Chapter Text
You are in the middle of a session in the lecture theatre. You hold back a yawn. It's too early and the brats in front of you are slumped over their tables, nodding off at their computers or notebooks. Some of them are listening and paying attention to what you are saying, others are just pretending to take notes. Among the fifty or so students, you look for me. I am nowhere to be seen: I am late again. This has been happening systematically for a month and your patience is wearing thin.
The spring sun shines through the windows and spreads a soft warmth through the curtains. The walls take on a golden hue. In just a few months - at last! - you will no longer have to put up with this masquerade that irritates you so much. You suddenly announce that you are going to collect the assignments. Half of them did not do it - they are students after all - so you get a bit more irate and order them to leave. They protest, but you do not care: they had been warned. The lecture theatre has half emptied and still no trace of me. You look at the clock above the board and write the title of the first section on it. 9:45. I should have been here an hour ago. You frown, annoyed. As you begin to explain this section of the chapter, the high door of the lecture theatre slams shut and the noise echoes around the room. You look up and several people turn around.
I casually walk down the steps, looking jaded and tired, my bag thrown over my shoulder, my legs bare, unlaced docs with mismatched socks sticking out. It's hot, my outfit is short, too short perhaps, and my breasts are jiggling under the distended fabric. I walk with a heavy step, as if my body weighed three times as much as it does, as if every movement required a superhuman effort. My dress flutters around me, occasionally revealing my inner thighs. I have no panties: you have them in your pocket.
You nicked them from me yesterday. Our affair is secret, although some rumours have surfaced. We've been seeing each other for a year, but no one knows that I'm staying at your place half the time. Last night you met me in town, brought me back to your house, and fucked me against your desk in the middle of the articles you are currently working on. After slapping me hard, your cock slowly entered my anus, without any warning or preparation. You didn't ask my permission nor waited for me to get wet: a punishment for knowingly disrespecting you by barging into your first year seminar unannounced.
You punished me again after that. You came, not me. I am only allowed to come once a week and never when I am being punished. You fuck my arse every day, relentlessly, but you only touch my cunt once, on Sundays, and only if you think I've been good enough. I am cross with you – sometimes. I get good marks most of the time, even if you think I do not study hard enough. Even if you say that I ought to do better, it is still okay for the moment. You insist that I will have to get on with it, scolding me. "Be better", you say. I whined and you smacked me again. Then you grabbed me by the ear and sat me down on the chair, putting my lessons in front of me and forcing me to work. I was excited and I wanted to slide my hand over my clitoris as soon as the office door closed. You know me well by now and, anticipating my actions, you forbid me to do so.
Before you left the room, you forbade me to move, telling me that I would stay there all night if necessary, but that my assignment would be done. I stuck my tongue out at you behind your back, and without turning around you said, "24!".
I sighed.
"25!"
You closed the door and I heard you go into the living room. After a few minutes of staring at my blank sheet of paper and the pile of books and articles beside me, I made a decision: tonight, I was going out and I was going to party no matter what. I grabbed my bag, stuffed my notes for tomorrow into it, my computer, my pencil case. I looked for my panties: they were gone, probably in your pocket. Too bad. I looked at my outfit: it would do. I took my phone, texted my dealer - you don't know, I'm hiding it from you - and quietly walked out the French window, grabbing the nearby tree and dropping lightly to the grass a few meters down. I ran under cover of the hedge and sped off towards the club where my friends were gathered.
The night passed, long, exhausting, in the fleeting and dreamy happiness of opiates. I ran into a long-time friend, a former lover. By chance (we had lost sight of each other) she was passing by: we spent the rest of the night together. I forgot the time. I had intended to forgo sleep and return at dawn, before you woke up, and to pretend I had insomnia and went for a night walk if you caught me. Fail. I know now that I will not be on time for class and it is a rough comedown. I look at my phone: 9 o'clock. An hour late, you will be pissed. I scrutinise my eyes: my pupils are still dilated from the rail of cocaine we snorted in the early morning. I haven't slept, my complexion is pale though tinged with gold, and dark circles are popping up under my eyes. I will never last the day. I might as well be hooked on coke and not give a damn about the schedule. Elise drives me to college. I drag my feet, I am a bit apprehensive about the look on your face - the way you look at me when I've done something really foolish, when I've let you down, which makes me feel so guilty in a split second.
9:45. I linger on the stairs. I get a coffee, I try to hide the mydriasis that absorbs my iris and my drawn features under a thick layer of kohl and mascara. I'm burnt out. A girl from my class passes me:
"You look wrecked, what have you been doing?"
