tagBDSMSamantha Provokes Her Professor

Samantha Provokes Her Professor

bySexySpanker©

Author's note: I took a break from continuing the other series that I'm working on for this story, which was inspired by one of my fans. Enjoy!



Samantha, a graduate student in my seminar on French literature, was late to class. When she had joined the department more than a year ago, in the fall after finishing her undergraduate degree, I had barely noticed her. She was a quiet type, diffident in the presence of her fellow students and reluctant to share her ideas in class. Just another lost student who had strayed into grad school in hopes of avoiding the "real" world, I thought. But after her first year, it was clear that she had undergone a dramatic change.

I always teach graduate seminars with the chairs in a circular formation – I find that it encourages discussion and puts the students at ease – so I had a very good view of Samantha that day as she entered the classroom ten minutes after we'd started discussing the assigned reading. She was wearing a very revealing white tank top and a short plaid skirt.

I couldn't help but stare as she sat at the tiny desk and crossed her legs, lifting her ass slightly and pulling down her skirt as best she could. I glanced up at her and saw her smiling at me. She had caught me looking.

Upset at myself for the lack of focus during class, I snapped back to attention. Michael, one of the best students in the class, was making a point about the affinity in prose styling between Camus and Houellebecq, but Samantha's entrance had made me drift off somewhere in the middle of his comments and lose track of his point. I had to improvise.

"How many of you agree with that?" I asked the class, trying to avoid looking at Samantha.

"I agree on the thematic level," she said, and I was forced to look at her, "but not on the stylistic level. There are too many differences to count."

This was indeed quite a change. The old Samantha never would have spoken up so boldly in class. I wondered what had happened to her over the summer. Was it merely a case of being a few months older, more mature? But why had she begun to dress in such a provocative way?

For the rest of the hour, we discussed the reading plan for the rest of the semester: de Sade, Bataille, Céline and Millet, among others. The title of my seminar was "Textualité / Sexualité: Narrative Theory and Eroticism."

Despite what outsiders might consider to be rather prurient subject matter, I strove to keep the class discussion focused on theoretical, not physical questions.

At the end of the session, the students slowly trailed out of the classroom, all except for Samantha. She approached me as I was shoving my lecture notes back into my messenger bag.

"Hi professor Carver."

She flipped a stray piece of black hair over her shoulder. She was quite petite, probably 5'0" or so, and her stature afforded me an amazing view of her breasts, which were large for her diminutive frame. Through the sheer fabric of her tank top, I was able to ascertain that she was not wearing a bra, and that her small nipples were erect.

"Hello Samantha. Did you have a good summer?"

"Sure did!"

She smiled up at me with large brown eyes and full lips. For a split second I thought about what it would be like to kiss her. I quickly banished the thought from my mind.

"So, professor Carver..."

"Please, the grad students call me Alec."

"Alec."

She paused for a minute and played with her hair again.

"Alec, I just wanted to apologize for being so late to class. I didn't mean to cause a disturbance."

"Don't worry about it. Just try not to make it a habit."

"I won't."

"Anything else?"

She smiled at me and twirled her hair.

"Do you like my outfit?"

"Um, sure I guess," came my inarticulate response. This 24-year-old woman had reduced me to the level of an undergraduate!

"I saw you looking at me."

"I was looking at you because you came in late," I snapped, "make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Or what?"

"Or you're grade will be affected," I said, confused by her challenge to my authority. As a young professor (I was only 30) I was particularly sensitive about keeping control of my classroom.

"Darn," she said as she walked towards the classroom door. She turned around and looked me in the eyes before leaving, "I was hoping you would say you'd have to spank me."

She winked, then closed the door behind her. As she exited the room, I could see the top of a lower-back tattoo peeking out from above her skirt. I was sure that I hadn't seen it last semester, or perhaps I hadn't paid attention. Just another part of her change, I guess. I was young enough to know that those tattoos were called "tramp stamps," and had heard the jokes about how they gave men something to look at during doggy-style sex.

