Your turn, Miss

After practice everybody went for beer. I stayed with Andre. He's thirty-five. He plays bass. He has no interest in my classroom except the way I blush when he uses the word.

I had been bossy all night, counting them in, telling him he was late. He waited until the door shut. Then he sat on the kitchen chair and patted his thigh. Come here, Miss. I laughed. He didn't. Role's reversed. You're the student. You were rude. Skirt up.

I went over his knee still in the cardigan, which ruined me. He spanked me slowly and made me count, and when I stopped counting like a woman in charge and started counting like a woman getting wet, he pushed two fingers into me and said students don't get to run the room. I said yes, sir, faster than I wanted to. He spanked me through an orgasm. Then he bent me over the table and fucked me while the cardigan hung off one shoulder, and he called me Miss only once, at the end, to be mean.

I made him eggs after. We didn't talk about school. We talked about the bridge in the new song, which is the correct order of operations. I like being undone by a peer. I don't like the fantasy leaking backward into a building full of children. It doesn't. I keep the lock on that door myself.