Teacher's Pet
He was kissing her, trapping her beneath him. His hands were unbuttoning her shirt and hiking up her skirt. He forced her legs to open for him and then his fingers drew a line from her breasts to her core. She was slick for him, ready for him, a plea was on her lips—
Kyoko Mogami woke up with a gasp, feverish and flushed all over. Her room came into focus, bright light pouring in from the window. She'd been dreaming of him again, waking up full of frustration and longing.
She could still feel her heart racing. In the fevered recesses of night, she'd use her fingers to seek relief from the ache inside her, but in the morning? She couldn't afford to acknowledge that ache in the morning. She would let those desires burn to nothing under the harsh light of day.
Bang bang bang. She jolted, hearing Sho's harsh knocking.
"Kyoko, I swear to god, wake up," she heard. "I'm not waiting for you if you're late."
The voice jerked her out of her reverie and dragged her back down to the very unsexy present. She snorted. Since when was she ever late? Sho was the one who was always late—if he wasn't oversleeping, he was in front of the mirror gelling up his hair. The mundanity of the moment brought a moment of clarity—this was no time to indulge in thoughts and fantasies about Tsuruga-sensei.
"Since when have you ever waited on me, Sho?" she asked through the door. "I'm not the one spending an hour on my hair every morning.
"Can't rush perfection," he replied. "Besides, you'd probably do better with that itty bitty crush you've got on that platform-wearing excuse for a teacher if you styled your hair."
She blushed. She'd never acknowledged her feelings for Tsuruga-sensei out loud, not to anyone else, at least. But Sho had known her almost all her life—at least since her stern, unloving mother had left her to board with his family. Sho had noticed when her longstanding affections for him had…dwindled. All Sho had seen was one unguarded look—the way she'd watched the man—and Sho had known. Not that he'd cared, really. She hadn't noticed how little he'd cared about her until she'd stopped caring about him. Happy that Sho couldn't see the look on her face, she responded. "Tsuruga-sensei does not wear platforms, Sho."
"Oh ho so she doesn't even try to deny having a crush on him."
She sighed. The fact that he didn't give a shit about her didn't stop him from being an asshole.
"He's a teacher, Sho," she yelled through the door. "I'm just his student."
"Yeah, one that you've been giving puppy dog eyes for the past two years," he snorted.
"I do not," she said.
"You do. And you spend a lot of time with him, for someone who's just his student."
"I'm the president of the theater club, and he's our faculty advisor," she said. "Of course I have to talk to him. I'm learning a lot."
She could practically hear him roll his eyes. "Learning a lot, huh. Sure. Ugh…Not sure what you girls see in that asshole…"
She sighed. She knew she wasn't the only girl who had a crush on him—Tsuruga-sensei had a not-so-secret fanclub among the girls in her school. But all she could do was shake her head and ignore Sho's jibes. From the sound of it, he was already moving down the hallway, going to eat breakfast. She knew better than to engage with him on this—she really and truly did. If she pushed, she knew Sho would take it too far. He'd scream Kyoko loves Tsuruga-sensei from the rooftop just to see her die of mortification.
It was just that he was right.
She did spend a lot of time with Tsuruga-sensei. She tried to be inconspicuous about it. She was already a target with the girls for living with Sho's family. She didn't need Tsuruga-sensei's fans to target her, too. It was true—he was the faculty advisor for the theater club, and she did need to consult him reasonably often for club-related activities. But if she was honest, she knew she found…excuses…to see the English teacher more often than she absolutely needed to.
She couldn't help it.
He was a good looking man, true. And he dressed well, particularly for a teacher. If it had just been his looks, she doubted she would have given him a second thought. But it was more than that—the man had a presence like a live wire, humming and alive with dangerous current. Her body was always aware of his proximity—he had a looming, brooding presence that had a specific gravity all its own. And talking to him was so easy. Sometimes, she'd come in with a particularly difficult passage in English that she wanted to consult him on. Other times, she'd come in with a number of scripts for potential productions in the upcoming year. "Oh I love that you picked up on that," he'd say, responding to one of her criticisms. "I always thought so too." Other times, he'd start the conversation. His dark eyes would turn to her and she would fight to keep her composure before she betrayed herself to him. "Tell me what you thought of The Waste Land," he'd ask. Or perhaps it would be "I thought you made a good point about Ophelia today, Mogami-san." And they would talk and talk and talk until the sun hung low on the horizon.
There were times when she thought she felt his eyes on her, watching her—watching as she erased a chalkboard or carried books into his classroom. And there were times when she thought that perhaps, just perhaps he was closer to her than any of his other students. Times when he was considerate enough to buy her tea from the vending machine, or give her an umbrella when she was caught without one on rainy days. Times when he'd give her a book to read, just because he thought she'd like it.
And then, of course, there were the times when he would smile at her with a smile so gorgeous her breath would catch in her throat.
But then she would shake the daydreams from out of her head. She was his student. Only his student. He probably had a girlfriend out there somewhere, someone just as beautiful as he was. Of course Tsuruga-sensei would never do anything that was improper. She wasn't special—he was just kind. He would treat any other student the same way—it just so happened that she was around more often than most. She stuck her tongue out at herself in the mirror, taking in the ratty t-shirt she'd worn to bed, the hair that was refusing to behave.
She was plain-jane Kyoko, and he probably thought of her as just a kid.
=.=.=
"See me after class, Mogami-san."
