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The Dangers of Falling in Love with Bad Men

She's in another kind of trouble, though she hasn't yet figured out what.

Briana Dawson is seventeen years old when she first falls in love.

Her English teacher, Mr. Ramone, is in the hospital, though none of her teachers will tell them why. There are rumors, though—there are always rumors—that he fell down the stairs and snapped his spine. Which triggered a stroke. And a heart attack. And testicular cancer. Briana doesn't put much weight in the rumors. Doesn't really care enough to. All that matters it that Mr. Ramone is gone and a sub will be taking over their class and hopefully, hopefully these next few weeks until summer break will be a breeze.

She feels a little bad for taking joy in his misfortune, but she's hardly the only one. At least she didn't participate with the crowd who sang 'ding dong the freak is gone' after finding out the news.

She'd thought it, but she can hardly be judged for thinking things.

But she's getting off topic.

Briana is seventeen years old when she first falls in love. She's slumped in her chair, head propped on one hand, staring blankly in front of her. Her sort-of-but-not-really friend Katy is droning on about some guy she's been getting damp for for the past year and if she has to hear one more word about Josh's house party and is orange is really the new pink? Briana is seriously going to slit her own wrists.

She's imagining the expression on Katy's face if she were to tell her that she'd rather kill herself than listen to her speak a second longer when the door opens and a hush falls across the classroom.

The man who walks in is tall. That's the first thing she thinks. He's tall and slim and dresses in typical teacher attire—black slacks, white button down, dark grey tie. His hair's a dark brown, cropped a little longer than a buzz, and the nose that holds his glasses is long.

And then he turns around and faces the class, and Briana feels a bit like she's been struck by lightening.

The guy is… he's handsome. For his age. But she's seen more beautiful men in magazines. And while he's tall he's still too skinny. Doesn't look like there's an ounce of muscle on him at all.

And yet. And yet she can't take her eyes off him.

His gaze rakes over the silent classroom and briefly lands on hers before swiftly moving away.

Briana's breath stutters as she thinks, oh. It's his eyes, she realizes, heart pounding in her chest. It's his eyes. They're a pale blue, almost grey, but they're sharp, like shards of glass. He only glances at her for a moment but it's enough to make her feel like she's been looked through, right down to her bones.

And the way he moves. He's pacing at the front of the room, roaming his eyes over every one of them, and Briana finds herself thinking that he looks like a predator. His body all but glides across the floor, sharp angles appearing uncharacteristically smooth, and she feels a rush of heat between her legs when he leans back to sit on top of the desk, graceful and God-like, and smiles.

She's still trembling when the man finally clears his throat and says, "Class. I'm Mr. Smith and for the remainder of the school year I will be substituting for the previous Mr. Ramone. Questions?"

Briana's eyes flutter shut and she bites back a whimper.

That voice.

Somewhere in between worrying about her classmates smelling her arousal and hearing her racing heart, Briana manages to acknowledge just how screwed she is.  


His first name is Ian and he's six feet two inches tall. He has a Masters in English, Education, and Sociology, and he's fluent in Russian, Spanish, and French. He transferred from St. Martin's Private Academy for unknown reasons and lives alone in a flat uptown. He signed up to chaperone the poetry club and always eats his lunch in the classroom.

Briana has to pay Macy fifty hard-earned bucks for this information, and another fifteen for her discretion. It's worth it though, she thinks, while she listens to him read from one of Shakespeare's sonnets she can't be bothered to remember the name of.

She cried out his name last while she masturbated to fantasies of being fucked over his desk, and it felt like wine and chocolate on her tongue.


Everyone likes him. He's strict, but not anal to the point Mr. Ramone had been. And he teaches like he actually cares about the subject, which is a definite step up from his predecessor. He also treats his students like they're on his level which goes a long way in making everyone not want to let him down.

The girls all sigh when he enters the room, and the boys sit noticeably straighter. Briana doesn’t think she's ever been in a class that isn't buzzing with side conversations and subtle keypad clicking.

The way he so effortlessly commands attention, commands respect, makes her unbearably curious about what he's like in bed.

Sometimes at night, when she's lying on her bed, legs spread open and fingers running circles around her clit, she imagines him standing over her, orchestrating her movements and telling her what to do.

He'll say, "Briana, come," in that commanding voice he uses when he acts out the role of Macbeth, and the fantasy never fails to push her over the edge.

Washing her sheets has become a daily thing, and for the first time in her life she's grateful that her parents work too much to notice.


They're silently working on their essays and Briana is more turned on than she's ever been in her life (she realizes, distantly, that she's been thinking this a lot). Mr. Smith is wearing his usual slacks-plus-button-down setup, but to make up for the lack of air-conditioning in the classroom he's left open four of the buttons at the top.

