Comparative Punishment Field Notes Ch 01

Author's Note

Dear Readers. This is my first story to make it from the movie theater in my mind to word on paper on Literotica.

No sex. Set on planets other than Earth, but very little sci-fi stuff. Spankings (F/F), in college at first. No male MCs. Mild humiliation. No beastiality, Lol.

I am more interested in your thoughts about what might be improved, than in what (little) I may have gotten right in crafting a story enjoyable to read. If you hope for a whack-a-mole, this first of what is planned to be a 3 part series is deficient. Don't penalize me for that, please.

Do what you will with stars, although I have enough of an ego to hope eventually they populate my galaxy.

PS, I'd like advice about tags. What other tags might have I used?

Thank you

Spoiler: Story Synopsis

Margaret, a PhD candidate, can't find a topic for her thesis. Raised on Ganymede (a moon), she attends a university on Gliese, a large planet. After submitting her fifth inadequate thesis topic to her advisor, she is taken to task. The Profesora (Spanish spelling) figures out she is a gifted (but not beautiful) science and sports captain, whose non-teaching assistant private life has become unmanageable. Margo accepts a spanking from her Prof.

CP intertwines with the topic of her thesis and then how she must conduct her field research (in the next chapter). The theme will become how scientists research to make CP -- in non-judicial / slavery settings -- more effective punishment for misbehavior, as a more effective discipline for behavior modification, and as a deterrence for others inclined to naughty behavior. Margo's field research takes place in homes, schools and work places.

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Comparative Punishments Field Notes:

A Spanking Helps Me Find My Thesis Topic

I never thought my thesis advisor had a sense of humor until our last thesis discussion, when she threatened to 'take me over her knee' if I didn't find a viable topic. It has to be a joke because spanking is not a consequence for poor behavior listed in the Universidad's Graduate Student Conduct handbook.

Nor is it a consequence listed for poor academic performance.

My thesis performance makes me miserable. Worry about possible lateness to my appointment, a 'poor behavior' my parents and teachers use painful consequence to 'stress', adds a twisted stomach to my swirling thoughts of guilt and inadequacy.

The walk from my small, shared apartment to the Universidad de Gliese is wet. Unlike many inhabited planets, the atmosphere on Gliese is suitable for humans. The monsoon drizzle is a natural occurrence caused by clouds and not by machines, unlike on my home moon.

Although I normally crave a healthy walk, walking in the rain does nothing to improve my mood today. I cannot afford to take the time to adroitly avoid puddles. The time I should have allowed for this trip I frittered, dithering.

My appointment is with my comparative human psychology thesis advisor. Madame Profesora Lieu. If she were a singer, this tall, formidable woman's voice would be described as straightforward and twangy. She exudes 'profesora' tone and vernacular with flair.

Even in the rain, the Universidad is a glorious sight. One can see buildings made of stunning natural pink basalt, one to three stories high, with yellow tile or turquoise edging around windows and entrances. Student legend says these colors ward off 'evil spirits'.

I've always feared anything yellow since being trapped within the sun-yellow walls of my collapsed home on Ganymede. The Universidad's yellow trim tiles are what the guidebooks call 'daffodil-yellow'. Like giving blood to get over a fear of needles, I tap a yellow tile for 'luck' when entering Universidad buildings. What is a daffodil?

My first thesis topic proposal, Team Sports on Small Colonies: Impact on Community Morale, received a frown and a "no protein in that topic" dismissal from Madame Lieu. Four more topic proposals followed, at longer gaps for gestation. "Done before." "Impossible to fund." "Did you think this through?" The last dismissal hurt the most: "You are too smart for a trivial project like this."

"Ma'am, why?"

"Figure it out yourself, Miss Margaret."

That phrase brought back treasured memories. My daddy, when I asked a 'why' question, and I must have had ten thousand of them, would say: "Figure them out for yourself, sprout."

I'd put my latest proposal together late last night, "Student responsibilities and nutritional habits on asteroids with and without farming domes."

As a college teaching assistant, a girl coming to me with that essay proposal during the last week of a semester-long project deserved a spanking. What is the topic? Comparison, responsibilities, nutrition, or farming? The breadth of the topic(s) would never allow focused research. Nor could it be wrapped-up in any lifetime.

Profesora Lieu stares at my newest thesis topic. Stares at me.

