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Exploring the Body Politic

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I’m so done with this school, with these ridiculous uniforms and my jackass classmates trying to look up my skirt and down my shirt. (Who picked these clothes? I mean the skirt is halfway up the thighs for god’s sake. And these shirts must have been designed for girls who, well, didn’t develop as early and as, uh, fully as me – which, trust me, is not all it’s cracked up to be, big tits are huge pain even in clothes that weren’t poorly designed for someone a lot _smaller_.

Well, the principal-slash-headmaster is a pretty big jackass himself, and we’re a rural, private boarding school, so I guess he probably didn’t put a lot of effort into the girl’s uniforms on the ‘comfort’ and ‘practicality’ fronts.)

But I’m eighteen now, and I’ve got a full ride to a college far away, one without a dress code, and thank god, there’s no way my parents could afford it; they spent my college fund on putting me through this piece-of-shit place and now I’m on my own. It’s a super strict scholarship and it requires a 3.9 GPA when I graduate, their special way of making sure I don’t just roll over and slack through my last semester, but I’ve never gotten less than an A- in anything anyway, so it’d be hard to screw up. I drum my pencil, doodle in the margins, and half-ass my way through physics, calculus, literature, whatever, spending my time dreaming of getting out of this town.

But politics. Politics – more specifically my political science class – is a problem.

I mean, part of it is that the material is kind of hard, for a radical change of pace. But the bigger problem is the teacher. He’s incredibly obsessive about details; paper’s got to be formatted like this. Turn things in by this time. Make sure to include exactly these things, in this order. It drives me crazy – most of my teachers have just loved me because I actually have half a brain and I get away with all kinds of shit – sure, my papers and homework are late and maybe I don’t show all my work but I get everything right and they can tell I’m not bullshitting. This guy, he’s just up my ass constantly about all these little things. He thinks I’ve got an attitude, some kind of obediance problem, no discipline, whatever. Which I wouldn’t care about, except… for the first time in my life, I’m failing a class. And while I could afford one C, even a D, in my entire academic career, if I actually get an F it’s going to blow my scholarship. NOT a problem I was anticipating. More annoying is that he isn’t as hard on everyone else as he is on me. I swear, he has it out for me, or something. It’s not like I can complain to anyone – my parents are two hours away and don’t really care anyway, and you know how I mentioned the principal-headmaster was a dirty old jerk? Some girl told me once that he tried to… I don’t know, feel her up or something. How creepy is that? Anyway, I’m stuck with this damn teacher who hates me and probably doesn’t even realize he’s about to ruin my life, and I don’t know what to do.

Oh, and on top of this? He’s incredibly fucking hot. A young guy – probably not that long out of teacher school or whatever they do – and a tremendous looker. Even as I’m sitting in there seething because he’s knocked off two letter grades on my last paper because I used the MLA format for my citations instead of APA (are you kidding me?) I’m watching him walk across the class, checking out his butt… goddamn it. He’s Asian, which seems super exotic in this crappy town, and he’s got these gorgeous features, and I can tell he’s pretty built because every once in a while when it’s a warm day on a Friday he’ll wear a shirt with shorter sleeves and I can see he’s got muscles under there – not like the big gross jock boys, but they’re there. And so instead of staying mad I end up feeling all that intense emotion shifting into something else, which I don’t really want to feel, and then he turns around and dresses me down in front of everyone and I feel my face go red because no teacher has ever done this to me before, they kiss my ass, not chew me out, and I’m pissed but at the same time I don’t really want him to stop talking and I kind of start to forget about everybody else in class and I don’t even hear his words anymore and what the hell am I gonna _do_?

Right, so, while I’m sitting here absorbing the sound of his voice, half my brain going into a slow panic because the semester is getting close to done and my one-way ticket out is starting to look farther and farther away, the other half going off on tangents that are a lot more pleasant but also way, way worse, he stops in front of me, leans over my desk. His face is really close to mine and he’s looking right into my eyes.

“Did you hear me?” he asks, his voice super even.

