by Jake Masters
Erin felt the blood rush to her ears as she reached further down for her toes, the sensation becoming a tingling sound which mingled in her mind with the repeating echo of his clipped, under-stated, but icy-cold command, "Get that bottom up again, young lady - and I mean now!"
She knew him well enough by now to shut off any thought of disobedience or even hesitation. Her poor, pretty bottom was already welted with six strokes of his senior cane, and she had six to go. What's more, she knew she had only herself to blame. An essay late for the third week running - albeit a very good essay, which he had said on a quick read was probably at least an alpha minus. One of her best yet. But he had told her the week before that if she was to be late again, it would be twelve of the best with his best cane... a whippy rattan which scorched, for a nano-second left you numb and in no man's land, then radiated an agonising streak of pain, and left your bottom marked quite humiliatingly, even if you were the only one to see it (in the mirror afterwards, with a self-torturing fascination.)
"Right, young lady, not a sound, and not a movement. An involuntary gasp, perhaps; a flinching and then a quivering when I beat you, probably. But anything more, and I start again. Is that clear, Erin?"
"Yes, Sir." She knew now to enunciate so he could hear without having to demand a repeat in exasperation, which she was sure would lead to a harder thrashing with the cane for at least the next stroke. There was no edge, no protest, no self-pity; just a direct response, in as normal and polite a voice as she could muster - an expression of utter obedience and then a gritting of her teeth so she could accept her punishment.
She knew the spectacle she presented. Her full Oxford 'sub fusc' (the uniform for formal academic occasions), although these were just one-to-one late summer extra tutorials, meant black skirt (although it was currently folded up over her back), white blouse, black necktie knotted in a bow, black shoes and black stockings. Dr. Pritchard demanded that she wear this for every single meeting with him, to make her take her extra work between her first and second years at Oxford ultra-seriously. And no doubt to make her feel the full weight of his authority and her submission to it, in her own interests and of course for his satisfaction that she was fully prepared to be obedient to his will. And perhaps because she looked alluringly pretty in her uniform to a man who liked his undergraduettes pleasing to the eye yet innocent and decorous in style, the university equivalent of a sixth former who looks more sensuous and indeed sensual in her innocent uniform than in her weekend clubbing gear or skinny jeans for chilling in.
He had asked her bluntly, when she had received instructions about dress and raised an eyebrow, only fleetingly but noticed by his eagle-eye, "Do you want to get up from second class in your first year Moderations to a final first class degree? You say you do. You say that's why you have approached me, Miss Mitchell. So, if you do, and you want me to tutor you now, you will do everything, bar everything, I say. Do you understand, Miss Mitchell? I rarely do any teaching beyond term-time tutorials and my university lectures. You are a privileged young lady and I will not waste my time."
Erin had agreed without protest or dissent. She knew she was lucky to have him, on account of the excellent essay she had written for him while having him as her Hilary (second-term) tutor for the Victorian Novel course in her first year. He had spotted that she was First material although her breathless partying and hedonism had earned her 'only' a Second in her first-year exams, her Mods. Pritchard had discussed her ability with his colleague, Vivienne Carver, for whom Erin had written a stunning essay on Flaubert in her 'Introduction to Classic French Literature' course. Both had agreed she was special; and both had agreed she was too steeped in hedonism, on the one hand, and a Union career as well as working for the student mag, on the other hand, to reproduce her best more than occasionally. Typical Erin, over-ambitious and 'can't be told', at least not easily by tutors she only saw once a week for a term, in most cases.
Erin had known that Ian Pritchard was a stickler of the sort almost never seen in today's world - a disciplinarian of the first order. She needed that - not to get by, but to excel; to give herself at least a good chance of a First by making amends for, bluntly, being a wild and naughty girl in her first year. She wanted to borrow his brain, but she also wanted to hem herself in, away from temptation on the scale of the year just gone by. For that she needed a disciplinarian. It was just who she was. With the right discipline, delivered by her former English teacher at school, she had cut out her behavioural excesses at school and curbed her quicksilver tongue after leaving school when challenged about not doing enough work. The upshot was that she had got into Oxford, and now she needed a similar type of discipline. Hence her bold approach to Ian Pritchard.
Now, with Erin under his tutelage, he understood what she needed. For her part, she was willing to bend her iron will to being fully obedient - in her own interest. And he was much stricter than she had dreamed, even when choosing him for his almost-intimidating strictness - choosing to subjugate herself in the short term, in her long-term interests. Stricter, and quirkier. But she knew what he could help her achieve: he was one of the Faculty's leading published lights and, unusually in combination with that, a lucid and spellbinding teacher. So Erin resolved to challenge nothing, to make sure he didn't just end his highly unusual willingness in the long vacation to help a lowly undergraduate.
