Chapter 3: My Third Fantasy; An Old Boyfriend

If one is reading about my fantasies during my early period as a dominatrix, one might understand that I was – what would I call it? reverse projecting? – my professional activities back onto myself. I felt guilty about inflicting punishments upon my clients, and therefore I had to imagine being punished myself.

Of course, all of my clients were paying quite handsomely to have themselves put into my hands. Sometimes that was quite literal if they wanted me to spank them by hand, usually over my knees. Did they enjoy it all, even the guys I used an implement on? Well, a surprising number – I’d say over half of them – would get an erection during a session.

If they did, they sometimes wanted to masturbate at the end of a session and have me watch them wank themselves. They could do that if they had paid extra ahead of time. Of course, if they hadn’t planned on doing it, I could simply collect cash from them on the spot.

It was the only time I would handle money myself, and it reminded me of the old days when I was a freelance hooker. I always faithfully told Gilda about the money I had received and gave her the full amount the next time I saw her. Despite being a whore, I was honest when it came to money.

A few johns wanted a handjob or even a blowjob from me to relieve their blue balls. Well, that was just too bad for them. Dealing directly with their semen was something I definitely didn’t do. A few would complain that they couldn’t masturbate when they got home because their wives or maybe mistresses were there. Hey, that was their problem, not mine. They could jerk themselves in the back of a dark parking lot for all that I cared.

I’ve already mentioned a few hapless customers who ejaculated into my lap when I was spanking them over my knees. They couldn’t help it, I suppose, so I didn’t blame them for coming on my clothes. Of course, I collected an additional charge for their mishaps.

What baffled me was why I also fantasized about beating people I knew, sometimes my old boyfriend Paul from 1974 when I was only nineteen. I really had done a couple of sessions with him (for free, of course) with a paddle or hairbrush. He was surprised that he was one of those guys who got an erection despite feeling the pain. The first time it happened, I acted like a bitch and sent him away from my house. For the second time, I took pity on him and blew him immediately afterwards.

I held no grudges against Paul. He was my first real lover, and he always treated me very well. It was me who was the unfair one and I ended the relationship almost on a whim. I dumped him for another, older guy with more money than Paul and prospects to make much more of it in the future.

So why, two years later, did I imagine beating him more severely than I had with the real discipline I had given him earlier? Those two times had elements of playacting in them. My later fantasies had me savaging his ass with a traditional English wooden cane. Of course, I wasn’t in England, but who cares?

And I always masturbated when thinking about inflicting my implements on him, and I usually got a very satisfying orgasm for my efforts. Maybe I felt that pleasure during all that because I liked envisioning myself as a heartless bitch when dealing with Paul. I certainly had been heartless when I dumped him two years earlier and then disappeared from his life for a couple of weeks.

Usually I would set up a scene or scenario for a domination session. I would pose as a powerful woman – say a boss, professor, wife, or church lady. The johns would pretend to be guilty of some misdeed that had earned them their discipline.

Thus they would play the role of an employee, student, husband, or church member. Often they had been caught masturbating or getting a blowjob from a girl somewhere on the premises. Like the first time two years earlier, I was impressed by the amount of sexual guilt that is hidden but still floating around our society.

Once in a while I even played at being a governess. It was amusing to see men in their thirties or forties pretending to be naughty schoolboys. I had heard that in the old days, governesses would spank their young charges if they got caught masturbating. Of course, that just encouraged those poor guys to do more of it. A kind of Victorian/Edwardian feedback loop had existed.

For Paul’s punishment, I imagined myself in my incarnation as a professor, one of my favorite roles. I don’t know what university I taught at, but it was certainly not City College. Outside my office window, I could see a campus with plenty of green foliage. I must have been influenced by my visits to Princeton and the University of Pennsylvania among other places.

My outfit consisted of a tight, short black dress, a blue blazer, and nylons and heels. My stockings were held up with a black garter and straps, and my hemline was high enough that I could flash my underthings at whatever poor sap was my victim for the day. As a dominatrix, I could be wrathful, sexy, and unobtainable.

That’s what I did for my afternoon with Paul. Instead of sitting behind my desk, I was in a chair in front of it. My right foot was up on a little table, and a fine view was offered all the way up to my crotch. Said crotch was covered by a pair of almost transparent panties.

