You get a ping on your phone.

Social Studies flies by quickly, and so does your last period, English. You’re still riding off a light high from your conversation with Charlotte, so you’d pretty much faded through Mr. Fletcher’s analysis of Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’ - although to be honest you usually tend to sleep through analyses of books from the 19th century.

As the bell is about to ring, you receive a ping on your phone. Quickly checking the screen, you find a delivery notice from the stamp company you ordered from earlier:

Your item: 1x Personal Text Stamp ‘Bennet’ has arrived. Thank you for shopping with us!

You gulp. It came earlier than you thought it would. The message had said Monday Afternoon, granted, but usually packages arrive later rather than sooner, and this distributor in question tends to deliver about as late as they can get away with. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, as your mom tends to get most deliveries that you miss, but because you couldn’t exactly tell your mom what you needed the stamp for, you’d forwent asking her permission to use her credit card. You can’t imagine she’d be pleased that you’d ordered something without her consent, and not to mention, you’ve had some problems with porch pirates before. So you absolutely need to get home as fast as possible.

Backpack in hand, you practically fly out of the classroom the second the bell rings, dashing through the hall toward the exit. As you run, you quickly swerve in between students as the hallways rapidly fill up, feeling like a contestant on Hole in the Wall as you weave in between your peers. You almost crash into some kid scouring through his locker, but you narrowly avoid him by quickly dodging to the side. Finally, the hallway opens up into the lobby, and the crowd thins. You’re about 20 meters from the exit when you spot…

Her.

As you rapidly slow your descent, you skid to a stop directly in front of Ms. Spruce. Your heart sinks as she places her hands on her hips, eyeing you with a vindictive gaze that makes your blood freeze. It seems her good mood from earlier has dissipated into nothing but a distant memory.

“Well, well, well. Running in the halls, Mister Jones?” She asks coldly, her voice dripping with malice. Of all the times to run into her…

“S-sorry, Ms. Spruce!” You stammer, trying to play it off whilst slowly inching closer towards the exit. “I just have to run home to get a package, it won’t happen again.”

She shakes her head. “This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you running in the halls, Mr. Jones, and I don’t care where you’ve got to be, we do not run in the halls. A repeated offense such as this demands consequences, and so I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring you to…”

Smiling, she pauses for dramatic effect. It’s clear she’s enjoying this much more than she should be.

“Detention.”

Your heart falls into your stomach. Not now, not now! Who knows what could happen to the package in that time?

Ms. Spruce snaps her fingers in front of your eyes. “Follow me, Mr. Jones,” she sings, twisting around as she starts walking down the hallway, pushing past a small group of spectators that had gathered at some point during the exchange. Sighing, you begrudgingly follow her, taking one final glance at the exit as it disappears out of sight.

---

You’ve never been to detention before. You’ve gotten in trouble, sure, and you were even sent to the principal’s office once a couple of years back, but this is a whole other level. The detention room is a cold and lifeless place, sporting a complete lack of windows and dull, featureless walls. The chairs and desks are noticeably older than those found in the regular classrooms, the tiled floor is stained and yellowed with age, and half the bulbs in the room, also emitting an ugly yellow light, seem to be burned out, casting a dimness that strains your eyes. If the school was going for some kind of insane asylum look, then they hit the fucking jackpot.

Looking around the classroom, you notice the unusual lack of any other detention-goers. You know for a fact that your peers are no strangers to mischief, and although you’ve never ended up in detention before, you do know of a couple of regulars who often end up staying here after school. Today, however, it seems like you’ll be the only one. Lucky you.

“Take your seat, Mr. Jones,” Ms. Spruce smirks, sliding behind a teacher’s desk at the front of the room. “I’m on detention duty today, so you’d better stay quiet while I get some work done.”

Great, she’s on detention duty? You realize that she was probably waiting near the exits specifically to catch people running in the halls, all so she could bring people here and get paid extra for watching over them. Or… you assume that the school would pay extra. Maybe she just likes fucking with students.

