maddie
09-13-2006, 05:35 AM
Many thanks to Woogsbie and Qmoq for their assistance with this. Without their help, I'd never have been able to create this.
"Tess" -- © Maddie Mae, 2006
Tess paced the hallway, clutching two books to her chest. Dr. Walsh had summoned her to his office and she was nervous. She’d worked with him throughout her time as an undergrad and he’d been something of a mentor to her, something she was grateful for and knew didn’t happen for very many undergrads. She’d learned quickly that tenured faculty devoted their time to the graduate students.
She stopped abruptly as she passed his the faded oak office door again and leaned against the wall, biting her lip in frustration. She’d been waiting fifteen minutes already, she realized, as she checked her watch. Sighing, she brushed her long brown hair back and pulled a clip from the strap of her backpack. She slumped down on the floor, put her books on her lap, and clipped her hair near the top of her head. She closed her eyes.
Four years earlier, Tess had been a shy freshman. She spent a lot of time in the students’ lounge, reading and going over her notes from class, but not talking much. There were few classes on Friday afternoons and Tess soon developed a habit of working in the solitude of the lounge.
One Friday afternoon, around mid-term, she took a stack of books from the library and piled them on a table. As she copied a quote from one, meticulously noting her source, Dr. Nathan Walsh watched her.
Nathan Walsh had a bit of a reputation on campus. Fraternities advised their members to stay away from his classes, because of their difficulty. Among History majors, there was a divided camp. Some thought he was an arrogant prick and avoided his classes, while others thought he was an arrogant prick but took pride in passing one of his classes, like it was a badge of honor. His piercing dark brown eyes had a way of boring into your skin, making even the best-prepared students nervous.
“Ms. Winter, right?”
Tess looked up from her books and brushed her hair back. She blushed, amazed that he knew who she was. “Y-yes, sir.”
He raised his chin slightly. “What are you working on?”
Before Tess knew it, they were discussing a research paper she was writing for her Western Civilization course. He pointed out a flaw in her argument and, as they talked, Tess felt her confidence build. Half an hour later, he stood, nodded slightly, and, as he left, threw over his shoulder, “I’ll expect to see you in one of my courses soon,” leaving Tess somewhat dazed.
She’d had little contact with him for the rest of the academic year. He tended to avoid contact with undergrad students outside class, preferring to allow his grad assistant to deal with them. Still, he kept an eye on Tess and when she finally appeared in one of his classes during her first term as a sophomore, he made a point to talk to her on occasion.
By her junior year, the faculty in general knew of Tess’ devotion to her studies. They’d all seen her taking notes in class on a note pad, then scurry off to the lounge, where she’d painstakingly transcribe them into her notebook. She consistently earned good grades and had begun to regularly participate in class discussions. She began to receive honors for her work and won the department’s top undergrad scholarship for her senior year. Things had been going very well for her. She began to look forward to Friday afternoons in the lounge, as Dr. Walsh had begun to drop by more often and they began to discuss her future academic plans.
Over the winter break before her last term, Tess’ world began to crumble. Insurance helped, but didn’t pay all the bills when Tess’ mother learned she had breast cancer. Tess took a part-time job, against her mother’s wishes, to help pay for college, desperate to make sure her mother lived to see her graduate. When classes resumed, her work suffered. One or two professors offered to make accommodations for her, but Tess stubbornly refused to ask for or accept special treatment.
That term, she took a class on American Diplomatic History from Dr. Walsh. Under normal circumstances, Tess knew she’d have thrived under the pressure. Instead, she fell behind in her class readings and, even worse, waited too long to start work on her research project for the class. The night before the due date, Tess stayed all night in hopes of finishing it on time, stumbling into class just one minute before class began at 9 a.m. to hand in her paper.
Under more stress than she’d ever been before, Tess had done what she knew was wrong and, under normal circumstances, would never have considered: plagiarism. She copied a five-paragraph excerpt from an online source and lifted a three-line quote from a book. She’d written the quote down on a notecard, but hadn’t noted the source. She knew she needed it to make her argument. She handed in the paper, ashamed and embarrassed.
