Tied for Teacher

Edited once again by shygirlwhore, many thanks.

All characters mentioned are 18 years or older, of course.

* * * * *

"...And how would you respond to that, Mr. Simmons?"

The tone was pointed, the words coming from a source somewhat higher up than Carl's current point of attention. He started, guiltily, which was all the response Ms. Hunt expected or needed.

"That was certainly enlightening. Well everyone, I see we're at the end of our time today, you might as well pack up. Mr. Simmons, I will speak with you afterward; everyone else, have a good weekend," the young teacher's tone was light, with an undercurrent hinting at ire yet to come.

Carl sighed and slumped back in his seat as everyone else bustled their way through leaving the classroom. As if he was actually being kept back after class on a Friday afternoon; and for Sociology, the mother of all doss subjects. What a way to start the weekend. Once his other classmates had all made themselves scarce, the expected interrogation began in the anticipated manner:

"Do you know why it is that you're here, Mr. Simmons?"

"I'm sorry miss, I'll pay more attention next time..."

His expectations were confounded by the next tack of the conversation.

"Oh, I think I had your full attention. Didn't I, Carl?"

From studying his hands spread idly on the desk in front, the young man looked up with a start as his teacher's tone took on a lower, more confidential purr. Miss Hunt was quite the popular teacher with the boys of the Upper Sixth, albeit not for the content of her lessons: it was the content of her neat formal suit jackets; fine silken blouses; tight pencil skirts and sheer stockings that attracted such jocular admiration. That her surname had such potential for spicy rhyming allusion was an added bonus among his social circle.

Eighteen years old for a few months now, Carl realised he'd never been in quite such an intimate situation as this with a woman who was really only a few years older than himself, no barrier at all really... He tried to focus, suddenly glad he was still sitting behind his desk.

"Um, I- sorry miss..."

His eyes swivelled to follow her, his neck craning around as she padded slowly from the front of the class toward him, then around behind his desk. After turning his head about halfway, her body passing within a mere hand's breadth of his face, he became self-conscious and snapped back to face front. After circling around his back entirely, the dark-haired teacher sat herself down delicately upon the desk beside him.

"Oh, really? A shame; I didn't have long enough to appreciate your attentiveness," with apparent carelessness she raised one shapely, stockinged leg up high enough to slip off the sensible flat shoe, before repeating the process in reverse with the other foot. Her head was cocked to one side as she looked down at him, a small smile quirking the corners of her lips, "besides, there's no need to be so formal; class is over, it's time to relax a little."

He could feel an intense gaze upon the side of his face, glimpsed sparkling hazel eyes at the edge of his vision as she reached up and flicked open the top button of her primly-fastened blouse. Miss Hunt's attire was always immaculate during school hours, proper strict librarian stuff, and as much as they'd lusted after such a development none of the boys had ever seen anything nearly as saucy as this from the stiffly proper young brunette. There was certainly no way that Carl could leave his seat right now, at least without inordinate amounts of embarrassment.

"Uh, um..."

She rose again, circled behind him: her hands landed lightly upon his shoulders with a gentle squeeze of her delicate fingers against his flesh; with some sixth sense he felt her lean in close to his ear; he heard her purring voice again, barely a whisper:

"I said, class is over. There's no need for you still to be in that stuffy uniform, is there? Take it off, while I fetch a certain something from my desk."

She didn't bother waiting for a reply, had he even been capable of offering one; with the same unhurried pace but adding a new-found sway to her hips within the close confines of her skirt, she stalked up to the head of the classroom. She'd left her jacket in a puddle on the desk next to him, and he could see the faintest line of black crossing her back beneath the semi-translucent blouse; a distant part of his mind wondered if she realised her bra was visible, before a neighbouring (and slightly less distant) portion speculated on whether she had chosen it for such. He could only stare dumbly at her slinky stride; she didn't even bother to look back the whole way there.

