Class Dismissed

She was already sitting on the teacher's desk when I walked in--legs crossed, skirt tight across her thighs, arms folded like she'd been waiting not just minutes, but with purpose. Her eyes scanned me like I was late for more than a meeting.

-- Thirty minutes late to a retake with your class rep. Brave. Or are you just doubling down--cheating and mouthing off?

I dropped my backpack on the desk, not bothering to unzip it. I hated how she always made the air in the room feel heavier. We were... dating. Sort of. But here, now, with the door locked behind me and her tone sharp like chalk on glass, I felt like nothing more than a bug under her shoe.

-- I didn't cheat. You just think I'm too quiet to be smart.

She stood slowly, like she was letting me think I had time to run. Then she walked around the desk, heels soft on the tile, until she was standing just inches from me. The smell of her perfume hit me--light, precise, unmistakably her.

-- Say that again and see how dumb you really are.

I almost rolled my eyes. Instead, I turned slightly, trying to sit. She pressed her palm flat against my chest and held me there--firm, casual, like I didn't get a vote.

-- Sit down. You're here to defend your project. You'll give it to me.

I swallowed. Sat.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper--handwritten. A list. Bullet points.

-- I ask a question. You give a straight answer. If you dodge, I hit. If you lie, I hit harder.

-- You can't be serious.

She stepped forward and, without flinching, slapped me in the balls under the desk. No warm-up. No warning. Just a snap of her hand and a sharp, dead-on sting that made me curl forward in my seat, gasping.

-- Dead serious. Now answer.

I stared at her, throat dry, eyes wide.

-- What the hell is wrong with you?

-- You're the one who disrespected me. I'm just adjusting your memory.

She tapped the paper once, almost playfully.

-- Next question.

The questions came one after another, fast and tight like bullets--Who gave you the test answers? Why didn't you text me back last night? What exactly did you mean when you said you were "done pretending"? Each one aimed to cut deeper, each one wrapping tighter around my chest.

And each time I hesitated--even for a second--her hand moved.

Sometimes a flick between my legs. Sometimes a palm strike, direct and mean. Once, without breaking eye contact, she reached under the desk and cupped me--held me still--and slapped the back of her fingers upward like checking if I'd learned to flinch yet. I had.

I grunted and folded forward, hands gripping my knees. She gave me a moment. She was never cruel in timing--just precise in purpose.

-- You're still trying to win. Still trying to be clever. That's not what this is.

I didn't answer. My breath came out shaky. My cock was caught between arousal and retreat--humiliated, confused, straining against denim in the most uncomfortable way possible.

She walked behind me. I felt her hand press down on my shoulder. Her nails traced my shirt. Her voice got low.

-- You think mouthing off makes you strong? You think I don't see right through that?

I stayed silent.

-- Answer.

-- I don't know what you want.

Another hit. Harder. Right into my balls from behind. I gasped--almost yelled--but swallowed it.

-- I want the truth. That's all I've ever wanted. But you think if you smirk enough, I'll give up?

She came around again, stood in front of me with her arms crossed, looking down like a teacher who already knew I'd failed. She nodded to my lap.

-- You're hard. Still. Even after all that.

I flinched, hands moving instinctively to cover myself. She slapped them away.

-- Don't. That's mine. You don't get to hide what I've earned.

Her hand slid down and unzipped my jeans. I tensed--but didn't stop her. Couldn't. She pulled just enough to expose me, looked, and tilted her head with a quiet, amused sigh.

-- This isn't rebellion. This is a confession.

She knelt.

-- Now shut up and learn something.

She didn't ask for permission. Didn't wait for a reaction. Her mouth closed around me with the same calm precision she'd used to deliver every slap. No eye contact. No theatrics. Just pressure--wet, tight, consuming.

My head dropped back against the wall, jaw clenched. She sucked like she was stripping away layers of defiance with each pull. Her hand stayed low on my thigh, anchoring me again, thumb brushing small, grounding circles as her lips worked deeper.

I couldn't think. My balls still ached from the last hit, but the warmth of her mouth was pushing through it--rewriting the pain into something twisted and electric. My thighs twitched. My hips tried to move, but she immediately reached up and gripped--fingers digging in above my pelvis, holding me still.

She pulled back slowly, strings of saliva glistening, and looked up. Not soft. Not sweet.

-- You move without permission, and I start over.

Then she swallowed me again, faster now, tongue rolling, cheeks hollowing. Her other hand moved to my balls, not gently. She squeezed--not enough to stop me from breathing, but enough to remind me who was running this. I choked on a moan and grabbed the seat of the chair just to hold on.

The pace became cruel--intentional. Not just pleasure. A lesson.

And then--she stopped.

Just like that. Pulled away. Wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. Looked at me like a thesis she'd just disproven.

-- You were going to finish without answering me.

I couldn't speak. My mouth was dry, lungs stuttering.

She stood up, smooth and slow. Fixed her skirt. Took her paper off the desk and folded it in half.

-- I told you. You pass when I say so.

I was still hard, still shaking, still exposed. She walked to the door, unlocked it, and glanced back over her shoulder.

-- Class dismissed.

Then she left--heels echoing down the hallway, while I stayed in my seat, pants open, balls aching, brain completely blank. A perfect score in shame.