Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson by Penny Snoak
CHAPTER SEVEN
Meghan
“Come in.”
I push open the office door and find Professor Cartwright sitting at his desk, clearly waiting for me. It’s a nice office, and as I close the door behind me, I make a show of locking it, glancing at him for approval. He doesn’t react and only stares at me as I stared at him all through the class. It’s more unnerving when he does it, though, and it’s not until his eyes flicker to the chair in front of his desk that I get any indication of an invitation to sit down.
I cross the small room in one or two steps and meekly sit in the single chair in front of his desk. He hasn’t stopped watching me, and so I clear my throat and summon up my best Little Girl voice. “You said you wanted to see me after my classes, Professor?”
“That is what I said.”
Something about the way he says it seems calibrated to make me feel stupid, and I blink at him, genuinely confused. This is the first private, personal exchange we’ve had, and I’m a little thrown by the coldness of his demeanor, even now, behind closed doors. I find myself wondering if I’ve misread this whole situation and am about to get myself in an enormous amount of trouble. I swallow, suddenly a little nervous, and press on. “Is there something I can do for you?” I ask, bolder than I feel and with a bit of a pout of my lower lip to try and gauge his reaction.
There isn’t one. He continues to look at me, evaluating, and it feels like forever before he finally speaks, his voice soft and dangerous.
“You can do me the courtesy of not showing up to my lectures dressed like a child.”
Tensions sizzle between us at this statement, impossible to miss. I widen my eyes in feigned innocence and look down at my outfit like it’s a surprise to me that I’m wearing it. “I don’t think I’m violating the dress code,” I tell him, naive and precocious. “You don’t like it when I dress this way?”
“It lacks decorum. It’s disrespectful to the material I teach.”
His expression may as well be carved from granite, but I suspect I see the briefest flicker of a smile deep in his eyes. We’re playing. His part of the game is to be mean and scary.
I glance down again and bite my lip, duly abashed. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” I lie, but I look to meet his gaze as I do so. “But you didn’t say you don’t like it.”
It’s dim in this office, and there’s not a lot of light to see by. There’s a low lamp on a table against the bookshelf and one of those green glass desk lamps atop his desk. Between both of them, there’s just enough light to catch the glint in his eyes as he gives me a slow once over. “I don’t,” he tells me, blunt and challenging. “My classroom is no place for someone who behaves like a child.”
The realization is slow in coming, but I begin to understand that he has no intention of making the first move here and absolutely no interest in making this easy for me. It’s understandable but intimidating, as I realized I hadn’t thought about what would happen if I got this far. In my preparatory fantasies, we’ve always gotten as far as the actual fucking. I haven’t had to proposition him at all. I’ve just taken for granted that my intentions are apparent (and I’m pretty sure we both know that they are) and that he’d rise to them immediately.
Apparently, I’m going to have to work for it—at least a little bit.
But I’ve gotten this far. And the door is locked behind me. I take a deep breath and twist my hands together around the hem of my skirt as I look up at him, licking my lips and letting them part softly, revealing the wetness of my mouth, ready and waiting inside. “But I am a child,” I tell him, standing up from my chair and taking slow, deliberate steps to circle to his side of the desk. I stop in front of him, and his chair swivels to face me as I admit, “I’m just a little girl who doesn’t know anything. And I didn’t join your class to learn what you teach in the classroom.”
Now, finally, he starts to respond to me, and he leans back in his chair, languid and relaxed, but he lets his knees fall open, one of his legs stretching out in front of him and the other still cocked, propped up against the bottom of the desk. His waistcoat is already undone, but the buttons of his shirt and trousers are still fair game.
He looks at me, and I can feel him picking apart every single facet of my appearance. I’ve ditched the backpack, left it on the chair in front of his desk, but everything else is the same. Beneath my faded old anime t-shirt, my breasts are bare, and they feel soft and heavy without a bra to keep them contained. My underwear is a thong, and my pussy is freshly waxed, and underneath it all, I’m ready and waiting for him. I reach up to take one of my braided pigtails and bring the end of it into my mouth, never taking my eyes from his as I do.
