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.