Belatedly he remembered the instruction he'd been given, and scrambled to make up for lost time: first he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt before giving up and just tugging it off over his head to cast aside on the desk in front of him; then he rose a little, still conscious of the shameful prominence within as he tugged open the flies of his trousers and dragged them down, kicking off his shoes and socks at the same time. Miss Hunt had retrieved something from a drawer of her desk and turned, not toward him but to the side, heading over to the classroom door. He sat back a little awkwardly in his underwear, hands folded uncertainly in his lap. Miss Hunt reached the closed door; she took a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock, with an audible click. Then she sauntered slowly along the classroom windows upon the same wall, facing the corridor outside, lowering the blinds upon each one. There was the barest whisper of her stockinged feet against the linoleum floor with each step.

His stare was fully upon her as she turned towards him once more, and he could see that her smile had grown appreciably. She had a hand behind her back, carrying whatever it was she'd retrieved from her desk, keeping it hidden from his view as she completed the circuit to slide smoothly up behind him again. Once more, with a certain self-consciousness, he found himself returning his gaze toward the front of the classroom as she moved close in to his rear.

"Good boy," those teasing lips returned to hover next to his ear, "now I need you to put your hands behind the chair."

Confused, but also not one to pass up what he hoped was happening, Carl's eyes darted to the side in some vain hope of catching a glimpse of Miss Hunt's expression as she withdrew her head once more as he nevertheless complied. Reaching back, he put his arms over the back of the chair and hung them down the backrest. It was only when he heard another couple of clicks, quiet but no less audible; and felt the coolness of metal pinching against his wrists that his anxious self-consciousness began to turn toward alarm.

"M-miss?"

"Shh..." those honeyed lips again, soothing his ear as her hands returned to his shoulders; gently they began to massage his freshly-bare skin in small circles, "You're doing well, don't spoil it now. Open your mouth for me, and close your eyes. No peeking!"

Perhaps it was an unconscious deference to the assured authority in her tone; perhaps it was just the fancy that he could feel her breasts, lightly brushing against his restrained biceps through the thin and luxurious material of her blouse, which made him obey. The next thing he felt was something against his teeth, bulbous and only slightly yielding, stuffed between his lips and held in place by something else yanked tight around the back of his head. His eyes shot open, but the gag between his teeth stifled his plaintive indignation.

There was a certain strut to the teacher's gait as she came into view once again, sweeping around the front of his desk before taking up a stern pose and glaring down at him. The barest hint of black lace was just visible beneath the folds of her blouse's unfastened neck as she leaned forward, purposeful and direct.

"Do you know what 'Miss' means, Carl?"

As alarming as his predicament was, the young man could not help but lean forward as far as his fastened arms would allow to try and cover the still-raging stiffness at his crotch; fearsome as she now appeared, the dark-haired teacher had surrendered none of her allure.

"It is short for 'Mistress', which is the feminine form of 'Master'. You boys, always so eager to admire a woman's body where you think you can get away with it; no consideration for anyone but yourselves, and your own naughty little desires. I have another lesson for you now, Carl: how to give the proper respect and devotion a woman deserves. You would not be the first of your peers I have had to correct this way. I will accept your adoration; you will worship me as your Mistress!"

The revelation of his teacher's ferocious new aspect had Carl quaking in his seat, staring wide-eyed from above the fat rubber ball-gag which hushed any protest. Her words brought to mind a couple of his classmates, and memories of older boys from the previous year's Upper Sixth, who had suddenly taken on a much quieter attitude partway through the year. At least one of his friends had become so in fact, after another one of Miss Hunt's detentions. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, although below that he could only rise further to the occasion.

"Now that we have that out of the way, we'll begin your instruction," she approached once more and took him by the bicep, levering him upward and helping him none too gently out of the chair that he would have had difficulty rising from unassisted with both arms trapped behind him.

She pulled the seat from behind him as he straightened up, a good couple of inches taller than her for all the difference it made to him right then. Then, still with the same vice-like grip on his upper arm she led him toward the front of the classroom and her solitary desk; upon reaching it, she hauled him forward and bent his chest down clear across its surface. He quailed inwardly, whimpering behind the gag as she left him bent over her desk and strode away to the far side of the classroom's archaic blackboard. Equally anachronistic was the wooden metre-ruler that stood habitually propped up against it, which seemed suddenly much less quaint as Miss Hunt seized it with every appearance of wicked glee.

