She stripped down to nothing. Houlihan wasn’t thinking of anything except ravishing her flesh, because she had infuriated him. Had disobeyed him. He brought out the paddle and feather, and had her lay across his desk, as before.

He started at her ankles, this time, slowly drawing the feather up and down her legs. This time, he brushed his fingertips and the feather up the insides of her legs. She moaned. It was all about gentle ovals, inching ever higher, ever so slowly. He stood up and suddenly ran his fingers and feather down the sides of her ribcage. She flinched and he smacked her bottom a couple times. It was a little harder than usual, and she gasped. It hurt, this time.

Abruptly, he flipped her over. He scrabbled through his desk drawers frantically, until he found the tie he had taken off one day when he had a headache. He’d forgotten to take it home, and he whipped off the one he was wearing. He had two small chairs in front of his desk, and he wrapped a tie around each of Monica’s wrists and forced her into a chair. He tied the ties onto the chair legs, and stood behind Monica, delicately tracing circles around those huge breasts of hers. He could smell her excitement even as she was moaning, seemingly close to tears. 

“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “It’s all for Georgetown, just remember that. You do what Houlihan says, and it’s all going to be okay.”

He squeezed her breasts hard, and she cried out. He swept his fingers over her ribcage and breasts, making his way down to her thighs, and soon she was shrieking with laughter. Her helplessness excited him in a way he’d never known before. Soon, he would be ready. He dragged the feather and his fingers in an excruciatingly slow trail down around her breasts, past her belly, into the v of her legs. He gently stroked the wet flesh, just brushing ever so slightly. Monica gasped again.

He’d known from experience that vigorous rubbing sometimes worked, but usually not when the stimulation came from fingers. One of his conquests had confessed that hard rubbing with fingers never, ever worked, but a vibrator on high-speed was the only way she could have an orgasm. And sometimes it took women a while to warm up. It wasn’t their fault; it was just the way they operated.

After another lingering once over of Monica’s fantastic, young, tight body, he untied her and led her over to the couch in his office. It was a full-length affair, and he put her down on it and started ripping his clothes off. He loathed condoms, but at least he had a few with him. It wouldn’t do to get this girl pregnant.

“What are you doing that for?”

“I don’t want you to get pregnant.”

“I’ve been on the pill for two years now.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah.

I don’t want to get pregnant, and I’ve slept with a few guys.”

“You’re sure you’re on the pill?

“Yes, I’m on the pill. It’s Yaz. You know, the once that’s supposed to help with acne? That really works, too.”

Houlihan tossed the condoms away with a flourish. “I love barebacking," he said as he walked closer. “What do you think of my cock, baby?”

“It’s nice and big," she whispered. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Bury it deep inside you,” Houlihan responded.

With that, he knelt over her and slid inside her. If she’d been stretched out by a few teenage boys, it wasn’t noticeable. He teased himself, slowly sliding out then shoving in quickly, then pulling back so he was almost out, teasing the head of his penis a bit, then once he had enough of that, furiously pistoned back and forth. He imagined his penis as a stick catching fire, because that’s what it sure felt like; a wonderful wet fire and she was tensing her muscles for added friction and she was gorgeous.

Her breasts bobbled as he pumped her and he buried his face in them. They were lovely and soft and perfumed, and he wasn’t holding back, wasn’t being gentle at all, this little slut didn’t deserve a gentleman, she deserved to be fucked, hard. Houlihan’s mind was a jumble of images: the girls who had rejected him, the girls who hadn’t, the stuck-up ones in high school, the skanky ones from high school and the stripper with the feather boa. Suddenly, he pulled out and grabbed the paddle from the desk. He plunged back into Monica and put the paddle in her hand. “Spank me, Spank me hard.”

Monica held the paddle in her left hand (her right arm was pinned against the back of the couch) and smacked Houlihan’s muscled ass as best as she could. Instinctively, she whispered into his ear. “How does it feel to be fucking such a bad girl? Hmmm? Fucking her ever so hard? She deserves it because she’s a bad girl. She does naughty things with boys. She lets them feel her up, and sometimes she has sex with them. Sometimes she dances sexy for them. Not appropriate for a good Catholic school girl, is it? But you know what, she likes it. She likes being a bad girl.”

The mixture of having his ass paddled and this luscious young girl whispering that she liked being a bad girl sent him over the edge. He emptied himself into her with a force he’d felt once, a long time ago. Even bad sex was good, but great sex was better. And he had just fucked the hottest girl in school. What might happen later didn’t matter. Everything was okay. Everything would be all right.