Well, shit. The whole class is staring at me. “I’m sorry, can you please ask the question again?” I feel a little stupid – not usual for me. I don’t like it. Mostly.

“It wasn’t a question. It was an order. You’re to come back after your last class so we can discuss your homework and your grade in this class. Am I clear?”

My mind goes a lot of places all at once, and I stammer some response that hopefully resembles a sentence. The bell rings and hustle out of there fast as I can.

I spend the rest of the day Lost in Space. In calculus, I stand at the black board staring at a derivative for what seems like hours before the teacher tells me to sit down and give the chalk to someone else. I solved the same problem last night in about 30 seconds. In physics, I get acceleration and velocity backwards multiple times. I forget Newton’s Third Law. All I can think about is _him_ – his face right there, his eyes dead serious.

I go back to the classroom. What am I supposed to do?

He tells me there’s a problem. A serious problem. That it’s not that I’m not smart – he smiles at me then, and I feel my legs get weak as he tells me that he’s only being hard on me because he thinks I have so much potential, because he wants me to succeed, and even though this doesn’t quite make sense, I don’t care, I’m eating out of his hand as he praises me. But then all of a sudden he goes cold again – my heart drops into my feet – and he’s talking about my attitude, my lack of focus, discipline, my inability to follow simple rules and requests. He says he’s going to need to see a real change in me if I’m going to pass. He says he knows how much it will mean to me to be successful in his class and he smiles again but it’s a scary smile and I realize suddenly, terrifyingly, that he knows. He knows about my scholarship. He knows how much is riding on this grade. I feel myself becoming small, tiny, sitting in my desk as he stands over me and my hands start to shake. I try to speak, but words don’t come. I feel heat spreading through my body, like I’m about to burst into flames, that would solve my problem, wouldn’t it?

“It’s simple,” he tells me, his voice terribly gentle. He moves behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder, and it feels like he’s touched a live wire to my skin; I fight not to jump. “I just need you to do what I say. Can you do that for me?”

I barely manage to nod.

His hand tightens on my shoulder. “Let’s start with that. When I ask you a question, I want you to respond verbally, and completely. And when you address me, you’ll actually abide by the school rules of etiquette and address me as ‘sir’. Do you understand?”

No one ever enforces that rule. His fingers are digging into me now. I shudder, feeling tears standing in the corners of my eyes. “Yes… sir.”

He lets go and even though I regain the ability to exhale, which I had forgotten how to do somewhere in there, I feel a sharp sense of… absence? What the hell is wrong with me?

He walks across the room and I sit and stare after him. He rummages on his desk, then turns around and sees me sitting still. “Come here,” is all he says. I go.

He’s got a book open on the edge of his desk. It’s to the chapter after the one we read this week – he’s skimming over the first paragraph as he asks me without looking. “Take off your bra, and your underpants. Not your shirt or skirt, just your underclothes. Put them on my desk.” He could have been asking me to bring him a pencil. He doesn’t even look at me, like it doesn’t occur to him that I might disobey him. But… I don’t. I must be in shock, obeying his request without even really hesitating. He keeps reading even as I expose skin here and there, getting my undergarments out without taking off the clothes on top. Finally, I drop them on the desk, white bra, white panties, a little damp… I try not to think about it. My mind is racing to where this might go next when he finally looks up at me.

“Have you done this reading?”

That was not what I was expecting. “No, that’s not until next week,” I answer, feeling a twinge of my old indignance rising up from under the strangely submissive mental state I’d somehow sunken into. What is going on?

His head flashes up and before I realize what’s happening he’s got my hand in his hand, palm up, and he’s reaching down to pick something else up off his desk with his other hand – Christ, is that a ruler? I’m gaping in utter disbelief as he, still moving with terrifying speed, brings the ruler down on my palm with a sharp crack. I gasp, so shocked I don’t even scream even though it hurts like hell.

But even with all that fast movement, he’s really calm, still holding my hand and the ruler. “Can you tell me what you just did wrong?”

I stare at him, speechless.

A couple of seconds later, he lifts the ruler up and brings it down again, laying another line of pain right on top of the first one. I cry out.

