Tweed, Part 1

Monday, November 10, 2003

Session with Sarah S.

She arrived at my office breathless and flushed… and five minutes late. I heard her, or rather I heard some sort of dull bang, outside my door before she could knock. I opened the door and found her there, knees bent, squatting, trying awkwardly to hold onto her remaining books. She held them to her chest, trying to maintain her balance and to pick up the book she had just dropped. It noticed it wasn't one of mine. Economics.

"Sarah." It wasn't a question or a greeting. I addressed the top of her head as if this was expected, which it both was and wasn't. If I were British (and perhaps appearing in My Fair Lady), I'd call her an exasperating creature. But I'm not British and the word "ditz" crossed my mind briefly before she looked up and smiled somewhat sheepishly. I managed not to smile.

"Good afternoon, Professor. Am I late?"

"Yes, Sarah. You're late."

It must have been about then that she realized that this squatting position did not work well with a short skirt. She tried to stand up too quickly and lost her balance, dropping the remaining books, and falling toward me. I caught her by one arm; she steadied herself with a hand on my chest before pulling away. "Sorry, Sir." She picked up her books and I ushered her into the office, closing the door behind her. This tutorial was off to a great start.

"Let me have your coat," I said. She placed her books on the floor and took off her coat, which I hung on the hook near the door. "Please have a seat," I said, indicating that she should sit in the wooden, straight-backed chair next to my desk. She was wearing a long-sleeved, green knit top, and a pleated black skirt that came to just above her knees. She sat down.

"You might want to take out your copy of the story," I said as I went to my side of the desk and sat down in the large, leather desk chair. Her face flushed.

"I forgot it, Sir." I must have literally scowled. She couldn't look me in the eyes.

"I can't believe this. Five minutes late and you still didn't bring a copy of the story we are discussing? Does that strike you as being an auspicious start to the new beginning we discussed and agreed to?" I was disappointed with her.

She had her hands folded on her bare knees and was staring at them, not looking up at me. "No, Sir. I guess not."

"You do remember our agreement? Don't you, Sarah?"

"Yes, Sir." Her voice was quiet, shaky. She twisted her feet slightly from side to side. She knew that she had already gone too far.




The agreement. How had that that happened, anyway? A few weeks before, I had gone out drinking one evening with one of the other professors. Over a pint of ale, I bemoaned my inability to get even my most promising students to take their studies seriously. To be fair, this wasn't unknown to me in all my days teaching American Literature. I was however surprised and disappointed to find that the students here in England could be — and often were — just as academically lazy as the students back in the States.

That's when he said it. "Have you tried corporal punishment?" He had said it quickly into his glass as he raised it to drink.

"What did you say?"

"Corporal punishment. Give ‘em a good wollop or twenty on their bottoms. You'll see. Then they'll take you seriously."

"You're joking! These are college-aged men and women. We can't even do that to our own kids back home."

"This isn't Pennsylvania, bucko. It's England. It's a miracle an Immigration officer didn't give you a swat or two at Heathrow when you arrived." He was serious. It took very little snooping around to determine that he was also correct.

So the visiting professor was introduced into the ways of the English educational system. And that is how I entered into an agreement with Sarah about her work in my class. It still surprised me that she agreed. At the time, I'm certain that I had no idea why she did. I was nervous as a cat to initially suggest it and twice as nervous to now be there in that situation. But there is exactly where I was and we each had our part to play.



The discussion that followed was wholly uninspiring. I gave her another copy of the short story to use during the tutorial session. She did not delve any deeper into the story than she had in her emails. Her analysis was dry, superficial, and impersonal. The questions that I had sent her beforehand and asked her to think about, to be ready to answer for our session… were left unanswered. It wouldn't be fair for me to say that she hadn't thought about them at all. But somehow, she stopped short, refusing to dig a little deeper into the material, to put it into context. Why was she insisting on being so mediocre? Who had told her that she wasn't or shouldn't be intelligent?

After 25 minutes or so, I stopped. I closed my book and took off my glasses. I stared at her sternly. She started to look down, but then looked up at me from below her eyebrows.

"I don't think we're getting anywhere with this," I said to her.

