Briana Dawson is seventeen when she falls in love for the first time. His English teacher, Mr. Ramone, is in the hospital, although none of his teachers will tell them why. There are rumors, although there are always rumors that he fell off the stairs and broke his back.
That triggered a stroke. It is a heart attack. And testicular cancer. Briana does not give much importance to the rumors.
He doesn't really care enough. All that matters is that Mr. Ramone is gone and a diver will take care of his class and, hopefully, hopefully these coming weeks until the summer holidays will be a breeze. He feels a little bad for joy in his misfortune, but it is certainly not the only one.
At least he didn't participate with the crowd who sang "ding dong the man and man" after finding out the news. She had thought about it, but it can hardly be judged for thinking things. But it's getting off the subject.
Briana is seventeen when she falls in love for the first time. She slumped into the chair, with her head resting on one hand, staring blankly in front of her. Katy, her friend a little, but not really, is talking about a boy she has moistened for the past year and if she still has to hear a word about Josh's house party and is orange is it really the new rose? Briana will seriously cut her wrists. He is imagining the expression on Katy's face if he were to tell her that he would rather kill himself than listen to her speak for a second when the door opens and silence falls through the classroom.
The man who enters is tall. This is the first thing he thinks. He is tall and thin and wears typical teacher clothes, black pants, white buttoning, dark gray tie.
Her hair is dark brown, cut a little longer than a hum and the nose that holds the glasses is long. And then she turns around and faces the class, and Briana feels a bit like she's been hit. The boy is ... he's beautiful. For his age, Ma has seen more handsome men in magazines. And while he is tall he is still too thin.
There doesn't seem to be an ounce of muscle on him. It's still. Yet he cannot take his eyes off him. His gaze moves to the silent classroom and lands briefly on hers before quickly walking away.
Briana's breath falters as she thinks, oh. It's her eyes, she realizes, the heart beating hard in her chest. They are his eyes. They are pale blue, almost gray, but they are clear, like fragments of glass. He only looks at her for a moment, but it is enough to make her feel as if she has been looked through to her bones.
And the way it moves. She walks to the front of the room, turning her eyes on each of them and Briana finds herself thinking that she looks like a predator. Her body almost slips on the floor, the sharp corners appear unusually smooth, and she feels a rush of heat between her legs when she leans back to sit on the desk, graceful and God-like, and smiles. He is still shaking when the man finally clears his throat and says "Class. I am Mr. Smith and for the rest of the school year I will replace the previous Mr. Ramone.
Questions? "Briana's eyes close and she bites a moan. That voice. Between a little concern for her classmates who smell her excitement and feel her heart racing, Briana can recognize how much she is screwed His name is Ian and he is one meter eighty tall. He has a master's degree in English, education and sociology and is fluent in Russian, Spanish and French.
He moved from the private Academy of St. Martin for unknown reasons and lives alone in an apartment in the city. He signed up to accompany the poetry club and always has lunch in the classroom.
Briana has to pay Macy fifty dollars earned hard for this information and fifteen others for her discretion. It's worth it, she thinks, as she listens to him read from one of Shakespeare's sonnets whose name she can't be bothered to remember. He last shouted his name as he masturbated with fantasies about being fucked on his desk, and looked like wine and chocolate on his tongue. Everyone likes him.
It is severe, but not anal to the point where Mr. Ramone had been. And he teaches as if he is really interested in the topic, which is a step forward compared to his predecessor. He also treats his students as if they were at his level, which does a lot to make everyone don't want to disappoint him. The girls all sigh when she enters the room and the boys sit noticeably straighter.
Briana doesn't think she has ever been in a class that doesn't swarm with secondary conversations and discreet keyboard clicks. The way she commands attention and respect so easily makes her unbearably curious about how she is in bed. Sometimes at night, when she is lying on her bed, her legs spread and her fingers running around her clitoris, she imagines that he is standing above her, orchestrating her movements and telling her what to do. She will say "Briana, come", with that dominant voice that she uses when playing the role of Macbeth, and the imagination never fails to push her over the edge. Washing the sheets has become a daily thing and for the first time in her life she is grateful that her parents work too hard to notice.
They are working silently on their essays and Briana is more excited than she has ever been in her life (she realizes, from a distance, that she is thinking about it a lot). Mr. Smith wears the usual configuration of pants and buttons down, but to compensate for the lack of air conditioning in the classroom he left four of the buttons at the top.
