Page 1 of Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson

CHAPTER ONE

Meghan

I don’t sit in the front row like a good girl. I sit in the back like a bad girl.

I’m a kept secret and a scattered figure in the dozens that don’t even half fill the lecture hall, where the professor holds all my attention. To be clear, the professor. Not what he’s teaching.

He’s whipcord thin and tall. In his late forties, early fifties, maybe. His features are narrow and haughty, his jaw lightly stubbled, and his hair has gone prematurely to a silvery charcoal grey. It suits him. He wears a pair of wire-framed glasses, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to bare his forearms, all lean muscle, and expressive hands. He paces the front of the room as he talks, passionate and engaged, about some deathly boring facet of Middle English literature. I wouldn’t say he’s hot, but I would say he’s handsome. Older. Authoritative. With a deep, pleasing voice.

I transferred into this class because I heard a rumor about him. I need as many easy credits as I can get my hands on, and I heard there are other ways to pass his class than by doing the work. He’s tenured, so it’s not like he’s going anywhere. Right now, I’m just feeling him out, learning his vibe.

College professors do not care about the students in their classes. I learned that on day one. Relationships between students and teachers are superficial. Mine is just another in a sea of faces staring back, my name and student ID number just another that get shuffled along through the papers I submit, the exams I write. I’m nobody to any of my teachers. This one is no exception.

So I sit anonymously in the back of the classroom, in black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a gray hoodie with the hood pulled up. I haven’t even bought the books for this course, and I don’t plan on it unless I have to.

I watch the professor and try to imagine fucking him. As an exercise in power, psyching myself to approach somebody is usually my first move. I find somewhere where I can sit and watch them. The last girl I spent any kind of time hooking up with used to hang out in one specific corner of the library, so I started hanging out there too. I would sit at the table across from hers with a book open in front of me, and I would imagine what I would do if I got her alone in my dorm room. Eventually, after a couple of weeks of flirting, I did, and when the time came, I knew what to do about it.

So I let my mind drift out of the lecture hall as it is right now and back into it as it would be after hours. I imagine it dark and huge around a single pool of light from the lamp on the corner of the desk. The professor sits at his desk, head down as he grades whatever papers he has to grade, and in my fantasy, he doesn’t notice me come in.

I enter from the door at the top of the lecture hall and make my way slowly down the stairs, my thighs in their nylon thigh-high tights slipping against each other. I’m wearing a short skirt and a tight button-up, with nothing underneath. I have my backpack slung over my shoulder, but there aren’t any books inside it.

As I descend the staircase, he looks up at me and watches as I approach, unmoving. Even in my mind’s eye, he seems unimpressed, dispassionate, and he doesn’t react as I approach the desk. I imagine running my fingers along the forward edge of it, teasing as I circle to sit on the edge of his desk.

We don’t talk. It’s too much effort to imagine any dialogue, and it’s not like it’s necessary for the realm of pure fantasy. He’s been talking all morning about Chaucer, Lydgate, and Skelton, and none of it has penetrated. He has a pleasant enough voice, but the subject is dry as a bone, unlike me.

I imagine leaning sideways to stretch out across his desk, stretching myself out over all his papers and books, knocking pens and paperclips to the floor to scatter over the old linoleum. I arch my back, and the buttons of my shirt strain to stay closed against my chest as he looks me over from head to toe and then reaches out to touch me. His hands start at my ankle, the one nearest to him, and he runs his palm slowly up my leg, lingering briefly to squeeze my thigh and then reaching up my skirt to see what he finds underneath.

His fingertips tease at the soft curls of the hair between my legs, and then he presses his whole palm against my pussy, massaging it with gentle pressure, as he bows his face over the desk to nuzzle at my neck. I imagine the heat of his breath, the texture of his lips, and then the damp, hungry moisture of his mouth as he starts to lick and taste me, pressing his tongue over my throat, his teeth scraping against the skin until his hand slips from beneath my skirt and comes up to cradle my head. His lips drag up my jaw, and then his mouth finds mine, closing hungrily over my lips, his tongue diving deep towards the back of my throat.