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"I mean that I intend to punish you. Today. Now."

She quickly sat up straight in the chair. Her blue eyes got wide. "But why, Sir? I read the story! I answered the questions."

"I should not have to tell you why. You should know. Stand up." I got up from my chair by the window and walked slowly around the desk to be on the side that faced out into the main part of the office. She slowly stood up. She was backed up against the chair as far as she could go, feet together, arms to her sides, looking down at her hands, which were nervously fumbling.

"Look at me," I commanded. I was standing in front of her now, about two feet away. She looked up. Her eyes met mine, looked away, then came back. She bit her lip. She brought one thumb up to her mouth and made as if to nibble the fingernail, but thought better of it and threw both of her arms down to the side. She was very nervous. Maybe frightened. Maybe excited. But clearly it was time for fight or flight… for both of us.

"Sarah, we had an agreement that you would do your work for my class and in this tutorial to the best of your abilities. You have failed to do that. You arrived today without your copy of the story. You didn't prepare answers to the questions I sent you. You showed me disrespect by being late for today's session…."

"But…" She started to interrupt me, but the look on my face stopped her cold.

"What's more, you've shown disrespect for yourself. I do not feel you've given your brain much of a workout thinking about this story. Is it a great story? No. It isn't a great story. But that doesn't matter. Your assignment was to think about it, take it apart, make some sense of it. You haven't bothered thinking about it much at all. And I am not willing to accept that. Are you? Are you happy with your work here?"

"No, Sir," she said, looking down at her feet. "I guess not."

"What do you think I should do now, Sarah? Let me rephrase that. What do you think I'm going to do now?"

"I don't know, Sir."

"Yes, you do. Do I have to get out a copy of our agreement?"

"No, sir. I remember. You're going to spank me."

"Yes," I said. "Please take off your shoes." She looked up at me as if she were going to ask why, but knew not to. Her shoes were the dull, black platform shoes I see around — no back, but with a sole at least two inches thick at the toe and perhaps five inches thick at the heel. She didn't so much step out of her shoes as step down from her shoes. She was much shorter now. She looked up at me, smaller… waiting.

"Now. Please remove your panties… your knickers."

Her eyes got wide and her face turned bright red with embarrassment. "Do I have to, Sir? Can't you…?" Her voice trailed off. Her eyes looked up at me pleadingly. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and then back again.

"Sarah, we have an agreement. Don't make this worse than it already is. You should know that I am already adding ten swats for your tardiness today and another ten because you did not wear a belt as you agreed to do. I don't think you want another ten, do you?"

"But, Sir. People will hear."

"No, they won't. I've been told that professors' office hours don't overlap for that very reason. There's no one here except the secretary, Mrs. Morris."

"She'll hear."

"No, she won't. She's downstairs. She's somewhat deaf. And honestly, I don't think she would care." And that was true. This sort of thing happens all the time here. The faculty doesn't normally discuss it openly, but everyone knows. I've heard paddlings and canings on more than one occasion in this building. If I were to go to either of the other two offices on my floor and check the closet, drawers, shelves, I am confident that I would find a paddle and a cane or two. I'm the amateur here. It's alien to me, not them. This probably isn't a first for Sarah. It wouldn't surprise me if Mrs. Morris hasn't gotten more than a few swats in her life. Apparently it's as British as clotted cream and penguins on the telly.

"No one will hear, Sarah. I'm waiting."

She started to reach up beneath her skirt and work her panties down, but stopped, looking up at me. Given the situation, it made no sense except for protocol… but I took the hint and surrendered to her this tiniest piece of modesty. I turned my back to her so that she could remove them as she saw fit. I heard rustling. She padded to her coat, put the panties in a pocket, and then padded back to where she had been standing.

I took down a roll of masking tape from one of the bookshelves and ripped off two pieces of tape. The first piece I stuck to the floor, about one foot in front of the desk. The other piece I stuck to the leather desktop, maybe two feet from the front edge… closer to the back than the front. "Stand with your toes here," I said, pointing to the tape on the floor. She did as she was told. "Toes behind the line, please." She shuffled back an inch. She was breathing fast and shallow like a bird.

