You’ll never believe this

z used otk professor

I don’t know why I’m even bothering to tell you this. You won’t believe me. You’ll say it’s a fantasy. I’m making it up; just to draw attention to myself. Like I always do.

Things like that don’t happen. Not anymore. Not in this day and age.

Well, if you don’t believe me I just don’t care. I’m going to tell you anyway.

For those who don’t know me, my name’s Chas. I’m eighteen getting on nineteen and I go to the Brocklehurst University. Majoring in media studies. I know, don’t you start as well. It is not a Mickey Mouse course. Definitely not. I wish we did spend all our time watching television. I might have better grades.

And then it wouldn’t have happened.

I stay during term time with Uncle Matthew. He’s not a real ‘uncle’, you know a blood relative. He’s a life-long friend of my dad’s and I’ve known him since I was a toddler. He has a swish house in The Avenue, a really upscale part of the town. I get my own room, free wi-fi, the works. Uncle Matthew lets me come and go as I please; no curfews, no set meal times. He never inquires where I’ve been or how I’m doing with my studies, or anything like that.

Things weren’t going too well as a matter of fact. I had attended a “hot-house” school, where we were harassed every minute of the day to work hard and get good A-level grades. The school wanted to be at the top of the league tables. Well, I did them proud. But when I got to BU as we call the university it didn’t take me long to discover the bars, the girls and weed and not necessarily in that order.

I never went to the library and my essays were cut and pasted from the Internet. Bad. Prof. McIntyre gave me a warning. If I didn’t get at least a B-plus on my final essay in Media and Society, I’d fail the module and my grade point average might not be good enough for me to go into the second year.

Well, I was gutted. Leave the university. Get a job. Not likely. Well, what could I do? This is where we get to the part that you won’t believe.

I talked to my pal Craig. “Prof says I’ll get chucked off the course if I don’t get at least a B-plus,” I whined. “What should I do?”

Craig’s eyes narrowed perceptively; then he grinned. “I’ve heard stories about Prof. McIntyre,” Craig rubbed his index finger down the side of his long, narrow nose. “If you know what I mean.” For some reason he affected a Cockney accent when he said this. Then he fell silent.

I didn’t know what he meant and irritated I told him so.

“You know. You do,” he dropped the Cockney and spoke in his usual voice. He could have been a younger member of the British Royal Family. “He likes young guys.”

“So?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes,” I squealed, “I’m rather afraid you must.”

“He’s gay.” More silence.

“And?”

“Oh per-lease,” Craig waved his arms above his head. “A cute little something like you?”

“What!” I was both offended and impatient. “What are you saying?”

Craig shook his head and addressed me as if talking to a naïf. “All the guys do it. He’s quite amenable.”

Why was he talking in riddles? “Just spit it out will you!”

“Yes, that’s what Prof says too.” His shoulders shook and he roared with laughter.

“Oh, ha, ha, ha,” I said dripping sarcasm. “You really think he gets blow jobs from students.”

“Yes, but only after he’s had them across his knee for a bare-arsed spanking.” Craig did that rubbing thing with his finger again. “You’ll get you B-plus for sure.”

Well, let’s cut to the chase with this story. A spanking from the Prof, a pass grade and a secure future. Or, a fail and a life spent flipping burgers. Not much choice there.

I went away to think about it. It didn’t occur to me to do some reading in the library and actually write an essay. Of course not, I’m a student in 2017 for pity’s sake.

I lay in my bed mulling it over. A spanking. From the professor. Bare arsed. I closed my eyes tight and tried to imagine it. Me, eighteen years old, tall, muscular, and (if Craig is right) cute. Prof. who must be in his fifties, flabby, gone to seed. Me, trousers at the ankles, boxers at the knees, draped across the old man’s knees. He, whacking away at my bare bum. How did he do it? With his hand? A belt? Slipper? My cock stiffened ….

There had to be another way. And, there was. An essay mill. Another friend, Mitch, told me about it. Websites where you can buy an already written essay and pass it off as your own. It wasn’t cheap. Five pence short of fifty quid. Money that I couldn’t really afford. But it was better than a spanking.

I paid my fee, downloaded the essay, printed it out, handed it in. Job done. I might have gotten away with it. Can you guess how I was found out? Never in a million years. Mitch told me about the website. He knew about the website because he used it himself. We handed in the same essay. Word for bloody word.

So, there I was in Prof. McIntyre’s office. I don’t know who you are and if you’ve ever been to university. A modern university that is. Forget “dreaming spires” and all the flannel you see in Inspector Morse or Lewis. BU is mainly made up of concrete and glass. Prof.’s office is made of moveable walls and is furnished in fake wood. It could be an accountant’s office. It probably will be one day when the university sacks all the lecturers and we do our courses online.

Prof. doesn’t wear a gown and funny hat. He isn’t dressed in tweeds and such. On the day in question he wore a striped shirt (Marks & Spencer, most likely) and worn blue jeans. He could have been a bricklayer.

I stood on the industrial-strength dark grey carpet in front of his desk. He swivelled in his chair away from a computer screen so he faced me. Theatrically, he waved a sheaf of papers at me. My essay. “Is there anything you want to say to me?” he sighed as if he carried the burdens of all the world on his shoulders. “Think carefully,” he turned his head and nodded at the computer screen.

I could deny it. But what would be the point? I felt my face glow. I was blushing deep red. I always do when I’m embarrassed.