Briana's been staring at that white expanse of skin since she entered the class. Working on her essay has been torture, and the only reason she manages to finish at all is because of the promise of undistracted staring.

So she focuses, and she finishes, and she stares, and now there's drool accumulating in her mouth at the sight of his perfect neck and chest.

Mr. Smith, for his part, is sitting at his desk, slumped over whatever book of the week he's reading. There's a whole row of desks in front of her, and the idea that's beginning to take form in her head is solidifying by the second.

Her panties are completely damp, and her pussy's been clenching for the past thirty minutes. If she doesn't get herself off within the next few minutes she honestly thinks she's going to scream.

Taking a furtive glance around her and inhaling a shaky breath, Briana leans forward and slips one hand past the elastic of her underwear.

She's right about being damp, and the first contact of her fingers against her clit has her trembling. She takes another look around her then slowly begins to fondle herself, taking care to control her breathing so that it isn't too loud.

Every so often, when she dares, she glances up at Mr. Smith, and that only increases her desperation to come. She squirms in her chair as her fingers quickly work her clit, fingers clumsy at the result of how wet she is.

She leans forward and quickens the pace, hyperaware of every sound around her. When the pressure builds to the point that she knows she's going to topple over she glances up without thinking, seeking the one object she knows will get her there faster, and freezes.

Mr. Smith is staring right at her.

Briana bites her lip as she comes, shoulders hunching and body twitching as her climax rushes through her. After a few moments she opens her eyes and, heart pounding, braves a look towards the front of the room.

She doesn't know if she's more disappointed or relieved that Mr. Smith is no longer looking at her. It's about even, she thinks, watching him flip a page in his book.

She's still rubbing herself when a cough startles her and spurs her into action. If her panties were damp before, they are certainly soaked now. She quickly removes her hand from her underwear, wipes her fingers against the inside of her skirt, and sits up. She swivels her head around and relaxes when she sees that no one is paying her the slightest bit of attention.

She uses the hand sanitizer she keeps in her bag to get rid of some of the smell, and spends the rest of the period trying to figure out how she's going to get to her locker, grab a change of clothes, and change before the start of the next period.

She ignores the satisfied twitch in her pussy as she plans excuses.


"If you would stay behind, Miss Dawson." Mr. Smith says just as the bell rings.

Briana shrugs her shoulders at Katy's questioning frown and stays seated while everyone else files out. She waits nervously, fingers dancing along the table top while she waits for the last student to leave. Once the door swings shut behind them she stands and shoulders her bag.

Her stomach clenches with nerves as she walks up the aisle towards Mr. Smith's desk. She has no idea what he wants to speak to her about, and she doubts it will be anything good. And yet…countless fantasies flitter across her mind, making her skin tingle in overwhelming excitement.

Don't get ahead of yourself, she thinks, stopping a few feet in front of the desk. For fear of looking stupid in front of Mr. Smith, if nothing else.

Mr. Smith doesn't so much as glance at her as he scribbles something illegible in a spiral book. She fidgets nervously, excitement giving way to anxiousness as he continues to ignore her.

Finally, after what seems like long minutes—though couldn't possibly be longer than one—Mr. Smith sets down his pen, closes his book, and looks up at her.

The sensation she gets when their gazes lock feels a lot like vertigo, she reckons, as she tries to calm her breathing.

Mr. Smith isn't wearing his glasses, and she feels like she's being pinned to a table as his pale eyes bore through her.

"Miss Dawson," he says, and the way her name drips from his tongue like molten caramel and honey sets the pit of her stomach on fire.

"Y-yes, Mr. Smith?"

Later she's going to be so embarrassed for all but whimpering at him, but for now she can do little else but struggle to restrain herself from leaping over the desk to see if his mouth tastes as good as she thinks it will.

He pauses and licks his lips.

Briana thinks she's going to die.

"I wish to commend you on your essay on the symbolism of blood in Macbeth. The paper was quite well done. Not that I expected anything less of you, of course." He taps his chin and looks thoughtfully up at her, and Briana imagines him kneeling on the floor between her spread legs and gazing up at her with that exact same expression—mildly curious and thoughtful, like he's trying to decide the best way to go about eating her out.

She swallows heavily and thanks god that she wore jeans today. He certainly would have smelled the arousal on her otherwise.

"Have you no interest in joining one of the school's afterschool literary clubs? The poetry club, perhaps?"

The poetry club which he teaches.

Briana shakes her head. As wonderful (and awful) as it would be to spend more time in Mr. Smith's presence, she can't stand the sorts that make up the poetry club. Moreover, she's never been eager to stay in school for longer than she has to if she won't get anything out of it. It takes away from her time spent masturbating, for one thing.

"Not really," she manages to say apologetically.

Mr. Smith narrows his eyes at her and tsks. "That's a shame," he tells her, re-opening his book, "as I'm sure you'd be nothing but an asset in the class."

