We can’t apply corporal punishment in public schools, but that’s not to say that a corporal relationship can’t be developed between you and a student who’s amenable to being punished.

A teacher who pays attention knows which boys look at her with extra interest. Most boys will peek at your bra if you bend over the right way. Some, though, are too obvious in their looking, and you shouldn’t encourage that sort of behavior. The interactions most fun are those in which your student suspects you don’t mind, but won’t spill the beans to his buddies.

Jeffery seems to be that sort of boy. He pays attention to what I’m trying to teach. He pays attention to my bra, but not blatantly. He watches my eyes to see if I’m watching him pull it off. I of course try to not let on that I know he knows, but he’s pretty smart.

He’s not the only boy to peek down my collar when my bra’s loose, but I’ll admit that I’ve allowed him extra opportunities, a la the time he’d come to my desk to about an assignment and I’d hunched my shoulders forward for as long as I could prolong my explanation. Usually, though, it was quicker.

I’ll also admit that it’s not totally random that he’s the one whom I’m behind in the line into the volleyball game, and I somewhat doubt that it’s totally accidental how the back of his arm crosses my breast more than once, but we both act as if nothing’s happened, much less that he probably can feel my nipple. It’s how a teacher and her student figure each other out. Probably easier to do if you teach physics than English.

It’s on his way out of class that I remind him that proofreading would have raised the grade on his essay about thinking globally while living locally. Run-on sentences I can handle, but not “too” for “to.” It’s a “paddleable grammatic transgression,” the way I frame it.

He grins.

Next assignment, topic: climate change, “It may be already two late two recover the ozone layer.”

What’s with this kid?

What’s up I discover when he says he’ll stop by after last period to receive his punishment for his grammatical mistakes.

What punishment? I ask. It’s in your grade.

My paddling, like you said, his answer.

Oh, my!

Jeffery pulls the door shut behind him and I indicate a chair away from the windows.

As his jeans preclude proper administration, I have him shed them -- the lump within his underpants so obvious -- while I weigh how many spanks are due. One for each spelling or punctuation infraction, my ruling, trying to avert my eyes, though perhaps with total success.

It being warm and me having paddling to do, I undo the top buttons of my blouse. It’s OK that he sees my bra – pushing against it, even – as I position him across my lap.

These being not Dickensian times, we no longer use paddles, but that’s good because I’d rather employ my hand.

I announce that his underpants also need to be out of the way, and before he has time to object, I slip down their back. Then I add that they’re still in the way, and again before he can speak, reach under to lower the front, delivering to my waiting hand the fullness of what had recently been just a lump within his undies.

His lifting up to escape provides more room for me to maneuver, but as I don’t want to seem purposeful, I. I impart just a single rub up and another back down.

Don’t, he tells me, to which I promise to not paddle him too hard.

Between each swat I rub his behind to reduce his discomfort, but my delivery’s sufficient to rock what’s now erect across my thigh. A few more deliveries scoot up both him and my skirt to where he pokes my panties. It’s more interaction than I’d anticipated, but where he’s ended up.

It’s time to re-exert my authority, I decide, and retake my grip. He again lefts up, but this time without what seems to be any intention to escape. I’ll take my time masturbating him and it will guarantee that he’ll never tell. Afterward, we’ll kiss.