A Lesson You Wont Forget

Another piece inspired by the amazing content of the lovely Scarlet/ 'fortheloveofgloves'.

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For most people, the start of a new semester is like a new beginning. A chance to start fresh, to make better choices, and perhaps learn to be a better person.

But you've never been much for that sort of thinking.

No, you've managed to coast your way through most of your educational career, doing the bare minimum, to the point where even accepted things such as common sense and decency rarely entered your mind anymore. After all, if you can

act like a complete arse and still manage to get by, why bother changing?

Of course, that was before you met her.

It was the first day of classes, and as you sat lazily in the back of the spartan University classroom, you stared at your fellow students and tried your best to suppress a dismissive scoff. So many of them already sitting quietly, and at attention, focused like soldiers even though the teacher was nowhere to be seen. You shook your head, knowing that regardless of their efforts, the odds were that in the end, their grades wouldn't wind up that much different than your own. They rarely were.

Even when the sound of tapping heels on tiles echoed out from the hallway, and many of the other students looked towards the door, you barely paid it any mind. Every teacher you'd come across was the same- all you had to do was figure out how to work them and you could keep on keeping on as you always had.

Then she walked in. And even you found you had to stare intently at her.

She was tall- almost Amazonian in stature, especially with the black patent leather heels she was sporting. In fact, her entire outfit was black- a long, form-fitting dress which started at her collar and snaked its way down just past her knees, a leather Obi belt around her waist, and elbow-length black leather gloves. Her long red hair was tied up in a ponytail, and her red lips were pursed together in a serious expression.

In all your years of academia, you'd never before come across a teacher who looked like her. Of course, you'd seen plenty of good-looking ones, and more than a few who seemed more like supermodels than University instructors, but she was something else entirely. Her attire made her look more like a high-class dominatrix than a teacher, and while that should have been a warning, you chose to ignore it. After all, she was still a teacher, and you'd never been one to concede to their supposed authority.

That said, you'd be lying if you said the sight of her didn't get you a little hard. There was just something about her look, her composure, and especially her attire, that got you feeling more than a little warm around the collar. Whoever she was, she was certainly the sort to command attention, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

"Good morning," she began, her gaze falling upon the assembled students and her accent- Australian? Ringing out for all to hear. "The previous instructor for this course had to bow out unexpectedly. My name is Miss Scarlet, and that is how I expect you to address me during our time together. Is that understood?"

Almost immediately, every other student in the room responded with a resounding "Yes Miss Scarlet," sounding much like a group of primary school children greeting their teacher at the beginning of the day. You shook your head at the sheer absurdity of this- there was simply no way you would ever call her that.

Then again, it did allow you the perfect opening for your first quip.

"Just finish up a game of Clue did you?"

Not a single smile or chuckle answered your comment, and as you look around at the sea of blank faces, you find yourself looking at Miss Scarlet once more, her expression unchanging but her gaze focused solely on you. "If you don't have anything worthwhile to say, I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut."

Her comment elicits a few smiles from your classmates, and you slink back down in your seat, less from embarrassment and more from anger. How dare she say that do you? Your other teachers would've at least rolled their eyes or had a bit of a laugh before telling you off. This most certainly would not do.

It didn't help that, regardless of how quickly she had cut you down, something about her tone and her response only added to the growing feeling in your pants. It was strange, and you couldn't explain it if you tried, but somehow, Miss Scarlet's curt reply was only getting you more excited than even her appearance did.

"Now, let us begin with some fundamentals." Miss Scarlet turns to face the white board and, picking up a black marker in her leather-clad hand, starts to jot down several basic formulas. You watch as your classmates take notes, and though you take a few as well, your mind is focusing on coming up with your next comment. Regardless of how composed she appears, you know in your heart you can throw her off her game. And once you've done that, you're in the clear.