He picks up his pen and once again begins scribbling things down.

Briana understands the dismissal for what it is.

"Um…thanks, Mr. Smith. S-see you, tomorrow." She stutters out, then turns on her heel and rushes towards the door.

The moment her fingers touch the knob Mr. Smith once again calls out her name and she stills. She's about to turn around when he says, "And might I suggest, Miss Dawson, that the next time you decide to masturbate in my class you clean the mess off your chair before you leave? It's hardly within my pay grade to clean up the cum left behind by students—wouldn't you agree?"

She freezes, mortified beyond words. She's barely able to hear him over the sound of her thundering heartbeat and the rushing sound in her head.

"And I do hope you reconsider my invitation to join the poetry club. Have a great day, Miss Dawson."

And then the only sound in the classroom is the scratching of his pen.

Briana flees, letting the door slam shut behind her as she rushes to her next class in a daze. The hallways is bustling with students and it's a miracle that she makes it to class without causing anyone injury.

She leaves school that day not having learned a thing.


Briana goes to school early the next morning to visit the student activities office. She fills out a request form to join the poetry club and hands it to the secretary with a tight smile.


Mr. Smith doesn't spare her a single glance during the duration of her entire English period, but that's alright. It's not as if she'll be able to look in the eye, anyway.


The poetry club runs from 3:15 to 4:30 every Tuesday and Thursday. Like she feared the class is made up of pretentious douchebag snobs who look down on anyone who can't recite half of Milton's works from memory.

The first upside is that they're just starting The Wasteland and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot, and Briana's always been a fan of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

The second upside is that Briana gets to hear Mr. Smith recite poetry and say things that make her toes curl in her shoes.

The pros far outweigh the cons, in her opinion.

She doesn't really get along with the handful of students there, not that she expects to. She spends the class ignoring those around her unless specifically called on. The time creeps by quickly, and before she knows it the afterschool bell is ringing and everyone is packing up their things and strolling out.

Briana takes her time closing her books and placing everything in her bag. She spares a glance towards the front of the room as she stands and stumbles when she sees Mr. Smith watching her.

She swallows.

Try as she might, Briana still can't wrap her mind around the fact that Mr. Smith had seen her and hasn't reported her to the principal. He didn't respond in any way she expects, and as a result he's badly thrown her off. She doesn't know what his next move is and that excites her almost as much as it frightens her.

"S-see you tomorrow, Mr. Smith," she stutters shakily.

The look he gives her is undecipherable.

"Tomorrow, Miss Dawson." He nods, still staring.

She feels his gaze on her back long after she slips out of the room.


The first thing she does when she gets home is strip out of her clothing, grab her strongest vibrator, and lie on her bed. She turns it on and presses it against her clit until she cums, over and over and over again. She spends an hour and a half bringing herself off through clit stimulation alone, until she's an exhausted, trembling wreck and the sheets beneath her are completely soaked through. She falls asleep just like that.


She wears a skirt to class the next day.

They're taking the last test of the semester before finals, and she rushes through it effortlessly and finishes with a long chunk of time to spare.

Her heart's been racing since she came up with the idea this morning, and she's honestly surprised she hasn't died from a heart attack already. She looks around her slowly, making sure everyone's properly distracted, and reaches her hand into her panties.

The thrill of doing this again has already made her wet, but the knowledge that Mr. Smith will probably find out, will probably be watching, makes her pussy throb.

She chose thin, stretchy panties to wear this morning, ones that are easy to push aside, and they do the job. Once out of the way she hunches forward and spreads her legs a bit wider and begins to rub.

Her clit's already enflamed, sticking out of her and beyond sensitive to touch. She's so wet her movements are smooth, and her fingers glide above her pussy like silk. Her breathing starts to get a little heavy and she quickens the pace, hand moving in jerky circles and horizontal swipes just the way she likes.

She tenses when she feels someone watching her and slowly, so slowly, looks up.

She expects it, she does, but still the sight of Mr. Smith's steady gaze on her brings her up short.

Their eyes lock and Briana continues to touch herself, mouth falling open a little. She struggles to not lift her lips and moan like she so wants to, and the effort makes her body clench tight like taut string.

Her fingers move faster against her pussy and she's positively soaking now, can feel lubrication all but pouring out of her cunt and soaking the thin material of the skirt underneath.

She's getting closer and closer now, and the need to come is almost painfully overwhelming. Mr. Smith's eyes are dark and steady, and she watches as they roam all over her, down her neck and heaving chest and the cleavage popping out of her low-cut shirt, back up to her face.

She's biting her lip so hard she's afraid it's going to tear and slips two fingers insider her. At that exact moment Mr. Smith lips his licks, devastatingly low and sensual, and Briana's eyes snap close as she comes.

