consider that the punk was bluffing. If he was ballsy enough to talk like this, maybe he was ballsy enough to fake it all. "I don't believe you. I don't believe Beverly did anything with you, and now your ass is mine, you fucking punk—" Paul was silenced by the image of his wife, riding another man, on Simon's phone. Though the man's face wasn't visible, it didn't much matter if it was Simon or someone else. She'd cheated. With a few swipes, Simon began playing a video of his wife's face, contorted into a mask of pleasure as someone plowed her from behind doggystyle. "C'mon Paul, you didn't really think I was bluffing, did you? I think you just wanted to see what it looked like when your wife felt a real man's cock inside her. Now the ball's in your court. You call her in here and the game's on for real." Paul was dumbstruck. He knew, for certain, that his wife had betrayed him. The image of her, propped onto her elbows, her long auburn bangs bouncing in front of her eyes as her mouth, transfixed in an 'O' shape, let loose a long moan of ecstasy. He'd always felt lucky to have a woman like Beverly: she was curvy in all the right places, and at 5'3" she was a petite, sexy package. Her full tits and yoga-sculpted legs always got him hard immediately. If anything, she was too hot: just staring into her piercing green eyes and touching her smooth bare skin when they made love would send him prematurely over the edge. "Paul, still there?" He took a deep breath. "So what's my other option?" "Suck it yourself." Paul felt a wave of revulsion. He would never bring himself to do something like that again. "I'm not gay." Simon smiled inappropriately, as if he was trying to look...nice. "Well, neither am I. Although I guess if you did start sucking my cock, then you might be a little gay. Not full-on Elton John, maybe, but more...I don't know, Anderson Cooper? That guy had people thinking he was straight for a few years before he finally came out." Paul was straight—it didn't matter what happened that night in college. Simon wasn't going to break him down so easily. "I'm not gonna...no way." "Just think for a second, though. If you call her in here, your marriage is never going to be the same. Plus, you know I've got the goods on your wife. She's mine already. Don't you want to just suck a little cock and get this whole thing over with? I picked you and your wife because I saw something in you, Paul." "Fuck you, you...you little faggot." Paul hadn't used such homophobic language for years. Chatsworthy was a socially tolerant, forward-thinking school: that kind of thing had been purged from his vocabulary. Simon frowned. "I want you to remember calling me that." Paul and Simon descended into a silent, uneasy stand-off. School would be out in another twenty minutes. "Dr. Whitman, your phone is disc—" "I know Margie," he called to his septuagenarian secretary through the door. "I'm working on something, and I can't be disturbed." "Alright, Dr. Whitman, I'll tell Mr. Evans to call you tomorrow." A minute ticked by in utter silence. Though Paul felt physically ill now, Simon seemed unfazed, as if he could sit in silence for hours without the slightest feeling of anxiety or discomfort creeping in. With a moment of silence to process his thoughts, Paul now turned his anger on his wife Beverly. She was to blame for this mess—fucking a student! In his mind, he called her every nasty name he could. He'd known about her wild past when he married her, though at only twenty-six, the past wasn't so long ago for her. He had hoped a hot, slightly slutty young wife would be just the thing to reinvigorate his sex life once he turned forty. Now he was staring the prospect of becoming a cuckold and getting a divorce in the face. Finally, Paul plugged the cord back into the phone. Simon watched intently, allowing him to pick up the receiver. There was still time to call security, to have Simon escorted from the premises and throw his cheating wife out on her ass. People would talk, laugh behind his back, but he could hold his head up high... "Mrs. Whitman, please report to the Headmaster's office." Simon smiled. A few minutes passed by before he spoke again. "Good choice, Paul." "Don't talk to me." "Your wife probably sucks cock better than you do anyway." "Shut. Up." "You won't regret this. I bet a guy like you might even chub up seeing his wife slobbing knob." "You're dead." "Somehow I doubt that—oh, Beverly, hi!" When Beverly Whitman opened the door, she could tell from her husband's face and Simon's juvenile, leering grin that something terribly wrong was happening in the office. "You...ummm...wanted to see me?" she asked tentatively. Paul looked at Simon, and Simon looked at Paul. Beverly wondered what the hell was going on. "Ask her," Simon commanded of Paul. "Ask me what?" she asked, her voice taking on an indignant tone she hoped hid the note of guilt. Her secret teenage lover and her husband (and boss) were sitting across from one another, and she had been called in out of the blue. She could only cling to the hope that this was some bizarre coincidence: after all, she was Simon's teacher. Paul's stare was pure hatred. She didn't get to harbor her illusions for long. "Did you fuck this kid?" Beverly started to breathe shallow. