by Thianna D
strap or belt,
switch,
flogger,
school punishment cane.
She finished reading. She had read the whole thing without screaming for the police or calling him a maniac. She looked up at him, that same lust in her eyes, and said in a voice that seemed an octave lower than her usual soprano, as if strained to get the words out through a curtain of desire, "Sir... what are you going to spank me with tonight?"
The question took him aback. Frankly, he didn't know. It seemed like it might be very important to her that he get this right, and he didn’t know of a way to figure out what the best answer was to her arousal.
He took a deep breath, and looked at her, trying to study her in a dominant style. "I don't know, Miss Harshaw. What were you spanked with at home?"
He clearly chose the correct question, but it was also very dangerous. He could read mixed emotions on her face, both desire and repulsion. "Hand and... strap, sir," she said.
He knew the answer, and suddenly he felt like he knew her–really knew her–and God help him, he loved what he knew. She wanted this to be different. She wanted to leave her family behind.
"I fear then that I must use the paddle upon your little bottom, Miss Harshaw," he said, confident now that he had read the moment correctly. "It is a bit harsh for your first time in tutorial, but my tutorials are not to be confused with family life. Far from it."
He saw both lust and gratitude in her eyes, and he felt like he was about to transcend his body with the mingled arousal and romantic joy of the moment. What the Hell was happening? This evolving thing didn't represent a little affair that might pose a problem of concealment, but which he wanted to try because both Dunn and Sarah wanted to explore BDSM–this thing constituted something more: Sarah was something more. He thought again about that little conversation two days before, when she'd asked him for a meeting outside of office hours.
"What is it that you'd like to discuss, Miss Harshaw?" he'd asked, using the throwback academic manner he knew made most high-achieving students–like her–happy to live the old-fashioned dream of how college should be.
"I'm hoping to apply to graduate school, Professor, and I have a project that might be the basis of a tutorial, next semester?" Something about the upward lilt of her voice struck him as dangerously perfect. It was miles away from the standard undergraduate "Like, next semester?" It bore much more resemblance to a fox hunter saying, "We'll pull up at the next cover, over the brook?"
"What's the project?"
"I'm really fascinated by Livy's mythic history of Rome. I just find impossible to accept Mommsen's contention that it's historically based. Don't you?"
"You've read Mommsen?" he asked, genuinely surprised. A Colorado girl reading Mommsen on her own?
She blushed. "Not in German, of course!"
They were alone now in the lecture hall. "Well, by all means, let's discuss it. Are you free this afternoon?"
"Um, no, I'm not," Sarah said, suddenly seeming to develop a great deal of hesitancy. "Actually, I'm not free during the day much at all. Is there any chance we could meet Thursday evening?" She looked up into his eyes, and his heart did a strange little dance in his chest. Was she...?
"Ah, yes, alright. That's certainly possible. 7 p.m.?"
"Everyone else will be gone by then, right?"
"Er, yes... almost certainly."
"I'll see you then, professor." As she walked away, he saw her put her head down and wondered desperately what she thought.
"Are you prepared to sign the affidavit, Miss Harshaw?"
"Yes, sir."
Dunn gave Sarah the pen, watched her try to find a hard surface on which to write, finally watching her settle the first page on her thigh, and sign, then, her face red and steadfastly not looking up, initial all the pages of the schedules. Silently, she handed pen and affidavit back to him, and looked at him with what seemed to him a kind of wonder in her eyes, a wonder he shared, absolutely.
He had a desperate urge to kiss her. He didn't think he'd ever wanted to kiss anyone as much as he wanted to kiss Sarah Harshaw right then, but he knew that had to wait for aftercare, if this whole thing were going to work. Getting involved romantically in a traditional way, and denying his needs–and hers, apparently–was the kind of thing that had given him an outwardly wonderful, often agonizing, vanilla marriage that had crushed his soul in certain important respects, for twenty years.