She fucking squirts, squirts, and has to cup her sex to prevent the fluids from shooting out too far. She shakes badly in her chair, her orgasm crashing through her in almost agonizing waves of pleasure, and thins her lips to prevent sounds from slipping out. She slumps in her chair afterward, legs trembling and wide open, her own cum dripping down her hand and cooling her bare thighs. She thinks she must have passed out because the bell rings suddenly, startling her, and everyone gets up and begins taking their papers to the front.

The students leave one by one, and yet she still does not move.

When the door closes behind the last of them Mr. Smith stands up from his desk and wanders over to her.

She should be worried about this, she thinks, but the force of her orgasm has made her all but boneless. She doesn't think she can move even if she wants to, which she really doesn’t.

She fucking squirted. She's never done that before.

"My," Mr. Smith says quietly, stopping about two feet away from her desk, "what a mess."

"Sorry, sir." She says weakly, embarrassed.

She knows she should be feeling a lot more than just embarrassed, something like terror or anxiety or dread, probably a combination of all three, but somehow she knows that she isn't going to get in trouble for this—not the kind of trouble that involves principals and expulsion and criminal charges, anyway.

She's in another kind of trouble, though she hasn't yet figured out what.

Mr. Smith hums and pushes the desk in front of her a little ways forward. Briana looks down and sees that there are wet spots on the floor even that far ahead. The room stinks of sex, and she wonders how no one even noticed.

"Impressive," he comments neutrally, glancing at her.

"I think so, too," she says, more confidently than she feels.

Their eyes once again lock, and the silence stretches.

Eventually Mr. Smith takes a few steps forward and leans down.

Heart immediately picking up pace in her chest, Briana stares up at him with wide eyes, wondering what he's going to do.

She doesn't expect his hand on her knee, fingers skimming through the cum on her legs.

Her breath hitches and she tenses, excitement coursing through her as his hand slides upward. He stops just a few inches away from the place that's most desperate to be touched, and Briana holds her breath and waits.

He pulls away and Briana lets out a sigh of disappointment.

"Sit on the desk," he says immediately, and Briana hesitates, unsure if she heard him correctly, or if it's just her desperate mind playing tricks.

He gives her an impatient look and the order finally registers. She scrambles to stand, legs wobbling underneath her, and ignores the voice in her head saying 'what the hell are you doing?' and scoots up on the desk. She waits.

Mr. Smith's lips spread in a thin, sharp smile. "Hitch up your skirt."

Briana does.

She lifts it until it's just an inch of two of bunched material at her waist. Her light purple panties are now dark against her mound, clingy and cool. Her thighs are completely shiny from her ejaculation, and she wonders again over the fact that she actually squirted.

And then Mr. Smith's finger pokes her knee and all thoughts except for the feel of his skin on hers flies out the window. So to speak.

"How did you get your hand inside that material?" he asks, tone mild and curious like he's asking about the weather.

Briana hates his composure a little. Eyes trained on him, she pushes the material aside and spreads her legs. She regrets the act of confidence a second later when she feels another burst of cum pour out of her, and a deeper shade of red spreads over her cheeks.

Mr. Smith stares for a moment.

"Do you squirt often?" he asks, scrutinizing her.

"N-never," Briana rasps.

This entire conversation is mind-boggling bizarre, and she's a little worried that she's not freaking out as much as she should probably be.

"Hm." Mr. Smith reaches out and slips a finger down her open slit, and Briana's hips buckle and she gasps.

He pops the wet digit in his mouth, ignores her aroused gaping, and turns his back on her.

"You may change out of your skirt, but leave the same underwear on, Miss Dawson. And do take better care to clean up after yourself, this time. I'm not your servant."

And with that he sits back at his desk, pulls open a book, and begins to read.

Briana stares after him for a long time. Shock turns into embarrassment and embarrassment turns into anger and she slides off the desk with a glare. She fixes her panties, pulls down her skirt, and stuffs her belongings into her bag. When she looks up at him to see that he's still sitting there, calm as you please, she snatches her test off her desk and pushes it onto her chair. She wipes it all over, not really accomplishing much at all, and then does the same to the floor.

She slaps her test paper onto his desk a moment later, crinkled and almost transparently damp, and storms out of the classroom. Goes to the restroom, locks herself in a stall, and gets herself off again, voice echoing loudly in the empty room.

She's almost twenty minutes late to her next class, and tells the teacher that she's been in the bathroom, sick.

She sits down in her chair feeling uncomfortably hot in her sweats, and hopes that her underwear doesn't leave a stain.


Poetry club is every ounce as boring as she remembers it being. The minutes seem to creep slowly by, and by the time the bell rings she feels like she's been sitting there for five hours, frustrated and hot and ridiculously turned on.

Once again she waits for everyone else to leave before putting her things away. She deliberately doesn't look up until her bag is closed and hoisted on one shoulder, and when she finally does it's to see Mr. Smith smirking at her.