Briana has been staring at that white expanse of skin since she entered the classroom. Working on his essay was torture, and the only reason he manages to finish is because of the promise to stare without distraction. So he concentrates, and ends, and fixes, and now there is burr that accumulates in the mouth at the sight of his perfect neck and chest. Mr. Smith, for his part, is seated at his desk, slumped over the book of the week he is reading. There's a whole row of desks in front of her, and the idea that it's starting to take shape in her head is consolidating from the second.
Her panties are completely wet and her pussy has tightened in the past thirty minutes. If he can't break free in the next few minutes, honestly think he'll scream. Taking a furtive look at her and taking a shaky breath, Briana leans forward and slips a hand over the elastic of her underwear. He is right about being wet and the first contact of his fingers against the clitoris makes them tremble.
He takes another look around, then slowly begins to caress himself, taking care to control his breathing so that it is not too noisy. Every now and then, when he dares, he looks up at Mr. Smith, which only increases his despair. She shakes on the chair while her fingers quickly work her clitoris, her fingers awkward at the result of how wet she is. She leans forward and accelerates the rhythm, hyperaware of every sound around her.
When the pressure increases to the point that she knows she is about to fall, she looks up without thinking, looking for the only object that she knows will bring her there faster and freezes. Mr. Smith is staring at her. Briana bites her lip as she comes, her shoulders curved and her body contracting as the climax rushes into her. After a few moments he opens his eyes and, with his heart in his throat, glances towards the front of the room.
She doesn't know if she's more disappointed or relieved that Mr. Smith isn't looking at her anymore. It is even about, he thinks, watching him as he flips through a page of his book. She is still massaging herself when a cough scares her and pushes her to action. If her panties were wet before, they are certainly now wet. He quickly takes his hand off his underpants, wipes his fingers against the inside of the skirt and sits down.
She turns her head and relaxes when she sees that nobody is paying her the least attention. He uses the hand sanitizer in his bag to get rid of some odor and spends the rest of the period trying to figure out how he is going to get to his locker, take a change of clothes and change before the start of the next period . Ignore the satisfied contraction in her pussy while planning an apology. "If you get left behind, Miss Dawson." Says Mr. Smith just as the bell rings. Briana shrugs Katy's questioning frown and remains seated while everyone else lines up.
Wait nervously, your fingers dance on the table top as you wait for the last student to leave. Once the door has closed behind them, he gets up and puts his back to the bag. His stomach tightens as he walks down the corridor to Mr. Smith's desk. He has no idea what he wants to talk to her about, and doubts it will be anything good.
And yet ... countless fantasies float in his mind, making his skin tingle in overwhelming excitement. Don't go ahead of yourself, he thinks, stopping a few feet in front of the desk. For fear of looking stupid in front of Mr. Smith, if nothing else. Mr. Smith doesn't look at her as much as he scribbles something unreadable in a spiral book.
She gets nervous, the excitement gives way to anxiety as she continues to ignore it. In the end, after what appears to be long minutes, although it could not be longer than a Mr. Smith he puts down his pen, closes the book and looks at it. The feeling he feels when their eyes freeze looks a lot like dizziness, he thinks, as he tries to calm his breath. Mr. Smith doesn't wear glasses and feels like he's stuck on a table as his pale eyes cross them.
"Miss Dawson," she says, and the way her name drips from her tongue like melted caramel and honey sets her stomach on fire. "Yes, Mr. Smith?" Later on she will be so embarrassed for everyone except to whine against him, but for now she can only struggle to refrain from jumping on the desk to see if her mouth is as good as she thinks she will. He stops and licks his lips.
Briana thinks she is going to die. "I would like to praise you for your essay on the symbolism of blood in Macbeth. The document was well done. Not that I expected anything less from you, of course." He touches his chin and looks at her thoughtfully, and Briana imagines him kneeling on the floor between her spread legs and looking at her with that exact same slightly curious and thoughtful expression, as if she were trying to decide the best way to go and eat her out.
He swallows heavily and thank God that he wore jeans today. He would surely smell the excitement for her otherwise. "Aren't you interested in joining one of the school's after-school literary clubs? The poetry club, perhaps?" The poetry club he teaches. Briana shakes her head. As wonderful (and terrible) as it would be to spend more time in the presence of Mr. Smith, he can't stand the types that make up the poetry club.
Furthermore, she has never been eager to stay in school longer than she should if she gets nothing out of it. It takes away the time spent masturbating, first. "Not really," he manages to say apologetically. Mr. Smith narrows his eyes on her and Tsk. "It's a shame," he says, reopening his book, "since I'm sure you would be nothing but an advantage in the classroom." He picks up the pen and starts scribbling again.