"I'll explain later, I'm in a hurry."
I am not even surprised that she is not in class. Then I notice that some of my classmates are outside in the corridor. Weird. One of them says to me:
"If I were you, I wouldn't go in, Mr X is really pissed off."
I go in anyway; if I skip it all together it will be worse. Since I'm undeniably in trouble, I try to look as unconcerned as possible. I push the door open, determined to see how far I can go and still get away with it. If I'm going to pay dearly for last night's wanderings, I might as well go for it straight away.
I meet your gaze, angry, dark and intense. You stare straight into my eyes as I walk down the steps and I feel my pussy moisten despite myself. I return the favour, looking mischievous, cheeky: I stare defiantly at you, head high, chin proud. I can see you grumbling under your breath as I sit noisily on one of the folding seats just behind the last row of students. Your gaze becomes more severe, as you rarely use it against your students. Everyone who knows you has learned to fear it, and those who haven't seen it in action have heard about it. You glare at me and it is a miracle I survive. I pretend not to care and some of the students watching us cast a panicked glance at me.
The silence is oppressive and the tension palpable. I drop my eyes, lean over to grab my computer and sip my coffee, no longer caring about what you are doing. I did not see that you have suddenly moved closer and when I look up, you are standing in front of me.
"In the corridor," you say curtly.
I look at you insolently: "Huh... No. It was already hard enough to drag myself in here, now I'm staying."
Your face tightens at this new affront and you squint. You slam my computer shut, grab my backpack and shove it in.
"OUT!" In a lower tone, you add between your teeth, so that no one but me can hear: "If you're not in the corridor in thirty seconds, I swear I will spank you right here in front of everyone!"
I turn a little pale. The threat is not empty, I comply. Even my bravery has its limits. I grab my things and get up. You notice my legs are a little soiled from my nightly throes of passion. The dilation of my pupils has not escaped you either. You refrain from grabbing me by the ear and dragging me out of the auditorium. I hurry up the stairs and you follow me, saying over your shoulder: "I'll be right back". No one flinches.
The door to the lecture theatre slams shut again. 10 o'clock. The corridor is almost deserted; a few students are hanging around, sitting on the stairs. You ask them to leave and at the sight of your furious expression, they do not complain. When we are alone, you slap me so hard my head spins. My hand automatically comes to rest on my cheek under the force of the blow. I feel it redden already and I look at you, shocked. You grab my arm and pull me towards the lavatory. It is empty and you push me into a stall.
Without saying a word, you press me against your side; leaning forward my skirt is short enough to reveal my buttocks and you begin to spank me. The sound echoes loudly in the room. I try to struggle, but your grip is stronger and I get another round for my troubles. My bottom is visibly reddening under your ministrations and you proceed to give attention to my thighs. I am starting to feel a searing pain in my backside.
“Stay still!”
My eyes sting and get wet with tears that I can't hold back. You continue, quickly, with powerful smacks, stronger than usual. You really are exasperated.
I moan.
"Quiet!"
Then you proceed to scold me, sharply, unbridled. Insolent! Reckless! A liar. How dare I disobey you like this! Oh, how am I going to remember this blunder! For a month, I will not sit still, you swear. I am grounded for the foreseeable future and I can say goodbye to my social life, my friends, my leisure activities! Your reprimands are interspersed with my complaints, but you couldn't care less. Leaving all night without saying where I was going, and taking drugs on a school night?! Taking. Drugs. Without telling you, hiding it from you!
"And how long have you been doing this behind my back?" you ask.
"This is the first time," I answer with as much confidence as I can muster.
You release me to examine my face. The spanking had the effect of a cold shower and my dreamy paradise is fading. The return to reality is brutal.
"Stop lying to me! You're in enough trouble as it is!" you say sternly. I look down.
"I’m not sure… Two months? More maybe?" I try again stupidly, but I know you are not fooled.
"Amelia, I swear to god, if you lie to me one more time I will wash your mouth out with soap!"
I sigh. "I've never stopped, I've always taken them..." You look daggers at me. "But not much!" I add sheepishly.
You stare at me in disbelief. The dope itself is not a problem, we could take it together, we have already done so, and it would not bother you. Hiding it from you, on the other hand, infuriates you.
"Very well. What about your attitude this morning? What about your disappearance last night? What do you have to say to me?" you lecture.
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"I'm sorry... who?"
"I'm sorry, sir".
"Quite right! But that doesn't change what you did, young lady." I hate it when you call me that, it's so infantilising. You do not do it often, just when you are deeply annoyed.
