Page 4 of Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson

In my defense, I’m not the most weirdly dressed person present. College students as a whole seem to wear a mishmash of thrift store chic. The rest of the class filters in slowly behind me, but I only have eyes for the teacher. I’m the only one sitting in the very front row, but once the class starts, he ignores me completely. I make up for it by fixing my gaze on him, following his every move across the lecture floor, staring unambiguously, rapt and attentive like no one else in the room.

At first, all I do is watch him. His voice is deep and pleasing with its Oxford accent, but I only listen to its tone, not the words. It seems strange that he cares about this, and I wonder how long he’s been teaching and how he still manages to care. I’ve been here two years, and I stopped caring back in the first semester. I wonder what he was like when he was my age, and if I would’ve been into him, then. I think back to the grainy photo of the man--boy, really--in the little rowing uniform, with bright white 1980s style shorts and a long-sleeved polo shirt, standing with others of the same species on the bank of a river somewhere in England.

I try to make the half-remembered picture of the boy match up with the man in front of me now. He’s got the same narrow frame, and he hasn’t put on weight or gone to seed in his middle age. He’s still lean and limber, and I bet the tennis he mentions in his academic profile has kept him in decent shape. I don’t expect a lot of huffing, puffing, and unmanly grunting I’ve been subjected to in previous hookups with men of a certain age. I realize that he paces the front of the lecture hall just exactly like someone used to prowling left and right on the tennis court, and I smile to myself at the realization. I barely know anything about him, but I can feel myself getting oddly fond of him.

He doesn’t seem to smile as he did in that long-ago picture. His expression stays composed and relatively neutral, even when he grows animated and passionate about his subject. I wonder if his taste in romantic partners is different from his taste in sexual partners and how widely known it is that he likes to fuck his students.

Gradually as he goes on, I start undressing him with my eyes. He’s in a dress shirt and tie, a waistcoat, and a pair of sharply tailored slacks. A cardigan drapes over the back of his chair, and his shoes are loafers rendered in a matte, charcoal suede. I imagine pulling open each button on the waistcoat and then ripping his shirt open with both hands. In my head, I’m straddling him while he sits at his desk, feeling his hard cock pressing against my panties beneath my tiny little skirt.

I try to imagine where we’ll go when it happens, whether he’ll take me in the classroom, in front of an invisible audience of empty desks and chairs. Or maybe back to his office. Or maybe back to my dorm room, though this seems the least likely, he doesn’t seem like the type who’d stoop as low as the copy-pasted bedrooms and shared bathrooms of the dorms. Maybe back to his place, though I doubt he’ll think I’m worthy of that. I’m just a quick and dirty fuck on campus, not something to sully his home with.

I wonder what he’ll be like, how he’ll handle me. His overall vibe is stern and proper, which makes me think he’ll be dominant and strict with me. It’s not going to be about what I might want, and I can tell that already. He’ll probably want me kneeling on the floor in front of him, ready and waiting and thirsty for whatever he wants to give me. Or he’ll want me bent over his desk, yielding and submissive, with my breasts pressed hard against the books and papers scattered across the top, as he fucks me good and rough.

As I think about this, I reach into my backpack and pull out a lollipop I bought just for the occasion. I unwrap it like it’s some cherished prize, and in the front row, as I am, it’s not like he can fail to notice. I make eye contact with him briefly as I open my mouth and press my tongue against the crystalized, cherry-sweet sugar. Red begins to stain my tongue, slowly, as the lesson goes on.

CHAPTER SIX

Nigel

“See me in my office after your last class.”

Those are the magic words, and the first words I’d said to her after my morning lecture came to an end.

There’s no more ambiguity about her intentions. Her little display in class has made that perfectly clear, she knows what I want, and it’s clear what she means to do about it. As her classmates had started to drift out of the room with the end of their lessons, she’d remained sitting, front and center, looking at me expectantly until I’d said those magic words.

I’m in my office now, waiting for the last of her classes to end. The last of mine finished up not long ago, and now the weekend looms in front of me. I have work to do, but I’ll do it later.