Briana understands the layoff for what it is. "Um ... thank you, Mr. Smith. See you tomorrow." He dances out, then turns on his heel and rushes to the door. The moment his fingers touch the knob, Mr. Smith calls his name once more and she stops.
He is about to turn when he says, "And could I suggest, Miss Dawson, that the next time you decide to masturbate in my class, you will clean up the mess from your chair before you leave? don't you agree with the students? "It freezes, mortified beyond words. He can barely hear it at the sound of his thunderous heartbeat and the rushing sound in his head. "And I hope you reconsider my invitation to join the poetry club. Have a nice day, Miss Dawson." And then the only sound in the classroom is the scratch of his pen.
Briana escapes, letting the door close behind her as she rushes into her next class in a daze. The corridors are crowded with students and it is a miracle that it arrives in the classroom without causing injury to anyone. That day he leaves school without having learned anything.
Briana goes to school early the next morning to visit the student activities office. Fill out an application form to join the poetry club and give it to the secretary with a tight smile. Mr. Smith doesn't spare you a single glance for the duration of his English period, but that's fine. It's not like he's able to look into his eyes, however.
The poetry club runs from 3.15 to 4.30 every Tuesday and Thursday. As he feared, the class is made up of pretentious snobs who look down on anyone who can't recite half of Milton's works by heart. The first positive is that TS's The Wasteland and Other Poems are just starting
Eliot, and Briana has always been a fan of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. The second positive is that Briana can hear Mr. Smith recite poems and say things that make her toes curl into her shoes.
In his opinion, the pros far outweigh the cons. It doesn't really get along with the handful of students there, not that you expect. She spends the lesson ignoring those around her, unless she is expressly invited. Time passes quickly and before she knows it, the after-school bell rings and everyone packs up and leaves.
Briana takes the time to close her books and put everything in her bag. He glances towards the front of the room as he gets up and stumbles when he sees Mr. Smith watching her. She swallows. No matter how hard she tries, Briana still can't think that Mr. Smith saw her and didn't report her to the principal.
He did not respond in any way as she expects, and consequently threw it badly. She does not know what her next move is and this excites her almost as much as it frightens her. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Smith," he stammers trembling.
The look it gives you is indecipherable. "Tomorrow, Miss Dawson." He nods, still staring. She feels her gaze on her back long after slipping out of the room.
The first thing he does when he comes home is to undress his clothes, grab his stronger vibrator and lie down on the bed. She turns it on and presses it against the clitoris until it cums, over and over and over. Spend an hour and a half releasing yourself with clitoral stimulation, until it is an exhausted, trembling wreck and the sheets under her are completely drenched. He falls asleep just like that. Put on a skirt to go to class the next day.
They are doing the last test of the semester before the finals, and she rushes effortlessly and ends with a long piece of free time. Her heart has been beating since she got the idea this morning, and she is genuinely surprised that she hasn't already died of a heart attack. She looks around slowly, making sure everyone is properly distracted, and puts her hand in her panties. The thrill of doing it again has already wet her, but the awareness that Mr. Smith will probably find out, he will probably be watching, makes her pussy vibrate. She chose thin and elastic panties to wear this morning, easy to put aside, and they do the job.
Once out of the way, bend over, spread your legs a little and start rubbing. Her clitoris is already inflamed, protruding from her and beyond sensitive to touch. She is so wet that her movements are fluid and her fingers slide over her pussy like silk.
Her breathing starts to get a little heavy and accelerates the pace, moving her hand in jerky circles and horizontal movements just as she likes. He stiffens when he hears someone watching her and slowly, so slowly, he looks up. She waits for him, she does, but the sight of Mr. Smith's fixed gaze on her puts her in difficulty.
Their eyes close and Briana continues to touch herself, her mouth opens slightly. He struggles not to lift his lips and moan as he wishes, and the effort makes his body tight as a tightrope. Her fingers are moving faster against her pussy and now she is soaking positively, she can feel the lubrication almost all out of her cunt and dip the thin material of the skirt underneath. Now it is getting closer and closer and the need to come is almost painfully overwhelming. Mr.'s eyes
Smith are dark and steady, and she watches as they wander over her, down her neck and up her chest and the neckline that pops out of her low-cut shirt, back to her face. She is biting her lip so hard that she is afraid it will tear and put two fingers on her. At that precise moment, Mr. Smith lips her licks, incredibly low and sensual, and Briana's eyes come closer as she arrives. She squirts, squirts and has to have sex to keep fluids from shooting too far.
