I suppose I was something of a cad back in college, but I didn’t see it that way then. I thought I was just making up for the lost time of high school and then my freshman year. At the very end of that first semester in 1974, circumstances started to break in my favor. I wasn’t involved in casual sex or one-night stands, but I had several overlapping girlfriends for a while. Two of them even offered several threesome sessions to me, and I happily obliged.
In my mind, with pornography openly playing in Manhattan theaters and people paying for orgies at sex clubs like Plato’s Retreat, I imagined I was just following the standards of the times -- and at a relatively restrained level. I convinced myself I loved these women, sometimes simultaneously. I shouldn’t have been surprised when a year or less passed and I was dumped by them for other, usually older, guys.
At the beginning of my senior year in 1976 I was at a party and there, I met a Fordham University student named Donna Azzato. For a few months, I promised myself I’d be faithful to her and not attempt to date the women at my own school, which was the City College of New York.
The motto of my school was, Respice, Adspice, Prospice, which translated roughly as, “Look back, look at the present, look forward.” I started to look ahead to a possible post-graduation, adult relationship with Donna. Still callow, I hadn’t exactly defined what that would be, but it was the first time I had thought that far into the future.
However, it wasn’t my fellow students on Hamilton Heights who led me astray; it was one of the professors. At the time I used the excuse that she was the one who had initiated our trysts.
********
Professor Marilyn Janssen taught my French History: 1789-1940 class. At that time she was thirty-eight and had just received tenure. I enjoyed her class, and I had developed a bit of a crush on her. She had gotten her B.A. at Brown, and her master’s and doctorate at the University of Pennsylvania.
She was a fairly tall woman with dark-blonde hair that came down to her shoulders. Sometimes she tied it back in a bun; she always wore squared-off dark-rimmed glasses. Professors, except for the very youngest, usually dressed-up for classes more than they perhaps do now, and she was no exception. I looked forward to seeing her at each class and I took note of what she was wearing.
She was also one of the sharpest and most engaging teachers I had known at the school, and her intellect impressed me. If anything that made her even more attractive to me. After class I often felt a bit guilty that I had completely forgotten about Donna; I had to mentally shake myself as a reminder of my commitment.
I had gotten good grades at City, but my work habits ranged from mediocre to terrible. I tended to write papers in the last three days or so before they were due. In that era before word processors, I had to use a Smith-Corona electric typewriter. Usually, I had time to do one draft, and thus the next one had to be the one I turned in.
For this course, I had decided on an analysis of why the French had lost the Franco-Prussian War, with an emphasis on the final climactic battle at Sedan; Professor Janssen had approved my topic weeks earlier. Then in the next to last week of December, I got bogged down in my efforts. It seemed I only could write about the weapons and tactics used, and the deeper reasons for the defeat eluded me.
I felt that I should be doing a better job for a professor who as good as she was. Beyond that, I was ambitious; for me, a grade below an A was a “gentleman’s B." Yet, I couldn't finish my work in time for the last class. At the end of the session, I was at the front of the room trying to explain myself and not doing very well at that.
She was sitting behind the desk and she interrupted me, “I know what you want; you're going to ask for an incomplete, aren’t you?”
I had only asked for that in one other class, two years earlier, and it had been granted to me. “I can have it ready in three more days, I think.”
“You think? All right, see me in my office tomorrow at three. We’ll discuss it then.”
**********
On the blustery and overcast afternoon of the following day, I walked up the steps of Wagner Hall, the vintage building that contained several of the liberal arts departments. I was aware of the history of the place. Back in the 1930s, before the city had purchased the South Campus, it had been a dormitory for a Catholic women’s institution called Manhattanville College. I wondered if alumnus Ethel Kennedy, née Skakel, had roomed in there once. I bet she had never asked for an incomplete; she didn’t seem like the type who would.
The building was quiet when I knocked on the door of Professor Janssen's second-floor office.
“Yes?”
“It’s Paul, from your French history class.”
“It’s not locked; come on in.”
She was sitting at her desk. As usual, she was well-dressed; she had a dark jacket, a white blouse, a tight gray skirt, and dark stockings. She spoke before I could get a word in, “Don’t take off your coat, and don’t sit down yet. Also, lock the door.”
