I kicked the classroom door shut behind me with a lazy heel, the bang echoing down the empty hallway like a gunshot nobody gave a shit about. Third period was over, kids had scattered like roaches when the lights flick on, and I’d told the last stragglers to fuck off early. The room still smelled faintly of teenage sweat, cheap body spray, and the chalk dust that never quite settles. Mine now.
Lena was already bent over the supply cabinet in the back, ass up like she thought the black leather skirt would hide how much she wanted it noticed. Goth assistant, my personal little shadow for the last six months. Medium tits pushed against a ripped fishnet top, silver rings through both nipples glinting every time she breathed. Black lipstick smeared just enough to look like she’d already been face-fucked once today. Probably had.
I leaned against the teacher’s desk, arms crossed, watching her pretend to organize markers.
“Yo, Morticia,” I called. “You gonna keep wiggling that pale ass at me or actually do something useful?”
She straightened slow, dramatic, the way goths do when they think they’re in control. Turned. Smirked. “Sir, I’m cataloging your dry-erase carnage. Very useful.”
“Catalog this.” I unzipped, pulled my cock out, already half-hard from the walk over just thinking about what I was gonna do to her. “Get over here and wrap those pierced tits around it. Let’s see if the metal makes it sting nicer.”
Her eyes flicked down, then back up. Tongue darted across black lips. “Thought you’d never ask.”
She crossed the room in those clunky platform boots, dropped to her knees without being told. Good girl. Always was when it came to dick. She cupped her tits, squeezed them together so the nipple rings kissed, then slid my shaft between the warm, soft valley. The metal clicked against skin. Cold at first, then warming fast as she started pumping.
“Fuck yeah,” I muttered, grabbing a fistful of her dyed-black hair. “Look at you. All spooky makeup and razor-blade jewelry, but you’re still just another tit-fuck hole with a pulse. Bet those rings are the only thing keeping your nipples from falling off after how many times I’ve twisted ’em.”
She moaned around the compliment, tongue flicking the head every time it poked through the top of her cleavage. “You love it, sir. You love breaking the pretty ones.”
“Damn right.” I yanked her head back hard enough that her neck popped. “But today I’m not breaking pretty. Today I’m breaking useless.”
I hauled her up by the hair, spun her, slammed her chest-down across the wide teacher’s desk. Papers scattered. A coffee mug hit the floor and shattered. Didn’t care. I ripped the fishnet top down the middle—easy, already half-torn—and those pierced nipples popped free. Dark areolas, stiff from the cold air and the fear she was trying to hide behind bravado.
“Hands behind your back.”
She obeyed. I grabbed a coil of old jump-rope from the PE storage bin someone had forgotten in here last semester, looped it around her wrists, cinched tight. Then I took the loose end, threw it over the ceiling fan’s pull-chain hook—yeah, the school still had those ancient fans with the long chains—and yanked until her arms jerked upward, shoulders straining.
“Ow—fuck—sir—”
“Shut it.” I wrapped the rope twice more around her throat, not quite a noose yet, just enough to remind her breathing was a privilege. Her boots scraped the linoleum as I forced her up onto tiptoes.
I stepped behind her, flipped the skirt over her hips. No panties—of course. Just a smooth, pale ass and a cunt already glistening like she’d been edging herself all morning thinking about this.
“Wet already? Pathetic.” I slapped her cunt hard, once, twice. The wet smack echoed. She yelped. “You leak just hearing my boots in the hall, don’t you?”
“Y-yes sir—”
I rammed in without warning, balls-deep in one brutal thrust. Her whole body jerked forward, tits flattening against the desk, nipple rings scraping wood. I didn’t give her time to adjust. Just started pounding, using her hips like handles, each slam shoving her ribcage into the desk edge.
Crack.
One rib gave. Maybe two. She screamed—high, ragged, perfect. I felt the vibration all the way down my cock.
“There we go,” I growled, leaning over her back so my mouth was against her ear. “First one snapped like a twig. How many more you think you got before I turn you into a sack of broken meat?”
She was gasping, trying to form words around the rope collaring her throat. “P-please—sir—more—”
I laughed. Reached around, grabbed one tit, twisted the ring until the flesh puckered white around it. Then I fished in the desk drawer—scissors, the big orange-handled kind they use to cut poster board. Opened them wide.
“Time to lighten the load, emo slut. These udders are just getting in the way.”
She froze. Real fear now, cutting through the masochistic haze.
“Sir—no—wait—”
I didn’t wait. I pinched the base of her left tit, pulled it taut, and sheared. The scissors weren’t surgical; they were classroom crap. Took three hard snips. Meat parted with wet resistance. Blood sprayed across the blotter, hot and coppery. She shrieked so loud the windows rattled.
The breast came free in my hand—heavy, warm, still twitching with leftover nerve signals. Nipple ring glinting in the fluorescent light.
I held it up in front of her face while I kept fucking her, slower now, savoring the way her cunt clamped every time she sobbed.
“Look at it. Your tit. Used to be part of you. Now it’s just garbage.” I squeezed it; blood oozed between my fingers. “Open.”
She did, shaking. I stuffed the severed breast into her mouth, ring-first. She gagged instantly—choking on her own meat, tears streaking black mascara down her cheeks.
“Good girl. Chew if you want. Or just hold it there while I finish redecorating.”
I pulled out, spun her around so her back was to the desk, then yanked the rope tighter. The ceiling fan chain creaked. Her toes barely touched now. Face turning red, eyes bulging.
I stepped up on the chair, lined up, and shoved back into her dripping cunt while she dangled. Gravity did half the work; every shallow breath she stole made her sink further onto me. I fucked upward, brutal, feeling the broken ribs grind inside her chest.
Her body started to spasm—orgasm or hypoxia, didn’t matter. Cunt fluttered, milking me. I grabbed the other tit, twisted the ring one last time, then rammed the scissors through the base and sawed.
Second breast came off cleaner. I dropped it on the floor—plop—then used the bloody scissors to cut the rope just enough to drop her.
She hit the desk hard, gasping, choking on the tit still crammed in her mouth. I straddled her chest, cock slick with her juices and blood, and forced her head back.
“Time to say goodnight, pain-slut.”
I wrapped both hands around her throat—rope still there for extra grip—and squeezed. Her eyes rolled, tongue pushing the severed breast out. I didn’t let up. Kept squeezing until the thrashing stopped, until the pupils fixed, until the last weak flutter of her cunt around nothing told me she was gone.
I pulled out, jerked twice, and painted her dead face—black lipstick, ruined mascara, and now thick ropes of white across the bridge of her nose.
Stepped back. Admired the mess. Two tits on the floor like discarded stress balls, wrists still bound, body sprawled across the desk like a broken doll.
I zipped up, kicked one of the tits so it rolled under a student chair.
“One goth cunt down,” I muttered, already half-hard again thinking about what was waiting in the bathroom. “School’s still got plenty of holes.”
I left the lights on. Let the janitor cunts deal with it later.
They always do.