Moonlighting: A Thanksgiving Story

  Moonlighting:

  A Thanksgiving Story

  By

  Vicki Blue

  © 2011 by Blushing Books and Vicki Blue

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing BooksÒ, a subsidiary of

  ABCD Graphics and Design

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  The trademark Blushing BooksÒ is registered in the

  US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Blue, Vicki

  Moonlighting: A Thanksgiving Story

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-566-9

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One:

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Ebook Offer

  Vicki Blue

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  About Blushing Books

  Chapter One:

  “Again, please.”

  Charlotte Tetter called on the last reserve of her patience as she guided six-year-old Nick Kramer back to the middle of the stage.

  “Again?” The child’s tone was sullen, not that she could blame him. Like the rest of his classmates, Nick had the attention span of a gnat, and Charlotte wondered why the school chose the last day of school before fall break to have its Thanksgiving pageant. It was impossible to get kids to focus on anything so close to a holiday, especially lines for a play.

  “I promise this is the last time,” she said, forcing a smile as she adjusted the feather in his headdress. “Just try to remember to hand the basket of corn to Lydia, not drop it on her foot.”

  Nick picked up the basket and walked over to a little girl dressed as a pilgrim. “I bring you corn for the feast,” he said. “Later we will teach you to grow your own.”

  “Thank you,” Lydia said, taking it. “We are pleased to have found friends among your people.”

  Charlotte clapped. “Good job!” she said, relieved. “Remember to remind your parents that we have rehearsal again on Wednesday.”

  The chorus of “ok’s” erupted from the kids as they began to remove the costumes and hang them on the hooks by the stage. Charlotte gathered up her books and papers, eager to be off. She loved her students and enjoyed her job as a teacher at the exclusive private school. She felt lucky to have it; when she’d graduated from college there were few jobs to be had due to hiring freezes. Her dream of teaching foreign language to high school students seemed to evaporate, at least until economic conditions improved. The position as first grade teacher for Falmont Academy had just been posted when she applied, and for three nail-biting weeks she’d waited to hear back from them as they interviewed applicants. Getting hired had taken a load of worries off her mind. She just wished the pay were better. When she’d moved to Falmont, she’d not realized that it would be so expensive. It was a beautiful community, but rent was higher here. For months she’d clipped coupons and scrimped on things she wanted. But soon she realized that she had no choice. If she were to make ends meet she’d have to find a second source of income.

  The school frowned on teachers taking second jobs, and in her contract it stipulated that staff was forbidden from waiting tables on weekends or taking other positions that might have them serving parents or students in some menial service job deemed below the task of teaching Falmont students. Knowing how the school prized image made Charlotte even more mindful of keeping a secret she feared would cause problems. She had found a second source of income - a good source. She had begun writing fetish erotica.

  It had come naturally for her. Charlotte could not remember when her fascinated with spanking had started, but it had followed her doggedly through adolescence. In college she’d written fan fiction featuring spanking as a theme. It was just for fun and she wrote anonymously on a number of boards. But one of her stories got so much praise that she tweaked it a bit by changing the characters and expanding the plot before sending it to a publisher of erotica. She didn’t hear anything for three weeks and had nearly forgotten it when she’d gotten a letter and a check for the story. The money had arrived at a good time for her. Charlotte’s car was in the shop and the money helped make the needed repairs. The publisher’s letter expressed interest in other stories so she continued to write under the same pen name - Brita Sinclair.

  It had been with some reluctance that she’d approached Moonlight Books about resuming her sideline writing career. She spoke directly with the owner of the small company, who assured her that controls were in place to protect identity of the writers. For the last few months, Charlotte had come home from helping first graders with phonics and addition to write stories of dominant men spanking saucy wenches into line.

  Charlotte tried not to live vicariously through her characters, but it was hard sometimes. Falmont was a small community, and the only men she ever saw were fathers of her students. Falmont Academy forbade students from having Facebook pages and the ambiguously worded morals clause of her contract made her fearful of being seen in town with a drink in hand or on the arm of some man who she may later find had questionable character.

  Not that it mattered, really. Charlotte doubted she’d ever find a man like the ones she wrote about - chivalrous, dominant, caring but stern enough to give her the guidance she craved since she could remember. Charlotte’s desires sometimes made her feel apart from other women, and she never discussed them beyond weighing in anonymously on the occasional forum. But she’d even stopped doing that since she started her job and now she felt more alone than ever.

  “A group of us are going out for dinner. Wanna come?”

  Charlotte turned to face the speaker. Sue Ellen Forrester was smiling toothily at her. In her rush to evade the offer, Charlotte nearly blurted out that she had to go home and work, but caught herself in time.

  “No, thanks,” she said, picking up her bag of papers and purse. “I’ve got a bunch of errands to do.”

  “Shame,” Sue Ellen said. “You never seem to want to go out with us.”