“Stop that,” he says immediately. “Disgusting habit. What would your father say?”
“He doesn’t care. Never cared.” I lick the end of my pigtail defiantly and then let it drop to fall against my shoulder.
“Clearly.” The professor adjusts himself in his seat and looks at me with the first hint of what might be lust, though it’s been heavily veiled with contempt. “No respectable father would’ve let you out of the house looking like this, would’ve let you leave for college and be seen out in the world dressed like a ten-dollar whore.”
“A whore?” I echo, wide-eyed like I don’t know what it means.
He stands, finally, and somehow I’m not prepared for how much taller he is than I am when we’re standing face to face when he’s taken a half step to enter my bubble for the first time. He reaches a hand up and takes the recently-dampened end of my pigtail between his fingers, toying with it. “Are you a whore, little girl?” He gives my hair a brief, curious tug, and when I don’t respond, he looks down his nose at me and asks, “Or are you only a stupid child?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, leaning into him now, letting my breasts brush against his shirt front and reaching down to find the hand that isn’t still toying with my pigtail. I catch his wrist and drag his hand upward, shoving it up into the space between my breasts, still pressed against him. “Can you teach me the difference?”
In answer, several things happen at once. My pigtail drops from between his fingers, and his hand goes to the nape of my neck, cradling it as he leans forward, bowing his head over mine as he presses a kiss against my lips, properly initiating things between us. The hand I’d pulled up between my tits slides sideways, palm ghosting the nipple of my left breast, and then starts to massage the soft, yielding weight of it. I moan softly, as he continues to kiss me.
“You taste like sugar,” he mutters, and his hand stops fondling my breast, pressing hard against my skin as it moves slowly down my body, to slip beneath the bottom of my skirt and then seize forcefully against a handful of my ass. He squeezes tight and then pulls my body hard against his so that my pelvis presses against his thigh as he takes a step forward, backing me up until there’s a wall behind me. He pauses to shove me against it, harder than he needs to so that the back of my head strikes against the wood paneling with a hollow thud, and I gasp.
“Ow,” I tell him, and in response, he gives me another shove, warning this time. He leans over me, pinning me against the wall, and the hand that isn’t pressed against the wall beside my head comes up to catch my face, tilting my chin up to look at him as he stares down at me.
“I could make you much better than this,” he tells me, his voice a low, warding rumble. “You’re just a cheap, lazy little thing, just a stupid slut playing pretend. Aren’t you?”
I don’t know if any of that is true, but I have a sense of what he wants me to say, so I say it, nodding my head against the grip of his hand as I whisper, “Yes.”
Now his body grinds against mine, and I can feel his erection against my hip where he has me still pinned to the wall. This isn’t the side of him I’d imagined, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t into it. “I could take you away from here, out of this country, overseas, somewhere you could learn to be a good little girl, instead of a tawdry, repulsive brat, whose father never taught her any better.”
I don’t know what that means, but I nod along anyway, agreeing to whatever this proposal is supposed to be. I have a funny feeling about where this is going, and I’m more and more into it with every passing second. “You could teach me.”
“Are you willing to learn?”
“I’ll do anything you want me to.”
He chuckles at that and steps away, backing up until he’s back at his desk and seated in his chair again. Now that I know what he thinks when he looks at me, I can see the hunger behind his contempt, the fact that he still wants me even though he’s ostensibly disgusted by what I am, what I’ve made of myself on his behalf.
“Take off the shoes.”
I do, bending down and making a bit of a striptease out of it, though he seems unimpressed and doesn’t respond again until I drop them on the ground and stand barefoot on the carpet before him.
“Get on the ground,” he says, relaxing in his chair again. “On your knees.”
I glance towards the office door again to double-check that it’s still locked and then do as I’m told, sinking slowly to my knees on the carpeted floor, expectant and obedient and looking up to him for my next instruction.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, peering at me through half-lidded eyes, leaning back in his chair and resting a hand on his knee. The other goes to the top drawer of his desk and pulls out what I first take to be a pen, with a turned wooden body, until he telescopes the end of it out, and I realize it’s an old-fashioned pointer. He reaches out with it, and the point of it comes to rest beneath my chin, tilting it up with the slightest pressure. “Now, what exactly does Daddy need to teach you?”
