About Transfer Credits

"I'm disappointed, Ms. Belladonna," he said as he took his seat across the desk. "You gave Donovan a pretty thorough intellectual beating in class today."

"I'm sorry, I--"

"I wasn't finished," he said, and his paternal tone put me back to silence. He cleared his throat and leafed through my paper as he went on. "Then you barely made a sound for the rest of the class. Why is that?"

"I," I averted my eyes to the floor. "I felt like I had overstepped a boundary somewhere."

"And?" he replied. I looked at him quizzically. "That's what we're here for. That's what this," he gestured around himself, "is all about. You told me about your tattoos," he went on as he cast off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Do you recognize this phrase?"

"Timore Profere Nullum," I read it out loud, squeezing every ounce of my Latin classes out of my memory to translate. "Fear profits nothing?"

"Exactly. Now, do you know why I'm disappointed?"

"Not because I tried too hard?"

"No," he said and shook his head disbelievingly. "Because you tried so hard, and you trounced that overwrought egomaniac in the middle of his self-aggrandizing epistle, but then you cried off and abandoned your argument the rest of the class."

"I'm," it took a moment for me to process this. I had to roll the words about in my head a few times, "sorry, sir."

"You should be," he agreed. "Don't let it happen again." He smiled. I must have turned a fair shade of red. "Also, don't use footnotes in this short of a paper. End notes, in MLA format, will suffice. I'll have no Chicago Style bullshit in my class -- pizza or citations, thank you."

To say I was surprised would have been an understatement. "You're letting me in?" I smiled at the little victory. Nearly squealed, in fact.

He nodded and opened his laptop. "Let's get you set up. Your advisor will have to approve the add -- Oh, Holland is your advisor?" he said and made a face. I nodded. He shook his head. "I'll get you reassigned to someone who can actually do you some good."

"Don't you need his permission to do that?"

He made a face. "Fucked if I care. Like he's going to notice if I take one student off his plate. He barely has the bandwidth for Intro to Literature these days. Anyone on the Fine Arts committee can make the swap in the system."

"Who would you put me with?" I asked.

"Someone who can guide you along your academic path with a firm hand and help you shape the future 'you' that you want to see."

I grinned as I followed his train of thought. "Of course," I replied. "I don't think there could be anyone better than yourself, Professor Maretti. Will you keep me in line when I make mistakes?" I asked.

"It would be irresponsible to do otherwise," he replied, smiling softly. "I need your consent to make the change, though. And your understanding that our advisement arrangement will be slightly less conforming to traditional academic standards."

"How so?"

"I have more," he clicked around on the computer a moment, I suppose to bring up the screen to make the swap, "rigid standards and much higher expectations than the rest of the faculty here, but I've had a look at your portfolio and your curriculum vitae, and I know you can meet the challenges I put you to. You will adhere to those standards, or there will be consequences."

"Will you help me learn the discipline I need?"

"I most certainly will," he said. "Do you consent to the change?"

"Yes, professor," I replied.

"Will you submit to my instruction?"

The very sound of the word as it came out of his mouth made me drip. "I will submit to you," I said, my giddy voice belying my eagerness.

He clicked his mouse. "And done," he said as he stood from his desk. "We're going to start tonight. I know, we don't really have a prior arrangement to define the," he thought for a moment as he walked across the office floor to sit on the chaise lounge in the corner below the window, "specific repercussions for improper academic behavior, but I believe in setting an example early on. And fear, Ms. Belladonna, has no place in writing -- creative or critical. So," he motioned me to follow him. I stood and did as asked, but he stopped me when I went to sit beside him. "No," he said. "Pants down, and lay across my lap."

I didn't understand. Or, more accurately, I knew what he wanted, but was too surprised to comply. "I.. I don't--"

His face changed as he snapped his fingers, the sharp crack echoed off the book-lined walls and the tiled ceiling. "You retreated to avoid the discomfort of being right," he said. "If one is to be as intellectually keen as you are, one need to accept the fact that one is going to step on some toes along the way. Cowering in mediocrity is unacceptable; letting yourself be less to fit into someone else's box is unacceptable. You need to learn that discomfort is part of growth, and that the pain you avoid will find you in the end. Sometimes in ways less savory than social awkwardness. Now, drop your pants and lay across my lap as I've instructed, Ms. Belladonna."

