I can't seem to catch my breath.

My chest rises and falls as Mr. Gabe walks over to the front of his desk, slowly and purposefully. He leans back against the side of it the same way he did the other day – casually, like I'm any one of his students.

Except I'm not – and this is not a regular meeting between professor and student. And I just heard him lock the office door.

I wait for him to do something, but he doesn't even speak. He doesn't say a word; he only looks at me. I can feel his eyes all over me – my face, my breasts, my thighs, my legs. My cheeks burn warm under his scrutiny.

Finally he speaks. "Stand, Ms. Taylor," he commands, his voice thick.

My heart races as I do what he tells me to do. He orders me, and I comply – and heat pools between my legs as a result. I shouldn't like him ordering me around; after all, I'm tired of being told what to do. I was tired of being told what to do my entire life by my father; that's why I came to school here instead of staying in South Hollow.

So why is it that when Mr. Gabe tells me what to do, it makes me wet? Why is it that his orders leave me breathless, hanging on his every word?

He rises and walks toward me, stopping only when his face is an inch from mine. But he doesn't lay a finger on me. Slowly and calmly, he walks around me. I can feel his gaze everywhere, his eyes on me like he's perusing me. I have to bite down on my lip to quell the whimper that escapes my mouth as I await his verdict.

I can feel him behind me, his hot breath wafting over my neck and ear. "What is this?" he whispers.

What is what?

"Um…" I mumble, not sure what he's talking about.

"This outfit," he growls in my ear. He sounds angry, yet his tone is low and his voice is measured. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"I'm not sure." I'm not sure about a lot of things. I'm not sure about the outfit, and I'm really not sure what I'm doing here in his office.

He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a low rumble under his breath. The sound vibrates close to my ear and sends goosebumps down my arms. When I shiver at the sensation, he lets out a loud exhale that makes me shiver even more as the heat from his breath wafts over my skin.

If only he would just touch me. Just a little bit, just the tip of his finger on my skin…

I close my eyes.

Waiting. Wanting.

"You're not sure?" he asks. "I think you're lying to me, Purity."

"But I'm not lying –"

"I think you know exactly what you're doing, waltzing into my classroom wearing this short little skirt that barely covers your ass."

"I don't know anything –"

"Are you purposely trying to distract the boys during class, little girl?" he asks. "Is that what you're trying to do? And in my classroom, no less? Right in front of me?"

"No, I –" Panic seizes my throat, and guilt surges through me at the thought of Randolph inviting me to the party. I start to whirl around to defend myself. Mr. Gabe should know I wasn't flirting with Randolph. I don't even want to go to the stupid party. "I didn't –"

He catches my wrist. "Don't you dare turn around," he growls. "Stay where you are."

I hold my breath.

"Distracting the boys and distracting me with this little skirt. That was your goal, wasn't it?"

Cool air hits my backside, and I realize that Mr. Gabe has lifted my skirt. I suck in a quick breath, my heart pounding a million beats a second as I wait for whatever he's going to do next. My head is spinning and I'm absolutely terrified and so turned, I can't think straight.

The only thought going through my head is that Mr. Gabe just lifted up my skirt. He can see my backside.

Then as quickly as he lifted it, he drops it again. I exhale hard as disappointment rushes through me. He didn't even touch me – not a finger.

His lips go to my ear. "Distracting me with this little skirt," he scolds.

"Maybe I was," I interrupt, sexually frustrated to the point of tears. "Maybe I wanted to be a distraction in your class. Maybe I wanted you to get hard looking at me, the way you were hard for me in your office."

"What a filthy little mouth you have on you," he says gruffly. "It's a pity such a good little girl says such dirty little things."

"I told you I wasn't a little girl," I reply, my teeth clenched.

"Sir," he says sharply.

"What?"

"I told you I wasn't a little girl, Sir."

"Sir." It comes out more like a moan than an actual word. Why does calling him that make me even hotter?

"That's better," he growls. "Now, tell me how you think I should punish a dirty little girl who tries very hard to turn on her professor during class?"

I whimper.

Punish me??

The thought of Mr. Gabe doling out any kind of punishment makes me weak in the knees.

I bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying out in anguish as he just stands there behind me. He's close enough to slide his hand around my hips and between my legs and use his fingers to put me out of my misery, but he doesn't. I think he likes my misery. I think he wants to string me along, to keep from touching me so that I'll be in agony.

I hate him right now. More than anything.

"I don't have all day, little girl," he says. "How do you think I should punish you?"

"How should I know?" I snap. My insolence takes me by surprise, and I immediately add, "Sir," as if that will somehow make my response less disrespectful.