“Shhh,” he says, pulling me closer abruptly. I stumble into him and his hand is on my mouth, the one with the ruler, the other one still clamped on my wrist. The wood grain presses against my lips as he muffles me. “Would you like your classmates to hear? To see how you tried to bribe your way out of your bad grade, by coming on to your teacher? Would you like to explain to the headmaster what you are doing here with your underclothes on my desk?”

Dimly, some rational part of my mind knows that’s my best chance to get out of this before it goes farther – to scream, now, loudly. He’s a guy teacher. I’m a girl student. There’s no way… But his eyes are meeting mine and he knows – _knows_, like he knew about my scholarship, knew I’d do what he said the first time – he knows that I won’t yell, that I’m not going to run away. The certainty in his gaze terrifies me, and right now in this moment I believe him, see the vision he’s painting, students and the dirty old headmaster in a circle of ridicule around me and my mysteriously not-on-my-body underwear. What the hell was I thinking? What am I thinking now? I shudder, and the tears are back in my eyes again, this time one of them slipping free and falling down my cheek.

He takes his hand off my mouth, looking at me expectantly.

“No… sir,” I whisper.

He reaches up, wiping the tear away gently. “That’s much better. Now, again, can you tell me what you did wrong before?”

I swallow. “I didn’t say sir. Sir.”

“That’s right. Very good. You are a smart girl. Now… I want you to please read this first page out loud. When you finish, I’ll want to hear you explain how the concepts introduced in this section relate to the ideas we talked about last week.”

I can already feel panic rising, but I reach for the book. He puts his hand on top of it, giving me a look that brings me up short. “Don’t pick up the book. I want you to lean down and read it right where it is. Put your hands on either side, and read it.”

Oh, god. I bend a little, placing my hands. He walks to the far side of the desk, and pulls the book away from me, farther across. “Move your hands next to the book, again.” I comply, feeling my skirt pulling up my legs as I bend, feeling my breasts loose inside my shirt. My nipples are aching, and I can feel another ache between my legs. I must be one continuous shade of red as I start reading in a shaky voice.

He strolls back around the desk again as I read. I feel like I’m some small prey animal, being circled like this. He walks behind me, and I can feel his presence even as my eyes are fixed on the page, clinging to the words like a lifeline to a saner, more normal universe. But they actually make it worse – reading everyday text makes this somehow feel more… I don’t know, like this is okay, somehow, which it clearly is not. But as I get into the reading I almost start to feel a little bit… quiet, sort of zen, maybe?

Until he touches my butt, that is. I stop mid-sentence.

The ruler flashes, catches me on my bare upper thigh. I choke back a cry.

“Keep reading. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I manage. I resume the reading, my voice even shakier now, and his hand returns to touch me – first on my skirt, but it doesn’t take him long to slide down, catch the edge, start lifting it up. He doesn’t actually touch me, underneath – but I can feel his eyes as if he was touching me, my pussy and my ass exposed.

He puts my skirt back, and returns to the far side of the desk. I’m getting close to the end of the page as he reaches over and undoes the top button of my blouse – then the next one down. Now he’s got a view of my dangling breasts, bra free, way bigger than the other girls in my class. I cannot possibly blush any more but I do. And now, I have to… say something, something involving thought.

He opens a drawer on his desk, pulls out a handful of those clips you see on stacks of papers. They clink as he puts all but one of them on the desk. As I draw a breath to start talking – I have no idea what I will say – he reaches matter-of-factly into my blouse, takes a hold of one of my breasts, and puts the clip onto my nipple, then replaces my breast inside my shirt. I feel as though my brain must have taken leave of my body, but I’m afraid of the ruler, and so I somehow talk, and to my complete shock a few ideas come out of my mouth that might even make sense, even as he reaches in and repeats the clipping with my other nipple. I can’t stifle a gasp, my words get faster, but I keep talking until he’s done, and finally the strange inspiration runs dry and I’m standing, looking up at him, feeling the burning ache on my chest.

