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| Punishment for the Sake of [T] |
| By Fatimire |
*This piece is intended as an apology to my Master. I hope it is an acceptable peace offering for my very much mistaken comments regarding the lack of sexiness of deflationary theories of truth. My self-refutation is presented here. In no way should the reader believe that the author is promoting the sexual harassment and abuse of students by their teachers. The story represents an exchange in fantasy between the submissive author and her Master, who are both equals in the same profession, equally beset by plagiarizing students.
* * * *
Sheila was naked now. He was fully dressed, sitting in his comfortable living room reading chair. He could tell that she was forcing herself to appear unashamed before him. The effect was delightful.
"Turn around and show me your ass," he said coolly. Her reaction was spectacular since this was the last thing she wanted to do. She kept her eyes fixed on him as she rotated, but once her back was fully turned she hung her head forward, her long, dark hair falling over her face. He could see that she was struggling, still pretending what was happening wasn't happening and that she hadn't gotten herself into this predicament.
"Bend your knees, lean forward and place your hands on them," he commanded. She slowly complied. Just to be sure that she wasn't escaping to somewhere else in her mind, he told her, "Repeat after me: I'm here to offer myself to you, Professor, for your enjoyment. Please, use me in any way you see fit." Then he added, "and before you speak, reach back and separate your ass cheeks. That's right. Arch your back. Very good."
"I'm here to offer myself to you, Professor, for your enjoyment," Sheila said in a low, quavering voice. "Please, use me in any way you see fit."
"Again."
Sheila repeated these words.
"Now, believe what you say. Again, " he commanded.
"Oh, how is this happening to me?" Sheila gasped rhetorically aloud.
"You little slut, who do you think you're fooling? You know perfectly well that these circumstances are your own contrivance. Tell me why you're here, again."
* * * *
Professor Jack Bangsard had had a disciplinary problem with one of his undergrads on his hands. It was one of those tricky situations. While it was perfectly obvious that Sheila was a student of enormous potential, not easily dismissed out of hand, she was a downright pain in the ass to have in one's class. Sheila was incapable of behaving even remotely like a good, respectful and well-behaved student. In quiet moments of reverie, Prof. J.B. liked to imagine Sheila naked and locked in a pillory, the skin on her ass whipped beyond repair as her richly deserved punishment. She enjoyed dominating class discussion, intimidating her fellow students and viciously attacking Professor J.B. for virtually any claim he made. If it weren't for her wholehearted, consistent attempts to prove to the class that their young, soft-spoken professor was nothing but a fraud, surely her classmates would have taken her outside for a good beating. It was clear to Prof. J.B. that Sheila was perfectly aware of this delicate balance of power she'd achieved in his class. Often, after verbally humiliating another student, she had the audacity to wink at him. These obnoxious, conspiratorial winks of hers never meant that Prof. J.B. was free from her abuse. He would observe her amusement at the smirks of the other students whenever she found some unfortunate flaw or lack of clarity in his painstakingly prepared lectures.
Sheila's adversarial qualities were rendered more offensive by the fact that she frequently liked to stand up and start walking around while making her points, sometimes writing on the chalk boards. These mutinous acts basically wrecked the formal classroom performance structure. Once they occurred, there was no going back; the illusion was shattered. In the fashion of Socrates, Sheila was a perfect philosopher from the start. In his exasperation, Prof. J.B. even admired the brilliant little bitch. She would go far, if she survived. But not at his expense.
Prof. J.B. thus confronted an intriguing challenge. He could admit defeat at the hands of an arrogant undergrad and give up on the class. Or, he could find some way to reign in this force of nature such that she herself would be party to the dramatic change in attitude he hoped to effect in her. Her complicity in her submission to him was absolutely necessary. This latter option had enormous appeal to Prof. J.B., no stranger to the subtleties of discipline.
An opening for correcting Sheila's behavior came about due to an egregious error on her part. While Sheila certainly knew more about philosophy than most undergrads, it seemed to be the case that she was unable to wrap her mind around Davidson. And while greater minds than most have failed at the same task, this was not the case for Prof. J.B. Sheila had chosen to write about Davidson for her first class paper. He correctly suspected that she had chosen the topic deliberately. Hubris, at least of a sort. But she had plagiarized her criticism of Davidson. Plagiarism was serious business, requiring serious disciplinary action. Surely, Sheila knew this.
Prof. J.B. carefully watched her face for a reaction when he handed her paper to her, graded F, at the end of class. Predictably, she leafed quickly to the last page to see the grade. She sat in her seat in stony silence for a moment then looked directly at him and narrowed her eyes. He turned his back on her, gathered up his notes, and walked out of the room. He left the campus, went home, poured himself a scotch and waited. He knew that was all he had to do.