Cryptically, she states: "This needs to be done."

She stands, revealing a dress of teal and electric yellow swirls, and bids me stand. Yellow again today. I don't think I've ever seen her in yellow in two years. I'm sweating.

She rounds her desk, tidies up the other visitor chair in her office, and sits.

"Margaret Arabella, come here." She points to the right side of her hips.

"Ma'am?"

"Surely, Miss Arabella, you haven't forgotten how to listen and obey when you are told to do something promptly by a teacher, have you?"

"Um, No, Ma'am."

"Now."

Oh.

She is going to spank me! I'm too old to be spanked.

I need to be spanked. A spanking always helped me, when I'd boxed myself in with double think in school or worried about perfection, and mom gave me her maternal motivational spanking. But Madame Profesora can't, can she?

"Yes, Profesora."

"Miss Arabella, look at me. Did none of your teachers ever require you to look them in the eye when they speak to you in a situation like this?"

"They did, Profesora."

"Do you know why I require you to look me in the eye before I spank you?"

This is it.

She is going to spank me. Now is the time to protest.

"No, Ma'am."

"Figure it out yourself, Miss Arabella. You certainly have the insightfulness to explain it to me."

"Ma'am.

Oh. Wow.

I've learned a lot about this without knowing it when I tutored and TA'ed. "Looking you in the eye shows my respect, Ma'am. It allows you to assess whether I am paying attention. It heightens my embarrassment, my disappointment at letting you down. Maybe it helps you figure out what correction, what consequences are necessary? Nobody taught me any of that, but..."

"You'll make an outstanding teacher, Miss Arabella, if you can apply such comparative psychology in practical situations."

At the edge of my hearing I hear her murmur, 'perfect thesis'.

"You know what you need now, don't you, Miss Arabella? And before you ask me 'what do I mean?' use the intelligence that drove you to salutatorian in high school and an 'with honors' college graduate. The woman named best TA teacher of the year here at Gliese!"

"Ma'am, you think I need a spanking?"

"Yes. Don't you, Miss Arabella? I may not spank you without your permission. However, I do not need your permission to withdraw as your thesis advisor if you persist in self-defeating behavior. Before you answer, let me tell you I've done my homework for this interview, reviewing your prior school records."

"Ma'am?"

"Do not interrupt, dear."

"Your seventh-year calculus teacher wrote: 'Margaret appears to daydream in class. However, when I call on her, she invariably has an answer. I trust her to give me the correct answer, but sometimes she jumps ahead and solves a problem we haven't covered yet. Or gives me yesterday's answer'.

"Here is a note from Profesoro Gilbert, who taught you advanced propulsion repair in college."

"'In all my years of teaching space mechanics, Miss Arabella stands out. She has only one flaw, and that is her tendency to prioritize taking apart or constructing other students' research-engine projects over her own lab work. Her explanation is always consistent. 'It's just so captivating to observe. I guess it drew me to it. I'll put it back the way it was.' Despite the embarrassment of my rubber-tube-on-her-bare-fanny strapping in front of her classmates, she never fails to fix a project back to its original state after class in record time. All of her work, when focused, is ready to fly'.

"Frankly, Margo, I find this note the most telling about your character. It is an end-of-the-season critique from your Jai Alai instructor.

"'This young lady captained our team to the regional championships. Not merely with her goal scoring or speed, but with quiet, consistent support of every teammate, no matter little skilled. Her only fault is a tendency to pass the ball off too often to a teammate who needs ball-handling time. I placed her over our pommel horse a couple times at the end of practices in front of her teammates. She remained graceful and showed an understanding of why I needed to chastise her'.

"There are a couple of themes in these notes, I suggest, that are applicable today. You know what you need, don't you, Margaret Arabella?"

"Ma'am. Um, Profesora, I need a spanking, I think?"

Margo could not know that her deeply respected teacher kept her hand firm by practice on her live-at-home daughter and her two teenager granddaughters.

"Remove your skirt and... Well, what do you call your nèikù on your home?"

"Panties, ma'am, or bragas."

"Remove your panties, Miss Arabella, and face that wall. Hold up your blouse, so my next student gets a look at what happens to students who lack focus."

"Ma'am..."

"Silence, Miss Arabella. Use this time to consider what behaviors you must change."