“So, what am I supposed to do?” You ask tentatively, pulling yourself into an empty seat in the middle of the room and dropping your bag by your side. “Just sit and do nothing?”

“If I were in charge, then yes, that’s exactly what you’d be doing.” She scoffs. “Unfortunately, with all this effort towards a more ‘supportive’ school system, that style of punishment has been deemed ‘unsupportive’. Now they allow you to do homework, so…” she trails off, shaking her head and waving her hand at you dismissively. Well, at least you have something to do. Might as well take this time to get that math homework out of the way.

Sighing, you grab your math folder from your bag and start completing problems. Polynomials, binomials, trinomials… It’s gotten to the point that you’re convinced most mathematicians are just making shit up. With a little effort, you manage to make it about halfway through the first page before the boredom stops you from continuing.

God, what the hell are you going to do for the rest of detention?

…

The obvious answer hits you like a truck.

You’re all alone with Ms. Spruce. You’ve got the pen in your bag, just begging to be used. It’s unlikely you’ll be disturbed for the next while. Aside from the lack of a stamp, this is the perfect situation. You already decided that Ms. Spruce would be a good test subject, so now all that’s left to do is to go through with it.

It’s a risk. If you try this… and it fails… she’s not going to look at it like it’s some social experiment. A student writing his name on his teacher using calligraphy ink? At best, she’ll make you stay in detention an extra couple of hours, and at worst…

The thought makes you shudder. She seems to be looking for any excuse to get you in trouble, so the sky’s the limit for what she might do to you. Suspension, maybe. But, something deep inside of you convinces you it’s worth the risk. All you need to do is find some way to get your name on her skin.

You mull over the problem. If you tried writing directly on her, she’d probably snap your pen in half before getting halfway through your name. It’s why a stamp is so perfect, but a stamp’s the whole reason you’re even here. It’s so frustrating - your answer to this problem is sitting on your porch right now, but you can’t get to it. There must be some other way.

Suddenly, it hits you. Temporary tattoos. Little pieces of paper soaked with ink that, once placed on the skin for an adequate amount of time, peel off and attach themselves as a… well, temporary tattoo, generally only lasting a day or two. They usually have to be dampened by warm water first, but that’s just to activate the dried ink. So, theoretically, if you were to grab some paper and write your name deep enough that the ink soaks through, you’d get a sort of makeshift temporary tattoo.

Of course, it’s not a flawless plan. What if the ink doesn’t soak through enough, or it soaks through too much and your name ends up blurry? Or… what if it doesn’t even work at all?

You banish the thought from your head. This whole situation is as surreal as it gets, so why not at least try? You miss every shot you don’t take, and all that. If nothing happens you can probably just bolt out of the room if need be. Any consequences after that… well, you’d find some way to deal with them. Maybe.

Grabbing a piece of blank paper from your bag, you fold it three times until you have a sheet about the same length as a bracelet. You wrap it around your forearm, and the paper just barely surrounds it. Perfect.

Checking every so often that Ms. Spruce isn’t looking, you begin etching your name into the paper, the deep strokes quickly soaking ink into the folded sheet. Seeing as you have to write backwards, it’s quite the challenge, but your calligraphy experience comes in handy as you ensure its legibility. As the ink soaks through, you cap the pen and discretely place the paper against the desk - when you pull it away, your name is staring right back at you, the ink sinking in and consequently marking the desk as yours. Perfect.

You take a couple of deep breaths. This is it - the moment of truth. You’re about to test the ink on a real person. First things first, though, you’ve gotta get Spruce over to your desk… as well as keep her busy enough to not notice the paper until it’s too late.

You place the paper tattoo into the bottom section of your desk before opening your mouth. “Hey Ms. Spruce, I’m having some trouble with my math homework. Do you think you could help me out?”

