Prologue

At two o’clock in the morning, on a cool, crisp Tuesday in mid-September, the alarm on Anne-Marie Haskell’s iPhone began to chime. In a fit of irritation, she swiped the screen to dismiss the disturbance and turned back to watch the suspiciously good looking reality TV couple finish their epic shouting match, which ended when the hunky boyfriend, Nicco, called his Instagram model girlfriend, Tonya, a bitch and stalked out of their suspiciously large Miami beach house, leaving her behind to sob glamorously on a suspiciously luxurious Italian leather sofa to a swelling, emotional soundtrack featuring poppy, indie backing vocals.

“What a fuckin’ asshole,” Anne-Marie muttered as the credits began to roll.

After a long, feline stretch, the lithe twenty-eight year old English teacher paused the show before the next episode could auto start. Then she rose from her bed in a form fitting cotton onesie, spilling peanut butter pretzel bite crumbs onto the carpet in the process, and shuffled to the vestibule to pull on a stretchy pink cashmere sweater and slip on a pair of well-worn Minnetonkas. Her special pair that she adored more than anything in the world, but which she would never, ever wear on a date because they smelled like death itself. Snatching the tiny LED flashlight off the key rack on her way out the door, Anne-Marie, the Dormitory Supervisor on duty that night, or as she preferred to be called, Dorm Mistress, grudgingly began the last round of evening room checks at Overton House.

Overton was the newest building on Scirewood Academy’s thirty-acre campus, tucked amid the rolling foothills of the Appalachian Mountains north of Asheville, nestled between the Cherokee and Pisgah National Forests, and within spitting distance of Smoky Mountain National Park.

That’s not to say that the building was brand new or anything like that. Rather, it spoke to the great age of the venerable old boarding school. The four-story dormitory had in fact been constructed over a quarter century earlier, in the late nineties, to consolidate housing for the sixty-odd teenaged girls who comprised the entire student body of the one-hundred-twenty year old Scirewood Academy, recently named the state’s top rated private school for STEM education.

Anne-Marie stepped into the ADA required elevator, although none of the current students needed it for reasons of disability, and pressed the button for the fourth floor, preferring to start her rounds at the top of the house and work her way down. At the end of a narrow hallway, across from the bathroom, she cracked the door to the only dorm room on that floor and peeked her head inside, quickly tracing the dim beam of her little flashlight over the four double bunks to confirm that her charges were all still tucked into their beds and sound asleep as they should be. Satisfied that they were, she closed the door and crept downstairs to the third floor.

Michelle Hsi, graduating senior and president of Scirewood’s Robotics Club, waited fifteen minutes after Dorm Mistress Haskell popped her head into the room and flashed her little light around before sitting up in bed.

“She’s gone.”

The seven girls who shared the bunk room with her, all of them fellow Robotics Club members, pulled back their blankets and sat up, nervous and excited murmurs drawing them out of their warm beds in t-shirts and panties to cram in with Michelle onto her narrow bunk. Michelle’s laptop was already waking up. After spending a few minutes connecting to her cellphone’s WiFi hotspot to bypass the school’s restrictive Internet monitoring software, she launched a VPN to further cover her tracks. They were venturing into forbidden territory now, and she wanted to leave no trace of their passing.

“What the fuck’s taking so long?” Sophia Bryce asked impatiently. Sophia was a junior and vice president of the Robotics Club, as well as a player in Scirewood’s Uptight Zoomer Brigade comedy troupe, and a founding member of the Cyberpunk Teenagers from Outer Space gaming crew.

“I’m connecting through Amsterdam,” Michelle said, either not tuning in to her number two’s snippy attitude, or choosing to ignore it. “Just a second...” The notification icon turned green. “We’re connected.”

She opened a private browser window and her delicate fingers flew over the laptop’s low profile keys in a blur to enter the address she knew by heart.

>https://bondagecore-extreme.com

The website took ages to load, and the girls squirmed to get more comfortable and jockey for position. A palpable buzz of excitement rippled through the tiny cadre of perverts as Michelle typed into the site’s search box.

>DaddyLush Artificer

Graphic thumbnails for the seventeen videos they’d all watched dozens of times each appeared on screen.

“Which one?” Michelle asked, already hovering over a video titled Session 43. Her particular favorite, and an intriguing indication that there were potentially twenty-six other videos out there in the world somewhere they still hadn’t seen yet, but which Michelle had failed to unearth despite throwing many hours at the task.

“Twenty-eight,” Izzy Cabrera, a precocious freshman who was a member of the Robotics Club by virtue of the fact that she was the most skilled Python and C# developer among them by far, said to the groan of the others.

“You just like seeing him piss in her mouth, don’t you freak?” Olivia Redmond asked, ribbing Izzy with her elbow.

“No I don’t,” Izzy said quietly, but they all knew that, deep down, she really did.

“Sure, squirt. Keep telling yourself that.” A plump, busty, short-haired senior, Olivia was the Robotics Club treasurer, and was called “Red” by the others because they understood she was a girl who knew how to get things. “Eh, fuck it. Twenty-eight sounds good to me.”

“Numero dos,” Mia Clark, a pale, fresh-faced blonde sophomore with perpetually rosy cheeks suggested. “We haven’t watched that one in a while.”

Sophomores Chloe Davis and Madison Anderson both voted for Mia’s choice of Session 2 and, as usual, the dark and brooding junior, Endora Hardin, kept her preferences to herself.

“Number two it is,” Michelle said, clicking the link.

