TheQuietOne in topic Schoolgirls
You burst into the English Office with your normal exuberance - your lunch break has begun and you’ve decided that a solid ten minutes of teasing will lift your spirits after the last two periods.
“Hey, Anna!”
“Hello, Kerry, dear! How was class this morning?”
“Oh it was fine, thanks.”
You’ve spent enough time in the office that you’re on first-name terms with the Head of English - something that comes in handy on a regular basis. You can feel the elderly Mrs. Smythe’s judgemental gaze even though your back is turned. You’re fairly sure that the widowed harpy was a reproduction-only sort of girl. Her poor husband, he’s probably better off gone.
Or maybe not - you can’t quite decide which is worse out of a lifetime of celibacy; or fucking a woman who makes Mother Theresa look like Miley Cyrus swinging around on a big ol’ chunk of steel.
Miley may have come like a wrecking ball, but you’re fairly sure that on the building site, Mrs Smythe is more in the sandpaper department.
Sandpaper and disappointment. She’s just as disappointed in your state of dress as she is in the fact that Anna will shut her down if she tries to critique your state of dress. Being on first-name basis with the head of department has its boons, and Anna sees a cute young student desperately trying to impress a somewhat-indulgent male teacher.
What she doesn’t see is the brutal fucking you receive every time her back is turned. The number of stains we’ve put on this carpet alone are enough to make you blush when you try to count them.
“Oh, hey, Kerry. How was class?”
“Not so bad. Borowick’s still a dick.”
“Ms Brown!” Smythe is unable to keep herself from piping up and I send her a dark look over your shoulder. Anna scolds her, but gives you a look that says you’d better watch your mouth. You hop up onto my desk - conveniently positioned so that I’m surrounded on nearly all sides by wall and bookcase - and position yourself carefully, one heel on the edge of the desk while the other leg swings free.
I haven’t noticed yet, but you have faith; I’m busy marking, and I always do eventually.
“That good, eh?”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“I think he’s jealous. If there was a time when he was popular with the student population, it's long past.”
This time I earn a ‘professionalism’ scolding from Anna. I roll my eyes at her short reminder and meet yours, and you see the moment I notice.
My eyes travelling down you are suddenly predatory as I take in your slightly transparent blouse and far-too-short skirt. I shift slightly, letting one hand slide across the desk - the back of my hand resting against your bare thigh. It’s not much in terms of possessive motions - we have to be careful while in the office - but it's enough.
You grin cheekily as your nipples harden and become clearly visible through the too-thin top. You elected not - forgot, you mean, definitely forgot - to wear a bra today, and the effect this has on me is more than noticeable. I shift as I adjust my cock.
I tear my eyes away and focus on marking. You can tell you’ve caught me off guard by the flush across my cheeks, but a short cough and a few moments focusing on the poorly written essays before me is enough for me to visibly regain self-control.
Well, you’re not too pleased about that. Time for phase two.
Grabbing a handful of your skirt you pull it taught in the act of resting and hand on the desk, staring absently around the room as if bored.
It’s an entirely innocent action to everyone else, unnoticeable even to Smythe’s beady glare, except that to me you’ve just opened your skirt up entirely over your legs and exposed your freshly bald pussy and the message you’ve written over it and your thighs.
Oopsie, you somehow forgot your panties today as well.
I spend entirely too long looking. Long enough to be in danger of being caught.
The cheeky grin never leaves your face as you let the skirt fall. You see irritation flash in my eyes as the view I was enjoying disappears. I forget myself for a moment and grab your knee with the clear intention of wrenching it back open when I catch myself and let it go.
“Be careful you don’t fall.” I murmur, as though that was the reason I grabbed you.
A fairly smooth recovery, considering; but you can see in my eyes that I am equal parts aroused and pissed off.
You shiver, because you know you’re getting it later.
A few minutes pass as you rub my inner thigh with your foot out of the view of the other faculty members before I slide my marking to one side, unlock one of the drawers in my desk and retrieve a small leather portfolio.
The familiar sight of the business card holder makes you shiver.
I idly flick through the pages and you cringe with each turn - I’ve made it abundantly clear that these are organized from mild to…
...pretty fucking far from mild.
