Lesson for the Teacher's Sub

Author's Note: This story is one of the few I've written with a female dominant character. I hope you enjoy it.

If you take time to read the story, please take an extra minute to leave feedback or an extra second to vote.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Sit down, Brandon," Amanda Langford said with a seriousness that made Brandon uneasy.

The tall, thin 32-year old professor usually spoke in a serious, if not distant manner. Her demeanor was her way of compensating for the prejudice a pretty, young, female professor often faced in a university environment dominated by older males. As further compensation she typically covered her rather shapely body with distinctively gender-neutral fashions, wearing khaki pants and loose-fitting button down shirts, using little or no make-up, and keeping her hair cropped short and neat. Early career experiences taught her that an explicitly feminine appearance was often met with rude, sexist behavior and a general lack of professional respect from peers and students alike.

Underneath this rather plain exterior, however, it was a different story. Hidden from view, Amanda could express her true self by indulging in the most delicately feminine lingerie imaginable: lacey bras, skimpy panties, silky teddies and camisoles. At other times, when clothing would allow, she would follow her penchant for leather. Thus she was able to enjoy her ultimate femininity, despite outward appearances.

Though she mostly tried to hide it, Amanda couldn't stand Brandon Lewis. Throughout his undergraduate career he had tried to warm up to her with every boyish charm he could muster. He flirted with her, complimented her appearance, and even made blatantly sexual remarks during tutoring sessions in her office. Brandon never realized the extent to which she especially resented his male sexist behavior, and that all his attention only served to further increase her disdain for him.

The professor closed the door to her office behind Brandon and took her seat at her desk, across from him. He sat nervously on the edge of his seat, well aware that he had performed miserably on the final, carelessly taking the exam while badly hung over. He had also come to know full well Professor Langford's reputation for being particularly tough on her male students. She seemed to delight in making life difficult for them.

"Is it as bad as I think?" he asked sheepishly.

"Worse." She said abruptly, tossing the final onto her desk toward him. He picked up the exam and stared at the failing grade represented by the bright red numbers at the top of the page.

"Damn," Brandon said slumping back in his chair. "So what now?"

"Well, that's up to you. If I turn this grade in you certainly wont be graduating next Saturday," she explained with a hint of delight in her voice.

"What do you mean, 'if'. You mean you aren't going to turn in a grade for me? This is a required course. Like you said, I need it to get a C or I don't graduate." He looked at her with confusion. "I don't get it."

"Boy you really are thick aren't you," she said, shifting suddenly to a demeaning voice. "I have to turn in SOME grade, but I don't' have to turn in THIS grade. Are you with me?"

"OK, so what's it gonna' take to have you change the grade?" Brandon asked quickly. "Do you want me to retake the exam?"

"There won't be time for that," she said. "Besides, I doubt you'd do any better on a retake. Stupid twit. We'll have to find another solution."

"You know I'm desperate, Professor Langford," Brandon pleaded. "I'll do anything it takes to get a C in this class."

"Anything?" the professor asked, staring into Brandon's eyes and searching out his resolve. The slight smile he detected made him nervous, but he also knew he had little choice at this point but to do whatever it would take.

"Anything," he reiterated, feigning boldness.

"You know I don't care much for your kind, don't you?"

"My kind? What kind is that?"

"The kind that thinks just because he has a dick, he has the right to hit on any woman he wants. The kind that thinks all women can't wait to spread their legs for him. The kind that treats women as nothing more than sex toys to be used for personal gratification and tossed aside."

Brandon was so stunned at her course language and angry accusations that he could find no meaningful response. She had him pegged.

"I hear you're engaged to be married," she continued.

"That's right," he answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He already didn't like where this was going.

"So does your fiancé know you've constantly been hitting on and screwing half the women on campus?"

"Well." He paused to consider his answer. "No. She goes to Worthington U." As if her remoteness somehow made his womanizing OK.

"Don't you think she has the right to know the kind of man she's marrying?"

"Uh, well, I'm not going to screw around on her after we're married," Brandon tried to explain.