So he said, “Now, Miss Harshaw, I’d like you to put your panties and bra back in order, stand up, and come over here,” he said. Still looking straight into his eyes, she pulled her right bra cup back into position, then, glancing down in a way that made him think he had just swallowed the moon, she tugged the front of her panties back across her vulva, so he once again lost the spectacular, shameful view she had given him. She stood, looking at him questioningly again.
“Stand in front of me now," he said.
She came to stand before him dressed only in her lacy silk bra and the matching thong panties, as he sat in his throne-like desk chair. For an instant he found himself lost in the fantasy she had, as she was putting them on, imagined maybe allowing him to catch a glimpse of those lovely panties, to seal the deal on his recommendation for graduate school. How absurd that he had her here, in the flesh, in her underwear, and yet the thought of her putting that underwear on and thinking of him as she did so drove him crazy with a romantic lust that made him feel like he was seventeen again.
But he was still fully clothed. He was a Dom, and she was a sub, and that existed beyond the fact that he was forty-five and she was twenty-one, and that he was her professor and she was his student. He enclosed her slim, naked thighs with his powerful, wool covered ones.
Dunn looked into Sarah's eyes, level with his now, and placed his hands upon her hips. Idly, or so he wanted it to appear, he hooked his left thumb into the thin string that constituted the waistband of her panties. She gasped.
“Now let’s talk about the right to determine your bodily posture, whether at any other time, or when I’m fucking you.”
His eyes still looked straight into hers. She gasped again. He smiled sardonically.
“That word has something startling about it? That’s strange. You young ladies are so brazen these days—and yet mere words can still make you gasp. Moreover, I believe I heard you saying to Miss Palmer the other day that the fucking quiz was too fucking hard.”
At that point, she tried to turn and escape from his legs. She had turned bright red from her lovely little breasts to the roots of her hair. Hoping it was just a momentary thing, but ready to let her go if necessary, he locked his knees around her thighs and held her fast.
“So girls these days can say it, but they still don’t want to do it. They’d rather ‘go all the way’ or ‘hook up’.”
He affected a laugh. She looked into his face again, defiantly.
“You don’t want me to fuck you, then?”
Again she looked away. But then she looked back, and deeply, into his eyes. Was he right about what he saw there? He couldn't help it: he swallowed. He saw the doubt come into her eyes, and realized he had to push, that tonight could well be the best chance either of them would ever have to find real happiness on this earth, and the only way to secure it, if that were the case, was with the rod.
Thus he forged on. “Delightful,” he said, pretending the swallow hadn't happened. “Even though, as I said, I don’t enjoy the–let’s say–periphrasis of romance, I do love to violate it. But only to a point.” With his right hand he took her chin and held her face so she kept her gaze on his. “Answer the question, Sarah. Do you want me to fuck you? Answer the question, you little cock tease.”
He kept his voice low, but–God help him –tried to work real brutality into his tone.
“S—sir... yes...”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir... I w—want y—you to f—fuck me.” She tried to cover her face with her hands.
&nb
sp; “Are you a cock tease, Sarah Harshaw?”
“No!”
“Yes, you are. You're a very bad girl. You are a cock tease, and a whore."
There. He had gone as far as he thought it was possible to go in that direction. He had pushed it, and if she was who he thought she might be, it would be a good that he had, and if she wasn't, he supposed, the worst thing that could happen is that he could be arrested. At this moment, with Sarah Harshaw in her lacy lingerie locked inside his knees, it was worth it.
The words had their effect. Sarah made a sound remarkably like a kitten who wanted milk, and he had again resisted the urge to kiss her, and he thought he could smell the effect the words had in the air of his office.
“Do you really think you would be standing here in your panties if you weren’t a whore, Sarah? You are sorely in need of a paddling, aren't you?”
Sarah closed her eyes.
“Nothing to say? All right, then. Turn around and bend over until your palms are on the floor, bending your knees as much as is necessary to make the posture reasonably comfortable. The idea is to show me your delectable little co-ed ass, so I can inspect it and see what it’s good for, and then give it what it deserves for the disgraceful display you have put on here tonight.”
