Since I was getting no financial support from my parents, still angered by my insistence on going off to college on my own, and out of state, I had to take on several part-time jobs, combining them with my scholarship stipend so that I could meet my tuition and other living expenses. This made it tough on me, a lot tougher than on some of the well-off co-eds who had no such financial concerns. I didn't let that make me angry or resentful, though. That's just the way the chips fell. And I was doing what I wanted to do, finally becoming independent and educating myself how and where I wanted. But it did make it hard to keep up with my course work. Sometimes, especially when I had to work at night and then come back to the dorm or the library to do some school work, I'd be so exhausted in the mornings that I could hardly keep my eyes open in class.
And my assignments would occasional suffer as a result, as I tried, but sometimes failed to get them in on time. That was the case with an assignment I had for a French literature course I was taking which I submitted a day after deadline. I knew Madame Dumont, my French lit prof, a very stern sort, would be displeased. And so when I submitted my assignment a day late, she said she wanted to see me in her office later that afternoon. She had a very severe expression, and I knew she was unhappy with my performance in her class, particularly with my tardiness in completing assignments.
I counted the hours, dreading the moment I'd step into her office. I knew she'd rebuke me sharply. That I could take. But what I feared was how the late submission would affect my grade. I had to be very careful about my grades, because my scholarship depended on keeping up a certain grade point average.
I took a deep breath as I knocked on her door.
"
Entrez,
" I heard her say and entered.
She wasn't alone. This grad student who was her assistant, Jean-Pierre, was in there with her. He was actually the one who graded exams and papers. Jean-Pierre had come here from France to do advanced studies. He was this very cute guy, about twenty-five, I'd say, but definitely a fag, a very French fag. I didn't care for him especially. He'd scribble these catty, sarcastic comments on my assignments which really annoyed me.
"Hi Jean-Pierre," I said nonetheless. He did, at least, ask us to call him by his first name.
"Hello, Jenny."
"Now, Jenny, I need to talk to you," Madame Dumont said, looking at me with that stern gaze of hers. I'd found her intriguing. She was French but had lived in the U.S. for so many years that by now she spoke English with only a slight accent. She was in her mid or late thirties I'd guess, maybe even forty, and, supposedly, went through a very bitter divorce earlier in the year. Her husband, another professor here at the University, was said to have run off with a young stripper in a scandal that rocked the campus
Madame Dumont was a svelte, elegant woman, really very good-looking, a brunette with short hair. She was severe but very chic, with crisply polished nails, a perfect shade of lipstick, and she wore exceptionally fashionable clothes. My roommate Fiona and I would often remark that Madame Dumont was just about the best dressed woman on campus. We'd also sometimes fantasize about whether she was a closet lesbian, even though she had been married.
"Jean-Pierre and I were just going through some papers, so don't mind him," she began as I braced myself for it. "Listen, Jenny this is the third time an assignment of yours has been late. And now I'm afraid we're going to have to drop the grade on this one substantially. You can't make a habit of being repeatedly tardy handing in your work."
I panicked. A lowered grade on this paper, which counted as a quarter of my grade for the course, would bring the course grade down. And that could bring my grade point average down to where my scholarship might be jeopardized.
"Oh please, Madame Dumont, is there any other way?" I begged, explaining my plight. She was sympathetic, knowing how much harder it was for me, a scholarship student holding down several part-time jobs, than it was for others.
"I understand your situation, Jenny," she said evenly. "But I feel it's necessary that you somehow be punished. Your repeated transgressions cannot be ignored."
"Punished?" I asked, my mind racing.
"Yes, punished," she repeated. "If you have any suggestions about what might constitute a suitable punishment, I'd be happy to entertain them. I'm willing to listen."
I was taken aback by this opportunity to actually suggest a punishment for myself. I thought about it. Recently, for this course, we'd been reading some of the works of the Marquis de Sade in the original French, and class discussion had focused on the kinky sexual practices of the eighteenth century French aristocracy. It made some of the students in my class blush when we spoke of such themes, but it only delighted me, an unabashed sex freak to the core. And then I thought of my roommate Fiona and how she yearned to be spanked, and how I had come to love spanking her. I wondered if Madame Dumont, who told us she had gone to an all-female boarding school, also played secret spanking games with her classmates in her youth.
And so I thought I'd take a chance.
