The days went by. I kept my head down as planned, but so far no avenues for escape presented themselves. With nothing else to occupy my mind, I focused on my lessons. Lessons with David were my favourite, though they always left me confused, and not just from the language. David, or lΗo shΔ« as I called him, would teach me haphazardly. I learned Mandarin, mostly a lot of naughty words. But he'd also just talk about whatever. People he knew, places he'd been, women he'd fucked, or wanted to fuck. The Uber driver featured heavily here. He'd never managed to meet her again and he lamented over "the one who got away."
Cock sucking with Mr Rogers was my least favourite class. Without contest. My hatred and fear of that class was such that calling it "my least favourite" isn't sufficient.
Mr Rogers was cruel. Twisted. A complete sicko. Our lessons were mostly done with dildos, but not only. He'd make us suck him off too. This wasn't so unusual, but Mr Rogers loved to humiliate us.
Yesterday he'd had us form a circle around him, every girl having a short go and the one who did the best got to finish him. During the exercise he'd make snide remarks to the girls who weren't up to standard, but the praise to the "good girls" was even worse than the snide remarks.
"Oh yes," he'd say. "Oh, aren't you a little slut, you just love the taste of my cock." Or "I can tell you've been fantasising about having a go on my cock, haven't you you little slut. Every night you touch yourself just thinking about me. Show me how you touch yourself."
It was incentive to not do well, especially because if you were the one to finish him you were forced to swallow and he'd punish you if you missed a drop. But then, if you didn't do well enough, the punishment was worse.
I found out just how bad he could be the day I was late to class.
I say late, but really I was walking through the door right as the bell rang. But I was the last one in by a bit as I'd had further travel time from my last class than they had. They'd all come from French class, I had not. In addition, that morning I'd been moved to heels an inch higher than my old ones and it was a struggle to walk anywhere fast.
"Ah, Kassandra," Mr Rogers said. "So kind of you to join us." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"Sorry Sir." I tried to slink to my seat but he stopped me.
"I suppose you think you already know all there is to pleasing a man and that my class is not necessary?"
"Oh no Sir--"
"Ah, just better things to do then?"
When I was at school and another student complained "that teacher just doesn't like me." I'd always think "no, you're just a brat in their class." Well, I now felt a little guilty for thinking that, because I swear Mr Rogers DID just have some sort of dislike for me. So I treaded as carefully as I could. But my pleas that I'd come straight to class as quickly as I could fell on deaf ears.
"No," he said with a sneer. "Every time it's the same. You spend your time in my class looking like you'd rather be somewhere else. Doing something else." Well, that was true. "I suppose you care more about your own pleasure than that of others? Well, your wish is my command. Strip." It wasn't the first time I'd had to strip in Mr Rogers class, but it was the first time I'd had to do it alone. I was still standing at the front of the classroom and it felt like an exhibition. Best get it over with as quickly as possible. I took of my crop top, then slipped my skirt down with my knickers in one quick movement and finally I took off my tiny bra, trying to look as non-sexy about the act of stripping as I possibly could. I could almost feel Mr Rogers bristling with annoyance. He directed me to sit on his desk, facing the class. I'd expected him to have me bend over for a bare bottomed spanking, so this position caused the little bubble of unease in my stomach to grow. He rummaged in the draw of his desk and brought out a bright pink object, which he wiped with a disinfectant wipe.
"Show the class how you'd rather be spending your time." Mr Rogers handed me the item. It was a vibrator. "When you've had enough enjoyment, you can re-join the class."
"I-- Sir, I'd much rather learn how to better--" Mr Rogers grabbed my chin and put his mouth so close to my ear he brushed it with his lips as he spoke.
"Cum for me, bitch."
Urgh. No getting out of this. I briefly considered faking it, but was too much of a coward, scared of getting caught. Well, same tactic as the stripping then. As fast and a non-sexily as possible.
But fast proved difficult. I don't know if you've ever been forced to have an orgasm while sitting on the desk of a teacher you hate in front of your entire class, but it's not the ideal situation. To make matters worse, Mr Rogers began instructing the class while taking snide swipes at me. I tried to block him out. Then I tried to think of something sexy, like a male celebrity. But the first one who popped to my mind was Benedict Cumberbatch. Now, he's not who would normally jump to my mind when trying to think of a sexy person. But this is the mental gymnastics my mind was doing.
A few months ago-- goodness! Had it been only a few months ago? Well, a few mates and I had gone to the pub one Saturday night. One of my friends, Stacey, was from America, so being able to go to the pub and have a drink at age 18 was somewhat a novelty for her. Or this is what her excuse was the next morning for having a few too many. We'd recently toured through Belgium, France and Spain for school and I was so tired I forgot which country we were in. I tried ordering beer in French, then Spanish, then Russian before finally remembering we were back to speaking English. Stacey was giving me a bit of a hard time about it, which, considering we'd been no way near Russia, was kinda fair. Benedict Cumberbatch had come on the telly in the corner and I tried to change the topic.
"Does anyone else think he looks kinda strange? I asked. Well Stacey, as it turned out, did NOT think he looked strange and spent the rest of the evening drunkenly trying to encourage me to see his attractiveness.
