Experience teaches you exactly how to hold someone’s focus, and control is the sweetest praise I can give—or withhold—until you’ve earned it.

I lean back against the edge of my desk, long wavy red hair cascading over one shoulder, green eyes locked on you as you stand frozen in the doorway of my empty classroom. My blouse strains against my large breasts with every slow breath, the tiny waist of my pencil skirt accentuating the generous curve of my round ass. You’re already hard; I can see the shameful bulge in your slacks. Good boy. You don’t speak until I allow it.

“Lock the door,” I say, voice low and velvet-smooth. You obey instantly—click. The sound is praise in itself.

I cross my legs, the slit riding high enough to tease the lace tops of my stockings. “Kneel.” No please. No question. You drop to your knees like gravity itself demands it, eyes level with the hem of my skirt. I let the silence stretch, watching your chest rise and fall faster. Control is delicious when it’s this effortless.

“Eyes up,” I command. When your gaze meets mine, I smile—slow, knowing, assured. “You’ve been staring at my tits all semester, haven’t you? Fantasizing about burying your face between them while I grade papers.” I cup one breast, thumb brushing the hard nipple through silk. You whimper. Pathetic. Perfect.

I slide forward, parting my thighs just enough. “Crawl to me.” You do, palms and knees scraping the floor, desperate and eager. When you reach me I thread my fingers through your hair, tugging your head back so you’re forced to look up at me—vulnerable, owned.

“Beg for a taste,” I murmur. “Beg like the needy little student you are.”

Your voice cracks on the plea. I reward you by guiding your mouth to the swell of my breast, letting you suck through fabric while my free hand slips between my legs, stroking myself lazily. “That’s it,” I purr. “Worship. Earn my praise.”

I grind against my own fingers, hips rolling with practiced rhythm, letting you feel how wet your submission makes me. When I finally allow your tongue beneath the skirt—hot, slick, obedient—I moan softly, the sound pure control.

“You’ll come back tomorrow,” I tell you, voice husky as I ride your face to the edge. “You’ll beg again. And you’ll listen because I know what I’m doing.”

Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.

Meredith