A Memory You Cannot Erase
In the beginning, the commencement of a fresh semester is a time when folks anticipate a do-over. A chance to enhance themselves, make prudent decisions, and maybe transform into a better individual.
However, you're not keen on this opinion.
You've been liked to sail through most of your academic journey, achieving a fair minimum, to the extent that even ordinary good sense and decency barely registered in your mind anymore. If you can be an unconscionable jerk while still achieving the same results, why make the effort?
That was before you encountered her.
It was on the first day of school, and as you lounged lethargically at the rear of a spartan university classroom, your attention was focused on your fellow students and endeavored to suppress a disdainful snort. Their eagerness and attention towards the absent teacher indicated their dedication, but you knew that no matter what your peers did, their grades would be equivalent to yours. It had always been so.
Even as the sound of clackings heels oscillated through the corridor, and many of your associates stared at the portal, you barely acknowledged its significance. Each instructor had been the same- you needed to decode them and all would be well.
Then she strolled in. And even you couldn't help but give her your full attention.
She was tall, towering above average height, flaunting black patent leather heels. Indeed, her whole apparel was black. A lengthy, fitting dress that draped from her neck to her calves, a black Obi belt around her middle, and long elbow-length black leather gloves. Her long scarlet hair was piled into a ponytail, and her crimson lipstick was pursed into a stern expression.
Throughout your academic tenure, you had never encountered a studio teacher who looked like her. Sure, you'd come across plenty of alluring ones, plus several who seemed more like influencers than professional academics, but she was something else altogether. Her outfit made her appear less like a college educator and more like a high-end dominatrix, and while that should have been a hint, you dismissed it. As she was still an educator, you'd never defer to their supposed authority.
That said, you were dishonest if you claimed the sight of her hadn't evoked a response in you. The combination of her figure, her mien, and especially her attire stirred a reaction that was alluring. Regardless of your disavowal, the recollection of her appearance evoked an intrigue you couldn't deny.
"Good day," she started, facing the accumulation of students and her accent sounded Australian. "The previous instructor for this subject had to withdraw abruptly. My name is Miss Scarlet, and as we'll be spending time together, I assume you'll call me that."
Before you could blink, practically everyone in the room echoed in unison, "Yes Miss Scarlet," like a group of kindergartners greeting their teacher at the outset of the day. You scoffed at the absurdity of this - there was no means you'd ever refer to her that way.
But this curiously offered you a perfect opportunity to voice your initial quip.
"Whether you've just ended a game of Clue?"
No responses, neither smiles nor chuckles, indicated your comment. As you scanned the audience, your gaze landed on Miss Scarlet, who stared intently at you, her expression unyielding but her attention unquestionably fixed on you. "If you don't possess anything witty to contribute, it's best to keep mum."
Her assertion provoked a couple of livelier smiles from your classmates, and you sank lower in your seat, more angered than embarrassed by her remark. How audacious was she to call you out like that? Your other instructors would have merely scoffed or laughed before telling you off. This definitely didn't align with your expectations.
More disconcerting was the fact that, with her fierce reaction, your arousal intensified. It was bizarre and you couldn't articulate the reason, yet Miss Scarlet's firm reply elevated your excitement more dramatically than her appearance did.
"Now, let's delve into the basics." Miss Scarlet turned to face the whiteboard and, with her leather-enclosed hand, she began to scribble some primary equations. Your classmates dutifully took notes, and even though you jotted down a few yourself, your brain was occupied with concocting your next witty remark. Despite her unwavering composure, you were convinced you could unhinge her. And once you accomplished that, you were in the clear.
She doesn't provide much material to work with. She remains as focused as ever, and to some degree, you do too, except not on the lesson. Instead, your gaze is fixated on Miss Scarlet herself. The dress she wears highlights her figure, and you find yourself admiring her hips, curves, and the times she turns to face the board, her chest. It's enough to disrupt your attention, but you try to regain focus.
Time passes, and you come up short. No opportunity arises, no way to make another quick comment or joke. Miss Scarlet continues teaching, and your fellow classmates continue jotting down notes. It bothers you more than you care to admit, but you're not done yet. Sooner or later, something will present itself.
And soon enough, it does.
In the middle of writing another equation on the whiteboard, the marker Miss Scarlet is using slips from her gloved fingers and falls to the floor. Without uttering a sound, she gently bends down to pick it up. Though her pert behind is still covered by the dress, the fact that it's briefly in the air is more than enough for you to make your move.