Take her dress. When it came to her outfit for their meetings, it was not just 'sub fusc', it was the original intention behind, and interpretation of, every item on the list of required clothing. Take black stockings, for example. These days, most girls interpreted the last item to mean tights, but Dr. Pritchard insisted on the original requirement - and he was clear that he did not mean that modern piece of philistinism, 'hold-ups'. She had worn hold-ups with her sub-fusc for her Mods, in the stuffy Exam Schools on the High Street. Tights were just too hot and sticky. But Ian required proper stockings, as he called them.
So Erin had purchased and begun to wear a black suspender-belt. As she put it on for each tutorial, she looked at herself in the mirror, seamed stockings and all (another requirement, although this might be Pritchard's own fancy, she realised, rather than the ancient rules) and admired herself. Erin had always had a touch of exhibitionism, even if she were only exhibiting to herself.
As she had dressed up for the first time, for her first tutorial after their meeting to clarify arrangements, she had also wondered quizzically how Dr. Pritchard, despite his coldly delivered instructions, would know whether she were wearing stockings or tights. Don't even go there, she breathed to herself right up close to the mirror, which clouded a little at her exhalation. She knew what he had stated about discipline. So if she fell short, there was after all one very obvious way he could find out. Her skirt would be raised for... don't think about it. Embarrassment City! And he's so cold and stern; severe, when he has to be. Strict just doesn't get it, she mused.
When Ian had agreed to meet Erin for a coffee in the Queen's Coffee House, just down the lane from his college, New College, he had been sceptical that he would agree. He remembered her from his eight tutorials with her and her fellow-student, of course. But he saw many girls now, since the university was belatedly equal opportunity. Now however something about her email stuck in his mind. It was vivid, somehow, promising the earth but without schmaltz. And still proud and self-contained despite the extravagant claims about her ability, willingness to work, and why she had chosen him to approach out of the blue.
In person, getting to know her better in a few minutes of intimacy than in the eight hours of stilted essay-reading with a third party present, he had liked her immediately; liked her more definitely than before. She was intense, but also self-deprecating in a funny way, while clearly not meaning it - and wanting you to know that. She was pretty... very pretty, happy to be teased; and she had naughty eyes... wide, brown, eyes which were innocent yet not innocent... naughty.
They had met a second time in his rooms, splendid chambers on the same corridor where A. J. ('Freddie') Ayer had once had his and allegedly served champagne on silver platters to his scantily-clad mistresses and conquests. Ian had given Erin sherry. Lots, as it turned out, for as they got talking, she had made it clear that what she needed was intellectual insight and also personal discipline. He poured her another large measure and asked what she meant. She had taken a most unladylike slug for such a lovely young lady, nearly draining her third glass, then opened up to him.
"Well, Sir, I already feel comfortable with you. Nervous, a bit tingly..."
He smiled as widely as he had since meeting her; Pritchard was shy as well as strict, and could be seen as cold, but he loved the right sort of company.
"... but... well, you've already shown you are a kind guy."
He raised his eyes to the ceiling at both the word 'guy' and being thought 'kind'.
"I mean, replying, for one; meeting me, for two; and now taking it seriously and giving me your best sherry, for three."
"This is not my best sherry, Erin," he deadpanned, but with a twinkle in his eye.
She felt a bit abashed; she was not used to being made to feel like the country cousin.
"You'll get my best at your first tutorial."
Erin sat bolt upright and grinned like an idiot, again belying her natural poise. "Oh My God! You mean you will?!"
"I will if you are honest about what you mean by the personal discipline you need. If you're not, then how can I know if it's something I can help you with, alongside your work - with which I am fully satisfied, by the way. You are worth helping."
Erin basked in the compliment. She uncrossed one jean-clad leg and crossed the other instead. "Yes, I will, Sir." Cue fourth sherry poured. With the good news and the lashings of alcohol, she was floating and nearly fearless now. So she told him.
He sat silent, outwardly blasé and inwardly wondering, as an atheist, if there were a God after all, as she told him how she had been spanked by her tutor at school, how Tom had coached her for Oxford, and how she had come to feel that such discipline really worked for her, if it were serious, for real things, like not working hard enough, being slovenly, or being cheeky or even rude.
"Sir..." Her fifth sherry was half-gone; Ian was lubricating her quite cynically. "I've been... um... out with it, Erin! (Talking to herself in the third person, an Erin-ism since she was an adolescent.) I've been, er, spanked other times; once in a relationship, and a couple of times by men who manipulated me or took advantage of me. And it's not the same. I'm not a kinky so-and-so, Dr. Pritchard."
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.