Eight heads pressed forward to view the screen as the video started.

A naked woman in her early to mid-twenties kneeled with her body bent over a low, padded steel bar spanning two upright four-by-four posts. Her ankles were connected by chains to steel rings embedded in the floor behind her, and leather straps secured her outstretched arms to the bar at the shoulders and wrists, leaving her head hanging a foot off the ground with her pretty blonde hair brushing the dirty floor.

The man, identified as either DaddyLush or the Artificer, depending on which pirate posted the video, appeared from offscreen and strode purposefully to the woman from behind. His magnificent body was a sight to behold. Lean and strong, every muscle group bulging and sharply defined, with not a hint of body fat to be found. In fact, even his abs showed signs of vascularity. Between his muscular thighs hung a large, heavy cock, hard and thick with excitement and desire.

Adding to the aura of brutality and mystique surrounding the man, he wore a black leather hooded mask on his head. Even so, the eight teenaged girls watching did not have to imagine what his handsome, chiseled face might look like, for they already knew the identity of the enigmatic and well hung man behind the mask.

Or at least, they thought they did.

“Oh my god, Mr. Messina is so fucking hot I can’t stand it!” Sophia Bryce hissed, already feeling a warmth between her thighs that she knew would soon lead to a lovely, satisfying orgasm once she was back in bed.

It was Michelle who first made the discovery, nearly four months ago now, while deep down a rabbit hole of extreme bondage and BDSM videos. When she first came across Session 43, it had intrigued her solely for the inventiveness of the mechanical contraption that fucked the woman to orgasm after screaming orgasm. The masked man who operated the machine, while lean and fit and extremely well endowed, did not seem exceptional to her at first.

Then she noticed the tattoo on his muscular forearm. A very distinctive Eastern symbol that she had only seen one other time in her life, on the muscular forearm of her ridiculously attractive science teacher, Mr. Messina. Michelle still recalled the tingling sensation that coursed through her body and pricked her scalp as the connection was made between the brutal, sexual dominate on the screen in front of her and the kind-spoken, gorgeous man every girl and teacher at the school had secretly lusted after since the day he first arrived at Scirewood just a couple of months earlier.

The next day during class, she’d surreptitiously snapped several photos of Mr. Messina’s tattoo while he handed out papers, and carefully compared it to the one in the Session 43 video. They were nearly identical, but not quite. Mr. Messina’s was slightly more ornate, with hints of color missing from the one in the video. And there was another difference that nearly caused her to chalk it all up to nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. The masked man’s tattoo was located on his left forearm, while Mr. Messina’s was on his right.

Had Michelle not been the extremely bright and gifted girl she was, it might have ended there. A vague similarity between the two men that she could nonetheless use as a proxy to fuel her teenaged fantasies of being bound and fucked by her science teacher. But Michelle began to reason through the differences, and subjected them to her sharp, analytical mind.

The video had been posted to the porn site ten years ago, according to the timestamp under the thumbnail, but for all she knew, it might have been even older than that. Michelle knew that people rarely stopped at just one tattoo, gradually adding more and more, and even embellishing the ones they already had. This could explain the difference between the simple tattoo on the masked man’s arm and the more ornate one on Mr. Messina’s.

But the fact that the tattoos were on opposite arms continued to confound her, until she learned that pirated videos are often reversed to prevent the automated copyright checkers from detecting them. With her heart beating rapidly in her chest, Michelle downloaded the video and used her laptop’s built-in video editing software to horizontally flip the screen. When she painstakingly compared the two tattoos, she trembled with excitement. They were a perfect match. The same exact location and orientation.

There was no doubt in her mind. The man known to her as DaddyLush and the Artificer was, in fact, her very own science teacher.

Of course, being a collaborative and social young lady, there was no chance she could keep this knowledge to herself. By the next day, Michelle’s irrefutable evidence had been presented to the other seven girls in her dorm room, and her conclusion was confirmed by all of them without exception. The muscular man with the huge cock in the black mask was undoubtedly Mr. Messina.

The Robotics Club was formed that very same day. Michelle had originally proposed the club as an excuse for the eight of them to spend even more time alone with the object of their teenaged sexual fantasies. Not long after, however, another idea began to take shape in Michelle’s prurient mind. A plan for how to turn their unspoken fantasies into actual reality. A bold and dangerous plan that would take the combined effort of all their skills and ingenuity to pull off.

After much cajoling and arm-twisting by Michelle, her plan was finally agreed to by her seven cohorts, and quietly set into motion.

After completing her appointed rounds, and a quick stop off in the kitchen for a glass of water, Anne-Marie slipped out of Overton House though the side door and shuffled down a narrow gravel pathway to a picnic table hidden beneath a small grove of pine trees to smoke a cigarette and browse Tinder. Smoking was, of course, strictly forbidden anywhere on school property, but there was no one around to catch her at two twenty in the morning.

She quickly skimmed through the eleven new messages she’d received since her last visit, replying with one word responses or emojis to a few of them, but ignoring the rest. Anne-Marie considered herself to be moderately attractive. At least a seven if she’d been forced to assign herself a score. Maybe even a seven and a half. Well above average, anyway. She had a slim physique, a kind, pretty face, and a decent pair of medium-sized breasts that she was quite proud of. So why couldn’t she seem to attract any men that rated above a six? Hell, she would probably settle for a six at this point, she admitted to herself, if they were at least tall and fit and had a decent job.

Chapter 1 »