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Betty never got to attend university. For her thirtieth birthday, she decided it was high time to remedy that situation. She thought it better to start slow, as she lacked confidence in her academic abilities, and enrolled as an auditor: no homeworks or exams, only classes.

She chose a French history course.

On her first day, she arrived twenty minutes early, wearing a pencil skirt and blouse. She sat primly in the second row, crisp notebook and a brand new pen laid out in front of her.

No one else walked in, and she double-checked the classroom number. Then triple-checked five minutes later. At last other students walked in, in jeans or sweatpants, most of them equipped with a brand new laptop.

She avoided eye-contact with them and doodled in her notebook instead. She was here to learn, she didn’t have to fit in, this wasn’t secondary school (and thank God for that).

The teacher came him. He looked just like she expected with suede elbow patches and a battered leather bag. But he was younger than she’d pictured and certainly more clean-cut: straight tie and tailored trousers.

All eyes were on him as he walked through the rows of tables and handed out syllabuses. Students assessed him and tried to guess what kind of teacher he was. But Betty could only think that he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Her heart beat faster as he neared her seat. When he reached her, her mind went blank, and she didn’t take the document he was holding out for her. He smirked, and put the syllabus down on her desk.

Oh, bugger, I can never show me face here again.

The teacher checked his watch and cleared his throat to get their attention. Chatter dwindled down, and he introduced himself.

Bonjour, I’m Jean-François Mercier, and it will be my pleasure to tell you all about the history of my country. I’m not a professor. I work for the French Army and I’ve worked as a diplomat in various countries.”

She had to hold back a dreamy sigh upon hearing his light accent. She chastised herself for romanticizing the situation. Clearly she had read one too many Mills & Boons novel involving French men or teacher-student romances.

She liked that he wasn’t a professor. Some may turn up their noses at his lack of tenure, but to Betty his work experience gave him more credibility than someone high up in his ivory tower.

“I recently took a sabbatical to study and teach and share my passion.”

He locked eyes with her as he said that last word. Passion. Okay, maybe she would show her face here again after all.

He spoke for two hours. Whereas other students showed signs of impatience— perhaps they didn’t expect a full lecture on their first day— Betty drank his every word.

He gave some homework for the following week which was met with some groans.

Betty couldn’t wait for the next class, and the following Wednesday, she arrived early again. This time, Mr. Mercier was already in the classroom. She sat in the same spot, and he walked up to her. Up close, she noticed the light freckled dusted across his sharp cheeks.

Bonjour, mademoiselle. Do you want to hand over your assignment right away?”

“Oh, I didn’t do it.”

“Why not?” His voice was stern which was not entirely unpleasant.

“Oh, I’m only an auditor, I don’t have to do any work, I’m just here to learn.”

His frown turned into a smile. “There is no such thing as just learning. That’s quite admirable.”

She shrugged off the compliment and fiddled with her pen.

“What is your name?”


“Betty. My office door is always opened to those with a desire to learn.”

Betty’s mouth went dry. Was the flirty undertone real or wish fulfillment? She didn’t have a chance to find out because a group of students walked in.

For the next two hours, he talked about Paleolithic France, and she was fascinated by everything mere cavemen had accomplished. During the break, she even checked the university’s website for courses on prehistory. It had simply never occurred to her that Neanderthal men did more than pick berries, hunt mammoths and carry women over their shoulders— not that she was opposed to being carried over someone’s shoulder. Would Mr. Mercier be strong enough to do that?

The following week, she decided to take him up on his offer. He had office hours on Tuesdays, she traded shifts with Maria, and took the bus to central London. She wore a white dress with blue flowers, and told herself that it was to enjoy the last beautiful days of September. And the opened buttons? Better to feel the last sunrays on her chest… or his wandering eyes?

She took a deep, steadying breath before knocking on his office door.

“Mademoiselle Betty, hello.”

“Hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at all. You’re the first student to visit me.”

She wondered if he was nervous, she would be.

The room had none of the leather and oak she’d imagined, it was a rather bland space meant for temporary employees. She sat on the edge of a chair, twisting her skirt nervously.

“What can I help you with?”

“You mentioned an author last week and I didn’t catch the name, he wrote prehistoric novels.”


“Could be.”

He gave her a few other names, indicating she should find them in the university’s library. Betty admitted she had yet to set foot there and had no idea how to find a book.

“I’ll show you.” He sprung from his seat.

Betty was taken aback by his enthusiasm but certainly couldn’t refuse his offer.

They crossed the campus together, commenting on the nice weather. A light breeze whispered through her dress, and Mr. Mercier’s eyes lingered on her.

He guided her through the high bookcases of the library to the French literature section. He stacked books in her arms, enthusiastically talking about his favourite authors. A librarian warned him to lower his voice. He looked exaggeratedly shamefaced, making Betty giggle.

“Tell me more about Molière,” she asked.

He answered her questions in a low voice, standing closer to her, almost whispering into her ear. They stood by a high window overlooking the campus and their hands brushed together.