“No talking. I’m busy,” she answers dismissively, not even raising her head from her work to look at you. You sigh. She’s stubborn, and a real ice-queen-bitch to boot - she’d make a great lawyer. Determined, you keep trying.

“Please, Ms. Spruce, I’m completely lost! Just figured someone as smart as you would be able to help me out, is all.”

You curse at yourself right after speaking. No way in hell would anyone ever believe a line that corny. You’re about to take it back, or even give up entirely, but to your surprise, Ms. Spruce has set her pen down and is smirking at you.

“Seriously can’t figure it out by yourself? Very well, I’ll bite,” she snickers, getting up from her chair and walking towards your desk. She sets her hands on the desk as she looms over your shoulder, scanning the page like a combat drone scans for armed militants. As her eyes scour the paper for any mistakes, you notice her leaning back slightly, causing the sleeve of the white sweater she’s wearing to hike up her left arm - exposing pale skin underneath.

Hand lowering, you slowly reach for the makeshift tattoo inside the desk.

“These seem to be correct, what exactly did you- hey!” She yells, as you quickly bring down the tattoo, wrapping it around her forearm. It’s the perfect size, and you fight to keep the paper attached to her arm as long as possible, but after a few seconds, a shocked Ms. Spruce manages to rip her arm free. You catch a glimpse of the ink, and it’s just as you’d hoped - maybe a little blurry, but the name is legible, dark, and firmly imprinted on her skin.

Spruce is, for a moment, catatonic, her fiery gaze switching between you and the tattoo in your hand. “Jesus, you psycho! What the hell are you…”

Her eyes settle onto her arm. Her voice trails off, as she motionlessly stares at your name, newly inked upon her wrist. Her amber eyes fog over, and her expression goes blank, just like before… although this time, she doesn’t immediately return to normal. Instead, she slowly turns to you, her lips quivering.

All of a sudden, with a swiftness that makes you recoil in surprise, Ms. Spruce gasps as her hands fly to the sides of her head. She stumbles backward, and her fogged eyes are wide, a look of intense shock frozen on her face. She stares intensely at some infinitesimally small point far away, and from where you’re sitting, it seems like she isn’t breathing. Soon enough though, the light returns to her eyes. Her entire body shivers, and you’re about ready to call the paramedics, when a look of complete serenity appears on her face. She takes a deep breath, her hands lower, and she seems to take in her surroundings until her gaze reaches you.

Her expression sours.

“Bennet. Of course, it had to be Bennet,” she mutters, shaking her head. You have absolutely no idea what just happened, but you still feel a bit insulted anyway.

There’s a noticeable silence in the room. You stare at the mark on her arm, then her. She’s not running away, or yelling at you, or trying to rub off the ink on her arm, she’s just... standing there, like she’s waiting for something. Her eyes are angry, but not bloodthirsty, like they had been just a few seconds ago. More annoyed, if anything. Is she waiting for you to speak?

Fine. Let’s get some answers.

You motion towards her arm. “Uh, that mark on your wrist. Tell me what it means.”

She gazes at the name, distantly, like she’s checking something internally. “It means you own me. That doesn’t… or, it shouldn’t feel right, but…”

Confirmation. Somehow you’d always known that it would work, but hearing it straight from her mouth fills you with a strange warmth. You crumple up the tattoo and toss it aside.

“Okay, so what does that mean?”

She looks at you expectantly, as if you should already know - but eventually sighs and relents. “It means… well, you own me. My body, my mind, everything I once owned, you own it now. All of it. God, it’s bullshit, and it shouldn’t make sense… but it’s true. Somehow it’s the truest thing in the world.”

Woah. That’s a lot to take in. So… she’s basically like your property?

**** ink. Right. Okay, as completely batshit insane as this whole thing is, you can’t help but feel a dark twinge of excitement at the prospect. Time to do some testing.

“So, what? You’ll do whatever I say?”

An almost fearful look comes over her face, and she hesitantly nods. “I-I suppose so, but-”

“Raise your left hand.”