My office isn’t large. And it’s not an example of the grand, wood-paneled old chambers of my college career years ago at Oxford. I’ve tried to give it a certain sense of dignity, filled its floor to ceiling bookshelves with works of great literature, bound in leather or cloth. My desk is a big, mahogany thing, with a thick leather pad on top. I keep it clean as best I can, I’m meticulous about filing, and the advent of digitally submitted assignments means my space isn’t crowded with dozens of papers. I’ve covered the windows with full-length curtains in a dark, rich red fabric, and while it makes it quite dim inside, it also makes it cozy and helps absorb and muffle any sounds within.

And there are likely to be a lot of sounds within.

It’s late afternoon, flirting with the early evening. My office is on the fourth floor of a building in the corner of the campus. When I draw back the curtains, I see the sprawling park that borders the western edge of the university property and the sun setting slowly over it. I can watch students still drifting around the paths and walkways that crisscross the campus, and I can’t pretend I’m not watching for a ridiculously dressed little girl in a short skirt and t-shirt.

She’s a garish, tawdry, nightmarish little brat. As eager as I am to fuck her, I can admit to being more than slightly repulsed by her general appearance and demeanor. She’s trying, I can tell, but what she’s achieved is cheap and undesirable, a gaudy imitation of what I desire. If this is to be an ongoing relationship, then I will have to make some minor corrections. If she works hard enough, I might give her the credit she desires but has done nothing to deserve it.

For now, though, I’m willing to lower myself to her level. To take her out for a test drive, as it were, and just see if what she has is worth my effort.

She’d been a horrifying distraction during class. Unless the room is packed, the very front row of desks is meant to be no man's land, and my students generally like to leave two or three rows worth of buffer between them and me. Sitting in the very front of the classroom is tantamount to an act of war. There’d been nothing I could do but let her sit there, staring at me the entire time. It’s when she’d brought the candy out of her backpack that I’d realized my instincts were correct and that she wants me.

Above and beyond the fact that she’s willing to let me fuck her for academic advancement, I wonder if she knows what she’s getting into. I have a specific suite of requirements of her, and if the way she’s behaved and dressed is any indication, then she may have heard rumors of what they are. When she crosses the threshold into my office and the relationship between us begins, it’s going to need to be on my terms. I don’t want just any student. When she comes to me, I want her to regress into her most childish self, to reach inward and achieve the reality of the nature her behavior reflects. I want the innocence of the world that makes her seem to believe that she can have anything she wants. I want a Little Girl to come into my office and learn her place.

Sitting at my desk, there’s an almost My Fair Lady quality to the idea. As the idea pools and spreads over my mind, it starts to seep into the cracks, and a fantasy coalesces.

It’s tempting to take her and reinvent her from the ground up. A brash, American college student, all sharp corners, and rough edges, rendered into a good, proper young girl. I think of stripping her out of those horrible cheap clothes and into something lovely and respectable. A nice tartan skirt that her outfit pays its slutty homage to, and a modest blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Perhaps a string of pearls around her pretty neck. Brush those stupid plaits out of her hair and weave a lovely French braid into her chestnut-colored locks.

The daydream runs away with me, and I let it. The sun sets outside, and I imagine taking her back to England with me, returning to take ownership of the home my father left me, and passing her off as my daughter whenever we’re out in public, and returning to our secret life within the manor in private. This idea is more exciting than any of the raw physical fantasies I’ve had about her, the idea of crafting a life around this fetish, this way of being that I denied myself for so long, before finally coming to accept.

I rebelled against my parents, too. I think of her lazy defiance, her profound disinterest in being here, and about how in the throes of the same youthful rebellion, I ran away to America. The temptation to steal her away from this country and this life is almost overwhelming. I’m mentally doing the necessary calculations, wondering if she has a passport, what it would be like to get her a visa, how long I could reasonably take a sabbatical—when there’s a sharp knock on my office door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Meghan

“Come in.”

I push open the office door and find Professor Cartwright sitting at his desk, clearly waiting for me. It’s a nice office, and as I close the door behind me, I make a show of locking it, glancing at him for approval. He doesn’t react and only stares at me as I stared at him all through the class. It’s more unnerving when he does it, though, and it’s not until his eyes flicker to the chair in front of his desk that I get any indication of an invitation to sit down.

I cross the small room in one or two steps and meekly sit in the single chair in front of his desk. He hasn’t stopped watching me, and so I clear my throat and summon up my best Little Girl voice. “You said you wanted to see me after my classes, Professor?”