It's simplistic, possibly more juvenile than your initial remark, but it's all you have.
The silence of the classroom is momentarily shattered by your whistle, and as soon as it reaches her ears, Miss Scarlet stands up, pivots on her heel, and glares at you.
If you anticipated her expression would change, for a crack to show in her composure, you were sorely mistaken. If anything, she appears even more put together than before, but her eyes burn into your soul, and for the first time in your memory, you actually swallow.
"You," she sternly states, tapping her gloved finger at you. "Stay seated once class ends. We need to have a conversation."
You consider rolling your eyes. Who still forces students to stay after class at the university? Despite this, you do nothing but humor her. Maybe you'll find your next opening then.
Your classmates don't share your views; some express shocked expressions, as if they anticipate severe reprimand. Still, you disregard them. What could Miss Scarlet do - demand you stand in the corner with a dunce cap?
If only you knew...
A few minutes later, class concludes, and given you have hours before your next one, you decide to wait and see what Miss Scarlet has in mind. You remain seated as everyone else leaves, and when the classroom is empty except for you and her, she locks the door.
"So," she starts, her expression unwavering, "It seems you and I have an issue."
You attempt a smirk, a comment of some sort, but losing the audience plus Miss Scarlet's looming presence makes it strangely difficult. In fact, you're completely without words, and Miss Scarlet notices.
"What's the problem, your mouth not operating efficiently? Maybe your ears will understand."
She walks to her desk, opens the upper drawer, and, to your surprise, removes a black leather riding crop. "I don't take kindly to comments like that in my classroom, let alone allow whistles. So, stand up."
For a moment you don't move a muscle, but when she slaps the crop's tip against her gloved palm, you quickly come to attention - along with your erection. Hidden beneath your pants, you can still feel its stiffness, and you hope with all your might that Miss Scarlet doesn't notice. But there's a part of you that hopes she does, and these warring thoughts take over your mind as she walks toward you.
Even standing, you find she still overshadows you, and it's not just due to her heels. Miss Scarlet's aura, her presence, somehow makes you feel three-foot tall, and you have no choice but to obey her commands. Your world has been flipped upside down, and it's just beginning.
"I will write 'I won't misbehave in class' as long as you tell me to stop. Got it?" Her stern voice left no room for argument. Your eyes widened in amazed confusion as you tried to comprehend what was happening. You hoped she was joking, but the look on her face told you it was a serious order. With her hand still grasping your belt, she pulled it down and your boxers to reveal your cock, fully erect for all to see. The warmth in your stomach increased as you realized she wasn't joking, and the feeling of humiliation surged through you.
"Are you really doing this?" You questioned, but the stern look on her face gave you the answer. In a split second, she took hold of your cock and gave it a few strokes. Their simple, one-octived touch sent shivers down your spine.
"If you wanted your pants off you could've asked." You tried to lighten the mood, but your joke was totally ignored. She had you in the palm of her hand, and there was nothing you could do.
"Start. Now."
Your heart raced as you took the marker and wrote the sentence on the whiteboard. You felt so helpless, being half-dressed in front of your gorgeous teacher. You wrote the first two lines, waiting as her leather-clad fingers wrapped around your throbbing member, brushing the air with a slow stroke.
"I believe in positive reinforcement. Every line you get right, I'll stroke your cock."
Suddenly filled with tension, you felt slightly in control as you focused on writing the next three lines. When you finished, she rewarded you for your obedience. It was a very slow stroke that left you wanting more.
"I also believe in using the crop for punishment … for every mistake you make, I'll use it on you. It's the only way you'll learn." With each strike, your cock throbbed even more, and you began to feel the emotional and mental effects of submission. But then, your hand slipped and spelled 'class' wrong. She didn't use the crop for this error, but her angry voice shouting "Wrong!" caused your cheeks to burn with embarrassment and surprise. God, did she really mean it? You pushed forward with the writing, knowing that even the slightest typo meant a painful lesson. Finally, you added a word to the sentence, making it into 'I won't misbehave in class.'
"Perfect!" she exclaimed, putting the crop down. You started to feel a bit relieved, but this was all a trick. She decided to add a new component: spanking. "Now, for any mistake you make, I'll give you four strokes on your ass with this crop."
You could feel your ass tingly and wet, as if already preparing for her. Then came your first mistake. The word 'ass' was written wrong. You could feel an initial jolt of panic as the leather met the back of your thigh, a slight pinch where you'd expect a much worse spanking.