If had any doubts about my willingness to give in to him, they vanished with the sting of how he used my name -- the resounding, pained disappointment in how I acted felt like being punched in the stomach. Just the day before I was his little girl, sitting in his lap all demure and adoring. I liked that game. I liked it when he spoke so sweetly to me and made me feel special and pretty; so endearingly, possessively his. This wasn't what I thought it would be; it wasn't just sex and heedless lust. This felt different and somehow more real than the game we'd played before. And I knew from what he said that he meant every word, the good and the bad.

It took some shimmying to get the tight pair of jeans I'd worn that day down to my ankles. I didn't hurry, but I didn't linger either. "Do you want my panties down as well?" I asked, my voice more timid than I planned, and wondered at the turn of events however right it felt. He nodded without looking at me, impatient to get through what had to be done, and I complied, peeling the thong I wore down into my pants. Then I lay across his lap. My throat felt tight, and my eyes started to burn. I felt suddenly ashamed, but not because of the position in which I found myself. I had disappointed daddy.

How easily I crossed the line into this world still leaves me dumbfounded at times when I stop to think about it. But when the first strike fell across my rounded cheeks, I knew he gave me only the discipline I needed and the guidance to be better. His words -- about living without fear, being authentically myself, and not allowing myself to be less -- echoed the sadness I'd always felt as that misunderstood girl in school and elsewhere, always hunting for a place to belong and never finding it. He peered into the heart of me, into my very soul, and saw the thing I dreaded most, and called me out for playing the fool to placate the mob. That night was a lesson I would not forget.

The first two spanks were hard, but I tried to think of the enjoyable part of it. I whimpered softly at the stinging sensation that rang through me, but I couldn't deny how good it felt to be back with him, to feel his touch on my body any way I could get it. I would take a hundred smacks to the backside just to have his hands on me. The third was genuinely painful. I had to clench my teeth to keep myself from crying out, but nothing would stop my tears. The fourth had me yelping with the pain it sent through me, and the fifth left me sobbing.

"Daddy, please," I cried, broken and unable to take it any longer. "I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" he asked in a voice as firm as the floor beneath my feet.

"I'm sorry that I disappointed you, daddy."

"How did you disappoint me?"

I sniffled and choked on my tears as I tried to find the words I knew he needed to hear from me. He needed to know that I understood the lesson; that his efforts were not in vain. "I disobeyed you," I started. "You told me to always be authentically me and never lessen myself for anyone. I didn't want to be looked at like some kind of freak in front of the class," I continued, a bubble of snot formed at the end of my nose. "I was afraid, and I let that fear control me."

"And what should control you? What should guide you?"

"Daddy," I said emphatically.

"Why?"

"Because my daddy wants the best for me," I sobbed, trying my best to form words. "Because daddy cares for his little girl."

"And that's why I have to punish you when you do wrong -- do you understand?" he said, his voice softer and soothing. I nodded and felt the tension in me melt as the hardness in his tone dissipated. He had me get up and then sit tenderly in his lap; it stung like hell, but there was nowhere else I wanted to be more than there. He got a tissue and wiped away my tears and the clear globs of snot hanging under my nose. "When you let others convince you to be less, you degrade yourself. I won't allow that. Not my little girl. You're far too special for that."

I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face into him. His little girl. Everything turned back towards the righting of the world for me in just that moment. "I'm so sorry, daddy. Please don't be mad at me anymore."

He hushed me, smoothed out my hair. "I'm not mad with you, little girl," he said. "You're young and you have a lot to learn. But you seem to be a quick study." He kissed my cheek and then my lips. "Physically and intellectually stimulating is a rare combo, at that. I expect great things from you."

"Thank you," I said with earnest appreciation, drinking in his praises while they came. "Daddy," I said, squirming, "my butt really hurts, and, as much as I like being in your lap..."

