by Henry, Jane
“Got it. Red.”
I go to the display of implements and choose a sturdy red leather strap. The implements here are to be used over fully clothed guests. If a member wants to spank on bare skin or involve any sort of bodily fluids—and believe me, I usually do—we’re supposed to use our own toys. I don’t have any, though. I got rid of everything when my last relationship ended.
I test the strap on my hand and nod. It packs a good sting but is fairly thuddy. When I have a girl trussed up on the St. Andrew’s cross, I need something with length and give. Frowning, I eye the assortment in front of me, ignoring the sound of the crowd in the full room. I enjoy knowing I left Sasha at my mercy. I spy a scarlet flogger, with thin, crisscrossed folds of leather that join together in a sturdy handle.
Excellent.
I remove it, test it out on my hand, and find it’s fairly tame. I’ll have to swing hard to get this to sting, especially over her clothed bottom. Good. I’m game for some exercise.
I go back to Sasha, my mind on the email that sits like a red-hot poker in my inbox, the thought of the beautiful Giada tied to this cross flashing in my mind’s eye like a beacon. I shove the image away. No fucking way. I’d lose my job, and how would I ever live that down?
I walk over to Sasha and run the flogger over the tattoos on her neck. She shivers. I know it tickles, and building anticipation heightens our scene.
“Tell me what you’ve done to deserve punishment,” I say, trailing the flogger down her bare neck to her back, covered in a thin, black cropped top. “Have you been a bad girl?” Sasha has bad girl fantasies and I love playing into that. Hell, it’s my fantasy, punishing naughty little girls. She can’t move much tied to the cross but turns her head to look at me.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says in a seductive whisper.
I snap the flogger against her ass. She hisses and comes up on her tiptoes, a flush of pleasure coloring her cheeks.
“Yes,” she says. “I did wicked things deserving of punishment, sir.”
Something comes over me then. I don’t know if it’s the memory of what I had with Philippa, or the thoughts of Giada, but I let myself indulge. I lean in close and put my hand on her arm.
“I want you to say, ‘Punish me, daddy.’”
She hesitates, so I give her another lash of the flogger. Her body tenses.
“Say it.”
“Red!”
I blink, startled. I’ve seen Sasha take a whipping before, the few smacks from the flogger child’s play compared to what she can take. What the fuck is she safewording for? I let her go like she’s a hot poker, scalding to touch, and step back.
I haven’t had a sub safeword with me in years. I prefer reading their signs, knowing that I can test limits without taking them out of the pleasure of a scene. I read cues and body language and know how to meet needs. Hearing her safeword feels like some kind of failure. Does she have a bad memory associated with the flogger?
“Red?”
Her jaw tightens, her eyes narrowed. “I will not call you daddy. That’s a hard limit. No way.”
Oh.
An uncomfortable flush of unease washes over me. She won’t call me daddy. Jesus, I hadn’t even thought about it before I said it. The daddy dom aspect of my personality is such a part of who I am, I forgot some subs hate that.
“Fair enough,” I say tersely, taking my position from behind her. “Sir will do.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, though her voice is still tight.
I flog her harder than I intended, somehow needing to punish her for not giving me what I need tonight. The lash meets its target with careful precision, the bundle of leather marking her. I’m careful not to hurt her, but it feels good to wield this power. She doesn’t know why I’m punishing her, and when I’m done, she’s in a state of near-bliss, grinning, her eyes half-lidded as she slurs out a “Thank you, sir.”
I’m not satisfied, though. I follow through with her aftercare in a state of semi-automation. I need to get out of here.
Chapter Three
Giada
The next day, I sit in my car staring at the clock on my dash. I sent my essay to Professor Slade last night, and never received a reply. Has he read it yet? If he did, what did he think? Does he think I’m a silly girl he can’t take seriously? Does he think I’m playing him?
Or have I affected him in another way?
