(Mainly future) Warnings: Caning, Bondage, Verbal Abuse, explicit sex

Do not panic! A Restoration of the Heart is still my first priority and I fully expect it will be finished before the beginning of summer. However, I have never been one to sit on things. I do not see the point. My brain goes in a million different places at once, and sometimes I am struck with the need to write something, and if I have written it, I have written it. And whether or not I put it up will not change that I've taken the time to write it. SO, it will not really take away from the updates for A Restoration of the Heart…if that made any sense at all.

I was just rereading some of my works, and when I got to this one, despite having already re-written it, I was one hundred percent displeased with it. This is closer to how I had originally envisioned it, and I realized I had failed epically in the application. A warning for those of you who are fans of my other works though: this will be much, much darker than my normal stories. More sexually explicit and much less lovey dovey (though naturally it will have a happy (ish (depending on who you are)ending). Philip in the previous one just seemed too nice for what I was trying to do. He will not be so nice (or nice at all some might think) in this story.

But like I said, I am going to be writing this on and off as the muse hits me until I finish A Restoration of a Heart. People have been far too supportive and consistent in their feedback and reviews to even consider letting that one drop right now. Especially since I have it all planned out. So NO NEED TO PANIC! : - )

Let me know what you think! I know this is not everyone's cup of tea, but if you are still reading it after the warnings above, than it must have something in there that you like. So, constructive criticism is welcome, but please no flames. I know stories like this have the potential for them. If you don't like, feel free to let me know, I'm not asking for only positive reviews, but be polite. I am a delicate flower ; -)

New chapter for A Restoration of the Heart will be up tomorrow or Friday.



The school building smelled of ink, old parchment, and unwashed adolescent boys, but the structural integrity of the building could not be disputed. For three months during the spring the men of Braintree had done exceptional work on the schoolhouse, working diligently and with respectable work ethic to construct the school building. It was no doubt their religious zeal that brought them from the backbreaking work of their crops to help the community with yet more backbreaking work, and their wives dutifully helped by bringing the men cider, ale, and hot meals. Philip Ansel would stand by and watch, giving suggestions when asked of him, but remained silent when possible. So grateful was the town to have such a learned man amongst them and willing to instruct their children in the ways of London, they volunteered not to let him teach in one of their homes, but to build him a school building with a small living area attached. Were his Puritan humility not false he would have declined outright, but after the obligatory refusals, he relented.

With the building now finished he held his first class since arriving in the New World and he watched as the boys began to file in one by one, some excited, some terrified, others indifferent. Those excited, he doubted were excited because they would be taught letters and arithmetic, but because they would be spared the long morning in the fields. True as it was that at noon they would all go back to help their father's bring in the crops at the hottest hour of the day, they were spared the extra work. Those terrified he saw were those that had attempted to speak with him during the building of the school building. He had always been a man to refrain from speaking when not necessary, and when he did speak, it was with clipped and harsh words. Those indifferent were the merchant's children that had yet to speak with him.

He watched some young girls walk into the building with slight annoyance, but mainly indifference. They need only learn to read the bible and would then be placed back into the home where they belonged. He cared little about a seven or eight year old girl coming to learn her letters with her brothers. No, it was the lone young woman that stepped into the school house, pretty young face smiling, cheeks flushed with excitement, and arms full of books, ink, quill, and her own parchment that bothered him. He watched her, eyes dark and penetrating as she crossed the room and sat as close to the front as she could with the rest of the older boys. He watched in annoyance and growing anger that they were not surprised to see her there, and was quite certain his hearing must be failing when he heard one boy ask her how to spell his name on the top of his parchment.

When everyone was seated he waited for them to fall silent, scanning his eyes over the crowed of children. No doubt it would be cut in half by the end of the week, and only a fourth would remain after that. At the moment it meant little to him which fools were weeded out, as long as the young lady seated a few feet in front of him and to his right was back where she belonged by the end of the day. If what he heard was true, and she knew her letters, she had no place in a center of learning. Her eyes turned on him first as the room began to quiet and she smiled shyly at him when she saw he was staring, but he offered no warm welcome in return. She looked down shortly after making eye contact, blushing and glancing up at him hesitantly until the room was quiet.

"Stand, girl," he said when everyone's attention was on him. She looked up to see if he was speaking to her before obeying. He watched with satisfaction as her hands trembled where she held them in front of her. "What is your name?"

"Rosamond Teague, sir," she answered softly. She had pretty blue eyes and light brown hair barely visible underneath her bonnet, and her heart shaped face was covered with anxiety. That anxiety, he very much wanted to turn to fear.

"Tell me, Rosamond Teague, can you read?" he asked her.

"Yes, sir," she answered proudly. Any compassion he might have had for the girl vanished. It might be her father's fault for not keeping her at home to learn what was necessary to be a good wife from her mother, but the pride he saw in her eyes as she said it enraged him. He rubbed his thumb against his pointer finger as it rested against his knee and he looked at her for a long time.

"Then, Miss Teague, why are you here?" he asked and her face fell.

"I… to better learn my grammar, sir…and … some arithmetic… I know some sir, but –"

"Do you need to know arithmetic to cook, Miss Teague?" he asked and heard a boy snigger behind her. Her eyes turned wet and the natural flush on her cheeks spread to cover her entire face and inched down her throat. Her neck was small and slender and he watched as it began to glow red. When he looked back up, her blue eyes were foggy.

