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[intlink id=”751″ type=”post”]Find out more about Elizabeth here[/intlink].
I meant to tell him, I really did. I mean, I know we all keep secrets, even from the people we love the most, but on the other hand, I felt it was something Josh should know, however much my revelation might damage our relationship. It was just that I could never find the right time. After all, when exactly do you break the news to the man you’ve been living with for the last year that when you were just nineteen years old his father introduced you to kinky sex?
Of course, in those days I had no idea Josh was related to Mitchell; could never have dreamed that the gap-toothed nine-year-old in the silver photo frame on the desk in Mitchell’s study would grow up to be the strapping, six-foot hunk I shared my bed with. But then I dreamed about very little beyond getting a decent mark for my term paper on Great Expectations and managing to make any of the lads in my hall of residence take enough interest in me that I wouldn’t, as I was convinced I was destined to, die a virgin.
So it came as something of a shock to me when I realised that, out of all the people who could possibly be interested in initiating me, the one who was most keen was my English tutor, Mitchell Summers. Looking back, it’s embarrassing to remember how naïve I actually was, and how long it took before I realised that all the attention he was paying me had some motive other than ensuring I understood the reasons why Estella was playing mind games with Pip. By the end, he’d taught me a few mind games of my own, but perhaps that’s more than you need to know at this point.
What complicated things further was that my best friend at the time, Lucy, had a massive crush on Dr Summers. She didn’t care that he was married, a fact she had picked up on the first time he started idly fiddling with his wedding ring in a tutorial. If Lucy wanted someone, she got him, so it seemed only a matter of time before she took the teacher-pupil relationship to a more intimate – and probably highly inappropriate – level. And I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Mitchell had responded to her obvious flirting. Lucy had all the tricks: the coy glance she would break as soon as he returned eye contact; the extra button unfastened on her top, so that as he walked behind us, his gaze could not help but be drawn to the generous cleavage nestling in her lacy bra; the skirt so short that when she crossed her legs it showed anyone who cared to look the tight white triangle of cotton at the join of her thighs. She was top-heavy and had long, glossy hair the colour of flame; I was dishwater blonde, with almost nothing in the way of tits and neither the guile to consider padding my bra nor the experience to know that the man who looks beyond the superficial is the man worth having.
So you can understand why I was confused by the fact that I would sometimes look up when one of the other students was reading from their latest essay and catch Mitchell looking at me with an expression so hungry it made me blush. I mentioned it to Lucy once, but she just told me I was imagining things. As far as she was concerned, the man had eyes for no one but her.
All of which meant I was completely unprepared for the afternoon he asked me to stay behind after a tutorial session. I honestly thought he wanted nothing more than to discuss the content of the last essay I’d submitted – which he did, but only as a starting point for something I had never imagined might ever happen to me. We had been asked to place various literary characters in modern contexts, to examine how they would react today if faced with the trials which confronted them within the novel and, from there, to discover how much of their behaviour was shaped by the conventions and expectations of their time. I can’t remember exactly which book I had been asked to comment on, though in truth every last aspect of what led up to that unbelievable afternoon should be burned into my memory, but I do know that I had made the statement within my essay that the woman in question ‘deserved a bloody good spanking’. I noticed immediately that Dr Summers had vigorously circled that point in red ink, and I felt my heart sink. He was not averse to ridiculing a student who he felt had made a particularly naïve or crass comment, and I was sure I was in for a thorough tongue-lashing.
‘So she deserves a spanking, eh, Mia?’ Dr Summers said, the hint of a grin causing his lips to curve upwards. ‘And what makes you say that?’
‘Well, she’s petulant, she’s spoiled – she’s just a brat. I don’t think she’s ever had anyone say no to her, and I think she just needs something to happen which will make her realise there are people other than her in the world.’ It was a longer speech than any I’d ever made in a tutorial, but I couldn’t stop the words tumbling out of my mouth.
‘It’s an interesting theory, Mia, but has it ever occurred to you that there are some women for whom a spanking might not have that effect — indeed, that by their bratty behaviour, as you put it, they are actively seeking to have their backside tanned because it gives them pleasure?’
His words completely baffled me. There was I, a girl who had never gone any further than a few sloppy kisses during a slow dance at the end of a party, being asked to contemplate a world of sexual behaviour which was completely alien to me. Surely it would hurt? Surely no one could get any kind of pleasure from the humiliation of being hauled over a man’s knee and spanked till they squealed?
But that was nothing compared to what came next. ‘Have you ever actually been spanked, Mia?’
I shook my head. I couldn’t even remember receiving the sort of sharp smack many parents dish out when a small child runs into a busy road, or tries to pull a pan of boiling water off the stove. So why I had such a strong conviction that this would solve the problems caused by a wilful woman, I had no idea. It just seemed to make sense.
‘Perhaps it’s time you had that experience. There’s an obvious gap in your education which needs to be filled.’ His voice was low and strangely seductive. That was the point at which I should have left his study and gone to report him for sexual harassment. With a few well-chosen words I could have ended his career at the university, and perhaps even in the teaching profession as a whole. But as I said, I was young and I trusted him – until then, I had no reason not to. And since a confession demands utter honesty, I have to admit that if I had my time over again, knowing as I do now how he was calculatedly exploiting my innocence, I would not change a thing about what I did that afternoon.