Class begins in one minute, and I’m sitting here watching the clock run down on purpose. I want to push him, to see what he’ll do if I’m late. I look down at the outfit I chose for today and smirk. I’m wearing a red and white checkered schoolgirl skirt, a fitted, button-down blouse unbuttoned to reveal cleavage, and my hair is in two demure braids. It’s a style that’s trending, and to the untrained eye I look totally fine, though provocative.
I wonder what Professor Slade will think.
When it’s five minutes past the start of class, I leave my car. My phone buzzes, and I look quickly at the screen.
How’s it going, baby sis?
I roll my eyes. Baby sis is so condescending. Emilio, one of the four older brothers who love to smother me, is the sappiest of the bunch. I text back quickly.
I’m good. On my way to class.
Good job. I’m proud of you. Study hard, kiddo.
I purse my lips. He’s proud of me? I just sent a provocative essay to my teacher with every intention of seducing him. Would that make him proud?
I smile to myself. Probably.
I’m a full ten minutes late when I get to the entrance of my class. I bite my lip, suddenly a bit nervous about what will happen now that I’m here. What was I thinking? I take a deep breath, and with my hand shaking, I test the doorknob. Of course it’s locked. I give a quick, sharp knock, my breath frozen in my lungs. This is why I do what I do. I love the feeling of adrenaline coursing through me, the fear of what will happen exciting and raw. God, I live for this.
It seems like I wait an eternity when the large, bulky shadow approaches from the other side of the door before it opens. His green eyes smolder when he opens the door, and even though it’s what I expected, I’m surprised at how it scares the hell out of me. My stomach drops when I feel the palpable heat emanating from him. I’m the sole focus of his piercing gaze, and despite the fact that I planned this out, I’m literally quaking.
I swallow hard. “Sorry I’m late, Professor,” I say, my voice a little shaky and husky.
I need to get a fucking grip. You’re not roleplaying, I tell myself. This is real life. And yet…
“You’re sorry you’re late?” he asks, crossing his arms on his chest and tipping his head to the side. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”
His voice is deeper than I remember, or maybe it’s because he’s stern and corrective now?
Oh, God. Why’d I think this man would be easy to play?
My mouth is dry when I take a step back, but he takes a step closer to me, not allowing me to cower. “You will be sorry, Ms. Romano,” he says in a whisper that makes my nipples harden with want. “You’ll remain after class with me this afternoon. I told you there would be consequences for misbehavior.”
Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.
Me, alone, with him, and in trouble.
It’s exactly what I wanted, but now I’m questioning my sanity.
I’m dimly aware of him stepping aside so I can enter the room. A flush of embarrassment crawls up my neck and my cheeks, as I take my seat on the other side of the room. My other classmates thankfully don’t look my way to give me space to sort my shit, but it doesn’t matter anyway. They may as well not even be here, since the only person I’m aware of is the big, angry, dominant man standing just a few feet away from me. My eyes zone in on the thick leather belt at his waist, and I imagine what it would be like to watch him unfasten that belt, double it in his hands, and bend me over the desk.
My panties dampen. Christ, I need to get a grip already. It’s like my class has become some
sort of fetish fantasy play.
I really, really need to get some action, and soon.
He crosses to the front of the room. “I enjoyed reading the essays you sent me,” he says, lifting a stack of papers from his desk. “The literary influences on your imaginations are many and varied,” he continues, and now he’s walking up my aisle, his eyes focused on me once more. “And it will be my pleasure to see you explore where your imagination takes you.”
Of course my dirty little mind has fun with that.
He’s just responding to the assignments, I tell myself.
But my body knows better.
I take down notes and jot down what he says. Tonight’s assignment will be an actual piece of fiction I need to write based on the imagination piece I wrote the day before. So while my classmates write about traveling to foreign countries and world domination, I’ll be writing about nipple clamps and wax play.
Excellent.
