Motherfucker. I sit and fume silently as the chaos of the school during lunchtime continues around me. I cannot believe that bastard got the better of me. As the two probationers in the department we should have been partners, working together to make it through our first year of teaching. But no, after the first couple of weeks when the head of the department casually dropped the bombshell that there would be a permanent job at the end of the year - one permanent job - it's been snidey comments and an exhausting game of one-upmanship. But this, this shit is pistols at dawn.

I am going to kill the git for this one.

I mean, it was only a little paperwork. I could have marked the tests - I did actually look at them - but the reports wouldn't have been any different. It was three hours that I didn't have, and I've have gotten away with it just fine if the sneaky fucker hadn't gobe rifling through my desk then run straight to the head of department. Who decided, for fairness sake, not to deal with it herself, but to pass it to you. The Headmaster.

You called me to your office, but now you've just got me sitting outside.

Making me wait.

Wonder what you're going to say.

How I can fix this.

And I'm nervous, because you intimidate me anyway, but now I know you're going to be unhappy with me - and I don't like that. I want you to approve of me again.

You call me in and I have to stand in front of your desk like a naughty school child. No seat. You don't say a word, you just look at me. Waiting again.

I'm not good with silences. They make me squirm. When I'm cornered, I confess. Always. If the truth is out then there is either forgiveness or there isn't, but whatever the consequences are, they're revealed then and there. So I tell you what I did. And I try to defend myself, because I know the kids so the marks are right anyway, and it really is just a little paperwork.

You agree, but you aren't going to tell me that.

Instead, you start talking about the one job for next year - even though I already know this - so I understand what's at stake. When you're finished, you look at me and say, "You want the job, don't you?"

And I do, I really do. I like the school, I like the kids, I like working under you.

I say yes, and I want to start blabbering about being sorry again, but I hold it in. I've already hit you with a verbal avalanche with my excuses.

"What are you prepared to do to prove it?" you ask.

And I say, "Anything" without thinking it through.

Because I rush in to things and only then discover the water's hot.

You look at me, and I feel the weight of the word only after I've said it.

"Go and lock the door," you say.

I do, and when I turn back to you, you're still just sitting there, calm and in control.

I don't know what to do with my body or my mouth.

"We'll start with your punishment," you say.

I don't quite understand "start" not yet, but I'm caught on the word punishment.

You start clearing space on your desk, exposing the wooden surface.

"Come here," you say.

I want to, and I don't. I know what's going to happen.

And it's humiliating.

But I also want it.

I've been naughty and I want you to spank me. I want to make up for what I did. I already feel hot between my legs, my whole body slightly disconnected, a floaty feeling. I walk towards you and you nod down at my skirt.

"Lift it up, " you say.

It's a tight skirt, and I have to roll my hips a little. I don't wear nylons so it's just my naked legs, my exposed underwear.

You make me wait a few moments more, then nod at my panties. They're not sexy, they're just plain, black cotton panties. "Down to your knees" you say.

Somehow that's worse than taking them off entirely.

It makes me feel like a naughty girl about to be spanked by her father. Not a woman. I do it anyway, because I was a naughty girl, and I want to be punished.

You walk round the desk and take a gentle hold of the back of my neck. You guide me forward the remaining few steps to the desk and then bend me over it. The wood feels cold through my blouse, and my nipples are peaked. It aches a little. I don't feel your hands but I feel the hem of my blouse shift as you lift it up higher. I can feel the edge of the desk, digging into my stomach. It' a little high - an old-fashioned, antique number, not a standard computer desk, and I have to go up on my tip toes, just a bit.

Your fingertip trail across the very top of thighs, right under my ass. I think you're going to continue the caress over my ass cheeks, but instead you lift your hand back and smack me hard.

WHAP

It takes a moment for that to register, because although I'm bent over your desk with my panties around my knees and I knew what was going to happen, I've never been spanked in my life and the reality is shocking.

And reddening

It stings, then before the burn can even diminish to a dull throb, you follow it up with another.

WHACK.

This one hurts more, covers skin that's already smarting.

I'm starting to wonder if maybe I want to back out.

I lift up a little, but you warn me with a stern, "No," and a hand on the small of my back.

More smacks. They hurt, but I don't move. I feel trapped between the wood and your hand. It makes me squirm and wriggle. It's turning me on that there's nowhere to go. I just have to take it. I'm almost in tears, but it's not just that it stings (though it does). I want you to touch me to relieve some of the pressure.

When you finally finish, you stroke across the burn. Reminding me it's there, soothing it a little.

I wait to see what you're going to do. The worst thing at this point would be for you to tell me to get myself together and leave.

Even if I got the job.

We're not done. I need to be in your good graces again. Feel your approval. I want to redeem myself.

"Yes or no?" you ask. Nothing else, but I understand.

My choice.

I lift up a little higher onto my toes, trying to show you with my body, but that isn't good enough. You want to hear it. You wait. It takes a moment, but I manage to get it out.

"Yes."

Your touch moves away and for a moment I panic. I feel alone for a second. But then your hands slide between my legs. Slowly and gently running up the centre of me.

I'm wet.

Dripping.

When you take that wetness and slide it down to rub your fingertip over my clit, I jerk against that touch. It feels like lightning. Too much and not enough.

You hand disappears again, but only for a second. I hear the sound of your zipper sliding down.

I lean harder down on the desk, tilting my hips, silently asking for it.

You slide your cock through my wetness, bumping my clit a couple of times, making me pant. I push back against you, asking a little harder, and you put yourself at the entrance to my core.

"Yes?" you ask. Checking. Making me own it.

I push back, hoping to slide you inside, but you move in tandem. You want words.

"Please," I manage.

"Please what?"

I really can't say it, but my clit is pulsing, tiny cramps rippling up my core as my inner muscles prepare the way for you.

"Fuck me," I beg.

I get my reward instantly.

You slam forwards, impaling me fully, pushing me forwards across the desk. The friction against my nipples is exquisite.A burst of pleasure unfurls in my pussy, and when you retreat and surge forwards again, I feel it even deeper. Overlapping.

You set up a rhythm and it's overwhelming, hitting me with waves of heat, over and over again. I've never come with penetration alone, but I can't stop it. The edge of the desk presses against my pubis and it's just enough pressure to set me on fire.

When I come, I lose the feeling of the desk under me, the strain in my legs. It's nothing but the pleasure roaring through my veins, and you, forcing me to ride it out. Hitting that spot inside me again and again. My hands are like claws against the desk surface, my toes curling in my shoes. Everything becomes too sensitive, but you're not done. You make me feel every aftershock, make me ride through nerves screaming past the razor's edge.

You strokes become so rough they're shoving me hard against the desk. It's uncomfortable, but I like it. You take hold of a handful of my hair to anchor me to you as you come. Tilting my head back, making me arch my back.

You explode with a final, almost violent thrust. We're both breathing hard. I'm shaking, but you let go of my head and let me drop it to the desk, soothe me with strokes down my back.

You stay inside me just long enough for me to register the thickness of you, the way you've stretched me, even as wet as I was, and the burn of our combined sweat against my reddened, spanked bottom.

When you pull out, You reach down and lift my panties up, dampening them instantly with our combined releases. You pull my skirt down in the same gentle manner, hiding what we did. No one will know but us.

A hand under my stomach urges me to stand up. When I turn around, there are no hugs, no kisses. That isn't what this is.

You put two fingers under my chin and tilt my head up, make sure I'm paying attention.

"The next time I have to call you to my office," you say, "it won't be my hand. Do you understand?"

I do.

You unlock the door and open it. After a moment's hesitation, I walk through it and back to class.