by LSF Publications
by Tom Hobbes
"The dean will see you now, Ian."
The secretary gave the graduate student a penetrating, sly smile. He had been kept waiting for nearly an hour. She looked up at the clock and noted it was already ten minutes past quitting time. That explained why the phone and the office chatter had died away. As Ian Baxter rose and the door to the dean's office opened the secretary looked up.
"I'll be leaving in about one minute if there is nothing else, Dean."
"No. There is nothing else. Have a good evening!" she replied as she stood in the half open door to her office. Then she stepped back to admit Ian and closed the large oak door.
The dean had worked her way up to a prestigious, full time academic administrative position but she had continued to teach one class each term. It was a graduate reading seminar in literary criticism for second and third year graduate students. She enjoyed the students, generally, and it helped to keep her mind agile despite the endless hours in board and committee meetings. Ian was one of her very own grad students, and a special case, at that. He was considerably older than most of his peers. She took on very few students these days but once in a while she would accept a beginning graduate student as her research assistant and mentor the student through the conclusion of a master's program or into the beginning of a doctoral program. Long ago she had given up on chairing doctoral committees since the students seemed to think ten years to complete the degree was about normal. She suffered neither fools nor slackers easily and found in the current crop of students an abundance of both.
"Well, Ian, I don't really have to ask how things are going since I have seen the midterm grades and spoken with several of your professors. I suppose you might have some mitigating circumstance for your rather, shall we say, miserable performance the first half of the term?"
"Not really," Ian replied. Then came the barely perceptible shrug and the uncertain look as he met his mentor's eyes. Both had practiced this dance before and by now had become rather good partners.
"Not really? This level of performance will have you looking for a job flipping burgers in about six more months. We both know you have a lot more ability than shown by this dismal performance. And you have professed your interest in a career in teaching. Correct?"
"Yes, ma'am," Ian mumbled rather feebly. He sought a witty, sharp comeback but found none in his rather torpid brain. He knew this comeuppance was inevitable but, as usual, had made no preparation for it. He would just take his tongue lashing, promise to improve, then slide out and keep on keeping on. Then again, there was always the possibility the penalty would be move severe. That, too, struck an ambivalent sense within.
"'Yes, ma'am?' That's all you have to say?" the dean replied with an amused smile. She had just told this sloth in front of her he probably had six months left to live in the privileged world of academe and got no response. "Well, you may have nothing to say, but I do. In the rather clichéd words of a well known movie, 'What we have here is a failure to communicate.'"
Still there was silence though Ian lowered his eyes downward to the desk top. Both now knew they would get what this meeting most promised. It would yield, in the words of the old Billie Holliday song, 'strange fruit.'
"I believe we have been down this road before and I am wondering if perhaps this was not subconsciously the goal all along. You, my dear fellow, are clearly lacking in motivation. And if that is the case, I do believe I have a remedy at hand. You may remember the last time we had this conversation?"
"Yes, ma'am," Ian replied, smiling on the inside but ever so demure on the outside. His eyes found hers. Now the unspoken had become clear to each.
"Very well, then. A motivational session is in order. You know where I keep it. Go and get it for me."
The dean leaned back in her oversized leather desk chair and watched as Ian rose, went to a clothes closet at the far end of the office, took down a slim rattan cane, and then stood in front of the oversized oak antique desk. The dean held out her hand and Ian handed her the cane.
"I believe you know the proper procedure from the last time," the dean said as she smiled slightly and rose to stand opposite her graduate assistant. "Strip down and assume the position."
In the stillness of the room Ian thought he could hear his own heart beat. As he peeled his jeans off, then his briefs, he saw the dean disappear through the office door. Once he was naked from the waist down Ian bent full over the desk, grabbed hold of the far edge, splayed his feet apart, and waited. He looked out of the leaded glass window and saw the last of the late afternoon shadows on the trees. Soon enough he heard the door open and close.
"Everyone gone for the evening," the dean said as she closed and locked the door to her office. "So there will be no interruptions and this time you will be getting something to remember the next time you are tempted to pack it away and go down to the pubs with your buddies."
She picked up the cane, whipped it through the air for effect, and saw Ian's naked buttocks clench involuntarily in reaction to the swoooooooosh. Then she stood back and took in the rather bawdy, lewd sight. With his chest pressed down to the desk, his legs spread, Ian' buttocks were thrust upward ever so slightly all but inviting a lick with the cane. His scrotum hung low and his erection pressed hard against the oak desktop. Taking all this in produced an electric ripple in the dean's belly and she smiled at the prospect of giving her student a long, hard caning.
"Stand up Ian," she said as she moved in closely behind her half naked graduate assistant.
Ian rose up from the desk and stood, hands at his sides. He felt the dean's hand reach round his hip and grab hold of his now fully erect penis.
"I see you find the prospect of a caning rather exciting?"
"Um, yes, ma'am, apparently so," Ian replied, his biology betraying him.