Her arm raises automatically, startling Ms. Spruce, as well as you. She tries pulling at it with her right hand, but her arm seems stuck in place, her left hand frozen just above her head. “H-hey! Stop that!” She cries, clearly not used to any sense of powerlessness. You suppose it might be one reason she wound up as a high school teacher.

“Okay, now release it.”

Her hand falls back down to earth. Arm back in her control, she rubs it uncertainly. “Okay, fun’s over, I get it -“

“Do a spin.”

Her voice trails as she spins stiffly in place, holding out her arms like a dancer as she twirls. Her form sucks, and she knocks her thigh into one of the desks beside her, but she sticks the landing, stopping after exactly one full spin. Her gaze darkens.

“Bennet, stop this at once. I know you own me, but this is no way to treat your teacher -"

Her face reddens as she raises her voice, but you swiftly cut her off. Her expression is angry - cold. You decide to see if a command could help with that.

“Give me a cute smile,” you order, grinning as the contemptuous look on her face instantly melts away, replaced with a warm, inviting smile - one that absolutely does not meet her eyes. You order her body to follow suit and her shoulders relax, as she shifts her body weight onto one leg and her arms take on a casual, confident pose, one hand resting up against her waist while the other grabs a lock of her golden hair and begins twirling her finger around it affectionately. Moments before, Spruce looked as if she might kill you if she got the chance. Now, it almost looks like she’s about to invite you out to coffee.

Ms. Spruce struggles to speak through her pearly white grin. “B—n-t! L—t m— g—!” You giggle a little at her welcoming expression, contrasted with the sheer malice that she’s trying to spew at you. You have to admit, this is kind of fun - controlling your teacher like this, especially someone as bitchy as Ms. Spruce, is a bit of a power trip.

But you aren’t fully satisfied with this game of Simon Says. To properly test the ink, you want to try making her do things she’d never in a million years out of her own volition - and you have a good idea of what to start with.

“Okay, Okay. You can stop posing now.”

Her body instantly tenses, and returns to the same, uncomfortable posture she had earlier. Her scowl reappears almost instantly, and the look in her eyes gives you the impression that she’s imagining a thousand different ways of murdering you.

“No more playing around. Ms. Spruce. I’d like you to do something big for me.”

Ms. Spruce’s eyes narrow, but she leans slightly forward. You can tell that, despite herself, she’s hanging onto every word.

“I’d like you to give me an A this term. For everything.”

The request is obvious. Math is easily your worst subject, so you’ve got a lot to gain. Ms. Spruce puts a lot of work into her rep as a teacher - you doubt even **** would get her to change a student’s grades if they didn’t deserve it. Luckily, it seems you’ve stumbled across something a bit more powerful than ****.

Ms. Spruce scoffs, but the look on her face betrays a sign of solace, as if she’s relieved you didn’t ask for anything more. “Wait, is that really why you… claimed me? To get better marks in math?” Her tone is mocking, but has a trace of hope buried inside of it.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s just a start. Go do it.”

She stares at you for a moment before casting her head down slightly and walking to her desk. She pulls out a purple binder from her bag and grips a pen, before tossing the binder onto the desk and hesitantly opening it. She begins scrawling into it, and you don’t even bother walking over there and checking her work - you can tell by her begrudging demeanor that she’s obeying you.

It’s quite the sight: Ms. Spruce going against her code as a teacher, handing out good marks to a student she hates, right in the middle of a detention class she made especially for said student. It’s almost poetic.

With an exasperated sigh, Spruce throws down her pen, shutting the binder with a distinct snap. “Done,” she spits, like the very word is poison in her mouth. Her body seemingly returns to her control, and she stares intently at her hands, turning them over and testing each finger as if she’s never seen them before.

You let out an incredulous chuckle, surprised at just how fast and effective your command had been. All the months of bullshit Math classes and horrible marks have been practically eliminated in an instant. The feeling is quite satisfying. Actually… it’s something a lot more powerful.