"I've had enough of your impertinence! You disappear once my back is turned, you lie to me! I am extremely disappointed in you. This will stop, and it will stop now!" You resume the activity of your hand on my thighs and I am jumping from one foot to the other.
I cry out: "Please sir! I'm sorry! I don't know what came over me... I just got fed up! You are always so serious… I only wanted to have a bit of fun, you know?"
Hearing your displeased and livid tone alternately annoyed and hurt me. I want to rebel, to push you away, to get out of the booth and say "it's over" but I know it's only a passing fancy. You do not comment, but your face tightens. Uh-oh. I am still dancing under your blows, but they have become faster, stronger and more forceful; your admonitions, which continue to rain down in accordance with your slaps, have won over my effrontery and I burst into tears. You stop, abruptly. You turn me to face you and the hand that was slapping my buttocks so hard a moment ago now grips my chin firmly:
"Foolish girl. NEVER AGAIN! Do you hear me?!" I nod.
"Answer me properly!"
"Yes, sir, I won't do it again.", I say quietly.
"Good. I'm still angry; do not think for a moment that this is all. But we'll sort out the rest later." You look at your watch: 10:15. "Go back to class; I want your classmates to see the effect of my admonitions on you. This will put an end to their tardiness! And stand in the front."
"But... everyone will see that my thighs are red!" I reply, mortified.
A sly smile appears on your lips. "That's your problem, little girl. I'm sure you’ll think of a suitable explanation."
You do not hug me as you normally do at the end of a punishment and I implore you with my eyes.
"No! We're not finished, and I'm still very upset."
I bow my head in shame. My bottom is sore, my thighs are burning. I feel the redness spreading far beyond the hem of my dress and I blush. My eyes match my arse. You lead me to the sink and stand me in front of the mirror. You force me to look at myself and whisper in my ear:
"See? This is what happens when you're misbehaving."
You wash my face with water, lovingly passing a wet towel over my tired eyes, drying my tears, wiping the make-up that has spilled on my cheeks. I look a little more presentable and your gentle gestures reassure me. You grab my backpack again and I follow you piteously out of the lavatory. Still no one, phew! At least my humiliation will not have had a direct witness. You head for the second door, the one downstairs, and I'm grateful: no one will have to see my bum, at least not until the end of class. And I could make sure I get out last. You push open the door and let me through.
As I make my way to the front row, careful not to let my thighs show, you say:
"And you'll stay after class!
The students immediately fall silent, a peaceful quietness reigns and you smile inwardly, fully satisfied. I sit down cautiously, taking care not to put my full weight on the chair. The wood sticks to my heated thighs and the pain intensifies. I wince. You are watching me and I know you understand what is happening.
You address the whole room: "The next person who’ll dare to be late and be impudent will suffer the same fate."
The audience looks at each other, dumbfounded, but nobody says anything. And so you go back to your lesson without further ado and no disruption occurs during the last hour.
I suffer in silence, unable to stop myself from squirming, distracted by the pain that radiates in my arse, but your snapping fingers bring me to order. Then, after a long agony, you announce the end of the lecture; everyone stands up and rushes out, anxious not to get into more trouble with you. You snap your fingers imperiously and point to the floor in front of you.
I approach and you slip your hand under my skirt, spreading my legs. You palm my pussy. You chuckle, ironically:
"Soaking wet. What a surprise!"
I moan softly under your caresses and at the additional humiliation your words bring. The lecture theatre is not in use for the rest of the morning, no one will come and disturb us. You bring me to the blackboard and give me a piece of chalk.
"Write: I will not lie to my professor and I will not be insolent to cover my misdemeanour."
I look at you, flabbergasted. This is a first.
"Go on then! I'll tell you when to stop. And write legibly."
I obey, hesitantly. I stand up on my tiptoes to reach the blackboard, as high as I can, and I feel my skirt rise up, nearly above my buttocks. I feel you watching me from behind. My hand shakes a little, insecure, but my letters are distinct. One line. Two lines. The tension in my spine is already noticeable. I gasp: the punishment will be a long one! A loud, heavy whack on my bottom pulls me back to line and I stand still. You return to your observation post while I resume my task. After a few painful minutes of writing, you come up to me, grab my hips, letting your fingers graze against my rim. You take your zipper down, slick yourself up with spit and shove your cock into my arse. I drop the chalk in surprise and your tongue clicks:
"Tsk, tsk, tsk!"
I stand still.
"Well, pick it up! I didn't tell you to stop."