Unfortunately, she doesn't give you much to work with. She remains as focused as ever, and to some degree, so do you, although not on the lesson. Rather, your eyes are seemingly locked on Miss Scarlet herself. The dress she's wearing truly accentuates her body, and you find yourself looking at her bottom, her curves, and the few times she turns back to face the glass, her chest. It is more than enough to throw you off your game, but you try to get back on track.

Time passes, and you find nothing. No opening, no means by which to make another quick comment or joke. Miss Scarlet keeps on teaching and your fellow classmates keep on jotting down notes. It honestly bothers you more than you'd care to admit, but you aren't finished yet. Sooner or later, you know the opportunity will present itself.

And then, not long before class lets out for the day, it does.

Midway through writing another formula on the whiteboard, the marker Miss Scarlet is using slips out of her gloved fingers and drops to the floor. Without a word, she carefully bends down to pick it up, and though her rather lovely bottom is still covered by the dress, the sheer fact that it is even somewhat in the air is more than enough for you to play your card.

It's basic, perhaps even more juvenile than your original quip, but it's all you have.

The silence of the classroom is shattered for the briefest of moments by your whistle, and the moment it reaches her ears, Miss Scarlet stands up, spins around on her heel, and stares directly at you.

If you expected her expression to have finally changed, for a crack to appear in her armor, you are sadly mistaken. If anything, she looks even more composed than ever, but her eyes are practically burning a hole through you, and for the first time you can remember, you actually gulp.

"You," she says sternly, her accent heavy with subdued anger as she points a leather-clad finger towards you. "Remain seated after class lets up. We need to have a little chat."

For the briefest of moments, you almost roll your eyes. Who still forces students to stay after class at University? Even so, you hold back, figuring you'll humour her. Perhaps even find your next opportunity then.

That and the dirtier part of your mind is thinking of other things you'd like to do with her after class, but you try to ignore those thoughts.

Your classmates don't seem to share your views, several of them even giving you shocked expression, almost as if they expect you to be dragged off to the gallows when all is said and done. Yet you don't pay them any mind. What's the worst she can do, give you a stern talking to?

If only you'd known...

Ten or so minutes later class does indeed let up, and given you have several hours before your next one, you decide to stick around to see just what Miss Scarlet has in store. You remain seated as everyone else leaves, and once the class is empty save for you and her, she walks over to the door and, much to your surprise, shuts and locks it before looking back at you.

"So," she begins, her expression never once breaking, "It seems you and I have a bit of a problem."

You try to smirk, to come up with a comment of some kind, but somehow the loss of an audience, as well as the fact that she is practically towering over you, makes it surprisingly difficult. In fact, you find yourself at a complete loss for words, and Miss Scarlet notices.

"What's the matter, that mouth of yours not working anymore? Fine, perhaps that means your ears will."

She walks over to her desk, opens the top drawer and, to your shock, removes a black leather riding crop. "Now then, I do not take kindly to such comments in my classroom, let alone allow any derisive whistles. Now, stand up."

For a moment you don't move a muscle, but then she slaps the tip of the crop against her gloved hand, and you immediately stand at attention- as does your cock. Hidden as it may be beneath your pants, you can still feel the tent it is pitching down there, and hope against hope that Miss Scarlet doesn't notice. Then again, part of you hopes she does, and those conflicting thoughts fill your head even as she walks over to face you.

Even standing, you find she still towers over you, and it's not simply due to her heels. Miss Scarlet's sheer presence, her aura, somehow makes you feel half your height, and you barely have a chance to react as her leather-clad hand takes hold of the collar of your shirt and pulls you towards the whiteboard.

"I have no other classes today, so as far as I'm concerned, we can stay here all day until I feel you've learned your lesson. Pick up a marker. Now."

You do as she commands, completely and utterly taken aback by this massive shift in dynamic. Never before have you ever done anything like this, submissively followed orders for anyone, especially a teacher, yet you can't find the means by which to do otherwise. Your world has gone Topsy-turvy, and it's only just begun.