She was back the next week, and the one after, asking for more book recommendations. Classics and contemporaries alike. Victor Hugo and Proust. Beaudelaire and St-Exupéry. Each visit lasted longer than the last, and they talked less about French history and more about their personal lives. Childhoods and past loves. Heartaches and dreams. Stendhal and de Beauvoir. Flaubert and Musso.

He talked to her as he would a friend, not a student. And the following day, in class, she watched him pace the room and listened, enthralled. Some may call his voice monotonous, but she loved its hypnotizing steadiness, calming like the ebb and flow of waves. She sat there and let it transport her through history from Jeanne D’Arc to the Enlightenment. And sometimes she felt like she was alone with him in the room, that the class was all and only for her. That he chose moments in history that would resonate with the souvenirs and thoughts she’d shared with him in his office.

As eager as she was for the next class, each week also brought her closer to the end of the semester.

“I wish your class would never end,” she said.

“Fifteen weeks isn’t enough to cover all of France’s history, perhaps I can convince the university to offer a follow up course. Or perhaps I should offer some… private lessons.”

Betty blushed at the suggestion. Surely there were many things she could learn from him. And with him.

And just when she thought he was attempting to seduce her— not a difficult task by any means— he switched the subject and stepped away from her.

She knew there must be some restrictions against student-teacher relationships, but she was very much an adult and not a proper student. Is that what stopped him or was he simply not attracted to her?

And then one day, her doubts were lifted when he lent her a book from his own collection: Justine by Marquis de Sade.

He handed it to her with all appearance of nonchalance, but she knew the name, of course. And the subject matter.

She read it every night, for hours on end, savouring the lecherous words and his notes in the margins.

When she's abandoned her moral center and teachings...when she's cast aside her facade of propriety and lady-like demeanor...when I have so corrupted this fragile thing and brought out a writhing, mewling, bucking, wanton whore for my enjoyment and pleasure.....enticing from within this feral lioness...growling and scratching and biting...taking everything I dish out to that moment she is never more beautiful to me.”

Again and again she brought herself to orgasm as she imagined Mr. Mercier and herself as the protagonists.

The next week, Betty sat on the bus, holding the book close to her chest, her heart pounded under it. Halfway to the uni, it started to rain and by the time she got out, it was pouring. Rain soaked her clothes and hair, as she ran towards the faculty building. In her haste, she tripped. Justine landed in a puddle.

“Oh, no, no.”

The pages were already engorged with water.

Betty’s hands were shaking when she knocked on Mr. Mercier’s door. She got a few odd looks from two students entering the next door office.

Mr. Mercier opened the door. “Betty, my god, you’re soaked.”

He attempted to dry her with tissues which was completely ineffectual. His hands slowed, and he stared at her dress, cheap yellow fabric clinging to her body.

“Did you enjoy the novel?”

“I ruined it.”


She showed him the sodden book. “I’m so sorry, I’ve ruined your book. I was running and the rain and it fell. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Yes you should have, mademoiselle.”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

He scoffed at that. “It was a rare edition, it cannot be replaced. I thought I could trust you. I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Please, don’t be. I’m such a klutz, what can I do?”

He linked his hands behind his back and paced the small office. “How should carelessness be dealt with?”

“Dealt with?” she stammered.

“I cannot let you go unpunished.”

The scenario felt very familiar. Betty swallowed thickly as she realized what was happening, heat curled in her belly. “No, sir, you certainly can’t. I should be punished.”

He schooled his features so as not to smile. “Bend over, mademoiselle,” he said. “And do be quiet, the walls are thin.”

Betty released a shuddering breath and leaned forward on her elbows. Every hair on her body stood on end, anticipating the next touch. She’d never felt so alert to sensations: the crinkle of his crisp cotton shirt, the shift of air as he moved behind her, his woodsy cologne. When he didn’t touch her, she grew antsy and glanced at him over her shoulder. He stroked her back gently, soothing her. She closed her eyes, enjoying the calmness coming over her. She’d waited so long to feel his touch.

His warm hand, splayed wide, resting on her lower back. “Okay?” he asked.


His hand slipped over the curve of her bum, he squeezed the flesh in a rather mechanical way. Betty pressed into his touch and heard a low chuckle. Red bloomed over her cheeks. Mercier squeezed the other side, hand lingering this time.

“Now, mademoiselle, how many spanks should you get for destroying my precious book?”

“I- I don’t know, sir.”

“Let’s see. How many chapters are there in the book?”

“Ten, sir.”

“Ten it is.”

Then came the first slap, mostly absorbed by her clothes. And another, before he flipped over her skirt, and his hand collided a third time with her arse. The shock was stronger, Betty gasped loudly.

“Shh. Professor Morton is right next door,” he said, so close she felt his breath on her neck.

He spanked her again and Betty squeezed her eyes shut. The heat on her arse cheeks spread wide, and she felt the first tingles between her legs. Mr. Mercier caressed the back of her thighs and it sent a quiver straight to her core.

“How many spanks left, mademoiselle?”

“… six?”


He spanked her three times in a row, then tugged down her panties. If anyone walked through that door, the first thing they would see was her bare arse and cunt. And somehow that turned her on even more.