"Ya', right," Amanda said with disgust. "Like you really think you can change your ways just like that, simply because you put a damn ring on your finger one day?" Amanda had learned of "his kind" from her own former husband, who cheated on her frequently until she finally threw him out.

"Sure," he said confidently.

"No way. No fucking way," she exclaimed loudly, shaking her head angrily. "Not unless somebody teaches you a serious lesson."

"What does my sex life have to do with my grade in this class anyway?" Brandon was trying to change the subject back to his grade.

"It has everything to do with it, you idiot. Everything."

"So you want me to promise to stop cheating on my fiancé in exchange for a C in this class?" Brandon asked.

"Oh, I'm sure you wish you could get that C for the price of a promise you have no intention of keeping. But it's not going to be that easy," she insisted.

"What then?" he asked.

"To start with, why don't you come over here, get down on your knees and just see if you can convince me that you deserve another chance. A chance at a better grade and a chance to amend your cheating ways."

"What?" Brandon protested.

"You heard me. Come over here and convince me to even consider your plea. And it better be good."

Amanda pushed her chair back from her desk and Brandon reluctantly moved around the desk and dropped to his knees in front of her. "Please, Professor," he begged with all the sincerity he could muster. "Please let me have that C. I know I don't deserve it, but I need it. If I don't' graduate, I won't be able to take the job I've got lined up, and my wedding will probably be postponed or even cancelled. Please, I beg you. I have to have that C."

"And what are you willing to offer me in exchange?"

"Anything, " he repeated. "If you want me to stop screwing around on my fiancé, I will. I promise. I know you don't believe me, but I can do it. I will do it."

"You're right. I don't believe a word of it. Can't you be any more convincing than that?"

Brandon scooted closer to Amanda and put his hand on her knee. Repeating his plea, he gave her his best sad puppy look. She quickly slapped the back of his hand so hard it immediately turned bright red. "That kind of shit doesn't cut it with me," she snipped.

"Then what the hell do I have do to convince you that I'm serious?" His tone was desperate and irrational. He clearly had no clue what she was after.

"I told you, you have to be taught a lesson," she reiterated.

"What kind of lesson?"

"Stand up, you worthless slob." Brandon stood, clutching his stinging hand with the other. "Drop your pants."

"What!?" Brandon yelled in disbelief.

"You heard me, pig, drop your pants. Do you want that C or not?" she barked. Brandon furrowed his brow, but complied by unbuckling his pants and dropping them to the floor around his ankles. All the fantasies he'd played out with Professor Langford in his mind suddenly came to him in a rush. Could it be that they were going to come true right here and now? His cock began to instinctively harden before Amanda's eyes, causing his boxers to rise in front.

"These too," Amanda insisted, snapping the waistband of his boxer shorts against his stomach. Brandon slowly peeled down his underwear, revealing his thickening manhood, which by then was standing at about half-mast. Amanda ignored his growing erection and ordered him to turn around and face away form her, which he did. She opened her top desk drawer and removed a long, wooden ruler, which she quickly applied to Brandon's backside with a swift and powerful blow.

Brandon jumped and covered his ass with both hands. "Ow! That hurt!' he yelped.

"It was supposed to, idiot," Amanda derided him. "And we're just getting started. Now move your hands." Brandon slowly dropped his hands to his sides. The next whack was even harder than the first.

"Ouch! What the fuck?" he yelled and quickly returned his hands to cover his ass.

"Something is going to have to be done with those hands." She put down the ruler and retrieved a roll of clear packing tape from her desk drawer. She ordered Brandon to interlock his hands and forearms behind his back. She taped them together firmly so that it was impossible for him to lower his hands to protect his butt.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him around to face her. His cock was now fully hard and sticking out from under his T-shirt. Despite his stinging ass, he was extremely aroused by the situation. Seeing his arousal, Amanda was determined to counter it. She grabbed his balls firmly in one hand and squeezed them together. When Brandon flinched, she said, "What's the matter, lover boy? Haven't you always wanted to feel my hands on your balls?"

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind," he winced.

She led him by his nuts over toward her desk. With her free hand she cleared away the few items that were arranged neatly in the center of the desk.

