Broadmoor's Haughty Headmistress

As always, story characters are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * *

Michael Sadkins noticed the perplexed look that flashed across Laurie Reynolds' pretty face when she handed him his term paper. A glance at it showed why; there was not a mark on it. Michael looked left and right. His classmates' papers were covered in Professor Havel's tiny, elegant, and always legible handwriting.

Eighty year old Professor Havel, an immigrant from the Czechoslovakia, was old school. In fact, he was pre-old school. Every year his students turned in their final papers on Thursday in writing. He did not want them faxed, sent by e-mail, or twittered; he said he did not understand such things, they were best left to the young.

Every year he returned them on Tuesday, covered in copious notes addressing grammatical and spelling errors, pointing out flaws in logic, suggesting tighter better sentences, questioning the validity of and proposing alternative sources, recommending different ways to organize the material and, without exception, finding something good to say about every paper and every student. Often several pages of typed notes (yes typed, no new-fangled word processor or computer for Professor Havel) would be appended to the paper, sometimes longer than the paper itself. Under Professor Havel's guidance Broadmoor Academy students regularly turned their high school papers into articles published in academic journals. No one could figure out how he did it. Did he not sleep for five days?

Michael flipped to the second page. It, as well as every page after it, was clean as a whistle. Michael was wondering how Professor Havel had overlooked his paper - was that fabulous mind finally slipping - when he arrived at the final page. On it, in Professor Havel's handwriting, in purple ink, was a "D."

Michael Sadkins was Broadmoor's top student. He had a perfect score on the ACT's. He took more than half his classes at near-by Dartmouth University. He had thought his paper, an analysis of the influence of Edmund Burke's political and social conservatism on Moby Dick, was one of his better efforts. More confused then anything else, he waited for the class to leave and approached Professor Havel.

"Sir."

The old man pulled out a handkerchief, which, as always, matched his bow tie, and wiped his brow. He took off his glasses, wiped them with the handkerchief. There were tears in his eyes when he said, in an accent forty-five years in the United States had not erased, "I'm sorry Michael, my wife, the insurance..." His voice broke.

Michael understood. The legend, long confirmed, was that Havel had arrived in the United States married to a woman fifteen years younger than himself, a survivor of a concentration camp. Only one thing exceeded Professor Havel's devotion to his students, his devotion to his wife. Only one thing equaled his devotion to her, her devotion to him. Their home was always open to students and they made sure each student, during his or her years at Broadmoor, was a dinner guest. And boy could Anna Havel cook.

One month earlier she'd been diagnosed with liver cancer. So many students and faculty had lined up to see her that the hospital had to impose special restrictions on visitors. Not a day went by when cards and flowers were not delivered to her room. It was reported that the hideously expensive treatment, thankfully covered by Broadmoor's expansive medial insurance, was working.

"She threatened to fire you, take away the insurance, unless you did this."

Professor Havel was about to answer when Michael held up his hand.

"Please sir, don't say anything. You made the right choice. I know how hard this must have been for you, but you did the right thing. I understand, I got a 'D' because my paper was derivative."

Professor Havel stared, not comprehending.

"Say it sir, say your paper was derivative."

Confusion evident on his face, Professor Havel said, "Your paper was derivative."

"Good, now if you're asked what happened when I approached you about my grade you can say you told me my paper was derivative." Michael placed his hand on the old man's shoulder. "I meant what I said sir, I know how hard this must have been; you did the right thing."

"Thank you Michael."

* * * *

That afternoon Michael Sadkins did what he usually did when mulling a hard question, he hiked through the near-by hills. When he'd arrived at Broadmoor during his sophomore year he'd immediately noticed Kendall Kross; you couldn't miss her. She was brilliant, model-beautiful, and a total fucking bitch. Her mother, Kris, was the school's head mistress. Kris was Kendall on steroids.

The problems didn't start until his junior year, when he found himself the object of the nasty gossip of Kendall and her friends, who ruled Broadmoor's social network. It didn't take long to figure out the problem; his academic performance surpassed Kendall's. Kris had been valedictorian; she was determined her daughter would be also. But it was all manageable. Kendall's bullying had little effect on him. Michael friends and social life centered not on Broadmoor but on Dartmouth.

