Failure is Not an Option Ch. 01byIdeeFixee©
The Dean peered through the closed Venetian blinds in his office window, observing the young teacher nervously pacing in his stifling waiting room. She was beautiful and hot, wearing a gauzy summer skirt with a tight jacket over a blouse, her smooth tawny skin perspiring. He was ready for her, but preferred to keep her waiting. Coming from a another institution that was considerably inferior to Kelten—and they were almost all inferior—she'd only been on staff for a few weeks, so he knew that she was worried about the reason for this meeting with the top dog. She had good reason to be concerned.
He glanced at his clock: 4:30 pm, although the temperature had not yet cooled on this unusual, blazing hot June day. Faculty, staff and students had all departed, as planned.
The new hire, Janice Slatter, had come on board so recently as an emergency replacement for the phys. ed. teacher, who had resigned abruptly. Janice was already popular with her students. The Dean was not surprised about the boys, who ogled her body and sensuous face, with its large eyes and wide, thick-lipped mouth. But the girls liked her as well. She must work out like a demon, he thought, to have such an incredible shape. Her jet-black straight hair was cut very short, almost like a tomboy, making her look years younger than her actual age of 26. He realized her haircut looked the way Demi Moore, Winona Ryder, Natalie Portman and Halle Berry wore theirs when younger.
The voluptuous innocent had been charming when he had interviewed her, although fidgeting and nervous. Her behavior had not been surprising. People were frequently uncomfortable with him one-on-one, due to his serious demeanor and what he'd been told was a tendency toward a "hard" look or "hard-edged" stare.
Yet after her hiring, she remained nonplussed when they said hello in the Teachers' Lounge or passed each other in a hall. He had meant to observe her during class when she was in her sports gear, or when she coached the swim team in a one-piece suit, but had not had the time. She wore no wedding or engagement ring and he knew next to nothing about her personal background. His lupine eyes watched her every move. He'd caught her surreptitiously looking at him several times, in student assemblies or in the hallways, when she would turn away, blushing, as he stared back. He knew that he would have her.
He had begun musing about a pretext to summon her, and had decided on a standard inquiry to see how she was faring after a few weeks, when he'd received the upsetting, major news that had caused him to scramble, news that could have put his own position in jeopardy. Thankfully, he'd devised a potential solution—but only if he could bend her to his will.
He opened the door. "Miss Slatter?" She started and whirled around, the full, lightweight skirt floating up and revealing half of her slender, taut thighs. It was a seductive effect, made more so since it was charmingly unplanned.
"Yes Dean, thank you." She entered his office and he shut and locked the door. He walked to his desk and sat as she stood in front of his desk. "I'll be with you shortly," he said, pretending to be occupied with paperwork.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked, pointing without looking at the carafe, bottles, crystal decanter and glasses on the sideboard.
Relieved to have something to do, she said, "Yes, thank you sir. May I pour a glass for you?" He nodded. She added ice to two large glasses, filled them with the clear liquid from the carafe and served him.
She followed his lead in raising their glasses. "To taking responsibility," he toasted cryptically, looking at her for the first time. She flushed, her silky tawny skin now highlighted with pink. He hadn't been this close to her since her arrival weeks ago. Unconsciously, she oozed sensuousness. They drank and she sputtered and coughed, leaning forward, her fat tits straining against her jecket. He smiled. She had swallowed a large mouthful as if it was water, not realizing it was premium vodka.
"Pardon me, Dean. I didn't realize it was vodka," she said hoarsely, recovering. "Is it okay for me to be have alcohol?"
"Oh yes. It's after hours and nobody else is in the building." She looked around nervously. "You look uncomfortable. Why don't you take off your jacket in this heat?"
"Thanks for your concern, Dean, but I'd rather not, if you don't mind." He frowned at her, not used to having his suggestions declined. "Then take a proper swallow of your drink and stand properly."
Tense, she drank off a large amount of the vodka. "Mmmm," she said, unconsciously licking the sweet liquid off her big lips. "That's delicious. So smooth and refreshing." She assumed the standard, formal Kelten pose when addressing a superior, legs spread and hands clasped at the rear of her waist.
"How's it going for you here at Kelten?" he inquired. "I know it's much different from your previous posting. Kelten has its own traditional way of doing things."
