Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.
Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.
Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.
I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.
I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.
“Will not. Be tolerated.”
I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.
“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”
Knowing I would not be permitted to pull up my knickers unless expressly instructed, I took and took the topmost book from the pile. Simple mathematics, additions and subtractions, a child could do them.
You sit down at the desk and after reaching to push the back of my skirt into the waistband so you can see the reddened flesh of my arse as you linger over the pages and I stand with my wrists crossed behind my back and facing away from you, wishing you would photograph me. Feeling the trickle of come running down my inner thigh. Knowing there is only one sum you care about. The final word problem on the printed sheet you presented me with at the end of the previous Sunday School.
“Kitten is awake for fifteen hours on Saturday, and must spend at least 20% of her day doing chores – tidying her room, doing the washing up, paying bills, and 50% of the remaining time socialising. If each climax takes an average of eight minutes with three minutes recovery time, how many times would kitten be able to make herself come using her little pink vibrator before bedtime? Show your work.”
My wrist ached for the whole of Sunday but it was worth it. As you brandished your red pen and marked my work, I looked at the bookshelves, trying to read the titles. I wondered if they were real books, or the fake ones they have in IKEA. If they were dirty sex books or boring, charity shop finds to make the room look authentic. Maybe it was a lecturer’s room and the books were all on geology or Shakespeare or science. Maybe maybe maybe. I narrowed my eyes and peered, trying to read their spines, taking two tiny steps forward to make them clearer. You reached forward and took hold of my wrist before I could stray further.
“No.” You said simply.
There were a couple of more minutes of silence before you set down the pen and told me I could turn around. More silence. I chewed on my bottom lip.
“This… This is very good work, Kitten.” You said, smiling. “You’ve been studying hard, haven’t you?”
“Every day for half an hour like you told me to, Sir. Two hours on Saturday.
The very first time we stood in this room together, you kissed my forehead and presented me with a stack of mathematics text books. Everything from primary school SATS papers to GCSE study aids and A level texts, and told me I would study them all, in order. When I was done, you promised we would begin rudimentary science. “Including biology.” you said pointedly as you slid two fingers into my cunt.
That was a month ago. This week I would begin advanced GCSE revision. Just thinking about it made me wet. You have trained me to become aroused at the thought of equations.
“I am very pleased. You showed your working on the word problem very well indeed. Top Marks. I almost thought you’d taken it upon yourself to take it as a practical instruction to make your answer as accurate as possible.”
I shook my head. “No Sir, only maths.”
“Good girl.” You stood and met me at the front of the desk, putting your hand on my backside. “Still warm.” Your smile broadened. “And you promise you didn’t use a calculator? Or ask someone else for help?”
“No Sir. I did it all by myself in my neatest handwriting.”
I felt weak. Weak on a diet of subtractions and your approval.
“My perfect pupil. Your Sir is very proud of his clever little girl.”
My knickers still somewhere below my knees, I swallow and allow myself to reach out and touch your chest, the material of your waistcoat silky under my fingertips. I’m shaking and you have barely touched me. You’re still smiling.
“I’m remembering why I made you head girl. Top of my class. Forever and always, if you remember and promise never to stop learning.”
That was week three – I had taken six of the best with your belt and recited all of my times tables one after the other, with only deep breaths between each recitation – and all this with my shirt unbuttoned, my wrists tied behind my back with my school tie and my nipples caught in sterling silver clamps linked by a silver chain.
As I rounded off with “Twelve times twelve is one hundred and forty four.” and closed my eyes with a big beaming smile on my face, you stood up and gave me a round of applause.
“Perfect, you clever girl. I can think of no one more deserving of this badge.” In your fist was the tiny red shield with Head Girl imprinted on it in gold. You pinned it to my lapel, the easiest place at the time, though it’s place from then on was always proudly pinned to the centre of my tie.
The kiss I had ached for since the door had shut behind me – no, since I had woken up that morning – was my second reward, your tongue parting my lips as you reached behind me and unfastened my bindings.
Perhaps you were thinking of this occasion too, because you loosened my tie and slid it out from my collar.
“I believe that good work should be rewarded, as you know. Would you like to be Sir’s little show off?”
“Oh yes please Sir!”
“I thought so.”
You held my hand as we walked to the window, me still with my knickers caught between my legs. You drew back the blinds and I knew to hold out my hands in front of me. The window lock was high, about a foot above my head. When my wrists were secured to it I felt my spine stretching, but like all experiences with you, this was only pleasurable. You grabbed hold of both pigtails and yanked my head back so I could look into your eyes.
“I do love it when you have a handy hairstyle, good girl.” You kissed my forehead.
Finally, you took down my knickers and I stepped out of them, gladly. You didn’t need to ask me to open my mouth. I sucked them like a pacifier as you stood behind me and undid my cardigan, undid my buttons and pushed my bra up my chest.
“No clamps today, I’m afraid.” You said apologetically, taking both nipples in your fingers and pulling them until I yelped. One of your hands travelled down, over my stomach to the patch of hair over my cunt.
“How many people are watching, Good Girl?”
