Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.
Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.
Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.
I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.
I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.
“Will not. Be tolerated.”
I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.
“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”