Professor Entrapped & Punished

<u>Chapter 1 - The Set-Up</u>

As I knocked on the door of a building in the refurbished warehouse district of the town, my mind replayed the circumstances that had brought me to this.

I am a 35-year-old Professor at a middle-level women's college in a small city in the north-east. The students are the kind that didn't make it to their top Ivy choices and ended up here as their back-up. They tended to come from wealthy backgrounds and carry a strong sense of entitlement. I was teaching classes (lots of them) in public speaking and writing.

It wasn't my ideal job, but I didn't have a lot of choices. Out of graduate school, I had landed a very good position at a research-oriented university as a tenure-track assistant professor, and things seemed very bright. I was a popular teacher, and my research was going well. But I overreached and trusted people I shouldn't have. I had received a very large federal research grant with a colleague, and unbeknownst to me, he was using the funds for all sorts of private expenses. I had no idea what was happening, but as my name was on the project as well, when the deception was revealed, my guilt was not parsed out. I was "encouraged" to resign quietly and to try and rebuild my career in a less high-pressure environment - and specially to keep myself out of anything that had even a hint of impropriety connected to it. Thus, I found myself in this academic backwater. It was that vulnerability to anything that even vaguely had the whiff of scandal that had me knocking on the door of this old brick building.

I had been at the college for around six months, and despite being surrounded by lots of nubile and attractive young women, had vowed to not seek any kind of romantic or sexual liaison with them. A charge of sexual harassment on top of financial misdealing would have been the death sentence to any chance I had of academic rehabilitation. So when I was called to meet with the Dean of Students, I was a little puzzled.

The Dean, Carol Seymour, was an attractive woman in her early forties. Thick blond hair, pulled back into a stylish bun, framed a pretty face donned by designer spectacles. She was dressed, as usual, in form fitting business attire - a white blouse with blue jacket, matching calf-length skirt and modest heels. Also in attendance was a younger women, Ingrid, who was introduced as her assistant. Ingrid was dressed in a similar professional fashion, her straight brunette hair cascading around her shoulders. She was also very pretty but had a stern look on her face, as did the Dean.

After a few perfunctory pleasantries, Carol told me the reason for the meeting.

"I am afraid I have something rather unpleasant to discuss with you. Ingrid is here as a witness to take notes on the meeting."

My heart sank as I thought she was telling me that my position was not being renewed!

"We have had an allegation of very serious misconduct on your part."

My heart sank even lower.

"A student reported that she saw you in the laundry room of the dorm next to your office building and thought this was a bit strange. As the washing machines were all busy, she had left a basket of dirty clothes there. When she went to check on machine availability, shortly after seeing you there, she says that she discovered some of her underwear and other intimate clothing was missing, and has accused you of stealing them"

I was in shock by now, as I had not been in the laundry room at all, and certainly didn't have anything to do with missing underwear!

"She was very upset and reported this to my office and demanded some action be taken. We told her that she must be mistaken, and managed to get her to agree that if we searched your office and discovered nothing, to not take her allegations any further."

I was relieved and angry at the same time - relieved that there was a way of proving my innocence, angry that my office could be searched without my permission.

"Your office is of course college property, so you have no expectation of privacy there, in case you are wondering why we proposed this."

Still more relieved than angry at the violation of privacy, I sort of nodded my assent. The Dean continued.

"Unfortunately when Ingrid and myself went to your office, with the student, to confirm your innocence, we found these in one of the desk drawers."

Saying that. she laid out a number of brightly colored panties, as well as some red stockings, and what I recognized as a garter belt, on the coffee table between us.

My head was spinning with confusion so much, I must have been close to fainting, but I managed to sputter my innocence and insisted there must be a mistake, but the Dean very calmly answered,

"There is no mistake. If I had not conducted the search myself, I would have said this was just a silly misunderstanding, but I was totally shocked at what I found. The evidence is irrefutable. The clothing was exactly what was described as missing from the laundry basket, you were seen in the vicinity, and the stolen property was found in an office that only you use."

