tagBDSMParent-Teacher Conference

Parent-Teacher Conference


You walk through the halls towards Room 312. You’re dressed professionally, in a smart, charcoal colored business suit with a fitted skirt that falls just above your knee. Your red heels clack loudly as your hurry through the school; heels high enough to accentuate your shapely calves, but still low enough to be sensible. A red silk blouse shows at the cuffs and the collar – framing your naturally ample breasts, and revealing your deep cleavage. A little skin always helps these things along, you think.

You hate these things, parent-teacher conferences, but every semester you force yourself to come. “Your child just isn’t applying themselves……..your child isn’t participating…....we’ve had discipline problems with your child.” You’ve heard them all before, or variations of the same……hardly ever varying. It’s very rare if anyone goes home happy.

You reach Room 312 and stop short of the door. The shades are drawn behind the window in the door. You quickly adjust your jacket and smooth your skirt; you check you hair in the reflection; demurely wound atop your head, held in place by a pair of black chopsticks. Checklist complete, you open the door and walk through. The room is a large chemistry lab, with rows of high work tables and stools facing a wooden desk sitting in front of the chalkboards.

Leaning against my desk, I stand as you walk in. Dressed in a tweed jacket and black slacks, I glance at the clock on the wall and a stern look flicks across my face. You look and read 6:07pm; you glance down at the slender gold watch on your wrist: 5:58pm. Damn, you think, how could my watch be SO wrong?

You open your mouth to speak, but I cut you off with a wave of my hand. “Now that you’re finally here, we can begin.” I gesture towards the first bench, “Please have a seat.” You walk around and try to sit on the first stool; you have to hike your skirt a little too high for comfort to climb up, and balancing on the small stool behind the open front tables leaves you feeling a tad exposed.

I take a position leaning against my desk directly in front of you. I open a manila folder and you see your daughter’s name written in large letters across the tab. Glancing up, you notice that I am not looking in the folder, but rather over it. Feeling my eyes creeping up your skirt to the tops of your stockings, you squirm in your seat, pulling your knees together.

“I could recite the litany of issues that your daughter is having,” I begin. “But what it all boils down to is a lack of focus and discipline. I’m afraid that, if she cannot develop the proper discipline, I will be forced to fail her.”

Your mouth drops open slightly and your face warms with anger—you had no idea things were THIS bad. She has already been accepted to college next year, been granted a scholarship. All of these things are now at risk because of her poor performance in my class. You begin to stammer, “W-what can be…” I stop you with a wave of my finger and stand.

“I’m sorry, but in my classroom you do not speak, unless given permission.” You can’t believe what you’ve just heard, but as you begin to protest, I catch your gaze with mine. Something in my eyes tells you it is not wise to continue that thought.

I continue, “My classroom is one the most disciplined in the school; but out of it, your children….your daughter gets a first rate education. I am tough on them, but out of a little adversity, they flourish.” I turn back to the desk, leaning back against the edge. I leer again at your thighs and stockings; as you start to turn your knees away, I shift to your eyes. You lower your eyes, breaking my stare, your legs still. “You may ask one question, now.” You look up and I nod, almost imperceptibly, as if to say, well?

You think carefully, hearing the stress I placed on the word one. “What is causing my daughter’s performance to drop in your class?” I look at you…

I pick up the manila folder again, opening it. I begin to pace around the table. “It seems that she….that both of you…..have undergone some…..” I lean close into your ear and whisper, “adversities, this year.”

Your breath catches…How could he, you think, he couldn’t possibly know….

Reading further, I continue pacing around the table, “You both came home early from a shopping trip, and walked in on your husband,” I turn to catch your eyes with mine, my face inches from yours. “…FUCKING his assistant, in YOUR bed.” The expletive impacts you like a blow; your breathing becomes shallow, your face flushes. You cannot avert your eyes, held in place by mine. “Discovered, your husband discarded you for this girl, almost your daughter’s age.” Hot tears begin to flow down your face, dripping off your chin. “Your daughter’s problems stem from the fact that EVERYONE in school knows this story. EVERYONE knows what happened……to YOU.”