She looked up at his face, but his eyes were inscrutable—he looked away from her, handing back her graded essay and then moving down the aisle without engaging her further. His impassiveness drove a needle of unease into her belly. The Tsuruga-sensei she knew always had a smile for her—sometimes openly, where everyone could see it, and sometimes just a secret look in his eyes. Even without her more…unsavory…feelings about him, there was a warmth to him that she could feel, radiating from him every time they were in a room together.
There was none of that warmth now. Tsuruga-sensei was glacier-cold, sharp like an unsheathed blade.
She was so surprised by this—by him—that she hadn't even looked at the paper he'd given back to her. Minutes after he'd passed she realized she was still holding it, face down.
She turned it over.
There, blood red on a field of white—an F.
Not a D, not a C. An F.
A failing grade. A grade that would be a zero-sum black mark in an otherwise exemplary record.
She was bewildered. The essay hadn't been difficult, she knew she'd done at least a competent job. She couldn't imagine that it would be worse than nothing, and yet there it was, clear as day. An F, when she'd normally score an A, easily. An F, when even a halfway-coherent submission would have garnered at least a C.
See me after class, he'd said.
Her heart throbbed. She felt sick, a coil of dread unwinding in her belly as she watched the clock.
Surely he'd explain.
=.=.=
She came to find him hours after the last bell rang. She knew she should've gone to see him as soon as she was free, but she hadn't. She'd been delayed—one of the other teachers had wanted to speak to her about reserving the auditorium, and then the photography club had asked to borrow some props from the Drama kids. She hadn't hurried; if anything, she'd prolonged those conversations. All day long, she'd lived in a state of anxiety—if she was honest with herself, she'd admit to being afraid. And though she'd never been afraid to talk to Tsuruga-sensei before, she was dreading having to go see him now. She ruminated on the F, wondering what she could have possibly done to deserve it—even Sho had received a C for this assignment.
It was late on a Friday afternoon, and the halls were long-deserted. From long habit, she knew Tsuruga-sensei would still be there, grading papers or working on his lesson plan. She found him sitting at his desk, a stack of papers beside him, a red pen in his right hand. The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows and painted gold on his dark brown hair. He was wearing a modest, well-tailored suit, nothing too tight or flashy. He was just a teacher—he shouldn't have been so hot. But nothing could hide the coiled power of his body. He was so very tall, and though no one had ever seen him with his shirt off, they all knew: beneath the well-pressed shirts he wore, he was all muscle.
"Sensei," she said.
His eyes were paler in the afternoon sun. Kyoko had looked into them often—obsidian pools, often filled with laughter. But today they were almost a burnt sienna, his pupils two pinpoints of black. Funny. She felt as though the sun had cut her off from him, forcing a wall shut.
He capped his pen and stopped writing. "You're late," he answered. His words were terse. Clipped. "I asked you to come after class. Not whenever you pleased."
She was taken aback. He'd never spoken to her like this before. There wasn't a trace of his usual warmth. Nothing of the easy back and forth she usually had with him. "I'm…I'm sorry, Tsuruga-sensei," she said. "I thought—well, that you wouldn't mind. You usually stay later, so I thought it would be fine—"
"It doesn't matter," he said, cutting her off. He motioned to a seat by his desk. "Sit."
She sat. Her uniform skirt rode up to reveal her knees; she smoothed it down and pressed her legs together, too aware of the way his eyes glanced down at her skin. His presence made her self-conscious. She wanted to be pretty for him, but then…she also wanted to hide herself away. She could feel a new tension between them, a strange, anxious feeling that only grew as she sat in silence.
He turned his chair towards her, looking at her as she tried to keep from squirming.
"Do you know why I asked you to come, Mogami-san?" His voice was low and sinister. If she didn't know any better, she would have sworn there was…a trace of violence, too. Anxiety spiked in her gut. He felt like a stranger to her—where was her smiling teacher now?
Her mouth went dry. "...My paper," she said.
"Yes."
"Please, Tsuruga-sensei," she said. "I…don't understand. I did all the research—were the sources not accurate? Did I somehow get the theme wrong?"
He was silent.
"Was it…was it the conclusions I made, then?" she asked. "The thesis statement?"
Wordlessly, he drew out two sets of papers from a drawer in his desk. Kyoko gulped as he handed them to her.
"Women and Education in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park," she read, "by Kyoko Mogami." A copy of her essay, then. She looked at the other document and gasped—"Women and Education in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park," the other paper read, "by Sho Fuwa."
The essays weren't exactly identical, no. She could see where Sho had deleted her words here and there and replaced them with his own—usually rambling, poorly punctuated, poorly thought-out asides that had no bearing or relation to what the rest of the essay had contained.
Her stomach dropped. "I—Tsuruga-sensei—"
"I'm extremely disappointed in you, Mogami-san," he said. "You know better."
"I…only…gave him a draft of my paper," Kyoko said. "He said he needed an example of how to structure it—he wasn't—I—I never meant for him to actually copy and turn it in as his own!" She felt panic rising in her gorge.
"Nevertheless, you enabled his plagiarism," he said. "I know you didn't copy his, Mogami-san, but I'm afraid I shall have to penalize you nonetheless."
