Freshers' Fair 02

The fact that my backside was too sore to sit without a cushion, did nothing to assuage the ache between my thighs. This was silly, I said to myself. I needed to masturbate. I could just plunge my hand down my panties and do it. But I did no such thing.

Trying to settle myself by listening to music did not help, and the stories I liked to read on Literotica would hardly lessen my neediness. I felt like one of the women I read about there, a teacher who was about to come under the influence of one of their students. Such stories never ended well, and if that was true of fiction, how much more would it be true of real life? Hell, I had been one of those who had helped draw up our current rules. Relationships with students were forbidden, though if both sides wanted it, you had to make a declaration to the Dean and never have anything to do with the student's work. There was, as the relevant passages made clear, an imbalance of power between academic and student which meant that it could never be an equal relationship. It made me laugh to read that with my bum still stinging from being spanked by a student. There was a power imbalance for real - but it was hardly one in my favour.

With a tremendous effort, aided by the fact that I was undoubtedly exhausted, I drifted off to sleep. Turning on my back on waking reminded me what had happened. My backside was still sore. When I looked at it in the bathroom mirror, it was still bruised in places. It would be French knickers day, I decided, I really could not bear anything form-hugging there. So, I reflected, Isobel was influencing my choice of undies; great.

Fortunately, I usually sit on the sofa in my room when giving tutorials, so it was not too uncomfortable - well, apart from the fact that the second pair of students had clearly not prepared adequately for the session. At another time I'd have told them off, but with a dull ache in my bottom, I felt disinclined to. Otherwise, the morning passed without incident.

We had a meeting of the LGBT+ group before lunch, to review the night before and agree on future projects. I gave Sarah lunch, and of course, the conversation strayed onto the subject of Isobel Frobisher-Smythe.

"I was amazed that she was there last night, Professor."

"Why?" I asked.

"She tends to be a lone wolf. But I assume she was looking for her prey. Did you notice here with anyone?"

I gave the only answer I could and lied:

"No. Did you?"

"No, though I did notice her looking at you. Be careful, there were rumours about her and one of the teachers."

"She is clearly a one-woman rumour mill," I said, and we both laughed.

The afternoon tutorials went off well, and by six I was more than ready to wind down over a drink in the senior common room, and then enjoy dinner at Hight Table. So it was not until I got back to my rooms that my thoughts began to stray, as did my left hand.

I needed to stop. I need to do that not because "Miss" Isobel had forbidden me to touch myself there, but also because I needed to get a grip on myself. My whole life had been formed in a struggle with what nature had given me. Undersized, it had transpired that I suffered from a syndrome which restricted growth, prevented full puberty, and left me more or less the same shape leaving school as I had been when I had entered it. The comments of my peers as puberty hit them and missed me made "body shaming" seem small beer. "Little Miss No Tits," had been a particular favourite of one of the Head Girls at my school; that Isobel acted and looked like her, was a help in getting a grip. Mama had been told I could not expect to have a long life, or achieve much. I had been told that at the age of five. Now, a quarter of a century later, I had a doctorate and an academic career. Nature be damned. It could impose limits on my body, but not my spirit. If my will had fought those limitations, she had best stir her stumps and deal with this. So, 'sod it,' I thought, and masturbated myself to a very satisfying orgasm.

Once I had recovered and cleaned up, I texted Isobel: "that was most satisfying. Good thoughts." Nothing incriminating in that. I had not expected to have to wait long for a reply; nor did I. "Good girl!" Now that, I thought, was interesting.

Naturally, my thoughts strayed in that direction once I went to bed, but no longer with that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew that I could give in to Isobel. Part of me desperately wanted to. But I was not going to throw away everything for which I had worked because my inner slut needed satisfying; she could bloody well wait as well.

I felt a spring in my step, despite another dank, rainy, gloomy Oxford morning. Couldn't those medieval scholars have found somewhere with a better climate for their colleges, or was that part of the ascetic mindset? If ever there was a first world problem, that was one of them.

My phone pinged.

"Want to meet? I x"

"Not if you are going to be like before. P"

"Let's talk over coffee. See you in St Aldgate's for 3?"