In determining class rank Dartmouth courses were weighed more heavily than Broadmoor's classes. It was the primary reason Michael's grades were substantially higher then Kendall's, who was a straight "A" student. At the beginning of Michael's senior year Kris proclaimed a retroactive change in school policy; Dartmouth courses would be given no additional weight. Kendall's grades were now within fraction of Michael's. Professor Havel's "D" would move her to the top of the class.

* * * *

For the fourth time that afternoon Kris Kross scrolled through Michael's grades. The old bastard had caved; he'd given Sadkins a "D." For the fourth time that afternoon she tapped the icon for class ranks. Her daughter ranked first; Sadkins had slipped out of the top twenty. She'd struggled to find a way to torpedo his grades without causing a faculty revolt or a student strike; no one would believe the kid could get anything but an "A." Anna Havel's cancer had been a gift. Professor Havel's integrity was beyond question and his distaste for the dictatorial manner in which Kris ran the school well-known. If he gave Sadkins a "D" it might be a cause of wonder, but no one would think it came from her.

Kris had fallen in love with Broadmoor when she'd been a student there. Perennially listed among the nation's best private high schools, it offered prestige and access to the highest levels of society. She decided she never wanted to leave. As a senior she'd induced - while letting him think it was his idea - the school's head master into her bed. When she'd turned up pregnant the doddering old fool had done the right thing, she knew he would; he divorced his wife and married her. He passed away shortly thereafter and, after some battles with his family, she'd secured control of the school and family foundation.

Her thoughts turned to her daughter. Kendall was, if anything, even more beautiful than Kris had been at that age. Slim shoulders and hips, flat belly, five feet ten inches tall, 118 pounds, 32-24-34, "A" cups. An oval face, brown eyes, dark straight hair that hung half-way down her back. Kendall knew who to look out for, herself and her mother, but did not, Kris feared, share Kris' killer instinct. Kendall belittled Sadkins and would certainly have approved of her mother's scheme, but she'd never have devised it on her own.

* * * *

Michael Sadkins was heading out of the hills, back towards the school. The previous summer he'd acquired the means to deal with Kris and her daughter, but had decided not to use it; he'd soon be on to college and the Kross' part of his past. The catty high school bullying would be forgotten and whether he graduated first really didn't matter; he'd been offered full scholarships from all the universities on his list. But now they'd fucked with Professor Havel, the most decent man Michael had ever known. They needed to be stopped.

The previous summer Michael had worked as an intern in the neuro-science lab at Dartmouth, assisting Jan Betz, a visiting researcher from Cal Tech. He was familiar with her work; he was even more familiar with her husband's work. Jon Betz was a legend in the field of behavior modification. There were rumors of a long association with the CIA, rumors that had recently intensified when Betz had unexpectedly retired to devote his time to organic farming.

Among the responsibilities of being Ms. Betz's assistant was sharing her bed, an assignment to which Michael had no objection, the attractive 35 year old had a voracious sexual appetite. And then one night, after she had too much to drink, he learned why her husband had retired. CIA funding for his research into mind control had ended when a Congressional staffer found out about it, but he'd continued the work in secret. As a graduate student, without her knowledge, Jan Betz had been subjected to certain drugs and hypnotic suggestions, which explained both her marriage to a man forty years her senior and her intense sexual needs. Her husband had continued the experiments, taken on more grad students as lovers until the CIA, in an audit of old programs, discovered what he'd done, confiscated the research, and forced him into retirement. What no one knew was that Jan had a copy of all of it.

That night he downloaded the information from her computer, he'd long ago learned her password. The next morning, through a blazing hang over, she recalled only a vague purposeless conversation

* * * *

Making sure the door locked behind her, Kris walked down the stairs of the administration building to her Maserati. During the last two days of the semester Kris had prepared herself for a confrontation with Michael Sadkins. The kid would certainly figure out what happened. But Michael had not even shown a sign of being upset. Was he smart enough to know he was beaten? Was he, in fact, for all his brains, not up to the fight, happy to give up the competition for valedictorian? Maybe he was just a pussy, afraid to face her? Kris liked the thought of having reduced him to impotence.

