Written by Jamesremus and ffuktoy

The classroom hummed with quiet focus—pens scratching, students lost in their work. My eyes lingered on my graded paper, red ink slashing across it like a fresh wound. Dread coiled in my gut, but beneath it, a strange heat burned. Mr. Landford’s presence loomed large, tugging at something raw and unspoken inside me.

My fingers gripped the chair’s edge as his voice sliced through the stillness:

"See me after class."

A few heads turned, their curiosity a silent weight. I slouched, feigning nonchalance, but my body betrayed me—thighs tensing, breath shallow and quick.

When the bell rang, I lingered as the room emptied, then approached his desk. Mr. Landford sat there, all controlled authority—silver-flecked hair combed neat, blue eyes sharp and unyielding. I should’ve felt ashamed, should’ve groveled for a redo. Instead, a darker hunger stirred—a pull toward his command, a need for him to bend the rules just for me.

He leaned back, nodding at my paper. "What’s going on?" His tone was smooth, expectant.

The red ink blurred as my mind flashed to this morning—his cold text, hours after I was on my knees for him. I blurted it out before I could stop myself: "My boyfriend dumped me this morning—hours after I went down on him."

The words hung there, reckless and raw. I craved his reaction. His face didn’t shift—no flinch, no shock. Just a steady, "I see."

Words weren’t enough. I moved my hands, slow and deliberate, cupping the air as if gripping something thick. My lips parted, tongue flicking out to wet them, mimicking the rhythm I’d used that morning. His eyes darkened, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. I’d hooked him—and it thrilled me.

His fingers brushed a Sharpie on the desk, and my heart raced, wondering what he’d do with it.

He then spoke, voice measured: "Let’s work this out." His eyes flicked down my body, before he added, "Get the answer right, you pass. Get it wrong, you lose a piece of clothing."

I froze. His gaze didn’t waver, his tone dipping low. "Unless you’d rather waste my time and fail twice."

My breath caught. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," he said, eyes tracing me like he’d already started stripping me bare. "Raises the stakes. Ensures success."

I opened my mouth, but he was already up, locking the door with a soft click. That sound hit me like a dare, and my fingers moved, unbuttoning my blouse just enough—breasts spilling out, heavy with need.

He faced me again, voice casual but edged with intent. "So, in Oliver Twist—which we covered this term—who’s the main character?"

I blinked. Was he mocking me? I wasn’t that dumb, but maybe I wanted him to think I was—some naive little thing he could mold. The urge to strip and defy him flared, but I kept it cool.

"Mr. Landford," I said, tilting my head, "we don’t need games for me to take this off. I read the book. But if that’s your move, we’ll be here all day."

He paused; I could see he was a little annoyed, yet equally intrigued by my reply. He stepped over to his desk. "Forget the game. Who’s your next teacher?"

"Mr. West. Double science. Why?"

I’d seen him with Mr. West once, their laughter low and knowing. Mr. West’s stare in science always lingered too long, like he knew something I didn’t.

Mr. Landford typed a message on his phone, then stopped, his eyes locked on mine. “Actually…” His voice trailed off, low and loaded.

He closed the distance, steps slow and predatory. My blood raced. His fingers grazed my blouse, a fleeting tease, then gripped hard—buttons popping free, the air hitting my skin. I gasped, quivering with want as my breasts bared fully to him.

He stepped back, eyeing me, then grabbed the Sharpie from his desk. Before I knew it, its cold tip was dragging across my chest. 'SLUT,' he wrote. The word sank into me—not shame, but a dark, delicious claim. I didn’t flinch. I wanted it.

He smirked, phone in hand. "We’re making a video for Mr. West. Tell him you’re skipping double science—say you’re too busy with your filthy little slut duties for me."

The mockery in his tone lit me up. He aimed the camera, flash searing. "Go on, slut. Tell him."

I leaned in, hands sliding to my breasts, rubbing slow and deliberate. I drooled onto my nipple, rubbing it in, leaning closer to the lens. "Mr. West, I’ll be too busy with your pal Mr. Landford," I purred, one hand dipping to my pussy. "Trust me, I’m working hard."

My fingers circled my clit, electric and wild. I tasted myself, licking them clean, playing for him, for the camera. No shame—just raw, reckless freedom.

I sank to the floor, angling myself for the shot. His cock loomed into view, thick and hard near my lips. "See, I’m on my knees, ready to get my face fucked," I said, drooling onto him, licking his shaft with slow, hungry strokes. I took him deep, choking as he filled my throat, his hand shoving me down harder. Each thrust pulsed through me, my body screaming for more.

Then he pulled out, cum hitting my face and chest in hot, messy spurts. I licked my lips, savoring it, stunned he hadn’t even fucked me yet.