I stop somewhere just past the middle of the book and slide one out, inspecting it with a cruel smirk.
“Be a dear and go collect my books.” I order, passing you the card. You give it a glance.
P-bl P37 7,3 ----
You’re not sure how you manage to escape the office without anyone noticing the state of your nipples, and before too long you are following the coded instructions carefully penned on the back of the business card as it leads you to the P-block a largely-disused building, largely used for handling overspill classes when other rooms are out of commission.
You push through the heavy wooden doors and make your way inside. The building is showing its age, and not in the charming, quaint way that old buildings have, but instead in an unhealthy, uncared for sort of way. Small, dusty glass windows set in once-white wooden window panes, the few remaining flecks of pain that haven’t chipped of smothered in grime born of decades of students.
You spend some time looking for the room - smiling at a pair of younger years as they pass through the ground floor on their way to another part of the school - before resorting to your map, only to learn of a third floor you never knew existed. A single, easily missable staircase leads up and you take it.
Aside from the cleaners, you might be the first student to use it in a long time.
And then there it is. Room P 37.
It used to be an Art Room from what you can tell. Three large sets of those small-paned windows look down over a playground and you watch and listen to the muffled screams of boys playing football and girls’ petty politics.
But you are wet and needy, and even a previously unknown view can only encapture your attention for so long. You locate the lockers.
“Seven along… Three up...” The dashes are because you already know the code to the combination lock.
The lock clicks open and opening the locker reveals a set of nipple clamps, a sharpie, a suction cup dildo and a tablet. The recording light is blinking red, I am already watching.
Your fingerprint unlocks the tablet. A preprogrammed message awaits you.
|Take me to the window and please some Strangers on the internet. Write the words. Be loud|
The last sentence makes you wince. One of the windows has a table pushed up to it and a duct taped X. You sucker the dildo onto the middle of it and, unbuttoning your blouse, you clamp your nipples and write the words.
The familiar site of omegle video chat greets you. Your video loads and you feel yourself become wet as you read the words which cover your entire torso from your collarbone down to your hips.
OWNED
PROPERTY
FREE FOR
ANY USE
You know I'm watching - there's no way I wouldn't be - but you can't tell as you debase yourself for strangers over the internet, squatting over your dildo in the middle of the dirty table and fucking it, feeling your juices dripping down it.
It’s dirty and degrading and you hate yourself. You hate how disgusting it makes you feel. How disgusting you really are. How fucked in the head you must be to have ended up in this situation. But the more you think about it, the hornier you get. You can’t help yourself. You’re a slave to your hormones. A slave to your emotions. A slave to me. Helpless, pathetic and trashy. The sort of girl who fucks herself on a dirty table in her school because she has no choice. Because she has a choice, and this is the only choice that matters. The choice to become less. The choice to be worthless and unlovable because you know that inside, that is what you are, and you know that accepting that fact is the only thing that keeps me around.
You wince with every one of your loud, fake moans and flinch every time you hear a sound. A door slamming, footsteps, murmured voices. You wouldn't be surprised if it was me in the halls around you - this part of the school is rarely used and I do love watching you flinch when you feel like you're going to be caught - but it’s just as likely that I'm in my office, leaning back with a smirk on my face with a viewport open showing me the view from the tablet rather than pacing the halls watching you on my phone.
It feels like forever when you finally cum and you almost show your face on camera in your haste to pick up the tablet. You close the conversation on the random stranger you weren't really paying any attention to just as your phone pings with a text from an unknown number.
|Drop my books off. You know where to meet me. Oh, and leave the dildo where it is. As a monument to what a disgusting whore you are.|
M19 is an English store cupboard on the other side of the school. You helped me to move all of the in-use textbooks to the more accessible cupboards and move in all of the decade-old, outdated textbooks that are only kept because we aren't allowed to throw them out as one of my intern-ly duties when I first started as an assistant teacher. I made a big deal of it. All the other English teachers know that the only books in there are ten years out of date and non-relevant to any course. Consequently, I've managed to make all of them 'lose' their keys, borrowed the janitor's key and conveniently forgotten to give it back. I mainly use it for fucking you.