"Spread your legs and lean down on the desk," Amanda ordered as she released his balls from her grasp. Brandon spread his legs wide apart to lower his hips to desk height. He bent forward at the waist, lowering his chest onto the hard desktop with a thud. His rigid cock was wedged painfully against the edge of the desk and his balls hung free off the edge. Now seated behind him, Amanda reached between his widespread legs and again grasped his balls in her hand.

"Now you are ready for your lesson to continue, aren't you?" Amanda asked, smiling to herself at the command position she held over the student who had tried so hard to win her over with his audacious male bravado.

"I'm not so sure about this," Brandon quipped.

"You don't really have any choice at this point," Amanda countered. "If you want that C, you'll take whatever I want to dish out. Got it asshole?"

"Ya', OK. Just get on with it."

"When you address me, you'll show a little more respect," Amanda asserted. She gave his balls a hard squeeze and let them go. She picked up the ruler and gave each of his ass cheeks a hard smack. Thwack! Thwack! "From now on you'll address me as 'Mistress Amanda,' understand?"

"OK," Brandon whined. "Whatever."

Thwack! Thwack! "Try that again, pig" she corrected him.

"Yes Mistress Amanda."

Long narrow red stripes were beginning to show on Brandon's ass wherever she struck him. Brandon flinched and jerked with each blow. Finally, he stopped fighting and simply placed his head face down on the desk; resigned to receive whatever punishment the professor wanted to give him. She finished his castigation by repeatedly smacking the ruler against the tender flesh of Brandon's inner thighs. He was almost in tears when she finally relented.

When Amanda retrieved her digital camera from the filing cabinet in the corner of the office, Brandon saw what she was doing and begged her not to take pictures. But she explained as she took several photos of him bent over the desk, red ass beaming, that she had to take pictures for self-defense. She explained that if he were to ever tell anyone about their little "lesson" that she would immediately email these pictures to his bride-to-be, along with made up details of their torrid, two-year long, sexually deviant affair.

After returning the camera to the filing cabinet, she helped Brandon to his feet. She used scissors to cut a slit in the tape that held his arms. She then roughly tore the tape free, removing with it most of the hair on his forearms.

"Ouch!" Brandon complained loudly. "Damn!"

"You thought you were such a tough-guy," Amanda teased, giving his red ass one last smack with the back of her hand.

"Please, Mistress Amanda," he pleaded, "No more."

"You are really pathetic. You know that?" she asked rhetorically. She ordered Brandon to pull up his pants and get out of her office.

"Does that mean I get that C?" Brandon asked hopefully.

"I'd say you are up to about a D+ right now," Amanda teased. Brandon complained vehemently as he buckled his pants, being careful not to pinch his full erection in his zipper.

Amanda pulled one of her business cards from the cardholder on her desk and scribbled something down. She handed the card to Brandon. "Be at this address tonight at 8:00pm sharp, and we'll see if we can't get you up to that C by the end of the evening."

"You've got to be kidding!" Brandon protested.

"That's 'you've got be kidding, Mistress Amanda.' And no I'm not. Be there or spend the summer in a make-up class. Now go. And don't forget that I have the pictures. Nobody is to know about this, and I mean nobody."

Brandon walked out of the professor's office, still in a state of absolute shock and disbelief at what had just happened to him. Yet there was no denying the pain that radiated from his ass, thighs and balls. Although Brandon was very experienced sexually (he had even played domination games with some of his girlfriends), nothing in his vast sexual history had aroused him so completely as the spanking he'd received from the beautiful young professor. He was both thrilled and terrified to see what she had in store for him that night.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

At exactly eight-o-clock Brandon knocked on the door of Mistress Amanda's modest brick ranch home. There was an undeniable mix of nervousness and excitement in his stomach that had been there since leaving her office earlier that day. As stunned as he was by the spanking he had received at the hands of the professor, he was totally captivated by the thought of further submitting to Mistress Amanda in her home. He had been fantasizing about the possibilities all afternoon.

Brandon was disappointed when she answered the door dressed in the same green khakis and a plain blue button-down shirt she had on earlier in the day. This is not at all how he had played it out in his fantasy. In his mind she would answer the door in a leather teddy and fishnet stockings, brandishing a cat-o-nine-tails.