"What?" she asked. She was thoroughly bewildered. Sho had been the transgressor here, not her. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen!" she said defensively. "And—and—why did you give him the passing grade?" she asked. "That's not fair—it's not fair when he did the copying—"
"It isn't fair, Mogami-san. But you're the responsible party, nonetheless. You know better. You made it possible for him to cheat. It just so happens he's a terrible cheater."
"So just because I know better than to help him cheat—and I didn't mean to do anything—you're punishing me when it was Sho that copied my work? He did it, not me! And now I'm responsible for his actions?!"
"I'm afraid school policy demands I take both parties to task, Mogami-san," he said. "Especially when plagiarism is involved. Had he copied this paper from somewhere else, it would've been a different matter. But under our policy, you're no different than someone who steals a copy of test answers and then distributes it. You do know that you may be expelled—"
"Wait, Sensei—"
"—and all for a boy." He paused. She didn't recognize the look on his face. He was angry, yes. But there was also something else there—a hunger, almost. "Sho Fuwa. What is he to you?"
Something in his voice made her look up to scrutinize his face.
"He's—he's a friend, I guess," she stuttered. "I live with his family—"
"A friend that you give your assignments to," he said. He took the essays from her unresisting hands and dropped them onto his desk with a thwack. "I will deal with Fuwa separately. And then I will have to speak to your mother, Mogami-san. After I've done that, I'll have to speak to the school's board and have them adjudicate on whether or not you remain a student here."
She gasped. Her mother had all but abandoned her. She paid for her room and board at the Fuwa's, but otherwise had nothing to do with Kyoko. The last time Kyoko had seen her, Saena had said "You will behave yourself, do you understand me? If I ever hear of a single issue, I will disown you, and you can go ahead and try to live on your own." Kyoko had nodded yes and stayed silent. She'd resolved to live on her own as quickly as she could, but she also knew she needed to finish school, first—and she desperately needed the contributions her mother made. She knew her mother had a short fuse—she did not want to risk Saena's wrath. Inevitably, it came with a backhanded slap and then escalated.
"No—please, no—Tsuruga-sensei—!" She felt her dread rising. None of this made any sense—this was absurd. To be expelled, and so close to graduation, all for an innocent mistake! Was she supposed to take the blame for all of Sho's transgressions? "Please—please don't tell my mother," she said. She felt her voice getting small and smaller as she spoke. "Please. I'll do anything—just don't tell my mother."
"I'd simply be following the guidelines for plagiarizing students and the people who enable them," he told her. He sounded disgusted with her. She understood why, but she didn't understand the intensity of his feelings. It was as if he'd taken it personally. "If you're irresponsible enough to let…some boy that you have a crush on do whatever he wants with your hard work, then it's simply what you deserve."
She gasped at that. "Wait, you don't understand—" she said, It's you—I want you, not him, she wanted to say. But why would that matter to him at all?
"You're right, I don't understand. Why are you letting him ruin your future?" he asked. "Copying your essays. Probably your other homework too, huh. And what's this I hear about you moving to Tokyo with him after you graduate, Mogami-san?"
Sho had talked about running off to Tokyo after graduation, and he'd asked her to come with him. She'd considered it—but only to have someone to split an apartment with while she went to school. He was going to Tokyo to pursue his dream of becoming a rock star, and it had taken all of her will not to roll her eyes at him when he'd told her. But how had Tsuruga-sensei heard about it? And more, why was he so angry? "Why do you care?" she asked. "If you cared so much, why would you try to get me expelled?"
"I care," he said, "because you're worth caring about. Because you're a wonderful student and a wonderful young woman. Because you're talented, and smart, and kind. Because he doesn't appreciate you and you should know that helping him isn't going to do anything but drag you down—you're too good for him. Mogami," he said, "what do you see in him?!"
His voice sounded strained. His breathing was ragged. She was taken aback at his vehemence, and when he slammed a hand down onto his desk, she nearly jumped. But when he spoke again, his voice was calm. "If giving you an F is what I have to do to make you see reason, then I'm giving you an F," he said. "Not because you wrote a shit paper, but because you're letting someone like him use you." He was looking at her intently, his body just inches away from her own. She bit at her bottom lip, pondering what to say next—and then she noticed how his eyes followed her movements.
All of a sudden, everything was clear. This had never been about a plagiarized paper—it was merely a pretext for him. He…truly thought she was in love with Sho. A little voice spoke up, deep inside her: he's jealous, it said. She dismissed the thought. Because he couldn't possibly be jealous.
"Besides…what else can I do? Spank you?" He had a twisted smile on his face, anger mixed with…something else.
The world paused for her.
He wants you, the voice said again. He's angry because he's jealous.
She found him staring intently at her. His body was tense—he felt like a predator about to make a kill. He was all potential energy waiting for release. Kyoko was transfixed by his gaze. And then she recognized what she saw in him, because she felt it in herself—over and over again, in the dark where no one could see her, she'd given in to it.
Lust.
She'd seen some of Sho's porn, had seen women bound and whipped and yes, spanked. All of it flashed before her in the blink of an eye. The thought of Tsuruga-sensei touching her—striking her like that—made her clench her thighs in want.
She was close enough to smell his scent, a blend of sandalwood and vetiver rising off of the warmth of his body. His hands were so close—right there, the same hands she'd admired so often—the hands she dreamt of, night after night, imagining the feel of them on her skin. She could feel her body's response to him—the way she ached for him, even now in this empty classroom. He was making her heart race. Goosebumps, on her arms, her neck, everywhere his eyes could roam. She could feel the heat between them, and it made her want to fall on her knees just so she could beg him to touch her.