"Oh, I like it here very much, sir. Everybody's been friendly and helpful, my department's facilities are excellent, and the kids are nice." The Dean simply stared at her, enjoying the prolongation of her discomfort.
There was a pause, during which she shifted awkwardly. "Please, drink up. I'm so pleased that you like the vodka," he said. Gratefully, she drank, finishing the glass. He stood, poured her a refill and received her thanks. When he sat, he waited several seconds while she avoided his gaze. "Miss Slatter, before we get to the reason why I called you in, do you have any questions?"
"Yes Dean, there's one" she said, taking a drink from her refill. "I'm sorry to be so slow, but it's a sensitive subject and embarrassing for me to speak about."
"Please, drink up, it will help to relax you." She drained the remainder of the second glass.
"Well, sir, it was a few days ago, after a class, and I was walking through the girls' changing room. Almost everybody had left. When I heard a shower running, I figured somebody had forgotten to turn it off. When I turned the corner into the shower room, there was actually a girl there. Her back was turned to me. Despite the water, I could see something unusual." She stopped.
"And what was that?" Perspiring more heavily, she took another swallow. "Come, come, Miss Slatter, speak freely!"
"Yes sir . . . Well, there were marks on her rear."
"What do you mean? Like a beauty mark or birthmark? A tattoo perhaps?"
"No sir. There were long thin lines . . . ." He raised his eyebrows questioningly although he already knew the answer. "I mean, they looked like red welts . . . as if she'd been beaten."
"Mmm. Who is this student? And how many marks were there?"
"It's Lauren Graham, and there were three. At least, three on her bottom . . . another three on her back."
"Do you have any reason to think she'd been abused?"
"No sir, or I would have come for you, I mean, come to you immediately. But she's doing very well in school, has lots of friends, and I even know her parents from a Parent/Teacher conference two weeks ago." She took another gulp."
"Why didn't you ask her directly?"
"I didn't want to embarrass her. I thought I should ask your advice first," she said
"And it's right that you did so. I think I can explain what's going on."
"Oh?" Relieved, the young beauty became more alert. "I knew you could help."
"Lauren voluntarily agreed to a punishment or discipline session, a common practice here at Kelten that goes back many decades." The Dean fondly remembered that session, but he forced himself back to the present. "In order to keep this institution and its students functioning at the very highest professional level, the faculty has found these practices to be most effective. Since you're relatively unschooled in these practices from your previous school, I suggest you learn about them—and immediately. A teacher must know everything about her place of employment these days, don't you agree?"
"Oh, yes sir," she hastily agreed, shifting nervously, uncomfortable about the Dean's proximity in front of her.
"Miss Slatter, it's like an oven in here, and it's after hours, so I insist that you be more comfortable. It's so stifling that you look like you're choking. I won't take no for an answer. Take it off."
"If you insist, sir." Slowly, the black-haired beauty undid her jacket buttons, flustered by this attractive and forceful man. Her shoulders pulled back as she slowly forced the tight jacket down her arms, thrusting her chest forward. The Dean realized why she wore it all through a hot day. He stared unabashedly, seeing the lace on her blue bra pushing against the thin, summer-weight linen blouse.
"Isn't that better?" She nodded, humiliated by the filmy blouse that stuck tightly to her damp skin. Without warning, he stood, leaned over the desk and deftly undid two buttons, spreading the collar open and revealing her deep cleavage and the lacy edges of the bra. She forced herself to look up at him, the large hazel eyes wary.
A change had come over Ms. Slatter. "What is it?" he prodded. She was frozen, with a blank, faraway expression on her face. "Ms. Slatter, may I ask you a personal question?" he asked. Hesitating, she tipped up her glass but it was empty. "Would you like a refill?"
"Oh yes," she agreed gratefully. He poured her a large third cocktail, which she took eagerly and drank from.
"Were you ever spanked by your parents?" It was lovely to see this young innocent blush.
"Why do you ask, sir?"
"Ms. Slatter, please don't answer a question with a question."
"No sir, I was never spanked. But I was punished." The Dean waited. "By my father." He sat quietly. "He whipped and caned me," she blurted, cringing with shame, gulping her drink.
"I see. At what age?"
"From 14 up to the age of sixteen," she stammered, "when my parents divorced."
He nodded again. "Then you're, shall we say, experienced." He stood and walked around his desk, sitting on it directly in front of her. "How often?"