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be a secret, until Simon went to college, and he would take her with him. She felt her world crumbling around her. Paul knew. "Answer me!" "That's not what you were supposed to—" Simon explained. "Answer me!" "No!" she cried out. "I mean, it wasn't like that. I thought...Simon?" He took hold of her hand, and though she flinched, her mind was so scattered that she didn't fully pull away. Paul watched the display of intimacy with humiliated rage. "Oh, you thought we were, like, boyfriend and girlfriend? Did you think we had a special connection? Were we going to start running and meet in the middle of a field or something?" He kissed the top of her hand chivalrously. She trembled with fear, though it looked like desire to her enraged husband. "No, sweetie, actually you were—are—a piece of ass. That's all. I'm fucking you and now I'm fucking with your dumb ass husband, because it's funny and because I'm bored and because this is what I do." Simon turned back to Paul then waited for a moment in silence. "That wasn't the question, Paul. Ask her." Paul wavered for a moment. "You do it." Simon shook his head. He was tired of talking. Beverly and Paul's eyes met. She was sobbing softly, and for the faintest moment, he felt a pang of pity for her, before a wave of fury crashed over his heart, washing away all sympathy within. "Your boyfriend is going to blackmail us with the sex tapes he made with you. Now he wants a blowjob from you here in the office." Beverly was stunned. Until this day, Simon had been one of the most unique, charismatic, and sensitive student she had ever met. The first day he entered her classroom, he had stood out above all other students—Beverly had a Master's Degree, and half of her classmates in graduate school hadn't been as smart as he was. In her hearts of hearts, she knew she'd fallen for him immediately. He was everything she had been looking for in Paul, only without the flabby, old body and the stale complacency of middle age. It had been difficult to wait for Simon's eighteenth birthday to be with him, but she felt like it was important. She wanted everything with Simon to be perfect. She froze for a moment, before looking down. Simon had already pulled out his cock and started stroking it lightly. Though they'd only begun their affair three weeks ago, already Simon's dick had brought her more pleasure than three years of her husband's had. Paul invariably had to finish her with his hand for her to be able to come. "She's really good," Simon said to Paul, as if she wasn't there. "It helps to practice on a small one first, I guess." "I'm not small," Paul seethed. "My cock is as big as yours." "Well take it out and jerk off while your wife blows me then. Could be fun." That shut Paul up for a moment. As for Beverly, she had yet to adjust to the horror show her life had just become. "I'm not going to sit here with my dick in my hand all day, sweetie. Get down on the floor and do what you were put on this earth to do," Simon said, the hatefulness of his words disguised by the placid, even tones of his voice. A Little Bit Deeper Now Ch. 01 "Paul, call the police," she said hysterically. "If those tapes go public, we're both fucked," he said furiously. "I'm not letting the world find out I married a goddamn whore. Why would you let him film you, you stupid bitch?" "Film me? What are you—" "Oh, yeah, she didn't exactly know about her porn career, Paul," Simon said. "But now that she does, I can get a lot better A/V equipment for the next time." She wanted to flee, but where would she go? Her husband despised her. Her lover had been cruelly playing her the whole time. To flee would mean being fired, forever barred from teaching, likely dispossessed of all her belongings. What was worse, she knew with the internet, her most private, vulnerable moments would be broadcast to a horde of creeps