"I'm glad to see you were brave enough to come," she said opening the door. "Come on in, if you dare." The devilish look on her face certainly fueled increased Brandon's anxiety. He came in nonetheless, and she directed him to the loveseat in the living room. Brandon sat somewhat gingerly, still sore from the spanking. He observed that the house was decorated simply and comfortably, not exactly the sex-den he had imagined.

"Now, let me explain the rules," Mistress Amanda began, "so that it will be clear even to a moron like you." She was pacing slowly back and forth in front of the loveseat where Brandon was seated, looking as stern and serious as always. "You have the choice right now to stay or go. If you stay, you must agree to do exactly as I say until I give you permission to leave this house. No exceptions. If you are obedient, you'll have your C when your lesson is complete. Or, if you'd rather leave right now, you may do so and I'll see you in summer school. The choice is yours."

The choice was an easy one. He was extremely aroused by the possibilities of an evening of being dominated by the lovely professor. His strong attraction to play the submissive surprised him, but the draw was undeniable. And sexual feelings aside, he was determined to get that C.

"I'll stay," Brandon answered.

Amanda stopped pacing and turned toward him. "Say it right," she bristled.

"I choose to stay, Mistress Amanda," he said smugly.

Amanda immediately stepped toward him and placed her bare foot in his crotch, pressing half her weight against his tender parts.

"Try that again. Say it right. Beg me to let you stay."

"Please, Mistress Amanda, will you please let me stay. I will do whatever you say."

Amanda removed her foot from between his legs and directed Brandon to follow her. The two made their way down the hall to the "spare" room. Amanda stopped in front of the closed door and turned to face Brandon.

"This is my playroom," she said in a seductive voice. "Anyone who enters here is bound to absolute secrecy about its existence. Do you understand, slave?"

"Yes Mistress Amanda," he answered sincerely.

She opened the door and the two of them entered the room. The room was rather dark, lit only with four overhead track lights, each with deep red bulbs, all focused on a large, black, padded leather table in the center of the room. The table was the only furniture in the room except for a large black trunk angled into one corner.

Mistress closed the door to the hall and the reddish hue of the room deepened as the whiter light of the hallway disappeared. Brandon noticed a large mirror that practically covered one entire wall. Next to the mirror was what appeared to be a closet door, although Brandon could not tell for sure since it was closed. The wall adjacent to the mystery door was covered with what appeared to be a wide variety of bondage devices: chains, cuffs, straps, whips, paddles and clamps. Among these were a number of items that Brandon could not readily identify.

"Take off your clothes," Amanda commanded abruptly. Brandon quickly complied with her order, and began removing his clothes. As he did, the Mistress adjusted the table, using various cranks and levers, until it was positioned into the approximate shape of a large chair, with half the tabled raised at an angle to form the back of the chair. Brandon stood naked before his Mistress waiting for her to complete the adjustments. He watched as she unfolded or adjusted various hooks, loops, buckles and straps from around the perimeter of the table. She then directed him to sit down and lay back.

Standing at Brandon's feet she announced, "Since scumbag slaves like you have absolutely no self-control, the first order of business is to prevent the possibility that you might act in a manner unbefitting a slave be restricting your movements."

She started by strapping each of his ankles into shackles mounted to the edge near one end of the table. She tightened the leather buckles roughly, forcing his feet apart by the width of the table (about two and a half feet). She walked over to the wall of contraptions and retrieved a pair of leather wrist cuffs, which she promptly put in place on her slave. Using two small oval-shaped climbing carabineers she secured the rings in the cuffs to two rings on opposite sides of the table near chest level and slightly behind him. This caused the slaves arms to be drawn up and bent, with his elbows sticking straight out.

"There, that should do for now," Mistress said, stepping back to observe her handiwork. She then moved into position at the foot of the table between his feet and stood staring into his eyes. As she stared, she very slowly began to unbutton her shirt. With each new open button, the slave strained to get a glimpse of what was hidden beneath her clothing. When all the buttons were undone she stood with the shirt front open less than an inch.