Failing Maths

As I stand before the door, I look down and smooth my skirt. I am wearing the school uniform: a white blouse with a black tie, blue sweater, and plaid skirt. The skirt reaches the middle of my thighs. I'd like it a bit longer, but it is the same for everyone, so there is no point in complaining. I am well aware that many of the popular girls want them to be even shorter, but then what they wear in their free time is hardly worth the name skirt. If it covers their ass at all, it is pure coincidence.

I, on the other hand, am part of the average group of people. Not unpopular, per se, but definitely not in the popular group either. I am also incredibly insecure, which is rather obvious in my behaviour. I never talk back to anyone, and the more clothes that cover me, the better. Rather unlike the popular girls, isn't it?

I shouldn't be thinking about clothes right now, though. Mr. Thomas, our maths teacher, had told me to come to the classroom after my last class. That did not bode well, not at all. Maths was just about my worst subject, and I was only barely scraping by. I couldn't afford to fail it if I wanted a scholarship for the university though.

I raise my hand hesitantly, nervously, and knock on the door. I'm pretty positive that it is going to be about last friday's test, I just know I've done badly. A faint 'enter' sounds, and I open the door, then close it quietly behind me. I approach the desk where mr. Thomas is sitting, writing on some papers. When I catch myself fidgetting, I try to force my hands to be still. I stand there for what seems to be an eternity, though it is probably closer to five minutes when Mr. Thomas puts down his pen and looks at me. 'Ah, Ms. Ruth...' he says softly. I nod my head. It is perhaps not the best of gestures, but it sure beats answering 'Mr. Thomas...' in the same tone. I look at him, wondering if my hunch is right.

'Mr. Ruth, I have corrected friday's tests. It would seem that you have failed it, yet again, and failed it quite miserably.' So, I am right. It is about that. I put on my best contrite face as I look slightly down, and mumble:

'I'm sorry, Mr. Thomas. I will do my best to pass next time, it won't happen again.' When I look quickly up, I find him looking at me with a frown on his face. Was contrite not working today? Apparently not, I find when he says:

'Ah, but that is what you promised last time, Ms. Ruth. And the time before that, and a few times before that as well. It seems I cannot trust your word on it, so I see no choice but to fail you...' I gasp. He couldn't do that!... Could he?

'But, sir... I can't fail this class! I can't get a scholarship for university if I fail any of my classes! Please, isn't there something I can do to keep from failing? Please help me, sir, I can't afford to fail!' I'm starting to repeat myself, working myself up to tears and wringing my hands.

Mr. Thomas watches me for a little, then reaches out and pats my shoulder. 'Come now, come now, no need for tears. There is one other thing we can do to get you through this class. Let me see... I could tutor you. Of course, if you want me to do that, you are going to have to do everything that I tell you to. If you don't, I will have to fail you, and we both don't want that to happen. Understood?' I nod my head, grateful that he is giving me this chance.

In response, Mr. Thomas also nods his head.

'Alright. Go sit in your desk. I have here some problems, of the same kind as on the test. I want you to solve the first one, then give it to me so that I can correct it.' I take the problems with me to my desk, get out my pencil and bend over the first question. I soon realise that even though it does look like the problems from the test, it is actually even harder. I nervously bite my pencil, write something down, bite again. After a while, I give up and give what I have to Mr. Thomas, although I know my solution is wrong. I watch him circle and scribble all through my answer, until he looks up at me.

'This is quite below par, is it not, Ms. Ruth? I think I'm going to have to punish you for it. Take off your sweater.'

I obey. What else can I do? It's just a sweater after all, and I am warm from the nerves the problem had given me anyway. I fold the sweater and put it on another desk. I sit back down in my own, and he comes to me with the wrong solution in his hand. Putting it down in front of me, he bends over me to point out where I made a mistake and how I should have solved it. As he explains, he brushes my shoulder a few times, seemingly on accident. I say nothing of it. Of course.

When he is done, he pats me on the arm. 'Second problem.' is all he says. I bend over it. It is the same again, a problem that is harder than anything we've seen in class. I think I do a little better, but still I don't get the right answer. 'Open your blouse.' Ok, this is going entirely too far. Is it even legal for a teacher to act like that. I open my mouth to protest, but he's first by raising his finger. 'Tut tut! Everything I tell you, or fail, remember? That was the deal.' My mouth closes suddenly, while my hands start unbuttoning my blouse. I tell myself that it is still alright, with my tie in front of the gap and the blouse still hanging over my breasts. My cheeks are burning with the shame of it, though. I know I should speak out, but instead I listen attentively to Mr. Thomas's explanation and then bend over the third problem.

