Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson by Penny Snoak
CHAPTER TWO
Nigel
I imagine she thinks she went unnoticed, skulking in the back of the classroom, all in black and grey. I suppose she doesn’t know how intensely I felt her watching me because there’s only one kind of student who stares at me like that. They’re the ones who’ve heard the rumors I started.
I can count on one hand the number of students who take my class out of a genuine interest in the literature of the period in which I specialize. Most are just scrabbling desperately for an English credit, and my little class seems like the best place to get it, for some reason or another.
I don’t pay her any attention, which is what she wants, but it will take longer than one class to get it. Instead, I concentrate on teaching my class to benefit those who are here for it.
Her name is Meghan Delaney, and I had a funny feeling about her as soon as she transferred. A cursory glance over her academic history reveals her to be a mediocre student. An evening spent researching her in greater depth informs me that her life is the halcyon existence of the only child of wealthy parents. They paid for her to be at school---not because she is worthy, deserving, and interested in an education, but because that’s standard for the upper-middle class. She has a history of behavior problems. Her high school records are scattered with after-school detention and a couple of suspensions. She gives the overall impression of a poor little rich girl, making trouble because she’s bored and unfulfilled.
I like a little trouble, now and again. She sounds like a Grade-A (well, more realistically a Grade D to generous C-minus) Brat. She needs discipline and to be put in her place.
I have a reputation as one of the softer teachers, with a light hand while grading, as long as a student brings effort and interest to the table. And truthfully, I don’t care whether my students pass or fail. I’m at the stage of my life where the chance to talk at length about my passions to a captive audience pleases me, and the work I do on my own time is more compelling than teaching ever could be. My university career funds my ambition. In my spare time from teaching, I work on my doctoral thesis. At this stage, the doctorate is mostly an ego thing.
Still, I can’t deny I crave the legitimacy of making some spoiled brat call me Dr. Cartwright while I fuck her senseless. Daddy Nigel has its place, but some of the shine has gone off it, and I’m neurotic about my academia to the point where it’s no good to have them just say Doctor, pretending I’ve earned the title when I haven’t. It kills something inside me, and the mood dies as soon as they say it.
The class finishes up, and I assign some reading that half of them won’t do, most notably Miss Meghan Delaney, who descends the stairs from the back of the class with a sway in her hips and a smirk on her pouty pink lips. In the time it takes her to cross the dais to the door, I imagine grabbing her and throwing her down on my desk.
She’s startled, but she doesn’t resist me. When she starts to push herself up, I stop her, pinning her hands to the top of the desk and looming over her with a growl until she submits, as a good girl should.
“Sorry, Daddy,” she whispers, in what I imagine her voice would sound like---little, meek, helpless---because of course we’ve never spoken, so I haven’t heard her speak.
“Shut up,” I tell her, and imagine roughly yanking open the zipper of the hoodie she wears---trashy, low class, not appropriate for a girl of her financial status---and finding nothing beneath it but her young, lithe little body. I imagine her breasts, nubile and smooth, waiting to be touched. Then I imagine slapping them lightly and watching the nipples tighten as she gasps. Her ass hangs off the desk, and her legs open involuntarily so that I can step between them and pin her there. I lean over her and imagine my cock going hard, stiffening inside my trousers.
I imagine her struggling slightly as she feels this, with a little whimpering whine, and I glare down at her to shut her up again. In my mind, I grind against her and hear her gasping breaths start to get throaty and aroused as she goes wet and slick in her tight little cunt, still imprisoned in her jeans where she can’t do anything about it. I fantasize about making her wait, about dominating her body and controlling what she’s allowed to feel and when she’s allowed to feel it. I want to make her beg for whatever it is she wants from me---a passing grade, an orgasm, a Daddy she can come to when she’s been bad and needs to be taught better.
My cock is hard and tight, and I’m going to need to do something about that. I wait and watch the last of my students filtering out of the room until it’s empty and I’m alone again. I lean back and push my chair away from the desk. I imagine her pale, pretty face peeking out from beneath the desk as I undo my trousers and do what needs to be done. If everything goes the way I expect it will, soon I won’t need to imagine.