‘What do I do?’ I asked.
‘I want you to bend over the desk, and leave the rest to me,’ was his reply.
So I did as he requested. I bent over the edge of his big wooden desk. If I had been at all alert, I would have noticed how a space had been deliberately cleared away the piles of books and papers which usually littered it, but I was sleepwalking into the situation which had been prepared for me.
It seemed suddenly very quiet in the small room. The English department was based on the seventh floor of the arts building, insulated from the world outside by thick double glazing. All I could hear was the clock ticking on the bookshelf by the desk, and the pounding of my own heart.
Dr Summers came to stand beside me. He didn’t say a word, just quietly went about the business of getting me ready for my spanking.
He lifted up the hem of my skirt – in those days, everyone dressed in the grungy style which was fashionable, and my wardrobe consisted mostly of cotton sundresses worn over teeshirts, and tights which were more like an elaborate pattern of holes – and then he did something which caused me to suck in my breath. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled down my tights and my skimpy white panties, until they were lodged in the groove just underneath the cheeks of my bottom.
I had not expected this, and I tried not to think of the vision I was presenting to Dr Summers as he stood silently observing me.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, and I felt his hands run over my bum, gently stroking. When that stroking movement finally altered, it took a little while to register that he had actually slapped me. This wasn’t the punishment I had been expecting, designed to shock and smart. This was something altogether more subtle. Yes, it hurt a little, but it was a good hurt – an exciting hurt. As he continued to spank me, I began to feel breathless and slightly exhilarated. He was building up a rhythm, alternating from cheek to cheek and steadily increasing the force of each slap, but alongside the tingling in my flesh, I was starting to feel a deeper, darker sensation. I was getting turned on.
‘So tell me, Mia,’ Dr Summers said, as his hand snaked down between my legs to touch me where no man’s hand ever had, ‘do you still think a spanking like that would teach a woman how to behave? Would she feel it was a punishment, or would she find it pleasurable?’
As he spoke, his fingers were dabbling in the wetness which had started to well up at the entrance to my pussy. I was confused; I couldn’t deny that it was pleasurable, but I didn’t want to admit it to Dr Summers, since that would turn everything I had believed when I walked into his study on its head.
‘I– I–‘ My words were coming out as little more than shallow pants. Dr Summers had unerringly found the little bud of flesh that held the key to my arousal, and was stroking it with the lightest of touches. I couldn’t stop myself from thrusting my pelvis backwards, not knowing whether I was encouraging him to spank me or play with me. I was rewarded with a few harder slaps as he switched quickly between each cheek, and then, just as I was starting to that, actually, this was punishment after all, his finger slipped back on to my clit and began to rub with precise circular movements. This was too much for me: my knees buckled and I clutched the edge of the desk. As Dr Summers continued to frig me, the tension which had been building in me since he first told me to bend over and take my punishment finally broke. I gave a small cry and surrendered to my orgasm.
When I finally regained something approaching my composure, Dr Summers told me to pull up my underwear and handed me my essay. My one-to-one session was over.
That set the pattern for our private tutorials. They always followed the same routine: Mitchell would find some pretext to keep me behind after the other students had left, and then he would raise my skirt, pull down my panties, spank me, then bring me to orgasm. In all that time, he was never less than fully dressed. Indeed, he never so much as unzipped his fly. Though I remember the feel of his solid cock pressing against me through the thick fabric of his trousers, I never saw it; never even touched it. He never asked me to play with it, or to suck it, even though he was happy to lick me from clit to arsehole till I came my brains out. He put his fingers inside me, even masturbated me with the wooden handle of a hairbrush which he had just used to redden my bum cheeks, but nothing more. At the time, I never questioned this, never wondered why he did not go further. I realise now that he obviously thought as long as he never fucked me, he wasn’t actually being unfaithful to his wife. Never mind that we were carrying on in a kinky enough fashion to send most women screaming to the divorce courts if they’d found out about it. No, in Mitchell’s mind he was not committing adultery if he didn’t penetrate me, and that enabled him to rationalise his behaviour.
And so it went on, for the next five months or so until the start of the summer, when I went back to my home town to spend my vacation working behind the counter in a sandwich bar and Mitchell took up the offer of a teaching post in some obscure little university in one of the southern United States. He left me with A grades for my end of year exams, and memories of his hand working its slow, seductive way over my bared backside and his tongue playing wicked tricks with my clit, which would surface when I lay in bed alone at night, playing with my pussy. Though I tried my hardest, I never quite found anyone else like him. Until Josh Carpenter came along.
