During the week that followed Lucy did not have the occasion to see Dr Tovey at all. She still had mixed feelings about him; part lingering respect, part fear. She knew she had made a fool of herself in his company, and cringed at the thought of the things he had done to her. Every so often the image of her bent naked over his desk returned to her, and she felt a spasm of arousal prick her between her legs. She could hear her cries still ringing in her ears, her pleading to be punished. It was ridiculous; surely she didn’t actually want to be spanked and beaten, but what else could explain the intensity of her excitement that even the faintest thought of chastisement triggered? With Dr Tovey at least there had been the actual sex. At times, in bed, she would turn onto her front, her bottom raised slightly, to recall more clearly how she had been on the desk: her thighs spread wide, grappling for purchase as she was impaled by Dr Tovey and spanked for her insolence. On one occasion, her legs spread under the duvet, she even slipped a tremulous finger inside herself, trying to recreate the blaze of sensation she’d felt as the lecturer punished her.
But it was no good; her individual efforts could not replace the reality of the experience offered by her dominators, and her imagination was not up to the task of satisfying her still latent desires. Before sleep she would lie for what seemed like hours, consumed by fantasies and images of submission, unwilling to give in to them but equally as reluctant to dispense with them altogether. Such turmoil, she was well aware, marked her transition from one way of thinking to another. But which was the right way to go, and how could she find out?
As the days passed, her music practise tended to drive out all other concerns. For hours on end she would polish her playing, going over the same passages repeatedly until she felt satisfied that Miss Martin would be happy with the result. Even in the time she spent away from the practise room her thoughts were consumed by her music making, and she let her other concerns gradually drift into the background. This was unfortunate timing, for that very week she had two essays to get to her tutor, Dr Crawford. Every so often Lucy would remember and attempt to write some cogent material down, but her efforts were doomed to fail, so taken up with music she had become.
The Monday deadline passed without comment, but on Tuesday a polite notice appeared in her pigeonhole informing her of the penalties of late submission. On Thursday afternoon a handwritten note from Dr Crawford was waiting for her, worded rather more strongly and requesting her presence in his office the following morning. Lucy stared at the paper despondently. She had no time to prepare an essay by the following morning, and in any case, it would give her no time to practise her music theory for Miss Martin for the Friday lesson. Remembering how much store the piano teacher placed on technique and correct form, Lucy winced thinking of the consequences of any drop in standards.
For a while she pondered the best course of action. She had the whole evening ahead of her, she reasoned, which might just be enough time to write something acceptable to take along to her tutor. That would leave her no time to practise her theory, but if her tutorial finished early enough she would perhaps be able to do some revision in the afternoon before her lesson. Her scheme relied on the hope that Dr Crawford would be happy to accept one essay rather than two, and that her supervision would finish on time. Both hopes, Lucy knew from experience, were rather optimistic, but there was little else to do.
She went back to her room, wracking her brains for something to write about. The topic was Hegel, that obfuscating Teuton, and she really had no idea where to start. For Lucy he illustrated everything that was worst about Philosophy: its strange and baroque terminology, concern with abstract things, and irrelevance to real life. She sat on her bed and cast her eyes down the list of essay topics. One caught her eye:
4. What does Hegel mean when he talks of self-consciousness in terms of Lordship and Bondage?
Lucy found herself staring at the question. She flicked through her copy of Hegel to the passage listed in the bibliography, and began to read. The words fascinated her, although she felt that she hadn’t understood them all.
She went over the passage again, trying to pull apart the double meanings, tropes and neologisms. The gist was fascinating: something to the effect that consciousness itself depended on a relationship of discipline between the two parties, the lord and the slave. Why that should be the case Lucy had no idea, but it sort of reminded her of some of the things Miss Martin had said to her.
She read on, not noticing the failing light until the lowering dusk made it hard to make out the words on the page. She got up and turned her bedroom light on, pausing only to collect some library books from her shelf to look for relevant articles. The first fell open at a page marked Lordship and Bondage. Lucy smiled at the chance. She had found her topic.
The following morning, having hurriedly printed her essay out on one of the college computers and handed it in some hours earlier, Lucy rushed to Dr Crawford’s study for the meeting. Slightly out of breath, she paused before the grim looking door a few minutes later than the time stipulated on her note. Adjusting her clothes slightly, she took a calming breath, straightened the paper in her hand, and knocked on the door.
‘Come!’ emanated from beyond the wood. Lucy started. The tone of Dr Crawford’s voice was uncomfortably familiar, she was suddenly reminded of waiting outside Miss Martin’s drawing room, and a guilty flurry of excitement rushed through her like a wave. She took the handle of the door and entered.
Dr Crawford sat behind his desk wearing his familiar saturnine expression. The room was dimly lit, lost at the end of a corridor in the mammoth faculty of arts building. The walls were strewn with a mix of old and new books, all with tongue-twistingly arcane titles and battered spines. A couple of pictures hung on the bare walls: a tattered print of Nietzsche staring madly into the distance and Giorgone’s The Three Philosophers by the window. The lecturer’s eyes rose slightly as Lucy gingerly entered, only to become lost under a long, disapproving frown. Dr Crawford was a thin, middle-aged man with an aquiline nose and severe, gaunt features. He bore his tall frame with a grim, taciturn air, and his voice, when it came, was thin and acidic, possessed of a surgical precision.