Her mind turned to the trip to Mexico. She and Kendall would be spending the holidays at a private resort near Tijuana. They'd make a spectacular pair; her daughter with her thin model-like build and she, shorter, a bit heavier, and with a curvy figure: 36-25-36, "C" cups, slim waist, wide hips. Same brown eyes and hair, although Kris kept her's shoulder length. They'd be the subject of many a man's fantasy.

Kendall's Jaguar was in the garage. Kris yelled for her, but there was no response. She was probably wearing headphones, listening to music in her room. Kris knocked on the door, still no response. She opened the door. Her daughter was tied to her bed, bound and gagged.

"Ms. Kross, good of you to join us."

Michael Sadkins was sitting at Kendall's desk, feet up, scrolling through her cell phone

Kris showed no sign of distress; she was used to being in control. Filling her voice with dismissive contempt she said, "What are you doing here?"

"That should be obvious."

"I'm calling the police."

She was reaching into her purse for her phone when she was yanked off her feet, falling hard on the thick expensive rug. A cord was wrapped around her ankles and fixed to the wall. There'd been some kind of trap on the floor. Michael picked up her cell phone.

Adopting a tone of barely controlled anger she said, "You realize there are laws about this. You can't break into people's houses, tie them up. I'll make sure you rot in jail."

"Yes, you do have a lot of influence," Michael answered. "And when you targeted me, well, it was no big deal, I'm moving on, it will pass. But when you went after the old man, Ms. Kross, that was unforgivable."

"What did he tell you?"

"Nothing, he didn't mention you. He told me my paper was derivative. But Ms. Kross, you knew I'd see through it. You wanted me too. It makes it sweeter for you. I'm not sure what you did to him, but for a man with that much integrity, it must have been awful."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Michael didn't answer, but continued to scroll down her phone. Then he seemed to find what he wanted; he got up from the desk.

"Time to tie you up."

He hauled her to her feet. Kris, who had been biding her time, threw a punch - she'd earned a first level black belt in karate - but he effortlessly parried it and sent her sprawling onto a chair. She looked up, surprise and, for the first time, a little fear on her face.

"Judo, eleventh dan," he said.

He tossed her onto the bed next to her daughter. Kris struggled, but he soon had her bound and tied. A gag was inserted in her mouth. He picked up both phones.

"It's amazing what's in these things. You two will be out of commission for the next few days. I'm going to see if there are any communication patterns I need to mimic. See you in a bit."

Kendall and Kris strained at the ties, without effect. They tried forcing the gags from their mouth with the same non-result. Kris could sense rising panic in her daughter, but remained calm and reviewed the situation. They were set to leave for Mexico in the morning, no one would question their disappearance. The resort might wonder where they were, but Kris had paid a deposit; right now Michael could be sending an e-mail canceling the trip or saying they'd be late. The hotel would think nothing of it. Michael would never get away with this, but he could do some damage in the meantime.

For the first time Kris worried.

The sun had long set when Michael reappeared carrying a tray with two hypodermic needles on it. He dabbed alcohol on each woman's arm, gave them an injection, waited several minutes, strapped dog choke collars around their necks, and untied them. Both women felt woozy; they sank down to their hands and knees.

"Time for dinner."

Leashes in hand, Michael headed for the kitchen Kendall followed. Kris, after the choke collar bit into her neck, did the same. Once there Michael ladled food - even in her addled state Kris noted that it smelled wonderful - from a pot onto a plate, then scraped some into two dog bowls. He removed the gags from the women's mouths.

Kris flexed her aching jaw and said, "We are not eating from dog bowls." Her speech was slurred.

Michael was non-plussed. "For the time being, suit yourselves."

Then Kendall, also struggling to speak, said, "Mama, I'm hungry, thirsty, haven't had anything since lunch."

Kris wanted to respond, but was having trouble putting a sentence together. When it finally came out her tone was uncertain, weak. It felt like something was scrambling her brain. She closed her eyes, tried to concentrate, but it did no good. She looked at Kendall; her eyes were dazed and unfocused.

"Those are the drugs I injected you with. They open the mind, break down your defenses. Now be good girls and eat up."

