Let’s play Summer School.
I’ll be the teacher, you be the student. I’ll put my hair up in a bun and wear my glasses, I’ll rap you on the knuckles if you fidget or misbehave. You can skip the panties, just the skirt will do, and snip off the top three buttons of your blouse. I want to see rosy cheeks begging for slaps and your hair in braids, irresistably tuggable.
You will listen, and you’ll listen well. I will not tolerate insolence, not on my watch. When you don’t behave, you’ll find yourself over my desk, that tarty tartan skirt flipped up, your ass and thighs glowing pink in the stifling afternoon heat. You can pout all you like, beg for extra credit, but you will find that you’ll get further faster on your knees. Leave an apple on my desk with a bite missing and see how thin my patience gets. I dare you.
You can’t flirt your way out of this, but I’d love to see you try. It’s going to be a long summer if you continue to misbehave, but not long enough for you to learn your lesson. I’ll make sure of that.