It makes her hackles rise and her panties get wet. It's a confusing combination.

Mr. Smith walks over and locks the door, and the sound of it clicking makes her breath quicken with nerves.

And excitement, but she's trying not to think about that.

She tries to appear unaffected as he makes his way over to her. Tries and fails. He's still smiling that infuriating, sexy smirk at her, but his eyes are narrowed and dark and oh, she realizes wildly, burning with want.

He wants her.

It's the most terrifying and amazing conclusion she's made in her life.

He stalks up to her and Briana is reminded of the first time she saw him, and how she likened him to a predator stalking prey.

How apt, she thinks, mouth dry.

Prey. She's under no delusion that that isn't exactly what she is right now.

"Take off your pants," he whispers, and as she kicks off her sneakers she finds herself wondering where all her prideful indignation went to.

She lowers her sweats and steps out of them, shivering a little as her bare skin hits the cool air.

She kicks them off to the side and stands straight. Rises her chin. Trembles.

"So you can listen," he says silkily, eyes devouring the small strip of still-wet material.

She purses her lips at him but doesn't answer. Doesn't think she can.

"Let's see how well you continue to," he murmurs. He steps back and settles himself on top of a desk.

"Take off your shirt." He commands.

She hesitates for a moment, questioning herself if this is what she really wants to do. And then she remembers all the fantasies and dreams she's had about him, all the times she's spent imagining them doing something almost like this, all the times she's gotten herself off to the sound of his voice and the recollection of his gaze, and decides yes, she does.

She really, really does.

So she tentatively removes her shirt and flings it towards the rest of her discarded clothes. She follows it as it lands in the heap and then looks up to find him staring. He nods at her chest, eyes intent, and she takes a drawn out breath and unclasps the white bra from the front.

It falls open and her breasts spill out with a bounce, nipples already hard from arousal. She shoulders out of the straps and lets it fall away at her feet.

"Now panties."

She can barely hear him over the sound of her drumming heart. She bends down, conscious of the way her breasts droop and sway, and pulls the wet material down her legs. She steps out of them and nudges them aside, then stands straight again.

A trickle of liquid falls out of her and dribbles down her leg and she blushes, but dutifully ignores it. No need to let on that she's so nervous. He might stop. Or he might not. At the moment she doesn't know which would be worse.

Mr. Smith stands slowly and walks towards her. He takes her trembling hand and leads her to his desk. He settles her on top of it, spreads her legs, and situates himself in between.

"I'd ask if you wanted to stop, but I know better," he says, running his hands down her arms.

She shakes her head and stares up at him, eyes wide.

His fingers brush the sides of her breasts and she shivers.

"I'm not a nice man, Miss Dawson." He tells her, right hand cupping her left breast. She leans into it and almost moans when his finger brushes over her taut nipple. "You need to be aware. If we do this…it's going to hurt. It's going to be rough. You're going to leave this classroom at the end of it with bruises that won't fade for weeks."

She shudders at his words and leans back, spine stiffening.

"You're going to come up with a safe word—something you won't easily blurt out during our proceedings—and may use it whenever you wish. But do know that the moment you do, we will stop. Do you understand? We will stop, and never again."

This is your one and only chance to prove to me that you can take it, he doesn't say but so obviously means.

"Do you understand?"

She nods, shakily.

"I asked, do you understand? I need to hear you say it, Miss Dawson."

A beat, and then, "Yes."

The smile he gives her is both unbearably hot and terrifying as hell.

"What word do you choose to use?"

She thinks about it for a moment, and after a while settles on a word she vows not to say for the duration of the evening.


He quirks his brow at her but she thinks he looks intrigued, too.

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"Yes." She says. She is.

"Excellent.." He says, before pinching her nipple between his fingers, hard. She gasps with pain and tries to lurch back, but his hand follows her and only squeezes harder.

"S-st—" She starts to say, then catches herself.

Tears are springing in her eyes, and her nipple is on fire, but the pleased look he gives her makes it almost bearable. Almost.

"Good girl," he murmurs. She's shaking like a leaf on his desk, trying desperately to hold back tears. When he finally releases her nipple she sags like a broken puppet. Her nipple aches something fierce, and Briana wonders, faintly, if she can go through with this after all.

His hand comes up to cup the side of her face and he smiles at her.

"I knew there was something special about you from the moment I saw you," he says, thumb caressing her cheek, "and I'm pleased to learn that I was right. Now, Miss Dawson, are you ready to begin?"

Briana shudders and says, "Yes, Mr. Smith."

The grin he gives her resembles splintered glass.

"Then let's."

He takes her bruised nipple in hand once more and twists.

She screams.


Briana's lying flat on her back, legs bent and spread wide, with Mr. Smith standing between them.