Two days later, as she sat outside Dr. Walsh’s office, her mind raced. Staring at the once cheery yellow walls, faded by time and administrative lack of interest in decor, Tess tried to convince herself that he didn’t know the sources. How could he possibly know every source? He’d been the first person to tell her that it was impossible to know everything, that the important thing was to know where to find needed information. She told herself it was possible he had called her there for another reason. Deep down, she knew he’d figured it out. She knew that, very soon, she could be expelled from the university.
As she contemplated all this, the door opened and Dr. Walsh quietly said, “Ms. Winter, please come into my office.”
Tess scrambled to her feet, brushed away a strand of hair that had slipped loose, took a deep breath, and walked in. Closing the door behind her, she placed her books on the table near the door and dropped her backpack near the table. Without looking at her, he waved Tess to a seat near his desk. Carefully, as if afraid she’d break the chair, Tess sat, folding her hands on her lap.
Walsh moved a few stacks of papers to a pile on the floor near his desk. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, he turned to face his student.
“Ms. Winter, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. You know why you’re here.”
Shame flooded over Tess as she looked at him, and she quickly looked down.
“Of all the students I have, you are the last one I would expect to plagiarize.” His voice was quiet and controlled. “You have had an exceptional career here. I wrote a recommendation letter for you like none I’ve written for an undergrad before. You’ve earned the respect of all the faculty in this department. Why? Why didn’t you come to me and ask for an extension? Why did you feel it necessary to insult my intelligence by handing in a paper with not one, but two instances of plagiarism?”
Tess could feel her eyes begin to sting. She kept her eyes cast down and said, “I’m very sorry, sir. I . . . I, I don’t know what to say.”
“You realize that I could have you expelled for this. Plagiarism is very serious. It’s intellectual dishonesty. You know better.” The anger and disappointment began to seep into his voice with those last words. “You should have come to me. You should have told me you needed more time.”
Startled, Tess lifted her head. “But you never give extensions. You say that at the beginning of every course. Everybody knows it.”
Nathan Walsh slammed the paper on his desk. “That’s not the point!” he spat out. “I wouldn’t have given you an extension. That doesn’t change the fact that you should have talked to me. I’m disappointed in you.”
Tess’ shoulders sank and her head fell. She bit her lip.
Walsh sat across from her, now openly angry and frustrated. He stood up and paced his office. “You have such talent! This is inexcusable!”
He stood behind her and watched her. He knew she was crying and he watched her shoulders shaking. He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. He pursed his lips and began to think. He opened his eyes and looked around the room, as if the answer to the situation was written on a wall. Suddenly, he saw the cane, a remnant from the person who had the office before him, tucked away in the corner of his office. He paused, staring at it. Unexpectedly, desire began to well in him, battling for attention. He began to argue with himself in his mind.
I can’t cane a student. Dear God, what kind of pervert am I? he thought, trying to keep his eyes off her slender body, her long legs in jeans that hugged each curve just right. Punish her, came a voice in the back of his mind. He fought to keep from noticing how her pale blue sweater hugged her curves. Punish her in a way she’ll never forget. A way you’ll never forget. He looked down, trying to cast the thoughts away, but, slowly, they began to make sense. Nobody would have to know. Surely, she’d never tell anybody and he knew he wouldn’t. Her academic career would be saved.
He found himself walking over to the corner, picking up the cane. He ran his fingers over it, feeling its smoothness. He bent it a bit, testing its flexibility. It began to make more sense. He turned toward her and watched her for a moment.
“Take your hair down.” He spoke the words before he realized what he was doing. He had the sensation of hovering over the unfolding scene, entranced and unable, even unwilling, to tear himself from it.
Startled, Tess turned. He could see her tear-streaked face, her deep-brown eyes were now red and puffy. She gasped when she saw him holding the cane.
Very quietly, very calmly, he repeated his command. Slowly, hesitantly, Tess reached up for the clip binding her hair and let her hair fall, cascading over her slim shoulders. Out of habit, she brushed it back so that her long, straight brown hair hung down her back.
