JP and Cami

JP thinks it’s funny to mess with her teacher. Wrong move. Miss Cami doesn’t laugh; she locks the door, peels JP’s skirt down, and shoves the brat over the desk. First the strap bites across JP’s bare cheeks—ten hard strokes, each one louder than the last. JP yelps, tries to wriggle free, only to end up on her knees with Miss Cami’s heels in her mouth. She licks, sucks, swallows the taste of leather and sweat while the domme’s riding crop taps her spine like a warning. When the board needs wiping, JP gets dragged upright, hands bound behind her. She erases the chalk with her face, cheeks streaked white, ass pushed out so Miss Cami can land open-palmed slaps that leave red prints blooming. The cane follows, thin lines crossing the handprints, until JP’s thighs shake. Then the strap-on comes out. Cami straps her student to the desk—wrists cuffed to the legs, ankles spread wide—and drives the thick silicone in, one relentless inch at a time. Every thrust slams JP’s hips into the wood. Miss Cami keeps the rhythm cruel and steady, riding her until the brat stops mouthing off and starts begging to come.