He nodded, smiled. "Lay out on your belly on the chaise and let me take care of you," he said and I followed his command. He took off my shoes and pulled my pants and underwear off completely. He kissed the hand-shaped welts on my backside, which, when I took time to examine them later were very well defined, and excused himself to get some ice from the lounge there in the department office. He sat on the floor and held the plastic bag filled with cubes, wrapped in a paper towel, against my butt while I recovered. "You really did put Donovan in his place, though," he said.

I failed to suppress a giggle, and then sniffled before I agreed. "He had it coming," I said, arms folded under my chin. Where he sat, we were more or less face to face, though I had to tilt my head up to see him properly.

"'Intellectual laziness'," he repeated my words and I laughed as though the last five minutes hadn't happened. "I'll need to stock aloe in the classroom if you're going to keep dealing out burns like that."

"Mmm, aloe sounds wonderful right about now," I said, and then reached out a hand to touch his chest. "Thank you for the lesson, daddy," I said, and genuinely meant it. "And for everything else -- giving me the chance to join your class and taking me under your wing as my advisor. It means a lot to me."

He put his hand over mine and held it just there. "It's my pleasure, little girl. There's something special about you that I can't quite put my finger on; but it's there, and I want to see it shine, not get stuffed under a bushel basket."

My smile nearly split my face as he spoke, and the sigh I heaved officially cast away every pain I felt except the dull throb lingering from the waist down. "Can I show you how much I appreciate how good you are to me?" I pulled my eyes away from him for a moment, then, demurely, confessed. "I bought a toy before I came to campus," I told him. "I tried to find one as close to your cock as I could. I," I grinned at my own silliness. "I wanted to keep in practice for you for if we met again. It seemed sort of silly at first, but now..."

"That so," he said, intrigued. "How much practice have you had since our night together?"

"Every day. Can I show you, daddy?" I asked as my hand trailed down his chest to the bulge in his pants. "I can show you my mouth tonight, and then, maybe this weekend, I can show you the other ones?"

"I think that sounds delightful. Oh," he continued as he stood. I shifted down on the chaise to make space for him and propped myself up on my elbows, "I almost forgot. Friday night I'm having my advisee meet-and-greet -- just something I do every year to get everyone to know one another -- and then the last Sunday of each month, we have dinner together at my house. I'll have Cameron pick you up Friday evening."

I already had his belt and pants undone, my eager hands seeking the thing I wanted most in that moment. "Do you want me to wear anything special?" I asked as I pulled him free. His cock, though not yet completely erect, twitched in my little hands. I gave him a squeeze with both and kissed my way down the underside of his shaft, then gently started to stroke him with one hand while the other scooped his balls out from his pants.

"Something nice, but not too formal," he said as he relaxed back into a cylindrical pillow behind him. "A party dress, if you have one. The first dinner of the year is a bigger deal than the other monthly ones." He stroked my hair and swept it out of my face so he could see me better. His other hand gently stroked my still stinging bottom, making me shiver.

I pulled my knees up under me and pointed my heels out as I arched my back to give easier access to his hand. "I have just the thing," I purred and then ran my tongue up from his wrinkled sack to the tip of him. "A satiny red dress that hangs around my mid thigh." He made a pleased little sound in the back of his throat as I swirled my little pink tongue around the head of his cock to gather up his glistening precum. "Should I wear stockings, too, daddy?" Then I took his bulbous purple head between my lips and sucked, sliding back until I was left kissing it once more. Then it was time to show him what I had trained to do every day since I bought my toy.

One deep breath and down I went, swallowing him whole with a single easy gliding motion, cutting off his answer to my last question. I moaned as I went, vibrating my throat and mouth with just the right frequency, and held his balls up to lick them the hard way when I reached the base. That rich, musky scent of him entered my nostrils as they pressed against his crotch. I held him there and worked my throat around his meaty shaft, counting as I went -- to ten, then to fifteen, then to twenty -- and doing my best to ignore my burning lungs. It was his turn to lose his words, seeing my tiny little mouth make his fat, blood-bloated rod vanish had his face contorting in ecstasy, and both his hands gripping tighter onto me -- one in my hair and the other on my beet-red ass.