"No, Mr. Ansel," she replied.

"Do you need to know arithmetic to clean?" he asked and her lower lip trembled as she shook her head.

"No, Sir," she responded.

"Do you need to know arithmetic to birth children?" he asked even more cruelly and there was an eruption of snickers from the boys old enough to understand the implied suggestion.

"No, sir, but I –"

"Then you have no place here," he said and one tear fell from her eye to glide slowly down her soft cheek. He relished the triumph as she stared at him, looking small and defeated, as she should. No more pride remained in her pretty blue eyes and he looked her over, a cruel little smile tugging on his lips. She belonged on her back in some man's bed, not in a school building. He reached forward and grabbed his quill.

"You may leave, Miss Teague. Go with the rest of the young women and learn to be a proper a wife, while the rest of us learn to be proper men," he said and she hesitated a moment before grabbing her books, parchment, ink and quills. He could see now she had brought two. Once it was all collected in her arms she looked at him, arms trembling and tears silently streaming down her cheeks.

"My father –"

"Will speak to me himself if he wishes. Go now," he said again and she slid from her desk. She walked down the aisle to the laughter of the other boys and he let it continue. Had she not shown such pride he would have stopped it, but the girl needed to be brought back down a peg or two.

"Now, I want you to separate by age. All those under the age of…"


As expected Mr. Teague arrived at the school building just as the church bells in the center of town began to ring and the boys all filed out to return to the fields. He entered as the last boy of six hurried in terror from his schoolmaster, and Ansel was surprised to see Rosamond walking in behind him, eyes red and cheeks tear stained. She glanced up hesitantly and then looked toward the back of her father's head, chewing on a thin, pink lip.

Oliver Teague was a robust man with a bulbous nose and pink cheeks. He breathed too heavy and Ansel immediately saw that the girl must have gotten her looks from her mother. Ansel stood as they approached and retrieved a chair used by one of the more intelligent boys he had given specific attention to during arithmetic. The father took it and Ansel hesitated a moment. The chair had been meant for her, and it appeared as if her father would have left her to stand had Ansel not retrieved another chair for her.

"Mr. Teague," he said as he sat down and looked over at the girl. Her blue eyes glistened as they looked at him.

"Mr. Ansel, it is truly an honor," he said and the two shook hands. Ansel placed a smile on his lips and accepted it graciously. "I completely understand your reaction to my daughter's presence here this morning. I should have written or come to speak to you directly. But she is such a smart girl, truly gifted; I feel it would be a shame to waste the opportunity of a learned man such as yourself teaching in our little town."

"I dislike the notion of wasting my time instructing a woman, as bright as she may be, when I have young men with the possibility of scholarship at a real grammar school to instruct," he explained. "A girl her age has no business in a school."

"I will not need much attention, Mr. Ansel," he heard her say. He looked over sharply, angered she would speak when not spoken to.

"If she does return," he said, eyes scolding her while his words addressed her father. "She will receive little."

"She requires little," her father assured him, though he was not quite sure. "My girl was quoting Shakespeare at ten. She has a hunger for knowledge. It must be why she is so good and pure."

Ansel forced a smile and looked at her. She attempted to smile back timidly, but looked down when she found no warmth in his gaze. Good and pure, he thought to himself, feeling the beginnings of his unnatural desire stirring in his chest and loins. Surely this was the reason he had left London in the first place. The girl in his class would be his undoing. The desire to see that proud little face tear stained, to see her yearning blue eyes turned upward at him in fear and submission would surely be too much for him to withstand. This was not a prostitute he would be whipping with his cane, nor a ignorant young boy or insolent young man, but a real young lady on the cusp of womanhood. He felt his manhood stir at the thought of it. And try as he might, long after they left with the understanding she would be welcome the next day, he struggled with the compulsions coursing through him.

How long would it take for him to dissolve from hardened schoolmaster to desirous leach? How many weeks would it take for smacks to her knuckles to turn into strikes to her pale, unseen bottom? No doubt, the images plaguing him now at the thought of it, her pliable young body bent over his desk, skirts up around her hips, crying, red marks scattered about her milky bottom and thighs, would never cease so long as she was a constant reminder of his deviance.

Good and pure, he mused again. And ripe for the taking.

Those big blue eyes, innocent and guileless, did nothing more than beg him to despoil her. And as he struggled not to lower his hand into his breeches and relieve the pressure plaguing him there, he could not stop himself from imagining just that. She might cry when he struck her, beg him for clemency he would not give, but she would beg and moan and writhe beneath him like every prostitute he ever hired to work out his darker fantasies. He imagined her fighting the ropes he would use to bind her hands over her head. Small wrists fighting a most futile battle for freedom and control.

What sounds would she make he wondered. Women had such a vast array of sounds. Some more obnoxious than the others. Despite himself he imagined hers not being so. Her cries of pain would be as sweet as her cries of pleasure, and the look of fear in her eyes would be as heavenly as that of devotion. He rubbed the front of his breeches, but he dare not let his hand slip inside. If he allowed himself the small pleasure, it was only a series of leaps to bringing the girl to his bed, willing or not. Though, he did not see how anyone could blame him, her forcing the temptation upon him as she was. If she wanted to be Eve, he could not be blamed for playing Adam.

When she entered his classroom the next day, he was struck with the distinct desire to make the poor girl cry.