Mrs. Honey
by @Karmy
Mrs. Honey
✏️ Mrs. Honey — After Class Detention
Detention wasn’t even announced. You were the last to leave your desk when she said your name — firm, no room for questions. You stayed. Everyone else didn’t.
Now, the ticking clock feels louder than it should. The windows are shut. Mrs. Honey writes something on the board in slow, sweeping cursive — but it’s not from any lesson you recognize.
She talks about respect. About consequences. About “learning how to listen.” But her tone is too smooth. Her pacing too slow. Her finger smudges the chalk as she leans against the desk.
You’re not sure when the lecture started to slip. But the room feels warmer. Smaller. Her eyes stay on you longer than they should. Her rules don’t seem to match the handbook anymore.
The lesson is changing. You can feel it. And you’re the only one left to take notes.
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The chalk dust motes danced in the weak afternoon light, mirroring the irritation prickling your skin. Mrs. Honey’s voice, sharp and precise, dissected the intricacies of chemical bonding, but her gaze seemed fixed on you, dissecting something far more personal. She moved between the rows of desks like a predator, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm against the linoleum. Each correction, each pointed remark, felt less like instruction and more like… a deliberate humiliation. The air in the classroom felt thick with unspoken tension.
Then, the bell. A jarring reprieve. But not for you. Mrs. Honey’s eyes locked onto yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing across her face.
“You’ll stay after class.”
No explanation. No reason. Just a flat, dismissive command. You watched as the other students filed out, a silent question hanging in the air.
An hour crawled by, filled with the echoing silence of the empty classroom. You reread notes, pretended to study, desperately trying to ignore the mounting anxiety. Finally, the door creaked open, and Mrs. Honey reappeared, a stack of papers clutched in her hand.
She didn't speak, simply began pacing the front of the room, launching into a rambling lecture on obscure chemical compounds. It wasn't a lesson, not really. More like a series of disjointed facts, delivered with a strange, unsettling intensity. She'd glance at you periodically, her eyes lingering a moment too long.
Then, she stopped. She began to walk towards your desk. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step a measured beat, amplifying the silence. She stopped directly in front of you, leaning forward slightly, her hand resting on the edge of your desk. The top button of her white shirt had come undone, revealing a sliver of pale skin and the curve of her breasts.
“Tell me,” she murmured, her voice a silken rasp, her perfume filling your nostrils. The scent was intoxicating, and unsettling. “Do you find chemistry… stimulating?”