He smiles, that smile that made my knees weak before when he told me I had promise, what seems like a lifetime ago. He tells me I did a good job, that I might be able to show him what he needs to see after all. I just have to keep trying this hard. I nod, shivering, flinching at the pain in my breasts as the clips rub the fabric of my shirt.

He turns the page. “Start reading again. Keep going until I tell you to stop. You may move one of your hands to turn pages if you need to. I’ll be asking you a few questions to test your comprehension when we finish this section.”

As I continue reading, he opens his desk drawer again, and pulls out a reel of string and some scissors. He cuts two long strings off, and reaches into my shirt again. Threading the strings through the open part of the clips, he ties them on, but then leave them to dangle on the desk. He leaves the remaing clips in a little pile with the string, then picks up the ruler and walks around behind me again. I’m getting dizzy, but I keep reading, trying not to think – which is all too easy.

I feel my skirt being lifted again. His voice is soft. “Don’t stop reading. Just do what I say. Move your feet farther apart.”

I place my feet a little farther than shoulder’s width. I feel the ruler tapping the inside of my thighs – another shudder passes through me. “Farther,” he whispers. I comply, my torso lowering until it’s nearly on the desk, my feet uncomfortably far apart now. The words pass through my eyes, leave my mouth, and my brain is hardly touched in the transition.

He lifts my skirt again, and adjusts it a bit so it will stay pushed up. The ruler traces the underside of my buttocks, then slowly, slowly, moves inward again. I turn a page. The cool wood inches up until it’s resting just shy of my pussy. Which, I note with a curious detachment, is the wettest I have ever been.

A brief aside. I’m not a virgin. I had sex for the first time when I was sixteen – I actually didn’t care for it much. The boy was clumsy, and it hurt a bit, and he finished right about when it actually started feeling good. But I discovered there was something I really did like – giving head. I don’t know why, but it really made me horny – a lot of the time, I’d just finish myself, after sucking someone off. I wasn’t a total slut – most of the boys at my school were gross, for one thing, I did have standards – but there was a cute boy on the cross country team, and another one in band, and then there had been the one time up in the light booth… maybe a couple others… anyway. Mostly they didn’t tell anyone, though there were rumors anyway – but there always are.

But whatever you might say about me, I have never fucked (or sucked, you pervert) a teacher; but here I am, bent over a desk, reading words I hardly even hear anymore. And then, at last (at last?) the line is crossed, just barely – I feel the corner of the ruler teasing lightly, so lightly, against my outer lips, which are incredibly slick. The teasing continues – light and yet it makes me want to scream, not the same scream I thought about screaming before. But he won’t… he won’t do more, he just teases me – and then the touch moves higher, and now he’s teasing my ass, just as lightly, but no one has ever touched me there and it freaks me out badly, badly enough that I stop reading and start to stand up, to move away. The ideas that touch brings awake are too much – too much. I can’t do this.

That’s what I start to say – “I can’t do this” – but I only get out “I can’t-” before the ruler is striking me, and it’s really hard this time, way harder than before, I didn’t realize how much more it could hurt. The words choke me, and before I can get a scream past them he moves close, standing right behind me and the hand with the ruler is over my mouth again and the other hand this time is on my throat. His hips are right behind me, pressing his pelvis into me and I can feel the terrifying presence of his cock through his pants, pressing into my rear – it’s _really_ hard. And I can’t shout, can’t breathe, as his hand tightens on my throat, and I go super still, because I don’t know what he does in his spare time but he’s a lot stronger than I realized. The edge of the desk is pressing into the front of the tops of my thighs, my back is arched back towards him, and he whispers in my ear, but the words hardly make sense anymore, I can barely understand him. But I go limp anyway, because I just want to breathe, and having him this close shifts something in my brain, I’m not sure what but I don’t want to run anymore. He lets go of my throat, then my mouth, and my torso falls forward onto the desk again, which brings flashes of pain from those damn clips which I had almost forgotten in all this. I murmur sounds of assent, pressing my face into the pages of the book, nearly hyperventilating as I catch my breath. He’s still right behind me, but he backs away, leaving me there for a moment.