That feeling… It's back now. Much more intense than ever before. The sense of utter control is palpable, flowing throughout your body like a potent ****. The sensation is unnatural, and should probably demand concern, but… you just can’t bring yourself to care. Putting your name on objects - the book, the homework, the letter. All of it was filler. This is the ink’s true purpose.

Ms. Spruce is completely and utterly yours, in mind, body, and soul. You don’t feel any sense of moral distress, no empathy for Ms. Spruce - hell, she doesn’t even feel like a real person to you anymore. She gives you the same vibe as a piece of furniture or a life-sized doll. You feel a distinct lack of humanity when you look at her, replaced instead by a sense of… ownership. As if she’s truly become just another one of your possessions. Because she has.

It’s a dark feeling, but it feels… really good. Far too good. You decide there’s no need to change her back. It would feel so much better to just keep her like this.

Forever.

Dark thoughts flood your mind.

The Ice Queen is just a thing now. An object. A ****. You remember feeling so disgusted at that word, but now it perfectly encompasses your feelings towards her. There’s no need to feel bad. She isn’t a person anymore.

Ms. Spruce is eyeing you cautiously, sensing the change in energy that’s filled the room. Her eyes are vindictive, but her posture is nervous, submissive, a complete contrast from this morning when she’d been screaming bloody **** in your face. You understand just how deeply you’ve changed her - and how much deeper you can still change her.

There’s a final test you’ve decided to try, something Ms. Spruce would never do. Something that, honestly, seems so obvious.

“Take off your sweater,” you order forcefully, and Spruce’s vengeful glare deepens. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” She hisses through gritted teeth, but to your excitement, she begins carefully lifting her sweater off, eventually raising it above her head and throwing it down onto the floor, revealing a plain white T-Shirt underneath. “Happy, you little shit?” She mutters angrily, rubbing her exposed arms. She’s red as a beet, but you can’t help but notice her eyes cross a little as she completes the task. Not yet satisfied, and wanting to see her squirm a little, you shake your head. “Now, the shirt. Chop-chop.”

She stares at you in shock, and it almost looks like she’s about to object, but her arms seem to move on their own, slowly lifting her shirt from the bottom and bringing it upwards. After a moment, her shirt is halfway off and covering up her furious gaze, so you decide to mess with her a little more.

“Stop,” you command, and she instantly freezes, her arms still halfway in her shirt and lifted above her head. “What?!” She shouts, her voice slightly muffled by the fabric stretched across her face.

You wear a devilish grin and come closer to whisper in her ear. “Dance it off,” you order, and you hear an annoyed sigh come from her covered head as she begins rhythmically jerking off the shirt.

It’s not a graceful dance, resembling some horrible mix between an unenthusiastic striptease and “the robot”, but you enjoy the sight of her tits bouncing and jiggling in her purple bra as they come more into view. Eventually, she flings the shirt off of her body and stands straight. You take one look at her expression, immediately regretting it. Jeez, if looks could kill…

Her arms are defensively covering her chest, but with a simple order, she glares and slowly lowers them, giving you an ample view. Taking in the sight, you admire her from a safe distance away. Her breasts aren’t at all as small as you previously assumed - in fact, they’re quite big. It seems sweaters do wonders at covering up cleavage. She’s got tight, dark gray yoga leggings on, and you can’t help but notice a small, darkened spot in a certain region… and she’s seemed to notice it as well, as she’s currently eyeing the spot with a look of betrayal. Come to think of it, her breathing during the dance had been quite ragged, although you had simply chalked it up to the exercise.

Hmmm… perhaps she’s getting something out of this, too?

Time to test that hypothesis.

“Spruce,” you say out loud, causing her reddened gaze to snap back towards you. “That’s Ms. Spruce,” she angrily corrects, shooting daggers from her eyes and clenching her fists at her sides. Strange how she’s still clawing for respect even though she’s almost topless.