"Far more exciting than preparing for your comprehensive exams coming up the end of next semester?" The dean was speaking softly into Ian's ear as she continued to milk Ian's now dripping cock. "So let me see if I can give you the motivation you need to get things rolling in high gear again. How many strokes do you think it would take to get you, shall we say, highly motivated? Is it the pleasure or the pain that most motivates you Ian?"
"Don't know, ma'am," Ian replied. His hips had begun to respond to the dean's hand now and moved slightly forward and back as he felt the waves of pleasure rise from deep down in his balls. The dewdrops on the tip began to run over the swollen, purple tip.
"Well, I do," the dean whispered into his ear. "It's both. Think 'dialectic', Ian. Last time it was six, this time it will be twelve. This is it, Ian. You either crank up your effort this next semester or you will be losing your assistantship and your candidacy for the degree. I would hate to think of a future without your visits here. And I think you would miss your visits as well. So there is no next chance. You will remember this caning each and every time you think about taking time off and screwing around. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am!" Ian answered, his naked body shivering slightly as he thought about the impending punishment. While he had been stripped and bent over this desk before for a caning it had never been more than six strokes. This would be double that and he wondered how he would even remain in place for all twelve cuts. Then he thought about losing virtually everything that meant anything to him: his assistantship paid the rent and got him a tuition waiver; his entire future was to be a life dedicated to teaching literature and that would be gone; his colleagues and students were all he really enjoyed on this earth. And then there was this intense, sexual, albeit ambivalent, relationship with the dean. All gone unless ...
Suddenly the dean let go of Ian's cock and stepped back, away from the desk.
"Get down, young man, and take your caning. We learn best, say my psychologist friends, when there are either pleasurable rewards or painful experiences: you are about to have both. And remember always the words of the best who ever penned a line: 'The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars but in ourselves if we are underlings.' Make no mistake: you brought this on yourself."
Ian once more lowered his chest to the desk, spread his legs wide, arched his back a bit to thrust his bared backside upward inviting the dean's cane. The first stroke came quickly with a swoooooooosh, a craaaaaaaaaack, and then, a second later came the fire. It was the unmistakable, searing line of fire that built in intensity second after agonizing second till the full impact of cane on flesh transmitted to the pain neurons in the brain. The cane lashing into his bared backside nearly took the breath from Ian; he tightened his fingers around the far edge of the desk and fought to remain in place.
Behind him the dean waited patiently as she watched the telltale line appear, first white, then red, then deeper crimson and darkest the last four inches where the tip had landed. It would be deep purple by morning. She felt the rising intensity of her own sexual arousal as she watched the first line appear. Ian's backside rocked side to side as he absorbed the pain of the first stroke.
"Do I have your attention, now?" the dean asked. A rhetorical query offered with a smile Ian could not see.
"YES, ma'am!" came the reply and then the two buttocks clenched as Ian tried to shake the pain away.
"Good. Let's see if I can make this one memorable enough to change your habits for good."
Ian felt the tip of the cane lightly tapping his waiting backside. Once ... twice ... three times, then a short silence before the swishing of the thin cane through the air followed again by the thwick as it bit into his bared flesh. Again the stroke seemed to suck the breath, but now came that awful, wonderful pleasure in his cock from the pain of the caning and the rubbing on the oak desk as the cane drove him down and ahead. From behind the dean witnessed that absolutely lewd dance that she so relished.
Once again Ian felt the tapping of the cane, once, twice, three times and then heard the swoosh ... craaaack of the cane. Just three down and he was ready to bolt upright, resign his assistantship, plead for mercy. But he did not. He felt again the rising of pleasure mixing with the intense pain and tried, ever so subtly, to jack himself off by rubbing his now dripping cock on the desk. That effort was not lost on the dean who promptly lashed a third, fourth, and fifth home without tap or warning. The bucking into the desk continued and a wicked, sixth stroke lashed into the dancing buttocks just below the fifth and Ian could no longer hold back. His cock jetted out the first of many shots of white onto the oak below his belly and the dean simply stood there, waiting, saying nothing, watching as the spasms continued to yank the sperm from the dancing balls hanging low between Ian's thighs. And the pleasure, exquisite and intense, removed all feeling of pain for the moment. Both professor and student remained in their respective positions, silent, for a minute or two at the most that seemed to both at least ten. The dean looked at her work admiring the six parallel lines tightly bunched but not overlapping. She had not lost her uncanny hand-eye coordination after all these years.
"Are you quite through, my boy?" she asked quietly.
"Yes, ma'am," Ian answered.
"Very well, then, we shall get on with the punishment half of your caning. I doubt you will find this portion quite as pleasurable."
In a slow rhythm that only a metronome could match the dean lashed the cane down for six more strokes, each about thirty seconds after the last. Ian continued to buck with each stroke and he hung onto the desk edge with the grip of a hawk's talons sunk into a struggling rabbit. He rewarded the acumen of his mentor's caning skills with gasps, pleas for an end, and, once the twelfth and last lash landed, laying in slumped exhaustion and pain across the desk.
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