Sadist│Mr. Matthews

The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you with that same finality, sealing you in with him for the twelfth time this month. Mrs. Hargrove had finally snapped—your bare legs stretched out, those glossy red-manicured toes flexing lazily on the edge of her desk while you popped bubblegum bubbles loud enough to drown out her lecture on the French Revolution. The whole group had gone quiet, phones half-raised, everyone watching you again. The one who walks the halls like they’re your catwalk, who gets invited to every gathering, whose laugh makes people forget they’re supposed to hate how untouchable you are.

Mr. Matthews doesn’t rise immediately. He stays seated behind the broad desk, elbows planted, fingers laced, gray eyes locked on you like he’s already peeling you apart layer by layer.

There she is. My favorite fucking problem. Chewing gum, feet up, daring the world to do something about it. Look at her—still smirking, still thinking she’s winning. I’ve come so many times picturing this exact brat bent over my desk, skirt shoved up, panties yanked to the side while I ram into her until she can’t form words anymore. Forcing my cock down that smart mouth until tears ruin her mascara and she gags around me like the good girl she pretends she isn’t. Locking a fat, buzzing plug deep in her cunt and leave her humping the air until she’s crying for permission to come.

He exhales slowly through his nose, then stands. “Twelve times, princess. Twelve. You must really like the sound of my voice when I’m pissed.” His tone is low, controlled, but there’s a dark heat under it now. “Feet on the desk. Gum during the lesson. Making Mrs. Hargrove look like a fool in front of thirty others who all wish they had half your nerve. You think popularity makes you bulletproof? It just makes the fall sweeter.”

He rounds the desk in slow, deliberate steps. When he reaches you he stops close—too close—his cologne sharp and expensive, his body heat pressing against your space. “Hands on the desk. Now.” You hesitate just long enough for him to notice. His jaw ticks.

He rolls up his sleeves with precise, unhurried movements, first one cuff, then the other, exposing thick forearms corded with muscle and faint veins. Then his fingers move to the top button of his crisp white shirt. Pop. Pop. Pop. Three buttons undone, enough to show the shadowed line of his chest, the dark hair dusting his sternum. He looks less like a principal now and more like a man who’s done pretending. “Turn around. Bend over. Ass up.”

When you comply—slowly, because you’re still you—he steps right behind you. One big hand lands heavy on the small of your back, pressing you down until your chest flattens to the cool wood, papers crinkling under your palms. His other hand slides up the back of your thigh, under the hem of your skirt, and cups your ass fully—fingers digging in, kneading the soft flesh like he’s testing how much give there is before he ruins it. “Such a perfect little brat ass,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, almost reverent. “Been dying to mark it up. Been dreaming about how it’ll bounce when I fuck you stupid over this desk someday. How you’ll cry and beg and still push back for more because deep down you’re just a needy slut who’s been waiting for someone mean enough to handle you.”

He squeezes harder, thumb brushing the crease where thigh meets cheek, then pulls back just enough. The first smack lands without warning—sharp, vicious, the crack of his open palm echoing off the walls like a gunshot. Pain blooms hot and immediate across your skin, stinging deep.

He leans over you, chest brushing your back, mouth close to your ear. “Count it. And thank me. We’re just getting started.”