She can barely focus on anything past the throbbing of her chest, won't even dare look at the damage done to them. Last time she'd braved a glance her nipples had been an angry red, all swollen and bruised. The skin that surrounded them was no better; vivid red patches from where he pinched and slapped them, lines from where he scratched, dark bruises from where he sucked, indents from the pressure of his unforgiving teeth.

It's the most pain Briana has ever been in her life—and yet.

And yet she can't deny that she's let loose a puddle beneath her, nor that she's ever been so aroused.

"Most people get turned on by pain," he'd said to her after torturing the underside of her breast with his sharp teeth and punishing fingers, "but most are too repressed to admit it. Not you, though."

A part of her wanted to shake her head, wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that she didn't like what he was doing, that it hurt. But her body was saying otherwise—is still saying otherwise— and after a while she started to wonder if the whimpers that were coming out of her mouth were a result of pain or pleasure.

Both, she realizes after a long while. It's both.

Now he's standing in between her legs and she's vibrating with nerves and expectation and fear. The thought of him being so close to her sex makes her want to snap her legs shut and hide. It also makes her want to spread them as wide as they'll go and beg him to touch her and never stop.

If she comes out of this…thing with her sanity intact, she'll be seriously impressed.

"You're gorgeous," he tells her, and she sighs with pleasure. He's looking down at her like she's a feast he doesn't quite know where to start at, and she's hoping the not-so-subtle lifting of hips will give him a clue.

"Turn over," he says, and as disappointed as she is does as he says. Last time she tried to argue with him he bit her nipple so hard she thought his teeth were going rip right through.

Briana's never been the type to make the same mistake twice.

She settles onto her stomach and bites her lip at how vulnerable this new position makes her feel. She feels Mr. Smith retreat and cranes her head around to seek him out, but he's bending down so she can't see what he's doing. She waits anxiously for him to stand, and when he does and she notices the object he has in his hand she tenses and holds her breath.

He's carrying a yard stick.

Fuck, she thinks. This is going to hurt.

For the nth time in the past few minutes? hours? she can't even tell anymore—Briana feels the safe word at the tip of her tongue. She opens her mouth a bit, almost ready to say it, but then she catches sight of his eyes, gleaming with arousal and looking so, so pleased, and the words die and slink back inside her throat.

He slaps the stick against his hand and the clap that resonates throughout the room makes her jump.

"Such pretty, clear skin," she hears him murmur behind her. Her neck aches from the position it's in, but she doesn't dare let him out of her line of sight. Not yet.

"Begging," he continues, continuing to prowl around her, "to be marked." He slides the tip of the ruler against the line of her spine and she arches at the touch, shivers when it dips in between her ass cheeks.

"Don't you agree, Miss Dawson?"

She only whimpers.

"Good girl," he compliments her. Her reward is a soft thump to her rear.

Her hips jut upward, but he pushes down with the ruler and she forces herself still.

"Relax," he tells her smoothly, stopping in front of the desk. The ruler drags upward again, until it's resting in between her shoulder blades. "It's going to feel good."

He lifts his hand and she hides her face in the crook of her arm just as the flat of the ruler strikes her ass. It stings and she whimpers, hips unconsciously jerking with pain.

"Oh," he adds suddenly, "and you're not allowed to scream."

He lifts the ruler again and the next smack connects hard. Briana gasps out at the sharp sensation flaring across her bum, and keens at the tingles the impact leaves in its wake.

She gets it now, she thinks, as she prepares herself for another strike; the lash hurts, but the burn it leaves behind feels fucking great.

He hits her again, and again, and again, targeting different sections of her back, her ass, her thighs, the back of her knees. She loses count at twenty, and then she loses all semblance of coherent thought at all. Her world tunnels until the only thing in it is the smack of the stick, the fire on her skin, and the soothing timbre of Mr. Smith's voice as it washes over her like a cool balm.

The ruler hits her ass and she twitches and groans into the crook of her arm. The cracking sound is so loud, like lightening striking in a silent place, and with every strike the pain gets worse, pleasure heightening in some twisted rule of thumb.



Her eyes roll to the back of her head as her back flares with pain, the strike she's just received harder any of them yet. She shakes on top of the desk, body twitching with pain and pleasure, and the overwhelming combination of both those sensations is making it hard to think. She doesn't know if she wants Mr. Smith to hit her again or not, doesn't know if she could take another lash even if she did.

She's too caught up in the haze of sensation and her own inner, broken turmoil to realize that Mr. Smith has moved away from her side to settle in between her legs. Doesn't notice until she feels the tip of the ruler slip down between her cheeks and nudge the mound lying beneath.

"Turn over," he says.

She acts on instinct. It's like her body's on autopilot, set to move only when Mr. Smith gives a command.

She regrets how much control he has over her a moment later when her back hits the desk surface and her skin burns.

