I can't help the moan that escapes my mouth at the taste of her tongue against mine, and my hips pulse reflexively up to meet hers. But before I can reach the heat emanating from her core, she grasps my neck in her hand and pushes me away, pressing...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
One of my pet peeves: Insubordination in an environment where there shouldn't be any.
The stupid little white boy called out at me like I was an object for his fucking entertainment. I don't tolerate disrespect.
For others, that may not have come across as disrespectful. Perhaps a mere slip of the tongue. Maybe a student forgetting their place. Possibly a teacher with lax rules that simply allows their students to speak when they want.
But I have a weapon in my arsenal. I can read people like a fucking book.
That boy was not good people.
I watched as he reluctantly left the classroom with a tension to his stance that wasn't there before, and I can't help the wave of satisfaction that flows through me.
I turn back to the classroom, and I notice that it seems a bit too...Quiet?
I cross my arms across my chest. The stance is defensive, but the way that it pushes my breasts into focus is a temporary distraction that I use to create a false sense of comfort.
"Please, feel free to ask questions. I'll answer what I feel appropriate." I soften my voice so that it's less sharp, and loosen the furrow to my brows.
Being a Domme is more than a combination of simple commands. It's how you carry yourself.
For me, it's a game. As a predator, I provide my prey with a false sense of comfort before I strike.
I have already established my rules through my previous demonstration. I would be incredibly surprised if anyone failed to raise their hand before attempting to speak to me after emasculating the little pest who spoke earlier.
A timid hand raises in the back, and I make eye contact with an adorable little redheaded girl with striking green eyes. I can't help but linger at the way her pure white dress stretches tight across her small tits.
I definitely notice the fact that her thighs are pressed tightly together.
I smirk and lift my eyes back to hers. I nod in her direction.
And like a good little girl, she speaks.
"Um, if I may ask, why did you become a dominatrix?"
My smile grows a bit wider at the question she asked.
"I'm a bit of a control freak." I wink in her direction after giving her the non answer, and I relish in the blush that flames her cheeks.
I nod toward another hand, and this time it's a girl with dyed blue hair.
I'm not surprised that women in the class are first to speak. Men have an irrational fear of strong and demanding women. Often, it's not their fault. Society drills into them the belief that women are docile, or that they are objects to be used.