I wouldn’t even have considered Josh as a lover – he was ten years younger than me, and working as a waiter in the pizza parlour across the road from my office to help him pay his way through university – but I was trying to break my pattern of sleeping with – and seeking punishment from – older men. My relationship with Mitchell had had such a profound effect on me that I had fallen into the classic trap of trying to recreate that first experience with every other man I dated. It was a mistake, of course: half of them treated as me as though I was a complete freak the first time I asked them to spank me; the others made one or two half-hearted attempts, but I could always tell they weren’t really into it, and if there’s one thing guaranteed to kill a scene, it’s the feeling the other person is just humouring you. So when Josh scribbled his phone number on the bottom of the bill and asked me to call him after he’d served a couple of colleagues and me one lunchtime, I decided to take him up on his offer. He was cute, he was intelligent – and he definitely wasn’t Mitchell. Or so I thought.
All I learned about his family background on the first couple of dates was that his parents had split up when he was a kid, and his mother had later remarried. So the first time he took me back to his place, I was doing the usual nosy thing of examining the photographs on his bookshelves, and stopped abruptly as I picked up one of the frames. I knew exactly where I’d seen that gap-toothed little boy before – and I couldn’t fail to recognise the man who was with him.
‘So how do you know Mitchell Summers?’ I asked casually.
Josh’s answer threw me completely. ‘He’s my father. My real father. That was taken the summer before he went to work in the States.’ He took the photo from me and looked at it, brow creased in thought. ‘That was what split my parents up. I was nine, and my mum thought I was too young for all the upheaval of moving. So my dad went over there on his own, with the idea that we would follow him in time, and six months later he told my mum he was leaving her for one of his students.’
So some things never changed. I wondered if that girl was someone else he’d introduced to the joys of a reddened arse. ‘He used to teach me, you know,’ was all I said. ‘Small world, isn’t it?’ And then I went up behind Josh, put my arms round him and started nibbling his ear till he put down the frame and pulled me on to the sofa with him, thoughts of his long-absent father forgotten.
Within a couple of weeks, Josh had left that flat and moved in with me. Things moved faster between us than was usual in my relationships, but it hadn’t taken me long to reach the conclusion that, despite the difference in our ages, Josh was the one. Not only could I hardly keep my hands off his body, I genuinely loved spending time with him. He made me laugh, and we struck sparks off each other intellectually. The only area where things could have improved was in bed.
Once the initial excitement of experimenting and getting to know each other’s body had settled down to steadier, less intense sex, I began to realise that Josh was inherently vanilla in his tastes. He was happy to go down on me for hours, and he adored having his cock sucked, but apart from that, he was as straight and unadventurous as I had been before Mitchell had introduced me to his unique brand of adult education. I loved feeling his long, thick cock slide into me as his fit young body rose and fell above mine, but I still counted it as a moral victory the night I got up on my hands and knees and persuaded him that I would feel him even more deeply – and he would get the benefit of my increased pleasure – if he entered me from behind.
Of course, the one thing I really wanted was to have my gorgeous stud dominate me and order me to do whatever would please him most, but he didn’t appear to have a shred of desire to instigate kinky games, and I didn’t want to frighten him away as I had done to so many other men who were afraid to discover what really made me tick.
So I would lie there as Josh fucked me with my hands above my head, crossed at the wrists, and imagine that he had tied me in place. And I would have gone on like this for ever, having sex that wasn’t quite what I wanted but getting everything else I needed from Josh, until the night I was fantasising that I was having my bottom spanked with one of my own bedroom slippers, and realised that the face of the man who was wielding it in my mind’s eye belonged to Mitchell Summers.
That was when I decided I had to tell Josh about my true sexual nature, and the part his father had played in shaping it. I put it off for as long as I could, but one night, when we were lying in bed, horny and slightly giggly after a night out during which we had sunk a bottle of champagne to celebrate Josh passing his end of year exams, I took a deep breath and dived in.
I confessed everything to him just as I’ve confessed it here, reliving every deliciously naughty moment of those illicit encounters. Josh listened in silence, and I could only imagine how he was reacting to the tale of how his father had used me – and no doubt many girls before and after me – and how, instead of being demeaned by his treatment of me, I had grown and blossomed under his expert guidance. I wasn’t ashamed of what I had done, I told Josh, although I knew he would probably expect me to be, because I didn’t believe that what we had done had caused the breakdown of his parents’ marriage. However, I did think Mitchell had used our sessions to find something which was lacking in his sex life at home, and I knew that a kinky nature could never be fully suppressed. I hadn’t loved his father the way I loved Josh – if anything, I had simply been in thrall to the man’s dominant personality – and I really, truly wanted our relationship to work. Indeed, I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, but he had to appreciate that from time to time, if I was to be a contented and fulfilled woman, I needed to have my backside warmed.
When I finally came to the end of my story, I looked at Josh, not knowing whether he had understood what I had been trying to tell him, and fully expecting him to say that it was over between us. Instead, he caught hold of my hand and placed it on his cock, which seemed bigger and harder than I had ever known it.
‘Look what you’ve done to me, you bad girl,’ he said, with an authority in his voice I had never dreamed he could possess. ‘There’s only one thing I can do to someone who’s behaved the way you have.’ He hauled me over his lap as he sat up in the bed. ‘Mia, I’m going to have to punish you…’