"Now, lean forward and put your nose on that piece of tape." The tape on the desk was just far enough away that she had to lean her upper thighs against the desk and stretch out over the desk. In this position, she had no choice but to be on her tiptoes. She had her arms to her sides, trying to rest her chest on the desk. "No, you should keep your arms above your head." She slowly reached her arms forward. Her hands found the far edge of the desk and held on. I could see that her eyes were wide, looking straight ahead to the desk at the end of her nose. "Feet a little more apart, please." I nudged the insides of her feet with my shoe until she was standing with her feet about a foot apart.

"Are you going to have me read from the story?"

"No. If in the course of the spanking you have some thoughts on the story, I do want you to share them with me. It may mitigate things at a future date. I will be giving you thirty swats on your bare bum with my hand. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Could you raise your skirt for me please?"

Holding herself up with her left arm, she reached back with her right hand and pulled the black skirt higher up her leg. Inch by inch, she worked it up until she had most of the cloth in her hand.

"Nose back to your mark," I said to her, taking the cloth of her skirt from her and moving her arm back above her head on the desk. Again she stretched, raised herself up on her tiptoes and put the tip of her nose on the piece of tape. She strained to hold that position, hovering there, holding onto the desk. I pulled the skirt up, doubled it over on itself. and tucked it into the waistband. She was in position.

I almost sighed, but stopped myself. Her naked bum was thrust up and out… waiting, waiting. Her bottom was a glory of pale white curves, smooth surfaces. Unblemished, unmarked arcs. This isn't about sex, I thought to myself. It's aesthetics. It's work. It's for her own good. The smaller curves of her vulva peeked from beneath and between the two round spheres of her bum. It's not about sex. It's not about sex.

I moved from behind her until I was standing near the end of the desk to her left. I knew she could see me, even with her nose pressed to the desk. I slowly took off my wool sportcoat and draped it over the wooden chair. Then, as I talked about John Updike's reputation for memorable opening paragraphs, I rolled up first one shirt sleeve, then the other. Slowly, while making a particularly strong point and quoting an opening paragraph I remembered from a story loosely about basketball, I stretched my fingers, clenched them into fists, and then stretched them out again… loosening up… but mostly adding to the drama of the situation.

I paused. Her arms and legs were already getting tired from standing in this position. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Sir. I guess." She closed her eyes.

"At no time should your nose leave that piece of tape. At no time should either of your heels touch the floor. You are to stay in this position until I tell you that you can relax. Do not reach back to try and stop my hand. If you disobey any of these requests, I will add additional swats. Do you understand that, Sarah?"

"Yes, Sir. I understand."

I placed my left hand flat on the small of her back to let her know that I was about to start. She took in a deep breath and held it. I drew back my right hand and arm, pivoted my hips… and then brought my hand down fast on her bare bottom.

WHOP! She yelped, more in shock than in pain. I know it didn't hurt. I had cupped my hand so that there was a cushion of air when my hand landed. It did make the most incredibly loud sound though. I did the same thing to the other cheek. WHOP!

The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth strokes must have hurt a little. My fingers were together so that I was striking with my entire flat hand. No cupping, no cushion. The blows landed with a sharper slapping sound. WHAP! I alternated cheeks. They quickly pinkened. I could see around Sarah's short brown hair. Her eyes were open. She was breathing fast and shallow and she was having trouble staying up on her toes. WHAP!

For the next stroke, I spread my fingers apart, tensed them hard, and used my whole body to bring my hand down on one cheek. SMACK! She whimpered and her body wavered slightly. That one must have hurt. Color rose to the surface of her skin almost immediately. I hit the same area again and again with a flat hand, pausing just a minute, then bringing my hand down fast and hard. There was no need to spank harder. The repetition was making each blow hurt more and more. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she did not start to cry. I started in on the other cheek, repeating the process. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! When I went back to the first cheek again, she yelped loudly. The knuckles of her fingers were white from gripping the desk edge. It was all that was keeping her up on her toes.

"Sir?"

We were approaching twenty swats when suddenly she started talking. Maybe it was to keep from crying. But when she started talking, it wasn't about the spanking. It was about the story.