I've been mean. My classroom and my office are just as far away from each other as they are from M19, and the fastest way to both are through corridors with heavy traffic.
You messily button your blouse - missing a few, lock away the tablet and hurry off. Your juices are spread across your thighs and ass and your skirt is hiked up several inches higher than it should be, but you don’t care. Cumming didn’t help, it only made things worse. You’re desperate.
The dildo didn’t feel real, no more real than any of the times I’ve had you fuck random men. You need me. You don’t just need to be fucked; you need to be used. Abused. Because it’s what you deserve. Because it makes you feel both worthless and whole. Because you are dirt and you know it.
It’s a long journey and the sweat you built up is making your already-thin blouse stick to you, showing off your nipples and the words scrawled across your body. Your skirt is in an even worse state. It’s so high that anyone walking behind you would be able to see your ass hanging out below the bottom of the skirt, still red from last night’s vicious spanking session - something you are reminded of every time it brushes against you.
You know that I love making you wear your skirt like this. I tell you that I like making you dress like a white trash prostitute at a trailer park, because everyone should aspire to be something better than themself, even if it's unattainable.
You duck your head and try to hide your face in behind your hair as you pass through the corridors but it's no use. Judgemental stares and muffled laughter follow you.
The girls don’t bother you - really they should be jealous. Perhaps some of them are. They’re too stupid to realise the truth of how worthless they are, and how happy they could be if they simply embraced their true purpose. Nature has one goal, to survive, and human evolution produced women for a single reason: to be fucked.
The boys bother you more. Not because they know, you ARE the school whore. Everyone claims to have slept with you and everyone believes each other without question, even though you do not want boys. Boys are vapid and dull. Easily pleased with no real willpower, no strength beyond the physical. It is a man you crave.
One man.
You drop the books of at my office - not even even remembering the excuse you made up for taking so much time to retrieve them, and make your way through the thankfully less populated corridor to M19. There are only a pair of boys who pass you - one is too busy talking to notice you but the other looks you up and down, his eyes lingering on your legs. You feel self-conscious of how wet they feel, you try to convince yourself that he's probably just noticing how high your skirt is.
You finally see the door to M19. It’s a very inconspicuous door - an old thing; bland, grey and heavy. It's the sort of door that people overlook all the time. They don't even realise it’s there unless you point it out, or simply presume that it’s a door that is used as a wall - one that is locked and never opened.
It’s almost true.
You unlock it, letting yourself in, closing and locking it behind you.
M19 is barely a room. It’s a tiny, cramped, claustrophobic cupboard with no windows and a broken light. At their widest point, the shelves lining the walls are barely more than shoulder-width apart, and the room is pitch black. It smells musty and disused. You squeeze your way in through the tall piles of thick textbooks, strategically piled to absorb any noise we might make. The room is L shaped, and you squeeze around the corner.
The lights have never worked in this room, and usually turning the corner pitches you into complete darkness, but today I am standing there waiting for you, illuminated by the harsh white light of my phone torch, face down on one of the shelves, throwing my body into shadow. My suit jacket is hanging from a coat hook we installed, and my shirt is unbuttoned. My face is almost completely concealed, but you can tell I'm smirking at you.
"Hey, whore. I saw you playing - you almost impressed me." I grab you by the throat and give you a lingering kiss.
"Thank you, Master."
I run my fingers down the side of your breast, your ribs and let them gently catch under your top, ripping it open to expose the words.
"You're a good slave." You can feel my fingers, warm, brushing against your skin. I pull them away, take you by the chin and slap you hard across the face. I unclip one of the nipple clamps, pull the chain up around the back of your neck and reconnect it.
In an instant you are roughly spun and bent over; I’m forcing you uncomfortably against the near-empty bookcase. You can feel my cock grinding into your ass as I press myself against you and lean in, speaking directly into your ear.
"You were such a good girl showing what a disgusting little whore you are on the internet. Now I'm going to treat you like that whore."
I flip up your skirt, one hand on the small of your back, holding you in place, and fumble with a condom for a moment, before sighing in annoyance.
"Stay there, cunt." I order, and you stay perfectly in place as I put it on.