I sit back on the edge of the desk. I leer again at your thighs. You sit motionless, legs apart, allowing me full view of the tops of your stockings and your lacy panties beyond. You glance up, noticing my stare, but remain stationary. I rise again and walk over to the table. I lay my hand upon yours on the table. “I can give your life discipline…order…allow you to help your daughter back to where she needs to be. Would you like my help?”

You mutter something, unintelligible, your chin resting on your chest. I reach down, pull your face upward, “Would you like my help?”

“Yes, please,” you murmur.

“Yes, please, what?” I demand, softly. A questioning look passes across your face, then understanding—you shake your head slowly side to side, lowering your head again.

“No, please,” you sob.

Standing up, I pull my hands away from your face. “Very well, perhaps I shall have better results, if I instruct your daughter, personally.”

Your head snaps up, your face ashen: “No……” you whimper.

I lean into your face, inches away. “No, what?”

“No……master,” you moan, averting your eyes.

“Very well,” I announce walking back to the desk. “We shall have your first lesson tonight. Step around the desk, please.” You slide off the stool, and walk around to me. I point to a spot near the desk. “Stand there, and free your hair, please.”

You reach up slowly and pull the sticks from your hair, freeing it from the top of your head. You run your fingers through your hair on either side of your head, and it cascades across your shoulders. You drop your hands back to your sides. “Very good,” I say, admiring the result. “Now, remove your suit.”

Your hands tremble as you work the buttons on the jacket; you slide it off your shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. Reaching around behind you, you unfasten the button on the skirt’s waistband and release the zipper. Freed, the skirt falls off your hips, joining the jacket. My scrutiny of your body continues; I gesture, a circular motion instructing you to turn. You step forward out of the skirt, and begin to turn slowly, your blouse still covering your body, revealing flashes of lace between the shirttails at your hips and the tops of your stockings. I make a small vertical gesture towards your blouse and your hands begin to work the buttons, one by one, until the blouse hangs undone on your shoulders. Your magnificent breasts now show, barely restrained by the black lace brassiere. A small horizontal movement of my fingers, and your shirt joins the pile of clothing on the floor.

I approach, walking slowly in circles around you. Your breasts swell, supported by the gauzy black demi-bra; your large areolas peeking above the frilly edge. Your nipples press firm, erect against the fronts of the cups; brushing them with a finger, I am rewarded by your sharp intake of breath. Your firm body quivers slightly, hands clasped in front of your panties. I caress the back of your hand lightly, and your hands drop to your sides, revealing your low-cut panties. A small wisp of pubic hair extends above the waist.

I continue to study your body. “There doesn’t seem to be anything WRONG with your body. Why would your husband of nineteen years just DISCARD you? Let me see your breasts, now.”

Tears continue to run down your face, dragging your makeup with them. Dark drops of mascara and shadow form on the tops of your breasts as you reach between them to undo the front clasp. Released, they fall free, bouncing slightly. You shrug the straps off, and the bra drops away. I take one breast in my hand--looking at it, turning it, twisting it—as if inspecting produce for sale. “No, these are fine: firm, not sagging…much.”

I step back, finger bent and tapping on my chin, in deep thought. “Let me see your cunt…now.”

Again the expletive is palpable. You want to hesitate, but unbidden your hands drop to the waist of your panties and slide under. You begin to slip them down when I stop you.

“No….that won’t do….” I interject. I point to the bench behind you. “Bend over. I’ll need a good look to determine what’s wrong with you.” You turn and lay across the bench, your breasts pressed against the cold aluminum countertop. Your nipples react, becoming painfully erect and you try to shift your body to relieve the pain.

I place my left hand in the middle of your back, holding you in place. With my right hand, I draw your panties down to your knees. “Hold STILL!” I bark, releasing your back and stepping away. “Spread your ass, now.”

You bring your hands back to your ass. Removing your hands from the table resumes the pressure on your throbbing nipples, but you keep moving your hands back to grasp your buttocks. You slowly spread the cheeks until you can feel the air conditioning blow across your exposed anus. The cold air is shocking, and you stop, hoping it’s enough. “No, no….” I sigh, kneeling. I reach up and grab your inner thigh with each hand, pulling your pussy open until you think it will split. “Like this!”