He shakes himself seriously in the chair, his orgasm crashing over her in almost agonizing waves of pleasure and his lips tapering to prevent the sounds from slipping out. Then she collapses on the chair, her legs trembling and wide open, her sperm dripping from her hand and she cools her bare thighs. She thinks she should be passed out because the bell rings suddenly, surprising her, and everyone gets up and starts bringing their documents to the front.
The students leave one by one, yet she still doesn't move. When the door closes behind the last of them, Mr. Smith gets up from the desk and approaches her. She should be worried about this, she thinks, but the strength of her orgasm has made her anything but boneless. He doesn't think he can move even if he wants to, which he doesn't actually do.
Cock splashed. He has never done this before. "Mine," says Mr. Smith softly, stopping about a meter from his desk, "what a mess." "Excuse me sir." She says weakly, embarrassed.
He knows he should feel much more than just embarrassed, something like terror, anxiety or terror, probably a combination of all three, but somehow he knows he won't get into trouble for this, that's not the kind of trouble that involves exponents anyway, expulsions and criminal charges. He's in another kind of problem, though he hasn't figured out what yet. Mr. Smith hums and pushes the desk forward in front of her. Briana looks down and sees that there are wet spots on the floor even so far away.
The room smells like sex and wonders how nobody noticed it. "Awesome," he comments neutrally, looking at her. "I think so too," he says, with more confidence than he feels.
Their eyes lock again and the silence lengthens. Eventually, Mr. Smith steps forward and leans down. The heart immediately takes rhythm in his chest, Briana stares at him with wide eyes, wondering what she will do. He doesn't expect his hand on her knee, his fingers brushing the sperm on her legs.
Her breath freezes and stiffens, excitement flows inside her as her hand slides upward. He stops a few centimeters from the most desperate place to be touched, and Briana holds her breath and waits. He walks away and Briana lets out a sigh of disappointment. "Sit on the desk," she says immediately, and Briana hesitates, unsure if she heard it correctly or if it's just her desperate mind making bad jokes.
He gives her an impatient look and order finally registers. He stands up, legs swinging under her, and ignores the voice in his head that says "what the hell are you doing?" and gets up on the desk. She waits. Mr. Smith's lips widened into a thin, sharp smile.
"Lift your skirt." Briana does it. He lifts it until it's just an inch of two of material piled up at the waist. Her light purple panties are now dark against her mound, sticky and fresh. His thighs are completely shiny from his ejaculation, and he wonders again that he actually squirted. And then Mr. Smith's finger makes her beat and all thoughts except the feel of her skin on her flies outside the window.
Just saying. "How did you put your hand inside that material?" he asks, mildly and curiously as if he were asking for time. Briana hates her composure a little. Eyes on him, she moves the material aside and spreads her legs. She regrets the act of trust a second later when she feels another burst of cum pouring over her and a deeper shade of red spreads over her cheeks.
Mr. Smith stares for a moment. "Do you splash often?" he asks, peering at her. "N-mai", Rasp Briana. This whole conversation is mind-blowing and bizarre, and she's a little worried about not going as crazy as it should be. "Hm." Mr. Smith reaches out and slides a finger along his open crack, Briana's hips lacing up and she gasps.
She opens the wet figure in her mouth, ignores her wide open excitement and turns her back on it. "You can change your skirt, but leave the same underwear, Miss Dawson. And this time you pay more attention to cleaning yourself up, I'm not your servant." And with that he sits at his desk, opens a book and starts reading. Briana stares at him for a long time. Shock turns to embarrassment and embarrassment turns to anger and she glides off the desk with a look.
She adjusts her panties, lowers her skirt and stuffs her things into the bag. When he looks at him to see that he is still sitting there, as calm as you want, he takes the test off the desk and pushes it onto the chair. He cleans himself everywhere, not doing much, so he does the same on the floor. He slaps his test paper on his desk a moment later, wrinkled and almost transparent, and rushes out of the classroom.
He goes to the bathroom, closes himself in a stall and gets up again, his voice echoing loudly in the empty room. She is almost twenty minutes late for the next lesson and tells the teacher that she has been sick in the bathroom. He sits on the chair feeling hot in his sweats and hopes that his underwear will not leave a stain. The poetry club is every boring ounce as you remember it.
The minutes seem to go by slowly, and when the bell rings, she feels as if she has been sitting there for five hours, frustrated, hot and ridiculously on. Again he waits for everyone else to leave before putting his belongings away. He doesn't deliberately look up until his bag is closed and raised on one shoulder, and when he finally does it is to see Mr. Smith smile at her. It makes her hackles stand up and her panties get wet. It's a confusing combination.
