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The rules made it official. Permanent. She wore knee-length skirts to school, conservative, teacher appropriate but underneath nothing. The fabric brushed her bare cunt lips every time she moved. Sitting at her desk felt obscene; crossing her legs pressed her thighs together, trapping the constant low throb. When she stood to write on the board, she had to be careful, bend too far and the skirt might ride up, exposing her to a classroom of teenagers. She caught herself clenching her arse cheeks, trying to keep everything tucked, while explaining the Berlin Wall to bored faces.

Trousers were worse. The seam dug right into her cunt lips when she sat; rubbing her clit with every shift of weight. By mid-morning she was soaked, the material dark at the crotch if anyone looked closely (no one did). She started wearing darker colors.She masturbated every night, quick, frantic sessions in the bathroom after David was asleep. Fingers deep, biting her lip to stay quiet, coming while replaying the spanking, the tear of fabric, the brutal fuck over his bed. But it wasn't enough. She needed Mark's cock. His hand. His voice calling her names. The orgasm left her hollow, guilt crashing in immediately after.

She checked her phone constantly. Nothing. By day five she was gagging for it, literally aching, cunt swollen and sensitive, nipples hard under her blouse all day. She caught herself staring at her reflection in the staff-room mirror, wondering how no one could tell she was walking around bare cunted and desperate.

Day six she cracked. Sara: Can we meet? Sent from the car after school, hands shaking. His reply took twenty minutes. Mark: You begging now? Sara: Please. I need...You. To fuck me.

Mark: Pathetic. A married teacher begging a lad half her age to meet her so he can use her cunt. I decide when. Not you.

Sara: I'm sorry. I know.

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