Strangely he didn't think to try moving as she stalked back over towards him; he didn't dare. He remained frozen in place, torso lying across the teacher's desk and legs straight with his boxer-clad buttocks stuck in the air, as she returned.

"This won't do at all!" there was a disquieting probe of fingertips inside the hem at the rear of his underwear, and a sudden tug which drew the shorts clean down past his knees, "there, now you're ready for your first lesson."

Unsurprisingly, but no less horrifying for all that, the first lesson began with the delivery of a stiff, sharp stroke of the flat of the ruler against his bare backside. Carl squeaked into his gag, more in terror than pain as the first blow was actually rather restrained for all that; those which followed, however, gained steadily in assertiveness. He could see Miss Hunt beside him, standing a careful distance away with her lips parted in a severe grin, her shining white teeth visible, a forbidding beauty radiating from her striking features. Now he found his attention fixed unreservedly upon her face, even as she unlimbered with a roll of her shoulders and slipped loose another button lower down her throat. He caught her eye, received a knowing look in return; then she winked, and unleashed an especially stinging slap right across both his reddened cheeks. He squealed, but mercifully the rain of blows subsided.

"And that's the round dozen," in his frazzled state he'd completely lost count; she left the ruler leaning against the classroom wall and approached him more closely, reaching a hand out to brush delicately across the angry red welts upon his newly-tender flesh, before giving him a single, ringing full-palm slap right upon the sorest point, "now on to the next part. Draw your legs apart, boy."

Sheepishly, and fearful of what was in store for him next, he nevertheless shuffled his feet open until the gap between was as wide as the width of his shoulders. Miss Hunt returned to her desk drawer, this time withdrawing the items from it in full view of his face hunched down against the desktop: a pair of pens and a rubber band. They seemed innocuous enough. She ran a lazy fingertip down the length of the cheekbone on the upraised side of his face, smiling down at him with malicious cheer, before it circled back along his jawbone to his chin. Then she walked calmly around behind him once more.

"Judging by the looks, it seems as though you're eager to continue your instruction," her voice was somewhere behind him as Carl rolled his eye around to try and catch a glimpse of what she was up to; his eyes widened suddenly before fluttering up behind their lids at a soft, unexpected stroking along the underside of his desperately erect penis. He hadn't been expecting such gentle treatment; from the infuriating lightness and breathtaking delicacy of her touch, she was clearly quite expert in her ministrations. His hard dick quivered under her remorseless caress. There was a moment where the bite of the handcuffs vanished from about his wrists. Then he felt a finger and thumb circle deftly around the top of his dangling testicles, and lift, "now, boy; close your legs."

He did as he was told; what else could he do under his Mistress' instruction? It was a strange sensation to feel his balls held beneath his rump, his cock hanging down behind his thighs. It was stranger when a pair of long, thin items closed in on either side of the top of his scrotum. Then, there was a snap of sudden tension. Carl cried into his gag as a pair of rod-like objects pressed into the backs of his thighs and his balls were seemingly hauled backwards painfully. He slithered back off Miss Hunt's desk, moaning as he hurried to lower himself down upon bent knees, until his poor ball sack was returned to a manageable position which didn't threaten to wrench it clean off. He found he couldn't kneel up, couldn't even straighten; sobbing with nervous energy, he crouched on all fours.

"This is called a humbler. Two pens and a rubber band; so simple. You look much more humble already, boy. Now, follow me; don't dawdle."

The whispered kiss of the domineering young woman's feet, gliding in their stockings over the linoleum, drew his attention away from the inner panic which was only just subsiding. He turned, clumsy in his new predicament, making the mistake of straightening his legs a little too much once or twice to accompanying clenches of pain around his balls before learning enough to make his hobbled way across the floor in Miss Hunt's wake. Again, she didn't even deign to look back.

