The Freshman
The boy was nineteen. A freshman in college. One boy seated in a lecture hall of hundreds, and yet he stood out.
Immediately.
His mop of dark hair caught my eye as I handed out the syllabus for Physics 101, but it was his disruptive behavior during class - snickering, yawning, talking openly - that called for attention.
As the rest of the students filed out, I stopped him. “You there, in the green T-shirt. Wait a moment.”
He paused, and turned, smiling as if he were used to being singled out of a crowd. “Who, me?”
“Yes, you.” I waited as he sauntered to my desk.
“What?” He pronounced the single word with a distinct southern drawl.
“This is a college class. I don’t know what you got away with in high school, but it won’t fly here. Next lecture, you’d better pay attention.”
He rolled his eyes in pure teenage disgust. “Whatever.” He swiveled on his heel.
“The proper answer is ‘Yes Ma’am.’”
He looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“You heard me.” I gave him the stern look that could make football players cower, and his smile faded a bit.
“Yes Ma’am?” He repeated the phrase with an air of disbelief. “What is this, the fifties?”
I cocked my eyebrow and looked him over, “Let’s have a little chat in my office why don’t we.”
I led the way through the hall, my high heels clicking against the polished terrazzo. I could hear him shuffling along behind, certain that his gaze was locked on the sway of my hips encased in a tight black skirt. I closed the door and he stood in the middle of the book-strewn room, waiting.
“I will not put up with juvenile nonsense,” I said. From experience, I knew I had to cut off this behavior immediately, or it would only get worse.
“I’m not juvenile.” He spread his feet and crossed his arms, indeed every bit a man physically, but an immature boy still ruled his mind.
“And I know just how do deal with boys like you.” I opened the bottom desk drawer and took out the paddle I’d carried with me since my first year of teaching. The polished board didn’t get much use now that I’d moved to the collegiate level of education; never-the-less, I kept it at hand for just these circumstances.
“What the hell?” He scowled and took a step backwards.
“It’s simple. You bend over my desk for a paddling, or I kick you out of class.”
“You can’t...” He sucked in a nervous breath. “...do that.”
“Can’t kick you out? I can and I will.”
“But...”
“The only ‘but’ we need to talk about is your butt, right here.” I cleared a spot for him amid the stacked papers and folders.
He sputtered and took another step backwards, emotion rolling openly across his face. Anger, disbelief, embarrassment.
“Either bend over now, or you’re out.”
He licked his lips and summoned a measure of bravado.
“Oh, what the hell. How bad can it be?” He walked over and placed his hands on the desktop.
“All the way down.” With the heel of my hand I pressed into the middle of his back until his chest went down flat. “Legs apart.” I tapped the paddle between his thighs until he was sufficiently spread, his jeans pulled tight across muscular buns.
“Professor...” He looked back at me, his expression suddenly fearful.
“Hush, boy.” I hooked one finger into his back belt loop and pulled until the seam nearly disappeared between his cheeks.
He let out a soft, tentative moan, and shifted forward in anticipation.
I smiled, and patted the seat of his pants for aim and then raised my arm high. He was about to find out just how much my paddle can burn.