She screams a little, she thinks, but can hardly tell over the sound of her heart, her breath, the rushing noise in her head. When the pain subsides to something almost bearable she realizes that she's whimpering and Mr. Smith is petting her lower belly in comfort, voice cooing words of admiration and adoration at her.

"See?" he's saying to her, "you just needed a moment to adjust. It's almost all better now, isn't it? Maybe even feels a little bit good?"

Briana finds herself nodding. He's right, she thinks, careful not to shift too much. It is starting to feel a little bit good.

She pointedly ignores the idea forming in her head that it only feels good because Mr. Smith says it should. Doesn't want to acknowledge that he might have that much power over her.

"Excellent," he says.

Briana slowly registers pressure in between her legs. She looks up, slowly, carefully, and sees the ruler there, nudging her.

She whimpers with fear, mind snapping to all the ways he can hurt her there.

Mr. Smith smiles at her. "Don't looks so terrified, Miss Dawson. What do you think I'm going to do to you here?" He pushes the ruler against her. "Strike you with it?" He softly taps it against her open sex, making her jump and tremble. "Caress you with it?" He slips the ruler into her folds and drags it up and down, up and down, eliciting sparks of pleasure from in between her legs. The hardness, the texture, feels wonderful against her clit, and Briana finds herself opening up a little bit more.

"Fuck you with it?" he continues. It takes a while for his meaning to sink in but when it does Briana freezes and tries to shift her hips away.

Mr. Smith tsks and spreads her legs again, squeezing one hand around her thigh to keep her still.

She feels the tip of the ruler against her hole and she breaks into renewed tremors.

"Please," she rasps. "Don—"

The ruler slips inside and she wails.

Mr. Smith nudges it inside her, inch by inch by inch, until he can't get it in any further. She groans with pain and discomfort, hips bucking, trying to get the invading object out. It doesn't feel good at all, the sharp edges poking into her and making it almost hurt, and she wants it out.


He starts to fuck her with it and she gasps loudly, hands forming fists at her sides. He starts off slowly, dragging the ruler out, then in, at a leisurely slide. It doesn't take long before his hand quickens and the ruler begins to thrust in and out of her rapidly. It feels terrible, terrible, and she'd do anything to get it out of her, anything—

Something presses against her clit and she startles so badly she almost knocks it away. She struggles to get up onto her elbows, ignoring the way her back protests at the movement, and her eyes widens when she sees Mr. Smith's hands in between her legs.

He's not watching her, eyes seemingly glued to his task at hand. He pinches her clit between his fingers and begins to roll it in sharp circles and Briana falls back and cries out. Oh god, yes, yes, yes, she chants inwardly, pleasure washing over her in electric waves. He's touching her there, finallyfinallyfinally, and she can almost ignore the ruler pushing inside of her for the way he's expertly working her clit.

She moans out loud when he sets a rhythm, rubbing it back and forth under slick fingers. She feels her orgasm approaching and she pushes into his hand, desperate for more friction, more movement, more everything, and lets out a sob of triumph when she comes—oh god, yes!—all over his fingers. Her entire body lifts from the power of it and the moan she's emitting is so loud that the echo reverberating around the room lingers for ages. Blackness edges into the corners of her vision and she thinks that she's going to pass out.

The pleasure lasts for a long time. Longer than any orgasm she's ever had before. Mr. Smith's fingers don't relent, though, and eventually it begins to shift to extreme discomfort. She tries to close her legs and turn away but Mr. Smith doesn't let her. He pulls the ruler out of her and drops it to the floor, steps forward and uses one hand to spread her wide. His other hand is still moving against her pussy, fingers flickering and rubbing her oversensitive clit.

Briana tries to push away again but again Mr. Smith refuses to relent. She cries out at the overstimulation and can feel tears run down her face as he continues touching her.

And then his hand disappears and she gives a sob of relief. She begins to close her legs, even the air too much against her open sex, only to have them pried open by harsh fingers. Within the blink of an eye Mr. Smith's head is lowering and his mouth is settling in between her thighs. She screams when his tongue flicks against her clit before latching on with his lips and teeth. She desperately tries to pull away but it only makes him re-double his efforts, sucking and lapping harder than she can stand.

It feels good and it feels awful and Briana feels like she's going to burst from the seams.

She comes again, explosively, and shouts Mr. Smith's name as her climax squirts against his face.

He doesn't let up.

She keens and cries, jerks her hips, thrashes side to side, but she can't get him off. He only pushes three fingers inside of her and it makes her feel like she's coming apart. While his tongue and lips suck and lap her enflamed clit, his fingers fuck her, rotating and jabbing and forking and spreading inside her until she's sore and aching and it feels so good she wants to pass out.

