Breaking the Headmistress

All characters are 18+. The boys are exactly 18, which is legal and we all know it. Dr Croft is considerably older, which is also legal and considerably more interesting. Look, we know what this is. You know what this is. That's why you clicked. Enjoy.

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Right. So. We shagged Dr Croft.

The headmistress. Dr Eleanor Croft, eleven years running Ashmore, forty-three expulsions, the woman who made sixth-formers cry without raising her voice and once ended a teacher's career with what I can only describe as a politely worded email of doom.

We absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent shagged her.

Still can't quite believe it.

Look, it started as revenge. Proper revenge, planned since December when she expelled Mike Trent over a bottle of Sainsbury's own-brand red and a technicality. Trent was Webb's mate. Webb came to me. I'd already had the Bristol business with Harrison to deal with. So yes, there were legitimate grievances, documented and everything, very mature and organised for a group of eighteen-year-olds. But I'd be lying if I said the planning sessions in Harrison's dorm hadn't spent at least forty percent of the time on the revenge and sixty percent on what Dr Croft's legs probably looked like under that navy dress she wore every single sodding day like a police uniform.

She always wore it with heels. That's the thing. Every day without fail. You'd be getting a bollocking for something and trying to maintain eye contact and your peripheral vision was just not cooperating.

Anyway. On to the action.

The file on her desk said *Disciplinary: Prefect Council, Summer Term* and had our names in it and Webb had done a proper job getting photos of it so we knew exactly what she was planning. Mrs Fenwick kept a spare key in her top drawer, which I'd clocked in November, filed away for later use. Planning, see. Dad always said I lacked it. Dad can get stuffed.

Forty minutes after the last admin staff cleared off I let myself in with the spare key.

She looked up and looked at the door and at me, and her expression went through about six different stages before settling on controlled. I'd watched her do that to parents, to staff, to boys who came in convinced they'd argue their way out of it. Just this absolute still professional face that made you feel like you were the problem.

"How dare you come in here. Where did you get that key?"

"Mrs Fenwick's drawer, Miss." I stepped in. "She keeps a spare."

Harrison, Keano, Webbo filed in behind me.

Her eyes went to all of us and then back to me and the controlled face had slipped slightly, maybe a millimetre, and I found that thrilling in a way I hadn't entirely prepared myself for.

"Get out. All of you, now."

"No, Miss." I came to the desk. Turned the file round to read the label. Looked at her. "You were going to use that."

"The prefect council's conduct this term--"

"You were going to pull our references." Webb from the door. "Already talked to Bristol about Harrison."

She reached for the phone.

I moved it to the far edge. Calmly, like I'd done it a hundred times, which I absolutely hadn't, and my heart was going mental but I was not going to let her see that.

Harrison quietly locked the door.

She stood up. She was wearing the dress and the fuck-me heels, obviously, and I thought: right then. Christmas has come early.

"You've planned this," she said.

"Yeah, since Christmas." I undid her belt and drew it through the loops, set it on the desk. "When you expelled my buddy Michael Trent."

That expression again. Someone doing extremely complex calculations very fast.

"Sit down, Dr Croft."

"I will not!"

Keano put his hand on her shoulder from behind and pressed her back into the chair. She sat because she's smart and she knew the alternative and I felt a bit bad about that for approximately four seconds before she opened her mouth again.

"Whatever you think you're doing, this ends with all four of you expelled."

"We're leaving in a fortnight regardless." Webbo, still from the door. "There's nothing left to threaten us with."

She had nothing for that one. Could see her not having it.

I reached up and took her glasses off.

She wore them for reading, took them off for assemblies, I'd watched her do it a thousand times. It shouldn't have been anything. I set them down carefully on the desk and she looked up at me and something in her face shifted by that same millimetre and I thought: good. Now we're getting somewhere.

"Stand up," I said.

"No."

Keano brought her to her feet and she went on her own terms, which told me something about her, and she stood in front of me in the dress and the heels and I thought about every Tuesday double period for three years and started on the buttons.

"Don't," she said.

First button.

"Don't," she said again, differently.

Second button. Third. Going slowly on purpose, partly for effect and partly because my hands were doing a thing where they didn't quite want to cooperate at normal speed.

The dress came off and she stepped out of it herself, which I hadn't expected, and I looked at her properly for the first time - the blouse and the suspender belt and the stockings and the heels she wore every single day of her professional life - and I said "Fuck a duck" under my breath before I could stop myself like some absolute melt.

Keano was smirking. Harrison had gone bright red.

She knew exactly what she looked like. She'd always known. She just never let any of us acknowledge it.

Keano came round behind her and stripped the blouse off. Webbo had found the shoes under the desk and set them on the floor in front of her, then picked one up and handed it to Harrison, who took it to the far side of the room and stood with his back half-turned. I didn't comment. Neither did anyone else.

I kissed her, gently on the lips.

She didn't kiss back. Kept her mouth closed, hands at her sides, giving me nothing. Complete professional. Very Dr Croft.

I kissed her again and this time pushed my tongue in and she responded for about a quarter of a second before she shut it back down.

But that quarter of a second.

Logged.

When I pulled back I was breathing harder than I wanted to be. She wasn't. Technically. Apart from a slight flush across her chest that she couldn't control, which I was going to pretend I hadn't noticed. For now.

"On your knees," I said.

"No."

"Come on then, lads."