As it happened, I was free between two and four o'clock, so that would be possible.

"Can shift something, but have to be elsewhere by 4."

I was going to apply limitations; would she accept them?

"K, see you."

Lines needed drawing. My backside still bore faint traces of where she would draw them, but unless I could face up to that temptation without succumbing, she was still living rent-free in my head - and pussy.

To prepare, I did what I always did, concentrated on my hated administration, dealing with a few dozen emails and some questions from students. No plan survives contact with the enemy, von Moltke said, and as he seemed to have known what he was talking about, I was at one with him. That did not mean not having any plans, it meant being flexible enough to adapt when the "enemy" advanced theirs.

I avoided getting to the coffee house early, and by getting there on time, avoided giving her an opening line about my being late because I was hesitant. That meant we arrived simultaneously. She grinned; I held her gaze.

We sat, ordered tea and scones, and then got down to not getting down to business.

I let her break the silence.

"I didn't think you'd text."

"You did. You knew I would. Why not tell me what you expected?"

"Compliance. That was why I thought you'd not text."

"So why meet now?"

"I am intrigued."

"By what?"

"You. You evidently wanted what I gave you the other night, and if you had no interest, you would not have followed it up. I am intrigued."

"Isobel, you will be as aware as myself of the boundaries between truth and fiction, but, and I make an assumption here about your reading habits, have you ever read a story about this sort of thing which ends well for the submissive?"

I had deliberately trailed a revelation for her to see how she would react.

"So, the professor reads naughty stories about submissives, does she?"

"I do. Do you?"

Such a direct question seemed to take her aback.

"And if I do?"

"If you do, you will be aware of the role reversal scenario."

"In which a respected professor gets her arse spanked by one of her students?"

"In which an arrogant blonde domme gets her arse spanked?"

The look she shot me was one which pleased me.

"You HAVE to be joking me?"

"Do I?" I said. "Are you telling me you have never, ever, wanted to have the responsibility of dealing with a submissive removed from your shoulders?"

"No, no I haven't."

"Me thinks you protest too loudly. But if that is true, we can drink up and go in a minute. If it is a lie, we can do the same. Either way I can put it down to experience."

As I finished my tea and fished for my bag, Isobel looked at me.

"How did you know?"

"As you are telling me the truth," I said, "let's refill."

I refilled our cups, still looking at her.

"It's not a settled thing, you understand, just something that occasionally passes through my mind."

"Like having my arse spanked passed through mine?"

"You enjoyed it."

"You might, shame you can't let your guard down enough to find out."

"Who says I can't?"

"You, by lying to me and saying you'd never considered it. It would be a shame if you were able to dish it out but feared to take it."

"I am not afraid of anything," she said, hotly.

"So, you'd submit to me?"

"To you, don't be bloody silly. You're a natural sub, what the fuck do you know about being in control?"

"You'll never know then, will you? A shame, I'd have loved to have seen your bare arse turn red. But there we go."

And with that, I got up, paid the bill, and left, looking back at an Isobel who seemed to be having trouble believing her eyes.

Now I could let myself acknowledge that my legs were shaking and my panties distinctly moist. I had come within a hair's breadth of simply giving in and letting her do what she wanted. But that was not what I wanted, and I had faced it, and her, and survived - just.

It was a shame that the next meeting was one of the governing body, not least because I was wanting to lose some governance over my own body, and had to wait until later; by that time the urge had gone. Perhaps before I could control anyone else, I needed to control myself?

I was not altogether surprised by a text from Isobel when I looked at my phone after breakfasting.

"Can we talk?"

I texted back:

"Open your legs if you are wearing a skirt and send me a photo."

I felt the tension for her. It was a calculated risk, but that was the point; it was calculated.

A few moments later came back a picture of a pair of black French knickers showing some of her lips.

"We can talk. I suggest Christchurch meadow at 2."

"I will be there."

I deleted the photo. I had no intention of using it to compel her to do anything. Applying my intellect to the problem, as opposed to surrendering to my libido, I had mapped out, if not a plan of campaign, then a general schema of where I wanted this to go.