This thought accompanied me on my way to the nearest bathroom, where I jerked off into a wad of toilet paper, imagining Samantha's cute ass stretched over my lap, wriggling in vain to escape my blows. It took me all of what seemed like 15 seconds to cum.

Our next class meeting was a week later. Once again, all of the students were in their seats at the top of the hour except for Samantha. Part of me was relieved. Maybe she'd dropped the class?

I hoped that she'd stop her provocative behavior – after all, while it wasn't illegal or even strictly unethical for us to sleep together (after the semester was over, that is) I was going to be up for tenure soon, and I knew that a few of the more conservative members of the department had quite a bit of discretionary power with the tenure board. If there was even a whiff of scandal I could be out on the street.

Ten minutes into the class session, Samantha had still not shown up. I kept glancing at the door, expecting her to come in at any moment. I had spent the better part of my free time in the past week trying not to think about all of the dirty things I would like to do with Samantha in bed – or in my office, for that matter.

As I waited for her to arrive, I spoke to the class without thinking. I heard myself as an other, speaking somewhere outside of myself. My thoughts were with Samantha.

A full half-hour into the class period, the door creaked open. Samantha, dressed in a short black skirt and tight matching t-shirt slowly entered the classroom. I almost gasped when I noticed that she was not wearing a bra, and that her nipples were standing at attention. I felt my cock stir involuntarily as she took her place, once again at the desk directly across from me.

"Sorry, I'm late," she said, interrupting the class discussion, "I had car trouble."

"Quite alright," I mumbled, "let's stay on task."

As the discussion continued, I kept glancing under Samantha's desk. Her skirt once again rode up high on her thighs, but she kept her legs tightly crossed.

A few minutes later, as one of the more loquacious students droned on about critical theory, Samantha reached into her purse and pulled out a lipstick applicator. To my surprise, instead of touching up her already quite prominent lipstick, she palmed the tiny applicator and raised it to her lap, while slowly uncrossing her legs and hiking up her skirt in the process.

"Kevin," I said, "could you tell us what kind of theoretical intervention Bourdieu is making here?"

Somewhere as if in the distance, I heard Kevin begin what I knew would be a long monologue.

Samantha's legs were totally uncrossed now, and though the top of the desk prevented me from seeing what happened next, I watched Samantha's face and filled in the invisible action with my imagination. In my mind's eye, I saw her lift the lipstick to her well-trimmed pubic mound and begin to rub herself. Her face was in ecstasy as she worked the lipstick across her clit.

She was getting herself off in the classroom, in full view of me and the other students.

No one else seemed to have noticed; my position directly across from her afforded me the best view. As Samantha got closer and closer to orgasm, I became more and more aroused myself. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips as she rubbed her clit, even reaching up once to tweak one of her nipples.

A few moments later she was shuddering visibly, her face flushing as her entire lower body twitched under the desk. I couldn't help but look her in the eyes as she came down from her orgasm. She smiled at me.

"...and so cultural capital is sublated into a kind of absolute signifier," finished Kevin.

I snapped back to attention.

"Thank you, Kevin," I said, looking at the clock. There were only a few minutes left in the hour, but my heart was beating so fast I knew I wouldn't be able to continue the discussion. I came up with something on the fly:

"During the rest of our class time, I want you all to jot down some ideas for your final papers. It doesn't have to be anything too specific at this point, but I'd like to see that you've started to give it some thought. It's never too early."

The groans of a few of the students told me that they thought it was indeed too early in the semester to think about their final papers. Nevertheless, all of them – including, to my relief, Samantha – began writing busily. Five minutes later, they had passed their notes around the circle to me and shuffled out of the classroom.

I stuffed the papers into my messenger back and headed to the bathroom for a furtive wank. I thought about Samantha masturbating in front of me in the classroom, then pictured her on her knees sucking my cock. She begged for my cum, then lapped it up as it spurted onto her tongue. I came just as hard as the week before, and almost as quickly.

That day I left early to work in my home office. It's a myth about professors that we can set our own hours and that we don't work during the summer. Sure we can decide when and where we want to work, but we're still putting in upwards of twelve hours a day, and for salaries that are pathetic compared to lawyers and doctors. Still, it was nice to have a change of venue every once and a while, and I was happy to be home at my desk.