"Sir? Updike was only 30 or 31 when he wrote this story. I think… I think he didn't really have a clue about things. Not museums. Definitely not women."

"Go on, Sarah" I said, bringing my hand down hard again on her right cheek. Both sides of her bum were fiery pink with slight red blotches.

"He knows it and doesn't know it. He's self-absorbed and writes like he is self-absorbed. The women in the story, no… all of the people in the story are blank. I don't give a damn about any of them."

"Why so many museums, so many women?" I asked her. SMACK! I had to admire her. She was fitting her words into the spaces between the methodical impact of my hand on her pink bottom. She would take in a deep breath, talk, brace for the jolt of my hand on her skin, exhale with a little cry, and then repeat the process.

"It's like a laundry list. The women are… they're associated with these places. But… but it's all artificial. Updike doesn't know the women… doesn't know them any more deeply than he knows the art. It's like he… it's like he reads the little card next to the frame and that's as much as he knows or cares to remember about art or women." SMACK!

I purposely aimed the final set of strokes at the area where the bum meets the upper leg. I hit those with my fingers together, trying to jolt instead of hurt, trying to send vibrations and shudders into her vulva.

"The story was written in 1962. You haven't mentioned that, Sarah." She was breathing hard and so was I.

"Do you mean what does this story look like for being about 1962 America? It's after World War II. It's after the Korean War. It's before Vietnam, but Updike wouldn't know that." SMACK! "The man in the story is living in what Americans look back on as some modern golden age. But the main character isn't happy. 1962 wasn't such a happy time." SMACK!

That was thirty. I'm not sure she had been counting. Maybe she did at first, but then she just seemed to accept that it was what it was. She never cried even though tears rolled down her face. I was done, but she kept talking, needing by now to finish what she was saying. As she talked, I caressed her bottom with the same tingling hand that had spanked it. Her pink and red bum was smooth as velvet to my touch. My palm and open fingers moved over the curves of it so easily. It was warm, even hot, from the spanking. Maybe we were both compelled to finish.

"That's why I don't like the story. It isn't that it isn't well written. It is. Updike is brilliant. He's so bloody clever with words… But he's cold and unfeeling. I hate his characters. That's why I don't like the story. That's why, Sir."

I caressed her hurting bottom for just a few seconds more and then stepped back. She did not move. She was waiting for me to give her permission to move. One last time, I looked at her naked bum sticking out and thought, "It's perfect. A twenty-year old bum is a perfect thing." At least this one was.

"That was nice work, Sarah. We're finished here. You may relax and get dressed now."

"American men only think about sex." That's what she had said in class one day when we were discussing Philip Roth. Maybe she was right. I turned away from her while she slowly straightened her skirt. I didn't want her to see the bulge in my trousers, or notice the slight wet spot where the few drops of clear liquid had snuck from me and soaked through my boxers. I rolled down my sleeves and put my sportcoat back on. This hadn't been about sex. It's not about sex. Even so, Sarah had looked wet between her legs. What is it about then?

"Do you have the next assignment?" I asked.

She hadn't bothered to put on her panties. She slipped on her shoes. She took the wadded up panties out of her coat pocket, wiped a few remaining tears from her face with the balled up cotton, and then stuffed them back in the pocket as she put on her coat. "Yes, Sir. Cheever."

"Would you like to come discuss that later this week? I know we don't have a regular session until next week, but perhaps we should continue working on what we've started here today."

"Yes, Sir. I think so, too." She smiled a little.

"Friday, then?"

"Friday, same time." She picked up her books and turned, starting to open the office door.

"Sarah?" I said. She stopped. "I just wanted to say that you were right about the story. You just needed to tell me why. The things you said… during… that was very nice work."

"Thank you, Sir. See you Friday." Her eyes caught mine for a second. And she was gone.

The desk top still had indentations where her arms had been. I ran my fingertips over where her left arm had been, her right. The leather was still slightly wet from her tears.

I pulled the piece of tape off of the desk and wrapped it around my little finger.

End Episode 1

Continue reading with Tweed, Part 2

Friday, October 07, 2005