I don't give you any warning before I thrust in, but you are wet enough from the combination of your earlier play and the memories of the room that it isn't uncomfortable.
I take you hard and fast, each thrust knocking you into the book cases. It’s hard to keep your footing as I keep grabbing your thighs and adjusting your position, pulling you up on your toes so that you're at a more comfortable height and widening your stance so I can thrust more easily.
I grab the chain which is now around the back of your neck, pulling on it each time I thrust. I fuck you harder and faster until you gasp as it snaps off of your nipple. I pull out and spank you ass four times hard in quick succession.
"Fix it." I growl into your ear. You whimper in response, but I've leaned back and am rubbing your clit fast and hard, muttering "Good slut." When you manage to reaffix the clamp and immediately plunging back into you with a hard yank on the chain. "Tell me that you're a filthy whore."
"I'm your whore, Master. I'm your filthy whore. I was such a filthy, disgusting whore for you earlier on the internet, showing myself off like the worthless sack of meat am, Master. Please use your dirty whore's cunt as much as you want. Fill it with your cock and use it. Just use me, Master, please, use me."
You hear me grunt and sigh as I cum, and you're surprised. Usually I cum over your face or tits.
"Mm. Good girl." I lean against you for a moment, then put an arm around your middle, pulling you back against me in a hug and stroking your hair.
Time passes and my watch beeps. Seven minutes until lunch ends.
With another sigh I let you go and guide you around to face me, then pull the panties out of your mouth.
"Do your job."
I pull the condom off as you drop to your knees and begin cleaning the cum off my cock with your mouth and tongue. As you stand, I pass you a fresh pair panties.
"No, don't put them on. Hold them open." I smirk as you do so and squeeze the condom out into the panties, covering the inside of them with my cum. Once I've squeezed most of it out I rub the condom in it on both sides then lay it inside. "Just like wearing a pad, right?"
I laugh at your expression.
"Put them on." I give you a kiss once you have and pat your ass. "Good girl. Now hurry to class, you have a double period with me and you don't want to be late."
I leave you alone throughout the class; but you know when you hear me say "Oh, Kerry, could you wait behind please, I need you to help me with something." that you're going to be helping me by licking the spilled cum off of your seat.
And probably a whole lot more.
“Hey, Anna!”
“Hello, Kerry, dear! How was class this morning?”
“Oh it was fine, thanks.”
You’ve spent enough time in the office that you’re on first-name terms with the Head of English - something that comes in handy on a regular basis. You can feel the elderly Mrs. Smythe’s judgemental gaze even though your back is turned. You’re fairly sure that the widowed harpy was a reproduction-only sort of girl. Her poor husband, he’s probably better off gone.
Or maybe not - you can’t quite decide which is worse out of a lifetime of celibacy; or fucking a woman who makes Mother Theresa look like Miley Cyrus swinging around on a big ol’ chunk of steel.
Miley may have come like a wrecking ball, but you’re fairly sure that on the building site, Mrs Smythe is more in the sandpaper department.
Sandpaper and disappointment. She’s just as disappointed in your state of dress as she is in the fact that Anna will shut her down if she tries to critique your state of dress. Being on first-name basis with the head of department has its boons, and Anna sees a cute young student desperately trying to impress a somewhat-indulgent male teacher.
What she doesn’t see is the brutal fucking you receive every time her back is turned. The number of stains we’ve put on this carpet alone are enough to make you blush when you try to count them.
“Oh, hey, Kerry. How was class?”
“Not so bad. Borowick’s still a dick.”
“Ms Brown!” Smythe is unable to keep herself from piping up and I send her a dark look over your shoulder. Anna scolds her, but gives you a look that says you’d better watch your mouth. You hop up onto my desk - conveniently positioned so that I’m surrounded on nearly all sides by wall and bookcase - and position yourself carefully, one heel on the edge of the desk while the other leg swings free.
I haven’t noticed yet, but you have faith; I’m busy marking, and I always do eventually.
“That good, eh?”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“I think he’s jealous. If there was a time when he was popular with the student population, it's long past.”
This time I earn a ‘professionalism’ scolding from Anna. I roll my eyes at her short reminder and meet yours, and you see the moment I notice.