I continued to protest, but she cut me off, saying,

"I'm not interested in discussing this further. The only thing to decide is how we are going to proceed. The student is insistent that you be charged, and one option we have is to hand over our evidence to the police in the town and let them handle it. You will be charged with theft and the case will go to court, unless you plead guilty. Either way the publicity will end your academic career. After what happened at your last place of employment, if this becomes public, you will be out of academe as well, as being tarred a sexual deviant."

At this point my body totally betrayed me and started shaking, rendering me speechless. She carried on.

"I don't think that is in anyone's interest. The college doesn't want this type of publicity any more than you do, but the student is insisting something be done. We proposed to her that we handle this internally, but she is worried about a cover-up. So we suggested that you receive some therapy for your 'illness' and she was receptive to that, but only if there was some guarantee that there was some substance to the treatment. We proposed that the therapist meet with her after the sessions to assure her that you are learning your lesson."

Both the Dean and Ingrid looked at me expectantly. Carol finally said,

"So those are your choices. We hand this over to the police, and you take your chances in the regular justice system. Or, alternatively, you undertake some sessions with a therapist who specializes in this kind of thing."

I still wasn't exactly sure what was happening. Ten minutes ago my future was still quite rosy. Now it was potentially destroyed.

"We need an answer, now!"

Obviously, I had little choice and I reluctantly agreed to the alternative-to-the-police option. Ingrid took a document from the folder paced on her lap and told me to sign in the places indicated, after which she would sign as witness.

As I read it, I realized it was in two parts - first, a confession that I had stolen women's underwear from the student laundry room, and second, that my options had been explained to me, and that I was freely choosing the therapy program. I again protested that I was not guilty of the accusations. Impatiently Carol told me that if that was the case, I should not sign this document and attempt to prove my innocence in the regular courts.

Not really having any choice, I reluctantly signed the two documents and handed then to Ingrid. I thought I detected an exchange of smiles between them as she signed as witness.

Ingrid now spoke for the first time, handing me a card.

"Here is the address. Your first therapy session is tomorrow at 2pm. I have checked your teaching schedule to ensure you have no conflict."

As I left, I was still trying to make sense of what had just happened. Clearly this was a set up, but by whom? And why? And how to prove it?

<u>Chapter 2 - Therapy</u>

That was how I found myself at this old-fashioned brick building for my first therapy session. My knock was answered by a woman I recognized. I had seen her at a number of meetings that had been arranged for new faculty at the start of the year, where she seemed to be providing some kind of advice and support. She looked to be, like me, in her mid to late-thirties and introduced herself as Sarah Evans, a psychotherapist who worked part time for the college. She was a very attractive woman, her silky golden hair pulled back and hanging down to the middle of her back. Gold wire-rimmed glass, sparkling green eyes, understated makeup and a healthy tanned face radiated a calm demeanor. She was of medium height with a healthy toned body and wore a white blouse top with stylish brown slacks.

She had a very confident air to her as she stepped aside to let me enter. Shaking my hand, she led me up the stairs, her firm and seemingly supple bottom right before my eyes as I followed. I have always had a thing about women ascending stairs, the way their hips sway, and this did nothing to change that. I felt my cock twitch in my pants.

The stairs led into an open loft-like space, very tastefully decorated and furnished. Large windows allowed daylight to flood the second-floor space. Bookcases lined the walls of the room. On one side there was a large desk, neatly organized, and a comfortable sitting area in front with two easy chairs and a coffee table. On the other side of the room was a relatively open space with a 10x10 oriental rug, in the middle of which was placed a straight-backed chair pointing back towards the stairs we had just ascended.

Sara moved to the open space, sat on the chair, and indicating that I should take my shoes off, told me to come stand in front of her on the carpet, about five feet away.