forever. "Please, no," she whimpered. "Don't make me do this." "Sweetie," Simon said soothingly, "you know you love this. If I asked you to blow me without him here, you'd be on your knees in a second. He wants you to do this. I think he'd enjoy seeing you in your natural element." She looked into Paul's eyes, still hoping against hope that he might save her. He could grab the kid, scare the shit out of him, make him give back the evidence. Maybe there was no hope for their marriage, but there was still hope for them to resist Simon. "Get it over with," was all Paul could muster. Beverly felt her body move as if of its own volition. Before her brain registered, she was on her knees in front of her student and lover, as her husband sat there watching them, a horrified bystander. "What'd she get you for your birthday?" Simon gathered her long auburn hair with his right hand and used his left hand to force her head down into his lap. His red, veiny cock parted her lips, and some kind of automatic response took over her body. She started swirling her tongue around Simon's tool, as if some deep and primal instinct had taken over. There was something about Simon—some malevolent, seductive force of persuasion—that had flipped a switch inside her. After their first time together, she had realized how unsatisfying sex with her husband had become. She was really going to do this. "Answer me, motherfucker," Simon demanded. "Or I'll get you down here." "New suit," Paul mumbled. "That one?" Simon asked, nodding in his direction. "No," he stammered. "A grey one. Striped." "Oh, I know that one. You wore it for Golden Circle Initiation Weekend." Beverly was bobbing her head in rhythm now; somewhere along the way, she decided that getting this over with as soon as possible was more important than trying not to look like too big of a slut while she serviced Simon's member. That meant lots of spit and taking him deep, though she couldn't bring herself to make eye contact with him. It would seem too much like a surrender. "Yeah," Paul said, his voice betraying surprise. Beverly tried to block out their conversation, especially her husband's side. She closed her eyes and pretended she was all alone with Simon, but now that only made her miserable. Simon had been right: just an hour ago, the thought of a quick, secret rendezvous with Simon would have stirred her desire. Now, with his sadistic cruelty evident, it only made her feel degraded and ashamed. "See, I got her pussy for my birthday, but that's a nice suit. I think maybe we tied." Beverly was corkscrewing her hand on Simon's cock, trying to hasten his climax, until he grabbed her hand and pulled it away. With one hand holding her mouth in place on his cock, he stood up. Now towering over her as she licked up and down his shaft, Simon looked down on Paul, slumped over sickly in his chair, his head in his hands. "You got the good chair, Dr. Whitman. I think we'll switch from now on." Paul stirred a little at the suggestion that Simon would be spending more time in his office. "God, she sucks a mean dick," Simon said, shaking his head from side to side. "She swallow for you?" Paul didn't answer. "Thought not. She told me she tried to be a 'good girl' for you." As if to punctuate the sentiment, Simon reached down and pinched one of Beverly's nipples. She squealed a little around his cock. "She's a slut, deep down, though—always will be." Simon clamped his hand against Beverly's head and pushed his cock as far as it could go into her throat. He stared directly into Paul's eyes, almost daring him to come to his wife's rescue as she wrestled against the rigid invader in her throat. Muffled screams of panic escaped from Beverly, until Simon let loose a guttural moan. "Oh, take it whore," he growled. "Swallow that cock snot." Paul felt sick watching Simon fill his retching wife's throat with cum. Paul was amazed how much he seemed to be pumping into Beverly, until he remembered Simon telling him he was saving up for today. "It's that three-day build-up, you know, thick shit," he said to Paul, as if reading his mind. The swallowing motions, so obvious in Beverly's throat, were the final straw of humiliation for Paul, as he watched his wife perform an act he'd never had the courage to ask for. Though he'd gotten a blowjob from his wife here and there, she'd always made him pull out and ejaculate below the neck. Now she was taking a heavy load of semen from her lover as he watched on impotently. When Simon finally pulled his cock out of her mouth, Beverly sputtered and gagged, and some of his sperm came back up