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Mr. Smith approaches and locks the door, and the sound of this shot makes her nerves quicker. And excitement, but he's trying not to think about it. Try to appear unaltered as he approaches her. Try and fail.
He is still smiling at her with that maddening and sexy smile towards her, but his eyes are narrowed and dark and oh, he realizes wildly, burning with desire. He wants it. It is the most terrifying and surprising conclusion he has made in his life. He approaches her and Briana is remembered the first time she saw him, and how she compared him to a prey that pursues hunting. How appropriate, she thinks, with a dry mouth.
Prey. It is not an illusion that it is not exactly what it is at the moment. "Take off your pants," she whispers, and as she kicks her sneakers she finds herself wondering where all her proud indignations have gone. He lowers the sweats and walks away from them, trembling a bit as his bare skin hits the fresh air.
He kicks them to the side and stands up straight. He raises his chin. Tremble.
"So you can listen," he says in a silky tone, his eyes devouring the small strip of material still wet. She purses her lips but doesn't answer. He doesn't think he can. "Let's see how well you keep doing it," he murmurs. He steps back and settles on a desk.
"Take off your shirt." He commands. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if this is what he really wants to do. And then she remembers all the fantasies and dreams she had on him, every time she spent imagining them doing something like that, every time she let herself go to the sound of her voice and the memory of her gaze, and she decides yes, she does. You really, really. Then he temporarily removes his shirt and throws it at the rest of his discarded clothes.
He follows him as he lands in the pile and then looks up to find him staring at him. He nods to his chest, with intent eyes, and she takes a deep breath and opens the white bra from the front. It opens and her breasts widen with a rebound, her nipples already hard with excitement. He pulls away from the straps and drops it at his feet. "Now panties." He can barely hear him at the sound of his beating heart.
She folds, aware of the way the breast folds and sways, and pulls the wet material down onto her legs. He comes out of them and pushes them aside, then stands up straight again. A trickle of liquid falls from her, drips down her leg and she assists her, but ignores him respectfully. There is no need to make it clear that she is so nervous.
It could stop. Or it may not. At the moment he doesn't know which would be worse. Mr. Smith gets up slowly and walks over to her.
He takes her trembling hand and leads her to his desk. Laying on top of it spreads your legs and sits in the middle. "I'd ask if I wanted to stop you, but I know better," he says, running his hands over his arms.
She shakes her head and stares at him with wide eyes. Her fingers touch her hips and she shivers. "I'm not a good man, Miss Dawson." He says, with his right hand clutching her left breast. She bends over it and almost moans when her finger touches her taut nipple. "You must be aware.
If we do that ... it will hurt. It will be tough. Eventually you will leave this class with bruises that will not fade for weeks. "He shivers at his words and leans back, stiffening his spine." You will be reminded of a sure word that you will not easily escape during our proceedings and could use it whenever you want.
But know that the moment you do it, we will stop. Do you understand? stop and never again. "This is your only chance to show me that you can take it, he doesn't say, but obviously it means." Do you understand? "She nods, trembling.
"I asked, do you understand? I have to hear you say, Miss Dawson." A beat and then "Yes". The smile he gives her is unbearably hot and terrifying to die for. "Which word do you choose to use?" He thinks about it for a moment, and after a while he stops on a word, swears not to say it for the duration of the evening. "Stop." He raises his forehead, but she thinks he's curious too. "Are you absolutely sure?" "Yup." She says.
She is. "Excellent." He says, before pinching his nipple hard between his fingers. She gasps in pain and tries to step back, but her hand follows her and squeezes only stronger. "S-st" Start saying, then take it. Tears sprout in her eyes and her nipple is on fire, but the smug look she gives makes it almost bearable.
Almost. "Good girl" he murmurs. He is trembling like a leaf on his desk, trying desperately to hold back his tears. When she finally releases her nipple she folds like a broken puppet.
Her nipple hurts something fierce, and Briana wonders weakly if she can make it after all. Her hand rises to cover the side of her face and smiles at her. "I knew there was something special about you from the moment I saw you," she says, stroking her thumb on the cheek, "and I'm happy to know I was right. Now, Miss Dawson, are you ready to start?" Briana shivers and says "Yes, Mr. Smith." The smile she gives her resembles a chipped glass.
"Then we go." He takes hold of his bruised nipple again and writhes. She screams. Briana is lying on her back, her legs folded and wide open, with Mr. Smith standing between them. He can barely concentrate on anything other than the throbbing of his chest, he won't even dare to look at the damage done to them.