Harrison and Keano brought her down and she went slowly with what little dignity was left and knelt on the office carpet in her bra and suspender belt while I stood over her and undid my trousers and thought: sixteen-year-old me would combust on the spot.

I put my hand in her hair. Still arranged. She'd done it that morning in the same mirror she'd used for eleven years.

"Open your gob Miss," I said.

She kept her mouth shut.

So I tightened my grip.

She opened. Who knew eh?

Right. Well. If I were doing Singapore Top Trumps for this particular moment I'd be giving it about a twelve out of ten and breaking the scale. The headmistress of Ashmore College on her knees in her own office. Stockings. The whole thing. I was going to need a minute to process this at some future point but not right now.

I fucked her mouth and she took it and somewhere in the middle of it she made a sound that wasn't planned at all and I looked down at her and she looked up at me with wet eyes and this expression that was still trying to be controlled and managing it less and less. There you are, I thought. That's her. Under all of it.

Harrison said something behind me that I didn't catch but I could hear the grin in it.

I pushed until she gagged and held her there, her hands braced on my thighs, and she was breathing hard when I pulled back. The flush on her chest was proper now, all the way down, and her thighs were pressed together and I thought: oh brilliant. This is going very well.

I stepped back. Keano was already moving.

Harrison, Keano, Webbo, and me. We stood round her in a loose half-circle while she knelt on the carpet and I thought about December, about Trent, about Harrison's Bristol phone call, about the monitoring rotas and three years of being used as institutional furniture, and I also thought about how fit Dr Croft was on her knees in her own office and honestly both things were equally present in my brain and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

She looked at us. That controlled face. That slip.

"Open your mouth," I said.

She opened it.

It was, I will say, the single most mental thing that has ever happened to me including the jade egg incident and Fat Wong's niece with the cigarette. All four of us, right there, and Dr Croft kneeling in the middle of it with her chin up and her face doing that thing where it tried very hard to be somewhere else while her body wasn't. She swallowed what she swallowed and took the rest on her face and her chest and didn't close her eyes once.

When it was over she sat back slightly and breathed and looked at nothing in particular and I thought: Christ, she's something else.

"Desk," I said, and helped her up.

Harrison cleared her papers, which was almost funny, all that careful bureaucracy shoved to one side. She was lifted onto the surface and I stood between her knees and kissed her and this time, this time, she kissed me back.

Not because she'd given up. I could feel the difference. More like she'd made a decision, a very Dr Croft decision, to manage the situation, and kissing me back was managing it. Which I found both impressive and, frankly, incredible.

Her neck. Her chest. I got her knickers off and pocketed them, no particular reason, just felt right, and she didn't say a word. I pushed her back.

When I pushed into her the room was very quiet and she was soaking wet and we both heard it and she looked at the ceiling and arched off the desk before she'd decided to and I thought: there she is again.

I fucked her properly, no messing about, and she lay there with her palms flat on the desk and her heels in the air and her face tilted up and stopped pretending to be anywhere else. Her body had given up on her entirely and she'd stopped fighting it, and she was loud, louder than she'd meant to be, the kind of sounds you can't plan or manage or file away.

Keano stepped up beside the desk and turned her head.

"It's fine," I said, without breaking stride. "I checked. No one's coming."

She came with Webb's hands at her throat and Keano in her mouth and me buried inside her tight snatch and her hips off the desk and her hands scratching at the wood and the sound she made was nothing like the person who'd sat on the other side of that desk for eleven years and it went on for a thoroughly satisfying amount of time.

I finished shortly after. Stood back for a second. Took my phone out.

"Don't," she said.

I took it anyway. One shot. The desk, her thighs, everything leaking out of her onto the wood she'd sat behind for eleven years. Keano looked over my shoulder and made a sound. Harrison didn't look.

She said nothing. There was nothing left to say about it.

I pocketed the phone and helped her sit up.

She sat on the edge of her own desk and breathed. Covered in all of us. Hair mostly still up, somehow, though one pin had given up entirely.

Harrison was clumsy and apologised after, which she clearly hadn't expected. I could see it land on her, that small unexpected thing, and she looked at him for a moment with an expression that wasn't in the plan.

Keano was the roughest and made her hold his gaze and said *no* quietly when she tried to look away and that one she minded. I could tell.

Webb picked her heels up from the floor when he was done and placed them on the desk beside her, both of them, carefully. One of them had been Harrison's and we all knew what he'd done with it and nobody said a word.

When it was over I held her dress out. She took it. Put it on herself. Found the belt herself. Turned away to do the bra and blouse and when she turned back she was Dr Croft again, more or less, or a version of her that was having a decent go at it.

I put her glasses on the desk.

She put them on.

Looked at me for a long time.

"The copies," she said. Level. I was impressed by it.

"They exist. Don't worry about where."

"Harrison's reference."

"Will be corrected."

She sat down, opened the disciplinary file, picked up her pen and wrote for a long time. When she looked up her face was completely still.

"Get out of my school."

We went. Me last. I stopped at the door.

"You'll still be here in September," I said. "That's the thing."

She looked at me.

"Yes."

I nodded. I'd expected to feel more about it, the victory part, the revenge. And it was there, definitely. Trent's name in those files, Harrison's Bristol call, three years of being used and disposed of. All of that was real.

But mostly I was thinking about Dr Croft. Every single Tuesday double period for three years. Turns out I was right about everything. The legs. The heels. All of it.

Eleven out of ten. Breaking the scale entirely.

I closed the door.