“Alright, Ms. Spruce. Question. How does it feel to follow an order?”

She takes a sharp breath and turns away. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says too quickly, and she hikes up her shoulders, visibly uncomfortable.

Bingo.

“I order you to answer truthfully,” you taunt, and her face morphs into an expression of shameful self-disgust. Her clenched fists tremble slightly, and she seems to hold back a series of verbal assaults before quietly relenting.

“Mph. Fine. It feels… Good.”

“Just good?”

“Yes! Good!” She exasperates, looking downwards.

“Tell me the whole truth.”

She stares coldly at you, contrasting the all-new shade of red on her face. She’s embarrassed, angry, and quite possibly horny, and it takes all her courage to respond, voice wavering as she does so.

“F-fine. It feels… amazing. Better than anything I’ve ever felt. God, it’s like an… orgasmic burst of pleasure throughout every inch of my body, that just keeps exploding as long as I keep…”

She swallows hard before continuing. It’s clear she’s saying a lot more than she wants to.

“Obeying. I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to me…”

She trails off, leaving you both stunned, in awe of the ink’s power, as well as the fact that you just heard your 12th-grade math teacher say the word “orgasmic”.

A version of you a couple of days ago likely would have found your teacher’s visible arousal as appalling. Ms. Spruce, the ice queen teacher that made Grade 12 math hell for everyone involved? She’s good looking for sure, but her personality turned you off completely. But now? Something’s different. Off. Somehow, something about your bitch teacher getting wet for you, simply from obeying your orders… It's electric. There’s a tent in your pants that Spruce has almost certainly noticed, and that makes you even harder. You hadn’t been this way before, you know that for a fact, but you’re certainly not complaining about it now.

“Do you like it?” You ask out of morbid curiosity. Some part of you has to know - she’s also enjoying this on some level, isn’t she?

She takes a deep breath and looks you straight in the eye. She doesn’t even bother trying to hide the truth anymore.

“I… Yes.”

Yes. She likes it. The answer almost surprises you - you aren’t sure what you had envisioned when the concept of “**** ink” had first come up, but you sure as hell didn’t see it as being this… erotic. Well, maybe a small part of you did, but you were thinking more along the lines of historical slavery, and that had more or less taken you out of it. This, however, is… well, it’s hard to say that it’s anything but magic.

You look up at Ms. Spruce and inspect her **** form, her angry eyes, her voluptuous body. The heat and presence of her arousal, visible from the sweat on her skin, audible from her increasingly heavier breaths. You aren’t entirely sure what you’ve done to her either, but the palpable power you have over her, as well as the knowledge that she’s at least somewhat enjoying it…

And the knowledge that she’s yours…

It pushes you over the edge.

You march towards Ms. Spruce. “H-hey, what the hell?” She yelps as you **** her onto her knees, pushing aside a desk to make room. Grabbing her by the head, you position her in front of you and unbuckle your belt. “Take it out,” you order and she looks up at you, her withering gaze betrayed by glimpses of subservience. As angry as she may be with the situation, she’s already given in to the fact that you own her. She’ll follow your every command, no matter how detrimental to herself and others. Her current self with her fiery personality may judge you for it, but…

You can always order that personality away.

A tempting offer, but you want to keep this Spruce around, at least for now. Her eyes are downcast as she unzips your pants and releases your cock, gently but firmly pulling it out as she drags your pants and undergarments down to your shoes. “Son of a bitch,” she mumbles as she stares at your dick, at full mast and ready. “Disgusting son of a fucking…”

“Alright, alright, enough with the insults!” You blurt out, whapping Spruce in the face with your cock. She looks like she’d bite it off if she could, but she makes no attempt to - perhaps some hidden protective effect of the ink? Her tone, however, is still getting on your nerves, so something needs to be done.

“In fact… how about this? Whenever you try to insult me, I want you to say something nice instead.”