"You will write 'I will behave in class' until I tell you to stop. Is that clear?"

Looking over at her with wide eyes, you almost can't believe she said that. Even beneath the growing sense of submission, you're feeling, as well as the increasing desire in your pants from being so close to such a gorgeous woman regardless of her status, you're more than convinced she's messing with you.

"Are you serious?" You finally manage to sputter out, but the look on Miss Scarlet's face tells you she most certainly is. But rather than respond with words, she does so with actions. Actions which you would never have expected, even if a small part of you was almost wishing they would occur.

Her leather-clad hand grips the waistline of your pants and yanks them down, taking your boxers with them, and forcing your erect cock free for all to see.

Your face grows redder than ever before, and the sheer embarrassment that washes over you is more than enough to drown any lingering attitude you may have had. Never before had you been in a situation like this, and try as you might, you can't seem to think of a way to regain any sort of foothold on things.

But you try.

"If you wanted my trousers off you could've asked."

Although you're trying to joke around, you can tell your words are falling on deaf ears. Any joviality, any chance for you to throw your teacher off, is long gone. Much as you'd rather not admit it, Miss Scarlet is clearly in charge of the situation and, by extension, of you.

"Begin. Now."

With a gulp, you place the marker against the whiteboard and begin writing out the required sentence. The fact that you are doing something so childish is even more humiliating than the fact that you are doing so half-naked while your gorgeous teacher stands beside you watching, yet there is nothing you can do about it.

The moment you finish the first line, you are surprised to feel Miss Scarlet's gloved hand gently touch your erect cock, and a small groan escapes your lips at the unexpected contact of cool, smooth leather on your shaft. You nearly drop the marker but manage to keep it in hand, the sensation sending shivers along your spine.

"I believe in positive reinforcement...For every line you get right, I'll stroke your cock."

Almost immediately, you begin the next line, even as your mind reels with a mix of desire and a few lingering comments. Much as you want to let one of the latter slip, you know it's beyond pointless. So you keep on writing, adding two more lines to the whiteboard and eliciting two more slow, teasing strokes.

Upon the fourth line, however, something changes. Perhaps you feel that you have a better handle on the situation, or that, regardless of how things appear, you may yet have a chance to regain the upper hand. And thus, cheekily, you decide to change the sentence just a little.

As the marker slides along the whiteboard, you add but a single word to it. In between the 'will' and the 'behave', the word 'not' makes itself known, and you smirk, more than a little self-satisfied.

Then you feel it.

Not the touch of her gloved hand, but the sting of the crop.

Directly onto your erect cock.

The pain is excruciating and unexpected, and you nearly shout in agony before Miss Scarlet's gloved hand covers your mouth and stifles the cry. The feeling and scent of the leather only slightly makes up for the pain, especially since she adds a second smack for good measure, eliciting yet another muffled cry.

"I also believe in pain when appropriate," Miss Scarlet continues, letting go of your mouth and pointing her crop towards the miswritten line. "For every mistake you make, intentional or not, you will receive another smack. It's clearly the only way you'll learn."

You groan, angry and embarrassed and somehow more than a little turned on by all of this, your mind a confused mess. But you continued to write more lines, once more putting the proper one on the whiteboard rather than another botched attempt at humour.

Five more make themselves known, as do five more strokes on your aching cock. These are slightly slower, much more teasing, and though you can't see it, Miss Scarlet's expression has changed ever so slightly to a far more wicked one than she'd had at the start.

As the latest one finishes making its way from the base of your erection to the tip, your hand slips and botches the word 'class', and though it was not your intent, it appears she was deathly serious with her threats, seeing as her crop once again makes contact with you shaft, her glove returning to your face to hold back any screams or cries.

The pain lingers, much to your dismay, and causes you to make several more errors. Minor as they are, these are followed by even more strikes, and though you try to hold them back, you can feel tears begin to form in your eyes. You've never experienced anything like this, not even when you were a child, and this unexpected punishment is nearly more than you can take.