“There are three buildings opposite. Eight floors of offices. Two of those floors have direct or indirect sight lines to this room. Maybe fifty people on each floor, ten with access to the windows. Sixty perhaps, with the potential of over two hundred.” He pinched the fleshy outer lip of my swollen pussy.
“Very good indeed.”
It was so quiet the sound of you unzipping your flies sounded like an explosion, a firework illuminating the room. I spread my legs and felt the head of your cock rubbing against me, spreading the mixture of our come over my greedy flesh. Now both of your hands were between my legs, pulling the outer lips apart, my clitoris proud and caught between your first and second fingers.
Maths could not tell us exactly who was watching this display, not really. Still, I imagined the windows crowded with faces and bodies. Every race, age, gender, class, from the cleaners and the interns to the clients and the directors, all drooling over my body, owned and offered to them by my Sir. That the sight of my spread womanhood and swollen breasts would make them fall upon one another in a writhing orgy of sweat and power shifts.
Again this thought made me slick between my thighs, my skin covered in goose pimples. I rested my forehead against the pane and the panties fell from my mouth as I whispered. “Please fuck me, Sir. I’m such a good little slut.”
“You didn’t have to ask, my angel.”
The head of your cock slid inside me easily and as soon as I felt the full length and your body grinding against the fullness of my arse I gripped it as tightly as I could. Your thrusts were hard, but considered, and slow. I gritted my teeth and moaned as you grabbed my breasts again and I imagined the faint bruises I might have later.
“Who do you belong to?”
“I belong to you, Sir.” You began to speed up and I squealed as your pinches were harder to match it.
“And what are you?” Your face was pressed against my neck, hot and damp and your grunts like throbbing bass reverberating through me.
“I’m your good little slut, your cumslut, your head girl and yours to do with as you please.”
“Damn right you are. Forever and always. Do you want Sir’s come, good girl?”
“Yes please.” You grip my left breast but your right hand reaches down to rub my clit, knowing that the contractions when I come, coupled with my wails of pleasure will set you off just like you want. It comes in a rush, and with my wrists tied above my head I can only pant and scream, bucking against the tension in my forearms as your delicate touch is perfect and moments after I can feel the rush of you inside me.
Your arm has slipped down around my waist, cuddling me to you, your cock still inside me. When it finally slips out, the sound of the drip drip drip of come pooling on the floorboards underneath us makes me giggle. We revel in our silence for a little while.
“I’ll get someone to clean that up.” You say later, untying me.
“I’ll do it,” I volunteer, rubbing the flesh on my wrists and inspecting them for fabric burns. “I have tissues in my bag.”
Before you can answer I’ve scampered across to my satchel and produced hand gel and tissues, and am on my knees cleaning up the most obvious sign of our debauchery. I’m tempted to lick it up, but am not sure if I trust the cleanliness of the floor. I’ve done it before on my own perfectly sanitised kitchen tiles, of course.
“Careful, you’re almost spilling it, yourself.” You laugh, crouching behind and scooping a fingerful of the mixture out of me.
“Sorry, Sir.” Satisfied with my work, I stand up, and open my mouth promptly. You cock your head.
“What if I wanted it?”
I consider this thought. Stick out my tongue and suck your fingers clean anyway.
“Isn’t it nicer to try things from the source, Sir? More… organic?”
You cannot control further laughter.
“Oh I wish I could belt you for that insolence but you are absolutely right my filthy little slut. Up on the desk. You have earned it, after all.”
I clambered over it quickly and sat myself on top, thighs apart, waiting patiently, beaming.
Your tongue is long and dexterous. I can feel it everywhere inside me, the goose pimples returning to my arms and chest, my toes curling as you spend a long time cleaning around my clit, making me shudder again.
“There, all clean, delicious girl.” You pet the plump little mound, and reach up to return my breasts to my white lace brassiere. My buttons are fastened once more, my skirt flipped back down and suddenly I am presentable again, though perhaps it is a good idea to stay out of the way of the wild, autumnal winds which would have me flashing my kitty at the world.
I hop off the desk and kiss you.
“Should I go and get my panties, Sir?”
“I think that’s a very good idea, angel. We wouldn’t want them falling into the wrong hands, would we?”
You sit back down in your chair.
“Now, homework.” You reached for my textbooks. “I think you’re ready for advanced GCSE mathematics, don’t you? You’re making such progress, and I’m very proud of you. I want to stretch you. Would you like that?”
I widened my eyes and grinned. Off my look you shook your head.
“Stretch your abilities, sweetness. Not your pretty kitty, or your pretty arsehole. Not yet, anyway. You’re a little way off A Levels.”
“Oh.” I frowned but nodded. “Yes Sir. I want you to stretch me.”
“Good. I want you to study pages 1-30. There are sample questions at the end of each chapter and I want every one of them done, plus the test paper on pages 31-34. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes Sir.” I was going to go home and start revision straight away.
“Good. Next week at 9. Don’t be late again. Take care.” One sweet kiss and I put my coat back on, gather up my books and leave. As I exit the building and turn to make my way to the bus station, a phone call.
“Hi Sweetheart. How was school?”
We both laugh, and I begin to tell you about my morning, embellishing only a little to turn you on more before I see you again at home.