A Couple Of Bad Apples

Emma Starletto and Lily Larimar slouch in the dead-quiet classroom, empty desks in front of them, backpacks dropped like dead weight. A sharp knock cuts the silence. Sarah Vandella slips in, all strict glare and raised brows. She takes one look around and the temperature drops. "No supervision?" she hisses. "Not in my house. You girls want discipline, I’ll serve it cold." The sisters trade quick glances, mouths parting, but Sarah’s open palm stops every word mid-air. She snaps her fingers. They obey, hips pressed to two scarred desks, skirts bunched up in her fists. Her palm comes down hard—once, twice—leaving bright prints on lily-white skin. Heat blooms, turns to moans neither can swallow. Sarah keeps at it, rhythm fast and exact, each slap drawing another shaky breath, another involuntary rock of hips, another secret pleasure these step-sisters never saw coming.