From Blushes 25
‘Ah, just a little word if I may, Miss Melfield.’ Professor Harlow smiled at her.
It was 10.30, the end of his tutorial session. The others in the group, eight of them, were quickly on their feet. A lovely morning and most of them had a free hour ahead: just right for sitting outside on the steps in the autumn sunshine or going across the road for a coffee. An hour of Professor Harlow could be a bit boring. Jane Melfield made a face at David, whom she had started going out with. Professor Harlow fiddled with his papers until they had all left. Then he smiled again at Jane.
The fleeting thought crossed her mind that he might fancy her. Another girl, a second year, had gigglingly said something about Professor Harlow the other evening. Jane hadn’t really caught it though she thought it was along those lines — fancying girls — but it was probably a joke. Professor Harlow was getting on. Sixty? A bulky shape and an amiable expression most of the time. Not really the sort to fancy first-year girl students. He had, though, made Celia Simmonds stay behind last week. It was now the third week of Jane’s first term. She was beginning to find her way around and of course had already found David. She smiled at Prof Harlow. He said, ‘Come here please, would you, Jane.’
She got up. Quite a big girl! 5’92, well-built, with good-sized breasts and bottom. Too big Jane naturally thought, though David didn’t think that and nor it seemed did a number of other boys. She was anyway also pretty, big blue eyes with a shock of blonde hair. Her looks were heightened by the fact that she usually wore make-up — quite a bit — which many girls didn’t. That made some boys think Jane was fast, which she wasn’t.
Did Prof Harlow think that Jane was fast — and therefore available? Pretty first-year girl students could be a temptation if you were inclined that way. Unsure of themselves, their youthful bodies ripe for exploitation. Were any such thoughts rolling around behind the calm and amiable grey eyes of Professor Harlow?
Jane went to stand next to him. On his desk was her essay — and there seemed to be an awful lot of red pencil on it. Prof Harlow looked up, with that amiable smile. ‘Not really very good, Jane. I should think a good 16-year-old could do better than this.’
Colour flooded to her cheeks, his softly delivered words hitting her like a bucket of icy water. At school Jane’s English had been praised and she had got a good A Level. She had been quite pleased with this essay.
Prof Harlow’s calm grey eyes looked up. ‘With that sort of work. young lady, you could easily be thrown out at Christmas.’
Jane blinked furiously, afraid she might actually cry. Be thrown out! ‘I…I did my best, sir.’
Prof Harlow shook his head. ‘It’s not enough to do your best, Miss. Not if it’s not good enough. You have to meet the proper standards.’
As she contemplated this awful development Jane became vaguely aware that Prof Harlow’s hand was on her leg. Her lower thigh. Just there, not doing anything. Through her skirt.
‘You wouldn’t want that, would you, Jane? You wouldn’t want to be asked to leave at the end of term?’
There were tears in her eyes now. The thought was… unthinkable. How could she ever face anyone again? Jane managed a stuttered ‘No sir.’
‘And I’m sure I wouldn’t want that either, Jane. One never likes to lose a student. Especially a very pretty girl, eh?’
All of a sudden she became more aware of the hand. It was higher up on her thigh — rubbing over the top of her stocking through her skirt. Fingers were pushing in between her thighs a bit at the back. Was it true then…
Prof Harlow was repeating, ‘No, we certainly shouldn’t want to lose you.’ And he was also pulling up her skirt at the back. The thin flowered cotton material and with it the nylon slip underneath. And then the hand back taking hold where it had been before only now not through her skirt and slip. His hand shockingly on the nylon top itself and the warm bare flesh above. Jane felt herself trembling. Yes… Prof Harlow… What that girl had said…
She should move away, push his hand away, but Jane was still in a state of shock about her essay. So the hand remained there, while Prof Harlow made his position clear.
‘I of course have sole responsibility for first-year students in this department. It is a responsibility that I gladly undertake, offering as it does close contact with young and budding intellects. So I am the sole arbiter. You understand that, Jane, do you?’
Yes. Her mind though still shocked could grasp the situation. It was either, or. Be a good girl. Or else. Could she report him? No she couldn’t; a first-year student of three weeks standing could not report the head of the English Department. No. And so…
‘You do understand, Jane?’
