“I’ve rarely met a more suitable candidate for taking in hand,” he says. Ooooh. I feel all squirmy. That stern look in his eye and the nearness of his warmth, his scent…I’m a bit faint. Am I imagining a bit of sexual tension in the air?
“But I did all the essays,” I defend myself, somehow knowing that it is going to be too little too late. We seem to have crossed the Rubicon somewhere along the line.
“I’m not just talking about your slapdash approach to your studies, Miss Newland,” he says softly. “Your manner is disrespectful, bordering on insolent. You seem to think you are here to drink too much and sleep all day. You insult the philanthropists who have endowed this university and given such as you this opportunity to commune with greatness. If your tendencies aren’t caught and corrected soon, you will be out on your ear, young lady.”
Talk about a character assassination. I am cut to the quick.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “Can I give you the essay now?”
“I haven’t quite decided whether to accept it yet,” he says haughtily.
“What do you mean? It’s compulsory coursework!”
“Ah, you understand that now, do you?” He stands looking at me for a long, long time. I focus on the big framed print on the wall behind him. Charlotte Corday stabbing Marat in the bath. Cool. Cogs are whirring inside his head, it seems; he is making momentous decisions. As long as they don’t involve my signing on to the dole, I’ll accept them, whatever they are.
“Do you seriously want to keep your place on the degree course, Miss Newland?” he asks finally.
“Of course I do! I’ve worked really hard over the last two weeks! I’ve eaten, slept and dreamed the bloody French Revolution.”
He half-smiles and fixes his eyes beadily on me preparatory to making or breaking my future.
“Very well, I’m prepared to hold your place open for you, but you need to understand that this is your last chance. You are on probation.”
I am dismayed. This is so unfair. I have been the model student lately; I even went to all the lectures, Friday afternoon as well. Above and beyond the call of duty.
“What does that mean, Sir?” I sulk, sticking out my lower lip in textbook disgruntled fashion.
“It means, Miss Newland, that I am going to take a personal interest in your progress. You will report to my office twice a week with all relevant reading lists, essays and lecture notes so I can ensure you are keeping up with the demands of the syllabus. Additionally, I want to see you here every Sunday evening for extra work.”
“Extra work?”
“I intend to be strict with you; it seems to be the only way to keep you from falling by the wayside. I am far too busy to be nursemaiding recalcitrant First Years as a rule, but in this case, I am prepared to make the time.”
Oh. Why? The whole sexual tension question hangs in the air again. Is it my imagination?
“Right. Thanks,” I say, not particularly sincerely. I think about my friends waiting for me in the pub. I am absolutely dying for a stiff drink. “Can I go now?”
“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?” he hisses indignantly. I stiffen and my hairs stand on end. There is danger in the room. “I expect a serious improvement in your attitude, Miss Newland, and I’m inclined to give you your first lesson here and now.”
He glides down to a sitting position on the sofa and begins rolling up his sleeves to the elbow. My mouth drops open….he was actually serious about spanking me…?
“Let’s see how committed you are to your studies, shall we? Now you can place yourself across my knee or you can go home and pack your bags. Which is it to be? Hmmm?”
He holds my consternated eyes coolly. Well…I can fulfil a long-held fantasy or I can write off my life. No-brainer. I giggle nervously and slump forward over the accommodating lap of my Head of Department.
“Sensible girl,” he murmurs. “You understand that you need to be punished, don’t you?”
Another giggle. “Uh, yes, Sir.”
“You’re nervous,” he says. “Hardly surprising.” He raises the light cotton of my dress to my waist before resting a hand on my arse, clothed in tight black jersey leggings. This feels so surreal I can hardly decide how I am meant to take it. I should be feeling…what?...humiliated? Aroused? Afraid?
I feel a little awkward and graceless, hanging off his knees like this, the blood rushing to my head, but otherwise I am concentrating on each individual sensation. I want to remember this. I don’t want to miss the tiniest nuance. Professor Sinclair, the sexiest man in the universe, is going to spank me. I want to be reliving this on my deathbed.
“I’m guessing that your lacklustre performance in class is symptomatic of a broader set of personal failings, Miss Newland,” he says patronisingly, landing his first couple of smacks squarely in the centre of each cheek. There is considerable force behind them and I wonder how long and how hard this is going to be. I have never been spanked before and I do not know quite what to expect. “I’m tediously familiar with the syndrome. The temptations of independence…” (Whack! Whack!). “…The freedom to spend all night every night in the pub…(whack! Whack!)…and wake up red-eyed and hungover every morning…(whack! Whack!)….too late for lectures…(whack! Whack!) ….but not too late for shopping and socialising….(whack! Whack!)…and flirting and more drinking and smoking…(whack! Whack!) …while your bank account runs dry…(whack! Whack!)…and your work falls behind…(whack! Whack!)…”
He continues in this vein for a very long time. Sinclair has a great knack for monologue and covers my irresponsibility, dishonesty, disrepect, disobedience and laziness in unflinching detail, accompanying the diatribe with rhythmic slaps on my backside, slow and heavy-handed at first then gaining in speed and stinginess as his speech gathers in righteous indignation. At first, as long as I close my ears to his wounding words so that they all melt into blahness, I find the experience fabulously erotically charged. Professor Sinclair is punishing me; my behind is warming up deliciously and I feel like rubbing myself into his lap and purring. But after scant minutes of this pleasure-wave, he seems to realise that I am enjoying myself and changes his tactic, smacking much harder and faster, giving me no time to catch my breath and recover between strokes so that I bring my hands up to cover my bottom and defend it from his relentlessness.
He catches my wrists in the act and holds them rather painfully behind my back, tutting at me as he does so. “You need to learn how to accept chastisement with grace and gratitude, Miss Newland,” he admonishes. “Well, well, we have plenty of time to work on that.” What? He is pencilling in my next appointment over his knee before this one is even finished. I kick my legs but he holds them secure with one of his own long pins, grunting with annoyance at my electric-eel impression and hardening his hand accordingly. “We will certainly be working on this again,” he threatens, raining down smacks with abandon now that my bum is completely at his mercy. He has been hard at it for ten minutes or more and it is on the tip of my tongue to ask how long this is likely to last, when a burst of electro-bleeping competes with the solid thwack of his palm on my buttocks for airspace.