“Stay,” he tells me, simply. I stay, my mind empty of thoughts, completely filled with sensation – the clips pressed on the desk and gripping my nipples, the smoothness of the textbook page against my cheek, the hair draping in my face, the grain of the desk under my palms, the immense heat and moisture between my legs, the ache of keeping them so far apart. I resist the urge to shift them closer together. My breathing slowly steadies.

I hear something unzip – for a half a second I think it must be his pants but the zip goes on too long – maybe a backpack or a bag? Then rummaging, a gentle clinking. A moment passes. I feel something touching my ankle, circling it – oh god. Something cinches tight around it – then I feel a tension. He’s tying, or cuffing, my feet to the legs of the desk.

As he moves to do my opposite leg, he speaks again, still so calm. “Please summarize the last page you read.”

I can’t possibly, I want to cry out, as my other ankle gets pulled tight. I don’t remember it. I can barely remember my name. “May… may I please re-read it first, sir?” I manage.

“Oh? And why do you need to re-read it?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, as he moves back to the other side of the desk. He stands in front of me and crouches down so he can look in my eyes. I try to look away, but he takes a hold of my chin and tilts my face towards his so I can’t.

“I… I was distracted, sir.”

“Are you trying to blame me for your lack of attention, your lack of focus?” He reaches out and picks up the end of one of the strings he tied to the clips. It’s pretty long. A sharp tug pulls a gasp out of me.

“No, no sir, I just…” I stutter, wishing I could look away, but his all-too-beautiful eyes hold mine.

He sighs. “I expected better of you. You’ll have to show me your dedication and discipline in some other way, then, if your concentration is that fragile.”

I am nearly broken by his words – why do I care? But I do, and I finally look away because I’m about to burst into tears, it should be because I’m tied to a desk, being molested by my teacher, but you know, it’s because I can’t bear hearing disappointment in his voice.

But oddly enough – this is when he comforts me, I feel his hand on my hair, on my chin, and he turns my face back to him again, and he shushes me, very gently. “No, no. Shh. It’s all right. It’s all right. I’m asking you to do something very hard, and you’re doing a very good job. Can you keep trying for me?”

“Yes, sir,” I manage, sniffling, absurdly grateful for his words.

Again the kind smile. “You’re a very beautiful girl, a very smart girl. I know you can understand what I want from you. I know you can do this.”

He moves back behind me, again, and I’m still, the ocean at low tide, waiting for the moon to pull again.

I hear him rummaging again, this time closer. I hear a familiar clinking… the clips? And something else? And then the soft wooden click as he sets the ruler down.

And now he touches me – with his fingers, for the first time, still agonizingly light. He traces the wetness between my legs, touching folds gently, and then finally, thank you god, he slips a finger inside, just a little ways, and then farther, and I grind my hips back shamelessly, I want it more than I’ve wanted anything my whole life, and pleas are tumbling out of my mouth – but polite ones, “please, sir, please…”

But he pulls his fingers out, and then suddenly another flash of pain, Jesus, he’s put a clip on one of my pussy lips, I can’t believe it – and then the other side – I moan and gasp and thrash and then he caresses me again, two fingers, sliding in deep, arching, exploring, feeling my insides as I try to process the sensations and end up whimpering helplessly into the desk.

And then he pulls out, a moment passes – something long and slender, slimmer than his fingers, but _cold_, slides up into my cunt and then back out. Was it a metal pen? I start to think, and then he’s _there_ again, touching my ass, but he doesn’t give me long to think about it, there’s a bit of pressure and then the I’m-guessing-it’s-a-pen he wet below is sliding up inside my ass – cold, so cold, and it feels really strange but, I’m grabbing the edge of the desk, I have hands after all? The pen, it actually feels kind of… good.

He keeps a hold on it for a moment, and moves it around a little – again, teasing, just from the inside of me now, sliding it, wiggling… I’m gasping as I try to absorb all this, because it’s not something I’ve really felt before. After a minute of just that, he puts his fingers back into my pussy – three this time, but now I feel like I could take… more. A lot. His hand brushes the clips a little, setting off tiny fireworks of pain, but the pleasure is winning. Somehow this fucked up constellation of sensation has transformed into something really intense, really good. And as he plays a little with the pen, and arches his fingers up inside of me as if he were trying to grasp it _through_ my insides… I actually do cry out a little, softly, a pleading cry, though I’m not sure what I’m pleading for.