"Keep going," Miss Scarlet commands, gently smacking the whiteboard with her crop. You nearly jump at the sound, but quickly get back to work, adding three perfect versions of the sentence to the list and bringing about three more strokes from her leather-clad hand.

Time passes, how long you can't say for certain, but soon the whiteboard is nearly covered by the words "I Will Behave In Class," just as your still-erect cock is covered by small red marks left behind by Miss Scarlet's crop. As well as precum which made its way out of the tip and along the shaft by way of her gloved hand.

Slowly, you begin to write the sentence once more, and though you know it's foolish, a small part of you- the part that still believes that somehow it can still win, forces your hand to intentionally muck it all up. For the second time, the word 'Not' pops up, yet before you can even begin to write the word 'In', Miss Scarlet's crop smacks against your cock three times in a row, causing you to wail in pain and tears to fall from your eyes in earnest.

There is no attempt to smother your cries this time. She wants you to scream, to shout, to feel the pain thoroughly. Three more smacks rain down on your cock, and you struggle through the pain to finish the sentence, adding one final correct one beneath it and filling up the whiteboard almost entirely.

Even as the tears fall down your face, you feel Miss Scarlet's gloved hand wrap around your cock, stroking it and mixing the pleasure of that lovely sensation with the still lingering pain of her crop. All of it comes together to shatter whatever remained of the person you were at the start of class- that lazy, loud-mouthed and frankly detestable student long gone, replaced by a blubbering half-naked mess barely able to remain standing from the pain still coursing through you.

"Hmm, not bad," Miss Scarlet says, her tone only slightly less stern than it had been previously. "A few mistakes to be certain, but it would seem you've learned your lesson, haven't you?"

Turning, your tear-stained eyes gaze up at the towering beauty beside you, and you nod before saying the words you never thought you would say. "Yes, Miss Scarlet."

The uttering of those words, of that title, is the final nail in the coffin of your old self, and though her red lips purse together in a smile that should have made you feel better, all you can feel besides the mix of pain and pleasure, is a total sense of submission towards her.

And she knows it.

Without a word, Miss Scarlet puts the crop down and wraps her leather-clad hands around your aching shaft, gently stroking it from bottom to top and back again as you stand there, the sensation almost too much to bear. After everything she's put you through, you barely know what to do or say or think, and so you do neither. Simply stand there and allow her to take control.

You groan, the feeling of the cool leather just barely soothing the pain as it makes contact with the red marks left behind by the crop, but you don't care. Pain, pleasure, they're all the same in your mind, and as her strokes increase in speed, you know precisely what is coming.

"That's it," she whispers, her tone sensual yet commanding, "cum like a good boy..."

Hearing those words pushes you over the edge, and within seconds your cock explodes, hot white streams shooting down as Miss Scarlet's gloved hands deftly stroke you and point your load towards the pants and boxers wrapped around your ankles. You don't notice or care, the sensation of two leather-clad hands milking you overtakes every other feeling and thought in your mind.

After a few seconds, her strokes slow down, and she masterfully drains the remaining drops out of you before letting go of your cock. "Now then, what do we say?"

The strength leaves your legs and you drop to your knees, kneeling in the pool of hot cum filling your pants, and you hang your head low before her. "Thank you, Miss Scarlet," you reply, then plant kisses of complete and total submission to her gloved hands.

Above you, she smiles. "That's a good boy. Now, pull those messy trousers of yours back up and get out of my sight."

You stand on shaking legs and put your cum-stained boxers and pants on, the embarrassment of having to walk out of the classroom with them on only now entering your mind. But there's not much you can do about it, and frankly, you have a feeling she wants you to sport them. As a reminder of the lesson you've just learned.

She unlocks the door and opens it, but before you leave, Miss Scarlet grabs your cum-stained crotch with her gloved hand and smirks wickedly.

"See you next class."

And you most certainly will.

You have a lot to learn.