Walsh sat down on the sofa behind her. Deliberately, he ordered, “Come here.” He used the cane to point to a location in front of him. Slowly, as if in a daze, Tess moved so she stood before him.
She stared at him, taking in his dark brown hair and dangerous eyes, the yellow of his dress shirt and the striped tie she’d always hated. Her crying ceased and she held her breath without realizing it.
Quietly, he said, “I’m going to give you two choices. One, I can report your plagiarism to the university and you’ll be expelled by this time tomorrow. Two, I can punish you myself and nobody else will ever know about this.”
Tess’ gaze was drawn to the dark brown cane, watching him rhythmically bend and unbend it. She could feel her body rock back and forth and swallowed hard. Without realizing she’d decided, she softly said, “I’ll take your punishment.” The words hung in the room, mingling with her fear and his anticipation.
Their eyes met briefly and he nodded tersely. “Take off your clothing.”
Moving almost automatically, Tess’ hands reached for the light sweater she wore. She pulled it up, revealing a white camisole that clung to her body. She carefully tossed the sweater on the chair she’d just occupied. Eyes never leaving the cane, she reached down and pulled off her black leather boots, then, hesitating momentarily, unbuttoned her jeans and lowered them to the floor, then nudged them away with her foot. She blushed, shame and fear mixed with a hint of arousal over being exposed this way.
Walsh held up a hand as she began to move a hand toward her camisole. “That won’t be necessary.” He stared up at her, holding the cane bent a bit. She held his gaze hesitantly at first, then, to his surprise, he could see a touch of defiance develop in her eyes.
“Turn around and bend over. Place your hands on that stack of books,” he waved the cane toward a small pile of books. She turned and leaned over, her legs spreading a bit as her hands touched the books.
Dr. Walsh stood, moved to the left side of his student, raised his arm, took aim, and brought the cane down on her ass. She cried out from the pain and humiliation. He could see a red welt rise under her white panties. “Ms. Winter, you need to be quiet. Surely I don’t have to impress that need upon you.”
A somewhat broken, “No, sir” escaped her lips . She swallowed, bit her lips, and braced herself.
“I think five strikes for each instance is reasonable. You have nine to go.”
Walsh barely heard her reply. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.
He took aim again and delivered two quick blows, one to each cheek. She squeaked a bit, but remained otherwise quiet.
The pain flooded through her. Tess couldn’t decide which was worse, the pain or the humiliation of standing in her underwear before a professor and being caned. Her mind whirled with pain and shame.
After the fourth strike, Tess moaned. The fifth was almost exactly where the first had gone and Tess moaned louder.
Her eyes flew open as she felt the dampness between her legs. She tried to steady herself. I’m wet. Dammit! How can I be enjoying this?
His sixth lash caught the middle of her left leg and he returned to her ass for the seventh. He could hear her gasp and moan softly. The middle of her left leg took the eighth strike. She moaned louder, a ragged sound that she tried, halfway through, to contain.
Walsh paused, both angry and excited by Tess’ reaction. For a split second, his mind whirled with possibility. The cane hovered in midair and he considered the possibilities. I can’t do that. Not with a student. This is so wrong. This can never, ever happen again. Quickly, he delivered the final two lashes. The cane slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. The clattering sound of the cane echoed through his mind.
He turned and walked away. “Get dressed, Ms. Winter.” He could hear her picking up her clothing and heard her suck in her breath from pain when she put her jeans on. He stood with his back to her, looking out the window on the darkening campus. As he gazed at the squirrels dashing across the lawn, he could feel her presence. Softly, he said, “Go home. Bring me a corrected paper Monday morning by 8 a.m. Don’t even think of using those sources again.”
Humiliated, broken, and full of shame over what had just happened, Tess grabbed her books and backpack, then ran from the office. About a minute later, Walsh saw her walking across the campus, clutching her books. As he watched her, transfixed by the swaying of her hair, he moved his right hand to the ring on his left hand and turned the band slowly. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a small silver flask. Slowly, he unscrewed the lid and drained the contents. He tossed it on his desk and stared out the window, watching the sun set over the campus.