  That was the truth, but not one Charlotte could admit. Her fellow teachers, mostly older, were wretched busybodies who had lived in Falmont almost all their lives. They went to the same church, attended the same book clubs and seemed intent on recruiting her.

  “We hardly know anything about you,” Sue Ellen whined. “Keep turning us down and you’ll make us suspicious!” The last line was delivered with the same singsong tone Charlotte sometimes heard Sue Ellen use with her students.

  “I assure you, your suspicions would be wasted. Excuse me.” She turned away, irritated.

  “It was just a joke, dear,” Sue Ellen said, her tone piqued.

  But Charlotte was too tired to care. Being roped into handling the Thanksgiving play was bad enough; to have to answer about how she spent her free time did nothing to improve her mood. She turned the corner and started down the hallway, relieved when she finally came to the door. But as she opened it, the strap on her bag broke, spilling her papers all over the floor. “Great,” she said, sighing in exasperation. She leaned down and then startled when a large pair of hands began to assist her in the pickup.

  “Mr. Longbridge,” she said. “I didn’t even see you!”

  “I was in the janitor’s closet putting up the janitor’s bucket left in my office. Timmy Reid decided to not just get himself sent to me today, but he also decided to come down with
a case of severe nausea as I was explaining why we don’t call our fellow students names.”

  Charlotte found herself smiling. Nigel Longbridge had always struck her as a bit officious and she realized that this was the first time he’d ever made small talk with her. She had always thought he was attractive, and attributed part of it to his speaking voice. He’d been born in England and came to the U.S. twenty years earlier, according to the other teachers. He’d not lost a trace of his accent.

  “There now,” he said, handing her the stack of papers. She opened the bag, which she was holding from the bottom, and he slid the bundle in. “At least you’ll have an excuse to go shopping for a proper bag now.”

  “I’ll probably just sew the strap back on,” Charlotte said, looking at the damage.

  “Hmm. Thriftiness. That’s a good trait. Quite uncommon in this day in age.”

  Charlotte laughed. “We do seem to be too busy to preserve things, don’t we? It’s easier just to replace them, more convenient.”

  “That’s just one of the things wrong with society today, Ms. Tetter,” he said. “The traditional values were far better…”

  His words intrigued her, but Nigel Longbridge suddenly grew quiet, as if embarrassed at having gotten too caught up in the conversation. He took a step back and adjusted his tie. He was tall and slim, his brunette hair thick and wavy. He struck the perfect balance between masculinity and Geek. Charlotte felt herself blush and look away. “Thanks again,” she said. “Goodnight.”

  She turned before he could reply and walked hurriedly to her car. Her face felt flushed and her heart was hammering. What in the world was happening to her? She did not have to turn to know that he was still in the doorway, watching her. As she pulled away in her car, she could still see him standing by the door. He was appearing to adjust a poster on the window by the door, but she could see him watching her from above the top.

  “Stop it,” she chided herself on the way home. But already, the wheels in her sex-starved brain were already churning. Charlotte tried to think of anything but the professorial Nigel Longbridge, and how large his hands were. She always paid attention to man’s hands, imagining what they would feel like spanking her bottom…

  By the time she pulled into her driveway, she was furious with herself. Charlotte’s unwritten, personal rule excluded men she personally knew from her fantasies. Men from television and movies were fair game. James Bond, Dr. Who, Indiana Jones - no problem. But Nigel Longbridge, her boss? Problem.

  Charlotte forced herself to think of anything else as she walked into her house. With a sigh, she removed the contents of her bag onto her writing desk and examined the strap. It could be fixed easily and since her sewing machine was set up in the corner she quickly stitched the handle and put the bag to the side. She felt tense and decided the best remedy was to write. She needed to get a new story to the publishers at Moonlight, anyway. Christmas was coming on and she wanted to makes sure she had enough put aside to get gifts for her parents and little brother.

  Sometimes the best way to diffuse a fantasy was to play it out on her computer screen, so Charlotte began to write a novella loosely based on a girls' school teacher who looked much like her and a headmaster loosely based on Nigel Longbridge. The setting was turn of the century England, where the female lead, Penelope Hill, was seeking to protect a student from what she suspected are false accusations from a group of Victorian Mean Girls. The student was slated for punishment at the hands of the headmaster, and to buy time, Miss Hill had lied to keep that from happening. But the headmaster, Basil Edge, found out about the lie.

  He confronted me the next morning in his private office, just before classes. It was tidy but smelled of musty books, just as I always imagined it would. I’d spent a lot of time imagining Mr. Edge’s office, more than I should have perhaps. The headmaster was taciturn with both students and staff, offering little more than a daily greeting or curt instructions as he managed the school. His presence had always seemed to me the embodiment of authority. We would stand straighter and get on our best behavior just by glimpsing him in the hallway. His authority both mesmerized and terrified me. I’d dreamt and feared of being called into his office and here I was, standing before the man himself.