The route she led him on so imperiously, took them all the way around the edges of the classroom; her confident and assured, him crawling along hunched over on his hands and knees behind. Before he'd gotten halfway, he'd lowered his front half down upon his elbows: it was easier to avoid any sharp tugs upon his delicate nether regions that way. He had to shuffle, his thighs tight together to prevent any unwanted, unpleasant slippage. It made the most sense to keep gazing down pitifully at the floor behind her footsteps.

By the time their circuit was complete, he was trembling. Tears of anxious adrenaline clung un-shed to the corners of his eyes and his throat was making a quiet, pathetic little sound which was muffled entirely by the ball-gag between his lips. It took long moments after coming to a halt before he summoned the courage to raise his head, the rest of his body crouching lower in a reflexive attempt to prevent any further painful tugging.

His eyes came across one of Miss Hunt's feet, travelling up the ankle and along a shapely shin. Her leg was bent at the knee, the other one perched decadently across it. He was almost too far gone to spot the dark, welcoming hollow that vanished up inside the tight confines of her skirt, barely glimpsed above her crossed legs, full of exotic mystery and sensual promise past the smooth curves of her thighs. He kept raising his eyes, past the hands clasped with fingers lightly steepled in her lap, up over the swell of that magnificent bosom that hid tantalisingly in its black lace finery on the edge of exposure beneath the two undone buttons. His gaze finally reached her face, meeting hers for just a moment before he panicked, and dropped it again.

"It seems that you've made progress boy," she leaned forward, reaching out toward him as he dropped back to prostrate himself once more on all fours, "I'm interested to hear what you have to say for yourself."

Her arms reached behind his head; there was a moment or two of unseen activity before she leaned back, bringing the ball-gag with her by its straps. He opened his mouth uncomfortably wide to let it loose, feeling the saliva drizzle freely down his chin.

"Th-thankyou, miss..."

"Ahem?"

Startled, he risked a glance up. She was regarding him coolly, with a single raised eyebrow.

"...M-Mistress!"

Miss Hunt's legs uncrossed as she brought both feet down to the floor, right before his vision.

"Good boy. You will address me as such from now on; when we're alone. I shall still be 'Miss Hunt' during school hours, of course. Now, I think it's time for a demonstration of what you've learned about devotion."

At this, she raised a foot. It glided in front of his nose, covered in the sultry sheerness of the flimsy black stocking she wore. It had been in her shoe all day, and of course she had just walked all the way around the classroom bare-foot. She presented the toes before his face, stretching and wiggling them a little. It was more encouragement than he needed to dip his head forward, earnest and eager, covering them in fervent kisses. All too soon she pulled back, leaving him leaning over, a bit too far; the sting of the humbler's grasp around his scrotum brought him cringing backward. She rose to her feet and approached his cowering form.

"I think this has served its purpose," she removed the improvised device as deftly as she had first applied it; once again it became just a rubber band and a pair of pens between her slim fingers.

"Thankyou Mistress, thankyou so much..." it had never occurred to Carl to grovel to a woman before. Now, it didn't occur to him that there was any other response. Hunched forward still on his hands and knees, he leaned toward her exquisite feet.

"Don't exceed your station, boy," there was a warning note to her voice, to which he froze in response; apparently satisfied, she let her hand drift down to stroke the hair on the top of his head, "On your feet, I will require you to stand for the next lesson."

Free at last from the cruel embrace of the humbler, Carl hurried to get up. He was about halfway, still rising when his knees began to protest; by the time he was fully upright, he felt the full backlash from being confined to all fours for all that time. He gasped, panting hard a couple of times almost to luxuriate in his ability to do so without the stifling gag. His legs were still killing him though. Miss Hunt beckoned; he followed, limping, over to the blackboard. She held up a stick of chalk, which he reached out to take hesitantly, with a look of something akin to wonder as his dazed mind tried to process the situation.

"You will write, one hundred times: 'I shall afford women the respect to which they are entitled'," she stared him full in the face; again his gaze shied away demurely from hers.

When she cleared her throat, he divined her meaning and turned hurriedly to comply, arm rising to the top of the board. His first few words were halting and scrappy, his handwriting adapting only slowly to the unfamiliarity of the chalk. He had no idea people were actually expected to do this.