Could he feel it too?
He asked if he should spank you, Kyoko, the voice said. A vision—her, across his lap, receiving his punishment just like the girls she'd seen in porn.
Her world turned on a dime. She knew she was at the edge of a precipice. Call his bluff, Kyoko, the voice said. Call his bluff or live to regret it. She had a choice—she could jump or she could claw her way back to safety.
She jumped.
"Yes," she said. She could feel the blush rising in her cheeks. She couldn't believe she'd said it.
His head whipped upwards, lips parting in surprise.
The look on his face propelled her forward. "Please…spank me…I want you to…punish me…" Her voice sounded dazed and disbelieving to her own ears. And then she strengthened her resolve. "Please, Tsuruga-sensei."
=.=.=.=
A sharp intake of breath. He held her gaze for a second, two seconds, longer. She didn't flinch, didn't look away. She let the words fall and fill the silence between them. In her eyes, he saw knowledge and longing—there was no doubt. Both of them knew this wasn't about the paper, not anymore.
(Please, Tsuruga-sensei.)
He recognized the words for what they were: a confession.
Kyoko Mogami had confessed. To him.
All this time, he'd never given his feelings for Kyoko Mogami a name. He'd never dared. He knew it was wrong. He was her teacher. He'd fought those feelings for as long as he could, denying them over and over. Each day had been a test for him. It hadn't been easy to see her in her uniform skirt, her long legs crossed so daintily beneath her desk. And it hadn't been easy to keep his hands to himself when she talked and laughed with him so innocently after classes. As long as he refused to acknowledge it, he could offer her a semblance of a friendship. It was all he could—or should—hope for, knowing how young she was.
But he was a weak, weak man. All this time, he'd watched her with Fuwa. It was clear that the two of them had some kind of bond, and he'd tortured himself over it. He knew when they arrived in class together. He knew when Kyoko had made a bento lunch for him. He knew when she'd coached him through an assignment, because his work would be markedly better. He tortured himself with images of the two of them together—had that boy been the one to give her her first kiss? Had they gone further than that? He made himself sick, thinking of her body entwining with Fuwa's. And he was angry—so angry—that she'd give herself away to someone so unworthy. He spent entire evenings drinking a bitter brew of jealousy, guilt, shame, love.
When he'd received Fuwa's paltry attempt at modifying her essay, he'd seen red. He'd imagined a cozy little scene between them, Kyoko offering to give him her essay as he sneered at her and took her for granted. Boys like Sho were always takers, and Ren was sure the boy took as much from Kyoko as he could. The essay was merely tangible proof. The 'F' had been the work of impulse—he'd never meant for it to stick. It was true that school policy required discipline for plagiarism, up to and including expulsion, but of course Kyoko was right: she wasn't responsible for Sho's transgressions. His intent today was to simply talk to her—as a teacher, perhaps even as a mentor. To tell her she was too good for someone like Sho.
(Please, Tsuruga-sensei.)
Her words rang in his ear. She'd seen right through him. Of course she'd seen right through him. She'd known that this had nothing to do with school policy. Or school rules. And now that she'd called his bluff, he had two choices: to laugh all of this off and dismiss it as a joke…or.
Or.
Fuck.
He was doomed.
His rational mind ceded to his baser instincts. How often had he fantasized about this very moment?
She was trembling as he sat there silently. He was assessing her, looking to see if she meant it.
"Very well," he said.
She'd been pale, but a blush was rising now, coloring her cheeks in a becoming shade of pink. She looked as surprised as he was. He half-expected her to dissemble, to tell him she was joking. But she didn't back down. He wouldn't, either. He rolled his chair back away from his desk and then motioned her towards it. "Get up. Face the door. Hands on the desk."
She got up, shaking. She took a single step past him, hesitated, and then placed her outstretched hands on the desk.
She was merely leaning forward, that was all. There was nothing inherently indecent about her stance or her clothing. But she'd moved under his command, and the feeling of her obedience was intoxicating to him. She was so sweet. So soft. So submissive.
The sight of her whetted his desire, tearing his self-control to shreds. He was rock-hard just at the sight of her. He stalked over to the door and locked it.
The snick of the lock made it real for both of them.
A quiet growl escaped his throat. "You're sure you want this, Mogami-san?" he asked.
She didn't answer him immediately, gathering up her courage. She felt looming behind her, his breath against her hair. "Yes," she whispered hoarsely. "Please."
It was the point of no return.
He moved in one controlled burst. She gasped—she felt his fingers wind through her hair and then his firm hand was pushing her downwards onto the desk. She went down willingly, pressing her cheek against the cool wood surface. "Still sure?" he growled. The hand in her hair descended downwards to her waist, pressing downwards on her back and forcing her to arch her body towards him. She pushed timidly against it, only to find him pressing down harder.
She whimpered and clenched her thighs together, afraid he would see how wet for him she was. "I asked you a question," he said.
"Yes!" The word came out of her like a plea. She squirmed underneath him, unable to control her body's response.
She could feel a hand reach down and grab at the hem of her skirt, raising it upwards. "Sir," he said. "Say it."
The feel of his hand against her bare skin left her electrified and wanting—it crept upwards slowly to caress the curve of her ass and then the edge of her plain cotton panties. He nudged her legs slightly apart with a knee, stepping close behind her.
