She hands him a note and says,

With a lick of her glossy bee stung lips,

“For you Sir,”

She turns and flicks her long blonde hair.

Cool, he figures.

Her figure displayed,

As she steps away,

In the sort of skirt you can pull off at seventeen,

A touch obscene,

Short and tight around her sexy bum,

Her sexy bum made firm and round,

With squats in the gym,

Turned up high, in

“Fuck me” pumps,

Her cream silk blouse,

Straining to hold,

Her fully formed breasts,

Thin enough to show,

The ridges of sweet lingerie beneath.

“Sir,” she says,

With baby blue eyes,

Fixed upon him,

As his world,

Spins a little faster.

She sits down in class,

So he can see her all the time,

She takes her seat,

And crosses long tanned legs,

Flashing thighs,

And a glimpse

Of her panty clad tightness.

He glances, and coughs

Runs fingers through wavy hair,

Adjusts horn rimmed glasses,

And opens her note cautiously.

“I want…” says she,

With all the petulance

Of a teen in heat,

Pink hearts and cute

Handwriting in black ink,

Shiny pink lip-gloss smudges the page.

“I want you to rule me Sir,

“Spank me, cane me, fuck me,

“I’ve been a very bad girl,

“Tie my hands with your necktie,

“Spread me over your desk,

“Pull my hair,

“I don’t care,

“Bury your cock inside me,

“Bugger me until I scream,

“Then shove me down and fuck my throat,

“Until I gag and ache,

“Cum across my lips and tits,

“Rub your seed across my face,

“With an open palm,

“Fuck me till I break.”

Oh, his racing mind,

The bell, the scrape of chairs,

“You may leave,” says he,

The rush for freedom,

Except her, lingering

He coughs again,

“Not you Miss Smith,

“You may stay behind,

“There is something I need.”