A strangled, ‘Yes… yes sir.’
It was presumably the green light. The hand slid up, to grip Jane’s bare thigh firmly. Squeezing the soft flesh. Fingers in the warm narrow space between. He couldn’t do this.
‘Some extra tuition, Jane. That is what you need. And I shall be happy to give it.’
She put her hands on his desk, all at once very weak at the knees. ‘Did you ever have any proper discipline at school, young lady? Anyone dealing with this rather splendid bottom?’
His hand now on it, on Jane’s ample rear, skimpily covered by a brief and diaphanous pair of knickers. As she trembled Prof Harlow explained he meant had she had it smacked —or caned even? Fighting the frantic need to squirm away Jane shook her head.
‘Ah well, Miss Melfield, that could be our problem. At many schools they still do, you know. I think you’ll have to come and see me.’ His hand continuing its busy business. ‘Yes, we’ll have to make an appointment.’
Out in the bright morning sunshine. Her watch said 10.20, she had been in with the Prof for 20 minutes. Jane shook her head, scarcely able to believe it. Prof Harlow! Nice old friendly-seeming Prof Harlow. As in a dream she walked down and round the corner. The steps to the main building where the students congregated when they had no lecture. A shout. She saw it was David. He came over. What had Prof Harlow wanted? She could hardly tell him: that she had had to stand still and let Prof Harlow put his hand up her skirt and feel her bum — and if she hadn’t let him…
She gave some vague reply, not really saying anything. Not saying either that she had to go to Prof Harlow’s apartment tomorrow afternoon. It was still almost impossible to believe it.
There were no lectures then and David wanted to take a bus out in the country. Jane said she’d better do some work, to which he replied, ‘OK, let’s do some together.’ She flushed, hating lying. ‘No… I… I can’t work like that.’
2.30 Wednesday. It came round soon enough, following a rather strained atmosphere after she’d told David that. Maybe she should have told him she was going to Prof Harlow’s, for some tuition coaching. Jane had been agonising over what exactly was going to happen. Surely it wouldn’t be… Please God not that. Prof Harlow anyway didn’t seem the type for that — but what was his type? A hand-up-the-skirt type — unless she had dreamed it. Her mind had been in such a state yesterday. He had spoken of tuition — she thought. Maybe it was just that. But did she remember him also mentioning smacking…?
She knocked timidly at his door. She had worn something smart: a smart skirt and black nylons and high heels. Had that been a mistake? She wondered if Celia Simmonds had been here — and what had she worn?
Prof Harlow’s smiling countenance. ‘Ah come in, my dear. You do look nice.’ As if it was a vicarage tea party or something. In his hall and then through into a room lined with books.
‘So nice to see you, Jane. I’ve got a couple of things to finish, then I’ll be with you. You can wait in here. Oh, and take your skirt off. And, oh, your slip if you’re wearing one.’
She stood there as he went out. Take her skirt off! He couldn’t… Jane was still standing, transfixed, when a couple of minutes later Prof Harlow’s head popped back round the door. His voice with a more steely edge. ‘Take it off, Jane. You really do need discipline, don’t you. Perhaps you need something else. The cane!’
He couldn’t do this but he was. Could she refuse? Just say No? But if she did he would simply kick her out and if she complained say she made it all up. Jane’s hands went to her skirt.
A few minutes and he was back again. Smiling. ‘Ah that’s better. That’s much better. Let’s see you.’
Taking Jane’s arm as she stood with her back against the bookshelves. Her skirt and slip obediently off now. Nylons and a black suspender belt and brief knickers. A white shirt above but that didn’t reach more than a few inches below her waist. His hand turning her, so that his other hand could get at her bum in the brief tight knickers. Fondling. Then slapping it.
‘A nice big one, eh Jane? I’m surprised no one has had a go at it before.’
He was pushing her arm behind her back. She automatically resisted but Prof Harlow pushed it up anyway. His other hand now yanking her knickers down. She yelped out. ‘No!’
‘Keep still, Miss.’ Pushing her firmly in against the books. ‘Discipline!’
