A/N: No, I do not condone this. This is just an idea I had while thinking of teachers who have affairs with their students. What if one of them was secretly into S&M?
"You are a naughty boy, aren't you?"
He smiles playfully, though I can see a faint hint of uncertainty in his face. I can't say I blame him. This isn't exactly what a sixteen-year-old boy typically pictures when he thinks of fun. This isn't exactly what I pictured either, but I couldn't pass it up. There was just something about it—something deliciously appealing about the thought of going this far. Kind of creative, in an artistic sort of way. The wires around his wrists, the stack of books (textbooks, no less) below his feet, his naked body, the locked door of the prop room where we decided to meet...quite exciting, if I may be perfectly honest.
I look him over, the butterflies in my stomach relentlessly flapping their wings, and think how interesting it is that I never felt this way with any of my past boyfriends. Not a single one. They were all victims of desperation—sufferers of a mad woman's loneliness.
"Mmm, damn you for being so perfect."
Kevin's eyes are blindfolded. It heightens the suspense for him and distances him from me. His arms are raised above his head, his hands tied by thin wires to a metal pipe hanging from the ceiling, spread apart as far as they can go; his feet are together, situated upon a stack of three thick textbooks, which are the only thing giving relief to his arms.
He's in a crucified position, and he looks like a god.
"I think you need to be spanked," I tell him, inching closer, my face almost touching his.
He jolts but doesn't say anything.
"What do you think?" I prod him. "Cat got your tongue?" Heh, I love that, old as the hills though it may be.
I walk over to the table on the other side of the room and pick up the wooden pointer I use in class to direct students' attention. I then approach him again, slapping the end of it against the palm of my hand to let him know what's coming.
He tenses but I can see there's a hidden smile drawing on his lips. He wants it. I know he does.
And so do I.
I run the tip of the pointer up and down his chest, caressing his skin with it. He jerks in surprise, his breathing becoming irregular and labored. But he wants it. He's begging for it.
"Well, I guess I'll have to make you speak, won't I?" It's charmingly sadistic. Before we started this, I'd specifically told him not to speak—told him it would be more fun this way, with me doing all the talking and him staying defiantly silent. Much like during class.
So he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single word. Not even when I toddle around him and swat him hard across his back. He grunts and scrunches his face against the pain, but says absolutely nothing.
I swat him again. And again. His grunting intensifies, but still, nothing coherent comes out his mouth.
My swatting continues—harder and more frequent. His grunts turn into prolonged groans. He tilts his head back and pushes his body forward, instinctively trying to veer away from the source of pain, but such feeble automatic attempts are useless. He can't escape me.
I smile in delight, relishing the warm fuzzy feeling that's bubbling in my stomach. I swear, why physical punishment was outlawed in schools I'll never know. It's the best feeling in the world for a teacher—or if not, a close second. There's nothing like striking a kid, making them feel you, making them see that you are in control.
It's like magic, being in control. You're the magician, and everything and everyone else bends to your will. It's beautiful.
It's positively sublime.
Finally, after God knows how many swats, I stop. His back is lined with bright red stripes. None of them are bleeding, but some will take a while to heal. Which is just as it should be. What's the point of giving someone a beating if it's not going to leave some sort of reminder?
I walk back around to his front, ogling him. His body is very rigid. His belly rises and falls erratically against his ribcage. His fingers are curled into tight fists, his knuckles pearly white.
"It's just a game," I tell him. I'd told him that plenty of times already: it's just a game, just a game, not real, not real. Pretend you and I are both someone else. Let's adopt roles and cross boundaries that we, ourselves, would never cross. "Remember that."
He swallows and nods.
I go back over to the table, put down the pointer, open the sewing kit located at the edge (kept there for the fashion design students), and take out a threading needle. I then walk over to the shelves situated on the wall next to the window and take out a match from a matchbox. I light it and sterilize the needle.
When I walk back over to Kevin, I walk slowly—forcing him to wait. The more I stall, the faster the butterfly wings flap. My heart is fluttering. My fingers, trembling. I'm exhilarated. I feel like I can float above the floor.
Eventually he gets worried. "Ms. Penn?" I'm almost stunned to hear his voice; it's the first time he's spoken since we started this.
"Kevin, you bad, bad boy!" I teasingly berate him. "You should call me Ella outside of school."
"That's right, now hush." I reach out and gently touch my fingers to his side, feeling his ribs. I can't help thinking to myself how painfully beautiful he is. I almost feel sick for what I'm about to do to him…but not enough to make myself stop. Too much excitement for that. "Tell me, Kevin, would you ever be willing to fuck me?"
Kevin doesn't reply.
"Probably. Would you…would you give me an A if I did?"
"Definitely." I hold up the needle. "And a little something else."
And then I plunge it into his skin, right below his chest.