Betty realized it wasn’t just her own ragged breathing she was hearing. Mr. Mercier ran a featherlight finger up the inside of her thigh, leaving goosebumps after its passage. Betty clutched the side of the desk.

“Please, sir.”

He stroked the other thigh. “Please what?”

“May I have another?”

Footsteps and loud chatter came from the hall.

“Do you think they heard you beg?” he whispered into her ear. “You do it so well.”

His palm smacked her flesh twice more. Harder this time. It resounded between the walls of his office. The sting ebbed into a pleasant tingling. She squeezed her thighs and felt the moisture between her folds. She was dying to dip her fingers in that wetness or better for him to do it. She dropped her forehead to the desk and stilled, her whole body tensed to stop herself.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Betty? Look at me,” he insisted.

Gone was the stern voice. She raised her head and met his beautiful, concerned eyes. It made her heart melt, and a less carnal sort of desire grew in her.

“One more, sir.”

She felt the warmth of his palm, but he didn’t touch her. He swished his hand, built the anticipation. A hairbreadth away. Another swish and the last blow landed between her cheek and thigh.

Betty squealed. She hoped his hand print would show.

“Ten. Have you learned your lesson?”

“I have. Promise. I’ll be more careful with your books.”

“Good girl.”

He pressed between her shoulder blades to keep her bent over the desk. He stood behind her. Staring? She felt exposed and vulnerable. And empty. Her inner muscles clenched around nothing. He sat on his haunches and bit into the reddened flesh of her bum. A drop of moisture tickled her sensitive nether lips.

“I see the Marquis de Sade was right: ‘it is only by way of pain one arrives at pleasure’.”

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him pressing his palm over the bulge in his trousers. She smiled, proud that he was affected too.

“Eyes ahead,” he chastised her.

He moved around for awhile then laid something on her back, then another thing, heavier, and a third. “Some of my favourite books,” he explained. “Diderot, Beaumarchais, Voltaire… on your lovely behind. Make sure you do not drop one of them.”

“Wha— Oh!”

Two fingers brushed down her slit. He caressed her slowly, lightly. Sometimes wiping his damp fingers on her thigh. Every time she squirmed for more contact, the books swayed and Mr. Mercier would cluck his tongue and stop touching her.

“Careful, mademoiselle.”

He pushed his middle finger in her, and she automatically bucked back. The books fell off her. He muttered in French, and spanked her with a leather-bound novel, twice on each cheek. She clenched her teeth and breathed deeply. Mr. Mercier put the books back on her, adding a fourth, and admired his work. She missed his touch already.

Someone knocked at his door.

“Should I open,” he whispered.

Betty shook her head vehemently, but perhaps, when he fingered her again, he felt her clench at the thought of getting caught.

Another knock and Mr. Mercier moved his fingers faster. Betty bit her fist to smother her moans. How she wanted to buck and thrust, deeper and faster, her legs quivered from the strain of holding back. She thought she might lose her mind. Sweat beaded along her spine.

“Good girl, you are doing so well.”

When no other knock came, Mr. Mercier stood up. She heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, desire coiled low in her stomach.

“Stay still,” he said, holding her hips, before rubbing his length along her slit.

“Please, sir, I don’t think I can— the books. Please,” she stammered incoherently.

“Shhh, just a while longer.” He moaned, still teasing her, and teasing himself too.

The head of his cock rubbed her clit, and she choked on a sob. She wanted him to take her, any way he desired, she didn’t care.

“Please, sir.”

“Use your words.”

“Please fuck me.”

“Stand up.”

She did as he asked, confused, knickers still around her ankles. Her eyes dropped to his opened trousers, and she licked her lips.

He cupped her cheeks and claimed her mouth. An all-encompassing, hungry kiss. Their lips moved eagerly together, with nips and licks. Betty melted into the kiss, clutching his shirt, arching into his body.

He hiked her up on the desk, she kicked off her heels and knickers. He tugged her legs around his waist, and entered her in one deep thrust. They groaned in unison, and Professor Morton slammed an unhappy fist into the wall between their offices. They laughed hiding their faces into each other’s neck.

“Don’t stop,” Betty demanded, voluntarily tightening around him.

Mercier moaned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He snapped his hips as fast as he could, both too on edge for anything with more finesse. Teeth and nails dug through the fabric of their clothes. The musky smell of sex rose in the room as did their moans.

“So close.”

Presque. Attends-moi.”

“Can’t— Ah!”

Betty’s toes curled, her thighs quiver and one last, deep push, triggered her orgasm. Bliss spilled through her blood. And Jean-François followed with a loud grunt.

He fell into his desk chair, bringing Betty with him. They kissed slowly, tenderly.

Betty giggled. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“Who says married couple have boring sex.”

“Not us… Can we do it again?”

“There are eight weeks left to the semester,” Jean-Francois said. “Will you still come to my class anyway?”

“Of course! I really do like it. I’m learning so much.”

He held her closer and kissed the top of her head.

“Me bum’s kinda sore,” Betty said shyly.

“Let’s go home, I’ll rub some lotion on your behind and make you cum again.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, ma belle.”