Unorthodox

Mr. Peterson's breathing is heavy, with a ragged edge to it that makes your heart pound in your chest. "I had hoped, Miss Murray, that my typical methods would be enough to control your hedonistic desires." His foot presses against the back of your head, making you whimper into the floor. "I see now I will need to resort to more... unorthodox means. Lift your skirt over your hips."

You comply, unable to control your trembling as you reach down and flip your skirt up to expose your moist panties.

"If your desires cannot be controlled, Miss Murray..." his voice is an animalistic growl. "...perhaps they can be tamed."

With that, he brings his belt down sharply over your ass, forcing a shriek from your throat. He whips you again, and again, and again, harder each time. The pain is indescribable. Ribbons of fire across your rear, the heat spreading scorching through your whole body. Your pussy throbs with every strike, and the edge of pleasure in your screams twists your guts with delirious shame. Your teacher's foot on your head reminds you how you deserve this humiliating punishment. I brought this on myself this is my fault I deserve this for being such a pathetic slut. Thank you for punishing me Mr. Peterson.

Just as that final thought crosses your mind, Mr. Peterson brings the belt down right over your sensitive asshole. Your whole body convulses as the white-hot pain sets off a mind-melting orgasm. Juices squirt into your panties, saturating them, dripping onto the floor as you tremble and moan. It's just like yesterday, the pain and the pleasure reaching heights you've never even dreamed of, blending together until you don't know which is which. Yes yes fuck yes this is it this is what I need. More I need more Mr. Peterson.

"Did I give you permission to climax, Miss Murray?" His voice still has that ragged edge, now wrapped around a core of steel that stops your trembling breath in your throat.

You somehow manage to **** out a whisper. "...n-n-no... Mr. P-peterson..."

"Indeed not, Miss Murray. It appears you will need a lesson to go along with your punishment." He takes a few breaths, then removes his foot from the back of your head. "Sit up, Miss Murray, and remove your panties. Present them to me."

As you obey, rising from the floor and sitting back on your raw asscheeks with your legs in front of you, a quiet part of your mind asks a question. Why aren't you resisting? Why are you going along with this? What happened to your fire, your defiance, your rebellious will? Just minutes ago you were ready to throw Mr. Peterson's sexist nonsense back in his face. Now you're on the floor, looking up at him, slowly peeling your soaked panties down your long stocking covered legs.

I wanted this. I chose this. This is why I came to his house. This is why I asked for the advanced tutoring. I don't understand, and I don't care. I just want him to hit me and hurt me and **** me and **** me to come again and again. That's all I want that's all I care about I can't resist this feeling. These thoughts are raw and strong, shocking you with their clarity. It's like the intensity of Mr. Peterson's punishment has drawn out something inside you, something that understands how much you want this. How much you need this. Face flushed, breaths heavy, you hold your dripping panties in your cupped hands and present them to your teacher like an offering.

"Take a good look, Miss Murray. This is the result of your choices, of your actions. This soiled piece of cloth represents the weakness inside you, the inability of your will to overcome your carnal needs. I had hoped to teach you discipline. I had hoped that my instruction could show you a better way. It is clear to me now, Miss Murray, that the desires of your body are simply too much for you to control." He takes a deep breath. "So, I will need to control your body for you, using the only way I believe will be effective." His eyes flick down to your legs, thighs glistening with your girlcum. "Present your sex to me."

There's no hesitation. Mr. Peterson's punishment had already obliterated your ability to resist, and now his words have twisted into your mind and seized hold of your ability to think. You can barely even process your own reaction, all you can focus on is obeying his commands. Leaning back slightly, you spread your legs and bend your knees, lifting your short skirt and revealing your glistening pussy to your teacher.

His eyes are locked onto your wetness. "Remember this feeling, Miss Murray. You must be open to me, surrender your most intimate self to my control." He tightens his fist around the belt. "There is no other way. Keep your legs open and your eyes fixed on the token of your shame. Your punishment resumes now."

