Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson by Penny Snoak
CHAPTER FIVE
Meghan
I descend the stairs just like I imagined when class starts the next day.
The dregs of my high school anime phase have left me with a schoolgirl skirt and a t-shirt with brightly colored cartoon characters emblazoned across the front. I have a glittery backpack. I wear a wide Alice in Wonderland style hairband, with my hair in plaited pigtails, perfect for grabbing and pulling. My feet are bare in a pair of adult-sized jelly sandals, bright pink and sparkly, and purchased on a whim. I don’t know if he’s into the whole feet thing, but I figure it can’t hurt to try. Cover all my bases, as it were.
This time, I notice him watching me as I make my way down the stairs. He watches me the whole way down. Unlike my first day, I don’t sit in the back of the room like a bad girl. I sit right up front and center, like a good girl. I’ve already learned all I need to know about this class and its teacher.
In my defense, I’m not the most weirdly dressed person present. College students as a whole seem to wear a mishmash of thrift store chic. The rest of the class filters in slowly behind me, but I only have eyes for the teacher. I’m the only one sitting in the very front row, but once the class starts, he ignores me completely. I make up for it by fixing my gaze on him, following his every move across the lecture floor, staring unambiguously, rapt and attentive like no one else in the room.
At first, all I do is watch him. His voice is deep and pleasing with its Oxford accent, but I only listen to its tone, not the words. It seems strange that he cares about this, and I wonder how long he’s been teaching and how he still manages to care. I’ve been here two years, and I stopped caring back in the first semester. I wonder what he was like when he was my age, and if I would’ve been into him, then. I think back to the grainy photo of the man--boy, really--in the little rowing uniform, with bright white 1980s style shorts and a long-sleeved polo shirt, standing with others of the same species on the bank of a river somewhere in England.
I try to make the half-remembered picture of the boy match up with the man in front of me now. He’s got the same narrow frame, and he hasn’t put on weight or gone to seed in his middle age. He’s still lean and limber, and I bet the tennis he mentions in his academic profile has kept him in decent shape. I don’t expect a lot of huffing, puffing, and unmanly grunting I’ve been subjected to in previous hookups with men of a certain age. I realize that he paces the front of the lecture hall just exactly like someone used to prowling left and right on the tennis court, and I smile to myself at the realization. I barely know anything about him, but I can feel myself getting oddly fond of him.
He doesn’t seem to smile as he did in that long-ago picture. His expression stays composed and relatively neutral, even when he grows animated and passionate about his subject. I wonder if his taste in romantic partners is different from his taste in sexual partners and how widely known it is that he likes to fuck his students.
Gradually as he goes on, I start undressing him with my eyes. He’s in a dress shirt and tie, a waistcoat, and a pair of sharply tailored slacks. A cardigan drapes over the back of his chair, and his shoes are loafers rendered in a matte, charcoal suede. I imagine pulling open each button on the waistcoat and then ripping his shirt open with both hands. In my head, I’m straddling him while he sits at his desk, feeling his hard cock pressing against my panties beneath my tiny little skirt.
I try to imagine where we’ll go when it happens, whether he’ll take me in the classroom, in front of an invisible audience of empty desks and chairs. Or maybe back to his office. Or maybe back to my dorm room, though this seems the least likely, he doesn’t seem like the type who’d stoop as low as the copy-pasted bedrooms and shared bathrooms of the dorms. Maybe back to his place, though I doubt he’ll think I’m worthy of that. I’m just a quick and dirty fuck on campus, not something to sully his home with.
I wonder what he’ll be like, how he’ll handle me. His overall vibe is stern and proper, which makes me think he’ll be dominant and strict with me. It’s not going to be about what I might want, and I can tell that already. He’ll probably want me kneeling on the floor in front of him, ready and waiting and thirsty for whatever he wants to give me. Or he’ll want me bent over his desk, yielding and submissive, with my breasts pressed hard against the books and papers scattered across the top, as he fucks me good and rough.
As I think about this, I reach into my backpack and pull out a lollipop I bought just for the occasion. I unwrap it like it’s some cherished prize, and in the front row, as I am, it’s not like he can fail to notice. I make eye contact with him briefly as I open my mouth and press my tongue against the crystalized, cherry-sweet sugar. Red begins to stain my tongue, slowly, as the lesson goes on.
