Little Whore

Leilla earned her reputation the easy way. She coasted through every classroom with a flash of cleavage and a slow sway of her hips, then did fuck-all else. It worked until Ms. Parker. The teacher locked the door one afternoon, jerked the girl forward by her hair, and bent her over the desk. Cuffs bit into her wrists, fabric tore. Her tits spilled free, heavy and bare, nipples brushing wood. Ms. Parker circled, cane tapping her palm, then brought it down across those pale cheeks until the flesh bloomed dark and hot. Leilla yelped, ass trembling, thighs slicking. Each strike jolted through her, pain sparking straight to her cunt. She rocked into the cane, pushed out for more, breath breaking into needy little gasps. Ms. Parker noticed, smiled thinly, and shoved two fingers inside her without ceremony. The girl clenched, soaked, still squirming. Her body betrayed her; every lash dripped more arousal down her legs. Soon she begged louder than she swore, voice cracking around the word "please," hips stuttering against the teacher’s hand until she came, shuddering, cunt pulsing around nothing but humiliation and ache. She left that room slower, clothes askew, eyes glassy, and she didn’t even try to hide the smile. By the next class she was already wet at the sound of the door clicking shut.