Secret Masochist - Education Ch. 07

(All characters in this story are eighteen years of age, or older)

Chapter 7

You have to stand your ground

You feel a part of yourself already meekly submitting to the lesson. Yes, Mr. Peterson, teach me obedience. Even just the thought of saying those words sends a thrill through you, making your pussy buzz with excitement in spite of your anger. You start to think that maybe he's right, maybe you do need someone... need him... to teach you to keep these thoughts and feelings under control. Would you even need this special tutoring if you were able to focus in class? If you weren't constantly distracted by the thought of where your next orgasm was coming from?

But you can't just let him say things like that. Are you really going to let this asshole go on about feminine vulnerability and degenerate fecklessness? What the fuck do those words even mean? You can't stand sexist know-it-alls like him trying to impose their patriarchal sensibilities on women everywhere. His words can't go unchallenged. You don't care about his... strict male authority.

Right?

"Hey, hold the fu-, erk, hold on right there!" The memory of the switch stops you from cursing, and also forces out the words "Mr. Peterson!" He looks at you with one eyebrow raised, showing no emotion, which just makes you angrier. "You can't just say shi-, say stuff like that! Femininity isn't degenerate, OK?"

He looks like he's waiting for you to continue. Part of you is terrified of the consequences of what you've already done, but now that you've started to vent your frustration you can't stop. "You may be a history teacher, Mr. Peterson, but you've got a lot to learn about what women are capable of! They aren't some small vulnerable creatures incapable of taking care of themselves. Women have done incredible things. They do not need 'strict male authority'!" You're breathing hard, overcome with terror and exhilaration at the act of talking back. Those last three words hang in the air like a challenge.

Mr. Peterson is looking you right in the eyes. He waits a moment before responding, just long enough for self-doubt to creep in around the edges of your righteous anger. "Perhaps they do not, Miss Murray." He takes a step closer. "But you do."

Yes. Your eyes widen in shock, less at his words than at your own inner answer to them. Mr. Peterson sees the opening and pounces. "Perhaps you have forgotten the events of yesterday afternoon, Miss Murray. Shall I remind you?" His face is still a blank, but his eyes are back to being burning coals. "You came into my classroom and requested a favor, a favor to which I agreed in spite of the risk to my personal and professional reputation."

He takes another step closer. He's right next to you, so close you can feel the heat from his body. "You then proceeded to disrespect me, and my authority, before the tutoring could even begin. Proving, with your actions, the need for discipline."

Discipline. Your breath gets shallow.

"Yes, Miss Murray, discipline. You needed it, and you responded to it when I gave it to you." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "Do you recall, Miss Murray, the nature of your response to my discipline?"

Your cheeks burn bright red and a tear stings your eye. Shame fills you as you feel your pussy tingle at the memory. You nod.

"And what, Miss Murray, was that response?"

You're trembling. How is he doing this to me again? I thought I was ready! "I... I got wet."

"Indeed you did. And do you remember what happened at the end of our tutoring session yesterday, Miss Murray? Do you remember what you requested of me?"

You nod again. A tear makes its way down your cheek.

"What was it, Miss Murray?"

"I... I asked you to... make me come." Your pussy is burning now.

"And what did I do to fulfill your request, Miss Murray?"

More tears fall. You're desperate to look away from the burning pits of his eyes, but you can't escape their pull. "You... you h-hit my pussy... you hit my pussy with the crop."

"Yes I did, Miss Murray. Now, let's put it together: you asked for my help, disrespected me when I offered it, and then were so affected by my punitive instruction that you asked your own teacher to bring you to orgasm with a disciplinary instrument. Is that all correct?"

Your knees start to tremble. When he puts it like that you feel absolutely pathetic. "Y-yes, Mr. Peterson."

"Now, let's go even deeper, shall we? The entire reason you asked for my help is because of your academic performance. Something was lacking, something was preventing you from achieving the results you desired. Yesterday, we discovered what that something was. Didn't we, Miss Murray?"