Tears started to form in your eyes as she punished you and you tried to find your bearings. Your next mistake brought about a violent smack against your thigh. Your thighs began to feel like fire, and you tried to breathe through the pain. It was now that the idea of giving in began to form in your head. If you yielded, you figured you might take less pain. You tried to make mistakes just to stop this cycle, but each false move just meant more strokes. Your mind was in turmoil as you tried to complete the task.
When you'd finished your final line, she waved her crop in the air, and you stopped writing, knowing your punishment was imminent. "Today, Mr. [Your Name], we'll be learning how to accept your punishments." Your whole body ached in anticipation as she took a few steps closer, the crack of the crop leaving a lasting sound in your ears. The sting of the first stroke left you doubled over in pain, but you still concentrated on standing and carefully took the next. She continued to spank your ass, exploding with pain on each one. After the last one, she told you it was over. In just a few minutes, you learned and felt like a different person, one who could accept his penance with a little more dignity.
"Now," she said briskly, "Get dressed. We have another class to attend." You slowly stood upright and grabbed your pants before starting the arduous process of dressing with shaky hands, bringing a smile to her face. As you finished, she closed the classroom door behind you, and allowed the celebration of a lesson well-taught to emerge on her already rosy cheeks.
Miss Scarlet instructs, softly whacking the whiteboard with her crop. You jump a bit, then resume your work, adding three well-formed sentences to the list which earn you more forceful strokes from her whip-bearing hand.
Time passes, it's difficult to gauge how long, but soon the whiteboard is practically plastered with "I Will Behave In Class," the same as your still-hard prick is with the red marks from Miss Scarlet's crop. Your pre-cum escapes the tip, lubricating the shaft due to her gloved grasp.
Gradually, you begin to write the sentence again, though a hopeful part of you (the person who still thinks victory is an option) causes you to screw up the sentence. Again, the word 'Not' comes first, but you're barely able to write 'In' before her whip smacks your dick three consecutive times, making you yelp in agony and prompting tears to leak from your eyes.
No effort is made to quiet you down. She wants you to scream, shout, feel the pain with your whole body. Three more whacks fall onto your dick, and through this unbearable pain, you manage to complete the sentence. Adding another revised one under it and almost fully covering the whiteboard.
Despite your tears, Miss Scarlet's gloved hand takes hold of your cock, caressing it as you stand there, a mixed jumble of pain and pleasure inflicting changes within you. The person you used to be as a loudmouthed, impolite student that initially entered the class has been replaced by an erratic, emotional mess, barely able to endure the agony still throbbing in your groin.
"Not bad," Miss Scarlet utters, her voice a softened yet still firm tone. "Certain errors, but it seems you've come to terms with it, haven't you?"
As you turn to face her, wet eyes gazing upon the imposing form, you nod, ultimately muttering, "Yes, Miss Scarlet."
Your new statement coercively seals your former identity - the disrespectful, invigorating student. Regardless, her lips pucker into a gentle smile, failing to provide comfort since your body is still a mix of hurt and excitement.
Without saying more, Miss Scarlet sets down the whip and holds your throbbing member, adeptly massaging it from bottom to tip and back again. You groan in reaction, acutely feeling the sting diminish, as the sense of pain and pleasure blur into one. When she commences a more passionate pace, you instinctively recognize the soon-to-come outcome.
"That's it," she purrs, her both sexy and stern demeanor, "cum like a well behaved boy..."
In an instant, her instructions ignite your orgasm, shooting bursts of white jizz onto the floor as she skillfully strokes you and directs your ejaculate towards your discarded pants and boxers. You don't reflect on any of this as you suffer the intense sensations, losing all control.
Her strokes gradually slow, and her hands masterfully extract the last drops of you as you stand there, besides yourself. "Now what do we say?"
Remaining on shaky legs you put your cum-drenched boxers and pants back on, the humiliation of leaving the room still tainted with your semen never crossing your mind. However, you have a hunch she desires you to parade around the school in shame.
After unlocking the door she opens it, but just before your leave, Miss Scarlet grips your cumstained groin with her whip-bearing hand, mirthfully grins,
"See you next class."
Beyond a doubt. Still much to learn.
Read also:
- Spotted Observing
- Secrets in the Shadows, Episode Thirteen
- Lisa's Milk Issue: Chapters 6-7
- Boot Him Out Part 3
Source: www.nice-escort.de