The last time he had defied a look, his nipples were an angry red, all swollen and bruised. The skin around them was no better; bright red spots from where he pinched and slapped them, lines from where he scratched himself, dark bruises from where he sucked, re-enter from the pressure of his relentless teeth. It's most of the pain Briana has ever seen in her life and yet.
Yet she cannot deny that she let go of a puddle beneath her, nor that she has ever been so excited. "Most people get excited about the pain," he said after torturing the lower breast with his sharp teeth and punishing the fingers, "but most are too repressed to admit it. Not you, though. " Part of her wanted to shake her head, wanted to tell him that she was wrong, that she didn't like what she was doing, that it hurt. But his body said otherwise, he continues to say otherwise and after a while he began to wonder if the whining that came out of his mouth was the result of pain or pleasure.
Both, he realizes after a long time. They are both. He is now standing between his legs and is vibrating with nerves, expectations and fear.
The thought that he is so close to his sex makes her want to close her legs and hide. It also makes her want to spread them as far as they go and beg him to touch her and never stop. If she gets out of this ... thing with her sanity intact, she'll be seriously affected. "You're beautiful," he says, and she sighs with pleasure. He is looking at her as if it were a party he doesn't know exactly where to start, and he hopes that the not too thin lifting of the hips gives him a clue.
"Turn around," she says, and as disappointed as she is, as she says. The last time he tried to argue with him, he bit his nipple so hard that he thought his teeth would tear. Briana has never been the type who made the same mistake twice. She settles on her stomach and bites her lip however vulnerable this new position makes her feel.
He hears Mr. Smith retreat and turns his head to look for him, but he's bending over so he doesn't see what he's doing. Anxiously she waits for her to rise, and when she does so and notices the object in her hand, she stretches out and holds her breath. Bring a garden stick. Fuck, she thinks. This will hurt.
For the umpteenth time in the last few minutes? hours? he can't even say that Briana hears the word sure at the tip of her tongue. She opens her mouth a little, almost ready to say it, but then she catches sight of her eyes, glistening with excitement and apparently so happy, and the words die and fall back into her throat. He pats the stick and the beat that rings across the room makes her jump. "Such a beautiful and clear skin" hears him murmur behind her.
Her neck hurts from where she is, but she doesn't dare leave it out of her field of vision. Not yet. "Begging," she continues, continuing to hover around her, "to be scored." He slides the tip of the ruler against the line of her spine and she arches to the touch, shivers when she plunges between her cheeks of the ass.
"Don't you agree, Miss Dawson?" She whines and that's it. "Good girl", he compliments her. His reward is a slight thud behind him. Her hips protrude upwards, but he pushes down with the ruler and she still forces herself. "Relax," he says smoothly, stopping in front of the desk.
The ruler drags up again until he rests between his shoulder blades. "It will feel good." He raises his hand and she hides her face in the hollow of her arm just as the king's plate hits her ass. It stings and she whispers, her hips unconsciously flinching in pain. "Oh," she suddenly adds, "and you're not allowed to scream." Raise the ruler again and the next slap connects hard. Briana gasps for the sharp sensation that spreads on her ass, and sharpens the tingling that the impact leaves in her wake.
Now she understands it, she thinks, as she prepares for another strike; the eyelashes hurt, but the burn he leaves behind is fucking fantastic. It strikes her again, and again, and again, hitting different sections of her back, her ass, her thighs, the back of her knees. He loses his wind count and then loses all semblance of coherent thought. His world digs a tunnel until the only thing inside is the touch of the stick, the fire on his skin and the soothing tone of Mr. Smith's voice as he washes it like a fresh conditioner. The ruler hits her ass and she writhes and moans in the hollow of her arm.
The creaking sound is so loud, like hitting in a silent place, and with each stroke the pain worsens, the pleasure increases in a certain rule of thumb. Whack! His eyes rotate towards the back of his head as his back widens in pain, the strike he has just received harder. It shakes at the top of the desk, the body contracting with pain and pleasure and the overwhelming combination of both of these sensations makes it difficult to think.
He doesn't know if he wants Mr. Smith to hit her again or not, he doesn't know if he could take another swing even if he did. She is too caught up in the haze of sensation and her own inner turmoil to understand that Mr. Smith has moved away from his side to settle between his legs. He doesn't notice until he feels the tip of the ruler slide down between his cheeks and push the mound lying underneath. "Turn around," he says. It acts instinctively.