to spatter her chin. Paul's eyes went straight to Simon's veiny cock, wet with his wife's spit and still angrily erect. When he had stolen a glance of Simon fisting it in preparation, it had looked normal. Now, though, fresh from throatfucking his wife, Paul had to suppress a sick kind of admiration forming. He felt intensely jealous, that this kid, this rich prick, could take his wife from him and turn her into his personal fuckdoll. Paul had wooed her, had taken her out on dates, listened to her, bought her a new car, and clothes, and a house. Meanwhile, an eighteen year old boy had taken control of her pussy and turned her into a cocksucking slut right before his eyes. Only he wasn't a boy, Paul realized. Every look of fear and guilt in his wife's eyes had seemed to Paul like lust and satisfaction. She'd gotten off on blowing her lover. She wanted this; maybe not like this, but still. Paul felt like he was the little boy, watching a man take his wife in a way he had never been capable of doing. It was utterly humiliating, and Paul wished the ground would simply swallow him up. "She almost got it all, Paul," Simon said, his thumb and index finger indicating how much of his cock was left over when she took him deeply into her throat. "But not quite." Simon looked down at his teacher, lover, and now slave: her professional blouse wet with her own spit, make-up ruined, breathing hard to recover the oxygen denied her by his assault on her throat. Meanwhile, Paul had his head in the wastebasket—he was finally throwing up. "I wish I had, like, a painting of this scene," he quipped. "I'd hang it in our second dining room." Beverly curled into a ball on the floor, utterly drained physically and mentally. Her soft sobs weren't loud enough to attract attention, though Paul's heaving might. "Get your shit together, Paul," he spat venomously. "You could've saved her from this, and you didn't want to. That's on you now." Simon grabbed his backpack. Neither Beverly nor Paul was in a position to raise a hand against him. He pulled out a thick, sealed manila envelope and chucked it at Paul, who was so catatonic by this point that it thudded dully against the wall beside his head. "Nice catch. That's two grand in there, so I guess now both of you are whores," he said coolly, "and a set of instructions. We'll meet every Friday here in your office after school 'til the year's over. By my count, that's nine weeks. Read the instructions—I'd explain it all, but after I bust a nut, I always feel like a nap, you know? I'm busy this weekend, so I'll come over to your place Monday to fuck. Peace." As if nothing had just happened, Simon put his cock back in his pants, buttoned up, and walked out. It was five minutes before either Paul or Beverly moved. "Paul—" "Don't talk to me. This is your fault," Paul said in a quavering voice. He stood up and walked towards the door. "Don't come home. I'll call a lawyer on Monday." A Little Bit Deeper Now Ch. 02 ***Author's Note: For all of you coming back for more—this story is specifically designed to go off the deep end. If you want from me a realistic, grounded depiction of people who you might recognize, wait about a week until the first chapter of my next series is ready. This story is supposed to be over the top (OK, maybe way over the top). To be honest, it's the only way I think this crazy category is any fun at all, though. If you liked the first installment (and, really, why are you still reading if you didn't?) enjoy! -Theworldspins*** Beverly Whitman almost wished the Sunrise Inn was an honest to god flophouse: peeling paint, dirty, cigarette-burned carpet, bars on the windows. At least if she were staying in some seedy dump, then her surroundings might match the way she felt inside. But this place was, if not luxurious, then at least...normal. She wasn't pleased with what she saw when she looked at herself in the mirror of the fluorescent-lit bathroom. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, her long auburn hair a mess from holding her head into the pillow. Worst of all, she knew she deserved everything she was feeling right now. She'd cheated on her husband with a student. Though she'd done it in a haze of blissful ignorance, in the cold light of day she knew what people would see her as: Debra LaFave Mary Kay Letourneau Pamela Rogers Carrie McCandless All pretty, all young, all infamous for spreading their legs for students. It was little solace to know that at least she'd waited for her student to turn eighteen before she fucked him. After all, Simon wasn't the charming, sensitive young man she had believed him to be, but instead a blackmailing, sadistic, creep. He'd forced her to give him a blowjob in front of her husband under the threat of ruining their careers and lives. And she'd done it. Afterwards, Paul had kicked her out of the house and promised to file for divorce when the lawyers' offices opened on Monday. After the horror show on Friday, she couldn't blame him. She wasn't sure if she even wanted her marriage to continue; after all, she'd nursed secret fantasies of running away with Simon as recently as three days ago. Now she could only think of him with fear and revulsion for what he had done. Tomorrow she wouldn't be able to return to school. How could she stand in front of her class and teach, knowing he would be there. He'd sit in her class, silently reminding her of how he'd mocked her, called her a "piece of ass" and a "slut" while she performed oral sex for him in front of her shell-shocked husband. If anything, it might be worse seeing Paul. She knew he felt betrayed—he should. She felt incredibly guilty in way she hadn't when everything had been secret, when she'd snuck off to be with Simon. She would come home to him with some flimsy excuse, and the moment Paul accepted it, all seemed right with the world. Now that Paul knew about what she had been doing, she had to live with the hurt it had caused him. He'd probably serve her divorce papers immediately. She could only hope he'd keep it quiet. Everything quiet. Everything under wraps. Nobody has to know a thing. *** "Just shut up and listen. I don't have a lot of time." Beverly was still feeling groggy when she'd answered the phone, and wasn't prepared for her husband to be on the other end of the line. It was the middle of the night on Monday, and those were the first words Beverly had heard from Paul since Friday. "Get a pen." "What is this all a—" "Get a pen, Beverly, I told you," he snarled. "Fine, what?" Beverly heard loud noises in the background; it sounded like a lot of people milling around. "OK. Do what I tell you. Call 904-RELEASE. You know, from the commercials on late night. Give them my name, and my case number: H15A-1735-96 and tell them I'm at Berkeley County Jail." "What!?!" "Do it Beverly. The ad says they take debit cards over the phone. I can't stay in here tonight. Gotta go soon, they're—" *** Beverly knew she had to stay sharp and not sink into resignation if she wanted to make it through this. As she drove towards school, Paul slumped over in the passenger's seat of her Camry. All she knew at that moment was that he'd been booked for assault, that there was a witness, but that, strangely, the victim had apparently vanished by the time police arrived. Without a word of help from Paul, she knew immediately who the victim had to be. Today was going to be hard enough. Paul's knuckles were caked in dried blood, and they'd need an excuse for why they were late (and why she'd missed the day before). Coming up with all of this would be difficult enough if they were speaking, but Paul, still, even after she'd bailed him out, refused to so much as acknowledge her presence. She was trying to help him, to make it up to him, and maybe just find a way to keep him out of prison, and he was giving her no cooperation. When they finally arrived after twenty minutes of silent brooding, Paul reached across the car to grab Beverly's arm. She locked eyes with him, and in that moment Beverly sensed the fear consuming him. "I'm fucked. I...I thought I'd killed him. I...I lost it." She felt a crushing weight of guilt for bringing all this on Paul, though still somewhere in the back of her mind she resented him for acquiescing to Simon's perverted demands before. Where was the guy who kicked the little bastard's ass on Friday when she was on her knees servicing him? Was it just that he no longer cared what happened to her, that quickly? "It's OK, baby. We'll figure this out, together," she replied, putting on her best supportive wife voice. Paul leaned in, as if to embrace her, before he shuddered. She could see him physically recoil, the moment his awareness of what she had done returned. "We're not doing anything together." "Tell me what happened. I need to know, if only to keep our stories straight," she pleaded. Paul looked positively sick. "He came over looking for you. When I said you weren't there, he started badgering me about the money—" "What money?" Beverly asked. "Friday," Paul said, trembling with revulsion to even mention the word. "He gave me an envelope full of cash and some 'instructions.' Told me to spend the money dressing you up