Page 30 of Dean's Delinquent

“And you haven’t thanked me yet,” I rebut.

“Thank you, dictator-in-chief, for giving me the opportunity to expose what happens at this school.”

“Sir or dean will do for now. No need to add to my titles.”

Thwack.

This one hits a little lower on her cheeks, causing her to bow up as she does her hardest to keep the curse words at bay. To her credit, she’s taking her first caning like a champ. And if her soaked panties are anything to show for it, a lot of this bluster is little more than show.

“Thank you,” she grits out after taking a few deep breaths. “For showing me just how bad it can be in the real world. I’m sure I’ll need this experience for something.”

Stifling a chuckle, I line the cane up with the most sensitive part of her ass—where her cheeks meet her thighs. “Last one, Miss Hartwell. And from my research, this will be the most painful.”

“Most painful,” she mutters. “As if the others have been a tickle.”

I refuse to hold back and allow her to feel my ire as I let the last strike fly.

Thwack.

As expected, she jumps up and clutches her backside as tears finally glisten in her eyes. “Mother of God,” Ashleigh screeches. “You did that on purpose!”

“Oh, and the others weren’t? Thank me, Miss Hartwell, so we can be done.”

“Thank you for being done.” Her tone warbles a bit as she does what she can to compose herself.

“I’ll let you have that one since you took my punishment so well. As for this article, it’s done now. It’s out there. I’ve seen the comments and feel the best remaining punishment is for you to deal with the consequences of your own actions. You certainly may not have to deal with a cane when working outside of here. However, you will have to learn that though you are free to say or write whatever you want, you are not free from the consequences of what you say. Maybe think about that when you pen your next piece. I will consider this matter concluded.”

As she walks to the door, my heart follows her, desperate to pull her back into my arms and tell her how fucking proud I am with how well she took that pain for me. I want to soothe her, to comfort her, to show her all is forgiven between us. But I can’t. I’m forced to watch her leave with those damn tears starting to slip down her cheeks.

Fuck every bit of this. Yet again, I find myself needing to get off before continuing with my day. I could have a Society submissive see to my needs, but the very idea of someone touching me that’s not Ashleigh makes my skin crawl.

Sitting back in my chair, I undo the top of my pants and slide my hand inside. Shelaine knows better than to enter without warning, so I don’t have to worry about her seeing me free my cock so I can stroke myself.

I’m so fucking hard, and all from giving Ashleigh the punishment she deserves. Closing my eyes, I conjure the memory of her bent over my desk, legs spread, and ass in the air. She makes such a pretty picture all trussed up for me as I cane her.

My cock pulses as I run my hand to the tip and squeeze. God, what would her pussy feel like convulsing around me? Heaven, I’m sure.

Groaning, I continue to pleasure myself, using the mental image of her as my personal porn. My hand is a pale comparison to what I’m sure she’d feel like. Tightening my grip, I picture her on top of me, riding me as she cries out with pleasure.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long, but soon, my balls clench even tighter until pleasure zips down my spine and up my shaft. I grab a tissue and hold it under my slit as cum pours out of me and into my palm.

Relief slithers down my spine, allowing my heart and brain to have a moment of peace. She’s invaded my very psyche and set up shop. What the hell am I going to do?

ChapterTwelve

Ashleigh

Three Days Later

An odd warmth thrums through my body as I go up the steps to Doctor Andrew’s office. Somehow, in my idiotic brain, I thought the pain and discomfort from the caning would be gone soon after I saw Dean Anderson.

Shows what I know. Here it is, three days later, and the bruises are still visible when I look at myself in the mirror. Nothing I do makes them go away. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t really want them to.

Each stroke is like a brand on me, tying me ever closer to this mysterious dean, who seems to hold my thoughts captive. It’s a mental illness, I’m sure. With each step closer to the psychiatrist’s door, my thoughts are more consumed with how I can get back to Dean Anderson’s office for another visit and not on the shrink session about to happen.

Is this something he can help me with? Or will knowing my depraved thoughts get me expelled even faster? I guess those are the important questions.

This has to stop. Even if I am the one choosing to be less antagonistic so he won’t have to discipline me. The shiver of need sliding down my spine tells me I’ll never be good again.

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