"Ummm. . . regularly." He raised an eyebrow as she squirmed. "Just about every weekend," she whispered, slurping more vodka to stall. There was silence. He reached up to her shoulders and pushed her down and back onto the thickly padded black leather coffee table behind her.
"Sit properly," he reminded her. She immediately spread her legs, but wider than he expected, the skirt riding up her toned thighs. She also returned her arms to behind her back. By now she was perspiring so much that he could see the prominent bulges of her extremely dark nipples, realizing that her lace bra must be mostly transparent.
"What implements did your father use? A hairbrush?"
There was a long pause, during which she felt his unbroken gaze drilling into her. "He said a brush was for children. No, he used. . . a belt or. . . a crop. . . sometimes a switch."
"How were you dressed? And did he put you over his lap?" Stalling for time, she replenished her cocktail.
Once she'd drank, she resumed. "He had me strip down to a bra and panties, but I wasn't over his lap." The Dean assumed that her father wouldn't let her wear a bra and panties designed for grandmas, but slutty lingerie like the kind she was wearing now. He would sit in a chair wearing his boxers and make me kneel before him, then pull my panties down to my knees where they restricted any movement. I'd have to bend into him and rest my face in his lap while he bent over and struck my back and rear."
The Dean could easily fill in the details, visualizing the hot teenager's lips buried in her father's groin as her old man inserted the brush handle in her cunt, pumping it back and forth as he came in his boxers, filling her nose with the scent of hot cum. Obviously she was sanitizing the lurid story.
"Do you have siblings?"
"A brother, two years younger."
"Was he disciplined as well?"
"No Dean," she whispered. "He. . . ." She tapered off.
He jumped on her reticence. "He what? Answer me!" She shook her head. ""You've exhausted my patience, Ms. Slatter, and have just earned yourself a punishment. Do you understand?"
She jumped up but found herself confined between the coffee table and the Dean. She swayed from the rapid intake of alcohol, blood rushing from her head, and held a hand to her forehead. He could see that the effects of copious vodka mixed with the sweltering heat were taking their toll. She had straightened up too quickly. She tottered and fainted, her glass dropping out of her hands as she collapsed, her upper body fortunately falling onto the top corner of the wide couch.
The Dean walked over, confirmed that she was unharmed, and lifted her legs from the coffee table onto the couch. He then slowly dragged her by the ankles so her head and torso descended from the top corner onto the seat itself. In the process, her dress inched up to mid-thigh, revealing her pale blue stocking tops. Pleased, he pulled more until the dress had bunched around her waist, revealing smooth thighs and a pair of lacy blue, French cut panties that matched her bra.
There was a big surprise. Her upper thighs were marked with striations, especially the inner portion. She'd been whipped, caned or flogged no more than several weeks ago. It must have been a boyfriend in her former location, he mused.
He'd never acted in such a foolhardy or dangerous way with any of his other pre-slaves, but he was too excited to stop himself. He took one ankle and gently raised it until a foot rested on the top of the sofa, then carefully lowered the other foot to the floor. She was now spread about as wide as possible without using a bar or ropes. He looked at her panties. Beneath them, large labia lips pushed against the taut fabric. He was genuinely surprised that her mound was shaved bare. He would never have guessed. This one was full of surprises. Apparently she was not as innocent or inexperienced as she seemed. Recklessly, he reached down and stroked the fading marks on her thighs. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. Emboldened, he positioned his pointer finger and thumb on each side of her lips, and squeezed. The fat lips bulged up and her hips and legs moved slightly, but she remained unconscious.
He touched a couple of fingers against the panties, expecting to find the material damp. Actually, it was drenched. He might have to accelerate his program with her, he mused. She was still out cold. He unzipped his bulging pants and rubbed his hard cock from her cheekbone down to her mouth, leaving a glistening smear of pre-cum. Squeezing his cock, he wiped it along her thick open lips, depositing more thickly glistening pre-cum and watching transfixed as it dribbled onto her slack tongue.
Coming to his senses finally, the Dean replaced both legs so they were together on the couch seat, then gently rolled her over. Sure enough, there were more marks on the rear of her thighs, exceeded by darker marks on her tight ass, visible through the transparent panties. He rolled her onto her back and lowered her dress to cover her panties, but left the fabric so it exposed her thighs and stocking tops so she would be embarrassed when she awoke.