Shit, she's going to turn me down on the spot. I had made a trip down there just for this. The request about the door being locked didn’t register as important to me.
Then she said, “Frankly, you’ve got some fucking nerve asking me for an incomplete.”
I was shocked; I had never heard her curse before. Professors rarely did; in fact, people, in general, were much less apt to do so compared to now. I decided not to respond immediately.
She went on, “I approved your assignment eight weeks ago. Would you mind telling me what happened?”
Like with cops, professors gave you one chance to make your case. “Yes, ma’am, but I've been doing a lot of things, like with the newspaper I’m on.” I never called professors sir or ma’am, but some instinct told me to do it now.
“Yes, that rag; I’ve seen it.” So, I guessed she wasn’t a fan. “One of the things you've been doing is taking this course. Incompletes are a privilege, not a right. I’d be well within the protocol to just fail you.”
I wasn’t sure if that was accurate, but I was anxious anyway. “As I said, I can have it in about three days.”
“About three days? And why should I do that for you if all the other students have done their work on time?” Why couldn’t at least one other of those grade-grubbing snots have asked for an incomplete too?
“Please don’t fail me; I’ve never failed a course before.” I knew I was sniveling, and I hated myself for it.
“There’s always a first time for everything. I’ll have to give this some thought.”
She looked away and as she crossed her legs her skirt rode up well over her knees. I could hear the rub of nylon against nylon and I tried not to get rattled by that – but I did anyway.
I had the suspicion then – and I was sure of it later – that she had actually made up her mind earlier. In fact, the whole scene that followed was surely planned well ahead of my arrival. “Now Paul, I will consider giving you an incomplete, but first I will punish you quite severely for your – frankly, your inconsiderate attitude, just blowing off the course and expecting me to bail you out. If you can take that discipline to my satisfaction, I may grant you more time to finish your paper.”
“Thank you, professor.” I had no idea of what she was talking about. The only thing that came to mind was that she would limit my final grade to a B. Better that, than failing.
“Don’t thank me until you find out what my conditions are.” She opened a desk drawer and took out a magazine. She held it up and said, “Have you ever seen this?”
Indeed I had. It was National Lampoon's “Back to College” issue from the previous year. The most notable thing about it was the cover drawing, in full color, of a male professor using a slide rule to spank the bare buttocks of a female student. She was over his knees, her skirt was up, her blue and white panties were down, and she held a term paper with a big red F on it.
I saw no point in lying, “Yes, I’ve seen it.”
“Well, this is like what your punishment will be too. Just like this poor coed, I’m going to take you over my knees and beat your bare backside.”
She has to be kidding; but why would she joke at a time like this? Then some truth struck me, or at least part of one. This wasn't a joke, but neither was it a straightforward discussion about my grade. It was a pretext for something else; she had another agenda. I decided to play it straight and hear her out.
“When you are over my lap, the first thing I’m going to do is hand-spank you. Then, since I don’t have a slide rule . . . ” Of course not; you're not an engineer. “I’m going to use this instead.” She picked up a ruler from her desk. “Now this, this is eighteen inches of hardwood.” I noticed that it said New York Board of Education of the obverse side. She began stroking it, one hand sliding up and down the length of it. For the first time, she smiled at me.
“I’m going to whack your behind with this, really good and hard; maybe that will get your wandering attention. As I said, just like this girl on the cover, you're underpants will be down around your knees. Have you ever been spanked before, even by hand?”
I decided to lie about that, “No ma’am, I haven’t." Actually, I had been in spanking games with various girls, both as a top and a bottom.
“Then you’re in for quite an experience. I bet your ass is twitching at just the thought of it.”
She was right about that. I could guess more of her intentions now. She wanted to explore her own fantasies of being a dominatrix, and she had chosen me to be her subject. I wondered if she had ever pulled that stunt on students before, but I figured she hadn’t. Surely the word would have spread around campus if she had. Maybe she’d insist on my secrecy as part of the deal for my incomplete.
“All right, come over here, take off your coat; then drop your pants but not your underwear. If you don’t want to do it, you can get out of here right now.”