I can feel him move away from me, and I want to cry – but instead, I let out a little groan. He's not going to touch me at all. That's going to be my punishment – his doing nothing.

I can't take that kind of punishment, not anymore.

It's not fair of him to bring me to the edge, make me want him, and then just walk away.

I wait for him to open the door and tell me to leave. Again.

But instead, he goes to the other side of his desk and pulls open the drawer, removing a blank sheet of paper and a pen. His eyes boring into mine, he slowly removes the pen cap and sets it down. Then he slides the paper and pen across the desk, placing them in front of me.

He's going to make me write??

Without a word, he walks back around the desk and stands behind me. I can feel his presence. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up in response, and when he whispers in my ear, I shiver. "Bend over and put your hands on the fucking desk."

I whirl around to look at him, but he's lowering himself into the chair where I sat before. I glare at him as he leans back with his legs spread wide. Nonchalantly, he unbuckles his belt as he raises his eyebrows. "Did I tell you to turn around and look at me, or did I tell you to bend your mouthy little ass over the desk?"

My breath catches in my throat. I stand there staring at him as his fingers go to his zipper. I don't want to turn around because I don't want to stop looking. He's going to unzip his pants. I know what that means, and I want to see his cock.

I've never seen one before.

I'm nervous and excited and totally scared. I stand there silently willing him to unzip his pants.

"Bend over the desk or you'll regret it, little girl," he orders, his voice threatening.

"I would rather see what you're doing," I say coyly. "I could… help you."

He lets out a laugh under his breath, but his eyes are dark. I can't tell if he's amused by me or angry with me. I'm transfixed as he unzips and slides his hand right down his pants.

I breathe in sharply. His hand is inside of his pants and he's holding his cock. He doesn't pull it out, though. He doesn't show it to me.

Doesn't he know how much I want it? Does he understand how badly I want to taste it?

I let out a whimper. It makes me sound needy and desperate, but I can't help it.

The sides of his mouth twitch. "You've never seen a cock before, have you, little girl?"

I shake my head. "No," I whisper.

His expression is smug. It's infuriating how smug he is as he sits there with his hand down the front of his pants, looking at me like I'm his little plaything, someone he can toy with. The way he unravels me while he maintains control is especially infuriating. I want to scream at him for the way he easily controls himself and looks at me without touching when all I want to do is climb on top of his lap and straddle him.

I want to sink down onto his cock and let him pierce me, allow him to take my virginity, and make me a woman. I want to feel him thrust inside of me, bringing me to the edge. I want to feel him let go and fill me up.

"You're not going to see one right now, either," he says, his eyes twinkling when I let out a little whine. "Unfortunately, only good little girls get to see their teachers' cocks. And you're not a good little girl, are you, Purity?"

"I'm not sure," I whisper, adding contritely, "Sir."

"I can tell you're not, wearing a short skirt like that to class and making your teacher's cock hard. Causing your teacher to consider bending you over and fucking you in the middle of the classroom when he's supposed to be teaching. Making all of the boys in the classroom want you. None of those things are things a good little girl does, are they?" He doesn't wait for me to answer. "All of those things require punishment, don't you think?"

"It depends on what the punishment is," I reply. "Sir."

"Naughty girls don't get to choose their punishments," he says, pointing behind me toward the desk. "Bad little girls get to bend over the desk and write fifty times 'I will not make my teacher's cock hard in class' on a piece of paper. That's what the punishment is for bad girls who need to learn discipline."

"I have plenty of discipline."

"Turn around, Ms. Taylor," he says, his voice sharp. "Turn around and bend over that desk. Stick your ass out so I can watch you write. Put your eyes on your paper – and make sure your penmanship is neat."

Who does he think he is, ordering me around?

For a brief moment, I consider turning in the opposite direction and marching right out of his office as my heart beats furiously in my chest. The problem is that my heartbeat is nothing compared to the throbbing between my legs that demands my attention. So I relent.

Turning around slowly, I bend over the desk. One palm slides flat onto the tabletop to hold me up as I take the pen in my other hand. My hand trembles, and I'm not sure if it's because I'm more turned on or more nervous.

I have no modesty at all now. Bent over like this, Mr. Gabe has a full view of my panties. So I might as well go with it. I take a deep breath and arch my back, pushing my ass out and straightening my legs so that as much of me as possible is on display for him.

"I don't see your pen moving, little girl. Remember: I will not make my teacher's cock hard in class," he repeats.

Putting my pen to paper, I'm torn between feeling incredibly stupid or incredibly turned on as I write out the statement slowly and methodically.

Make sure your penmanship is neat.