You shift your hands lower to hold your painful cunny open for my inspection. I look, turning my head one way, then the other. I probe the moist pink tissue of your box with a fingertip, running along the lips and down to your clit. I stand back up and return to the edge of my desk. I leave you lying there, exposing yourself to me, and I shake my head.

“Maybe……” I begin, trailing off. “Are you FRIGID? Is that why your husband threw you away?”

I walk over to you, and lean down to your ear. “I want you to finger yourself. Make yourself WET, if you can.” Your hands shift, one hand spreading your swelling pussy lips between your fingers. The other begins to stroke, in and out, two fingers disappearing inside your soaking hole. As they reappear, you rub your erect clit. You close your eyes, focusing on the task at hand, fingers moving faster, harder. Your breathing becomes shallower as you near climax.

*WHAM!* I bring my hand down on the tabletop and your eyes spring open; your hands stop their assault on your pussy. I grab the hair on the top of your head and pull your eyes to look at me.

“Did I TELL you that you could cum? No…….you are not permitted to until I SAY you can, do you understand?” You nod, difficultly, your hair still in my grasp. The fluttering of ecstacy that was rising within your hot cunt begins to subside. “You will finger yourself, but you will not climax,” I order.

With my other hand, I unzip my fly and free my erect cock from my slacks. The tip of the rod hovers at your nose, my musky scent filling your nostrils. I say nothing, but look at you again with “Well?” in my eyes. You haven’t had a dick in your mouth since you were your daughter’s age, but without thinking, your neck cranes forward and you wrap your lips around the head of my shaft. Sucking, you draw my cock into your hungry mouth. Your hands begin to fondle your clit again, slower--maintaining your pent up passions, but not allowing them to release.

Pulling you towards me by your hair, I begin to fuck your throat—deeper, harder, touching the back of your throat with each thrust. With your head pulled upwards, the tip of my cock can probe deeper; you gag when my dick reaches the furthest reaches of your throat. Spit bubbles form at the corners of your mouth, your lipstick smears along the length of my erection. Throughout this, though, you continue to suck at my rod, hard and frantic, drawing my cock back every time I draw it out.

I pull out, your lips still sucking at the air, and release your head. Your face sinks to the table, settling in the puddle of saliva that has escaped your mouth. You raise your head, exhaustion showing on your face; I look down your body, and see your hands still working at your pussy. I cup your face in my hands. “There’s nothing wrong with you that I can find. Your husband must have been an idiot.”

I walk around the table. I pull your hands from your flowing cunny and place them on the table beside you. As I lean forward, the tip of my cock brushes your pussy and you tense, as if an electric current was run through your entire body. I place my hand on your ass, patting softly. “You’ve done well for your first lesson. You deserve a reward.”

I reach down and guide my erection towards your swollen mons. Juices run down your legs, soaking your panties and stockings. As I touch your pussy again, you thrust backwards to meet me. I spread your lips, and guide my cock inside. Your body shudders at my touch, and I begin thrusting harder and faster. You begin to utter feral noises, guttural groans and yelps as I continue to impale you. Your hips thrust backwards to meet each drive of my cock. After what seems to be no time at all, I feel the beginnings of an orgasm begin to shudder through your naked body. My tempo increases, quicker, attempting to bring my own climax as well.

Your body trembles, then convulses as the orgasm floods over you like a sea wave. The abandoned orgasm from before adds to the crest of your passion, exponentially. You cum for what feels like days.


I stand at the window in the door peering around the blind. Parents, students and teachers pass the room, hurrying to their assigned meetings. You walk up beside me, dressed, repairing your make-up with a compact mirror.

“God, I needed that,” you say, closing the compact. You reach inside your jacket and draw out a small bank envelope, handing it to me. “Worth every penny, as always.” I take the money and put it into my jacket pocket as you begin to wind your hair back up.

I reach over and take the chopsticks from your hand. “Leave it down,” I suggest. “You look much more feminine that way.”

“No, it doesn’t fit with my image as a…..”

I turn your eyes to mine. “Leave…it…down.”

You smile, “Yes, master.” You look out the window at the crowds and then at your watch, 7:27pm. You reach up to correct the classroom clock and turn to the door.

“I hate these things,” you whine mildly. “Why can’t we just stay here?”

I open the door and we walk out. “Because you’re the principal.”

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