She shook her head wildly.
“Understand, Sarah—I’m not going to fuck you now. I do, however, want to enjoy the sight of your maidenly charms, at my leisure, since they belong to me now, and to make you endure my touch there... as well as to give you some idea of how I will use you in the future. And, of course, you have a spanking coming.”
Chapter 8
Sarah turned herself around, and began to bend at the waist. Her hands trembled as she lowered her palms to the floor. She realized, again, with a start that went straight to her pussy, how little she was wearing here, in his office, in submission to him: a lacy bra, a lacy thong. A college senior in her underwear, long blonde hair pulled back, lithe white and pink body, bending now, knees flexed, in front of a clothed professor in a chair.
When she had adopted the posture he demanded, Professor Dunn pulled down Sarah's panties. No one had ever in her life done that–the few times she had ever been spanked on the bare by her parents had been at bedtime, when she was wearing only her nightgown. Certainly she had never let a boyfriend do it! First, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and tugged, pulling the little strip of fabric out from between her bottom-cheeks. Then, he drew the wisp of cloth down to her knees, where it remained, a reminder of what he had done–what she had allowed him to do. Once or twice Fred had tried to pull them down–not these, the ones Professor Dunn had just pulled down, but her everyday cotton briefs–and she had slapped his hand away, saying, "Those stay on, mister." But she had honestly wondered if he would grab them and rip them down and have his way with her.
“Ah,” Professor Dunn said. “Sarah, you are as lovely as I hoped. I am going to have a great deal of fun with you.”
Her own gaze affixed upon the wood floor of his office and so he said these words directly to her naked bottom.
Then he touched her, his fingertips upon her right bottom cheek.
“Oh!” she said.
The fingertips of his other hand came to rest on her left bottom cheek.
Gently now he opened her there, just pulling the two cheeks apart, to disclose her little secret, her little bottom flower.
“Mmm. Very nice. Pink and crinkly, just like a co-ed's bottom hole should be."
More heavenly tactile inspection ensued.
“Sometime soon I’m going to fuck you here, Sarah–right in this little bottom hole.” That same terrible feeling of twinned wrongness and rightness welled up in her, as she saw it in her imagination, saw him lowering his trousers, and his boxers, and putting the head of his membrum virile there. She felt her legs moving back and forth, trying to assuage the heat that would not cease to gather in her pussy.
"Hold still, young lady," he said, but that only made it worse. He removed his hand for a moment, and she heard him wetting his fingers in his mouth.
“P—please...” Sarah said, softly. Then she gave an inarticulate cry as he began to work her anus first with one, then with two fingers. Then Sarah made a gurgling sort of a shout when he touched Sarah's virgin pussy for the very first time with the fingertips of his other hand, moving very, very gently along the outer lips, and then just insinuating one finger inside the terribly wet cleft, to touch her clitoris ever so lightly. That sound continued as he kept up the caress for a few moments.
Then he stopped, and said, "It's time for your spanking, Miss Harshaw."
He withdrew his hands.
"Oh, sir..." Sarah said.
"I think you had better get over my desk." The blood sang in her ears. In a certain sense she was not inexperienced at this, but no professor had ever spanked her over his desk–something she had fantasized about since at least the age of twelve, when academic desks had really started to mean something to her.
Without hesitation, Sarah stood up and waited for him to move so she could comply with his command. She saw him glance over at his desk where only one stack of books and one stack of papers lay, which he now, having stood, moved quickly and decisively over to the credenza.
She had no idea how someone could convey dominance by moving books and papers from one surface to another. Was it even intentional on his part? She felt her pussy clench, watching, though, and felt the somehow wonderful fear of what was going to happen now gather in the pit of her stomach.