  “The matrons have come to me with a disturbing report,” he said.

  “Sir?” I asked careful to inject innocence into my voice, even though I knew what was coming.

  They say that for three days now Lydia has been absent from school, and therefore unable to answer allegations of scrawling naughty words on the property of another student. She is your student and one of the matrons said she saw you visiting Lydia at home and the girl is not sick at all. She believes that you, Miss Hill, have instructed the lass to remain truant until you can clear her name. Is this true?

  My heart was pounding. The matrons were all prudish gossips. They’d not liked me from the start.

  “I do not know what you mean,” I lied. I could not look at him as I spoke. I am a terrible liar. My eyes always give me away. I looked at the floor.

  “Really?” Mr. Edge stood and walked around the desk. He moved in front of me and put a finger under my chin, tilting it up until I was forced to look into his eyes.

  “You deny it?” he asked.

  “I do,” I confirmed, praying my eyes would not betray me as they always did. But one look into his told me that they were doing just that.

  “So if I told you that I went around and spoke to Lydia’s parents and they confirmed the matron’s story, then what would you say?”

  I said nothing, afraid now to say anything.

  “Miss Hill,” he said. “I am a patient man until I am met with willful defiance. I will have an answer from you.”

  I swallowed. I had no way to know if Mr. Edge were bluffing. But he did not strike me as the type of man to bluff. I began to speak, choosing my words carefully.

  “I work with these girls every day,” I began. “I see their interaction, their spitefulness, the way they prey on the weakest among them. I see what goes on between them, the hierarchy, the meanness..”

  “You’re not answering my question.” He cut me off, his authoritative tone effectively dashing the beginnings of what I’d hoped would be an adequate excuse for misleading him. “I’m looking for a yes or no answer, Miss Hill, not a dissertation. Surely as an a teacher you know the difference.”

  “It’s true,” I said quietly. “But my motives were good, I assure you.”

  “Motives…” He said the word as if pondering it, turning as he spoke to walk back round to the other side of his desk. Once there he put his hands on the surface, leaned over, and looked at me. “Miss Hill,” he said. “This is grounds for dismissal. You understand that, do you not?”

  I looked at him, stricken. I was from a good family, but not a wealthy one. I needed my job. I told him so, my voice shaking and on the verge of tears. “Mr. Edge. Please….” I began.

  “I am not entirely unsympathetic to your plight,” he said. “But there must be consequences. When students here disobey, they are sent here and corrected with the cane. It is always a choice - the cane or expulsion.” He paused. “I’m prepared to offer you the same choice.”

  It took a few moments for the words to sink in. I was a teacher, not a student. The idea of being caned was mortifying. My mouth grew dry as I stood there staring at him in disbelief.

  “I’m waiting for your answer,” he said. “Will you accept correction or will you leave?”

  I could not leave. Tears welled up in my eyes and I began to shake. I would never make it outside of this school, especially if I were turned out without a reference. “Please, sir,” I begged. “Can’t I explain?”

  “You can explain after your correction, should that be what you choose. If you choose to leave, then your explanation is irrelevant. Lying is not tolerated. For any reason.”

  “I can’t leave,” I said.

  “And so…”

  My voice was shaking. �
�If I can only stay by choosing the cane then I….”

  “Then you what?”

  Could he be so cruel as to make me say it? I took a ragged breath and finished the sentence. “Then I accept the caning.”

  He nodded, as if we’d just come to the end of some business deal. And I suppose for a practical man, it was a bit like that. I’d broken the rules. He was giving me a chance to make amends, and keep my job. If I were an awful teacher, he’d have sent me away. But I was not, and we both knew it. Still, there had to be consequences. But this?

  “Bend over and put your hands on my desk,” he instructed as he turned to remove the cane from the wall.

  I complied, feeling shaky and scared. Mr. Edge walked behind me and I gasped as I felt him clutching the sides of my skirt at the hips and pulling them upward.

  “Sir! What are you doing?”

  “Surely you do not expect me to correct you effectively through all that fabric?” he asked, as if I were simple for even asking. “Rest assured your modesty will be observed. It is simply the skirt that is being moved aside.”

  I knew this meant he would be leaving my undergarments in place, but they were thin cotton, and the shape of my bottom was quite visible through the material. I felt my face flush red with shame as the cool air of the room raised goose bumps on the skin of my bottom through the undergarment. I felt exposed and tears of humiliation trickled from my eyes as a small sob choked itself past my lips.

  “Now, now,” he said. “I’ve not even begun your punishment and you’re already crying? I have students who are braver.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” I responded. “I doubt they feel the same level of embarrassment, given that they are youngsters better suited for correction.”

  He gave no warning and he brought the cane down hard across the middle of my bum. I cried out and began to sob. “Every disobedient spirit is suited for correction,” he said. He’d leaned over and his mouth was inches from my ear. I could feel his breath on my neck. I could not move. “Hold still,” he said.