My nipples are hard underneath my bra and I'm so aroused that I consider sliding my finger into my bra cup just so I can touch myself, but I don't because I don't know what Mr. Gabe would do if I disobeyed him again. Would he turn me over his knee? Or worse, would he not touch me at all?

"What if I do make my teacher's cock hard again?" I ask, my voice innocent.

"Still so mouthy, Ms. Taylor," he says. "You need to learn some manners. Sass will only get you so far in life. Now, put your pen down."

I wonder what he's going to tell me to do next – and why I just keep doing as he says. "Yes, Sir."

"Pull the back of your skirt up to your waist and show me those panties," he orders. I do just as he tells me. I know by his growl that he approves of what he sees. "You crossed your legs in class while you were sitting in your chair and gave me a view right up your skirt. Are you aware of that?"

"No, Sir." I'm completely embarrassed. If he could see up my skirt, does that mean everyone else could, too? I knew this skirt was short, but I didn't know it was that short. "I didn't know you could see anything at all."

"So you wouldn't have been trying to give me a view of your wet little crotch, would you?" he asks, but he continues before I can even respond. "Your panties are wet, aren't they, little girl?"

"Um…" I hesitate for a moment, my heart racing. The answer would be a definite yes. But that's not why I pause. I hesitate because the question takes me by surprise. No one but him says such filthy things to me.

"Spread your legs," he orders gruffly. "Stay bent over and spread your legs. I want to see if you're wet. I need to see if you're wet."

I can't breathe as I move one leg to the side, leaning forward to give him a clear view of my ass and my panty-covered crotch.

"Well, Ms. Taylor, you are a naughty little thing, aren't you?" he asks. "You've soaked your panties right through. I can see the wet spot all the way over here. Tell me, are you in the habit of walking around in wet panties all the time?"

"No, Sir," I whisper. "Only when…"

"Speak up, Ms. Taylor," he snaps. "Only when what?"

"Only when you make them wet."

I think I hear him growl again. "Would it make you wet to know what I'm doing right now?"

I bite my lip. "I'm not sure. I don't know what you're doing."

"Ask me, Ms. Taylor."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm looking at that wet spot in the middle of those white cotton undies and I'm running my hand up and down my very hard cock. You've made my cock very hard, Ms. Taylor."

I let out a little whimper. "Can I – Can I see it?"

"Hmm. No, I don't think so. Not today. You see, you'll have to learn your lesson before I can show you that, and I don't think you've learned your lesson, do you?"

I don't think I've learned my lesson at all. I only want to push more of his buttons, to get a reaction out of him. I wonder what forms of punishment I could earn for not learning my lesson.

I wonder if they'd involve his hand on my ass.

I wonder if I could make him angry enough to use his cock on me.

"No, Sir," I say, my voice catching. "I've been a very bad girl."

"Yes, you have," he agrees. "Bad girls who show their panties to their professors lose their panties. Slide your panties off and kick them to the floor behind you."

"You want me to give you my undies?"

"Are you questioning me, Ms. Taylor?" he asks. "Pull your panties down and take them off. Then bend right back over the desk so I can see your bare pussy."

Okay, then.

I reach for the sides of my panties and shimmy out of them, pulling them over my bottom and down my thighs. When I let go, they fall to the floor around my ankles and I kick them backward without looking behind me. As Mr. Gabe picks them up, his hand grazes my left calf. The heat from his touch surges through me, and since he's bent over, I can feel the heat of his breath on the back of my legs. He's so close that if he moved up, his lips would be between my legs.

My eyes practically roll back in my head at the thought of his lips between my legs.

But he doesn't move up. Instead, he backs away from me, taking my panties with him. "I'm going to keep these," he decides. "Keep writing, Ms. Taylor."

"You can't just keep my panties," I protest even as I write another line on the paper: "I will not make my teacher's cock hard in class." With every word, I feel the throbbing between my legs more acutely. "I can't walk out of here wearing nothing underneath my skirt."

"That's exactly what you're going to do," he says gruffly. "You want to tempt me by flashing your panties during class? Then you can walk around completely bare underneath, knowing that I have them in my possession."

"Maybe I should just wear nothing under my skirt to class next time," I reply impudently.

"You're much mouthier and less compliant than I thought you'd be," he notes. "Clearly you need more discipline."

My heart skips a beat. "Maybe you should discipline me."

He ignores my comment. "Spread your legs for me. I can't see that wet little pussy as much as I'd like."

I do exactly what he asks, stepping as wide as I can so he can get a perfect view. I bend over until my face touches the desk, pushing my ass back so he can see everything. He's right about me not being a good girl. Good girls don't bend over and display themselves bare for their professors.

He's touching himself as he looks at me, spread and on display for him. This is the dirtiest thing I can imagine. It's somehow even filthier than actually having sex. It should make me feel ashamed of myself, but strangely, it just turns me on more.