in fancy lingerie, getting your hair done. He kept telling me I want this, that I'd be happier if I dressed you up for him. So I hit him. Hard. And I didn't stop, until he went limp." "How did he get away?" "I heard a car horn blow, a bunch of times in a row. I went outside to look—I mean, I was totally freaked—and there was a girl, young-looking, in a Jag, blowing the horn like crazy. I could just tell she knew. She knew what had happened, like they planned it. He brought her there. When I went back inside, he was gone. I mean, there was blood everywhere. It was just a few minutes later when the police arrived and cuffed me." Beverly was horrified by the possibility of her husband—no matter what had come between them—going to prison. On the other hand, she was also more than a little happy that, in his own way, Paul had stood up to Simon, proven himself a real man. Though it went against so much of her beliefs about violence, or at least thought she believed, she had to admit that the sight of Paul's knuckles, coated in the blood of the creep who was blackmailing them, made him seem more...virile. It was sick, and it was wrong, but nevertheless, she started to think that she had been wrong about Paul, that maybe he was stronger than she thought. "Why now?" she asked. "I mean, on Friday, you just let—" "I was in shock," he said, "and I was so mad at you. All weekend...Christ, Beverly, when I saw his face, it was a miracle I didn't smash it in before he said a word." Beverly could see other teachers and staff members making note of them sitting in the car in the parking lot. She cursed herself a little for foolishly parking in Paul's headmaster space, instead of parking far away to avoid attention. "So what're we telling people?" It was already noon, as it had taken most of the morning to process the bail bond. They'd need a legitimate excuse by now. "What's it matter? Either he crawled away and died, and it's only a matter of time before the police find me, or he got away and will no doubt use this against me, too." Paul seemed resigned to his fate; now, his future was as endangered as hers. With one fell swoop, Simon could send Paul to prison, and make her into a pariah. He held their fate in his hands, and any move they made threatened to draw them ever deeper into his clutches. "Let's go to work," she said. "Whatever happens, is going to happen." *** He looked terrible. Just terrible. Paul had really done a number on him. He was breathing with obvious pain, and his face looked like it had been painted black and inflated with a bicycle pump. An IV in his right arm supplying pain meds must have taken the edge off, but Simon still looked like he was in a world of hurt. Beverly didn't recognize the taciturn red-haired girl at Simon's bedside. She was thin, pretty, but in a way that was...mean: thin, angular nose, sharp cheekbones, a face both beautiful and frightening. Her mind flashed to a phrase she'd heard the kids use: "resting bitch face." This girl should be the picture for the Wikipedia article. She wasn't a student at Chatsworthy as far as she could tell. Though different in many ways, the girl shared something of Simon's looks: a certain coldness of expression and the icy, piercing eyes that had first gotten to Beverly when she looked at him. "Happy to see what you've done?" the girl spat at Paul. Beverly and Paul were deeply uncomfortable standing before Simon's hospital bed. They had been summoned, and Beverly knew it was time to pay the piper. Paul had lost control, and now Simon had them both right where he wanted them. "Why are we here?" he asked pointedly. "My brother told me all about you two," the redhead continued, before craning her neck to look for any nearby nurses. "He told me how he was fucking his teacher, and how her husband the headmaster watched her suck his cock. He told me he was going to keep fucking her while her husband watched, but if he grew a pair and fought back that I'd need to call the cops." "You know what he does?" Beverly asked in astonishment. "Don't you think he's—" "Don't try it, bitch," the girl said icily. "Me and Simon have something special. Something you wouldn't understand. So save it." Beverly shuddered. There were two sociopaths in the family... "Anyway," the girl continued, "Simon told me to give my statement and description of what I saw, which was some sick shit. Now, if he comes forward, you're headed upstate where your ass is getting plowed for, like, three to five." "And here I wanted to be the first to fuck you in the ass, Dr. Whitman..." Everyone turned to Simon, not unconscious as they'd all presumed. "Simon, are you OK?" the redhead asked. "I got my ass kicked." "What do you want from us?" Paul demanded. "Dr. Whitman," Simon slurred. "I want us to be friends." Beverly could tell this wasn't him. He was loopy from the drugs and not in control of himself. "Why in god's name would I—" "Paul, your mouth was made for a big cock," he said, his head rolling from side to side. "I bet you'd make a boy real happy." Even after getting his ass kicked, Simon showed little concern for antagonizing the older man. "I really, really like your wife's pussy, but..." he trailed off for a moment. "Oh, I think I like playing with you just as much, Doc. Can I call you 'cock'?