I’m so caught up in mentally drafting my essay for class, that I momentarily forget where I am. When I become aware of everyone around me standing up and leaving their seats, I blink up at the clock. Class is over. On autopilot I stand with the rest of them, pretending I was totally paying attention, but his sharp voice freezes me.
“Sit down, Ms. Romano.”
I blink. He’s at his desk, leaning back as my classmates filter out of the classroom. His stern gaze focuses solely on me. His arms are crossed on his chest, like he’s challenging me to defy him.
Obediently, I sit.
A corner of his lips quirks up, then just as quickly he sobers, so swiftly I wonder if I imagined that.
Does he enjoy toying with me?
When the last student leaves the room, he pushes off his desk, stalks to the door, and flicks the lock.
My heart stutters an erratic beat in my chest, thump, thump, thumpity thump.
I wipe my damp hands on the plaid fabric of my skirt and swallow hard. I’m so nervous, the blood pounds in my ears like a river, drowning out rational thought.
He turns to face me, and eyes me quietly before stalking back to his desk. He leans back, crossing his ankles and folding his hands. Jesus, he’s beautiful, flecks of gray in his beard making him look distinguished and refined. His body, even hidden in these fancy clothes, is sculpted and strong. I bet he lifts or… something. I can feel his latent power from where I sit.
“Do you have something to say for yourself?” he asks. “I told you not to be late today, and yet here you are.”
“I’m sorry,” I lie. I’m not sorry. It was exactly what I intended on doing.
He tips his head to the side. His deep voice makes my skin prickle. “Yes. We covered that. I explained that you will be sorry before long. Now my question to you is, do you have anything to say?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“Why were you late?” he asks, his voice like the crack of a whip.
I jump, startled, but don’t respond.
“Careless in your preparations?” he asks. “Traffic? Didn’t leave enough time to get here?” He leans forward a bit, and his voice drops. “Or is there another reason, Ms. Romano?” He pierces me in place with his eyes.
“Call me Giada,” I say stupidly. “My mother’s Ms. Romano.”
He nods, but then his voice slaps over me like a wave crashing on the shore. “Answer the question, Giada.”
I jump. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.
He frowns. “Yes, what? What are you agreeing to?”
“The… the latter part of what you said.”
He looks at me sternly for a full minute before nodding once more. Then he unfolds his hands and crooks a finger at me. “As I suspected. Come here.”
My heart rate spikes. God, his authoritative voice undoes me. On autopilot, I unfold myself from my desk and approach him on trembling legs. What will he do? I swallow, hard. Why did I just admit that I’m playing into a fantasy? Will he understand why I did this? Can he throw me out of school for flirting with him?
Have I flirted?
When I reach him, I stand about three feet in front of him and stare up, my nerves completely shot. I’ve only ever fantasized about being with a dom. Hell, I don’t even know if he is one, but the man exudes authority like no one I’ve ever met before and if he doesn’t fulfill my dom fantasies, I’m not sure anyone will.
He crooks a finger at me. “Closer, please.”
Closer?
“Closer would be improper, Professor,” I say, lowering my eyes to show him I have no issue being improper, but I want him to acknowledge this.
He leans toward me. “Now.”
Alright then. Fuck proper.
I take another step closer, so close now I can feel heat curling in my belly. If he reached out he could touch me, we’re that close.
“There are better ways of getting what you need,” he says, his voice softening now, though his eyes are still sharp as flint. “I’m not much of a fan of manipulation.” He uncrosses his legs, pushes off from the edge of his desk, then stands over me.
My mouth is dry, my whole body shaking.
Maybe this was a stupid idea. What am I playing at? What is he playing at?
“It’s unfortunate some school systems no longer favor the application of a paddle for correction,” he says. “I, however, still firmly believe in its merits.”
Oh God oh God oh God.
“Oh?” I squeak, a difficult feat considering the fact my lungs are devoid of air.
I’m somewhere between elation—he is a dom! I knew it! This is it! and utter fear—what the hell is he going to do? Do I need my head examined? Should I scream?