* * * *
Prof. J.B. was not in the least surprised when he heard his doorbell ring at 8:00 PM that evening. He buzzed Sheila in immediately.
"You realize that it's completely inappropriate to stalk your professors, Sheila," he said as he let her into his apartment.
"Right," she replied in a tone that translated the expression into "Fuck you, moron."
"Well, what's the problem? What do you want?" he asked.
Sheila reached into her knapsack and pulled out the paper. "This." She trusted it towards him.
"That isn't my problem. It's yours. What are you asking me for?"
"This grade is not fair. You know it, so it is your problem," she said.
"Now, that doesn't follow, since the grade is, in fact, fair. You plagiarized your paper. The question you should be asking me is what I intend to do about it."
"You think I plagiarized?" Sheila exclaimed, getting hot-faced despite her "whatever" demeanor.
To put an end to her denial, Prof. J.B. reached over and swiped up an open copy of *The Metaphysics of Meaning*. "Here is where you lifted your paper. You're in no position to be making any demands, understand?"
Sheila nodded.
"So, would you like to be brought up before the academic disciplinary committee and thrown out of college?"
"God, please, no. No! Please, can't you be nice? I'll do whatever you say," Sheila replied, and started to cry.
"First off, you are deeply mistaken about my being in the slightest bit nice. But you will do whatever I say. And I mean whatever I say. Starting right this second. Alternatively, you can be expelled from school. Your choice."
"I'll do whatever you say, Professor."
"I knew that you would. Take off all your clothes."
* * * *
"Lie down on the floor and spread your legs," Prof. J.B. directed. "Open wider. That's it. Now, I want you to masturbate for me."
Sheila placed her right hand between her legs, closed her eyes and began to stroke her clit. At first her movements were mechanical. He waited patiently for this to pass, giving her enough time for her body to dictate its priority over mind in such activities. Before long, she strummed herself, oblivious to her surroundings. Her nipples darkened and grew hard, unmistakably revealing the pleasure she was experiencing.
"Look at me," he ordered. She complied, writhing before him, but remaining quiet. "Hmmm. Sheila, I can see that you're enjoying yourself, your cunt's gotten so wet and red. Tell me, why do you think that is?"
"Oh, I don't know…I don't know," she moaned.
"Yes, you do. Anyone who pushes the limit, as you have, is praying for someone to force them back into line. Tell me this isn't so. Your fondest desire was to be here and have me put you in your place. Isn't that true?"
"Oh, oh yes, it's true," Sheila admitted, her face blushing with both shame and pleasure.
"Roll over on your stomach, now. Keep your legs open. Come. I want to watch you come." She obeyed, and began grinding her hips hard into her pumping hand. "Show me what a dirty thing you are. Umm, that's it."
"Uh, oh, oh god, I'm coming…I'm coming…"
"Yes, my little slut, that's fine. Crawl over to me here. Very good." Prof. J.B., still seated, unzipped his pants and took hold of Sheila's head. "Now, show me what a great little cocksucker you are." Sheila buried her head in his lap, taking his cock in her mouth. "Suck it like your life depends on it. That's better." Sheila was having a hard time taking it all into her mouth. Prof. J.B. mercilessly pressed down on the back of her head. "Take it all, bitch."
As Sheila took to her task, making her mouth into the tightest glove of an orifice that she could in order to please him, our professor could not help but digress. "Umm. Good. Suck hard, bitch. Now, what's so curious to me is why anyone with a few neurons in working order would attempt to pass off the most convoluted criticism of Davidson ever presented by a famous semantic nut-case as their own to an expert on Davidson. That's a smoking gun, if ever there was one, Sheila." He grabbed her hair and lifted her head off his cock. "I think you have to make up for this insult. And I know that you want what's coming to you. Isn't that correct?"
Sheila looked sheepishly up at him. "Yes. I knew what I did was really terrible and you would be so mad at me. I totally deserve to pay for it."
"You will. Over here, follow."
He led her to his bedroom. On his bed were three objects: a single tail whip, a riding crop and a paddle. Prof. J.B. gestured towards them. "I want you to pick the one I'll use."
Sheila looked confused, her brow furrowing. "I, I don't know…which one--"
"Which one?"
"Doesn't hurt?"
"They all hurt. They hurt differently. It's your decision as to what kind of hurt you imagine you'll prefer."
"The whip."
"An excellent choice," Prof. J.B. smirked. "Lie face down. Don't move." He watched Sheila comply with this command and she was as still as she could be, although her entire body was subtly trembling. He waited for her to begin to relax and then struck the first blow with the whip.
"Yeow," Sheila shrieked.
"Shut up and take your lashes like a good little plagiarist."
