Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
He stifles a groan behind me, then steps close and lays a hand on my lower back. I wanted this. This was exactly what I wanted. Yet now that it’s actually happening, it’s scary as fuck. This is wrong. He’ll think I’m some sort of slut. And if anyone in this school had any idea that he was bending me over his desk to punish me…
I push up against his hand to stand. I can’t do this. But his hand just presses more firmly down.
“Did I give you permission to move?”
“No,” I croak, my voice choked. “But—”
“But what?”
That hand on my back steadies me, and I focus on quelling my nerves.
“This is… you shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper.
“You shouldn’t have come late to class.”
“But I’m your student,” I protest. Even as I speak, though, I’m aware of the fact that if he doesn’t punish me now, I’ll walk away ready to cry with disappointment. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’ve fantasized about this every day while reading my books, fingering myself to climax each night before I go to sleep, strangely comforted by the thought of being strewn over the lap of a hard-handed dominant.
I want this. I want this so fucking bad.
“You are my student,” he says, coming even closer so the heat of his flank is pressed up against me. “A student who disobeyed me. And in my classroom, disobedience earns consequences.”
Then the next thing I know his huge palm slams against my ass so hard the sound reverberates in the classroom. It hurts. It fucking hurts. I gasp but barely recover from the spank before he delivers another wicked slap. He gives me another two slaps. I hold onto the desk so hard my knuckles are white. But as the pain seeps into my skin, I need more. Harder. Longer.
I close my eyes and lay my cheek on the desk. I don’t protest or scream or try to get away. It hurts like hell but it hurts so good, my sex clenches with the need to be filled. My body begs to feel this measured, deliberate pain. I should be ashamed. I’m being punished for disobeying his rules. But I don’t feel ashamed.
I just want more.
I’m so immersed in my real-life fantasy come to life that I lose track of my bearings for a minute, completely sinking into the feel of the spanking he’s giving me, how wrong it is that he’s my teacher, and how I need this.
He continues until my ass throbs with the pain, heat radiating from my scorched ass. Then he tugs my skirt back down, but it’s so short, he barely moves it. “Next time you come to this classroom, you dress more appropriately,” he orders in a gritty growl. “And you’ll come on time, or you’ll find yourself over my desk for a paddling. Understood?”
I groan, floating on endorphins and fantasy, and blurt out, “Yes, daddy.”
He freezes. I open my eyes, suddenly aware that this isn’t play, this isn’t a scene, and that I really am, in fact, being spanked by a dom.
And I just called him daddy.
My ass is on fire, my clit pulsing for attention, and all he does is lift me up off the desk and spin me around to look at him.
“Did you just call me daddy?” he growls.
I fucked up. Oh, God, I totally fucked up. He’s going to hate me. He’ll push me away and never want to do this to me again. My one chance at being dommed, and I blew it with my big mouth.
“Yes, sir? I’m sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me.”
“Good girl,” he says with an appreciative twitch of his lips, his green eyes glinting at me appreciatively. There’s no remorse in his eyes and gone is the flash of anger, but when I look at him I realize his gaze mirrors how I feel.
“That’s what daddy likes to hear.”
He wants me as badly as I want him. And he not only didn’t freak the hell out when I called him daddy but called himself daddy, too.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
“Have you ever been spanked before?” he asks sternly, still holding my chin.
I swallow hard. “No,” I whisper.
He stares at me for a moment before bending down and brushing a chaste kiss across my cheek. Then he releases me like I’m on fire. I stumble back, surprised, when a knock sounds at the door. My cheeks flame as I gather up my books and turn away from the door. He walks over and opens the door. I pretend to drop something and fall to the floor to pick it up.
“So sorry,” he says to whoever’s on the other side. “Didn’t know that door locked behind my students.” My cheeks are too hot to look to see who it is. Can they see the mark of his hand beneath the hem of my skirt?