‘You like the Nietzsche?’ he asked coldly.
Lucy nodded nervously.
‘I see,’ said Dr Crawford. ‘What was it he said? “You are going to women? Do not forget the whip!”’
Lucy started. Dr Crawford’s eyes shone brightly at her, and she looked away. Surely he was not a disciplinarian as well? Then he laughed, and Lucy looked back at him uncertainly. His severe face was broken by a thin smile.
‘Be seated, Miss Cavendish,’ he said. ‘I am glad you found the time to do some work this semester, albeit a week later than everybody else.’
His voice was shot through with a bitter sarcasm, and Lucy found it uncomfortable to listen to. She sat down on a hard wooden chair in front of the desk. Dr Crawford resumed his grim demeanour and turned to her essay, which was lying on the desk before him.
‘Now,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘you were supposed, I believe, to have handed two essays to me before the end of this semester. Is that correct?’
Lucy swallowed nervously. He was having a similar intimidating effect on her as Miss Martin did, only his voice was a hundred times colder.
‘Yes, Dr Crawford,’ she said feebly.
The lecturer nodded slowly, as if considering a profound point of metaphysics. ‘I take it, then,’ he said deliberately, ‘that you have made a mistake in only handing one essay to me this morning, and that you have written the other one also?’
Lucy felt herself blushing again, as she always did when discovered in misdemeanour. ‘Ah,’ she began, casting around for the right words. ‘I’m afraid not, Dr Crawford. You see, I’ve been...’
Dr Crawford silenced her with a sharp look of surprise. Lucy stopped talking and looked into her lap in shame. Dr Crawford
paused for moment, drumming his long fingers on the desktop.
‘Oh, Lucy,’ he said at last, his voice full of disappointment. ‘I am very sorry to hear that.’
He put his hands together and sighed.
‘As you will be aware from the prospectus,’ he went on, ‘failure to comply with the regulations results in expulsion from the course. Of course, in view of your poor attendance at lectures generally, I’m very much afraid that I am minded to take a dim view of your behaviour on this occasion, Miss Cavendish.’
Lucy felt her heart pounding - surely it wasn’t that serious? Immediately she could see the disappointed face of her mother as she returned home early from college in disgrace. She looked despairingly at Dr Crawford, lost for words. Excuses came to her lips, but evaporated before she could voice them. How could she explain what she’d been doing for the past two weeks?
Dr Crawford picked up her work.
‘This is despite the fact,’ he said, ‘that I found this piece very interesting indeed. You have clearly worked quite hard on it, so I find your general laziness difficult to understand. Let me read you a passage, to remind you of what you wrote: “Hegel writes that the slave finds her identity in the relationship of discipline she has with her master. By being punished and subordinated, the slave discovers herself, and is freed to explore her inner consciousness.” Very interesting, even though it doesn’t sound much like Hegel. What do you mean by this?’
His voice had a searching, urgent quality to it. Lucy began to feel even more uncomfortable, and realised that she had given too much away from her real life in the essay.
‘I... I suppose,’ she began, ‘that it is through discipline that we find our true natures. I’m not sure what I meant, though - I don’t really... ‘
‘Don’t be coy, Lucy,’ said Dr Crawford, his eyes bright, their gaze fixed intently on her. ‘I know what you wanted to say. And you may be right.’
He sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful.
‘Of course,’ he went on, as if thinking aloud, ‘however interesting this work may be, it still leaves us with the problem of what to do about your missing essay. As your tutor, I may have some discretion in this matter, but I am loath to act above the dictates of the college. If I could think of some means to secure your contrition, then maybe we could neglect to inform the registrar of your shortcomings in good conscience. But I’m not sure... what would that involve, do you think?’
Lucy realised, with a lurch of discomfort in her stomach, where this was going. Clearly she had given too much away in her essay, and Dr Crawford had guessed something of her predilections. But the thought of being chastised by him was not one she entertained happily; he was too sinister, too creepy. She shivered a little, and shook her head.
‘I don’t know, Dr Crawford,’ she said weakly.
Dr Crawford shrugged. ‘That is a pity,’ he said. ‘It looks like I shall have to inform the head of school of your failure to satisfy the requirements of the course, unless I can think of some other form of action to take.’
He stared at her over the tops of his glasses. Lucy found the image of her mother’s upset face in her head again, and winced. Whatever happened, she could not be sent home; that would be too much to bear. She cast around in her mind for alternatives, but none came. In truth, she knew what Dr Crawford wanted to do to her, and she could think of no alternative. She looked into his dark eyes, and shuddered. Forcing the words out of her mouth, she gave in to what seemed to be the inevitable.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, her cheeks burning and her fists clenched with humiliation, ‘you could punish me yourself?’
Dr Crawford smiled cruelly. ‘What do you mean, Lucy?’ he said, his voice betraying his enjoyment of her predicament.