As a final touch, my headgear was the traditional academic mortarboard hat. Of course, it was ridiculous to have that on in my office, but it was my fantasy and I could arrange everything to my liking.

There was a knocking on my office door, and I said, “It’s not locked. Just come in.”

Paul, a sophomore, entered the room, looking a bit nervous. I knew why; his final paper for the semester was already three days late.

I imagined him as he was at the age of twenty. That was when he was my lover for a few months in 1974. He was a slender guy, not that tall, but he had nice dark eyes and hair. During that summer he hadn’t yet grown the mustache that he sported starting in 1976. His hair was a bit bushy, but it was cut back a bit from his most extreme appearance when he would have it sticking out in all directions.

It was quite uncommon for American university students, but he was wearing a tie and a blue sports coat. Perhaps I had been influenced by images of English boarding schools where the students had to dress like that for all occasions.

That brings up a question: as a professor, how old was I supposed to be in this scene? I never pinned my age exactly, but I must have been in my early thirties. Yet I looked pretty much as I do know at the age of twenty-one. Like dreams, fantasies can have such incongruous elements in them.

As I mentioned, I had my legs spread out and one foot up a coffee table or something similar. That position offered Paul a view right under my skirt, past the straps and garter, to the crotch of my panties. That garment had gossamer-thin cloth and my pubic hair was visible through it.

When Paul walked into the room, I could tell he was trying to avoid looking at those delectable feminine undergarments. Yet I saw his eyes briefly flick down to notice what was under my dress. Any man would have done the same thing, but I rebuked him for it.

“Young man, kindly keep your eyes to yourself. Do not try to peer up under my dress.”

In the real world, he would have been justified in saying, if you don’t want me to look, then don’t display yourself like that. In this scenario, however, I had full authority over him and I could do whatever I wanted.

Thus he replied, “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry about that.” I hadn’t invited him to sit down, so he remained standing there with his hands folded in front of himself.

I sighed heavily and put my right foot down on the floor. There was no point in inflaming his lust anymore just to humiliate him. He’d be getting plenty of humiliation from me shortly. I leaned forward a bit and said, “So, D’Amato, I think I know exactly why you are bothering me here today.” I must have been influenced again by the English school practice of calling students by their last names.

He responded, “You do, ma’am?”

“Of course, we both know that your final paper is overdue. You don’t have it with you, so I assume you are still working on it.”

He launched into an explanation, “You see, professor, I have been having trouble with...”

I raised my hand and cut him off. “Do not give me any of your lame excuses.” I couldn’t leave it at that. “Being three days late with your paper is completely inexcusable.” At that point, I crossed my legs, and my hem rode up enough to give a peek at one of my black stocking straps. As I said, the dress was quite short.

Paul was discombobulated at not being allowed to finish his explanation. All he said was, “Yes, professor, I know.”

“Well, since you made an appointment to see me today, what is it that you expect me to do?”

This time I let him say his piece. “Professor Meara, I would be most grateful if you could give me an extension of the deadline or if necessary, mark my grade as incomplete until I can finish it.”

“You really are a cheeky little brat, aren’t you? You have some fucking nerve coming in here and requesting an incomplete. I’d be well within my rights to just fail you now, on the spot.”

“Professor, give me a chance, I’m sure I can finish it in...” I could see that he was trying to calculate how much more time he was going to ask from me. He decided. “Two more days, I promise, and I can have it done.”

I shook my head and made a clucking sound, “D’Amato, I am a full professor here, and yet you have the gall to try to negotiate with me?”

He was very worried now, “Please don’t fail me, I’ve never failed a course here before.

“There’s always a first time for everything.” I looked away from him and put on an expression as if I was considering the issue. In fact, of course, I had already decided on what the outcome would be.

Finally, I said, “I will consider an extension for you – two days, only – but first you must accept a punishment from me.” That was a line I often used on clients pretending to be wayward students.

“Thank you, ma’am, I am so grateful that you gave me this opportunity.”

I simply said, “You haven’t heard what the punishment is yet.”

He fumbled around for a response. “Well, no, I don’t know yet.”

I had shrewdly laid the cane on my desktop where it wouldn’t be noticeable. Now I leaned back and picked it up, holding it across my lap. One end of the implement was bent into a curved hook, I suppose you could call it.