I thought it strange that we were not in the comfortable sitting area to start our discussion. I had been to therapy before, and had been made to feel comfortable and relaxed before we started the conversation. Smiling, crossing her legs and leaning forward on her legs, she started to explain.

"You should know that the therapy I practice is not talk therapy. I have found that for cases that involve a troublesome sexual component, like yours, behavioral modification works much better."

I attempted to explain that this was all a big misunderstanding, that I was innocent of the accusations, that I had been framed somehow and was here because I had no other choice. Looking annoyed she simply said,

"If that is the case, you need to leave immediately and I'll inform the Dean that everything, including your signed confession and the items discovered in your office, be turned over to the police."

I quickly said that wasn't what I meant, but .... my words sputtered out. Sara interrupted my feeble attempts at articulating my thoughts.

"Given your attitude, I am afraid that before we start, I need to hear an admission of guilt from you, otherwise the therapy will be ineffective. If you do not admit to doing anything wrong, then by definition there is nothing to modify, and this is a waste of time. And I'm not interested in wasting time. So, if you want to continue with this therapy, please tell me precisely why you here."

She smiled, and continuing to lean forward, elbow on leg, simply waited.

Signing a document I did not write was one thing, but having to say it out loud was a hundred times worse. Stammering, words somehow emerged from my mouth.

"I am here as an alternative to the college sending my case to the police."

Head quizzically crocked, her eyes told me to continue.

"I stole some underwear from the laundry basket of a student, and I'm here to be cured of doing this again."

Seemingly satisfied she started to explain about the therapy.

"As I said, this is not talk therapy, which is quite ineffective for something like this. My approach, which I must admit is still experimental, and largely theoretical, can be described as behavior modification through negative emotional reinforcement."

I looked at her puzzled, as I had no idea what she said.

"I'll put in in simple terms. Old style Skinnerian behavioral modification is based on operant conditioning where there is a positive or negative reinforcement either through reward or through punishment. My methods are based on a very negative emotion being connected to what you did. I have hypothesized that the most powerful negative emotion, especially in sexual cases is the opposite of pleasure - humiliation, embarrassment and shame."

My stomach was starting to turn again at what she was saying.

"There is some old research that found that while women's greatest fear is being physically assaulted, men's greatest fear is being laughed at. My approach builds on that and uses humiliation and embarrassment as a way to modify unwanted behavior."

As she finished, she stood up and moved in front of me, so close I could smell her subtle perfume.

"For this therapy to be effective, and for you to keep the case away from the police, you understand that you have to do exactly as I say?"

As I stood paralyzed, she looked me in the eyes, her face now just a foot away from mine, and said,

"I need you to verbally acknowledge that you will follow all instructions without hesitation."

As her gaze pierced into me, I stammered my answer as calmly as I could.

"I will follow your instructions without hesitation."

"Good. Raise your arms above your head and keep them there."

Puzzled at this request, I did as I was told. Immediately her hands came to the bottom of my t-shirt, pulling it up and over my arms. I stood before her, suddenly and shockingly shirtless, arms above me.

Then, before I could really comprehend what was happening, her fingers went to the belt at my waist, unzipped my fly, and kneeling down, my pants and underwear were pulled down to my ankles in one swift movement. Instinctively I went to pull them up before she sharply told me to get my hands back up. I did as instructed, and realized that she had stripped me almost naked in just a few seconds. Embarrassment and humiliation did not even come close to describing what I felt. Luckily, I remained flaccid, the reaction from watching her come up the stairs before me, replaced with panic when she had started to explain the session.

She retook her seat in the chair, sat back, crossed her legs, and smiled without any pretense of trying to hide it.

"We know that being looked at naked by a fully clothed person is deeply embarrassing for most of us - even more so when the person is of the opposite gender. Would you agree?

I frantically nodded my head, hoping she would end this torture having made her point. But she was just getting started.