In the present, my pelvis grinds involuntarily against the hardness of the chair. The bell rings and snaps me out of the fantasy, and class is over. The professor has returned to his desk at the front of the class, unaware of what I’ve just let him do to me. I smile as I pass his desk to leave the room with the rest of the students. He has no idea what’s about to begin.

CHAPTER TWO

Nigel

I imagine she thinks she went unnoticed, skulking in the back of the classroom, all in black and grey. I suppose she doesn’t know how intensely I felt her watching me because there’s only one kind of student who stares at me like that. They’re the ones who’ve heard the rumors I started.

I can count on one hand the number of students who take my class out of a genuine interest in the literature of the period in which I specialize. Most are just scrabbling desperately for an English credit, and my little class seems like the best place to get it, for some reason or another.

I don’t pay her any attention, which is what she wants, but it will take longer than one class to get it. Instead, I concentrate on teaching my class to benefit those who are here for it.

Her name is Meghan Delaney, and I had a funny feeling about her as soon as she transferred. A cursory glance over her academic history reveals her to be a mediocre student. An evening spent researching her in greater depth informs me that her life is the halcyon existence of the only child of wealthy parents. They paid for her to be at school---not because she is worthy, deserving, and interested in an education, but because that’s standard for the upper-middle class. She has a history of behavior problems. Her high school records are scattered with after-school detention and a couple of suspensions. She gives the overall impression of a poor little rich girl, making trouble because she’s bored and unfulfilled.

I like a little trouble, now and again. She sounds like a Grade-A (well, more realistically a Grade D to generous C-minus) Brat. She needs discipline and to be put in her place.

I have a reputation as one of the softer teachers, with a light hand while grading, as long as a student brings effort and interest to the table. And truthfully, I don’t care whether my students pass or fail. I’m at the stage of my life where the chance to talk at length about my passions to a captive audience pleases me, and the work I do on my own time is more compelling than teaching ever could be. My university career funds my ambition. In my spare time from teaching, I work on my doctoral thesis. At this stage, the doctorate is mostly an ego thing.

Still, I can’t deny I crave the legitimacy of making some spoiled brat call me Dr. Cartwright while I fuck her senseless. Daddy Nigel has its place, but some of the shine has gone off it, and I’m neurotic about my academia to the point where it’s no good to have them just say Doctor, pretending I’ve earned the title when I haven’t. It kills something inside me, and the mood dies as soon as they say it.

The class finishes up, and I assign some reading that half of them won’t do, most notably Miss Meghan Delaney, who descends the stairs from the back of the class with a sway in her hips and a smirk on her pouty pink lips. In the time it takes her to cross the dais to the door, I imagine grabbing her and throwing her down on my desk.

She’s startled, but she doesn’t resist me. When she starts to push herself up, I stop her, pinning her hands to the top of the desk and looming over her with a growl until she submits, as a good girl should.

“Sorry, Daddy,” she whispers, in what I imagine her voice would sound like---little, meek, helpless---because of course we’ve never spoken, so I haven’t heard her speak.

“Shut up,” I tell her, and imagine roughly yanking open the zipper of the hoodie she wears---trashy, low class, not appropriate for a girl of her financial status---and finding nothing beneath it but her young, lithe little body. I imagine her breasts, nubile and smooth, waiting to be touched. Then I imagine slapping them lightly and watching the nipples tighten as she gasps. Her ass hangs off the desk, and her legs open involuntarily so that I can step between them and pin her there. I lean over her and imagine my cock going hard, stiffening inside my trousers.

I imagine her struggling slightly as she feels this, with a little whimpering whine, and I glare down at her to shut her up again. In my mind, I grind against her and hear her gasping breaths start to get throaty and aroused as she goes wet and slick in her tight little cunt, still imprisoned in her jeans where she can’t do anything about it. I fantasize about making her wait, about dominating her body and controlling what she’s allowed to feel and when she’s allowed to feel it. I want to make her beg for whatever it is she wants from me---a passing grade, an orgasm, a Daddy she can come to when she’s been bad and needs to be taught better.