My eyes travelling down you are suddenly predatory as I take in your slightly transparent blouse and far-too-short skirt. I shift slightly, letting one hand slide across the desk - the back of my hand resting against your bare thigh. It’s not much in terms of possessive motions - we have to be careful while in the office - but it's enough.
You grin cheekily as your nipples harden and become clearly visible through the too-thin top. You elected not - forgot, you mean, definitely forgot - to wear a bra today, and the effect this has on me is more than noticeable. I shift as I adjust my cock.
I tear my eyes away and focus on marking. You can tell you’ve caught me off guard by the flush across my cheeks, but a short cough and a few moments focusing on the poorly written essays before me is enough for me to visibly regain self-control.
Well, you’re not too pleased about that. Time for phase two.
Grabbing a handful of your skirt you pull it taught in the act of resting and hand on the desk, staring absently around the room as if bored.
It’s an entirely innocent action to everyone else, unnoticeable even to Smythe’s beady glare, except that to me you’ve just opened your skirt up entirely over your legs and exposed your freshly bald pussy and the message you’ve written over it and your thighs.
Oopsie, you somehow forgot your panties today as well.
I spend entirely too long looking. Long enough to be in danger of being caught.
The cheeky grin never leaves your face as you let the skirt fall. You see irritation flash in my eyes as the view I was enjoying disappears. I forget myself for a moment and grab your knee with the clear intention of wrenching it back open when I catch myself and let it go.
“Be careful you don’t fall.” I murmur, as though that was the reason I grabbed you.
A fairly smooth recovery, considering; but you can see in my eyes that I am equal parts aroused and pissed off.
You shiver, because you know you’re getting it later.
A few minutes pass as you rub my inner thigh with your foot out of the view of the other faculty members before I slide my marking to one side, unlock one of the drawers in my desk and retrieve a small leather portfolio.
The familiar sight of the business card holder makes you shiver.
I idly flick through the pages and you cringe with each turn - I’ve made it abundantly clear that these are organized from mild to…
...pretty fucking far from mild.
I stop somewhere just past the middle of the book and slide one out, inspecting it with a cruel smirk.
“Be a dear and go collect my books.” I order, passing you the card. You give it a glance.
P-bl P37 7,3 ----
You’re not sure how you manage to escape the office without anyone noticing the state of your nipples, and before too long you are following the coded instructions carefully penned on the back of the business card as it leads you to the P-block a largely-disused building, largely used for handling overspill classes when other rooms are out of commission.
You push through the heavy wooden doors and make your way inside. The building is showing its age, and not in the charming, quaint way that old buildings have, but instead in an unhealthy, uncared for sort of way. Small, dusty glass windows set in once-white wooden window panes, the few remaining flecks of pain that haven’t chipped of smothered in grime born of decades of students.
You spend some time looking for the room - smiling at a pair of younger years as they pass through the ground floor on their way to another part of the school - before resorting to your map, only to learn of a third floor you never knew existed. A single, easily missable staircase leads up and you take it.
Aside from the cleaners, you might be the first student to use it in a long time.
And then there it is. Room P 37.
It used to be an Art Room from what you can tell. Three large sets of those small-paned windows look down over a playground and you watch and listen to the muffled screams of boys playing football and girls’ petty politics.
But you are wet and needy, and even a previously unknown view can only encapture your attention for so long. You locate the lockers.
“Seven along… Three up...” The dashes are because you already know the code to the combination lock.
The lock clicks open and opening the locker reveals a set of nipple clamps, a sharpie, a suction cup dildo and a tablet. The recording light is blinking red, I am already watching.
Your fingerprint unlocks the tablet. A preprogrammed message awaits you.
|Take me to the window and please some Strangers on the internet. Write the words. Be loud|
The last sentence makes you wince. One of the windows has a table pushed up to it and a duct taped X. You sucker the dildo onto the middle of it and, unbuttoning your blouse, you clamp your nipples and write the words.
The familiar site of omegle video chat greets you. Your video loads and you feel yourself become wet as you read the words which cover your entire torso from your collarbone down to your hips.