He picked up one of the glasses and filled it halfway, then dribbled water onto her front, just enough to wet the dress and so he could better see her bra and breasts. Her eyes fluttered while he watched her nipples react to the icy drenching, growing hard. Brazenly, he pulled one bulging nipple and then the other. She moaned softly but did not awake. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would be training her tits and cunt lips. He estimated how many weeks it would take before the thick nipples and labia could be stretched by ½"–1" and how heavy the weights would have to be.
* * *
After a minute her eyes opened fully. After a few seconds, she realized where she was and what had happened and raised herself on her elbows, staring down at her exposed thighs but apparently oblivious of her protruding nipples. "I must have fainted," she said. She turned to the Dean. "I'm so sorry sir." She licked her lips, unaware that she was taking in more of his pre-cum.
"There's ice water in the decanter, Miss Slatter. Go ahead and refill your glass."
"Thank you sir."
"Go slowly now," he warned, getting hard from the sight of her huge nipples. They looked to be very dark in color, a charcoal gray.
She swung her legs off the couch and placed them on the floor, apparently forgetting that her thighs were still exposed when she saw the wet floor. "It's such a mess," she moaned. He gripped her biceps firmly and made her stand slowly, pleased at her embarrassment and contrition.
"Your blouse is a mess too. It's drenched." She looked down at her bulging tits. "Take it off." Awkwardly, she walked unsteadily to the low sideboard, bending over to pour. He regarded the taut legs and thighs as she bent over the sideboard. "You've just earned a second punishment, Ms. Slatter." Resigned, she took her place again sitting on the coffee table and unbuttoned her blouse, peeling the sodden fabric off her bra and wet skin.
"That's better," he said, ogling her magnificent tits and nipples. "I suppose you're wondering why I called you here?"
"Yes sir," she said contritely, ashamed at being so exposed in front of her handsome, strong-willed boss, sitting so close he could reach out and touch her tits.
"Doug Channing," he said.
"Oh, him! He was impossible, Dean," she said exasperatedly. After weeks of his insolence, disruptiveness, lateness, non-participation, rudeness and sneering, snide remarks, I had no choice but to fail him."
"Our rules stipulate that you're to first get approval from the Head of your department."
"But Dean, the Head of Phys. Ed. was away on medical leave."
"Then you should have come to me," he said firmly. "Ms. Slatter, what's the most important thing happening now on campus?"
"That's easy, Dean. The construction for the new center."
"And you know that the center's facilities – the theater, library, cafeteria, labs and more – are intrinsic to Kelten's continued status as the best school in this region of the country?" She nodded. "And that it required a capital fund of $15 million?" She nodded again. "Ms. Slatter, what's the name of the center?"
Why, it's the—oh my God," she muttered, the tawny skin going a shade paler. "Oh no. . . ." She drained her drink.
"Yes, Ms. Slatter: the Channing Center. Doug Channing is Brian Channing's only son, and Mr. Channing donated 65% of the center's funds himself." She clasped her hand to her forehead. "And he's supposed to give more."
"But Doug can still graduate by taking summer classes."
The Dean shook his head. "And miss the graduation ceremony? Miss the summer his father planned in great detail at great expense, like summering in Sardinia? You are both naïve and impetuous."
"Dean, what can I do? I'd do anything!" she pleaded.
"Fortunately for you, I've worked out a solution. It wasn't easy. Mr. Channing was livid."
"Oh, thank you so much," she said excitedly "What is it?"
"There are several aspects. I've already expunged the failure from our computer system and replaced it with a passing grade. But Mr. Channing has a number of conditions to prevent him from delaying or reneging on the balance of his capital contributions. He demands satisfaction. . . in the form of punishment." The Dean noticed Janice's chest rising and falling.
"First, he's asked me to administer your first discipline session, in order to determine your. . . tolerances and. . . aptitudes." She flushed but kept her hands behind her waist and legs spread. "Second, he's demanded that Dougie be taught how to discipline a woman." She swayed at this incredibly demeaning condition: to be whipped by that short smart-ass. "And third, he's insisted on meeting you, so he can inflict the next session himself." The Dean saw no need to mention that Mr. Channing had already seen the hot beauty at a school play and knew immediately that he had to have her. Janice's failing grade for Doug had worked into his craving quite nicely.