"Tess" -- © Maddie Mae, 2006
Tess paced the hallway, clutching two books to her chest. Dr. Walsh had summoned her to his office and she was nervous. She’d worked with him throughout her time as an undergrad and he’d been something of a mentor to her, something she was grateful for and knew didn’t happen for very many undergrads. She’d learned quickly that tenured faculty devoted their time to the graduate students.
She stopped abruptly as she passed his the faded oak office door again and leaned against the wall, biting her lip in frustration. She’d been waiting fifteen minutes already, she realized, as she checked her watch. Sighing, she brushed her long brown hair back and pulled a clip from the strap of her backpack. She slumped down on the floor, put her books on her lap, and clipped her hair near the top of her head. She closed her eyes.
Four years earlier, Tess had been a shy freshman. She spent a lot of time in the students’ lounge, reading and going over her notes from class, but not talking much. There were few classes on Friday afternoons and Tess soon developed a habit of working in the solitude of the lounge.
One Friday afternoon, around mid-term, she took a stack of books from the library and piled them on a table. As she copied a quote from one, meticulously noting her source, Dr. Nathan Walsh watched her.
Nathan Walsh had a bit of a reputation on campus. Fraternities advised their members to stay away from his classes, because of their difficulty. Among History majors, there was a divided camp. Some thought he was an arrogant prick and avoided his classes, while others thought he was an arrogant prick but took pride in passing one of his classes, like it was a badge of honor. His piercing dark brown eyes had a way of boring into your skin, making even the best-prepared students nervous.
“Ms. Winter, right?”
Tess looked up from her books and brushed her hair back. She blushed, amazed that he knew who she was. “Y-yes, sir.”
He raised his chin slightly. “What are you working on?”
Before Tess knew it, they were discussing a research paper she was writing for her Western Civilization course. He pointed out a flaw in her argument and, as they talked, Tess felt her confidence build. Half an hour later, he stood, nodded slightly, and, as he left, threw over his shoulder, “I’ll expect to see you in one of my courses soon,” leaving Tess somewhat dazed.
She’d had little contact with him for the rest of the academic year. He tended to avoid contact with undergrad students outside class, preferring to allow his grad assistant to deal with them. Still, he kept an eye on Tess and when she finally appeared in one of his classes during her first term as a sophomore, he made a point to talk to her on occasion.
By her junior year, the faculty in general knew of Tess’ devotion to her studies. They’d all seen her taking notes in class on a note pad, then scurry off to the lounge, where she’d painstakingly transcribe them into her notebook. She consistently earned good grades and had begun to regularly participate in class discussions. She began to receive honors for her work and won the department’s top undergrad scholarship for her senior year. Things had been going very well for her. She began to look forward to Friday afternoons in the lounge, as Dr. Walsh had begun to drop by more often and they began to discuss her future academic plans.
Over the winter break before her last term, Tess’ world began to crumble. Insurance helped, but didn’t pay all the bills when Tess’ mother learned she had breast cancer. Tess took a part-time job, against her mother’s wishes, to help pay for college, desperate to make sure her mother lived to see her graduate. When classes resumed, her work suffered. One or two professors offered to make accommodations for her, but Tess stubbornly refused to ask for or accept special treatment.
That term, she took a class on American Diplomatic History from Dr. Walsh. Under normal circumstances, Tess knew she’d have thrived under the pressure. Instead, she fell behind in her class readings and, even worse, waited too long to start work on her research project for the class. The night before the due date, Tess stayed all night in hopes of finishing it on time, stumbling into class just one minute before class began at 9 a.m. to hand in her paper.
Under more stress than she’d ever been before, Tess had done what she knew was wrong and, under normal circumstances, would never have considered: plagiarism. She copied a five-paragraph excerpt from an online source and lifted a three-line quote from a book. She’d written the quote down on a notecard, but hadn’t noted the source. She knew she needed it to make her argument. She handed in the paper, ashamed and embarrassed.