Your clit is buzzing. You open your mouth to speak, but the shame stops the words in your throat.

"Yes we did, Miss Murray. According to your own words, sexual thoughts have prevented you from focusing in my class. Your inability to control your sexual urges has caused you to miss valuable class time. When you were brought to a state of arousal yesterday, you blatantly lied about it in violation of the terms of this special tutoring. These are all serious infractions, Miss Murray, and they are all related to your uncontrolled sexual desires."

Your mouth is still hanging open. Tears stream down your face and your body is wracked by small, hiccuping sobs. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm so pathetic Mr. Peterson. You want to give voice to your miserable apology, beg forgiveness for your shameful actions, but the only sound that comes out is a small whine.

Mr. Peterson doesn't relent. "And now, Miss Murray, you have disrespected me in my own home. You have talked back to me in spite of the rules for this advanced tutoring to which you agreed."

You want to run and hide, but his eyes, his voice, hold you firmly in place.

"Now then, Miss Murray, you remember the rules. I made you repeat them back to me yesterday. What are the consequences for disrespecting my authority?"

You somehow manage to find your voice. "I... hic... I need to be punished... Mr. Peterson."

He nods. "Yes you do, Miss Murray. And who determines the nature of your punishment?"

The tears have stopped, but there's still a lump in your throat. "Y-you do, Mr. Peterson."

"And why is that, Miss Murray?"

You take a deep breath, remembering the rules he taught you. "Because you... you're responsible for me... for my personal development during this advanced tutoring." Something about those words, about the thought of him being... responsible for you...

"Very good, Miss Murray." His words make the heat in your pussy flare. "Now, I have a punishment in mind that will address the nature of the infraction." Your clit buzzes with anticipation. Is he going to hit me again?

"Since you have disrespected me in my home, you will have a privilege taken away until you earn it back." Your brow furrows slightly in confusion. Privilege?

"Wearing clothes is a privilege, Miss Murray. Remove your panties."

You gasp, the heat in your pussy flaring white hot. Before you realize what you're doing, you're bending over slightly and reaching underneath your skirt. RC, what are you doing? You slowly pull your panties down your long, stocking-covered legs, and then lift your feet one at a time to pull them off. You straighten up, breaths shallow, cheeks burning at the feeling of the cool air against your slick, uncovered pussy.

"Very good, Miss Murray. Now, are your panties dry, or are they wet?"

You look down at the floor, your fist squeezing around the damp fabric. You're fucking pathetic, RC. "They're wet, Mr. Peterson."

"Look at me, Miss Murray." You look up, into the blazing pits of his eyes. Your heart is pounding in your chest as he continues. "That was the first part of your punishment. Now, we must address your insistence on talking back to an authority figure." He pauses a moment, letting the anxiety build up in your stomach. "Place your panties in your mouth, Miss Murray."

Your knees buckle. No, I can't, it's too much. In spite of your feeble inner resistance, you feel your hand move up and stuff the wet underwear into your mouth. Part of them are hanging out past your lips, and you can taste your own juices. You imagine what you look like, standing in front of Mr. Peterson in a too-small schoolgirl uniform, cheeks crimson, mouth stuffed with your own panties. Trembling with embarrassment and arousal, you look at Mr. Peterson, waiting for him to tell you what to do next.

He nods. "Excellent start, Miss Murray. This look suits you." You feel your pussy get even wetter. What the fuck is wrong with me? "Now, for the final part of your punishment." You breathe hard through your nose. Now is he going to hit me? "You seem to have an overdeveloped sense of your own importance. You shall spend the remainder of the morning as you are, standing in the corner while I get some work done. You are not to move, nor speak, nor distract me in any way. If you can successfully demonstrate your understanding of your place in this house, we can perhaps reconsider your privileges. Do you understand, Miss Murray?"

Eyes wide, you nod. He's... not going to hit me? He's just going to... ignore me?

Why is that so scary?

Why is that so exciting?