Mr. Gabe lets out a low groan. Closing my eyes, I let my imagination take me away as I picture him looking at me while he strokes himself. I wonder how big and hard he is for me.

I wonder if he wants me as much as I want him.

"Look at that wet little pussy," he says, his voice thick. "Do you realize how wet you are, Ms. Taylor? I can see it glistening on your lips."

"I know." I barely choke out the words.

"I can smell you all the way over here," he growls. "I bet you taste like honey."

I whimper at the thought of him putting his tongue between my legs the way I've imagined him doing when I touch myself at night. "Maybe you should try tasting me," I suggest.

I can't believe I just told him to do that.

Mr. Gabe growls again. "Don't tempt me, Ms. Taylor. If you keep tempting me, I'm going to have to pull you down onto my lap so I can spank your little ass for being a temptress."

The whimper that escapes my lips is so loud, it surprises me.

Apparently, it surprises him as well because he laughs. "Is that what you want, Purity? Do you want me to pull you across my lap so you can feel how hard I am for you? Would you like to feel my cock pressing against your perky little tits, rubbing against your stomach, and pushing against your pussy as I spank that disobedient, tempting, perfect little ass?"

My pussy is throbbing so badly that I can't think. I want to touch myself so much, but I don't dare do that in front of him. Do I?

I shouldn't feel embarrassed at the thought of reaching between my legs to touch my clit in front of him when he's obviously touching himself right now. Besides, it's not like my entire lower half isn't totally bare and displayed for him.

It's just that I've never touched myself in front of anyone before. No one's ever seen me like this either – wet and wanting, ready and waiting.

I'm almost certain that if he came up behind me and pressed his cock against me, I wouldn't object. I would welcome him.

Setting down my pen, I decide to do it. Behind me, he's groaning instead of talking now. He's obviously getting his own relief, so why shouldn't I? If I just touch myself a little bit, I'll come so fast.

But as soon as I slide my fingers between my legs, I hear his voice. "Are you touching yourself, Ms. Taylor?"

"Oh, God, yes," I groan. He's going to be so angry. He explicitly told me not to do it, and here I am, my fingers between my legs. But in my defense, I'm going to lose my mind if I can't touch myself. I'll go insane if I can't come.

"Did I say you could touch your pussy, Purity?" I can hear him stroking himself and I want it to be my hand wrapped around his cock instead of his own. "Did you ask permission to touch that wet little cunt?"

That word. It's so forbidden, and the first time I've ever heard anyone say it to me. It almost sends me over the edge. It makes me rub myself harder because I can't stop. I don't want to stop. I want him inside me, thrusting his cock until I scream.

"Did you ask permission?" he repeats.

"No…Sir." I might choke out the word "Sir", but I'm unrepentant.

"Have you ever touched yourself in front of anyone before?"

He already asked me that.

"No, Sir. You know that." I arch my back and push my hips out farther, putting myself on display. There's something about being on display like this for him that makes me feel sexy for the first time – like he's only seeing me as a sexual object and nothing more. For a girl who's never been permitted to feel sexy at all, it's a big deal to feel completely objectified.

"Yet you think it's appropriate to touch yourself in front of me?"

"No, Sir," I gasp, my breath short as I press my fingers against my clit. "It's not… appropriate… at all. But I can't help it."

My voice comes out like a whine.

"Have you ever fingered yourself, little girl?"

"Never," I breathe. "I've never done that."

"So, nothing has ever gone inside that tight little virgin pussy?" Mr. Gabe's voice is strained and he lets out a little grunt as he strokes himself. I almost turn around right then, even though he told me to stay bent over, because I'm desperate to see him touching his cock.

"Nothing, Sir," I whisper. My wetness lubricates my clit, and my fingers roll over and over the little nub as I bring myself higher and higher. I want to feel something inside of me. I want to feel his cock inside of me.

"I wasn't going to touch you, little girl," he groans. "You wanted to tempt me with that short skirt and those panties and bending over my desk the way you are, yet I wasn't going to lay a finger on you. I was going to sit here and let you stand over there."

"But now?"

"Stop touching yourself," he growls. "Immediately. Pull your fingers away from your clit. You're not going to come until I say you come."

It's agonizing to do what he tells me to do, but I obey.

"I was going to be good," he says, his voice gravelly. "I was going to be good and keep my hands off of you. I thought that I'd be safe over here, away from you."

He thought he'd be safe?? I'm the virgin, the one with no experience, and he's worried about being safe from me?

"And now?" I ask, waiting as the silence fills the room.

"Now?" He grins. "Now, all bets are off."