“What am I wearing?”
“Short pleated skirt, leaving nothing to the imagination, white blouse, fetchingly undone so that I can see your delightful cleavage, with lacy bra underneath — black, to enhance your true slutty nature. And a tie. It’s not your collar, but it will do for now.”
“And you, what are you wearing?”
“Cap and gown, of course. And holding a cane.”
“I hope I don’t get this wrong. Age play is an unopened book to me.
“Langsam, darling. Go with the flow. “
Today, I am a schoolgirl, and he is my professor. I am a good girl, always a good girl. I want to impress my professor and make him happy. And then, if I’m lucky, he’ll punish me by throwing me over the table and doing me until my eyes spin.
It’s bad, it’s taboo and it’s wrong. Which makes it doubly hot.
I’m a good girl but I crave punishment. O sweet contradiction.
He raps on the table at my suggestion that this might be his next move, making me jump, and bang my thigh on the corner of the desk.
“You should leave decisions of that nature to your superiors, young miss. And stop rubbing your thigh. What’s wrong with you?”
I remain mute. He whacks his cane on the tabletop. “I asked you a question!”
My eyes downcast, my knees and lower lip trembling, I mumble, trying desperately not to rub a modicum of comfort into my throbbing thigh muscle. “On the corner of the desk, you made me jump and I banged my thigh.”
“Speak up, girl, or you will not be punished at all.”
A pause, during which I remain still, holding back a sudden rush of unexpected tears.
He puts his face very close to mine. Lifting my eyes for a fleeting moment i catch a blue sparkle, and the unreleased tears subside.
“So, young miss? Was there anything you wanted to say?”
My eyes remain downcast. “I’m… sorry I only got an A-, sir.”
“And that i dared to suggest that you decide something one way or another.”
He seems very slightly mollified, but glares down at me, trembling like a rain-drenched kitten.
“And how do you plan to mitigate these shortcomings?”
The warmth in his voice belies the stern tone. I am heartened, and incredibly aroused.
“I will do whatever i’m told, Sir.”
I look down at my shoes, and shift from one foot to the other. My lips tremble — both the visible set, and the pair which are less so — despite myself. I wonder idly whether his uncanny sense of smell can pick up the scent of my arousal — or if, in fact, it already has.
“Stand near the corner of the desk, young lady. Right now!”
“Closer, and facing it!”
“That’s a very slutty length for a skirt, girl. Look, the corner of the desk even peeks beneath it.”
I pause. The skirt is short because that’s what he made me buy, for entirely his own pleasure. When we’re out in public, he loves to reach under the skirt and stroke me, sending us both into paroxysms of erotic frenzy while remaining poe-faced and seemingly innocent. Ordinarily I would call him on it, but for the first time, it feels inappropriate. This roleplay is all-encompassing and the flow is intense. Breaking character would be wrong, and possibly spoil the mood. I am suddenly and incredibly reminded of my time as a professional actor, and I smile to myself at the perverted and erotic similarities of roleplay to regular improv.
“It shrank in the wash, Sir. It’s not that i’m a dirty slut or anything… Sir.”
A stern glare in my direction, with the anticipatory sound of a cane thwacking the owner’s palm that sends my senses reeling into overdrive.
“Move closer to the desk, girl.”
“Sir, am I doing this right? The corner is pushing into me… right into me… it’s a little embarrassing.”
“Young lady, why are you mumbling? Speak eloquently, please… and describe in details what is that makes you blush.”
“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. It’s the desk corner, it’s pushing into me. Into the space between my thighs, Sir, and it’s — well, it’s difficult to stand still, Sir, although I promise I’m trying, Sir, I promise. The thing is…
“Oh, spit it out, girl!”
“Well, that’s something you’ve never said to me before, Sir.”
I realise what I’m saying about a nanosecond before the words leave my lips, but I just cannot stop myself. Although I mutter them, the silence in the room is so voluminous that they are as obvious as if I’d screamed them in perfect pitch down a well-tuned microphone.
Thwack! The cane hits the back inside thigh and I yelp in pain.
“Watch your lip. And don’t drift from the point, girl. You were telling me why you were embarrassed. The mood I’m in, this is no time to be cheeky. Finish what you started!”
OK, that i had heard many times, but in an entirely different context.
“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir. What I was trying to say was that however hard I try to stand still, the fact that the corner of the desk is placed at clit height is having quite an effect on me.”
“Be specific!” he thunders, and suddenly the penny drops, and I remember who and where I am.
He wants my graphic, erotic descriptions. He wants me to make it abundantly clear to him the effect he is having on me, because this in turn intensifies and pinpoints the effect on him.
“I’m very aroused Sir. In fact, I’m wet, Sir. Soaking.”
Slowly, he steps toward me — agonizingly slowly, he eyes not leaving mine for a second. His hand stretches out towards me.
“Give them to me. Your panties. Give them to me.”
I remove my by-now sodden panties and hand them to him, watching as he sniffs them, hums in satisfaction, and then finally pockets them, and wonder somewhere in the back of my mind whether I’ll ever see them again.
“Very well, girl. Now I will be testing your anatomy skills. As I touch you, you will name the body part — official and proper name first, followed by any more colloquial terms that you’d like to share with me.”
As he sweeps a finger suggestively along my slit, I gulp worriedly and hope to all that is unholy that my memory does not fail me in my moment of need.