Chapter07

That should have been telling, that she even hinted that she might endure a lecture if the door was already closing behind her. But I was in analytic mode. I had to test it. Make sure it wasn't just attitude. After the way she'd wigged out Friday over a tube of chapstick, who could say what whims motivated this young woman? No, I had to be sure.

"First off, Taylor, I think an apology is in order," I started. She only looked at me blankly, as if uncomprehending what she might have done. "For your outbursts Friday, and for wasting my time today."

"Oh. Sure, if you say so. I'm sorry for Friday, and for today. OK?" The lack of sincerity could not have been clearer, but she still rolled her eyes to slam the point home.

"No. It's not OK." And it wasn't, but I also needed more data. Was she humoring me, or was it actually working? "I... Hmm." I tapped my lip. How to test it? Instantly a dozen answers stampeded from that too-loud part of my subconscious, but I silenced it immediately. There had to be a way. Something I could use to see if she'd put up with that she normally wouldn't.

"Go to the board," I said. Taylor complied, though her foot was tapping. Impatient? Or eager for my next directive? "Now I want you to write on the board: I will not copy other people's work."

"That's it? Just 'I will not copy other people's work,' nothing else?" she asked, picking up a marker.

"Um, also write, 'and I will behave myself in class.'"

"'I will not copy other people's work, and I will behave in class,'" she parroted. "Whatever gets you off, I guess." I gritted my teeth at her choice of words. My briefcase was concealing an erection so hard it was almost painful.

I watched as she turned and wrote it on the board. I tried not to notice her ass, the ass oh-so-faintly jiggling with each stroke of the marker as the movements in her arm vibrated down her torso and into those shorts. But moments later she was finished, and she looked over her shoulder expectantly. "Now what? Cartwheels or something?"

"Ninety-nine to go," I ordered casually. It was mercy to my professional pride that she turned before seeing how baffled I was by my own words. Really? Writing penances on the dry erase board? I'd never even heard of a teacher employing such a tactic except in media. Was Dolors Umbridge in my subconscious or something? It was exactly the sort of pointless tedium that made a student less inclined to take any satisfaction in reading and writing, or to have any respect for the disciplinary process.

With another roll of the eyes, however, Taylor turned and began writing. She wasn't working especially quickly, but she was working. As the text gradually filled the upper portions of the whiteboard, first she bent at the waist. Oh lord, those legs. What was above those legs. Then as she neared the bottom, Taylor simply squatted down so she could get her arm at the right angle. Her shorts were rode right up her crack, and when she stood to start work on the next column of scribing, they stayed there, painting each ass cheek separately. As hard as it was not to notice, my attention was really on the broader picture.

I'd told her to do something -- something pointless, boring, a Sisyphean chore -- and she was doing it. She looked sulky, and occasionally muttered something petulant under her breath. (Mostly under her breath, anyway. Drugged or no, it was still Taylor Stern here.) But the point was, she was doing it!

"Keep writing while I talk at you, all right?" I interjected as she reached the fifties some twenty minutes in. Twenty minutes in which I had gotten almost nothing done despite sitting at my desk and going through the motions of it. That ass was almost distracting enough to justify a dress code -- but, as I'd said to colleagues who'd defended the policy in the past, the fault was really on those who let themselves be distracted. And was I ever distracted.

"Were you gonna say something or what?" she asked, her voice reflecting back at me off the whiteboard. Her hand must be cramping up, as she took a moment to shake it out, flex and unflex her grip, before continuing. Her buttocks rippled with each vigorous shake.

I snapped out of it, but barely. "So today, this is our project, but tomorrow, I thought maybe we'd get to work on your essay. I know you have opinions -- do you ever -- but I'd like to see if you can't put them down on the page."

"I mean, if you say so," she said noncommittally.

I pressed. "And you are going to show up tomorrow?"

"Is that a question? Like, do I have a choice?" Evidently her hand wasn't all that was getting uncomfortable. Taylor raised both hands over her head, arching her back and grunting with satisfaction at her stretch. The tank top strained at the effort her breasts were putting into popping out, yet meanwhile her butt seemed to be fighting to keep all eyes on it. In an instant, I knew that would be the feature of tonight's dreams, just as the friction-filled gyrating struggle for the chapstick had been the focus of every night this past weekend.

"No. You don't have a choice."

"So why did you ask it like a question then?" she muttered, getting back to work.

"And you'll show up immediately after school tomorrow, right?"

She sighed, plainly annoyed. "Fine."

I licked my lips. It was so easy. "And... you'll apologize."

She glanced back momentarily. "What, tomorrow? Like, I have to come in with some prepared apology?"

What the hell had I actually meant? Was that it? "No. Right now. Apologize."

"Uh, all right. Sorry, I guess." She didn't stop writing, and her tone and brevity both came across as patently insincere. But in spite of myself, I was so hard that my cock felt like it was about to lift my steel desk off the floor.

"Sorry for what, Taylor?"