You wait a moment for the command to wash over Spruce, and she growls unhappily. “That’s such a fucking st-great idea!” She flinches, clearly not expecting the words that just came out of her mouth, and tries again. “Y-you’re such a fucking genius! I’m just an obnoxious, big-boobed bitch who doesn’t know her place!”

Huh. You didn’t expect her to demean herself like that, but you kind of like it. Ms. Spruce clearly doesn’t, however, and she gags a little after speaking. Awww. She’s almost cute looking all pissed like this.

“Good girl,” you smirk, and Ms. Spruce shudders - whether it’s from disgust or pleasure, you can’t tell. Probably a bit of both. “Why don’t you do me a favor and take off your bra?”

Spruce inhales a sharp breath. She’s been dreading this, but her traitorous arms quickly move to her back and unhook the clasp of her bra. Her breasts fall free and now you can see why she called herself big-boobed: these things are huge! Easily the size of cantaloupes, if not bigger. You realize she’s been using a minimizer bra this whole time, which, coupled with the sweater, has hidden most of her chest during class. You completely understand why she does this, too: None of her students would be able to pay attention if she were swinging these puppies around, unabated.

She catches you staring at her chest in awe and scoffs. “What, surprised? You handsome stud… My titties are so big and soft, and they’re all for you! …Fuck!”

You blink hard, freeing yourself from a trance of your own. “W-whatever. They’re alright,” you mutter and Ms. Spruce just shakes her head in incredulity. Jesus, she sure does have an attitude problem. Let’s see how well she keeps that up with your cock in her mouth.

“Now, uhm… start sucking. And don’t stop until I finish.”

As if magnetized, she thrusts her lips onto your cock, as she begins sucking and blowing you in a rhythmic pattern. Her fists clench on the ground as she does so, and the humiliated look in her eyes seems to deepen with each suck. She doesn’t look into your eyes, instead focusing her gaze somewhere around your abs, and they cross a little as they get closer with each thrust.

“Mnfgg, hng mmph,” she mumbles around your cock, small rivulets of drool and precum dripping from her mouth as she does so, and you have no intention of transcribing whatever she’s whining about. Every once in a while she makes a move as if trying to get off of you, but she automatically thrusts her lips deeper onto your shaft each time she tries.

Her tongue begins moving in erratic patterns around your head, and you realize that she’s quite good at this. Barring any possible assistance from the ink, it seems she’s quite the cocksucker. “So, what do you think?” You groan between thrusts, causing her to look up at you. “Is it… uh… big?” You ask, and, sensing she’s allowed to speak, she releases your dick and produces a gargled chuckle in response.

“H-hah, are you kidding me? It’s the biggest cock I’ve ever seen!”

She flinches, and quickly moves back to servicing your dick, seemingly to shut herself up. You shake your head and silently thank the ink for catching that insult.

As you pick up a faster rhythm, you grab a fistful of her long, blonde hair and start pushing her head towards your thighs, impaling her throat even further with your cock. As she gasps and grunts, you feel a wave of confidence come over you.

“Y-yeah, you like that, bitch?” You gloat, and she continues glaring as she deepthroats your cock, although with each thrust you notice her gaze softening - her eyes crossing a little bit. With every thrust, with every inch of pleasure she’s giving you she’s obeying - and to her, obeying feels good. So she does like it, she just wouldn’t ever admit it herself. Always the rebel.

You decide to give her something else to do, something to ramp up her pleasure - see how well she hides it.

“Start playing with your boobs,” you manage to say between breaths, and instantly her hands fly to her tits, pawing and squeezing them with abandon. She lets out a squeak of pleasure as she obeys, which is then accompanied by more quiet moans as she massages herself, muffled by the shaft in her mouth. The scent of sex is thick in the air, and she begins throating you deeper, sucking and using her tongue expertly as she squeezes her legs together in abject lust. Her tongue swirls around your shaft and you feel a head rush as she licks and sucks you in all the right places, causing your legs to buckle slightly. The sounds she’s making with her mouth are loud and lewd as she slurps on your cock, giving little thought to what she sounds or looks like - her only focus is on making you cum. And as you feel that familiar rise of pleasure coming from within your dick, you realize you’re about to.