"Mmm!" she said. His hands, she learned, were large enough to encompass her waist. She felt them grasp at her hips with a force deep enough to bruise, but all she said was—
"Yes—sir—aaah!"
The slap of his hand against her ass pushed her forward onto the desk. One explosive burst overwhelmed her already heightened senses. The pain was expected—but not how she reacted to it. There was something exquisite about it, something sharp and hot that only emphasized how empty she was between her legs. She tensed and let the aftermath wash over her in the lingering sting on her skin, wanting more. When she had gathered herself again in a semblance of calm, she felt him shift behind her.
"Count," he said.
"One…sir…" she whimpered.
His fingers were tracing gentle circles where she'd been struck, but in a flash they were gone—she grunted as the second blow fell on the opposite cheek, her breath forced out of her.
"Two…sir…"
She could feel her pussy leaking.
"Good girl," he said.
"Ahh! Three…! Mmph—"
His fingers grazed the gusset of her panties lightly; she flushed, knowing there was no way he could have missed how she'd soaked them through.
"Four!—ah!" She whimpered as the fourth blow rained down, trying to squirm away as he hit home. With his arm restraining her, she couldn't avoid the full force of his striking hand.
"Five—" His fingers grew bolder now, caressing her nether lips through the soaked cloth. "—sir—"
He heard her moan underneath him—lewd and wanton, a different sound from her pained whimpers. The sound of it spurred him forwards. "Look at how wet you are, Mogami—so wet for me—" His words only deepened the ache between her legs—she was panting now, whimpering at his every movement.
He wanted more. Again he ran a questing finger down the line of her slit—but this time, he grew bold and pushed the gusset of her panties to the side.
His hand made contact with the bare flesh of her pussy for the first time and she arched at the feel of it. He traced her bare slit, drawing out her slick as her tender flesh convulsed at his touch.
"Tsuruga-sensei!" she cried out.
She whimpered. But she didn't pull away.
"You like this," he said. It wasn't a question.
"No—I don't!—six—oh god—sir—ahh…"
"You're a liar," he said, as seven came down. "Moaning like a slut…" He hadn't meant to say the words out loud. But he didn't miss the little moan and shiver she made as he'd said it…or the way her pussy clenched. The implications of those little movements—Oh god, he thought. She was perfect. She was a revelation—to have called his bluff, to be writhing and moaning underneath him just as she did in his dreams. He'd expected her to wail and cry once he'd gotten started, to call him a monster. He knew he was making a bad situation worse, but the girl beneath him only pressed her ass into his hand. He wasn't sure if she'd done it on purpose. "Is this what makes that tiny little cunt wet, Mogami?"
"Seven, sir—Please! Sir!—no, I'm not—"
"Only sluts moan when they're spanked, Mogami-san," he said. And there it was again, a tiny little shiver as he called her a slut. "And you're definitely wet." His fingers came away from her cunt, glistening with her slick.
"Fuck," she whimpered, "Eight!—mm—sir!" It was too much. His words, the sting of his hands, and all of that followed by his caress—all of it was better than anything she could have imagined. She thought she knew what desire was, what lust was—all of that paled in comparison to the very real feeling of him touching her body.
"Language!" he chastised. "You like being called a slut." What was he doing? He was plunging headlong into forbidden territory, and it was far beyond anything he could call normal. Again, he paused. His hand came back to her weeping slit, and as she gasped he circled her clit for the first time. "Don't you, Mogami?"
"Please—no—ah—nine, sir—mmm—"
"Such a liar. I can feel your pussy, you know," he said. "Your cunt doesn't lie. Were you wet like this for Fuwa?" His question was punctuated by his final blow.
She let out a great breath as her body moved towards him of its own volition. "TEN! Sir!" Her hands were clutching at the desk; the pain had her thrumming at a fever pitch. Each blow had gone straight to her pussy and now her hips were canting forward in sheer want. But she couldn't let him continue mentioning Sho when he'd been the only man she'd ever wanted. "No—never him," she gasped out.
"Hmm," he said. "Is that so?" His hands grazed downwards, following the line from the small of her back and down her hips, before he dipped down again to the apex of her sex. And then she was whimpering into the desk as his index middle found her core and pressed inside her. His other hand was skimming gently over the skin he'd so abused. Beautiful, he thought, admiring the sight in front of him. The cheeks of her ass were bright red after his spanking; her panties were obscenely pushed to the side. The lips of her cunt had opened to him under his ministrations, allowing the pink of her gash to peek through.
"Ah!" she said. His finger was pressing further inside—he groaned to feel how very tight she was. Virgin, he thought. And then he was ashamed, instantly, of how his already-hard cock lurched at the thought of being the first to fuck her.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked. He'd stopped partway inside her, holding himself back again. How far is too far? he asked himself. She was seventeen—old enough to consent in their prefecture. but not old enough to assuage his misgivings. He'd done more than enough to get him fired, his teaching license revoked. Fired, and then arrested.
"Tsuruga-sensei," she whispered. Her voice was low and ragged, barely audible. "Please."
Her words galvanized him. Gently, slowly, he withdrew his finger, only to add a second as he entered her again, and for a few moments she lay on his desk in a near-incoherent pile. She was dripping and making no move to shield her body from his. "Please what?" he murmured.
"Please!" she said. "Oh god…more…ahh—"
"Such a dirty girl," he told her. Fuck. He was going to hell, and it would be worth it.