You obey, fixing your eyes on your panties raised above your head, trembling in anticipation for whatever is to come. You don't have to wait long. The belt comes down again, fierce and merciless, striking your inner thigh and forcing a pathetic scream from deep in your chest. Your screams turn into choked sobs as he strikes you again and again on your sensitive flesh. This is nothing like the crop from yesterday. Your whole body shakes with each impact, your skin sizzling with pain. You can barely focus on keeping your legs open, much less on keeping your vision fixed on your soaked panties.

He doesn't stop. The pain goes beyond any sensation you'd ever dreamed of, and as you draw in gasping breaths between your shrieks and moans, an understanding begins to dawn on you. This is what I want, I want it to go too far. Too much. I've been wasting all my time trying to find more and sweeter pleasure, a stronger orgasm, more intense stimulation. What if it isn't the pleasure that matters? What if all I need is a feeling beyond what my body can take? I could never take myself there. None of my lovers ever came close. But this... this...

...this is everything I ever needed.

Mr. Peterson finally relents, giving you just a moment to catch your breath. "Look down at your legs, Miss Murray."

You obey, releasing a high pitched moan at the sight of the bright red welts crisscrossing all over your exposed thighs. The sight of this change he's **** on your body sets your clit buzzing like a live wire. You need to come again, and you know exactly how you want it. "...p-p-please..."

Mr. Peterson's body tenses. "What was that, Miss Murray?"

You suck in a ragged breath. "Please... please hit my pussy... Mr. Peterson."

Your teacher breathes hard through his nose. "The last thing your sex needs is more attention, Miss Murray." He replaces his belt into the loops of his pants. "It seems you need another object lesson. You do not yet understand what you are, or what your place is here."

With that, he snatches your dripping panties from your hands, and you allow your arms to fall back to your sides. With a look of pure contempt in his dark eyes, Mr. Peterson holds your underwear above your upturned face in both hands, and twists. He wrings your juices from the soaked cloth, dripping over your cheeks and into your panting mouth, making you **** and cough. There's so much. So much evidence of your shame, your weakness, your pathetic nature. It rains over you, getting into your shirt, your vest, your skirt.

"Your uniform is no longer fit to wear, Miss Murray." Your teacher's voice is a low rumble. "Remove the soiled articles at once."

Blinking to clear your eyes of your girlcum, you meekly respond "yes, Mr. Peterson." You can't recognize your own voice. Being showered with your juices was utterly humiliating, but it also seemed to open something inside you. Push you toward a new understanding of what you are. You can't fully grasp it yet, but the throbbing pain in the flesh of your thighs and ass is a promise. There's no doubt in your heart that he will help you understand. Thank you for teaching me, Mr. Peterson.

Your hands work slow, dreamlike, removing your vest, unbuttoning and pulling off your white shirt, pulling your skirt down your legs. The deluge had even worked through your shirt to stain your bra, and as you take it off to reveal your young breasts to your teacher, that new understanding of yourself fills you with a warm glow. There still aren't words for it, but the feeling of being completely exposed to Mr. Peterson like this feels so right. All you have left on is the white stockings on your long legs. You're utterly open and **** to whatever he wants to do to you, and you know that's what you need.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Miss Murray?" His voice has transformed just as much as your self-understanding. He still speaks with the even cadence and eloquent language you're familiar with, but his restrained tone is completely gone. In its place is a primal, ragged edge that sends a thrill straight to your core. You need him to do more, teach you more, hurt you more.

Your own voice is meek, trembling, supplicative. "Please... please punish me more, Mr. Peterson."

The dark fire in his eyes flares, and for the first time you see his face lose its calm, authoritative mask, twisting with a frightening rage. He doesn't speak, he simply reaches down and grabs a fistful of your short purple hair, and pulls. He drags you, screaming and moaning and writhing behind him as he walks down an unlit hallway. The last thing you see before the darkness swallows you is a trail of your juices you've left on the hardwood floor. You hear a door open, Mr. Peterson's heavy footsteps suddenly echoing within a large space as he pulls you inside to meet your fate.