I bend down to retrieve the chalk and your cock thrusts even deeper into me. I am torn between pleasure and pain, your skin slaps against my very sore behind, my anus is dry but my fanny drools profusely. It is slowly lubricating as it expands under your strokes. You grab my hand roughly and press it against the chalkboard. An involuntary line crosses out the last words. You erase them with my palm, furious.
"Do it again!" you order.
I painfully trace the letters, but my arm falters. I make an unfortunate pause. A powerful thrust of your cock shakes me:
"Again!"
I resume my work as best as I can, my letters tremble with every jerk, my lines become disordered and slanted. You are greatly displeased. You grab my crazy curls, pull my neck back and whisper sternly in my ear:
"If I were you, I would try harder, or your hole will remember it!
I struggle. I pant. I progress slowly. You laugh softly at my misadventure. I start again, tirelessly, and each sentence is imprinted in my brain, on my retina, right into my flesh, supported by your shaft that slides in even more deeply.
"Pay attention, for fuck's sake! We are not going to stay here all night. Not that your bum isn't delightful to me, but I have other things to do!"
How much did I write? About twenty lines? More? Still you keep buggering me vigorously and I grit my teeth trying not to make any more mistakes. I fail miserably at the task and my fingers clench on the chalk. It breaks. You slap my bottom again - "Be careful!” - before handing me a new one. I cry again. Frustration twists my features. Your hand has not left my hair and my neck hurts. I can hardly see what I am writing and you tirelessly erase my mistakes one by one. The punishment drags on. Finally, I switch to another blackboard and you bring up the one covered in my writing. You fuck me senseless and I wonder about your resilience. Mine is not to be outdone. You are hurting me, you know it, you like it. My arse spasms excruciatingly around your cock as I painfully line up my letters. One more line. Three more. Five. Sometimes I let go of the chalk and always a heavy smack in the same spot reminds me of my mistake. The pleasure I was feeling fades more and more.
By the time the second blackboard is filled, my arm hurts, my hand is numb, my arsehole has become almost raw and throbbing, and my bum is still horribly sore. You pull me back a little. Sixty lines, you've counted them. You lean me forward, my hands come to rest on the wall at the bottom of the board - "be careful not to erase the chalk!"- and your pace increases. You soon come; you haven't touched me nor brushed me with your fingertips. I shake with frustration, again. Your sperm spills into my insides, hot and viscous, and I feel it flooding me. You hold me like this for a long time, long after you have withdrawn. You offer your cock to my mouth: "Clean it up". I comply, the taste is acrid. You get dressed, your clothes are immaculate, mine are not.
"Stay like that".
Your seed drips a little from my enlarged anus and I struggle to hold it back, embarrassed. You let out a small laugh of contentment. I feel it dripping and the drops join the puddle of my juices that spreads between my feet. My cheeks flush: I am ashamed. You reach behind me and grab something I can't see. Suddenly, I feel something hard and cold make brutal contact with my bum. I bite my lips and struggle not to turn around.
"Count. After each stroke, you will say the line and thank me for my care. One for each line."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. This one doesn't count."
Tears well up in my eyes. How am I going to bear this latest indignity? You hit me again and I suddenly understand: the ruler. Those big blackboard rulers, which are used to show text as well as to draw figures. Darn. I count:
"One. I will not lie to my professor and I will not be insolent to cover my misdemeanour. Thank you, sir."
The blows keep falling to the sound of my litany. At fifteen, my fingers clench involuntarily on the wall. Halfway through, tears roll down my cheeks. At forty, I sob loudly and my voice breaks. At fifty, I vow never to offend you again and promise you the moon. At fifty-nine, I swear that I will never lie to you again, should you sew up my mouth, and at sixty, I weep loudly, defeated. You put down the ruler, wrap your arms around me and hold me close, and I turn to bury my head in your shoulder. You kiss the top of my head, stroking my hair, and whisper to me:
"One month, then we'll be even."
I cry a bit more, my frustrated twat twitching and oozing even more at your words, but I nod. It's deserved.
Epilogue:
We leave the room separately, leaving behind the remnants of the punishment, clearly visible on the blackboard, which is bound to spread around the humanities college. You don't have any more lectures today, neither do I, and you tell me to meet you at your place. I meet you there an hour later as you have forced me to walk home, with semen dripping down my scarred thighs, as astonished passers-by look on. I walk up the stairs and ring the bell. You open the door and point to your office.
"It seems to me that you had a job to finish. And stay there this time!"
I sit groaning at the table; "Shh!" you say curtly as you settle into the chair to grade papers while I grovel to satisfy you, the signs of my humiliating defeat etched into my flesh and deep into my soul.