I don’t know if he expects me to answer. It seems like something of a rhetorical question, and I swallow and shrug.
Instantly the metal tip of the pointer flits up and flicks a quick, stinging strike against my cheek so that I gasp and lift a hand to press against the place he’d struck me, genuinely startled and wide-eyed as I stare at him.
“Speak when you’re spoken to.”
“I don’t know,” I protest. I’m starting to think that he might be right and that I am a bit of a brat. “What do you want?”
“I want to make you better,” he tells me, and the tip of the pointer traces down my jaw. “So much raw potential, wasted by a shoddy upbringing. I could fix this. I want you to come to me on your knees, little girl, and beg me to fix you.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve hesitated in this whole interaction, but it doesn’t last long. Something about him tempts me, something in the way he seems to know—much better than I do—what’s going on between us and what he wants from me. I’m intrigued, and I do what he asks, crawling towards him until I’m at his feet, then leaning against his leg to rest my head on his knee. “Fix me,” I say, looking up at him. “I can be better if you’ll teach me how.”
“I told you to beg.”
I creep forward and press myself against him, sliding a hand up his inner thigh and squeezing. “Please,” I plead, laying it on thick. “Please, Daddy, teach me. I can be a good girl like you want.”
He reaches down and takes one of my pigtails in his fingers again, slowly working out the elastic that holds the braid together. It falls away, and his fingertips climb up through the plait, pulling each tress apart until he can run his hand through my hair from the scalp to the ends. I shiver at his touch and tip my forehead against his thigh as he repeats the process with the other one.
“Already better,” he murmurs, and his hand cradles my chin again. He tilts my face upward, the pressure of his hand on my jawbone drawing the rest of me upwards until I’ve straightened up between his thighs, and he can lean forward to kiss me, tenderly this time. “What a good girl.”
The praise floods through me like a drug, as his hand strokes through my hair and down my back, and I tilt my face up hungrily, wanting him to kiss me again, to tell me that I’m good. “What else?” I breathe, close enough that my lips ghost against his skin as I ask, but not daring to kiss him myself without his permission. “Daddy, what else do you want?”
“Lose the shirt. After you leave, I want you to burn it. We can do better.”
I obey immediately. Reaching down, I grasp the hem of my t-shirt and pull it off in one smooth movement, delighted in exposing my breasts and suddenly craving his approval. He looks at me impassively and then moves his hands slowly down my body until they seize at my hips and tug me closer, upward.
“Come here.”
Daddy shifts in his chair and makes room for me until I’m sitting in his lap and his hard cock pressing against my panties beneath my skirt. This drives me wild, and I moan and thrust against him, unbecomingly eager. He tolerates this before his hands close around my upper arms, and he holds me still.
“Patience, girl,” he scolds, but gently, and I can’t do anything but nod as the softness of his voice does something new to me, something I’ve never felt before. I go as still as I can as his eyes travel to my chest, and one of his hands moves to the small of my back. He presses against the bottom of my spine, drawing me up and forward so that my tits are level with his face.
The first exploratory taste of his tongue, the warmth and the wetness of it over my nipple makes me wet, and I draw a shaky breath as he continues. His lips tease the flesh of my areola, pulling it tight. His teeth scrape over the pebbled skin of my erect nipple, and the other starts to stiffen in sympathetic response, standing out from my skin like a bullet point. It’s not cold in here, but I shiver again, moaning aloud as his mouth works at my tit and lifting my hands to pull his head closer towards me, burying my fingers in his thick grey hair.
“Daddy,” I gasp. “Oh, Daddy, please. Wh—what else? What else, please, Daddy, please tell me what else to do?”