OWNED
PROPERTY
FREE FOR
ANY USE
You know I'm watching - there's no way I wouldn't be - but you can't tell as you debase yourself for strangers over the internet, squatting over your dildo in the middle of the dirty table and fucking it, feeling your juices dripping down it.
It’s dirty and degrading and you hate yourself. You hate how disgusting it makes you feel. How disgusting you really are. How fucked in the head you must be to have ended up in this situation. But the more you think about it, the hornier you get. You can’t help yourself. You’re a slave to your hormones. A slave to your emotions. A slave to me. Helpless, pathetic and trashy. The sort of girl who fucks herself on a dirty table in her school because she has no choice. Because she has a choice, and this is the only choice that matters. The choice to become less. The choice to be worthless and unlovable because you know that inside, that is what you are, and you know that accepting that fact is the only thing that keeps me around.
You wince with every one of your loud, fake moans and flinch every time you hear a sound. A door slamming, footsteps, murmured voices. You wouldn't be surprised if it was me in the halls around you - this part of the school is rarely used and I do love watching you flinch when you feel like you're going to be caught - but it’s just as likely that I'm in my office, leaning back with a smirk on my face with a viewport open showing me the view from the tablet rather than pacing the halls watching you on my phone.
It feels like forever when you finally cum and you almost show your face on camera in your haste to pick up the tablet. You close the conversation on the random stranger you weren't really paying any attention to just as your phone pings with a text from an unknown number.
|Drop my books off. You know where to meet me. Oh, and leave the dildo where it is. As a monument to what a disgusting whore you are.|
M19 is an English store cupboard on the other side of the school. You helped me to move all of the in-use textbooks to the more accessible cupboards and move in all of the decade-old, outdated textbooks that are only kept because we aren't allowed to throw them out as one of my intern-ly duties when I first started as an assistant teacher. I made a big deal of it. All the other English teachers know that the only books in there are ten years out of date and non-relevant to any course. Consequently, I've managed to make all of them 'lose' their keys, borrowed the janitor's key and conveniently forgotten to give it back. I mainly use it for fucking you.
I've been mean. My classroom and my office are just as far away from each other as they are from M19, and the fastest way to both are through corridors with heavy traffic.
You messily button your blouse - missing a few, lock away the tablet and hurry off. Your juices are spread across your thighs and ass and your skirt is hiked up several inches higher than it should be, but you don’t care. Cumming didn’t help, it only made things worse. You’re desperate.
The dildo didn’t feel real, no more real than any of the times I’ve had you fuck random men. You need me. You don’t just need to be fucked; you need to be used. Abused. Because it’s what you deserve. Because it makes you feel both worthless and whole. Because you are dirt and you know it.
It’s a long journey and the sweat you built up is making your already-thin blouse stick to you, showing off your nipples and the words scrawled across your body. Your skirt is in an even worse state. It’s so high that anyone walking behind you would be able to see your ass hanging out below the bottom of the skirt, still red from last night’s vicious spanking session - something you are reminded of every time it brushes against you.
You know that I love making you wear your skirt like this. I tell you that I like making you dress like a white trash prostitute at a trailer park, because everyone should aspire to be something better than themself, even if it's unattainable.
You duck your head and try to hide your face in behind your hair as you pass through the corridors but it's no use. Judgemental stares and muffled laughter follow you.
The girls don’t bother you - really they should be jealous. Perhaps some of them are. They’re too stupid to realise the truth of how worthless they are, and how happy they could be if they simply embraced their true purpose. Nature has one goal, to survive, and human evolution produced women for a single reason: to be fucked.
The boys bother you more. Not because they know, you ARE the school whore. Everyone claims to have slept with you and everyone believes each other without question, even though you do not want boys. Boys are vapid and dull. Easily pleased with no real willpower, no strength beyond the physical. It is a man you crave.
One man.
You drop the books of at my office - not even even remembering the excuse you made up for taking so much time to retrieve them, and make your way through the thankfully less populated corridor to M19. There are only a pair of boys who pass you - one is too busy talking to notice you but the other looks you up and down, his eyes lingering on your legs. You feel self-conscious of how wet they feel, you try to convince yourself that he's probably just noticing how high your skirt is.