I rather impressed myself with my ability to get through the morning's tutorials with due and proper diligence. But there was a mounting feeling of tenseness as lunch ended and I took myself off to the Meadow.

And there, sitting on one of the benches, was Isobel, looking beautiful, dressed in a pink blazer, a black mini skirt, a black turtleneck, and pink mary janes. She really was the most stylish student I had seen. I smiled.

"Thanks for coming."

"Did I have much choice now you have that photo of what's under this skirt?"

"I deleted it. I'd never use anything like that, or, indeed, compel you."

"Really?" She looked shocked.

"As you said to me the other night, there's nothing to stop you leaving, so if you want to you can."

She looked at me.

"What the fuck are we doing then?"

"Beating about the bush," I smiled, "not that, from what I saw, you have much of a one."

She was even prettier when she blushed.

"I like a nice landing strip, but not gross bushes. You?"

"I was lasered some time ago," I told her, "so nothing there to bother us, as you must have seen."

"Well I was concentrating on your cute arse!"

"Tell me, Isobel, do you ever want anything more than to abuse your pets?"

I watched her like a hawk, observing her facial muscles tighten and her eyes blink, nervously.

"Daddy aways said that we have to take what we want, that's how to succeed in the world. So that is what I do."

"So, you are being a good girl for daddy?"

"Don't put it like that, it's not like that!"

"Oh I was not implying incest; I was implying control by indoctrination. What about love and affection?"

"What do you mean?" Isobel asked. I could see from her eyes that she was furiously thinking.

"I mean that your father is an alpha male, and you want to please him by being an alpha female, which also plays to your talents. But you risk cutting yourself off from true intimacy."

"What's this got to do with photos of my knickers?"

"You trusted me not to do anything with the photo. I trusted you not to say anything about my spanking."

"So?"

"So, relationships are based on trust, which means we have the basis for one, if we want it."

"But I thought students and lecturers were not supposed to, you know?"

"They can if I tell the Dean and you tell your Dean and we each sign a piece of paper. The fact that I will never teach you or examine your work and we are at different colleges will make that easier."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That we explore whether we want a relationship. You are very beautiful, and you seem to like me. You also like spanking me, and I liked being spanked by you. I think you might also like that."

Her eyes widened.

"You'd be open about me, really? Why?"

"Because, if we want a relationship, it's the only way forward."

"What about ...? You know?"

"If you tell me that you don't want a relationship, or that your knickers aren't soaked at the prospect of you being spanked by me, then we can part as friends. If you want it, and the spanking, you just have to say."

"Is, isn't rather quick? And what about my pet girls?"

"On the latter, I said nothing about exclusivity. I want to explore a relationship with you, not possess you. If you need to fuck other women, that's acceptable. What about the state of your French knickers?"

"So, we take it slow, and I am free to fuck who I want?"

"Yes, and yes," I smiled.

"What have I got to lose?" She grinned.

"Your knickers and your dignity," I quipped, "but you get a lot in return."

"I do?"

"Pleasure, but also, I think a good domme is all the better for knowing what it is like to be submissive. It goes without saying, but I will say it, that this is between us. What do you say?"

She grinned at me. She really was drop-dead gorgeous, and I could see why she had evolved as she had. But underneath that blonde ice queen exterior was a warmer, less certain person looking for something that being the alpha woman was never going to deliver to her heart.

"I say yes," she smiled, looking relieved. "So, what now?"

"I'll see my Dean, you see yours, I'll send you a link to the forms.:

"You bitch!" She whispered. "You know I am fucking soaking. I meant now!"

"Oh, now," I grinned again, "now you go behind those bushes, remove said knickers and bring them back to me. Then we go to my flat. Understood?"

"Yes, Miss!" I could see the lust and excitement in her eyes and grinned back.

Without a word, she went behind the bushes and when she came back, handed me a very damp black bundle.

"You are soaked, aren't you?"

"Yes Miss."

"And you are a good girl, Isobel. So let's go back to mine, and oh, don't worry if the wind blows, you won't be showing too much.