"Lay yourself down now, young lady," he said, and she did, lace panties still around her knees. She put her hands out, and grasped the far edge of the desk and, not sure how she knew it was right (right for her, right for him, right for the situation), she arched her back to present her bottom to him for discipline. When she was spanked as a girl, she would never, ever have presented herself like that–this was nothing like that. And yet, it was, in a way she didn't want to touch right now with a ten-foot mental pole.
She heard him reaching into his briefcase. Did he keep the paddle in there all the time? Was it in there during lecture? Would he call her up to the front and paddle her before the whole class?
The floodgates of her fantasies seemed to open in a way that grew more and more disturbing to her even as she could not deny that these images flashing through her brain were making her want to cry out submissively whether he touched her pussy, or her bottom, or just stood there behind her holding a paddle. She just wanted–no, she needed... this. She needed it like she needed food or air.
Then Professor Dunn tapped Sarah's bottom with the paddle, and she said, completely overpowered by the arousal of that simple tap, "Oh, my God... oh, no..." and made one of those little whimpers that before tonight she had never made except when she was all by herself, masturbating, but that tonight she seemed to emit as if they were a form of polite discourse suitable for conversations with one's professor.
"Miss Harshaw," he said, "I fear I must administer condign punishment now, lest you think that trying to seduce a professor is something I look on lightly. The fact that you have apparently succeeded makes no difference whatever."
Then he began to paddle her.
Sarah cried out loudly from the very beginning. After every pistol-shot crack of the paddle on her behind, she let out a full volume yelp. The pain wasn't terrible–wasn't really even as bad as the worst spankings she had received at home, for things like coming home late from dances, and above all the one time her parents caught her drinking. But being over Professor Dunn's desk, with her pussy up against one edge, and her hands hanging on to the other, desperately trying not to shame herself by positively humping the desk to seek relief from the burning there, seemed to take away any power she had not to voice the pain, and arousal, and humiliation of the moment.
The only word Sarah seemed able to manage-"Sir," "Oh, sir... Sir... oh, sir"– would probably serve as the transcript of the actual language she uttered. Something about
that word made it all (spanking, nakedness, office, desk, professor, crying) seem to work together to bring this amazing feeling ever higher inside her chest and lower down. To call Professor Dunn "sir" while he spanked her seemed to complete her transformation into something new, something that she was always supposed to be.
The paddling stopped.
"Good girl," said Professor Dunn, stroking her bottom tenderly. Sarah moaned. It was the most wonderful thing she had ever felt. She let her entire body relax and hang there over his desk and allowed the wonderful feeling of the gentle rubbing, and him saying "Good girl," just to take her. She didn't even feel the need for an orgasm, the way she had while he had spanked her. She just wanted to be a good girl, and to know he liked touching the part of her that posed such a problem in her imagination.
He opened her bottom up, again, which made her groan with the fiery warmth of the place he touched, and placed his forefinger (she thought) on her anus. She felt a cool gel-like substance on the finger, and it felt lovely to her, not ever having felt lube before.
But then–then... what was it?
“Uhh! uhh! Sir, you’re... n—no! Why? wh—why are you...” He replaced his finger with something else, well-lubricated, neither thick nor long, but definitely present.
“Easy, now, my girl, my little Sarah. You’ll wear this for the rest of the night and tomorrow, to get you ready for me, and to make you think of me. You may wear panties over it, if you wish. It won’t project far, but I’d suggest not letting anyone's hands near there tomorrow. You’ll have to be creative about how you sit in class, as well, and those tight jeans you wore yesterday to show off your perky little bottom cheeks will be out of the question. In fact, you should plan on wearing skirts most of the time, since they’re easier to feel a girl up under, and you’ll have something in your bottom hole more often than not.”
“Whhh—what... what is it? Sir, what—what did you p—put there? I—I d—don’t w—want to... P—please... please t—take it out!” Sarah's little bottom was open around the... the thing, and Professor Dunn seemed to indicate that something would be happening to her tomorrow, at the end of the day.