After writing several e-mails to various faculty committees, I pulled out the stack of paper ideas I'd collected at the end of seminar. I wrote stray comments in the margins of each one. Some were already quite developed, a few were incoherent, but most were simply mediocre. I sighed.

Then I came to Samantha's. As I read it, my pulse accelerated and my palms began to sweat. I feared for my job, but was incredibly turned on at the same time. The paper read:

"Dear Prof. Carver. I know you want me to call you Alec but I'm just not comfortable with that. You see, I think that students should show more respect for their teachers. Maybe that's why I want to be your slut.

I want you to take me in hand. I want you to take me over your knee and spank my ass with your big strong hands, or maybe even your belt, then I want you to force me onto my knees and pull out your big thick cock. I know it's big, Prof. Carver, because I could see the bulge in your pants while I was getting myself off just now.

I want you to grab my hair and call me your dirty little cumslut. I want you to slap that big hard cock across my face and tell me you own my pussy, mouth and ass are going to enjoy all of them.

Then I want you to make me gag on that cock until I can barely breathe, then take it out and make me beg for it. And then...well, it looks like time is up, but I'll be happy to let you finish the story, because I've fallen in love with you, Prof. Carver, and I spent all summer thinking about you and what you and I are going to do together. Love, Samantha."

I had to unzip my pants as I read the letter to release my massive erection, but at the same time I knew that I had to report her letter before someone else found out about her behavior and my job was in danger.

I composed a terse e-mail to Prof. Bettencourt, the department chair. I wasn't relishing the thought of disclosing the contents of Samantha's note to her. I was sure that some of the scandal would rub off on me, even if I hadn't done anything wrong. Even so, I knew that the sooner I reported Samantha's behavior, the easier it would be to control the damage.

I was just about to send the e-mail, when a message came into my inbox. The sender was "Samantha H." I knew I should forward her message unopened, but I couldn't help myself.

The message took a while to load, which gave me a chance to second-guess myself. Just when I was about to click away from my inbox and send the mail to the chair, a large picture popped onto my screen.

It was Samantha, dressed in a low-cut top that exposed her cleavage. She had a large, anatomically correct dildo partway down her throat and was looking into the camera. But that wasn't all. Across her chest she (or someone else) had written in black marker "PROF. CARVER'S SLUT."

I sat there in disbelief, staring at the picture. Then I scrolled down to the text of the message.

"Hi Prof. Carver! Hope you like this picture! See you at your office hours tomorrow! XXO – Samantha."

I saved the letter to the chair to my drafts folder, and began to stroke my dick, imagining it disappearing into Samantha's throat like the dildo on the screen. I decided I would wait a while to send the e-mail. Less than a minute later I was cumming into a wad of Kleenex.

But after my orgasm had subsided, my sense of professional responsibility returned, and I knew that I had to tell my department chair. I cursed silently under my breath as I read over the e-mail one last time before attaching the photo that Samantha had sent me, then scanning in the note she had written, attaching that, and pressing send. I crossed my fingers, hoping that the situation wouldn't blow up in my face.

I had of course been trained in how to deal with unwanted sexual advances made by students. That was what I was experiencing, was it not, an unwanted sexual advance? At least that's how I had to make it seem to the outside world, if I wanted to keep my job. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to take Samantha the way she had described in the letter, to dominate her like I secretly desired to.

The first step in situations like this was documentation. Always documentation. I took out my daily planner and began to record the events thus far:

"Monday, September 1: Student playfully suggests that instructor 'spank her' for coming late to class. Monday, September 8: Student masturbates in full view of instructor during seminar. Student writes sexually explicit letter to instructor. Student sends sexually explicit photograph of herself to instructor via e-mail. Instructor forwards photograph to Modern Languages Department chair, along with report of student behavior."

I buried myself in work for the rest of the night. The next day I got to the office early and began to grade essays before my office hours started at 11:00. Two hours later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

It was Sophie Bettencourt, the department chair. She held a printout of my e-mail in her hand. I prepared myself for the worst.