He comes closer to me and takes my chin in his hand. It’s a wholly inappropriate touch, and yet... My skin’s on fire, my heart racing, when he speaks.
“You were ten minutes late, Giada,” he says, with an almost sorrowful tone. I feel suddenly small and chastened, but at the same time inexplicably aroused. His low tone sends a shiver through my body, and I involuntarily clench my thighs together to staunch the waves of arousal that wash over me.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice a low purr. “I know.”
“And I read your essay.”
Oh my God.
What’s he going to do?
He leans in, his mouth to my ear. “It seems a little correction is exactly what you need.” He issues a command. “Bend over my desk.”
A fresh wave of need pulses to my pussy and I stifle a whimper.
This isn’t right. He’s my professor. If we’re caught, he’ll be fired and I’ll be kicked out of school.
“Someone could see us,” I argue, but that was apparently the wrong thing to say because he releases my chin, grabs my arm, and smacks my ass. My mouth drops open in shock, my body heating. My skin tingles from where he spanked me.
“You have two choices, young lady. You bend over the desk yourself and take your punishment like a good little girl, or I bend you over. But if I have to do it, I’ll bare your ass first.”
I actually think about that for a second, and maybe a second too long, since he takes a step toward me. I practically throw myself on his desk, the cool wood pressing up against my belly as I grasp the sides of it. My cheeks flame with embarrassment knowing my ass, clad in the little schoolgirl skirt, is now prominently displayed. The skirt’s so short, bending over like this has it riding high, so I know he’s getting a glimpse of the bare curve of my ass, since I chose a skimpy little thong.
He stifles a groan behind me, then steps close and lays a hand on my lower back. I wanted this. This was exactly what I wanted. Yet now that it’s actually happening, it’s scary as fuck. This is wrong. He’ll think I’m some sort of slut. And if anyone in this school had any idea that he was bending me over his desk to punish me…
I push up against his hand to stand. I can’t do this. But his hand just presses more firmly down.
“Did I give you permission to move?”
“No,” I croak, my voice choked. “Bu
t—”
“But what?”
That hand on my back steadies me, and I focus on quelling my nerves.
“This is… you shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper.
“You shouldn’t have come late to class.”
“But I’m your student,” I protest. Even as I speak, though, I’m aware of the fact that if he doesn’t punish me now, I’ll walk away ready to cry with disappointment. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’ve fantasized about this every day while reading my books, fingering myself to climax each night before I go to sleep, strangely comforted by the thought of being strewn over the lap of a hard-handed dominant.
I want this. I want this so fucking bad.
“You are my student,” he says, coming even closer so the heat of his flank is pressed up against me. “A student who disobeyed me. And in my classroom, disobedience earns consequences.”
Then the next thing I know his huge palm slams against my ass so hard the sound reverberates in the classroom. It hurts. It fucking hurts. I gasp but barely recover from the spank before he delivers another wicked slap. He gives me another two slaps. I hold onto the desk so hard my knuckles are white. But as the pain seeps into my skin, I need more. Harder. Longer.
I close my eyes and lay my cheek on the desk. I don’t protest or scream or try to get away. It hurts like hell but it hurts so good, my sex clenches with the need to be filled. My body begs to feel this measured, deliberate pain. I should be ashamed. I’m being punished for disobeying his rules. But I don’t feel ashamed.
I just want more.
I’m so immersed in my real-life fantasy come to life that I lose track of my bearings for a minute, completely sinking into the feel of the spanking he’s giving me, how wrong it is that he’s my teacher, and how I need this.
He continues until my ass throbs with the pain, heat radiating from my scorched ass. Then he tugs my skirt back down, but it’s so short, he barely moves it. “Next time you come to this classroom, you dress more appropriately,” he orders in a gritty growl. “And you’ll come on time, or you’ll find yourself over my desk for a paddling. Understood?”