Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson by Penny Snoak

CHAPTER SIX

Nigel

“See me in my office after your last class.”

Those are the magic words, and the first words I’d said to her after my morning lecture came to an end.

There’s no more ambiguity about her intentions. Her little display in class has made that perfectly clear, she knows what I want, and it’s clear what she means to do about it. As her classmates had started to drift out of the room with the end of their lessons, she’d remained sitting, front and center, looking at me expectantly until I’d said those magic words.

I’m in my office now, waiting for the last of her classes to end. The last of mine finished up not long ago, and now the weekend looms in front of me. I have work to do, but I’ll do it later.

My office isn’t large. And it’s not an example of the grand, wood-paneled old chambers of my college career years ago at Oxford. I’ve tried to give it a certain sense of dignity, filled its floor to ceiling bookshelves with works of great literature, bound in leather or cloth. My desk is a big, mahogany thing, with a thick leather pad on top. I keep it clean as best I can, I’m meticulous about filing, and the advent of digitally submitted assignments means my space isn’t crowded with dozens of papers. I’ve covered the windows with full-length curtains in a dark, rich red fabric, and while it makes it quite dim inside, it also makes it cozy and helps absorb and muffle any sounds within.

And there are likely to be a lot of sounds within.

It’s late afternoon, flirting with the early evening. My office is on the fourth floor of a building in the corner of the campus. When I draw back the curtains, I see the sprawling park that borders the western edge of the university property and the sun setting slowly over it. I can watch students still drifting around the paths and walkways that crisscross the campus, and I can’t pretend I’m not watching for a ridiculously dressed little girl in a short skirt and t-shirt.

She’s a garish, tawdry, nightmarish little brat. As eager as I am to fuck her, I can admit to being more than slightly repulsed by her general appearance and demeanor. She’s trying, I can tell, but what she’s achieved is cheap and undesirable, a gaudy imitation of what I desire. If this is to be an ongoing relationship, then I will have to make some minor corrections. If she works hard enough, I might give her the credit she desires but has done nothing to deserve it.

For now, though, I’m willing to lower myself to her level. To take her out for a test drive, as it were, and just see if what she has is worth my effort.

She’d been a horrifying distraction during class. Unless the room is packed, the very front row of desks is meant to be no man's land, and my students generally like to leave two or three rows worth of buffer between them and me. Sitting in the very front of the classroom is tantamount to an act of war. There’d been nothing I could do but let her sit there, staring at me the entire time. It’s when she’d brought the candy out of her backpack that I’d realized my instincts were correct and that she wants me.

Above and beyond the fact that she’s willing to let me fuck her for academic advancement, I wonder if she knows what she’s getting into. I have a specific suite of requirements of her, and if the way she’s behaved and dressed is any indication, then she may have heard rumors of what they are. When she crosses the threshold into my office and the relationship between us begins, it’s going to need to be on my terms. I don’t want just any student. When she comes to me, I want her to regress into her most childish self, to reach inward and achieve the reality of the nature her behavior reflects. I want the innocence of the world that makes her seem to believe that she can have anything she wants. I want a Little Girl to come into my office and learn her place.

Sitting at my desk, there’s an almost My Fair Lady quality to the idea. As the idea pools and spreads over my mind, it starts to seep into the cracks, and a fantasy coalesces.

It’s tempting to take her and reinvent her from the ground up. A brash, American college student, all sharp corners, and rough edges, rendered into a good, proper young girl. I think of stripping her out of those horrible cheap clothes and into something lovely and respectable. A nice tartan skirt that her outfit pays its slutty homage to, and a modest blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Perhaps a string of pearls around her pretty neck. Brush those stupid plaits out of her hair and weave a lovely French braid into her chestnut-colored locks.

The daydream runs away with me, and I let it. The sun sets outside, and I imagine taking her back to England with me, returning to take ownership of the home my father left me, and passing her off as my daughter whenever we’re out in public, and returning to our secret life within the manor in private. This idea is more exciting than any of the raw physical fantasies I’ve had about her, the idea of crafting a life around this fetish, this way of being that I denied myself for so long, before finally coming to accept.

I rebelled against my parents, too. I think of her lazy defiance, her profound disinterest in being here, and about how in the throes of the same youthful rebellion, I ran away to America. The temptation to steal her away from this country and this life is almost overwhelming. I’m mentally doing the necessary calculations, wondering if she has a passport, what it would be like to get her a visa, how long I could reasonably take a sabbatical—when there’s a sharp knock on my office door.