Author's Note: This story is a continuation of my story "Samantha Comes to Office Hours," but can be enjoyed on its own as well.
*
For a long time after the incident in the office, I didn't hear anything from Samantha. I was quite relieved on the one hand; I didn't have to worry about my boss, Sophie Bettencourt, nosing about and catching us. But on the other hand I had never been as turned on before as when I was with her. I still wasn't sure how much Sophie knew about our relationship.
Luckily I had work to distract me. Piles of papers to grade and articles to write. My tenure book manuscript came back from the publisher with a provisional acceptance. It looked like I would be able to keep my job after all.
The winter holidays came and went, and spring semester was about to begin. One morning while I was checking my e-mail right before heading into the office to prepare for the semester I got an e-mail from Samantha H. The subject line said "miss me?"
There was a short note: "Dear Prof. Carver," it read, "I hope you'll forgive me for being such a tease and not contacting you for so long. Just kidding, I hope you won't forgive me -- not until you've punished me, that is! I've been a very naughty girl in the past few months. I'm going to tell you all about it. I have pictures too. But first I'm going to make you suffer a little bit, so that you'll be that much more excited to see me when I finally come to visit you!"
There was no signature, but there was a picture attachment, a self-portrait of Samantha in the mirror, dressed in a schoolgirl uniform and pigtails and smiling coquettishly at the camera with two fingers in her mouth.
I responded with my personal e-mail account. I didn't want any of this getting back to the university.
"You naughty girl," I wrote, "I'm going to take you over my lap and give you the spanking of a lifetime."
I sent the e-mail and went back to work.
A few days later, I got a response. It was a picture of a young woman in conservative white cotton panties bent over a chair. A yellow plaid skirt was bunched up around the small of her back and the tops of white stockings were barely visible. The distinctive tattoo on her back let me know it was Samantha. There was a single line of text: "Is this what you'd like to spank, Prof. ;-)?"
"Yes you little slut. Why don't you tell me what naughty things you've been up to?"
I pressed send.
The next day at work, Sophie knocked on my office door.
"Alec," she said, "do you remember that student who was sending you suggestive e-mails?"
"Um," I said, trying to be nonchalant, "Samantha, wasn't it?"
"That's the one," she said, "I saw her the other night -- coming out of the department hallway. There wouldn't be anything going on between you two would there?"
"No," I said as casually as possible, "I haven't seen her since you moved her out of my class. And besides, I worked at home last night."
"I see," said Sophie, eyeing me suspiciously, "just don't let me hear any more rumors about the two of you -- it doesn't reflect well on you as a colleague. We don't need any liabilities around here. We have enough to worry about with the budget cuts!"
"I can't do anything about rumors," I snapped.
"Every rumor has a grain of truth to it, doesn't it?"
"That doesn't make it true," I said, turning back to my computer and typing angrily.
"Relax, Alec," she said, "I'm not accusing you of anything. Yet."
She closed the door behind her and walked down the hall. Just then a message appeared in my inbox. From Samantha. It was another self-shot portrait. This time she was bent over an office desk, wholly without panties, her beautiful young ass turned up and her pussy peaking out from between her legs. She looked back over her shoulder at the camera with a surprised look on her face, as if she'd just been spanked.
Then I saw the text of the e-mail.
"Look in your left-hand desk drawer," it read.
I opened the drawer and reached inside. To my surprise, a pair of women's panties lay next to my stapler. I fished them out and dropped them on the desk in front of me. They were damp. The smell of sex tickled my nostrils as I stared at them in shock. I knew the aroma all too well -- from my office as well as from the stairway where I had spanked her with my belt. It was Samantha's.
I grabbed the panties and shoved them into my coat pocket, then began to compose a strongly-worded e-mail to Samantha.
"Look," I wrote, without a salutation, "that trick with the panties crossed the line. My boss was just in here, and if she had seen me with those things it would have meant, at best, that I would be branded as a pervert for the rest of my career, at worst I could have lost my job for sexual harassment. I think your games are cute and all, but you have to understand that my job is at stake. If you'd like to continue to play, I suggest we just meet somewhere and get it out of our systems so I can keep my job."
Just as I was about to press send, there was a knock at my door. It was Lisa, one of my rather needy students.
"Just a second, Lisa!" I said, clicking send. Then I rotated in my chair away from the computer screen to face her.
"What can I help you with?"
"Well," she began, taking a seat across the desk from me, "I thought you could answer a few questions for me."
"Sure," I said.
She pulled out a list of grammar questions, and we began to work through them. As I bent forward over the desk, my computer screen was visible over my shoulder. After a few minutes, I noticed Lisa's eyes wander somewhere behind me. Suddenly her face contorted and she began to stare.
"Lisa," I said, "you seem distracted. Do you want to come back some other time?"
"Yes," she said, as if in a trance, "I think maybe there's a better time for this."
Blushing deeply, she collected her papers without looking at me, shoved them into her folder and scrambled out the door. I began to piece together what had happened, and I spun in my chair to face my computer.
A large photograph of a shaved female pubis filled the screen. Written on the skin in what appeared to be black marker were the words "Property of Prof. Carver."
A lump formed in my throat as I quickly closed the mail window. I had my e-mail program set to pop-up messages automatically so I could answer the most urgent ones as soon as they came in. Samantha must have sent the e-mail while I had been talking to Lisa!
I was furious.
"Listen you little slut," I wrote, "you've gone too far this time. I'm not only going to spank you the next time I get my hands on you, I'm going to whip you so hard you won't sit right for weeks. You're a little brat who can't take no for an answer and you need to be taught some manners. Expect to be disciplined. --Professor Carver."
It was not until just after I sent the mail that I realized that I was once again playing right into Samantha's hands. She was trying to provoke me so that I would punish her, and it was working.
I sat at my desk for a minute or so, fingering the panties in the pocket of my coat. Visions of being brought up on sexual harassment charges flashed through my mind. After all, there were grounds! There had been a large picture of a pussy with my name on it on my computer screen during my office hours. How did Lisa know I didn't put it there on purpose as some kind of sick come-on? She didn't -- and she had every right to be offended. After all, she'd heard rumors about Samantha and I already.
I had to clear my head. I left my office and went into the bathroom. I was hot. Feverish. I thought about everything I'd worked for all my life disappearing because I had surrendered to temptation and crossed the line with a student. I took off my coat and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. I leaned on the sink and splashed water on my face, trying to cool the burning frustration and anger that was building inside me.
I thought about going to try to find Lisa and explain things to her. Maybe I could tell her that I was being sexually harassed myself. Then I tried to imagine the embarrassing situation that would result from trying to broach the subject of a huge shaved pussy on my computer screen with an undergrad student. There was no good way to go about it.