—sorry, 'Doc.' Not cock, Doc. Maybe you can call me 'cock.' You'll get used to sucking it, Doc. She'll like watching it..." Simon seemed to drift out after that. His sister, face screwed up into a frown, stared at Paul. "He's offering you a deal. He won't press charges against you, won't even come forward." Beverly knew that the catch was likely to be awful. "I think I already know what he wants," Paul said with disgust. "And he'll end up back in here if he asks one more—" "How is it you still think you're in control?" the redhead asked. "Simon will destroy you. Both of you. All he wants is for you to play along with his game. He says you'll like it." The more she dealt with Simon, the less Beverly understood him. This girl, this phantom sister of whom she'd never heard, was acting like they were doing something wrong, spoiling Simon's fun. Even looking at him beaten to a pulp in a hospital bed, she had a hard time mustering sympathy for him. And yet...there had been something real between them. She had enjoyed the sex, of course, but also the other things that went with being around him. He could be witty, charming, though it seemed now to have been all simply an act. Now, she wondered if there were a way out of this that could spare her and her husband from lasting harm, a way to save their careers, reputations, and futures. "What's the deal?" she asked, speaking for the first time in a while. The redhead cocked an eyebrow, in much the same way she'd seen Simon do when he'd come up with a good argument in her class. The more she looked at the girl, the greater the similarities seemed. "Simon likes....well he likes what he likes. And we had a lot of fun coming up with this—you know, reading about famous slut teachers online and talking about who was most likely to give it up and all. Basically, he wants it to be like he told you before. That means that Mr. Cuck—you know, you—stays together with Mrs. Cuck. He wants you two to stay married, plus he wants you to be, like, nice to her. He says that if you two stay together until semester's end, he'll leave you alone after that." Beverly was dumbstruck. None of this made any sense to her. Why would Simon want her to stay with her husband? "What's the catch?" Paul asked skeptically. "Well, he wants...he told me that he really liked your wife, but he especially likes it when you watch. He said that whole BJ in the office thing was way better because you were watching. So he wants you to watch while he fucks her." Once again, Beverly realized, other people were discussing having sex with her without so much as consulting her. "And if I don't?" The redhead smiled. "Then a lot of guys are gonna watch while some jailhouse rapist fucks you." "Is everything all right in here?" Beverly almost jumped through the ceiling when the old nurse came in from behind her. "Great, ma'am," the redhead said in an ingratiating voice. "These are some of Simon's teachers, come to make sure he's OK." The nurse shook her head in pity. "It's terrible what happens nowadays," she said histrionically. "You're not even safe in your own neighborhood." Beverly suddenly felt sick; she knew how Paul felt now, she thought. "I know," she said. "I know." The nurse checked on Simon for a moment and told the couple that in twenty minutes it would be immediate family only. She ushered herself out, closing the shades at the suggestion of the redhead, Miranda, as the nurse called her. "Well, you guys need to decide quick, because when he's ready to check out of here, we're going straight to the cops." Beverly and Paul stared at each other. She knew they should speak, to weigh their options and formulate a plan for dealing with their blackmailer. Only, in the moment, they seemed once again frozen in inaction, uncertain how to proceed. "She lives in the house, and I have to watch them have sex?" Beverly was horrified; he was once again entertaining the