He doesn’t have any appointments this afternoon, so I’m in his office, trying to tackle the massive amounts of work I have to do this week. Part of the attraction is that, as a medieval history professor, he has several of the books I need for my essay. The other part, of course, is that little thrill from the secrecy, that to everyone else, I’m a student and he’s my former professor with whom I have a close but normal relationship, like maybe one day he’ll write me several recommendation letters for grad school, when in reality I’m his pet. There are very few people I would allow to use that terminology with me—pet, owner, belong to—but when I met Peter and subsequently his wife Jane, I knew that it fit. He told me once, after we were out in the open with our desires, that he could tell I was just asking for it in class.

“You were too advanced for the class, and you knew it. You’d sit in the back and stare out the window when you got bored, and you always doodled those irreverent comics about the Merovingians and distract Ellie with them. And then sometimes when you were in a bad mood you’d give me the glare of disdain. You were a terror.”

​

“Yeah,” I said. “I did kind of try to provoke you. I wanted you to want to knock the cockiness out of me.”

“Knock the cockiness out of you?” he asked like he was up to something. “Like this?” And then he hauled me over his knee and spanked me until I was caught between laughter and whimpers, and that was the end of that conversation.

​

So now I’m sitting across from him, balancing books on my lap and my laptop on his desk. I’m in a desperate mood and he’s not pleased with me. I think I’m stressing him out with my furious page-turning and concept-mapping and also possibly the fact that he’s been trying to get my attention for about three minutes now.

​

“Jules,” he says nicely. “Why don’t you make us some tea?” I can see that he’s trying to diffuse the tension I tend to feel when there are deadlines looming. It’s not working.

“Hold on,” I say. “I’m in the middle of this.” And even though my tone is urgent rather than disrespectful, he takes my inflection for annoyance. He’s suddenly steely.

​

“Julia, stand up. Now.” I glance up, and he’s fixed me with that “you’ve crossed the line” look. Knowing it’s the safest thing to do right now, I obey and suddenly we’ve gone from intimate friends to an authority about to discipline a miscreant. “Is that how you talk to your owner?” he asks, knowing full well that there is only one possible answer to that question.

​

“No, sir,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I will myself to sound contrite and submissive, although I’m in work mode still, furiously so, and all I want to do is snap at him and return to my papers. Peter gives me a measuring look, like he’s not sure what he’s going to do about it. It’s not late enough in the evening that he can do anything really terrible to me without the fear of being heard. I know for a fact that he has a little wooden ruler in his desk that he has sometimes employed on my palms when I’ve been snippy with him, a quick in-the-moment reminder to behave, but that’s usually after hours, when many of the building’s occupants are likely to have gone home already.  

​

“I want you to stand in the corner for five minutes,” he says at last. He’s aware that I’m a little bit horrified at tame punishments like these because they evoke a parent/child relationship, but he rather enjoys my embarrassment and in the end, I always admit to liking, to some extent, being deliberately embarrassed.

Standing in the corner of his office (which I know moderately well by now) is doubly hard today, since I’m already a little riled up and the thought of taking a break is somewhat panic-inducing. It doesn’t take thirty seconds for me to start shifting my weight from leg to leg, and he hasn’t told me to do anything with my hands, so they are jittery. I’m wringing them, almost. I hear Peter sigh behind me. In some ways, I wish he’d just send me home, although I know I’d miss spending the time with him. “Jules…”he says, in a warning tone.

​

“I’m sorry!” I say, still facing the bookcases in the corner of his office. “This essay is due in two days!”

“I know,” he says (I know he knows because I’ve been telling him all day and he knows I know that he thinks I’m overwrought about this). I imagine that he’s rolling his eyes at me; he doesn’t put up with my huffiness, but he doesn’t take it seriously, either. “You only have three and a half minutes left. Stand still.”

I try, but I’m not in the right space today. Peter is getting annoyed by the time he calls me back over to his desk. I swear I’m not trying to be difficult when I purse my lips and cross my arms; I must be in dire need of some discipline, or at least that’s what Peter thinks because he raises his eyebrows at me and asks, somewhat seriously, “Maybe you need to write this essay on a spanked bottom?” which he knows never fails to make me squirm in absolute embarrassment. I know he knows that the second he said those words, I have looked down at the floor and bitten my lip, and I know that he loves that he can do it to me.

​

“Maybe I do,” I say in a small voice.

​

“Maybe what?” he asks.

​

“Maybe…I need you to spank me.” I pause, and then say it all in a rush.

​

“I’m glad we agree. Since you seem to want it, why don’t you ask me for it?”

​

“Please, Peter. Will you take me home with you and spank me before I write my essay?”

