Scarlet: 1000 Forbidden Touches

My student and I 2

I thought I’d gotten away with it.

After that first frantic f**k on my desk, I spent the rest of the week jumping at shadows. Every time my office phone rang, I pictured a furious parent or the department head demanding my resignation. Every knock on the door made my stomach drop. But nothing happened. No emails. No meetings. No whispers in the faculty lounge. Mary kept her mouth shut—except when she was using it to tease me in class.

She’d claimed the back row permanently now. No one else ever sat up there, so it was just her, legs spread wide under that ridiculous plaid skirt, giving me a private show every lecture. No panties. Ever. Just the slick pink of her p***y peeking out, glistening as she’d already been touching herself on the way to class. I tried not to look. I really did. But my eyes kept drifting up the stairs after her, waiting for the inevitable moment she’d “drop” something—a pen, a notebook, her dignity—and bend over slow, letting me see the smooth curve of her ass, the shadowed cleft between her cheeks, sometimes even the tight little pucker above her dripping slit.

I started dreaming about her every night—vivid, filthy dreams. Mary, in full Catholic-school regalia—plaid skirt, white blouse, knee socks, pigtails—bent over my desk while I paddled her until she cried. In the dreams, she always apologized so sweetly, tears on her lashes, then dropped to her knees to suck me off with that pert pink mouth. Sometimes she climbed on top, riding my c**k until her t**s bounced and she moaned “Professor” like a prayer. The worst—the best—were the ones where I flipped her over, spread her red ass cheeks, and f****d her tight little hole until she screamed.

I woke up hard every morning, sheets sticky, guilt churning in my gut. But I still tried to ignore her in class. Kept my eyes on the slides. Kept my voice steady.

Until the lollipop day.

She walked in sucking on a bright red one, lips wrapped around it like it was already my d**k. All through the lecture—schizophrenia, dissociation, whatever bullshit I was droning—she worked that thing. Tongue swirling. Slow licks up the shaft. Popping it in and out with wet little sounds that echoed in my head louder than my own voice.

Then, casual as anything, she slid it down between her thighs. Rubbed the sticky candy along her slit. Pushed it inside her p***y—slow—then pulled it back out, glistening with her juices. Back into her mouth she went, sucking her own taste off it while staring straight at me.

I felt my face burn. My c**k throbbed painfully against my zipper. I think I stammered something about hallucinations. I don’t even remember.

After class, I bolted again. Hid in my office with the door locked until I was sure she was gone.

Wednesday. No class. Office hours.

I was grading midterms, trying to focus on anything but her, when the door opened without a knock.

She stood in the doorway like a fever dream.

White button-down shirt rolled up and tied under her breasts, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the pale pink of her n*****s pressing against it. Midriff bare. That same red plaid skirt—short enough that I could see the lace tops of thigh-high white stockings and the clips of a garter belt. Black Mary Janes. Red hair in pigtails again, ribbons and all.

She shut the door. Locked it. Strutted forward, skirt fluttering.

“Hi, Professor,” she purred. “I’ve been trying to catch you after class, but you keep running away. So I figured… office hours. For extra help.”

I cleared my throat. Tried to shift so she wouldn’t see the instant bulge straining my slacks. “And… what kind of extra help do you need, Mary?”

She fluttered her lashes, all fake innocence. “Well… I’ve been a very naughty girl.” Her voice dropped huskily. “I keep playing with myself. All the time. I need someone to punish me so I’ll stop being such a bad girl.”

As she spoke, she untied the knot between her breasts. The shirt slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her elbows. Her n*****s hardened immediately in the cool air—light pink turning darker under my stare.

“Do you think you could punish me, Professor?”

I moaned—couldn’t help it. She leaned over my chair, breasts right in my face. I opened my mouth on instinct. Her right n****e dropped between my lips. I sucked hard. Greedy. My hand flew up to her other breast, squeezing the soft globe, thumb flicking the n****e until she whimpered.

Mary straddled my lap. Her skirt rode up. I felt the heat of her bare p***y against my thigh. Her fingers worked my button, my zipper. My c**k sprang free—thick, leaking, desperate. She ground down once, coating me in her wetness.

I feasted. Sucked one n****e, then the other, biting just enough to make her gasp. They turned red and swollen in my mouth. She moaned, rocking against me, then slid off my lap.

Bent over the desk.

Ass up. Skirt flipped. Pale heart-shaped cheeks peeking out, already faintly pink from memory.

“Punish me, please, Professor,” she begged. “I’m such a dirty girl. I need you to hurt me.”

Something in her voice—small, needy, filthy—snapped the last thread of my control.

I grabbed the yardstick from the side of my desk. Thick, wooden, perfect. Stood behind her. Lifted the skirt higher.

Her ass was flawless. Firm. Pale. Waiting.

I brought the yardstick down.

Crack!

A white line bloomed instantly, then flushed bright red. She jumped, cried out, but pushed back for more.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

I swung harder. Faster. Each strike left a perfect stripe across her cheeks. The sound echoed in the small office—sharp, obscene. Her skin turned from pink to angry crimson. She whimpered with every hit, thighs trembling, p***y dripping onto the floor.

I didn’t stop until she was sobbing—real tears this time—ass glowing, hot to the touch when I finally ran my palm over it.

She looked back at me, eyes glassy, lips parted.

“Please, Professor… f**k me. Anywhere. … use me.”

I dropped the yardstick. Shoved my pants down. Lined up with her soaked cunt.

One thrust and I was buried to the hilt.

She moaned loud enough that I worried someone in the hall might hear. I didn’t care. I f****d her hard—hips slamming against her punished ass, reigniting every welt. She pushed back to meet me, clenching around my c**k like she wanted to keep me there forever.

I pulled out, slick with her. Pressed against her ass.

“Yes—please—”

I pushed in slowly this time. Inch by inch. Her tight hole stretched around me, gripping like a fist. When I bottomed out, she shuddered, moaned my name—Professor—like it was holy.

I f****d her ass with long, deep strokes. Reached around to rub her c**t. She came fast—shaking, crying, walls pulsing around nothing and everything at once.

I followed right after. Buried deep and filled her ass with hot spurts until it leaked out around me.

We stayed like that a minute—panting, sweating, wrecked.

Then she straightened slowly. Turned and dropped to her knees.

Looked up at me with those big green eyes.

“Extra help,” she whispered, lips brushing the head of my softening c**k. “I think I’m going to need it every week, Professor.”

I stared down at her—red hair in pigtails, ass still burning red, my c*m starting to drip from between her cheeks.

God help me.

I was already getting hard again.