The latter made me break my concentration at twenty-five. I slid back, a thick stream of saliva followed my path despite my constant sucking, licking, slurping, and swallowing to try and avoid making a mess. I worked the top half of him vigorously for a moment before descending again and giving his balls a gentle squeeze. Then with two fingers pressed against his perineum, massaged in little circles as I worked his turgid length in and out of my throat. "Oh, you sweet little girl," he said as he stroked my hair. His other hand wandered down past my buttocks and slipped two fingers into my wetness of my waiting pussy. "You'd better wear those stockings. You are the perfect little slut for daddy's cock. God, I have missed your eager mouth and your sexy little body these past few weeks."

I pulled back all the way, and gasped a mouthful of air as I drove my hips back onto his fingers, smiling with my eyes closed. "My mouth and body have missed you too, daddy," I said and then licked a long string of my own spit from his shaft. "I've craved the taste of your perfect cock every day since our first night together. I haven't let anyone else touch me since." I stretched out with one arm and managed to grab my thong out of my discarded pants. I'd seen a trick on the internet where girls used their underwear as a scrunchy to keep their hair up. I bundled up my curly black locks and smiled at him. "My mouth and throat belong to you, daddy," I said and pulled my top up over my head. I wanted to show him everything, wanted to feel his eyes on my perky little breasts and toned tummy. I wanted him consumed with the thought of ravaging my entire body. "Use me however you want to."

"You want that, don't you," he said as his free left hand caressed my cheek and down my throat.

"Like nothing else I've ever wanted," I confessed and ground back against his hand still inside my sopping wet slit. "Fuck my mouth and throat. Make me gag. Make me choke on my own spit. Come on my face and body if you want. After what you did to me that night, after all the wonderful things you made me feel, after all you showed me about myself and what I could really be -- I meant what I said, daddy. You own me." I ran my tongue, broad and flat, from the base of his cock over the head and down the other side. "Take what you want from me."

"And if someone else comes through that door?"

I felt my body blush at the thought, then kissed the head of his cock as I remembered the hotel window and our little imaginary audience. "Don't stop. Let them see what they can never have." I took the engorged head of his cock between my lips again and rapidly lashed my tongue over his glans, pausing only momentarily to swirl the tip of it around the eye of his serpent. But that pause was long enough for him to grab me by my ponytail and shove his hips up towards my waiting mouth. I moaned in surprise as he disappeared into my throat, but made no move to stop him or move my hands to brace myself. I kept my position, eyes wide as he fucked rapidly in and out of my throat and mouth. I gagged as he went from the rapid progression of his thrusts, and slurped up my spit on the uptake as best as I could. Before long, he settled into a steady rhythm, punctuated by the constant "glug-glug-glug" sound emanating from my mouth and throat.

He gave me a short break, holding my head halfway down on his fat cock to allow me space to breathe and swallow some of my own spit that had gathered there. I was thankful not to be wearing mascara that day. He sighed and took his fingers from my tight little box, then slurped them clean and put them back with more vigor. "It's amazing that a little girl like you can handle all of me so easily," he said and pushed my head down onto him, holding me there. He sighed, head tilted back on the chaise, and counted patiently, "...ten...eleven..." while he shoved a third finger into my sopping wet box. I made a little surprised, somewhat pained sound that came out as a choking cough around the base of his cock. "Twenty...twenty-one..."

Someone knocked at the door and my eyes went wide. We were caught.

"Who is it?" he asked without a hint of worry to his voice.

"It's Cameron. You wanted to see me about the party tomorrow night?"

I could see him looking down at me, smiling as he let up on my head for a moment, just enough to breathe, then pushed me back down. "Oh, that's right," he said.

Tell her to give you a moment. Tell her to come back in the morning.

"Come right in," he said. The door knob clicked and my entire body froze.

"I -- Oh, God, I am so sorry, I.. Is that..."

"Amelie," he said my name and slipped one of the three fingers out of my twat and into my asshole. With every sense turned up to eleven at the sudden burst of adrenaline and my heart pounding in my ears, I came almost immediately, and turned an even brighter shade of red. "We met over the summer and we're picking up where we left off. You going to be okay, Ms. Cameron?"

"Yes," Cameron said as she took and released a deep breath. She seemed to recover quickly from the shock of what she saw. I wish I had. At least with how bright and hot my skin blushed, she might not notice the hand prints on my backside as easily. "Sir," she added quickly.