You finally see the door to M19. It’s a very inconspicuous door - an old thing; bland, grey and heavy. It's the sort of door that people overlook all the time. They don't even realise it’s there unless you point it out, or simply presume that it’s a door that is used as a wall - one that is locked and never opened.
It’s almost true.
You unlock it, letting yourself in, closing and locking it behind you.
M19 is barely a room. It’s a tiny, cramped, claustrophobic cupboard with no windows and a broken light. At their widest point, the shelves lining the walls are barely more than shoulder-width apart, and the room is pitch black. It smells musty and disused. You squeeze your way in through the tall piles of thick textbooks, strategically piled to absorb any noise we might make. The room is L shaped, and you squeeze around the corner.
The lights have never worked in this room, and usually turning the corner pitches you into complete darkness, but today I am standing there waiting for you, illuminated by the harsh white light of my phone torch, face down on one of the shelves, throwing my body into shadow. My suit jacket is hanging from a coat hook we installed, and my shirt is unbuttoned. My face is almost completely concealed, but you can tell I'm smirking at you.
"Hey, whore. I saw you playing - you almost impressed me." I grab you by the throat and give you a lingering kiss.
"Thank you, Master."
I run my fingers down the side of your breast, your ribs and let them gently catch under your top, ripping it open to expose the words.
"You're a good slave." You can feel my fingers, warm, brushing against your skin. I pull them away, take you by the chin and slap you hard across the face. I unclip one of the nipple clamps, pull the chain up around the back of your neck and reconnect it.
In an instant you are roughly spun and bent over; I’m forcing you uncomfortably against the near-empty bookcase. You can feel my cock grinding into your ass as I press myself against you and lean in, speaking directly into your ear.
"You were such a good girl showing what a disgusting little whore you are on the internet. Now I'm going to treat you like that whore."
I flip up your skirt, one hand on the small of your back, holding you in place, and fumble with a condom for a moment, before sighing in annoyance.
"Stay there, cunt." I order, and you stay perfectly in place as I put it on.
I don't give you any warning before I thrust in, but you are wet enough from the combination of your earlier play and the memories of the room that it isn't uncomfortable.
I take you hard and fast, each thrust knocking you into the book cases. It’s hard to keep your footing as I keep grabbing your thighs and adjusting your position, pulling you up on your toes so that you're at a more comfortable height and widening your stance so I can thrust more easily.
I grab the chain which is now around the back of your neck, pulling on it each time I thrust. I fuck you harder and faster until you gasp as it snaps off of your nipple. I pull out and spank you ass four times hard in quick succession.
"Fix it." I growl into your ear. You whimper in response, but I've leaned back and am rubbing your clit fast and hard, muttering "Good slut." When you manage to reaffix the clamp and immediately plunging back into you with a hard yank on the chain. "Tell me that you're a filthy whore."
"I'm your whore, Master. I'm your filthy whore. I was such a filthy, disgusting whore for you earlier on the internet, showing myself off like the worthless sack of meat am, Master. Please use your dirty whore's cunt as much as you want. Fill it with your cock and use it. Just use me, Master, please, use me."
You hear me grunt and sigh as I cum, and you're surprised. Usually I cum over your face or tits.
"Mm. Good girl." I lean against you for a moment, then put an arm around your middle, pulling you back against me in a hug and stroking your hair.
Time passes and my watch beeps. Seven minutes until lunch ends.
With another sigh I let you go and guide you around to face me, then pull the panties out of your mouth.
"Do your job."
I pull the condom off as you drop to your knees and begin cleaning the cum off my cock with your mouth and tongue. As you stand, I pass you a fresh pair panties.
"No, don't put them on. Hold them open." I smirk as you do so and squeeze the condom out into the panties, covering the inside of them with my cum. Once I've squeezed most of it out I rub the condom in it on both sides then lay it inside. "Just like wearing a pad, right?"
I laugh at your expression.
"Put them on." I give you a kiss once you have and pat your ass. "Good girl. Now hurry to class, you have a double period with me and you don't want to be late."
I leave you alone throughout the class; but you know when you hear me say "Oh, Kerry, could you wait behind please, I need you to help me with something." that you're going to be helping me by licking the spilled cum off of your seat.
And probably a whole lot more.