"Sensei!" she cried. He was invading her, bit by bit. Two fingers were inside her now, twisting and thrusting, spreading her open. She felt so full. He was moving them in and out of her slowly, bringing her to a point of unbearable pressure. She didn't know what she was asking for, only that something was coming. It was nothing like the furtive releases she'd given herself—it felt bigger, more dangerous, more destructive. She was shaking. Every square inch of her skin was tingling and alive. It was as if she'd never truly known what it was like to inhabit flesh, as if she'd spent all her life ignorant of her body's desires. His touch forced her to acknowledge the animal hunger in her—the hunger that now threatened to bring her under. Subtly she moved her legs further apart as his fingers entered deeper into her body—she was moaning again as his fingers flexed within her and stretched her aching cunt.
"Please…pleasepleaseplease…" She was babbling now, reduced to a mess.
"You little slut," he said. "My little slut." He knew what she wanted, had never dreamed she would want it from him. "Mogami…Kyoko," he said out loud. She gasped at the sound of him using her first name. It amused him—there she was, his student, normally so prim and proper, gasping at the liberty he'd taken with her name when he was two fingers deep inside her body. "Tell me what you're begging for, Kyoko," he said.
"I need—I need—" She was falling apart, and he decided to take pity on her.
He was standing directly behind her, one hand splitting her pussy wide open as the other snaked towards her front. He brought her forward with a possessive arm, raising her up and off his desk. When her back was flush against his chest, he nuzzled close into her neck, kissing her nape and then sucking at her pulse point as the fingers within her curved. She breathed hard as his fingers thrust faster, gripping the ledge of the desk. With his other hand he began to circle and then rub at her clit, his actions becoming more frenzied as she bucked against him. "Cum for me," he whispered into her ear. "I want to feel your cunt pulse on my hand."
It was enough.
She cried out when her release took her, a high, keening moan as her knees buckled and her world went white. He propped her upwards with his body, but his fingers kept up their rhythm as her pussy spasmed and dripped around them. "Oh god," she wailed. She pushed against the arm holding her close but he held firm.
He held her close until her breathing calmed. Gently he extricated his fingers from her tight sheath, bringing them to his mouth and tasting her for the first time.
He released his hold on her, only to see her turn around to face him.
"It's you, Tsuruga-sensei," she said softly. "It's always been you." She was peeking up at him from underneath her the orange fringe of her hair, flushed. "I—I didn't want you to know," she said.
He closed in on her, pushing her back onto his desk. Two arms caged her in—she found herself sitting on it as he leaned over her. "Why not?" he asked. His voice was low against her ear. "Why wouldn't you want me to know?"
She felt him breathe her in her scent. "It's—it's embarrassing." His lips were so close—he was looking into her eyes as she tried to find words. "I—never thought—you couldn't—" Her hands clenched onto the ledge of his desk. He took a hand to trace the curve of her lips.
"Couldn't what?" he asked. She angled her face towards his hand, taking short, shallow breaths. She felt his other arm surround her and bring her close to him—and then he was her entire world. Everything outside the circle of his arms faded away.
"—Want me," she said.
"How could I not want you?" he asked. "My little jailbait slut." He drew her hair back away from her face, suddenly overcome with a burst of affection for her. "My lovely, smart, funny, sweet—"
"I'm not," she said.
"You are," he said. "All of those things." They were moving together, closing the distance between them. He saw her eyes closing as she moved on instinct, and then…he kissed her.
Mine, his kiss said, and she was in no position to deny him. It was her first kiss—her first kiss ever—and it was nothing like a fairy tale. The feel of him showed her how inadequate her imagination had been. How could she have imagined how lascivious a tongue could be? He sought entrance to her mouth and she yielded to him, shyly following his lead as he plundered and claimed and branded her with his heat. His kiss was possessive and demanding and tender all at once.
He pulled away. She whimpered.
For a minute he stood back and just looked at her—the heightened color on her cheeks, her lips swollen and red. Her skirt was still on, bunched up and framing the lewd sight of her mangled panties still pushed to the side. She looked dazed and beautiful, like a captured gazelle. She was still so innocent—too innocent, really, to be asking men to spank her.
"Fuck, I want you," he breathed. "I've wanted you for so long—" His body had a mind of its own. Desperately he parted her long, slender legs. He stepped between them and brought her closer—she was sitting right at the edge of his desk, leaning forwards into his waiting arms.
He could feel her pulse racing against him and then he kissed her again—one long, punishing kiss, his teeth nipping at her lip. She was better prepared now, opening her mouth to receive him, seeking him out on her own. His kisses were not sweet, or kind, or romantic. There was nothing here to remind her of candlelight and roses, no vestige of any maidenly fantasy. No—his kisses were brutal, greedy things, demanding more and more from her as her surrender to him deepened. He stepped away and freed his hands. He was untucking her shirt, loosening the bow at her throat and she sat there in a fever, too shy to reach out for his body but too needy to push him away.
He unbuttoned her shirt. Small white buttons, school standard—all of them in his way. One button, two buttons, three—and then a pull as he ripped her shirt apart in his impatience. She yelped, surprised, lips parting to reveal pearly white teeth. He paused then with a possessive hand on her waist, waiting for her to say 'No.'
She didn't.
