Page 5 of Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson

“That is what I said.”

Something about the way he says it seems calibrated to make me feel stupid, and I blink at him, genuinely confused. This is the first private, personal exchange we’ve had, and I’m a little thrown by the coldness of his demeanor, even now, behind closed doors. I find myself wondering if I’ve misread this whole situation and am about to get myself in an enormous amount of trouble. I swallow, suddenly a little nervous, and press on. “Is there something I can do for you?” I ask, bolder than I feel and with a bit of a pout of my lower lip to try and gauge his reaction.

There isn’t one. He continues to look at me, evaluating, and it feels like forever before he finally speaks, his voice soft and dangerous.

“You can do me the courtesy of not showing up to my lectures dressed like a child.”

Tensions sizzle between us at this statement, impossible to miss. I widen my eyes in feigned innocence and look down at my outfit like it’s a surprise to me that I’m wearing it. “I don’t think I’m violating the dress code,” I tell him, naive and precocious. “You don’t like it when I dress this way?”

“It lacks decorum. It’s disrespectful to the material I teach.”

His expression may as well be carved from granite, but I suspect I see the briefest flicker of a smile deep in his eyes. We’re playing. His part of the game is to be mean and scary.

I glance down again and bite my lip, duly abashed. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” I lie, but I look to meet his gaze as I do so. “But you didn’t say you don’t like it.”

It’s dim in this office, and there’s not a lot of light to see by. There’s a low lamp on a table against the bookshelf and one of those green glass desk lamps atop his desk. Between both of them, there’s just enough light to catch the glint in his eyes as he gives me a slow once over. “I don’t,” he tells me, blunt and challenging. “My classroom is no place for someone who behaves like a child.”

The realization is slow in coming, but I begin to understand that he has no intention of making the first move here and absolutely no interest in making this easy for me. It’s understandable but intimidating, as I realized I hadn’t thought about what would happen if I got this far. In my preparatory fantasies, we’ve always gotten as far as the actual fucking. I haven’t had to proposition him at all. I’ve just taken for granted that my intentions are apparent (and I’m pretty sure we both know that they are) and that he’d rise to them immediately.

Apparently, I’m going to have to work for it—at least a little bit.

But I’ve gotten this far. And the door is locked behind me. I take a deep breath and twist my hands together around the hem of my skirt as I look up at him, licking my lips and letting them part softly, revealing the wetness of my mouth, ready and waiting inside. “But I am a child,” I tell him, standing up from my chair and taking slow, deliberate steps to circle to his side of the desk. I stop in front of him, and his chair swivels to face me as I admit, “I’m just a little girl who doesn’t know anything. And I didn’t join your class to learn what you teach in the classroom.”

Now, finally, he starts to respond to me, and he leans back in his chair, languid and relaxed, but he lets his knees fall open, one of his legs stretching out in front of him and the other still cocked, propped up against the bottom of the desk. His waistcoat is already undone, but the buttons of his shirt and trousers are still fair game.

He looks at me, and I can feel him picking apart every single facet of my appearance. I’ve ditched the backpack, left it on the chair in front of his desk, but everything else is the same. Beneath my faded old anime t-shirt, my breasts are bare, and they feel soft and heavy without a bra to keep them contained. My underwear is a thong, and my pussy is freshly waxed, and underneath it all, I’m ready and waiting for him. I reach up to take one of my braided pigtails and bring the end of it into my mouth, never taking my eyes from his as I do.

“Stop that,” he says immediately. “Disgusting habit. What would your father say?”

“He doesn’t care. Never cared.” I lick the end of my pigtail defiantly and then let it drop to fall against my shoulder.

“Clearly.” The professor adjusts himself in his seat and looks at me with the first hint of what might be lust, though it’s been heavily veiled with contempt. “No respectable father would’ve let you out of the house looking like this, would’ve let you leave for college and be seen out in the world dressed like a ten-dollar whore.”

“A whore?” I echo, wide-eyed like I don’t know what it means.

He stands, finally, and somehow I’m not prepared for how much taller he is than I am when we’re standing face to face when he’s taken a half step to enter my bubble for the first time. He reaches a hand up and takes the recently-dampened end of my pigtail between his fingers, toying with it. “Are you a whore, little girl?” He gives my hair a brief, curious tug, and when I don’t respond, he looks down his nose at me and asks, “Or are you only a stupid child?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, leaning into him now, letting my breasts brush against his shirt front and reaching down to find the hand that isn’t still toying with my pigtail. I catch his wrist and drag his hand upward, shoving it up into the space between my breasts, still pressed against him. “Can you teach me the difference?”

In answer, several things happen at once. My pigtail drops from between his fingers, and his hand goes to the nape of my neck, cradling it as he leans forward, bowing his head over mine as he presses a kiss against my lips, properly initiating things between us. The hand I’d pulled up between my tits slides sideways, palm ghosting the nipple of my left breast, and then starts to massage the soft, yielding weight of it. I moan softly, as he continues to kiss me.

“You taste like sugar,” he mutters, and his hand stops fondling my breast, pressing hard against my skin as it moves slowly down my body, to slip beneath the bottom of my skirt and then seize forcefully against a handful of my ass. He squeezes tight and then pulls my body hard against his so that my pelvis presses against his thigh as he takes a step forward, backing me up until there’s a wall behind me. He pauses to shove me against it, harder than he needs to so that the back of my head strikes against the wood paneling with a hollow thud, and I gasp.

“Ow,” I tell him, and in response, he gives me another shove, warning this time. He leans over me, pinning me against the wall, and the hand that isn’t pressed against the wall beside my head comes up to catch my face, tilting my chin up to look at him as he stares down at me.

“I could make you much better than this,” he tells me, his voice a low, warding rumble. “You’re just a cheap, lazy little thing, just a stupid slut playing pretend. Aren’t you?”

I don’t know if any of that is true, but I have a sense of what he wants me to say, so I say it, nodding my head against the grip of his hand as I whisper, “Yes.”

Now his body grinds against mine, and I can feel his erection against my hip where he has me still pinned to the wall. This isn’t the side of him I’d imagined, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t into it. “I could take you away from here, out of this country, overseas, somewhere you could learn to be a good little girl, instead of a tawdry, repulsive brat, whose father never taught her any better.”

I don’t know what that means, but I nod along anyway, agreeing to whatever this proposal is supposed to be. I have a funny feeling about where this is going, and I’m more and more into it with every passing second. “You could teach me.”

“Are you willing to learn?”