The Principal: A Novel of Lesbian Love

Susanna Valent

Chapter One

It was her haughty little sniff that at once annoyed and amused me. Every day, it was the same scenario. I would go out to the flagpole in front of the high school at around 5:30 PM to lower the flag. As I was folding it, she would come down the broad, shallow front steps and head for her car, briefcase in hand, purse slung over her shoulder.

I would say. “Have a pleasant evening, Dr. Jeffries.'

She would sniff.

That was it.

I don't think she even knew my name.

That didn't interfere with my enjoyment, that very evening, of one of many masturbatory fantasies about the principal of Windy Ridge High.

She sweeps into the room and removes her cape with a flourish, tossing it onto the leather sofa.

“Come here, Jane.'

Her voice, soft and cultured, belies the toughness of character that is her trademark. At school, during the day, she never speaks to me. No one knows that we have even met. At night, in her office, it's different. Then, there, we indulge our wildest desires.

Naked, of course, I crawl across the floor of her office, scraping my nipples along the rough pile of her carpet. Finally my nose is bare inches from the toes of her high, black boots.

“Greet me.'

Careful not to touch her leather with my hands, I pay homage with my tongue, covering her boots from sole to ankle with kisses. I'm not allowed to kiss above the ankles, either. Not yet, anyway.


She steps behind me and bends to shackle my wrists. Turning abruptly, she strolls behind her desk, leaving me facedown on the floor. I wait, paralyzed by my vow of obedience to her.

When she snaps her fingers, though, I respond. Two snaps means under the desk. I scramble awkwardly into the darkness and she rolls her chair into position. Flicking aside the calf-length skirt of her gray, cashmere dress, she sits in the enormous chair, flinging one leg over an arm.

One snap. The command to service.

I bow my head to her cleft. Dry at the moment, I will leave it steaming or my life won't be worth the pittance the Board of Education pays me. But I am not concerned, for I am the only one who knows how to pleasure this harsh, demanding woman. She herself has told me that no one else has passed her tests. No one else has demonstrated the willingness to submit, the staying power to return on command, the ability to make her come in great, volcanic surges.

It is a hard life, and hard to accept that I am nothing but a sex slave, and never will be. But I have at least reached one life-long goal, that of submissive to a capable dominant; a fair dominant, too, one who rewards me for good behavior, disciplines me just enough, and punishes only when warranted.

For now, though, my only concern is her pleasure. Whatever may happen to me is irrelevant. I lick her soft, smooth warmth, careful to keep a steady rhythm, a respectful pressure. A lapse of attention could prove disastrous, as any distraction can interfere with our mutual goal.

“Uhhhh… “she sighs.

I stifle an answering sigh of relief. Here in the cramped kneehole of her desk is not a good place to spend the night, precisely the punishment for failing to make my mistress come. It has only happened once.

“Steady… steady…” she warns, not that I need warning. My head continues to bob in her lap and I feel a casual touch on the back of my neck. I shudder. It is not loving, merely proprietary, yet I crave any contact with her.

“Slowly,” she whispers, and I can tell from this one word that her breathing is more rapid now. Her gloved hand presses down, the signal for me to lick harder.

Suddenly her hand is withdrawn, but I know where it is. Both hands grip the edge of her desk to keep the chair from rolling. My mistress approaches climax and growls as she draws closer. I continue my exact pattern without stopping, knowing better than to experiment, ever.

“Uh, uh, aaaahhhhhh!” she shrieks, rolling the chair tightly under the desk to keep my face in her boiling pussy. Some liquids escape; that can't be helped, but she enjoys a ferocious climax, and then another.

“Cease,” she breathes, and I withdraw slightly to clean up the oozing liquids I have coaxed from a reluctant and heretofore unloved cunt.

Eventually she backs the chair away and I fall on my face at her feet again. She leans down and releases the handcuffs, dropping them into the back of a desk drawer.

“Friday,” she says, rising to leave. “Don't touch yourself.'

“No, Mistress,” I mutter into the rug. It is not unexpected. I usually come no more than once a week, and I know better than to cheat. The penalty for that is the loss of my position as her slave.

The door closes behind her, and I am alone once again in the darkness of her office.

I'm Jane Naismith, and at the time of that fantasy, I actually was a school janitor. I had been a lot of other things, and my mother would have been appalled at some of them, but she was no longer sharing my plane of existence. In fact, it was her death that had propelled me out of a cold and angry relationship and a dead-end job to live alone and write. But at the same time, one has to pay the bills. I moved from suburban Tampa to a rural setting fifty miles further away, far out in the country, a location not at all suitable to my lesbian lifestyle, but I had a plan. I would do my dull-but-dependable job by day or night (it hardly mattered which) and write during all other waking hours undistracted by culture, media, socializing, religion, you name it. I was going to stay in that job and write my books and mind my own business until further notice, or I won the lotto.

There was one other, tiny distraction I had to allow myself, both for the money and the experience, and frankly, to satisfy my physical needs without getting involved. I had had enough involvement to last me a lifetime.

The dungeon. That wasn't its official name; that was what we insiders called it. Located in a basement under an old cigar factory in Ybor City, it was, as far as anyone knew, the only D/s location for lesbians on the entire Sun Coast of Florida, and that was just fine with us, because we charged whatever the traffic would bear and profited handsomely. Not enough to provide health and retirement benefits for the entire staff, but enough to supplement our day jobs and have some fun.

I found it during the days of my mother's final illness, after my retired lover, sick of living with someone who was dying of cancer, ran off to Colorado, indefinitely, to visit her folks. That's what she called it.

“Call me after she's dead,” Lucille advised.

I never did.

But, back to the dungeon. Having stumbled across it while looking for a much more run-of-the-mill bar, and realizing no one there knew me, I stayed. I stayed and stayed and returned again and again, only lurking at first, then taking my first tentative steps into the hidden world of lesbian dominance and submission. There was always a nurse's aide or hospice volunteer at the house, and no one thought anything of my absences late on Friday night or Sunday afternoon. In fact, Lucille's sudden departure to Aspen caused more alarm and curiosity than my unexplained excursions. How they came to the conclusion that I was off being comforted by friends who never appeared at the house, I'll never know, but it left me some free time to get out of myself and away from my problems and come to a decision.

After Mom died, I put her affairs in order and discovered she had left me enough to make a break. I hired a lawyer, she contacted Lucille, I packed my stuff and Lucille sent me a check for my part of the house. With it and my inheritance, I moved to Windy Ridge (a misnomer, but never mind) and began my new life: school janitor by

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