Her next orgasm comes even quicker and it makes her break down into tears. Every inch of her skin is sensitive and buzzing with pleasure and even the cool air of the room upon her skin is making her come undone.

Mr. Smith retreats after an agonizing minute, face glistening with sweat and cum, and she watches, feeling utterly destroyed, as he wipes himself clean with his shirt sleeve and begins to unbuckle his belt.

The moments in between him slipping out of his pants and entering her are a bit of a blur. Her mind's a wreck, become incapable of thought, and she's only vaguely aware of any presence aside from her own until she feels him moving inside her, hot and large and bare.

He drags her further down to the edge of the desk and she ignores the pain in her back as she slides toward him. She spreads her legs wide, wraps them around his waist, and he grips her thighs and fucks into her, alternating between varying rhythms and speeds and angles, until she's a moaning mess.

Mr. Smith's making the most delicious sounds from above her, these soft grunts of pleasure that go straight to her cunt. The pleasure drags on and on, burning and violent, peaking ever higher as his thrusts shift and accelerate.

He's squeezing her thighs so hard she's sure she's bruising but can't really bring herself to care. Can't really feel it, either. It's like her mind's become disconnected to everything that isn't her pussy, and it's glorious.


Mr. Smith gasps as he comes, shooting into her and filling her up. Each time he penetrates her it feels like the cum inside her builds, and each time he retreats it pours out of her, trickling down her thighs and ass, pooling onto the desk.

She climaxes again, but it's softer this time, more bearable. She shakes for only a moment or two and then relaxes, body slumping into the desk, boneless. She's so tired she can probably fall asleep right now, just like this.

Thinks she must have, because the next time she's aware of anything they're both fully dressed and there's no wet spots to speak of. She slowly sits herself up, flinching and grunting at the way her muscles pull and skin stretches uncomfortably. She aches all over, and it's the best and worst she's ever felt in her life.

Mr. Smith is stuffing papers into his briefcase and snapping it shut when she finally manages to slide off the desk. Her knees buckle when she attempts to stand and she has to clutch at the edge just to stay upright.

When he finally looks at her his expression is as bland as ever.

"Your assistance this evening is appreciated," he tells her mildly. He straightens his tie and lifts his briefcase. With a respectful nod he continues, "Good night, Miss Dawson. I'll see you tomorrow in class." And then he's walking out of the door without a backward glance.

The doors clicks behind him and Briana stares at it for a long moment before she eases herself down onto the desk and begins to laugh. It's loud and it's hysterical and it's ugly, and at some point there are even tears.

She laughs—because she refuses to admit that it might be something else—for a long time before struggling to her feet, grabbing her bag, and slipping out.

It's completely dark when she gets outside, sky almost black except for the bright scattering of stars and glow of the moon. When she checks her phone she realizes that it's a little over ten o'clock. She hopes her parents aren't home.

Her legs wobble and threaten to collapse and the material of her shirt pulls painfully at her back with every step she takes, but she manages. She leaves the school, walks the eight blocks it takes her to get home, and stumbles inside. The lights are still off and there're no shoes at the door, indicating that neither of her parents are home yet. She drops her bag at the foyer and all but crawls upstairs and into her bedroom, dropping onto her bed on her stomach—clothes, shoes, and all.

She lies there for a long, long time, thinking about every detail of the evening and struggling to breathe. It feels like her entire body is bruised, like her back might actually be riddled with bleeding welts. Her chest (her heart) aches.

She thinks of the way Mr. Smith whispered her name (never her first), and the way he soothed her wounds (the ones he inflicted), and all the pleasure he gave her (and so, so much pain).

Thinks of the endearments he called her, the soft looks he'd given her, the arousal for her that had darkened his eyes.

Thinks of the way he'd said goodbye, like they'd spent hours marking papers together instead of engaging in endless foreplay and fucking, and the look on his face, like she didn't even matter, like nothing of importance had occurred between them at all.

She thinks, and she regrets.

For all the permission she gave, she still feels used. Discarded, now that he's done with her.

She'd expected something more. Perhaps not flowers and declarations of love, but a lingering kiss goodbye, a soft smile, a sparkle in his eyes. A promise of next time.

Not that cold dismissal, that hasty departure, that careless remark as if she'd done him some great service to which he appreciated.

In all her fantasies, things had never ended like this. Once again, she's caught between laughing at the entire situation and her own naivety, or crying at the unfairness of it.

Never again, she thinks over the lump in her throat. Her eyes are burning, but she refuses to cry. Not again. Not over him.

Never again.

Briana swallows heavily and struggles to get beneath her sheets. She kicks off her shoes, ignores her damp underwear and crumpled clothing, and closes her eyes.

She doesn't know how she manages it with her troubled thoughts and aching heart and battered body, but eventually she falls asleep.

She doesn't dream.


The End.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © © 2013-2018 Emerys Belmonte

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