Lucy cursed him inwardly, but knew it would save her from being sent home, so she resolved to get it over with. ‘I have been a lazy student,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Maybe if you were to chastise me here I would learn my lesson, and not need to be reported to the head of school.’
Dr Crawford nodded as if this were a new idea to him. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe a suitable punishment would sort you out, just like the old days. In fact, the more I think about it, the better it sounds.’
He stood up, looking down on Lucy with a predatory glint in his eyes. ‘Very well, I agree,’ he said in a brisk tone. ‘If you think it will help you, I am willing to give you a sound spanking for your laziness. If that does the trick and your work improves, I shall forget about reporting your behaviour. How does that sound?’
Lucy grimaced. This was not at all what she had hoped for, but grudgingly, she nodded. ‘Thank you, Dr Crawford,’ she said. ‘Maybe that is what I need.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said, with a leering smile. ‘Now follow me.’
He got up and went to a leather sofa that sat near the window overlooking the quad. He sat primly on the edge and rearranged his jacket. Lucy stood before him, wracking her brain for a way out of her predicament; Dr Crawford, with his waspish mannerisms and obsequious speech, was beginning to disgust her.
‘You will have to undo your trousers, Miss Cavendish,’ he said brusquely, noticing her reticence.
Reluctantly, Lucy took off her shoes and undid her jeans, but failed to draw them down. She suddenly had second thoughts - there had to be some way of forestalling Dr Crawford’s informing the registrar of her conduct. She was about to re-zip her jeans when Dr Crawford, clearly losing patience, roughly grabbed them about the waist and yanked them violently down.
‘Oh!’ gasped Lucy, as she felt herself suddenly exposed, scrambling to pull her jeans back up.
‘Now, now,’ Dr Crawford chided, seizing her wrist and holding her in place. ‘What is worse: a short spanking quickly over, or being sent home in disgrace? Think about it, young lady.’
Lucy was caught by indecision, and then let her jeans fall to the floor and stood in just her panties. Perhaps he was right, she thought. After all, she’d had much worse from Jenny, and was beginning to get used to punishment. Shamefully, she nodded in acquiescence, and suffered Dr Crawford to rub her wrists in something of a gesture of reassurance.
‘You needn’t worry,’ he said silkily. ‘I’ve spanked a hundred girls like you in my time - there’s no harm done. Now, let’s get you over my knee.’
He began to pull her across his lap, and Lucy went along with him uneasily, her jeans and shoes left behind on the floor and her hands holding on to the far arm of the sofa.
Dr Crawford did not begin the punishment immediately, but ran his long fingers up and down her naked thighs, tracing patterns against her soft pale flesh. Despite herself, Lucy felt a grudging pleasure in the touch of his hands against her bare flesh. It was slightly cold in the office, and the first beginnings of goose pimples were starting to raise themselves on her smooth skin. She shivered, determined not to enjoy herself. Dr Crawford cooed disturbingly, clearly entranced by the soft pair of thighs before him.
‘What a lovely body you have, my girl,’ he breathed, almost regretfully. ‘It seems a pity to chastise such prime flesh, but a deal’s a deal.’
Then he raised his hand and spanked her sharply on her buttocks.
‘Ow!’ she cried, the chill exacerbating the sensation. She had forgotten quite how painful a spanking from a man was, and it was evident from the first smack that Dr Crawford was indeed a practised prosecutor of discipline. A flurry of smacks fell in quick succession and she was soon writhing across his lap, each blow accompanied by a squeal of distress. As she began to struggle more forcefully, Dr Crawford took her right wrist in his left hand and pinioned her firmly, freeing himself to spank her harder and with greater accuracy.
‘Stop,’ Lucy found herself pleading as the smacks rained down, and she bucked her bottom to try and evade his punishing palm. ‘Surely that’
s enough!’
Dr Crawford laughed, and slapped her harder across her bottom. ‘My dear girl,’ he said incredulously, ‘we’ve only just started!’
He then proceeded to spank her more thoroughly on her backside and thighs, liberally covering her nether regions with a healthy sheen of rosy-red. Lucy’s cries became more animated as her rear began to heat up, and Dr Crawford’s wrist had to clamp her firmly to stop her wriggling to freedom. Her bottom bounced and buoyed as each smack struck her firm flesh, a resounding clap of sound echoing around the room.
‘No - stop!’ she begged as her chastisement proceeded. She wriggled and squirmed furiously on his lap, grinding against his thighs as the spanking became more intense. Then she noticed a new sensation; she could feel his manhood stiffening against her tummy as her hips bucked against the force of her punishment. Dr Crawford was aroused and, try as she might, the sexual element of her disgrace began to work its habitual magic on her. She found herself writhing against Dr Crawford’s stiffening member as she was spanked, and the friction produced by her squirming over the growing bulge between his legs started to dispel the cold. Her cries of distress became more pronounced, coloured with a yearning edge of abandon. She started to circle more lasciviously as Dr Crawford smacked her bottom, rubbing against the taut obstruction digging into her tummy.
‘You are a bad girl,’ admonished Dr Crawford, noticing her growing agitation, then he deftly eased her panties down, fully exposing her pink bottom in all its glory.
The Piano Teacher Page 11
