Put Ms Waterston in her place

As Ms. Waterston begins writing equations on the board, her movements are graceful yet restrained. Every so often, she glances back at the class, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than the others. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a silent invitation, an unspoken understanding of the dynamic that’s been woven into the fabric of this classroom.

Pushing your chair back, you stand and walk toward her, the faint squeak of your shoes on the floor drawing her attention. She pauses mid-equation, her hand hovering over the chalkboard, and turns to face you. Her expression is calm, almost expectant, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. And to her, it is.

“Mr. Michaels,” she says, her voice soft but firm, “is there something you need?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you step closer, your eyes scanning the array of equipment lining the walls. Your hand brushes against a coiled length of rope, the texture rough and satisfying against your fingertips. You grab it, and Ms. Waterston’s breath hitches ever so slightly, her lips parting as she watches you. Her body language shifts subtly—shoulders relaxing, chin tilting down just enough to expose the delicate curve of her neck.

“You’ve been a little too... focused on the board, Ms. Waterston,” you say, your voice low and deliberate.

She doesn’t resist as you step behind her, your hands moving to her wrists. You bind her hands behind her back, the rope snug but not too tight—just enough to remind her of her place. She lets out a quiet sigh, her body leaning into you slightly as you work. When you’re done, you give the ropes a firm tug, and she gasps softly, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Better,” you murmur, stepping back to admire your handiwork. The sight of her like this, bound and compliant, sends a thrill through you. It’s almost surreal how natural it feels, how *normal* it seems to everyone else in the room. The other students barely glance up, their attention either on their work or quietly observing, as if this is just another part of the lesson.

You turn her around to face the class, your hand resting on her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed, but she holds your gaze, her dark eyes filled with a mix of submission and anticipation. You run your fingers along her jawline, tilting her head up slightly.

“Now,” you say, your voice carrying just enough authority to make her shiver, “let’s make sure you stay focused. We wouldn’t want you getting distracted again, would we?”

She shakes her head, a faint whimper escaping her lips. You smirk, stepping back to grab a paddle from the wall. It’s a simple tool, smooth and unassuming, but the way Ms. Waterston’s eyes widen tells you she knows exactly what’s coming.

You bring the paddle down on her backside, the sharp *crack* echoing through the room. She gasps, her body tensing as the sting radiates through her. But just as quickly, she relaxes, a soft moan escaping her lips as she arches her back, presenting herself for more.

The class watches in silence, some students smirking, others averting their eyes, but nobody seems particularly shocked or disturbed. To them, this is just how math class is. You, however, relish every moment, every reaction, every breathy whimper that escapes her lips as you continue. The power is intoxicating, and you can feel yourself getting harder with each strike.

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