His hand yanks roughly at the waist of my skirt in response, and I promptly drop my hand to help, fumbling to undo the zipper, shifting and adjusting, and taking the opportunity to start to grind against his hard-on once again, but only briefly. The only thing left is a scanty black thong, and I already know I’m wet and ready for him, though he seems determined to take his time with me.
I settle back into his lap, and when he starts to kiss me again, I let my hands rest against his chest, against the soft fabric of his shirt. His tongue is alive in my mouth, tasting and yearning and taking, and I kiss him back like I’m starving for it. One of my fingertips glances against one of the buttons of his shirtfront, and without thinking about it, I start to undo the button. It gives way, and my fingers slip inside his shirtfront, rubbing against the coarse hair on his chest and then drifting down to the next. He doesn’t stop me. He keeps kissing me, and I hear and feel the soft growl from the back of his throat as I reach the last button and my hands find his belt.
He stops kissing me, drawing back, just long enough to say, “Get on the desk.” Then his mouth meets mine again, and I close my eyes as he lifts his body and mine out of the chair. My feet touch the ground, but only briefly, as my ass hits the edge of the desktop behind me, and then I’m lowered backward to slump onto the leather pad on top. I feel suddenly dizzy like the room is spinning around me, and then Daddy looms over me again.
“I don’t want to hear a sound out of you,” he tells me, taking off his belt as he does so, which only makes me whimper softly in urgent, impatient desire, but then I swallow and nod because I don’t want to disappoint him. I want him to tell me I’m a good girl again. “If you make a single sound, then Daddy’s cock comes out of your naughty little cunt, and I cum on your tits instead of inside you.”
This sounds like the worst thing I can imagine right now, and I nod vigorously and whisper a promise, “I’ll be quiet. Daddy, I’ll be quiet. I’ll be good.”
“You had damn well better be.”
He slides my thong off, and it takes everything in me to stifle the sound that wants to rise from the back of my throat, deep and desperate. The tip of one of his fingers traces lightly over my wet pussy, and I have to press my lips tight together and tip my head back, staring up at the ceiling, so I don’t see what he’s doing. I’m going to be quiet. I won’t make a sound.
When his finger dips inside me, I manage to keep myself quiet. When it slides up and down the slick inside of my pussy, I do nothing more than draw a slow breath through my nose and then let it slowly out in a sigh as he pulls his fingers away again. I don’t see him because I’ve closed my eyes, but I hear his trousers unzip and the soft, rustling sound of his pants dropping. Still, he makes me wait.
With my eyes still closed, one of his fingers touches lightly against my lips and then presses past them into my mouth, and I suddenly taste myself on his skin, salty and sweet and somehow familiar. My mouth waters around his finger, and when he pulls his hand away, it’s almost enough to distract me, as the tip of his cock finally presses between my legs and then inside me.
I don’t make a sound. I almost do, I almost forget that I’m supposed to be silent, and I almost let the feeling of pleasure and reward burst out of the back of my throat, but I catch myself and just gasp instead.
“That’s my baby. Good girl,” he says again, and I just about cum right then and there.
I’ve been fucked before. Plenty of times, I haven’t been a virgin since I was seventeen. But something about this is different. He moves inside me like he completes me somehow, and with each stroke of his cock I feel like I fall deeper within myself, down into a truth of my nature that I haven’t known before now. I want this. I want nothing but this.
It’s almost cruel, the way he brings me closer and closer to climax, the shaft of his cock moving just so against my clit, and me not able to make any noise about it. He fucks me in the same silence, leaning over the desk with his hands braced on either side of me, and though I hear him grunt softly once or twice, I get the feeling that the silence is part of it, and before I realize it, my own starts to slip. My clit swells against the assault, nerve endings firing faster than I can feel, and despite everything, one of the breaths I try to let out softly turns into a throaty moan.
His hand leaves the desk just long enough to slap me, once, sharply across the face. It’s at that moment that all sense of consequence fails me, and my body completes the betrayal; as my hips thrust upward, the angle of his stroke changes slightly, and I cum hard around his cock, squirting wet and warm. A moment later, I feel him tense, stifling a groan of his own, and then his orgasm fills me, and I lapse once again into breathless silence.