And then his withdraws his hand and gives a gentle swat at the dangling clips, and I exhale fiercely, aching in more ways than one. He moves again, back to the other side. He left the pen though – son of a bitch…

“I’ve heard a rumor about you,” He says, standing before me now. My eyes are about level with his waist. He strokes my lips with one finger, one of the ones that was in me, and I can feel the dampness, smell my own scent on him.

“I hear that you have… a specialty, as it were. A couple of boys, talking in the back of class one day, thinking I couldn’t hear.” He pushes against my lips, slipping his finger inside my mouth now, and I more or less let him, even though it’s a bit weird to taste myself. I even use my tongue, just because it really does feel good to have something in my mouth – it’s strange, but it’s almost comforting. It doesn’t take him long before he slips the other two fingers he had in me, into my mouth, and his voice lowers, into an obvious aside. “That’s right… clean the mess you made, that’s a good girl…”

As he works his fingers in my mouth, pushing deeper, he resumes his earlier thread. “They were talking about what a friend of theirs had said, that you didn’t sleep around much, but that they’d heard you really liked to suck cock. Is that true?” He withdraws his hand completely now, leaving my mouth empty and my cheeks once again incredibly red.

But I’m not in the same state I was before, when this started. I answer, shyly, but clearly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s very good.”

He leans down, picking something up. Then he puts one hand on my back, holding me down on the desk, (the clips on my breasts are moved a little by the pressure, reminding me of their presence again) while the tip of the ruler touches under my chin, tilting my face up until I can see him looking down at me, still smiling. “If you do that for me, and you do very, very well, I’ll accept that I may have misjudged you, that you may have some ability to be attentive and obedient after all. Can you do it?” He moves the ruler up, tracing around my face delicately – along one cheekbone, across my forehead, back beneath my chin.

“Yes, sir,” I manage – it’s hard to breathe like this, but I don’t think of lowering my head, not while he’s meeting my eyes.

His hand on my back kneads a little, almost massage like – it feels good, except for the clips when he moves my torso. Then his hand slides up, stroking my hair a little, and he lowers my head back down until my chin rests on the very edge of the desk. He quickly undoes the zip of his pants, adjusts his underclothes and his cock springs free, standing out very, very hard.

He’s standing just out of reach – I can see it, but it isn’t near my mouth yet. He reaches down, and grabs the two strings he tied, what seems like half an eternity ago, to the clips on my breasts. And he steps closer… oh god. My heartbeat speeds up again. His cock touches my lips as he pulls gently on the string, waking pain once more. But I open up to take him in my mouth, reach my hands around to touch him…

“No, no hands. I want you to place your hands on the edge of the desk, and leave them there.”

Of course, that means I have no control over how deep he goes, what he does. He moves forward again, and the tip of his cock touches my lips, moves between. He stays still at first, letting me get used to having him in my mouth. I explore, with my tongue, breathing in the smell of him – it’s a nice smell, clean and masculine. Then he begins to pull just a little on the strings – I whimper, quietly, into his cock. “Ahh, that’s nice,” he murmurs, and then pushes deeper. I keep it up with my tongue, my whole mouth, licking, pressing, trying to please him, more and more avidly, because soon, if he goes deeper, I won’t be able to breathe. I feel fear fluttering in my stomach, pain in my chest, and a tremendous arousal – my cunt muscles clench a little – oh, god, that pen is still there, just above…

He pulls out, almost all the way, leaving the head resting on my tongue, letting me breathe a little. But then, he pushes back in and pulls on the strings, building fast until he’s pulling pretty hard, and his cock slides in, in, and all my talent with my tongue doesn’t matter much, really, because he’s going to use me, use my mouth, fucking me as he hurts my nipples. And then on one deep stroke in – I’m trying not to choke on him, trying to regulate my breath – he stays for a moment, I think I can glimpse his hands busy behind his back – he’s tying the damn strings. Don’t gasp, I tell myself, don’t freak now, but the fear in my belly flutters even stronger, and now both his hands are free again. I hear the telltale wooden scrape as he picks up the ruler.