Predictably, I find the wrong solution, and my penalty is my blouse. I bite my lip when I take it off, but I'm still wearing my bra. The notion that it won't be there much longer does occur to me, of course. I'm not so stupid that I don't know where this is leading to. I guess I knew it as soon as he told me to take off my sweater. But how can I protest? I know that Rachel or any of the others would never allow this to happen, but they were not here. And I didn't even dare talk back to people my own age, even though I'm legally an adult, I turned 18 a few weeks ago. So how could I say no to a teacher? Who was holding my future in his hand?

During his explanation, the brushings against my body continue, and quite obviously not by accident. He touches my shoulder, my arm, my back. At times it is just a little flutter as his finger brushes past my skin, other times it's more lingering, when he places his hand on the small of my back while pointing to something on the paper with the other. He acts as though he's not doing it, though – and so do I. I'm a coward, I know. I just really want to go to university. When he's finished, he straightens. His hand again brushes against me, for the first time against my breast.

The penalty for the fourth wrong answer is not what I expected. I'd thought I would have to take off my bra, but instead he orders me to take off my panties. More importantly, I have to do it slowly and with my ass turned to him, myself looking straight ahead. I try to lift as little of my skirt as possible. I hook my thumbs behind the panties and slowly draw them down, from under my skirt, towards my black shoes. When they're just below my knees, I hear a click coming from behind me, though I don't know what made the sound. I sit back down in my chair, watching Mr. Thomas as he comes closer. He immediately places a hand on my shoulder while he puts down the paper and points out my first mistake.

I chance a glance at the watch – it is very late already. We must be the only people left in school. I quickly turn my gaze back to the paper in front of me, until I am distracted by his hand that starts moving. Down my front, towards my breast. I sit rigidly, wanting to cut and run, and screw university, but it's too late. His hand slides inside my bra, and I don't have the guts to get up and go. Still he's talking as if he's doing nothing out of the ordinary, while his hand is holding my breast, and with burning cheeks I try to concentrate on his explanation. I do seem to be making less mistakes than the first time. When he's done, he straightens again, withdrawing his hand from my bra. He looks at me for a moment, then takes the fabric of my bra between his fingers and hooks it below my breast, first on the right side, then on the left. I feel exposed, and it makes my cheeks burn even brighter. Strange, though, that my nipples should harden the way they are doing now.

Mr. Thomas has walked to his own desk again. Before I begin my fifth problem, he tells me to stand up and look down at the floor in front of me. It's quiet for a little while, then I hear the same click again, a few times. I still can't say what makes that sound, though. Then he lets me work on the fifth problem – but only if I spread my legs under my desk. When I am done and he has corrected it, he nods approvingly.

'See? You can do it... Now, to give you your proper punishment for making all those mistakes...' In answer to the shock on my face, he laughs softly. 'You didn't think taking off those things was all the punishment, did you? Come here and bend over my desk. Come on... Or do you want me to fail you?' It is enough to make me get up and walk over to his desk. As I bend over it, he tells me to lean on it with my upper body and stretch out my arms as far as they will go. When I obey, I suddenly feel something enclosing my wrists. I look up quickly and start to panick when I see handcuffs. I pull at them, but Mr. Thomas stops me by grabbing a fistful of hair and barking 'Stop!'

The force in his voice is enough to get me to lie still, though I feel tears pooling in my eyes and streaming down my face. I feel his hand take a leg and put my ankle in another pair of cuffs, attached to the desk's leg, then my right leg is also forced to the side, so that they are spread wide. I feel something, a finger, trail its way up from my ankle to my knee, my thigh, until it reaches the hem of the skirt. Then the same happens to my other leg. When it stops, I feel the skirt being lifted over my ass, so that it's lying on my back. More clicking sounds follow, then Mr. Thomas comes around to face me, and I realise what made the clicking sound. If I had thought that my colour couldn't grow any deeper shade of red, I was wrong. He'd been photographing me! Weakly I start to struggle again, but he only laughs.

'It's too late, little slut, and you know it. I have pictures of you in various states of undress, and only in these last few were you restrained. If you want these pictures to stay where they are, you're going to continue doing just what I tell you to...' I just look at him, horrified that he should do such a thing. He goes on, seemingly oblivious of my feelings. He shows me something black. 'This here is a paddle. I'm going to use it on your little white ass and make it nice and red. While I do so, it would be well for you to remember that you deserve this.' He bends down to my ear, and repeats: 'You deserve it.'

He goes back to where he came from, the paddle in his hand, and after a little while I feel it fall on my butt. The pain of it shocks me into a small cry. He laughs. 'Cry all you want. Nobody is here anymore to hear you.' He hits again, and then again. I find myself readying my butt for the next one, but it doesn't come. I relax a little bit, and there it is. It goes on, seemingly forever, and as I lie there a curious thing happens. His earlier words, that I deserve it, keep running through my head, and as the pain in my ass increases, I find myself believing them. I do deserve this. Slowly, the pain is all there exists for me. The tears are not important, what is important is that I deserve punishment, and he is giving it to me. As he works my ass, I hear him talking to me.