I briefly looked out the window at the tops of the bare trees of St. Nicholas Park and the blocks of old buildings down the hill. I bet those people down there in Harlem couldn’t imagine the weirdness that goes on up here in academia.
I did as she asked with my clothes and then she beckoned me to get over her lap. When I was in position, she put a hand in the waistband of my underpants and yanked them down. I noticed the feeling of air around my uncovered body, and I was aware that this woman was gazing at me. I liked both sensations. I think she knew that too.
“Now keep your feet on the floor and lift up your behind, present it for your punishment.” I had the impression now that she had mentally rehearsed most of this scene long before I arrived, perhaps even the day before. "So you want an incomplete? The nerve of you, waltzing in here and presuming I’m going to save your sorry ass.”
“It’s not like that, ma’am.”
“Shut up. You’re going to have to earn your damn incomplete. And that’s if I’m in the mood for it.”
She had the dominatrix’s knack for being stern. I wondered if she had picked up that talent instinctually or if she had seen some pornography about domination. I myself had seen photos showing female “bosses” punishing their male employees. One of my kinkier ex-girlfriends had that magazine. I remember that we had speculated that the office in the photoshoot was the real one for the publication.
Professor Janssen then patted and rubbed each of my ass cheeks in turn. I noted that her touch seemed affectionate. “There’s not a lot of padding on this skinny ass of yours. Well, too bad for you, I’m afraid. However, I’ll warm you up with a bit of hand spanking first.”
Instead of starting immediately, she continued to rub my behind. I enjoyed the feel of her smooth hand sliding on my skin. She was into it too because she said, “I like the feel of a young man's taut backside.” I suspected that much of this scene was going to be a tour of Marilyn Janssen's sexual interests.
After a few moments of this delightful stroking, he put her left hand on my back and began spanking with her right one. I found this kind of thing to be pleasure mixed in with the pain. She really got into it, whacking me harder and faster as the spanking progressed. After some of that, she stopped and rubbed me again. “Yes, you’re definitely warmed-up now; I can feel it in your skin.” Then she said, “Raise yourself up a bit, I want to see underneath. I knew I could feel it; you’ve got an erection, you dirty boy.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve had it for a while.”
“Be quiet; I know that the buttocks are an erogenous zone and that a man can get a hard-on from a spanking." That was certainly true from my own experience; it was notable that she was aware of that too. I fantasized about getting up and then she would put her mouth around my cock. Nice lipstick she’s got on today.
Of course, that didn’t happen. She said, “You're getting the ruler now; stick that ass out. Higher. Maybe a good paddling will make you rethink that erection of yours.” She pushed down on my back and then she slid my shirt up so that it was out of the way.
“I want you to count out the strokes, as in, ‘One, thank you ma’am.’ Got it?”
I almost said, sure, that’s such a standard procedure it’s almost a cliché. Instead, I simply replied, “Yes professor, I understand.”
“Ready?”
Before I could answer she had swung back and then brought the ruler down on me. Being hit with a ruler was different from the spanking which had come before it. The wood seemed to have a real bite as it caught me on the ass. It probably wasn’t the hardest blow she was capable of, but she certainly got my attention
I gasped and said, “Ow, one; thank you ma’am.”
She gave me six before pausing. I could hear her breathing heavily. I suspected it wasn’t just exertion; she must have been excited by this.
“So, what have you been doing to waste your time this semester? Running around with those little coed sluts on that demented newspaper?”
I wanted to defend my female colleagues, “They’re not sluts.”
“Really? I think you’re fooling yourself. Girls nowadays drop their panties way too easily.” I wondered if she herself had been particularly chaste up in Rhode Island twenty years earlier. Before I could spend any more time pondering this, she gave me my next four whacks.
“I see you're up on tiptoes, always a good sign in these things. But let’s face it, if you could see your backside now, you’d be surprised by the change.” I glanced over my shoulder and I saw that she was assessing the condition of my ass.
She said, “I know this is going deeper; the ruler is bruising you, but hey, that’s the point of it.” I heard her laugh; then she said, “How about more to sweeten the deal?”
“No, ma’am, I think . . .”
I got three more, “Okay, good luck, a baker’s dozen.” She poked a sore place on my bottom, which definitely hurt.