And now as he fucks into me, and I try desperately to please him and not to breathe at the wrong moment and not to gag or fight, every outstroke hurts like hell, pulling my nipples out really hard. I don’t know what’s worse – when he’s in, my throat and lungs aching, or when he’s mostly out, and the pain in my tits makes me want to scream. I do, a little, but his cock keeps me quiet, and he chuckles a little, one hand stroking my hair again. “Yes, it feels good, when you cry out this way… don’t hold back, no one can hear you, now…” And his hand makes a fist in my hair, holding my head still as he thrusts in, and then he pulls out, lets me gasp in a breath and as I exhale, he brings the damn ruler down, hitting my butt from above.

I try to protest – what did I do? My eyes try to look up to his, my hands jerk on the edge of the desk. “Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong this time,” he assures me as he hits me again, and I cry out, muffled. “This is for me.” I feel the pen move a little, suddenly – he must be touching it with the ruler, tapping it side to side… then he manages to bump one of the clips on the outside of my pussy, then the other…

His thrusts quicken, gradually – I don’t know how long it has been, but I hear his breathing getting ragged. He pauses, and whispers urgently, “Lift yourself up with your hands – just a little.” I obey, and he reaches under, grabbing the clips one last time and then he’s opening them, taking them off, dropping them on the floor and then pressing me back down, pressing his cock back into my mouth as I scream like hell into it because holy god that hurts worse than anything else, I can’t help it. His hand is gripping my hair again, holding my head in place tightly, and I’m crying as he thrusts one more time and spends in my mouth, shuddering. There’s nothing for me but to swallow, quickly, so I can inhale, drawing a rush of air past his cock.

He leaves it there for just a moment. His hand on my hair loosens, and he gently moves to slide his cock out of my mouth… but without even thinking about it, I follow it with my head, licking super gently, super carefully – I know how sensitive guys get when they come, but even with the tears streaked down my face from that last jolt of pain, some part of me wants to keep him – to hold him, gently. He hesitates, and lets me caress him with my tongue, softly, and strokes my hair.

Then he withdraws all the way, and I barely move as he walks around. He leans back over me from behind, gently covering my mouth as he reaches down, pulls out the pen, and then undoes the last two clips – I scream again, into his hand, as he massages my pussy gently. Then more firmly… and even though I still hurt like hell, I’m so wet, and when he reaches down and finds my clit, I squirm against him, begging with my hips. He keeps the one hand over my mouth and rubs my clit and all around it, firmly, quickly, tight circles, and I come then, devastatingly, my hands grabbing the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping me on the earth, my cunt drenched, moaning and gasping against his palm.

He holds me, then – he keeps his hand gently cupped over my sex, touching so gently, and he releases my mouth and slides his arm around my chest, lifting me up gently and embracing me. “What a good job,” he whispers, and his voice isn’t playful at all. He sounds… moved. Almost reverent. I feel luminous, like I’m glowing, radiating some mysterious light through my skin.

He keeps me that way for a moment, then lets me go, and I steady myself with my hands as he bends down, releasing one foot, then the other, massaging my legs. As I awkwardly stand all the way up, he takes my forearms, holding me as I find my balance. He meets my eyes again.

“Do you understand?” Is all he says.

“Yes, sir,” I answer quietly. Pride and shame mingle in my voice, but I meet his eyes.

He releases my arms. “Good.”

I gather my things, moving slowly, as he sits back down at his desk. Before I walk out the door, I turn back to him. The ruler, the stack of clips, the pen, all rest next to his hands, folded neatly on the textbook.

“I’ll expect you back here tomorrow, at the same time. Make sure you’ve read the chapter we… discussed today… fully.”

I nod, empty of feeling, or maybe too full to know what to do with it. As I turn to go, his voice brings me up short, one last time.

“Oh, and this time? Just don’t wear any underclothes in the first place.”

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