It's as if his body is on autopilot, ready to move only when Mr. Smith gives a command. He regrets how much control he has over her a moment later when his back hits the desk surface and his skin burns. She screams a little, she thinks, but she can barely make out the sound of her heart, her breathing, the rushing noise in her head. When the pain eases to something almost bearable, he realizes that he is whining and Mr. Smith is stroking his belly more at ease, the voice that echoes words of admiration and adoration for him. "See?" she is saying, "You just need a moment to adapt.
Now almost everything is better, isn't it? Maybe you're feeling a little good too? "Briana finds herself nodding. She's right, she thinks, taking care not to move too much. She's starting to feel a little good. She vaguely ignores the idea that forms in her head that he feels good just because Mr. Smith says he should.
He doesn't want to recognize that he could have so much power over her. "Excellent," he says. Briana slowly registers pressure between her legs. He looks up, slowly, carefully, and sees the ruler there, nudging her.
It hisses with fear, triggering the mind in all the ways it can hurt it there. Mr. Smith smiles at her. "You don't seem so terrified, Miss Dawson.
What do you think I will do to you here? "He pushes the sovereign against her." Hit you with it? "He gently touches her against her open sex, making her jump and tremble." Do you caress yourself with this? "He puts the sovereign in his folds and drag up and down, up and down, causing sparks of pleasure between her legs.
The hardness, the consistency, is wonderful against her clitoris, and Briana finds herself opening up a little more. "Fuck you with it?" he continues. It takes some time for its meaning to sink, but when it does Briana freezes and tries to move her hips. Mr. Smith grimaces and spreads his legs again, squeezing one hand around her thigh to hold her still.
He feels the point of the ruler against his hole and breaks into renewed tremors. "Please," she raspes. "Don" The ruler slips in and she moans. Mr. Smith pushes her inside her, inch by inch by inch, until he can't do it anymore.
He moans in pain and discomfort, his hips bend, trying to get the invading object out. She is not at all well, the sharp edges hit her and hurt her almost, and she wants her out. "Reason" He starts fucking her and she gasps hard, her hands forming fists on the sides. It starts slowly, dragging the ruler outwards, then inwards, in a pleasant slide. It doesn't take long before his hand accelerates and the ruler starts to push it in and out quickly.
It's terrible, terrible, and she would do anything to take it off, anything Something presses against her clit and she gets so bad that she almost throws it away. He tries to get up on his elbows, ignoring the way his back protests for movement, and opens his eyes wide when he sees Mr. Smith's hands between his legs. He is not looking at her, his eyes seem glued to his task.
He takes the clitoris between his fingers and starts rolling it in acute circles and Briana falls backwards and cries. Oh my, yes, yes, yes, she sings inside, pleasure invests her with electric waves. He is touching her there, finally, finally, and she can almost ignore the ruler who pushes her inside the way her clitoris is skillfully working.
She moans loudly when she sets a rhythm, rubbing it back and forth under her slippery fingers. He feels her orgasm approaching and she pushes his hand, desperate for more friction, more movement, more everything, and she emits a hiccup of triumph when she comes oh god, yes! on his fingers. Her whole body lifts itself from the power of it and the groan it emits is so loud that the echo that reverberates in the room lingers for years.
The darkness writhes in the corners of his vision and thinks he is going to pass out. Pleasure lasts a long time. Longer than any orgasm I've ever had before. Mr. Smith's fingers do not give way, however, and eventually he begins to experience extreme discomfort.
He tries to close his legs and turn around, but Mr. Smith won't let him. He pulls the ruler out of her and drops it on the floor, comes forward and uses one hand to spread it. The other hand is still moving against her pussy, her fingers trembling and rubbing her overly sensitive clitoris. Briana tries to get away again, but once again Mr.
Smith refuses to abandon. She cries out for overstimulation and can feel tears running down her face as she continues to touch her. And then her hand disappears and she lets out a sob of relief. He begins to close his legs, even the air too much against his open sex, only to make them pry on the open fingers. In the blink of an eye Mr. Smith's head is lowering and his mouth is settling between his thighs.
She screams when her tongue hits her clitoris before clinging to her lips and teeth. He desperately tries to get away but only makes him double his efforts, sucking and lapping stronger than he can bear. It is beautiful and terrible and Briana feels like she is about to burst from the seams.
He comes again, explosively, and shouts Mr. Smith's name as his climax splashes against his face. He doesn't give up. He wakes up and cries, shakes his hips, shakes from side to side, but can't take it off.
He only pushes three fingers inside her and makes her feel like she is falling apart. While her tongue and lips suck and lick her inflamed clitoris, her fingers fuck her, twirling and swinging and bifurcating and spreading inside her until she is sore and aching and looks so beautiful that she wants to pass out. Her next orgasm comes even faster and makes her burst into tears. Every inch of her skin is sensitive and buzzing with pleasure and even the fresh air from the room on her skin is causing her to unravel.
