Disciplined Skull-Fuck

As Mom walks away to the kitchen with the pizza and breadsticks boxes, Miss Curtis rolls her hips, sliding her cock down my face. I stare up at her, my cheeks reddening with humiliation as my teacher prepares to make full and free use of me.

She drags her crown down the side of my face, rolling her hips to bring it to my lips. Miss Curtis smirks down at me as she looks at me, hesitating for only a moment with a soft sigh. She looks like she's biting back a comment. Maybe a question.

“Take it, faggot,” Miss Curtis commands, as she pushes in. Her cock stretches my lips taut around her, so taut I can't smile at being called a faggot, almost taut enough that it hurts. She's a hairsbreadth slimmer than my Mom and Dad's cocks are.

“That's it,” she sighs as she slides herself to the hilt, and I swallow, “There's a good little faggot. I'm not going to go easy. I'm going to fuck your mouth like it's all it's good for. Moan for me when you're ready, fag.” I moan, and her hips move.

There's no harsh cruelty, no degradation beyond the humiliation of being used like this, by my former English teacher. Her eyes focus on mine as she pulls her hips back and then thrusts hard. Her thrusting stops shy of slapping my cheeks.

Her rhythm establishes itself, her motions fast and hard, but controlled. Miss Curtis makes my throat stretch around her, conforming palpably to the shape of her cock as it rams down my throat. I swallow each time heavy jewels touch my chin.

“That's it, that's a good fag,” Miss Curtis coos the words with dissonant softness as she pumps her cock down my throat. My eyes focus up on hers as she watches my face, watches her cock disappear into it, her fingers gripping my skull firmly.

I'm nothing to her now, not her student, not a person, simply a hole to fuck that has certain natural usage requirements and limitations. Her hips move swift, every thrust forceful but measured, slamming herself down my throat, opening me.

Then back, before her hips can slap my face. Not out of hesitation or concern. I can see it in her eyes. It's out of respect for the tool she's using. For her, I now exist solely as an object to be used for her pleasure, one not to be damaged by her use.

I keep my hands behind my back, my fingers curling around my wrists, letting her hammer in. Her motions are sharp and yet smooth, like a well-oiled piston that's been calibrated for perfect precision. She never slows down, her hips don't slap.

“There's a good faggot,” Miss Curtis purrs the words contentedly, like music in my brainwashed ears, “Just the slut I need. Take it all, little whore.” I used to be her best student, but now, I'm simply a cock-sleeve and cum-dumpster she can use.

Author's Note:
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