idea of going along with this sick, twisted arrangement. "You got it." Paul turned to Beverly. She couldn't read him; wheels were turning in his mind. "We'll do it." "Paul!" she said in a vehement whisper. "This is insane." Suddenly, his face returned to the look of anger she'd first seen on Friday. "So was screwing this kid, too, honey. Now we've got to just survive this," he said, growling. Miranda was beaming. "OK, so Simon's out of it again, I guess, but he said to get a picture of you two sealing the deal." Beverly tensed up. This couldn't be good news. Miranda started fumbling with Simon's sheets, until she had finally rearranged both the sheets and his hospital gown enough to free his limp cock. Beverly noted how comfortable Simon's sister was with holding her brother's penis; just how depraved was this kid? "Well, I think the shot will be better if he's hard, so one of you start stroking it. You can leave as soon as I get the pic." Both Beverly and Paul hesitated. She knew he expected her to do the honors, so to speak. "Picture of what?" "He wants both of your tongues on his cock, and facing forwards so we can see your faces." "No," Paul said. "Not that." "That," Miranda said. "Then you can leave." Beverly had a sudden flash of murderous rage, followed immediately by paralyzing fear. They kept trying to fight, but Beverly knew this was about to happen. She walked to Simon's bedside, and took his cock from Miranda's hand. "Just block it out," she told her husband, as she began stroking Simon's dick back to life. "Just do it for one second and forget about it." Paul looked, once again, like he was on the verge of vomiting. Beverly could feel the warm cock in her hand getting longer and harder. Miranda moved around to the front of the bed. "Paul, the nurse is going to come back in here soon," Beverly said insistently. She knew her husband, even if didn't care about her anymore, didn't want to be an active participant in an activity that would so emasculate him. In her mind, though, he needed to be a man, and that meant sticking his tongue out and touching Simon's cock for the two seconds it would take for Miranda to snap a stupid picture. She had been forced to do much worse already, after all. "Paul, do it—now!" She hadn't meant to sound so cruel. He had just been frozen in place, and she knew time was of the essence. But it came out like a command, and to Beverly's surprise, her husband slinked over like a chastised schoolboy to the opposite side of the bed. She continued to stroke the hard rod absentmindedly, oblivious to the soft murmurs emanating from the ostensibly sleeping Simon. Paul hesitated still, though, as she stroked and stroked, until finally Miranda had had enough. "Count of three or get the fuck out: one...two..." Closing his eyes, Paul leaned in with his tongue out to graze the tip of Simon's cock. Seeing him finally in motion, Beverly also leaned in with her tongue out. Though it was no longer necessary for the shot, she continued stroking Simon's cock, as if she was moving solely by instinct. For a moment her mind registered the oddity of the camera's flash staying on for so long, but before she could realize that the camera was actually taking a video, she felt a sudden surge pulse through Simon's cock. Her first instinct, cum dodger that she was, was to aim the cock in her hand away from her own face. Unfortunately for Paul, that left little other place to put it than right in front of his mouth, which was spattered immediately with a thick glob of semen. "What the—?" he exclaimed foolishly, as the second blast of warm cum entered his mouth, causing him to retch and sputter. "Priceless," Miranda exclaimed, winking to Simon, who was now leaning up in his hospital bed, leering salaciously at the cum spattered face of Dr. Paul Whitman. Then there was a knock on the door, and it was all Beverly could do to throw the sheet back over Simon's erect cock. Her husband didn't wait for the nurse to speak, but bolted for the door immediately. She followed promptly on his heels, waiting outside the bathroom door when he darted into the men's room. A Little Bit Deeper Now Ch. 02 "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you did that on purpose," said Miranda from behind her. "You don't know anything about me," Beverly snapped. "Maybe," Miranda said quizzically. "But I will. Soon." Beverly watched the evil little bitch turn around and head for Simon's hospital room. How long would he have to stay there? Could she and Paul run? Could they fight back? Or were they both about to become pawns in a very sick game?