Kendall drank and ate hungrily; Kris still refused.

Michael, with genuine respect in his voice, said, "Ms. Kross you have a strong will." He took hold of their leashes and headed for the living room. The furniture was pushed to the side and two metal frames, built around six foot cushions, were on the floor. Electronic equipment sat on short black metal shelves next to each frame.

"It's got a technical name, but we'll call it the Mind Bender. Now pay close attention: neither of you have permission to orgasm tonight."

Kris didn't know what the fuck Michael was talking about, but had noticed that his grip on the leash had loosened. Although it was difficult - her mind seemed mired in quicksand - she moved back on her knees and lunged at him, but glanced off his legs and fell on her side. He rolled her onto a cushion and strapped her arms and legs to the frame. He did the same to Kendall and then, with a pair of heavy scissors, cut off Kendall's clothes. Kris tried to scream but what came out was an incoherent bellow.

As Kris watched, Michael clamped alligator clips to Kendall's nipples; wires ran from the clips to a black metal box. He connected electrodes to her forehead and took a cardboard box off the shelf, opened it, and placed something between Kendall's legs. It took Kris a moment to accept it, but it was exactly what it appeared to be, a moderate-sized dildo attached to a base. After coating it with lubricant Michael pushed the dildo into Kendall. Kendall pulled back, trying to escape, but was too tightly bound; the thing penetrated her easily. Kris looked to the shelf next to her; the same box was there. Her muddled mind knew real fear.

Michael covered Kendall's eyes with a heavy blindfold, her ears with noise reducing headphones, put cotton in her nostrils and a ball-gag in the mouth. As he did Kris, calling together what remaining focus she could, said, "You're insane."

"We'll find out.

Michael prepared Kris as he had her daughter. By the time he was done Kris couldn't move, speak, see, hear, or smell. She tried to think, figure a way to escape, to save her daughter, but kept losing her train of thought. She tried dredging up her anger, her longing for revenge, but could capture these emotions for only a moment before they dissipated.

And then she heard Michael through the headphones. His voice was harsh, malignant. "Ladies, it's going to be a long night. At times it will be pleasurable, at times painful. There will be times when you are very lonely. There is only one thing you can count on, my voice. It will guide you, comfort you. You will learn from it. All you need to do is listen. If you don't fight it, if you accept it, everything will be fine."

Then there was only Michael's voice. Kris didn't want to hear it; she drowned it out, singing every Beatles song she knew in her head. She had worked her way through Rubber Soul and Revolver when the dildo started to vibrate. She tried not to think about it, sang Let It Be and Hey Jude, but the vibrator kept varying d its speed, distracting her. Soon her pussy throbbed. Turning her focus to her libido, she tried to suppress the sensations. And with her attention diverted to her sex, she heard the voice.

"I am your Master. You belong to me."

"You are a possession; you are Master's property."

"You are dedicated to Master; life is serving Master."

"You crave sex. Your body craves sex. You need sex. "

"You live for your cunt; you are a slut."

"You worship Master."

The voice was absurd. He was a punk kid, not her Master, and she didn't crave sex. Sex was a weapon; her beauty was a weapon. All her life she'd used them to get what she wanted. She'd gained control of Broadmoor through sex. Sex for pleasure, that was for lesser people.

But with her attention on to the voice, the bliss in her cunt grew. She turned her mind back to it, tried to suppress the surging need. She told herself she'd never give in, never submit to this bizarre experiment, but still she was feeling intense pleasure. It must be the drugs, she thought, the drugs were making her body more sensitive, more responsive. But the thought was profitless; she couldn't extinguish the glow in her groin. The dildo was driving her crazy; it knew when to slow, it knew when to increase its pace. It pushed her to the brink of an orgasm, held her there. The voice kept going.

"You love to come; you live to come."

"You crave orgasms."

"Your body belongs to Master."

"You may come only with Master's permission. You will be punished if you come without Master's permission."

"You crave pain. Pain sets you on fire."

Then, abruptly, the vibrations stopped, but the voice kept going. Exhausted, covered in sweat, she didn't have the strength to argue with it.

"You shall obey Master."

"You are Master's slut"

"Your purpose is to serve Master."