You grab her by her hair and thrust her mouth deep onto your cock. She makes no effort to move away, seemingly anticipating what’s about to happen. Digging your shoe into the tiled floor below you explode into her mouth, sending strands of cum deep into her throat. You hear her swallow each spurt as you pulse into her, coating her throat with your seed.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, you exit her mouth, and only then does she take the opportunity to gag and **** - seemingly out of theatrics. Her hands are still squeezing her tits on apparent autopilot, and she shudders, exhaling a sigh that sounds like a strange combination of anger and pleasure. She takes a moment to gather herself before gazing up at you with a mixture of lust, despair, and expectation on her face, small drips of cum still leaking from her lips.

“Is it… is it over?” She moans, a slight whine in her voice. “Am I done?” Her breath is ragged, her body hot. There’s a hint of disappointment in her tone, and you can see that she’s basically like a fountain down there.

Some part of you feels like you’re being a bit unfair. You decide that Spruce has been a good enough girl, especially now that she can’t talk back. She’s earned a reward, hasn’t she?

“Not yet. One last thing.”

Twisting your lips into a smile, you open your mouth to deliver another command. Seemingly anticipating another demeanment, Ms. Spruce visibly braces herself for whatever you're about to say.

“Cum.”

The command catches her way off guard. Ms. Spruce’s pained expression instantly melts away, replaced by a rapturous expression of pure pleasure. Her eyes go blank, her mouth opens in a mindless smile. Her entire body seems to rock from the sensation, and she collapses, writhing, onto the ground, sending a desk skittering backward as her leg jerks wildly against it. She twitches and gushes onto the tiled floor, wetness spreading out from the dark gray yoga leggings she has on and invariably soaking her panties underneath - if they weren’t drenched already. Her hands have frozen mid-grope, and are squeezing her tits noticeably hard as her body seems to ebb and pulse in white-hot pleasure. Taking a heavy breath, she lets out a deep, animalistic moan that makes you worriedly turn towards the detention room door, anticipating that someone might come in and investigate the noise - luckily after a few seconds no such event occurs, and your attention falls back on Spruce as she comes back down, basking in delicious afterglow. Her eyes are hazy, her mouth is turned up in a dreamy smile, and her hands, still obediently following their commands, softly circle and pinch her rock-hard nipples. Her eyes move slowly before lazily resting on you, and for a moment there is no malice, hate, or ill will in her expression… just contentment. Happiness. Subservience.

And then the light returns to her eyes and her scowl reappears. Sighing, she drops her head to the ground and stares up at the ceiling, squinting into the fluorescent lights. She lays there for a long moment, awash in a puddle of her own sweat and lust, until her eyes hesitantly meet yours again.

“Can I take my hands off of my breasts now?” Spruce mutters in a low, spiteful tone and you nod, grinning. Arms back in her control, she holds up her left forearm against the yellow light, inspecting the jet-black name that you’ve marked into her skin. She traces it with a finger on her right hand, going over every detail, each letter, each line. Letting it sink in just how completely owned she is. For a moment it seems she might cry, but she holds herself together and lets her arm drop in defeat.

“So, Spruce, what do you have to say?” you chuckle, finding it funny just how helpless she looks.

She glares at you. “F-Thank you,” she manages to mutter, before quietly cursing at herself.

In all accounts, you’d call this little experiment a complete success. Ms. Spruce, the ice queen that terrorizes your grade is nothing but a quivering, horny mess at your feet. She now belongs completely to you, body, mind, soul - and there’s absolutely nothing she can do about it.

You chuckle as you pull your pants back up. One thing’s for sure. Math class with Ms. Spruce is never going to be the same.