Page 26 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

For that little comment, I allow my hand to run along the length of my shaft and then I grab onto my cock with a firm grip and move my hand slowly and more purposefully, looking Zayna right in the eye.

“You’re clearly very smart,” I tell her. “I’m not surprised at all that you were a teacher.”

I start stroking my dick right in front of her with slow, smooth strokes. I feel like I’m about to cum just watching her gawk at me. Terror. Surprise. But she can’t help that it makes hera little horny too. Zayna’s face glazes over with the sheer impact of her emotional confusion.

“Ruger…” she stammers out, unable to drop her gaze or hide her true fascination with me.

Chapter Eleven

Zayna

Massachusetts, 2 years ago

Iknow pacing relentlessly in front of the principal’s office won’t help my case, but I can’t help it. This time, they went too far. Too damn far. Someone has to do something. From the first day I got here, these kids never respected me. They seem to think I’m no more than a kid myself. I have a Master’s Degree. And even if I didn’t, I deserve some respect.

I’m just saying it’s my job to stand up there and teach, which means I should have some authority to discipline. Unfortunately, this isn’t the case.

Mr. Sutter, a gigantic man who looks like a pimple with an off-brand Donald Trump wig from Spirit Halloween, opens the door. I wouldn’t hate this man with every fiber of my being if he hadn’t been making the situation with these students worse. Even his fucking smile gaslights me.

“Miss Fontaine! Come on in. I heard you were in trouble today,” he says with a dismissive chuckle that already feels like twisting in the knife from earlier. I was in trouble?That’s really how we’re framing this? I’m almost surprised the superintendent isn’t in the room or some other gaslighter in chief working for the school administration. It doesn’t take long before you learn that teaching isnotabout education – it’s about politics. I think we’ve all had enough of politics in this country, especially the cruel bureaucracies in the teaching profession where you get punished for caring.

But it’s just one administrative blowhard. Tom Sutter. The douche bag. He pulls out a chair for me and I double check that one of these demonic ass students hasn’t left a shit stain in it. I learned to do that from experience. He walks around to his side of his desk, unnecessarily adjusting his football trophies from high school as he makes his way to his seat.

If the only thing you have left after being a star tight end is the head injuries, there’s no need to remind everybody about it every chance you get.

I try to collect myself. I’m already having the dark thoughts I promised I wouldn’t bring to the table.

“Mr. Sutter,” I begin calmly with the warm obsequious tone women in the teaching profession learn to have with their superiors. It’s so fucking demeaning. “The three students I’ve spoken to you about cornered me in the hallway outside of class, groped my behind and took videos of the entire thing. They’re escalating this behavior and what these boys are doing is criminal. It’s assault.”

He gives me a smile that says “are you fucking serious”, because he genuinely believes that this is a non-issue.

“Miss Fontaine…”

I interrupt him. “Mr. Sutter, these boys have threatened to rape me. They are telling me exactly what they’re going to do and you’re telling me there’s nothing the school can do?”

This time, I don’t give a shit about this stupid job — even if honestly, I’m very much behind on my bills and need thisteaching job to catch up on the shit I went through during that stupid ass global virus. My health insurance was nowhere near where it needed to be before I caught pneumonia of all damn things.

I’m still paying off those three damn days in the hospital. But I’m too outraged to stay quiet about this. The police were even worse than this vanilla gorilla manspreading in front of me, but Mr. Sutter is my boss and I might not be able to press charges against a “bunch of kids for a prank” (as I was told), but I can definitely sue this workplace. For something!

“Listen, Zayna. They’re kids. They’re private school kids. They might be exploring the boundaries of their intellect. Their sexuality… They’re self-expressing. Here at Barbour-Barnes & Goodenough Academy, we encourage that.”

“You encourage female teachers getting raped?”

His face hardens. Like I’ve done something wrong. I swear, I’m about to catch a case.

“Listen. Those are serious accusations. Most of these boys are on track to Early Decision at Harvard or at the very least Princeton.”

“They threatened to rape me,” I say, emphasizing each word slowly, hoping that at least the word “rape” seeps into this man’s head. He sighs, clearly frustrated with me.

“I’ll talk to them,” he says. “Take a sick day tomorrow and come back refreshed on Monday. The job gets to all of us, Zayna. I sympathize with that.”

This man wouldn’t know what sympathy was if it laid eggs in his rectum.

“I’ll takemy sick day. Paid.”

I’m quaking with rage, but this is all I can muster. Taking my paid sick day with a fucking attitude instead of actually doingsomething. All because I had to get pneumonia… From a failed situationship of all things. Imagine getting ghosted by a guy and still paying for the fucking hook up a year later.

“Thank you,” Tom Sutter says, leaning back and glancing at his old football trophies as if he’s about to launch into another one of his completely vapid stories about the ‘glory days’ — when this school didn’t admit women or black students.

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