by Jane Davitt

Her lips are set in a petulant pout and her eyes are tear-wet. Angry tears; those he'll permit, within certain limits, and tears of pain are inevitable from time to time, but she can break him with a single sob of genuine sadness and he wishes it wasn't virtually certain that she knows that.

Her hand is on her hip and she's standing, slouched and defiant, in front of him, the uniform skirt she's wearing, (an unflattering navy and pleated to boot), chalk-smudged in places.

He supposes that dressing her in a schoolgirl's outfit is a little traditional, but this is no skimpy plaid skirt fantasy, lacy knickers flashing. No; Faith's wearing a real uniform from a noted English school, heavy and dull, a plain white cotton blouse buttoned up high, her navy and maroon striped tie knotted neatly, knee-length socks in a scratchy gray wool.

She hates it. He loves it.

He glances at the blackboard where the lines he's told her to write have been scrawled untidily.

"That just won't do, Faith," he says mildly. "Erase them and begin again, please."

The tears gather and spill down flushed cheeks and he arches his eyebrows, a familiar warm glow gathering, his cock hard as it has been since they began. Soon. God, he makes her wait, and she complains so bitterly, so vociferously, his Faith, but can't she see how difficult it is for him, too?

He wants her bare, hot skin under his hand. Wants to cup the silk-soft skin of her breast and tap his thumb against the metal pinching her nipple and hear her groan, piteously imploring. Wants to plunge his fingers, two, three at a time, into that heated, juice-slick cunt and feel her arch, trying to rub her clit against the heel of his hand, begging him silently for release, because she's been forbidden to speak and she tries to be good, sometimes, tries to be obedient.

Rebels so perfectly for him when she knows he wants it.

But now, she's just a naughty schoolgirl, and under that blouse she's only wearing a sober white bra, plain to the point of boredom, the firm thrust of her breasts tamed and hidden. The clamps are waiting for later, if he wants them on her, and he hasn't slid his hand between her legs all day. He closes his hand into a fist and breathes carefully, shallowly, through a wave of lust. God, he wants to fuck her. Sometimes, for all the games they play, it just comes down to that. He wants to take her, own her, fill her. Lose himself in that beautiful body, hear her call out his name as she comes, so much love and need tangled around it, so much that he still can't quite believe he deserves.

"Ten times," he reminds her, and watches her flounce, arse wiggling, over to the blackboard to do as she's told.

He waits until she's at line five and goes to stand behind her. He touches her then. Flips up that heavy skirt, pushes his hand between those smooth, hot thighs and curls his fingers inside thick, navy knickers to reach the waiting flesh.

So wet for him. Her knickers are soaked and her breath catches, the chalk squeaking as he starts to fuck her slowly with his fingers.

"Keep writing," he says into her ear and tugs gently at the nearest plait, her dark hair braided tight and neat as a schoolgirl's should be. "Finish your punishment like a good girl, Faith."

She makes a soft, frustrated whimper, and he feels her flex and grip his invading fingers, which makes him shudder and cast a longing glance at the cane on the wall.


She really has been terribly naughty. She's more than deserved the six strokes she'll get, landing sharp and bright across her bared arse, knickers down by her knees as she bends over his desk -- a position he recalls only too well from his childhood.

More than deserved the spanking her tits will get as she'll be too sore for more punishment on that delectably rounded bottom.

More than deserved to wait to come until she's shaking, crying, squirming in his arms.

She's earned all of it and more.

It's the best birthday present he's had today, that deliberate, flagrant misbehavior of hers.

He presses a kiss to the bared, pale nape even as he slides a slippery finger into her arsehole just to make her jump and cry out and press back against him fervently.

"Oh, dear," he murmurs, seeing the way the chalk line has wavered. "I think we'll have to write this line again, don't you?"

And she glances back at him, dark eyes gleaming, and erases the line and does it again in the perfect copperplate he's taught her with the aid of a ruler and a good many hours practice.

I will always misbehave on Wesley's birthday.

He hopes it's a lesson she doesn't forget.

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