Page 11 of His to Teach

She obeys, then stands awkwardly by the entrance. "Did I do something wrong? I was working on that Baldwin critique when your message came..."

"Sit." I gesture to the chair across from my desk.

She perches on the edge, hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl sent to the principal's office. Which, in a way, she is.

"I saw you in the library today," I say, watching her carefully. "With Morris."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Oh. He was just helping me understand a passage..."

"He was flirting with you." My voice hardens. "And you let him."

"I didn't—" She stops, frowns. "Wait, were you spying on me?"

"Protecting you.” I stand, circling the desk. "He touched you."

A flush spreads across her cheeks. "It was just my shoulder. It didn't mean anything."

"It meant something to him." I tower over her, hands braced on the arms of her chair. "And it means something to me."

Her breathing quickens, pupils dilating with a mixture of fear and arousal. "Gordon..."

"Bad girls who tempt their professor get spanked, princess." The words come out low, rough. "Is that what you want? To be punished?"

She should be outraged. Should tell me I'm being irrational, controlling. Instead, her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "I didn't mean to tempt anyone but you."

"Stand up." When she does, I take her place in the chair. "Over my knee."

There's a heartbeat of hesitation—a moment where she could walk away, end this insanity—then she drapes herself across my lap, her small body trusting and yielding. Her sundress rides up, exposing pale yellow panties that match the dress. I smooth my hand over the curve of her ass, feeling her tremble.

"Tell me if it's too much," I say, giving her an out. "Say 'stop' and I will. Immediately."

She nods, face turned away from me, pressed against my thigh.

The first spank is light—more sound than pain. She jumps anyway, a small gasp escaping her. I stroke the spot, soothing it before landing another. Five in total, none hard enough to truly hurt, just enough to warm her skin pink through her underwear and remind her who she belongs to.

After the last one, I gather her in my arms, lifting her to straddle my lap. Her face is flushed, eyes bright with unshed tears and arousal. I kiss her gently, tasting salt.

"Did I hurt you, little girl?"

She shakes her head. "No. It was…I liked it. Is that wrong?"

"Nothing between us is wrong," I lie, kissing her again. "Not when it feels this right."

I carry her to the small area rug in the corner of my office—the only space not visible from the door should someone unlock it. Lay her down gently, as if she's made of glass, and cover her body with mine. This isn't like our frantic couplings before. This is slower, more reverent—worship rather than possession.

I undress her with careful hands, kissing each inch of exposed skin. When she's naked beneath me, all pale perfection against the dark rug, I strip quickly and join her, my body caging hers protectively.

"So beautiful," I murmur, trailing kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, to the small, perfect breasts that fit exactly in my palms. "So perfect for me."

She arches into my touch, small sounds of pleasure escaping her as I worship her with my mouth and hands. When I finally enter her, it's with agonizing slowness, watching her face as she takes me inch by inch.

"That's it," I praise, voice rough with emotion. "Taking me so well. Such a brave girl for Daddy."

She moans at the word, inner walls clenching around me. "Please…don't stop."

I establish a gentle rhythm, deeper than before but without the frantic edge of our earlier encounters. Each thrust deliberate, angled to hit the spot that makes her gasp and tremble.

"You're so perfect for Daddy," I tell her, the words pouring out unbidden. "So filthy and sweet. Made just for me."