“We have software, you know,” he said peering at me.

So, I coughed to it. I had bought the essay online.

“OK,” he said. I was flummoxed. I expected a rant; a denunciation of my character. I was a cheat. I should be expelled from the university. And on and on.

What he said next made me buckle at the knees. “If you take a spanking, you can get a pass mark.” My mouth opened and closed silently; in a rather good goldfish impression. “B …” I wanted to say, “But a pass mark isn’t good enough, I need a B-plus.” The words would not come. He peered at me some more. Then he spoke, “We can make it so that you still pass into next semester.”

He stood from his chair and ambled around the desk so that he stood next to me. “Come over here.” Gently he took my left elbow and guided me across the office towards a battered three-seater leather couch. He eased himself down; his weight made quite an indentation in the soft seat cushion.

“Now this is what you must do,” he spoke gently. He was about to pass on instructions. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a university professor to tell his eighteen-year-old male student how to prepare himself for a spanking. “You should take down your jeans and let them drop to your ankles.”

Now, by this point in the story I have probably lost a number of you disbelieving readers. How could such a thing happen? How could he get away with such a thing? Aren’t there laws against it? To which I would answer “I don’t know,” but it did.

I wanted that grade. I wanted to stay on at the university. Damnit, I wanted to carry on with my easy life. Besides, how bad could it be?

Prof. was getting a little impatient. “Unbuckle your belt, take down your jeans,” I couldn’t look the old man in the eye. I fumbled a bit with the belt and popped the fasteners on the fly of the jeans. The front fell open and I felt a breeze against my white cotton briefs. I let go and the denims started to slide over my thighs, they bunched at my knees but it only took a slight movement in my legs to see them on their way to my feet.

Prof.’s voice cracked, “Now, come and put yourself across my lap.” He parted his legs and then reached out and took my left forearm and with extreme care he manoeuvred me forward. I did not resist. It was like a dream. This really wasn’t happening. Any moment I would awaken. His legs were hard and I felt them dig into my stomach. Without a further word, Prof. lifted me so that I was stretched across the couch with my legs and feet resting along it. My face was close to one of the couch’s arms and I gagged at a cloying aroma of stale body sweat.

In this position my chest was rested over his left thigh and my bottom was at an angle over his right. I was wearing a cheap white t-shirt and Prof. took hold of the end of this and ruffled it up my back. My briefs had ridden up my cheeks a little and it felt like someone had given me a wedgie. I felt his hand rest on my left buttock. I thought at first that he was trying to smooth out the cotton but once he had explored the contours of my meaty buttocks, he lifted his hand away. Seconds later I wriggled in protest as he gripped the waistband of my briefs and with two hefty tugs he had my arse cheeks bared.

Still he said nothing. He put his arm across my back and took hold of my hip. I was pinioned. I was going nowhere until he said so. I held my head in my hands and waited.

Have you ever been spanked? No? It was a new experience for me too. What do you expect? Well, to state the obvious, the whole point surely is to inflict pain. The general idea is this is a punishment that is so severe that it reminds you that you have done wrong and it warns you of the consequence of any further misbehaviour. Prof. slapped his rough hand over and over again across my bare buttocks. There was no pain to speak of at first but it built up as he whacked the meatiest part of my bum time and time again.

He spanked me so rapidly and so hard I could barely catch my breath. His spanks were not delivered from a great height, but were a series of short sharp blows one after another.

My cheeks were burning. I tried to wriggle free, but Prof. held me firmly in place. I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided he had punished me enough.

I was furious to be locked in place over the Prof’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Slap! Slap! Slap! It just went on and on. It hurt so much I wanted to cry out for him to stop, to say I promised not to cheat again, if only he would stop spanking me. But, I didn’t. Instinctively, I knew this was against protocol.

But I only had myself to blame. Instinctively again, I fought furiously, trying to kick my feet and legs and squirming and wriggling around on Prof.’s knees, but I couldn’t escape or halt the volley of hand-spanks heating up my behind.

I stopped wriggling and tried to take each new spank stoically; the spanking was hurting, but I wasn’t in any real pain. The hurt caused by the hand spanking had little effect on me, but the embarrassment of being forced to take down my jeans, bend over the older man’s knee to get spanked on the bare-bottom was a huge humiliation.

Prof. paused a moment, he was admiring his handiwork. He was red faced and I was red arsed. He was nearly finished. He slapped down another dozen smacks just for good measure, spanked harshly into my buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh.

I was breathless as I lay wheezing over Prof.’s lap. It was over.

He released his grip on me and I stumbled to my feet. I twisted my body and saw my arse glowed red hot. Gingerly, I rubbed it. I was still unable to look at Prof. I pulled up my briefs and then my jeans. Already most of the pain had subsided, but my buttocks tingled.

Prof. hauled himself from the couch and returned to his desk. Before he reached it and with his back to me, he said, “You should go now.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I pushed through the door and tore down the corridor where I saw an astonished Mitch. I didn’t stop to talk. I took the stairs two at a time and hurtled from the building. As the cool air of early evening hit me, I paused to take stock. I had passed the course and I would return to the university next semester. I had to be spanked to make it happen. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all.

I started toward Uncle’s house then it hit me: why hadn’t I taken the spanking in the first place? It would have saved me fifty pounds.

 

Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

The dope smoker

The sting in the tail

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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