I have, what people commonly term, a fucking horrible job.
Certainly explaining my profession to other people, or even insurance companies, always garners giggles and confused mutterings. It’s silly and immature from them, but something I have to live with. The wages are good, it pays my bills; at least I am not a moral vacuum and work in banking. Or politics.
Instead I work in education. My job is at a private University; situated in the secluded countryside near a Northern British city. Few outside the niche community know we exist, but there is a steady stream of students desperate to join the courses and further themselves.
I work, not in an academic university but at BDSM College: we teach dominants and submissives everything they need to know to have a fulfilling sex life: in couples, groups or singles. There are courses in everything from RACK/SSC to Shibari rope bondage, from safe knife play to exploiting the mind. As I said, everything!
I am a submissive; I got the job after my wife made me apply for it, and have been teaching courses for four years. Often I work with other lecturers, sometimes alone. But it is Physical Punishment 101 that evokes dread: the students love it, and it is a highly popular course.
It’s held in the “Miss Whiplash Memorial Lecture Theatre,” underneath the giant statue of two people – a knife-wielding dominant, and a bullwhip-cracking dominatrix – that dominated the plaza at the centre of the University.
The room holds over fifty people, and it’s not unusual for it to be mostly full for the course. It’s an early start at 09:30, and all the young students file into the room looking bright, enthusiastic and full of energy: that’s never a good sign.
The lead lecturer, a Mistress Ceri, always has her two naked assistants (in this case myself and Paula) facing the wall as the students arrive, and encourages everyone to warm our buttocks with a smack. “You should never attempt a spanking without a warm-up exercise,” she’d bark as student after student signalled their arrival to the lecture theatre with a couple of firm spanks on bare asses.
It hurt; saying “thank you,” as they did it hurt just as much. Holding onto the brickwork as my buttocks glowed with their combined pelts. Paula had it just as bad, her dainty rear caused her to squeal in pain as a brutish man slapped her ruddled behind, and I shot her a sympathetic look.
I knew what would happen; we both did. Encouraging sadists was a dangerous game and one squeal was all it took. Suddenly there was an unspoken competition between them: who could make her squeak the loudest. Every spank got firmer, louder, more painful. I would see her fighting back the tears, and screwing up her face as trainee dominant after trainee dominant sized up her gorgeous arse with battering hits.
I had it too, if they were smacking Paula hard they had to apply the same force to me; my skin could take it: I had more fat to absorb the energy behind their palms, but the evil giggling of the ladies, many of them ten or fifteen years young than me, as they stepped into their smack stung my pride and my abused arse.
But it was just the start; in fact, it was the start of the course. Many of the trainee dominants still had an unhealthy lack of respect towards the submissive role and understanding towards smacking in general. As the courses progressed that arrogance would be honed and they would appreciate that spanking subs was not always about how hard they could pelt me, or Paula, but inflicting control and punishment.
But these were early days, and Mistress Ceri knew that over-exuberance, ignorance and a mistaken understanding of BDSM would lead to some painful bums, and that was a small price to pay. Well a price for Paula and I to pay; we called it the 50 Shades Effect!
After everyone was present, and sat in the lecture theatre, Paula and I would be summoned to the front of the room; it was an imposing venue with Tudor wooden struts lining the ceiling. They called it atmospheric, but it a delightful place to naked in the summer with the cool breezes squeezing through the historic building and being at the front of the grand, noble room.
Mistress Ceri started the lecture, as Paula and I massaged our bottoms; it caused some murmuring, but our lecturer was a disciplinarian and chattering students were warned about their conduct with a swish of a cane and a glare of the eyes; that stopped most of the talking.
And then, after fifteen minutes it came to the practical. There is little point in talking about a spanking without getting the young men and ladies to try their newly acquired skills on a couple of subject submissives. Obviously, as the course progressed, we would merge the practicals between the subs and the doms, but for the first few weeks, they didn’t trust the group in front of me with the delicate bottoms of paying students.
Of course, we knew that the Halls of Residence was a haven for BDSM experimentation and several subs would turn up to my lectures with bloodied posteriors and broad smiles, but the University wanted lecture theatre discipline to be carried out on “professional” submissives.
Which was how Paula and I were leaning over futons, staring at each other as the students formed an orderly queue and took a cane from our teacher. I heard the swishing behind me as they practised swinging the wooden rod in the air. My loins always tingled at the prospect, waiting for the first strike of a student on my pink backside.
It was warmed nicely from the spanking and just as Mistress Ceri had shown them, the first students stepped forward and brought a firm strike across our rears.
I couldn’t help it: I cried in pain, just as Paula screeched. I swore loudly, glancing behind me as the eighteen year old stood proudly, holding the cane as if she was ready to strike again. It was too hard for a first hit, and Mistress Ceri told her so.
“Work up dear,” she simpered. “We have all morning here so work up to that strike.”
The denim-clad student lined up her cane again and I closed my eyes: not able to watch the petite beauty pelt my arse. I tensed my buttocks, waiting, squeezing the cushion on the futon as she grunted and lashed the wooden rod against my skin, slashing my patchy skin with devastating power.
I yelled, only this time Mistress Ceri was satisfied. “Good, you’re punishing him, make him feel your rod.”
Paula was having a harder time: the boys wanted to work her bottom, and the firm swipes on her bruised bum was having tears rolling down her cheeks. I knew from personal experience, her pussy would be sodden, and if any of the dominants had promised her a rough fucking after the lecture, then they would be having all their Christmases at once.
She was dynamite in the sack, but the naivety of inexperience meant that the men were merely happy to pelt her peachy rear without realising that we were submissives because we liked it.
We got off on it; there was nothing bad about a queue of girls lining up to discipline me. There was nothing bad about my body singing in pain and endorphins as sexy dominatrixes practised on my skin, on my body and my arousal. There was nothing bad about it at all, and if any of the girls had bothered to look, they would have seen a rampant erection from the first strike.
I may have yelled, cried and squealed, but inside my heart was somersaulting with glee; every cane, every smack, every touch was soaked with pain and yet caused an avalanche of excitement.
And sure, I was never going to enter subspace by being relentlessly beaten for two hours, but I was floating on heaven as the last girl finished her final strike on my bum.
They’d broken three of the wooden rods on us, a new record, and blood was splattered on the floor, but I had a smile a mile wide on my face.
So did I say I had a horrible job? My mistake. I just had twenty-odd young ladies cane my bottom, I am going to be tortured by wax at midday, bound at half-past-two by a scorchingly hot Mistress Olivia and then I’m taking a bunch of subs for their Bukkake exam.
To some people, I have a horrible job. To me, my job is fucking fantastic! Who wants an application form?
And if students disciplining lecturers is your thing, then my entry into last month’s Sinful Stories contest, Academic Integrity, covers just that!
Featured image from here.