The Professor 11

"I'm going to do whatever I want to you," he whispered in her ear. "Anything I want."

He slapped her ass cheek, hard. The impact made a sharp cracking sound, and the woman beneath him shuddered and writhed in her restraints, but she made no sound. He could see her clenching her jaw, and sense the tension in her body, a tension it was his mission to release. He slapped her again on her round ass, and she vibrated soundlessly, lowering her head, forcing her shoulders into a delicious contour of ridges and curves.

He slipped around slightly, and slapped the side of her right breast, fairly hard. It made her suck in breath and tense up even more.

She needed to surrender, to lose herself, but refused. He had his work cut out for him.

"Do you think you're ready?" he asked. "Do you think you can hold out like this?"

She gritted her teeth and nodded defiantly, and he stood up straight, dizzy with anticipation and desire, the desire to force the beautiful woman below him to submit, to release, to surrender everything.

She shifted on the piece of furniture, getting herself as comfortable (if that was the word) as possible, preparing for what she knew was coming.

He reached to the table for the crop.

They'd met almost a year earlier, and had had a friendly relationship for that time, a genial kind of casual knowledge of each other. They were not couple material, he knew; she was a professor at the school, an exclusive, private university, while he simply worked in the maintenance department.

He'd actually changed his feeling towards her when, on a horribly cold night, her heat had gone out in the middle of the night. He was on call, and since she lived in school-owned housing, it was his job to get her 'back up and running'. That night, after fixing the furnace and setting things properly, she'd made coffee and they'd sat at her kitchen table, talking, for several hours. He'd been very surprised at how much he enjoyed her company, and since that time, had looked forward to seeing her at any opportunity.

She'd called him during break that year, and they'd gotten together for drinks at a place away from the school, and the same thing happened: they'd talked for hours.

The next time he called her, and after the drinks they'd ended up at his house, in bed.

She'd indicated during the fucking that she enjoyed, or rather craved, the sense of a loss of control, of being dominated; it had surprised and somewhat alarmed him, but she explained that her work required a surface act, and a social control, that wore her out. She told him, in rarified language, that she liked 'To not be in control all the time.' Her sex life was that time, where she could let go and discard her own power.

He was intrigued by the possibilities.

The next time, he'd tied her hands with his tie; she'd loved it. After that, things had progressed, and gotten rougher, but she'd had no qualms about any of it.

Now, here she was, strapped to the chair, contoured and fitted to her body specifically, held in with black hook and loop straps, blindfolded and wearing a loose, short satin gown and matching, filmy thong, both in a brilliant yellow.

She had very pale skin, with a few blemishes, and thick hips, with a large, firm ass. Her back, he thought, was her best feature: muscular, with strong shoulder blades, and a tapering torso that defined her waist wonderfully. He loved to fuck her from behind, grasping that waist and pounding into her without restraint.

She had light reddish-brown hair, and kind of a severe face that changed when she was relaxed; he saw that face most often during sex. A prominent, pointed nose and large, heart-shaped lips defined her face. Her breasts were medium-sized and very round, with large nipples that poked down when hard; she had a little bit of a belly, but but all in all she was a womanly figure, and he liked her body. He liked it a lot.

Her ass was exposed, the thin line of the thong almost disappearing between the rounded, pale globes. He palmed that ass briefly, one more time, then leaned forward and whispered in her ear again.

"...anything I want".

She shuddered again, and braced herself. She'd told him she'd never been whipped, or struck in any way, ever, in her entire life. She'd never been spanked or slapped or even been in a juvenile fight; the very concept of physical striking was utterly strange and new to her. This was all new.

And, he figured, very exciting.