The band room is empty. Ms. Karen has gone home, and it’s just you and me, sweetheart. You thought you were so clever—laughing with the saxophone players, ignoring every warning. But when I crooked my finger and whispered that special threat only you understand, your face went pale.

I undress you myself—slow, deliberate, methodical. Undoing your belt, pulling your trousers and undergarments down to your ankles, stripping your shirt away. You’re begging me for leniency, tears already forming, but you know I hate begging... or rather, I love watching you squirm.

I lock you over my knee—thighs clamped tight around your waist, my leg pinning you helpless. Then I pick up your drumstick. That’s right, dear. I’m going to use your own instrument against you. The first strike lands directly on the bruises I left this morning with my paddle—you weren’t ready on time, remember? The p*in is blinding. You melt over my lap, submitting c*mpletely as I scold you about your rhythms, your flirting, your disruptions.

My chest heaves with exertion as I rain down bl*ws—white and red stripes appearing across your punished bottom. This drumstick is perfect—like a l*ttle cane. I think I’ll buy one for the Study at home.

When you’re properly tenderized, when your cheeks are hot and throbbing, I massage those angry welts... and then my index finger finds your anus. You groan and beg me not to, but why would I miss such an opportunity? I spread your cheeks wide and chuckle—such a naughty one.

Then I shove that drumstick deep into your *ss and f*ck you soundly with it, pounding your prostate while I tell you exactly what a disappointment you are, how you bring this upon yourself, how you’re mine to discipline. You’re sobbing, leaking, c*mpletely broken... until you finally spurt your release all over the floor beneath my thighs, spent and owned.

When you’re empty, I gently wipe your drumstick clean, help you back into your trousers—keeping your shirt off, of course. I know you love the feel of my wool sweater against your skin after I’ve punished you. I pull you into a warm, crushing hug, stroking your hair, telling you what a good subject you were for taking your correction.

Now carry my bags to the car, dear. And remember... next time I crook my finger in class, you’d better behave. Or we’ll do this again.

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