(All characters in this story are eighteen years of age, or older)
Chapter 7
You have to stand your ground
You feel a part of yourself already meekly submitting to the lesson.
Yes, Mr. Peterson, teach me obedience
. Even just the thought of saying those words sends a thrill through you, making your pussy buzz with excitement in spite of your anger. You start to think that maybe he's right, maybe you do need someone... need
him
... to teach you to keep these thoughts and feelings under control. Would you even need this special tutoring if you were able to focus in class? If you weren't constantly distracted by the thought of where your next orgasm was coming from?
But you can't just let him say things like that. Are you really going to let this asshole go on about feminine vulnerability and degenerate fecklessness? What the fuck do those words even mean? You can't stand sexist know-it-alls like him trying to impose their patriarchal sensibilities on women everywhere. His words can't go unchallenged. You don't care about his... strict male authority.
Right?
"Hey, hold the fu-, erk, hold on right there!" The memory of the switch stops you from cursing, and also forces out the words "Mr. Peterson!" He looks at you with one eyebrow raised, showing no emotion, which just makes you angrier. "You can't just say shi-, say stuff like that! Femininity isn't degenerate, OK?"
He looks like he's waiting for you to continue. Part of you is terrified of the consequences of what you've already done, but now that you've started to vent your frustration you can't stop. "You may be a history teacher, Mr. Peterson, but you've got a lot to learn about what women are capable of! They aren't some small vulnerable creatures incapable of taking care of themselves. Women have done
incredible
things. They do
not
need 'strict male authority'!" You're breathing hard, overcome with terror and exhilaration at the act of talking back. Those last three words hang in the air like a challenge.
Mr. Peterson is looking you right in the eyes. He waits a moment before responding, just long enough for self-doubt to creep in around the edges of your righteous anger. "Perhaps they do not, Miss Murray." He takes a step closer. "But you do."
Yes
. Your eyes widen in shock, less at his words than at your own inner answer to them. Mr. Peterson sees the opening and pounces. "Perhaps you have forgotten the events of yesterday afternoon, Miss Murray. Shall I remind you?" His face is still a blank, but his eyes are back to being burning coals. "You came into my classroom and requested a favor, a favor to which I agreed in spite of the risk to my personal and professional reputation."
He takes another step closer. He's right next to you, so close you can feel the heat from his body. "You then proceeded to disrespect me, and my authority, before the tutoring could even begin. Proving, with
your
actions, the need for discipline."
Discipline
. Your breath gets shallow.
"Yes, Miss Murray, discipline. You needed it, and you responded to it when I gave it to you." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "Do you recall, Miss Murray, the nature of your response to my discipline?"
Your cheeks burn bright red and a tear stings your eye. Shame fills you as you feel your pussy tingle at the memory. You nod.
"And what, Miss Murray, was that response?"
You're trembling.
How is he doing this to me again? I thought I was ready!
"I... I got wet."
"Indeed you did. And do you remember what happened at the end of our tutoring session yesterday, Miss Murray? Do you remember what you requested of me?"
You nod again. A tear makes its way down your cheek.
"What was it, Miss Murray?"
"I... I asked you to... make me come." Your pussy is burning now.
"And what did I do to fulfill your request, Miss Murray?"
More tears fall. You're desperate to look away from the burning pits of his eyes, but you can't escape their pull. "You... you h-hit my pussy... you hit my pussy with the crop."
"Yes I did, Miss Murray. Now, let's put it together: you asked for my help, disrespected me when I offered it, and then were so affected by my punitive instruction that you asked your own teacher to bring you to orgasm with a disciplinary instrument. Is that all correct?"
Your knees start to tremble. When he puts it like that you feel absolutely pathetic. "Y-yes, Mr. Peterson."
"Now, let's go even deeper, shall we? The entire reason you asked for my help is because of your academic performance. Something was lacking, something was preventing you from achieving the results you desired. Yesterday, we discovered what that something was. Didn't we, Miss Murray?"
Your clit is buzzing. You open your mouth to speak, but the shame stops the words in your throat.
"Yes we did, Miss Murray. According to your own words, sexual thoughts have prevented you from focusing in my class. Your inability to control your sexual urges has caused you to miss valuable class time. When you were brought to a state of arousal yesterday, you blatantly lied about it in violation of the terms of this special tutoring. These are all serious infractions, Miss Murray, and they are all related to your uncontrolled sexual desires."