He paused for a moment, as if the action had drained him. Then he exhaled heavily, smirking. “Send,” he muttered, tapping his phone. “West’ll call any second.”

"Now, clean your face," he said, tossing me a tissue. "Leave your tits. I’m not done with you. Get on the lounge chair."

I started to rise, but he snapped, "No, slut, crawl."

I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling to the lounge chair, every move deliberate, my body bared for him. When I reached it, he barked, "Spread your legs wide. Show me how wet that dirty hole is."

His commands ignited a dangerous fire within me. I craved his dominance, the way he stripped me down to nothing but need.

The phone buzzed, and he let it hum for a moment, eyes still on me, before picking it up. "Play with that nasty slut pussy," he ordered. "Don’t stop ‘til I’m off the call."

He settled at his desk, chair angled for a full view, feet propped up. "Daniel, what do you mean, ‘what the fuck was that’?" he said into the phone. "I told you this weekend—she’s a liar. She’s here now, begging to be my fuck toy. I see it in her eyes."

"You can have her next, alright?" He paused, Mr. West’s muffled voice buzzing through. Then his gaze sharpened on me. "Taste your fingers," he said, voice hard. "Look at me. Don’t look away while you play."

His stare burned through me, claiming every inch. "No, not you, dickhead—this bitch," he snapped back to the call. "Yeah, shortly. We’ll meet at my place later. Bring the good shit—she’ll beg to be DP’d." My pussy clenched—I’d always fantasized about two teachers.

A wicked grin spread across his face as he watched me sprawl on the lounge. "Right now? She’s finger-fucking herself on my couch. Tits covered in my cum," he said, laughing—a low, callous sound that hummed through my skin.

His eyes roamed, possessive and unrelenting. I was his—raw and electric. "Yeah, soon," he murmured into the phone. "She’s begging for more. Can’t get enough."

The casual way he dissected me for Mr. West only deepened my hunger. My fingers moved faster, shameless, driven by his gaze. I needed his control, his approval.

He hung up, fingers tightening on the phone. His stare—approving, possessive—swallowed me whole. "You’re such a dirty slut," he muttered, then sharper, "Faster."

My hands obeyed, but it wasn’t enough. My body screamed for release, every nerve raw with want. I needed him—his touch, his claim.

He stood, voice dropping low. "Stay still. Don’t move ‘til I say."

It was torture. The urge to writhe, to chase relief, clawed at me, but I froze, trembling under his command. He stepped closer, tracing a finger down my arm—light, teasing, electric. I shuddered, eyes fluttering shut.

"Open your eyes," he snapped.

I did, meeting his gaze. "You’ll have to beg," he said, each word slow and heavy, pushing me to the brink.

He closed the gap, heat radiating off him, overwhelming me. His hand brushed my cheek, then tilted my head back, baring my throat. "Think you’re ready for this?" he whispered, intent lacing his voice.

I nodded, mouth dry, heart pounding. "Yes, sir," I breathed, all hesitation gone—just pure, aching submission.

"You’re mine now," he growled, a rough claim that sank into me. Something clicked—total surrender. I was his to use, to command.

His hands gripped me, pulling me close with bruising force. His kiss was fierce, demanding, and I matched it, desperate to prove myself. "How’s that pussy, whore?" he murmured against my lips.

My dripping need betrayed me—he knew exactly what I craved. "I’m so close, sir," I gasped, "but I know you’d be mad."

"You’re right," he said, a predatory glint in his eyes. "If you had, I’d punish you."

He motioned to his desk. "Bend over, bitch."

I scrambled over, bending forward, heat surging through me. His hands gripped my hips—rough, unrelenting—yanking me back. His cock, thick and heavy, teased my pussy, a maddening promise. Then he thrust in, deep and sudden.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Fuck me harder,” I begged, lost in the rush. He slammed into me, each thrust a brutal surge, tearing me apart. My body rocked beneath him, his girth stretching me wide, every push dragging a ragged moan from my lips. I arched, a raw cry caught in my throat, hovering on the edge. "Please," I whimpered.

"Not yet," he growled, fingers digging in.

I tensed, straining to obey. Then—"Now."

I broke, release ripping through me, fierce and complete.

He didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed but deepened, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until I was a trembling wreck beneath him. His lips brushed my ear, voice low and rough: "You’re mine, slut—every inch, every scream."

I fought for breath, his weight pinning me to the desk, his cum still warm on my skin. He pulled out, stepping back to admire his work—my body marked, claimed, utterly his.

"Get up," he said. "Tonight, you’re ours—West and me. You’ll beg for it all over again."

I nodded, weak but electrified, already aching for more. His smirk told me he knew it too. As I straightened, the Sharpie “SLUT” still stark across my chest, I felt it—total ownership, and a hunger that wouldn’t quit.