"Tsuruga-sensei," she whispered. "I—" And then she stopped. She couldn't bring herself to ask him for more, not outright. She knew her actions were indecent. She'd already told him too much.
"Yes, Kyoko?" he answered.
Her eyes were downcast. He was reminded again of how shy she could be. But she surprised him again and leaned back on his desk, supporting herself with her arms behind her as she arched forwards and offered herself to him. He gave her a feral grin—her invitation was clear.
"You wanton little whore," he said, and she whimpered. "Offering yourself to me."
She was blushing as he took her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him. "Tell me now," he said, "because I won't be able to stop myself later."
"I'm yours," she said. "I—I want this—-please, sometimes it's all I think about—I need—this-"
He swallowed her voice with a kiss. "Then let me give you what you need," he said.
His gaze lingered over the tips of her breasts, diamond-hard and pushing against the plain white cotton of her unlined bra—he pushed it out of the way to reveal them. She whimpered aloud as he touched them for the first time. A first pass—the flats of his thumbs running over the firm, puckered flesh of her nipples. A second pass as he circled her areolas—and a third pass with his tongue instead of his fingers. He bent low to engulf those nipples in his mouth, laving first one and then the other with his tongue, circling them, flicking them, and finally teasing them with his teeth.
She gasped as he nipped at her breasts, finally clutching at his arms as he wrung out a cry from her. She couldn't have been prepared for the lascivious pleasure his tongue could give—wet and hot, his touch spiked electricity from her skin. It was a delicious, delirious feeling, all of it pooling between her legs where she dripped for him.
He kissed her again as he unbuttoned her skirt—her arms folded themselves around his neck and he groaned into her mouth as the skirt pooled onto the floor. He slid his hands underneath the waistband of her panties and then pulled—she eased herself upwards for him, letting him take the garment up and off of her hips and all the way down her long, slender legs.
Her body, once revealed, was a study in delicacy. It was a woman's body, yes, but had yet to reach its full voluptuous bloom—this, despite the slick coating her sex. He brought his hands to trace where his eyes had been—fingers descending from her hair and down her neck, grazing over her flat belly as she trembled. There was so much here for him to debauch. He wanted to ruin that perfect skin, cover her all over with the marks of his kisses.
His mouth left hers to trail down her jaw and then to her neck—he nuzzled into her again, and then kissed the flesh beneath her earlobe just as she moaned. Her hips canted up of their own accord, finally making contact with his hard body.
"Come forward," he told her. He pulled her until she was sitting at the very edge of his desk—again, he wove his fingers into her hair and kissed her. This time he traveled downwards, licking and sucking harder at her neck, her breasts—he made her cry out as he sucked at the patch over her heart, spending a few extra moments to ensure the resulting mark would last.
She spasmed again as his mouth continued downwards, whimpering as his tongue drew circles down her abdomen—he pushed her legs apart. Wide, and then wider—he held her steady and then placed her ankles against the desk's edge as well. She was pinioned open, exposed for him. She felt the cool air on her pussy and opened her eyes to see him between her legs. "Sensei," she said. "Please don't look—"
He smiled at her consternation and then ignored her, and when he leaned down to her leaking cunt she cried out. "Tsu-ru-ga…sen—AH!"
It was his tongue. His wicked tongue—flicking quickly at her clit before descending to lap at her slit. He teased her first, using just the tip, and then he devoured her wholesale. His tongue fucked inside her and around her clit; his hands held her labia open so he could lap at the fragile folds inside. Her whimpers turned into moans—her moans turned into screams. He was laving her cunt like a man possessed, reaching up to tease and pinch her nipples as she bucked beneath him. And when he entered her with his fingers, she cried out—the sensation of being full as he tongued her clit overwhelmed what self-control she had left. He'd reduced her to an animal, reacting solely to pleasure. He brought her to a peak and then pushed her over. He felt her drench him as her body stiffened in orgasm, and when she was done she lay on his desk limp and spread open like a sacrifice.
He leaned over her prone body and kissed her again—she kissed him back readily, tasting herself on his mouth. Though he'd wrung out her cries and her ecstasy, she knew they weren't done. Dazedly she heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, the ragged, panting cadence of his breath.
"I am going to fuck your pretty little pussy, Kyoko." He said it simply—not a question or a declaration, merely a fact. They both knew it—had known it, as soon as they'd touched. "Gonna claim this tight little cunt—"
She propped herself up to look at him, gasping when she saw his cock.
It was beautiful and terrifying. It jutted up and out of his body, a perfect column of flesh—too long and too wide for her to even imagine it inside her. She tensed against him and he felt it. He knew she wanted him—her eyes were glazed as she stared at it, the tip of her tongue running along her bottom lip. "Do you like what you see?" he asked.
"Sensei," she said, "Sensei—it's—it's too much—"
He leaned over her again, rubbing his cock along her slick folds as he licked at her nipples. She jerked at the touch of his cock on her flesh, moaning as he trapped her beneath him. She was grabbing at the arms that caged her onto his desk as he rubbed his hard length against her pussy lips, coating himself in her own lubrication. It was like nothing she'd felt before—hot, velvet skin over a core of pulsing steel. "Oh darling," he said, smirking, "we'll make it fit."
He notched the head of his cock against her pussy and her eyes widened. "Wait—"
But he didn't. His eyes were blown wide open in lust, his grip hard on her flesh.
He thrust forward, gently but firmly, and his glans parted her labia. "Ng—!" she said.