​

He has a self-satisfied look on his face. “Yes, I will. Pack up your things.”

​

We don’t ever leave campus together, just in case. He picks me up in front of the public library a few blocks away. It’s a little suspect, but mostly just looks like a friend picking me up for a lift home. When we ride in the car together, Peter likes me to spread my legs in the seat next to him. If I am wearing jeans that day, sometimes he even instructs me to pull them down to my thighs while we drive the twenty minutes to the house where he lives with his wife. Once in a while, if we’re alone at a stoplight, he’ll reach over. Sometimes I make a token protest, but I’ve been chastised into obedience already today, so I am silent as he slips his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and finds my clit. As the light is about to turn green, he slips his hand out and gives me a sharp little smack on my pussy. I yelp and am tempted to purse my lips at him, but I stop myself.

​

Jane is home already when we arrive. She greets us at the door, and Peter kisses her on the way in and gestures towards me. “I’ve brought home a naughty little girl who is desperately in need of a spanking,” he announces, and she smiles indulgently and kisses me, too. Peter sends me to the corner immediately. Peter and Jane chat about their day while I am isolated in the corner. As Peter informs Jane of my behavior (“outrageous attitude”, he says), I desperately want to tell her my side of the story in the hopes that she won’t look at me in disapproval. If I hate it when Peter is disapproving, I am devastated when Jane thinks I’ve been bad.

​

Jane goes back to making dinner, and Peter leaves the room. I can tell by their respective footsteps what they are doing, and my heart jumps a little when Peter reenters the room. I hear the drag of the armless chair as Peter takes it from its customary place by the wall and places it in the center of the room. “Come here, Jules,” he says, and when I turn and approach him, I see he has the hairbrush in his right hand. “Pull down your jeans,” he says, and I throw him a grouchy look as I comply. He pretends not to notice. I fumble with my jeans and pull them down to my knees; I twist my legs, trying to figure out how to feel less exposed.

​

“So,” he begins, not altogether sternly. “Why am I going to spank you?”

​

“Because…I was rude to you earlier?” I ask.

​

“Well, you certainly weren’t very respectful,” he says. “And I am going to punish you for that. Get over my knee.”  

​

He spanks me with his hand first, and it stings from the very start, even over my panties. I’ve never been stoic when it comes to being spanked, and with every spank from his large hand, I wiggle. He holds me in place and lectures. “Young lady, the kind of attitude I heard from you is never acceptable, and you know for a fact it will always earn you a trip over my knee for a hot bottom. Isn’t that right?” He hasn’t stopped spanking for a second; it just keeps coming. “Isn’t that right?” he prompts again. “You know the tone you took with me will always get you a spanked bottom.”

​

“Yes, sir, I know!” I wail. Peter pauses to rub my bottom for a minute. He’s only been spanking me for a minute or so, and my bottom is already burning.

​

“Tell me what happens to naughty little girls who have an attitude with their owners.”

​

I struggle to get the words out. “They—they get their bottoms spanked.”

​

“And do they get to keep their panties on?” he asks.

​

“No…they get spanked on their bare bottoms,” I say.

​

“Well, we should probably take your panties down so you can have a proper spanking, shouldn’t we?”

​

“Yes,” I mumbled, burying my face into my hands. Peter does always go out of his way to offer some embarrassment along with a spanking. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulls them down.

​

He starts to spank me with his hand again, and within seconds, I fling my hand back. Peter catches it with practiced ease and interlaces his fingers with mine. “You can hold onto the chair, or you can hold onto me, but do not fight me on this,” he warns. “You do not get to decide how hard or how long you get spanked, Jules. I’ll let you know when I think you’ve had enough.”

​

He stops just long enough to pick up the hairbrush. He taps my bottom with it just a few times, enough to make me anticipate how much it will hurt, and then he starts to spank with measured smacks. He only spanks me twenty-five times or so, but it is enough. If I had any dignity left, it’s gone as I kick my legs and squirm and whimper over my owner’s knee.  As soon as he is done, he lets go of my hand and rubs my back as I regain my composure.  

​

“Are we done with the attitude?” he asks gently as my deep shuddering breaths subside.

​

“Yes, sir,” I affirm, knowing without a doubt that it’s the truth. He helps me up, and Jane pops her head into the room to coo over my red bottom. I flush with embarrassment yet again, but I am glad she isn’t angry with me. Peter settles me in his office with my laptop (and, to my chagrin, my jeans and panties still around my knees) to write my paper until dinner.

​

As I write my paper, with the hum of Peter and Jane murmuring to each other in the background and a sting in my bottom to remind me to be good, I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve the kind of comfort I have now.