'Not you, Heidi.'
Last to leave, you halt in the doorway, my firm tone stopping you instantly.
'Come here. Close the door.'
'Yes, sir'. I hear the slight tremble in your voice; you know you are in trouble.
Obediently you shut the door and approach my desk. I watch you carefully, setting my features into grim disapproval as my gaze lingers its way up your body from your white-socked calves, over your firm thighs to the hem of your short skirt, then following the buttons on your blouse to your breasts where the outline of your nipples can just be determined -- your bra must be very thin, very sheer. I meet your eyes at last and you blush and hang your head, clasping your hands behind your back and standing up straight so that your breasts strain against the fabric of your blouse.
'Do you know why I called you back, Miss Presswood?'
'No, sir.' You dart me a quick glance and hang your head again. I only call you 'Miss Presswood' when you're in trouble.
I stand up, taking the long wooden ruler from the desktop. My penis is beginning to swell in my trousers but with your head down, you won't notice it. I move to stand behind you, slightly to one side. You make to turn your head, but I stop the movement by touching the tip of the ruler to your cheek. You flinch slightly.
'Face the front, Miss Presswood. Hands by your sides.' I stand very close to you. I can sense you trembling. My penis is straining now, aching. 'You are a disgrace, Miss Presswood. Your skirt is far too short for modesty, it should come to here.' I touch your thigh an inch above the back of your knee. 'Instead it is all the way up here.' I run my finger up your soft skin to meet the hem of your skirt. My finger is about two inches from the junction of your thighs. I move it a little higher. I can feel your heat. I leave it there and say, 'What have you to say about that.'
'Oh, sir,' you gasp. 'I'm very sorry, sir. It was all I had to wear today.'
'Was it, Miss Presswood?' I move my finger up and down, just a little so it brushes your underwear. Very smooth. Damp. You give a little whimper. I remove my hand and take an audible breath through my nose. 'Were all your other skirts dirty, Miss Presswood?'
'Yes, sir,' you whisper.
'Then you must be a very dirty girl, Miss Presswood. Are you?'
'No, sir. I mean yes, sir.' Flustered you blush again.