He gave Sheila three more lashes on the ass and she tried to muffle her cries in the bedspread. After three more she merely whimpered at an acceptable volume level. Red welts were already showing on her fair skin. Three more strokes caused her entire ass to glow.
"So, Sheila, are you truly sorry yet?"
"I am. I am sorry," she responded.
He gave her seven more lashes, unconvinced. Sheila appeared to have achieved a certain state of ecstasy by this point. He then beat her gratuitously, losing count, until he could see she was over the top and mumbling incoherently to herself. She needed a moment's rest, he surmised, if she was to endure the next humiliation.
* * * *
Sheila stopped moaning and slowly sat up on the bed, looking over her shoulder at Prof. J.B. She looked almost angelic, her eyes misty and round. Her mouth no longer had its typical determined look about it; her lips were slightly parted, not quite smiling but telegraphing no sign of unhappiness. "Um," he thought, "she thinks I'm done with her. Poor thing."
"Come along now," he finally said. Sheila once again looked puzzled. He took her hand as they walked. "You still owe recompense to someone, you realize."
"I don't know what you mean?" she asked in a whisper. "Who do you mean?"
"Donald Davidson. Who else?" He smiled.
"You can't be serious," she stammered.
"You think I'm not serious? You think Davidson is not serious? We'll see about that." He pushed her gently but firmly ahead of him into his bathroom and switched on the light. Sheila gave him a look of helplessness as he positioned her over the toilet, forcing her to lean forward and place her hands on the tank.
"I haven't used you completely yet," he informed her. "I think this is the appropriate setting. A filthy little plagiarist slut like you needs to be reminded where she belongs." He pushed her legs a bit further apart so he could kneel comfortably between them as he put on a condom.
"Raise your hips," he commanded, "so I can use you."
She obliged, raising her red streaked, bruised ass higher, bringing her pussy into view.
He pushed his cock into her cunthole to the hilt in one slow, steady motion. "Oooh," she moaned, barely keeping her foothold as she was subjected to this uncompromising, deep intrusion. He fucked her slow and deep, deriving extra pleasure from her struggle to accommodate him.
"Sheila, what a nice, tight pussy you have for a little slut," Prof. J.B. remarked. He rammed her full on, repeatedly, as her knees quavered.
"Oh, it's so good, it's so good…" Sheila said, clenching her fists and presenting herself unabashedly.
"You just love this, don't you, Sheila? This is precisely how you like it, over a toilet, servicing me."
Before she could confess the truth of this observation, he smacked her abused ass as he fucked her and she squealed. He laughed at this response and smacked her ass a few more times. "Um, you're getting so juicy, Sheila, you're enjoying getting fucked and beaten. It's no secret to me, you understand." He took her ass in both his hands and fucked her hard. Sheila put her head down in quiet submission.
"Let's move on now," he said, pulling his cock from her, "let's see how much you love getting fucked in the ass."
Sheila's body became rigid as he lubed her asshole, "I can't, I never--"
"You never? How on earth can that be the case? Let’s consider Convention T: "Sheila is a slut" is true if and only if she loves getting fucked every which way she can get fucked. You're getting fucked. And you love it. The truth conditions of this statement are quite clear. If you don't relax it will hurt. There's some charm to that, I suppose, given the unforgivable seriousness of your crime." Prof. J.B. lubed his cock and then pressed the head against her asshole. She audibly exhaled, and he penetrated her while she sighed lowly.
Quickly, he found a pleasurable rhythm and Sheila's ass was entirely his. "Oh, you little liar," he reprimanded, "you take it up the ass all the time. Tell the truth." He beat her ass, and then grabbed her hair, lifting her head.
"Yes, I've done it before," Sheila murmured.
"I'd bet you have. I'd bet you've been fucked plenty of times in toilet stalls, and fucked every which way you could possibly be fucked, like I said." He pushed as deep as her could go into her ass.
"My God, please, it's so deep!" Sheila cried.
"You bet it is. That’s the point. I'm going to come deep in your wonderful little ass, you conniving plagiarist." Prof. J.B. came hard while Sheila gasped. He pulled out and took a moment to gaze upon his handiwork, at Sheila's swollen, abused orifices and her exhausted, beaten body draped over his toilet. Should he take a piss, now that he was through with her? He didn’t give this idea very much more consideration.
* * * *
The students in the class gave up trying to make sense of Sheila. Her new policy of politeness was just as disarming as her previous aggressive tactics. When she had an occasional comment to make, she cautiously raised her hand, speaking only in turn. Afternoons, she could be found in the student lounge pouring over a dog-eared copy of *Inquires into Truth and Interpretation*. Just as mysterious was the way, of a sudden, Sheila could never seem to find a comfortable position to sit in, shifting restlessly from side to side in her chair as she smiled demurely through lecture.
© fatimire, 2001
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