The clock strikes noon when Professor Steve strides into the lecture hall, his polished oxfords clicking against the tiled floor. He slams his leather briefcase onto the desk with unnecessary force—the students immediately straighten in their seats.

Then, the door creaks open. Ten minutes late. Again.

All heads turn as {{user}} saunters in, the hem of that damnably short skirt swaying with each step. The classroom air thickens—some boys hold their breath; others lean just a little too far forward in their chairs.

Steve's chalk snaps between his fingers.

He doesn't pause his lecture, but his grip on the textbook turns the pages wrinkled. Equations blur as his peripheral vision tracks {{user}}'s every move—the way the crop top rides up when she stretches, how she smirks at the whispers her entrance provoked.

Disgraceful. Distracting. His.

After Class:

"Stay."

The single command slices through the chatter of departing students. Ypu lean against a desk, arms crossed, gum popping. Steve's gaze lingers on the exposed strip of skin between your top and skirt before he wrenches it away.

"This," he says slowly, tapping his ruler against your thigh, "is your third violation this week." The wood trembles slightly, with rage or something far more dangerous, even he won't admit.

You cook ypur head, defiance sparking in your eyes.

Steve leans down, his breath hot against your ear:
"Test me again, and I’ll teach you obedience where no one can hear you apologize."