"Shhh," he told her. "You were made for this." He thrust forward slowly and she cried out at the stretch. He was big—much bigger than his fingers, much bigger than anything she'd been prepared for. "Made for me."
Her brow furrowed as he pressed in—she closed her eyes against the stretch.
"Breathe," he said. "You can take it."
It hurt, yes—there was a burning twinge as her body opened to accommodate him.
But it was also so very…fucking…hot.
"Unhh—" she moaned. She threw her head back, wanting to scream but whimpering instead. "Yes—Tsuruga-sensei—"
"Look at me," he rasped, and she did. He held her gaze intently as he thrust forward—slowly but inexorably, he entered her. Inch by inch, as she cried out and gasped, he pushed forward. He pushed forward as her nails dug into his sleeves, pushed forward as her legs entwined around him. He thrust until he bottomed out, all of him encased inside her.
"Such a tight fucking pussy," he said. "Fuck, you're perfect—"
She was breathing and looking up at him obediently—his cock throbbed inside her, feeling like it was splitting her in two. "—my perfect little slut," he said.
His words were harsh but he was unexpectedly gentle to her as her body accommodated itself to him. He kept himself frozen, waiting for the tension in her to ease. She'd stopped breathing as he pushed in. "It's so big," she whimpered. "It's so big—ah—"
"Breathe, love," he said. His hands were still at her hips, holding her steady. She was so tight—he knew he wouldn't be able to last long. He knew he should offer to stop—to be a gentleman. He knew he should allow her some time to accommodate herself to his length, stretch out that sweet little slit of hers with his fingers, his tongue, perhaps some toys.
No.
Perhaps some other man would have offered, but he was in too far—she was his to possess, and he wouldn't stop until he'd well and truly claimed her.
"Shhhh." She'd begun to breathe again, raggedly. He could feel her body soften as she relaxed into his arms. "Better?" he asked.
She nodded, attempting to keep herself from whimpering. "Y-y-yes," she managed to say. He felt hot and hard inside her, and only now was the burning stretch give way to a feeling of fullness. Pleasure-pain, mingled into one overwhelming wave. Gods. She felt as raw as a bleeding edge…but the promise of more from him was too intoxicating. Tentatively she clenched around his shaft, gratified when she heard him gasp and felt his cock twitch inside her.
"Take me, then," he whispered, and pulled back only to push back into her as a cry broke from her lips. He did it again—pulling and pushing into her yielding body as she grabbed onto him.
"So deep…so deep…mmm!" Her head was thrashing back against the desk, but he kept going. He thrust inside her with a steady rhythm and she matched him, rolling her hips upwards as he drove himself into her. She pushed a hand against his chest and he captured it, entwining his fingers into hers as he grabbed the other and did the same.
"Mine," he growled, and trapped her hands over her head. She moaned underneath him as their bodies came together. She gave herself up to the sensation of him moving inside her, chasing ecstasy with every breath.
"More—Sensei, more—" He was holding her down but he groaned at the sight of her breasts bouncing each time he pushed inside her. Bending down low, he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked, hearing her wail as he rutted into her faster and faster.
"So fucking perfect—Kyoko—"
"Yes—so good—I'm—I'm—"
"Cum for me, Kyoko," he said.
She came on his cock first, her back arching up as her legs locked around him. He felt her pulse against him, her pussy squeezing against him as she cried out. He kept rutting into her, capturing her mouth against his in a futile effort to contain her cries. He was still kissing her when her climax brought his own. He found himself crying out with her, pushing into her deep as his cum filled her.
For a small eternity, they laid against each other, finding solace in each other's warmth as their heartbeats slowed. Her body glistened with a light sheen of sweat and he nuzzled into her, covering himself with her scent. He gave her kisses on her forehead and on her eyes before settling again on her mouth. She smiled up at him, feeling utterly sore and spent and used in the most delicious way.
He would have gladly stayed with her, just like that, until they became all too aware of the compromising nature of their position. She was warm in his arms, but the room was getting cold—the surface of the desk had been convenient, but the wooden ledge was beginning to bite into her legs. He was bent over uncomfortably, entwined with her body but unable to luxuriate in it. He gave her one final kiss before separating his still half-hard cock from her body…she gasped one last time as his cum dripped from her ravaged lips.
Reality was beginning to creep in as he looked at her—so beautiful with the marks of his love all over her skin. He could see where his hands had bruised her—the hickey over her heart was red and beginning to bruise.
She whimpered as she sat up, and he felt the cold pall of guilt poison his high. What have you done? he asked himself. He knew better—he truly, truly did. All he could think of in the moment was his need for her—his desire to claim her, to give in.
He watched her stand and felt his lust rise again at the sight of his cum dripping down her legs—and then horror overtook him as he realized he'd taken her virginity without bothering with protection. Plan B, he thought, and don't ever touch her again, you sick bastard.
"Kyoko," he said, afraid to look her in the eye, "I'll—I'll take you home. And get you the morning-after pill…"
She blushed in response, looking away as she found her skirt and pulled it up her legs.
He picked up her ruined shirt off the floor and held it out for her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have known better."
"Sensei," she said. There was something in her voice that made him look up at her. "I just—I just want you to know I don't regret it." Her lip was trembling as she gazed up at him.
He gazed back at her, desire and guilt warring inside him.
He knew they shouldn't do this again.
But he couldn't promise that they wouldn't.