Go home

Ralf stepped back, wiping his shoe on the carpet as if he’d stepped in something foul.

“Turn around, slut. Back to me, legs spread wide, ass up high. Present that cunt like the bitch in heat you are.”

Ms. Sullivan’s body obeyed before her mind could even finish screaming. She spun on her knees, dropped to all fours, then widened her stance until her thighs trembled. She arched her back, pushing her hips up, exposing everything to him (shame burning hotter than any pain).

Ralf circled behind her slowly, savoring the view.

“This is for every time you said ‘boys will be boys’ when they broke my ribs.”

His foot swung up, full ****, the hard toe of his sneaker slamming straight between her legs. The impact was sickening (wet, meaty). She jolted forward with a strangled, soundless scream, drool spilling from her open mouth, but the ring kept her in position.

He kicked again. Harder.

“And this is for every detention you never gave them.”

Again.

“And this is for pretending you cared about any student who wasn’t rich or popular.”

Four, five, six brutal kicks, each one landing squarely on her exposed sex until her entire body shook with silent sobs and her thighs glistened with tears, sweat, and worse.

When he finally stopped, she was a trembling wreck, barely able to hold the position.

“Get dressed,” he said coldly. “You’re driving me home. Oh, and write me an excuse for the rest of the day (medical reasons). Tell the office I’m excused indefinitely.”

Ten minutes later, Ms. Sullivan (hair hastily pinned, makeup repaired just enough to hide the worst of it) walked stiffly through the corridors, thighs pressed tightly together with every agonizing step. Ralf strolled beside her, hands in his pockets, whistling.

They reached the staff parking lot. She opened the door of her sleek black Audi Q7 with shaking fingers and let him slide into the passenger seat like he owned it (because now he did).

The drive was silent except for the occasional choked whimper when she shifted in her seat. Ralf stared out the window, smiling at the familiar streets.

At last the car turned into a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac and slowed in front of a large, modern house with perfectly manicured hedges.

Ms. Sullivan pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.

Ralf stepped out, stretched, and looked up at what was now officially his.

“Welcome home, ****,” he said, not even glancing back at the broken woman still clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles. “Carry my backpack inside. Then go fetch your daughter. We have a family meeting.”