He had her knickers down now. It was unbelievable but her bottom was bare and Prof Harlow had his hand on it. Grabbing at the wobbly cheeks, Jane’s too, too solid flesh that she was a bit embarrassed about anyway, 37-inches though she hated to admit it. Prof Harlow’s hand groping her big bare bum.
And then smacking it. Sharp, hard smacks that really stung. She yelped out. ‘No!’ ‘Don’t!’ ‘Please!’ And other less recognisable sounds. It was impossible, quite impossible! At 18, having your knickers taken down and your bare bottom spanked. But there was nothing Jane could do to stop it. For one thing he had her arm behind her back and for another — well, if she didn’t take it he was going to kick her out of college.
The hard hand kept smacking in. All over the big bottom, the backs of the full thighs. Bottom and legs squirming, writhing, under the stinging impacts, but not able to escape them. Bottom and backs of thighs getting really bright red. It seemed to go on for ever. Finally, though, Prof Harlow did stop.
He let go of her arm and turned her round. Prof Harlow was breathing quite heavily. Jane was gasping. He smiled. ‘There you are Jane. Disciplinary chastisement.’
She didn’t answer; there was nothing to say. Without warning Prof Harlow’s hand came up and sharply smacked her face. He was still smiling.
‘Yes, my dear. A little physical pain is very, very good for a girl.’
Hand up to a hotly glowing cheek, trying to catch her breath, the shocking slap was almost worse than what he’d done to her bottom. Prof Harlow told her to take her hand away… and then sharply smacked her face again.
‘Does that hurt, Jane?’
She couldn’t help it, she was crying. She nodded, blinking. She thought he was going to hit her again but he didn’t, his hand instead coming round her waist, and then down at the still stinging, still bare bottom. ‘A little pain is good for you, Jane dear. It keeps a girl on her toes.’
Half an hour later Jane left Prof Harlow’s apartment. Her face was flushed, her eyes red. She was walking in a hesitant manner, as if perhaps unused to high heels. That was not in fact the problem, Jane was quite used to high heels, the problem was she seemed scarcely in control of her legs. Or anything else for that matter. There had not been any academic work, no tuition or anything else. But Professor Harlow had, after using his hand on Jane, brought out a cane. Four breath-snatching shots across the ripe, red-glowing nates. Yes, it was no wonder Jane was having difficulty walking.
As if what had happened wasn’t bad enough she had been told to come back tomorrow. Jane tottered along the corridor, her mind a blank, shell-shocked. At the corner she walked straight into a male figure. After disengaging herself it proved to be Dr Silby. Dr Silby was younger than Prof Harlow, 40 perhaps. Jane knew who he was because they had two lectures a week from him: The Contemporary English Novel.
Dr Silby recognised Jane once he had got over his own shock. And also, because this was the faculty building, he could guess where she’d been.
‘Jane Melfield. And she’s been to see Professor Harlow!’
Not too much later Jane was in Dr Silby’s apartment. She didn’t want to be there, she wanted to get back to her own room, have a bath, try and forget. But Dr Silby insisted she came in for a coffee. And then…
He made it plain that he knew about Prof Harlow and what a girl could expect when she went to his rooms. Dr Silby smiled, a man of the world. ‘We all have our little whims of course and our dear professor’s whim is girl students’ bottoms. Eh?’
Jane didn’t answer but blushed furiously, making it clear that Dr Silby’s guess was correct. Sitting next to her on his sofa he squeezed her thigh reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I shan’t tell a soul. Your little secret is quite safe with me.’ A firmer squeeze. ‘Because I know it would be most embarrassing for a girl if it got out. Mmmm? That boy that I see you with for instance. David Watkins is it?’
The hand remained on Jane’s thigh and as with Prof Harlow’s hand she didn’t push it off. Dr Silby presumably couldn’t kick her out of college but he had this other hold on her. What he was talking about, teasing her with. So that if…
Jane didn’t come out of Dr Silby’s room for a whole hour. Dr Silby of course was in no hurry, but then who would be? Dr Silby wasn’t interested in smacking bottoms. His interests were more what you might call conventional…