"Actually, partial nakedness like this is even more effective in eliciting the negative emotion, especially when the pants are still on at the ankles. It draws even more attention to what has been done. What do you think?

Again, I nodded desperately, as she continued to look at me, her eyes going up and down my body. I thought of the sight we made together. A fully clothed woman sitting comfortably while a man stood before her, pants around his ankles, displaying himself helplessly. My heart was pounding, my face flush with signs of embarrassment. I didn't think it could get much worse, until Sara picked up her phone and proceeded to take a picture of me.

"For my own records," she explained.

And then I noticed something inexplicable. My cock was no longer flaccid, but was filling out in tumescence. I certainly wasn't erect, but I was in the first stages of getting there. I desperately willed it to go down and tried to understand what was happening. I wasn't turned on, in fact I was mortified, but my body was reacting in a different way. Sara noticed as well and a smirk swept across her face. She told me to turn around, "so that she could see my pert little bottom." The pants at my ankles made it a little difficult, but small movements allowed me to do what she said. I heard another click of her phone, and for a couple of minutes she continued to watch me in this position, before instructing me to turn around. My cock was still rising!

"There is limited research on this topic, and as I said, I am still experimenting but there is anecdotal evidence that for men especially, being given an over-the-knee spanking by a stranger is especially mortifying."

Smiling, she patted her lap, and said,

"Let's find out!"

My legs wouldn't move, and I think tears came to my eyes.

Saying "are you really going to make me do this?" Sara stood up, grabbed me by the ear like a small boy, and maneuvered me over her lap. My hands went to the floor on one side, and my legs held me up on the other, as she adjusted me over her lap so that my ass was the highest point. My cock rested on her slacks beneath me. I dreaded the blows to come, but instead she merely rested her hand on my ass.

"It's not the pain that's important, it's the symbolism. Just the thought of being in this position is much more powerful in eliciting the emotion we're after."

Her fingers fluttered up and down the crack of my ass, and gently prying my legs apart, cupped my scrotum. At that, my cock got even harder under me.

She was correct about the physical versus psychic humiliation. At least the spanks would have brought me to reality. As it was, I was lost in embarrassment and panic, not least at my developing hardness.

Finally she told me get off her lap and resume my place in front of her, arms over my head. I again stumbled there, the pants at my ankles still impeding easy movement, As I took my position my cock was now pointing up at a 45-degree angle.

Crossing her legs once again, Sara shook her head and said,

"That's a shame. One indication that the therapy is working is if the erotic has been removed from your crime, so when you think about why you are here, you are not responding in sexual ways."

Saying that I needed to be totally naked for the next stage, she knelt in front of me, her face level with my cock, helping remove my pants, underwear and socks from around my ankles. (For some reason the removal of the socks, as my very last piece of clothing, brought home the debasement I was suffering even more intensely.)

Fetching some clothing items from a table behind her chair, she took a place in front of me, folded her arms under her breasts and proceeded to once again stare at me, now stark naked, before showing me what she had retrieved - a pair of red lace panties, with matching stockings.

"These are not the actual things you stole - they are locked away as evidence - but the student said these were the same color and style. As you liked them so much, you are going to get to model them for us!"

Who was "us," or was she using it in the royal sense?

Kneeling down in front of me the holdup stockings were rolled up my legs. She snapped a picture before moving behind me for another. Returning back to in front of me, she brought the red panties to my feet and pulled them up.

They were tight on me but wearable, although my hardening cock made things more difficult. I was dreading that Sara would fit it into the underwear, but she left that to me. I must have looked ridiculous and I felt as humiliated as was possible. The bulge in the panties made it even worse as it appeared I was aroused. In my mind I wasn't, but perhaps 'emotionally" things were happening I had never experienced, and I started to wonder if the therapy was working in reverse - that the humiliation was turning me on!

Sara stepped back, took another picture, and then three more as she worked her way around me. She showed me the images on her camera, and my worst fears were confirmed at my ridiculousness. She commented,