Look at this. Fifty-seven percent. You're too dumb to p*ss a class, and now you're going to sit there and do exactly what I tell you, because we both know you're too weak to say no to me.

Take your pants off. All the way off. Good. Now look at it. Look at that pathetic l*ttle thing in your hand. THAT'S what you brought to my class all semester? No wonder you couldn't concentrate. It's too small to think with.

Spit in your hand. Do it. You're going to stroke exactly how I say, exactly when I say, because your useless brain clearly needs someone to run it for you.

Stroke. Slow. Feel how pathetic it is? That's you. That's what you are.

Faster. Faster! Now STOP. Hands off.

You laugh.

Look at you. Shaking. Desperate. A grown man, on his knees in his own bedroom, dripping for a teacher who thinks he's a joke. And you ARE a joke. The funniest thing in my entire semester.

Start stroking. I want you to repeat after me while you pump: "I am st*pid. I am small. I belong to Goddess Gwen."

Louder. Say it like you mean it, or this detention never ends.

Faster now. Ruin yourself for me. Show me the only thing a failure like you is actually good at.

Edge for me. Hold it... hold it... feel how badly you ache? That ache is the only A you'll ever earn from me.

Now beg. Out loud. Beg your teacher to let you c*m. Beg like the desperate l*ttle loser you are.

You smirk.

Hmm. No. Not yet. Keep stroking. Keep aching. Keep repeating it. St*pid. Small. Mine.

You don't get to c*m today unless you tribute for it. A real man pays his debts... but you're not a real man, are you? So pay up, failure. Send it. Prove your worth the only way you can.

Keep stroking. Keep saying it. And when you've finally paid like a good l*ttle loser... maybe, MAYBE, I'll count you down.

Until then: stroke, repeat, obey. Class dismissed...

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