Margaret leaves her cheeky-cut, French blue panties and gathered skirt, of a similar blue, collapsed the office floor, as messily as if she were in her own apartment.

Margo's most womanly aka male-eyes-attracting feature is her bottom. It perches well out over her legs, which show the toning of years of exercise and sports. Her skin, now so on display, is what a college friend called a pleasant blend of Hebrew and Arabic. That best friend, an ancient history nerd if there ever is one, adds: "[It is] tossed with a mixture of tones reflective of generations of commerce and slave trading around Earth's Mediterranean Sea and the empires that abutted it into the middle-east." Her 32B-ish, teacup size breasts are not an asset, she believes. No one else seeing her naked would agree.

Note to reader: Suspend disbelief. Imagine a future world in which distinctions by skin color, religion or place of origin have faded into obscurity, at least on the planets in this story. Thank you.

Minutes pass. Slowly...

A feeble knock, and a command to enter, precede the opening of the Profesora's office door. "Oh, my. I'm sorry. I'll come back."

I pull my shoulders and forehead to the wall, hoping this student won't recognize me.

"Halt right there, Miss Tracy. Your business is with me, I believe. You have something for me, don't you?"

A tentative soprano voice supplies the answer: "Yes, Profesora, here is my paper.

"I'm so sorry it is late.

"It won't happen again."

"Miss Tracy, this is your first late paper, correct?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Look around this room and tell me what will happen to you if you are late again."

"Profesora, I won't be late again, I'm sure."

"Well then, let me explain to YOU what WILL happen to YOU if you are late again. Or, if this paper is as poorly thought out as your last one. You WILL stand against that wall, hold up YOUR skirt, drop YOUR nèikù, and wait for YOUR spanking, Miss Tracy Bevins."

"I'm so sorry, Profesora. I won't do it. Oops, I mean I won't be late ever again. You will see. Please, may I go?"

I'm sweating lightly facing the wall. I smell Tracy now, the smell of fear-sweat.

"Well, Miss Tracy, it could be most beneficial if you stay and see what awaits you if your negligent and tardy habits persist. It might help the young woman on the wall, too. I'm afraid, however, the benefits of having a spectator for one's spanking will have to wait another day. Go, Miss Tracy."

Profesora summons me to bend across her lap. The touch of my bare flesh against her yellow skirt raises goosebumps and nausea that I tell to 'go away'. She rubs my bottom in ovals, one cheek then the other. Begins with light taps of her hand, as my mother did before my daddy died.

My Ganymede-gravity-slender frame is long enough to stretch the balls of my feet and my palms to the office floor on either side of her lap. Profesora seamlessly transitions to brisker, firmer spanks. This will be easy; I won't cry or scream. She hasn't reminded me, as my mother does, not to reach back or squirm too much. Of course,

I will do neither.

Since the disaster, when I don't comply with Mom's spanking protocol, there are no warnings. She simply, if not calmly, pronounces an 'award' of extras. Or the addition of an extra implement of pain.

My thesis advisor increases her tempo and the force of her hand. These are audible whacks and stinging spanks. My face must be as rosy as my bottom is being painted. The intense sting of each spank sends ripples of flesh and pain across my bottom cheeks, the sound of the impacts filling the room.

As perverse as it may seem, to me each spank feels like a small piece of my self-doubt is being chipped away. As the spanking intensifies, memories of my mother's loving discipline flash through my mind. I could almost, well, I feel, by emotional and muscle memory, her comforting presence.

Sweat forms on my face and around my breasts, where it rolls to my nipples. Six firmest-yet spanks descend on my sit spots, eliciting involuntary "ahs."

My Profesora has an unshielded view of my bottom and all its private ins and outs. Part of the norm of living on a moon such as mine is exfoliation. We may need to fit in our survival suits instantly, and body hair is ... irritating and leaky. I'm totally shaved. My vulva to my anus is visible now.

"Miss Arabella, please get off my lap and resume your place at the wall. Time for more reflection before we continue."

Like the well-behaved spanking veteran I am, I lift myself off her yellow lap and head back to 'my' wall space. I'm not sure when my brain catches up with my autopilot movements.

'Continue'

?

As I stand against the office wall, I cannot help but question my worth and capabilities. I hear words in my mind, whispering I will never be good enough.

"Please return to my lap, Miss Arabella."

