(All characters in this story are eighteen years of age, or older)
Chapter 8
Revealing something hidden
At first, you thought you could handle this. At first, the only thing you were worried about was your feet hurting. At first, you were relieved that Mr. Peterson wasn't going to introduce you to another of his "disciplinary instruments". At first, you were looking forward to cruising through the first part of the advanced tutoring, earning your grade without doing any real work.
How long had that lasted? Thirty minutes?
Maybe
an hour?
You had lost all sense of time. The only clock in the room was behind you, ticking away, something you suspect Mr. Peterson had arranged on purpose. It feels like you've been standing there all day. You can't tell what kind of progress Mr. Peterson is making in his work, whatever that is. Is he grading papers? Preparing a course? Doing his taxes? What is he doing that's so engrossing he would completely ignore the girl standing in the corner in a too-small schoolgirl uniform and her panties in her mouth?
Any boy your age would be all over you. Not Mr. Peterson, though.
Why do I care so much about that?
You had never thought about him with anything other than annoyance and disdain before. It's not that you didn't appreciate older men -- you'd fantasized about them plenty, and you'd gotten down with a grad student once at a college party you'd snuck into -- but Mr. Peterson was just your obnoxious history teacher. Always going on about Great Men, always reprimanding you for pushing back against his patriarchal worldview. Never someone you thought about... that way.
Until he punished you.
Until he made you come.
You couldn't stop staring at him, sitting at his desk, working diligently. You'd long since run out of things to distract yourself with. Unable to identify any of the old men in the paintings, not recognizing more than a handful of the books on the shelves, what had held your attention longest was the hallway and the staircase. What secrets lay waiting beyond them? What kind of mysteries did Mr. Peterson have hidden away, just out of sight?
What was his bedroom like?
You tried to push that thought out of your head, but with nothing else to occupy your mind, your imagination kept wandering back there. Mr. Peterson had shown you a part of himself you'd never imagined existed, and now you were hungry to know more.
Why? Why do I give a shit about this asshole's inner life? What could possibly go on in this old loser's bedroom that I want to know about?
Your self-interrogation is answered by a flash of inner vision. You imagine Mr. Peterson punishing you again, but this time you're in his bedroom instead of his classroom. This time, you don't have any clothes on to protect your sensitive skin. This time, he isn't using a tool, just his strong hands. Touching you, coming down hard on your soft, vulnerable body, making you—
Shaking your head, you escape your fantasy before it goes too far. You pull in deep breaths through your nose, trying to calm yourself down. Cheeks burning, pussy throbbing, you're desperate to be somewhere else. You feel your fingers twitch, wanting to touch your pussy and relieve some of the aching need. It still doesn't make any sense to you why your teacher's punishments do this to you, but you're beyond caring about that. At this point, you don't even care about frigging yourself in front of him, as long as you can get off. But you can't. You're not allowed to.
Your clit tingles at the thought, and you find yourself staring at Mr. Peterson again.
I'm only doing this because I need that grade. These crazy rules and lessons and... punishments... they don't matter. They're just a means to an end. Once this weekend is over, I can go back to my normal life.
As you watch him work, you wonder, can you really though? You try to imagine sitting in his class, paying attention to a history lecture or working through a test, after all this. How would you react, back in your "normal" life, when a man who'd made you come by hitting your pussy with a crop told you to turn in your homework, to turn to page 47, to stop talking and pay attention?
You feel a low moan coming from deep in your chest. Quickly stopping yourself, you bunch your fists up and dig your fingernails into your palms.
Come on, RC. You can get through this. It's not like he's... hitting you
. You take a deep, shaky breath.
It's not like you have to do anything complicated. All you have to do is stand here.
Just like he told you
.
Your mind keeps racing around in a circle. The aching in your feet, the humiliation you feel at standing in the corner like a naughty child, in your embarrassing outfit, mouth stuffed with your own wet panties. All of it is pushing you away from what you're doing, creating a desperate need to be somewhere else. But you can't stop, you can't go anywhere. You need that grade. You need to do what you're told, or else Mr. Peterson will punish you. So you have to keep standing there, feet aching, mind buzzing with shame, pussy burning.
"Miss Murray?"
Mr. Peterson's voice nearly makes you yelp in surprise. You look at him, eyes wide. You notice that you're trembling, but you can't make yourself stop.
"Miss Murray, that noise is making it quite difficult for me to focus on my work. I
specifically
instructed you to not distract me."
You had been moaning into your panties again.
Goddammit RC what the
fuck