"Maybe you could spank me?" I said.
"Spank you?" she said, a little stunned, but I noticed a small smile creep up on her face, softening the severity of her expression.
"Yeah, you know, give me a good spanking, like in that novel we've been reading," I said. In fact, we'd been reading a novel where spanking figured prominently. In that novel debauched noblemen and young chambermaids took delight in spanking and otherwise punishing and humiliating one another.
"What do you think, Jean-Pierre? Do you think that would be a suitable punishment for Jenny?" she asked her assistant.
"If you think so, Madame Dumont, then it would," he said rather meekly.
"Well alright, Jenny," she said, with a bright smile, tapping her knees. "Let's give you a spanking then."
Madame Dumont almost always wore very short skirts over black stockings, and today was no exception. Now, sitting down with her skirt drawn up, her shapely legs were exposed to her thighs. I draped myself over those legs, over her lap. I usually wear jeans to class, but this day I happened to be wearing a skirt. So that, of course, made it very convenient. As I stretched myself out over Madame Dumont's knees, waiting, I suddenly became very aroused. With Fiona it was a one-way street. It was her fantasy for me to be the one to spank her; it wouldn't have worked for her to spank me. But sometimes, as I'd be tenderizing her pale, freckled bottom, turning it from the color of milk to the color of strawberries, I'd imagine myself in her place, with someone eagerly reddening
my butt!
Now that was about to happen.
I looked up to see Jean-Pierre sitting opposite me, in his chair, appearing a little nervous. If Jean-Pierre were a straight guy I probably wouldn't have been willing to be spanked right in front of him like this. But since he was a queer, I somehow didn't mind. In fact there was something even a little exciting about having him watch, getting spanked in front of this rather cute and boyish young man, knowing he was a faggot.
"How should we do this?" Madame Dumont asked now that I was helplessly draped over her. Would she spank me over my skirt? Or would she dare lift up my skirt, and even pull down my panties, I wondered? She may have thought that to be somewhat presumptuous, as my Professor, even if that was what she desired. So I thought I'd make the choice for her.
"I think a bare-bottomed spanking might be in order," I said, craning my neck back to look at her.
"Yes, I think so too," she said, obviously very pleased with that option. Now she lifted up my skirt and pulled my panties down around my knees, exposing my bottom to her view. And to Jean-Pierre's. I looked over at Jean-Pierre who was now blushing and squirming in his chair as he witnessed the start of this outrageous spectacle.
"You've been
bad
, Jenny," she purred now, resting her hand on my buttocks, caressing them. "Not completing your assignments, neglecting your responsibilities."
Madame Dumont had lovely, elegant hands, with long, perfect fingers and somehow to have one of those hands resting on my butt excited me immensely.
"So now I fear you must be punished."
She lifted her hand, then brought it down sharply as I felt the sweet sting of its impact on the taut, smooth skin of my buns. This was really new to me, being spanked. My parents never spanked me, so now I reveled in the brand new sensations as Madame Dumont repeatedly brought her hand down on my quivering flesh. Immediately I could understand why Fiona enjoyed this so much. There's something deliciously appealing about being helplessly draped over someone's lap, bottom up and exposed, feeling the sharp sting.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!
I loved the feel of it and the sound of it and I couldn't help squirming and wiggling as I took in the sensations. I think Madame Dumont realized I was appreciating, even enjoying my punishment. And she didn't mind. In fact, from the pleased, excited look she had on her face when I glanced back at her, I'd say she had hoped I'd get a twisted sort of pleasure from my punishment.
She would spank me ten or so times, then stop, lovingly massaging my tender buns before proceeding, taking her time, enjoying it, making sure I enjoyed it too.
"Spank my naughty little bottom," I said in a sing-song voice. "Show me how
bad
I've been."
Those were now not merely punishing hands, those were
erotic
hands. I sensed that from the moment Madame Dumont rested her hands on my buttocks, caressing them lovingly before she began her onslaught.
I looked over at Jean-Pierre and was stunned to see a very noticeable swelling in the crotch of his pants. I'm sure Madame Dumont noticed it too. Jean-Pierre was gay, I was certain, but here he was obviously getting aroused by this spectacle.
"Jean-Pierre's a faggot, Jenny," Madame Dumont said. "You know, a queer. He only likes boys, or so he claims. But I've made him see that women are the superior sex. He can be