“Please, ma'am, don't do that.”
She went into a baby-talk voice, “What’s the matter, does the little boy have a sore bottom? Should I kiss it and make it all better?” I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Yeah, lady, kiss my cock too and it will be all better.
Marilyn expressed her own thoughts, “I know young men masturbate constantly.”
I felt a need to defend myself as something beyond a mere wanker, “I’ve had girlfriends here.”
“Yes, but you can’t fuck them as much as you would like.” They had seemed pretty pliable and eager to me. “You jerked off imagining your stiff cock in their sweet mouths and tight pussies.”
I should have been aware of judging by appearances, but this classy lady I had known for five months certainly had an explicitly lascivious mind. What was that Oscar Wilde quote? Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. The ruler certainly had an effect below the surface of my behind.
She said, “You have these interesting circles on you now; I’d say they’re in the purple spectrum surrounded by red patches.” Then she said abruptly changed her tone, “But really, boys in boarding schools endured worse punishment than this.” Yes, the English vice. That spanking magazine I had seen had been published in Manchester.
She wound up giving me thirty-five whacks; why that number, I couldn’t fathom. Once she caught me on the back of the thighs which almost made me jump up. She pushed me back and said, “Stay down, or you’ll regret it.”
Then she said, “One more, and the last one is always the hardest." She swung up high and brought her stick down on my butt. Without thinking I said, "Jesus, ma’am, that’s too much.”
“Okay, that doesn’t count. Here comes number thirty-six again.”
I tensed myself for it and it felt like the wood was going right through my ass. I clenched and groaned, “Ah, thirty-six," although it was actually thirty-seven. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She was breathing more heavily now. “Alright, you took that to my satisfaction. Go ahead, stand up, you may rub yourself.” I didn’t need any further encouragement. I got up and grabbed my own ass as if it might fall off, which was in fact how it felt. She was a bit merciful, perhaps; she gave me a bit of time to soothe myself. Then she said, “Now stand in the corner next to the window and put your hands on your head.” I only had to move a few feet to get there.
She got up and stood behind me. “I can see I thoroughly scorched your ass. A proper thrashing, I'd say.” A proper thrashing; that seemed like a phrase from that British spanking porn.
“Listen, my fine young scholar, you ask for an incomplete again and the colors on your rear are going to be black and blue.” She giggled, "Actually, you already are halfway there, I’d say. Anyway, I’ll beat you until my arm gets tired, like maybe double what you just got. Or maybe, I’ll use a cane on your hot little ass.”
She has a cane too around here? I tried to compare her present attitude with the refined woman I had known all semester. I tried for a joke, “Well, professor, maybe it would be best if I didn’t take any more of your courses.” I heard her chuckle at that.
“I noticed you didn’t hesitate to take a beating for your grade. You probably even enjoyed it. But then, men are always perverse.”
I thought, as opposed to you? I dared say, “Maybe you enjoyed it too?”
She didn’t answer; she moved between me and the window. She was close enough to touch; I looked over at her.
"What are you looking at?”
“I’m looking at you, professor.”
She pushed her glasses back on her head. I figured that she did that so I could look into her eyes. And her eyes looked wild. I couldn’t completely interpret her expression. She was obviously jangled but more than a bit excited. There was sexual arousal; that was obvious, but there was something else there too. She still held the ruler but she may not have been aware of gripping it. Her arm twitched a bit. I was now sure she had liked punishing me for its own sake.
Then she said, “So, what do you see? Do you think I’m attractive?”
I assumed she wanted me to keep looking, and I was curious about what she was going to reveal next. I said, “Yes, I do think you’re attractive, very much so.” No ma’am or professor now.
She flashed a look of anger at me. She put her glasses back into place, “You little shit, you think you can just breeze in here and fuck me?”
“I never said that.” It seemed she had given away what she expected to happen next.
She replied, “No, but I said it, and I know you’ve been thinking about it; it’s been going on all semester in fact. I’m sure you’ve masturbated about more than your fellow students; you’ve imagined me too.” Actually, I hadn’t – although I was sure I would after this. Let her rant; she needs to express more of her fantasies.