I do. Her lap is still scary yellow. Comforting, too, in the manner overdue callings-to-account are for me. Someone cares. Help is on the way. I don't yet feel fully absolved, but perhaps after she continues?

"Being over a lap, bare-bottomed, with your mother's or a teacher's strap nearby, promotes honesty, doesn't it, Margaret?"

Of course it does for me. "Yes, Profesora."

"If I were to visit you at your apartment, what would I see?"

"A wreck, Ma'am."

"Be specific."

"My dirty clothes are all over the floor. Plates with dregs of food. Lots of study materials, in no order, on, under and around my desk and bed. My roommate complains about what I've done, actually not done, for our common areas."

"When do you eat?"

"When, um, when I can? ...

"I don't always remember."

"Would you, would your parents, would any nutritionist describe your diet as healthy?

"No, Ma'am."

"And when do you sleep?"

"No set time, Ma'am. Sometimes I'm up most of the night."

"What of your social life, Margy? When was your last date?"

"I don't remember. Last year?"

Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision as a deep sense of shame washes over me.

"Your life is becoming...No. It is unmanageable. Let's start a discussion, shall we? Let's see what this strap contributes."

Pain. It contributes pain. The strap is crafted from the best leather, which is imported from one of the few planets that raise live animals in commercial numbers.

She flicks each cheek individually, with random strikes. They don't sound quite like a "crack," but feel that way. Flick, "agh." Splat, "ooh." Several on one cheek, then back to the other for one, reverse. Higher, lower. A nice purple welt marks the spot ... of each.

When did I give up on not reacting loudly to this spanking? When did I start blubbering? The unique scent of the leather and the echoes of the strap whapping my poor bottom, envelop the room.

Profesora is not a spanker who leaves sit spots for last. As with every other girl, and I guess every guy, my sit spots are chock full of nociceptor endings. What is it about those nerves? Part of it must be they are always 'massaged' by stretching the butt or sitting or even twisting.

I am a teaching assistant for galactic languages at the Universidad. I've looked up "nociceptor." The root is from a dead language called Latin, whose root words live on in several of our galactic languages. The "Noci-" prefix means "hurt." It figures, doesn't it?

I'm grunting and groaning, panting. My butt is moving to the beat. I'm trying to stay as wiggle-free as possible, indoctrinated by my mom's "you move too much, I will spank too much more" rule. This isn't the hardest strapping I've ever received. Not close! So, I'm okay so far, I think.

So, just who is howling? Whose lower legs reflexively jerk back from her knees? Whose hands are smacking the floor, albeit totally dissonant with the 'the-whack' sounds of the strap on my behind.

My Profesora ends my strapping with a vigorous coda. She explodes six sears on my, so far, virgin-to-her-strap thighs. Not to be confused with my sit-spots, which she bedeviled earlier. Manana, my morning run mantra will be 'I'm just working through pain'.

I lay there, gasping, while Profesora rubs my bare bottom, so softly, so comfortingly. About the time I notice the pleasure of this, she asks me to get up when I'm ready.

Lingering just a few moments longer, I stand, sniffling, dabbing my face with tissues she hands me. She returns to her side of the office desk. "Margaret, you may sit or stand as you wish. It is not quite time to restore your underwear."

While sitting might hide my pussy from view below the edge of her desk, a quick 'pro vs con' decides I prefer less modesty to sitting on my throbbing sit spots and thighs just now. I wait. At this point in a spanking, I know better than to question or speak first.

"Margaret, I've been thinking about your thesis. You haven't been focusing. I've suspected for some time that your life is disorganized beyond salvation by self-help resolutions.

"Have you ever heard of Battaga2?"

At my negative nod, she continues. "Neither had I. It is one of those remote planets settled less than a couple hundred years ago. Travel there involves cryosleep.

"A small advertisement in a journal last month held a request for teachers, potential immigrants, of galactic languages. From what I read later, they were going to call their planet 'Wendel Berry' after an obscure old Earth naturalist and author. They chose another name because of the founders' willingness to embrace selective uses of technology."

"Why would I want to go there?"

"Here is what I found out. Battaga2 prizes universal education, scientific method, honesty, civil participation, and physical fitness. It uses 'researched' corporal punishment to raise children. The entire population participates in psychological, medical, and environmental experiments, including corporal punishment experiments. Citizens must raise children to adulthood, serve in the civil guard, and work on a farm before they may participate in leadership.