'You're a slut, Ms. Ruth. You're a little bitch in heating, and I'm the first to discover it. That makes you mine. You're mine now, to do with just as I please, and you are going to take it all like the good little slut that you are. You deserve punishment for being naughty. You know that you deserve it, don't you? So what do you say then, when I give you something that you deserve?' He hits me again with the paddle, really hard, and I pant out a 'Thank you!' But that's not enough, he says, and I don't know what to do to make it right, and I want to do it right. He helps me with what is still missing, and I feel grateful for it, grateful to him for helping me when I don't know the answer. 'I told you that you're mine now, so if I own you, what does that make me?'

I answer hesitantly. 'My... master?' I feel a hand carressing my bottom. 'Good slut! So what do you say?' and again he hits me hard. I cry out 'Thank you master!' and this time it's right, and I know it is, and the rightness of it overwhelms me. I start offering him my ass, instead of squirming to get away from the hits. I don't really realise that I'm doing it, but that's alright, because I'm not there to realise anything, I'm there to receive.

After a while it stops. I have no idea how long it lasted, and I don't care. I'm crying because of the pain, but the humiliation has been beaten out of me. Or perhaps not the humiliation, but the realisation of it. 'Thank you, master...' I whisper.

I hear a soft laugh from behind me, then my feet are released. My hands follow soon after. I am still sprawled out over the desk, but I'm not longer restrained. He bends over me and whispers: 'Crawl for me, little bitch. Get down on your knees and kiss my feet.' I slide down to my hands and knees and crawl over to him. With my body low to the ground, I kiss his shoes everywhere that I can reach. When he tells me to, I take them off, reverently placing them to the side. He hooks open my bra, which slides to the floor unnoticed. 'Down, bitch. Roll over!' It is so much easier to obey than to question, so I roll onto my back and look up to him. He holds one foot above my face, and I start kissing the sole. I am beneath him, lower than the sole of his foot, and that is my rightful place. When he takes his foot away, I stop, though I remain in the same position.

He leans over me.

'You, Ms. Ruth, are a wanton slut.' I gasp, though it's more from the warmth that is suddenly spreading through my body than in protest. Shouldn't I be protesting? But if he says it, it must be true. 'You're such a slut that you want me to do things to you. As soon as you first came into my class, I knew that you were a little bitch like that. You were just waiting to be plucked, then thrown down and defiled. You want to be a slut, and you're grateful to me for letting it out. Aren't you... slut.' Looking at him, I nod. 'Say it.'

As I answer, I look into his eyes. 'Yes, master, I'm a low, dirty slut. Thank you, master.'

He tells me to lie on my back on the desk with my legs spread. Before I can protest, he takes his camera again and takes more pictures. When he puts it away, he approaches and starts rubbing my thighs. He draws circles with his hands, circles that keep coming closer to the center. I can't help it, I start moaning, offering my pussy to his hands.

'See what kind of a slut you are? You're dripping wet, you want to be taken now, and taken hard, don't you.' He doesn't wait for an answer, but plunges a finger inside. When it is wet, he starts working my clit with it. When he uses another finger to go into my pussy again, I feel myself losing the battle quite quickly. After a while, all that exists is that feeling, which keeps building up. I have to scream to let it out, it bursts out of me like a river, and when it's gone I am spent. He won't let me rest, however, he unzips his pants. 'Did you like that, slut? Here's some more of me...'

With that, he plunges inside of me. I scream again, this time from the pain, and I try to get away from him. But he takes my hands, keeps me from struggling free. 'Oh no, you slut, that's not going to work. You let me do those things to you. You're mine, and I will use you.' He releases my hands and starts roughly massaging my breasts. I cry, try to get away again, and as a result he takes both my wrists in one hand, while pinching and stretching my nipples with the other. I can't get away, I know I can't. When that knowledge seeps through, my body betrays me. I can't go anywhere, and the cock inside of me is pounding and pounding, only it doesn't hurt anymore, and instead of pushing away I try to get closer, push back, and the feeling builds up inside me again, only different than before, and the moment that I feel him coming, something releases inside of me and I shudder, while my pussy contracts a few times.

He collapses on top of me and starts stroking my hair. 'You see, little slut? That wasn't so bad... You just have to do exactly what I tell you, and you'll be fine. Come to me next week, the same time as today. Tell your parents I'm tutoring you. Of course you know, if you fail to show up next week... then those pictures are not going to stay secret. So you had better make sure you're here, don't you? Like a good little slut.' He withdraws from me and zips his pants back up. Then he takes his briefcase. 'See you next week, little slut.' is the last thing I hear, as he leaves me to gather my own stuff together.