"Alec," she said, "I don't have to tell you that this could be very embarrassing for the department and damaging to your career, no matter what it is that happened between you and this young woman."

"Nothing happened."

"So you say."

"You don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that. I'm trying to remain neutral here."

She shifted the papers in her hand to find the scanned copy of Samantha's note that I had attached to the e-mail.

"It strikes me as odd that a student would write something so provocative to a professor, and then follow it up with a pornographic photo, without some kind of reciprocity on your part."

"I've done nothing to encourage her."

"I assume you've documented all inappropriate behavior."

"Of course."

I pulled out my daily planner and opened it to the day of the first incident.

"Have a look."

She picked it up, dog-eared the page where the entries began, and tucked it under her arm.

"I'm going to photocopy this for our records. I'll arrange for the young woman in question to be transferred to another course. For the time being, the departmental executive committee doesn't need to know about this. But you are to document and report to me immediately any more overtures towards you by this young woman. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Let me remind you that professional conduct is one aspect that the tenure committee examines."

"I'm aware of that."

He tone was beginning to upset me. Did she really think I would start a relationship with a student, and during the semester no less? Then again, did I have a right to be angry? Samantha's advances had already led to orgasms more powerful than I'd had in years, and we hadn't even touched each other.

"Good. Keep me updated."

She closed the door behind her. I returned to my stack of grading, hoping that the rest of my office hours would remain uneventful.

Ten minutes later, there was another knock at my door.

"Come in," I said, as my heart raced.

"Hi Prof. Carver."

To my relief it was Lisa, one of my undergraduate students. She was around 18, and basically clueless about life at the university. She regularly asked me for advice on a range of topics, from registering for classes to finding books in the library. She was nice enough, so I was usually happy to help.

"Hi Lisa, how can I help you?"

"Well, I was wondering if you could take a look at my rough draft for the first writing project in English 100."

"Sure, have a seat."

The office door was ajar, as it was required to be during all faculty-student meetings.

Lisa took a seat across from me and handed me her assignment. As I read through it, I saw motion behind her, in the hallway. It was Samantha. She was wearing black tights and a long white t-shirt.

Her eyes met mine, and before I could look away, I saw her mouth something at me that I could swear was "I want to suck your cock." The fact that she pushed a finger into her mouth and worked it in and out between her full red lips supported this hypothesis. I was extremely angry, and extremely turned on at the same time. What if Prof. Bettencourt was still around?

"Lisa," I said, "I forgot that I've got an appointment in a few minutes. If you leave this paper with me, I'd be happy to give you comments on it and get it back to you tomorrow. Does that sound all right?"

"Ok Prof. Carver."

As Lisa walked out of my office, I quickly closed and locked the door behind her before Samantha could approach. I grabbed my bag and laptop computer, getting ready to make a hasty exit, but then there was a knock at the door.

"Professor Carver," – the voice was unmistakably Samantha's – "I know you're in there. I need to talk to you."

"I'm sorry," I said through the door, "I've been advised not to see you. You can't send a professor pictures like that and expect there to be no consequences."

"But Professor Carver," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper that was still audible through the door, "I knew there would be consequences. That's why I sent it to you. Over the summer I realized something about myself. I realized that I'm a naughty slut who needs to be punished. I need to be taken in hand by an older, handsome man. That man is you, Prof."

"Get away from the door and leave me alone," I whispered, "I'm not interested."

"Oh Professor, I know that you're interested. I can sense your dominant side waiting to come out. I can feel it during class. Your tone of voice. Your eyes. Your strong hands and arms."

I felt a surge of adrenaline course through my body. She was exactly right, of course. I did have a sexually dominant side that I tried to keep under control, after a disastrous attempt to explore it with my last girlfriend. She had asked me to talk dirty to her, and then became offended when I crossed the line. Since then, I had tried to play the "nice guy" in bed, but my dominant tendencies – so it seemed – were not far from the surface. But I knew I had to keep them in check if I wanted to keep my job.

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