Mr. Smith retires after a distressing minute, his face glistening with sweat and cum, and she observes, feeling completely destroyed, as she cleans herself with the sleeve of her shirt and begins to unbuckle her belt. The moments between him slipping out of his pants and getting into her are a little confusing. His mind is a disaster, he becomes unable to think, and is only vaguely aware of any presence other than his until he feels it move inside her, warm, wide and naked.
He drags her to the edge of the desk and she ignores the pain in her back as she slides towards him. She spreads her legs, wraps them around her waist and he grabs her thighs and fucks them, alternating varying rhythms, speeds and angles, until it is a plaintive yelp. Mr. Smith is making the most delightful sounds from above her, these soft pleasure grunts that go directly to her cunt.
The pleasure drags on and on, burning and violent, reaching an ever higher peak as its thrusts change and accelerate. He's clutching her thighs so hard that she's sure she's sick, but she can't really take care of it. I can't really feel it, either.
It is as if his mind has disconnected from everything that is not her pussy and is glorious. Mr. Smith gasps as he comes, shooting into her and filling her up.
Every time it penetrates it it seems the sperm inside its guilds, and every time it withdraws it pours out from her, coming down from her thighs and ass, gathering on the desk. It reaches its peak again, but this time it is softer, more bearable. She only trembles for a moment or two and then relaxes, her body collapsing on the desk, without bones.
She is so tired that she can probably fall asleep right now, just like that. He thinks he must have it, because next time he is aware of something that is fully dressed and there are no wet spots to talk about. He slowly stands up, wincing and grunting at the way his muscles pull and the skin relaxes uncomfortably. It hurts everywhere and is the best and worst I've ever experienced in his life. Mr. Smith is tucking the sheets into his briefcase and triggering it when he finally manages to slide off the desk.
Her knees bend when she tries to get up and she has to hold on to the edge just to stay upright. When he finally looks at her, his expression is as bland as ever. "Your assistance is appreciated tonight," he says softly. He straightens his tie and lifts the briefcase. With a respectful nod, he continues, "Good night, Miss Dawson.
See you tomorrow in class. "And then she goes out the door without looking back. The doors close behind her and Briana stares at her for a long moment before she lets herself go to the desk and starts laughing. It's loud and hysterical and ugly. , and at some point there are even tears. He laughs because he refuses to admit that it could be something else for a long time before struggling on his feet, grabbing the bag and sliding out.
It is completely dark when he leaves the house, the sky is almost black except for the bright scatter of stars and the glow of the moon. When he checks his phone he realizes that it is just over ten. He hopes his parents aren't home.
Her legs falter and threaten to collapse and the material of the shirt painfully pulls her back with every step she takes, but she succeeds. She leaves school, walks the eight blocks she needs to go home and stumbles into it. The lights are still off and there are no shoes on the door, indicating that none of his parents are still at home.
He drops the bag in the lobby and almost crawls over and into his bedroom, falling on the bed with clothes, shoes and all over his stomach. He stays there long, long, thinking about every detail of the evening and struggling to breathe. It appears that his entire body is full of bruises, as if his back could actually be full of bleeding bruises.
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Your chest (heart) hurts. Think of the way Mr. Smith whispered his name (never before) and the way he calmed his wounds (the ones he inflicted on them), and all the pleasure he gave her (and so much pain). Think of the affections that called her, the soft looks he had given her, the excitement for her that had darkened his eyes. Think of the way he said goodbye, as if they had spent hours marking the sheets together instead of engaging in endless foreplay and fucking, and the look on his face, as if it didn't even matter, as if nothing important had happened between them at all. She thinks and repents.
For all the permission he gave, he still feels used. Discarded, now that he's done with her. He expected more.
Maybe not flowers and declarations of love, but a persistent goodbye kiss, a sweet smile, a sparkle in his eyes. A promise next time. Not that cold dismissal, that hasty departure, that absentminded observation as if it had done him an excellent service which he appreciated. In all his fantasies, things never ended like this. Again, she is caught between laughing at the whole situation and her own naivety, or crying over injustice.
Never again, think of the lump in the throat. Her eyes burn, but she refuses to cry. Not again. Not for him. Never again.
Briana swallows heavily and struggles to get under the sheets. He takes off his shoes, ignores the wet underpants and wrinkled clothes and closes his eyes. He does not know how he manages it with his troubled thoughts, aching heart and battered body, but eventually falls asleep. You don't dream. The end..
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