Two days later, as she sat outside Dr. Walsh’s office, her mind raced. Staring at the once cheery yellow walls, faded by time and administrative lack of interest in decor, Tess tried to convince herself that he didn’t know the sources. How could he possibly know every source? He’d been the first person to tell her that it was impossible to know everything, that the important thing was to know where to find needed information. She told herself it was possible he had called her there for another reason. Deep down, she knew he’d figured it out. She knew that, very soon, she could be expelled from the university.
As she contemplated all this, the door opened and Dr. Walsh quietly said, “Ms. Winter, please come into my office.”
Tess scrambled to her feet, brushed away a strand of hair that had slipped loose, took a deep breath, and walked in. Closing the door behind her, she placed her books on the table near the door and dropped her backpack near the table. Without looking at her, he waved Tess to a seat near his desk. Carefully, as if afraid she’d break the chair, Tess sat, folding her hands on her lap.
Walsh moved a few stacks of papers to a pile on the floor near his desk. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, he turned to face his student.
“Ms. Winter, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. You know why you’re here.”
Shame flooded over Tess as she looked at him, and she quickly looked down.
“Of all the students I have, you are the last one I would expect to plagiarize.” His voice was quiet and controlled. “You have had an exceptional career here. I wrote a recommendation letter for you like none I’ve written for an undergrad before. You’ve earned the respect of all the faculty in this department. Why? Why didn’t you come to me and ask for an extension? Why did you feel it necessary to insult my intelligence by handing in a paper with not one, but two instances of plagiarism?”
Tess could feel her eyes begin to sting. She kept her eyes cast down and said, “I’m very sorry, sir. I . . . I, I don’t know what to say.”
“You realize that I could have you expelled for this. Plagiarism is very serious. It’s intellectual dishonesty. You know better.” The anger and disappointment began to seep into his voice with those last words. “You should have come to me. You should have told me you needed more time.”
Startled, Tess lifted her head. “But you never give extensions. You say that at the beginning of every course. Everybody knows it.”
Nathan Walsh slammed the paper on his desk. “That’s not the point!” he spat out. “I wouldn’t have given you an extension. That doesn’t change the fact that you should have talked to me. I’m disappointed in you.”
Tess’ shoulders sank and her head fell. She bit her lip.
Walsh sat across from her, now openly angry and frustrated. He stood up and paced his office. “You have such talent! This is inexcusable!”
He stood behind her and watched her. He knew she was crying and he watched her shoulders shaking. He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. He pursed his lips and began to think. He opened his eyes and looked around the room, as if the answer to the situation was written on a wall. Suddenly, he saw the cane, a remnant from the person who had the office before him, tucked away in the corner of his office. He paused, staring at it. Unexpectedly, desire began to well in him, battling for attention. He began to argue with himself in his mind.
I can’t cane a student. Dear God, what kind of pervert am I? he thought, trying to keep his eyes off her slender body, her long legs in jeans that hugged each curve just right. Punish her, came a voice in the back of his mind. He fought to keep from noticing how her pale blue sweater hugged her curves. Punish her in a way she’ll never forget. A way you’ll never forget. He looked down, trying to cast the thoughts away, but, slowly, they began to make sense. Nobody would have to know. Surely, she’d never tell anybody and he knew he wouldn’t. Her academic career would be saved.
He found himself walking over to the corner, picking up the cane. He ran his fingers over it, feeling its smoothness. He bent it a bit, testing its flexibility. It began to make more sense. He turned toward her and watched her for a moment.
“Take your hair down.” He spoke the words before he realized what he was doing. He had the sensation of hovering over the unfolding scene, entranced and unable, even unwilling, to tear himself from it.
Startled, Tess turned. He could see her tear-streaked face, her deep-brown eyes were now red and puffy. She gasped when she saw him holding the cane.
Very quietly, very calmly, he repeated his command. Slowly, hesitantly, Tess reached up for the clip binding her hair and let her hair fall, cascading over her slim shoulders. Out of habit, she brushed it back so that her long, straight brown hair hung down her back.
Walsh sat down on the sofa behind her. Deliberately, he ordered, “Come here.” He used the cane to point to a location in front of him. Slowly, as if in a daze, Tess moved so she stood before him.
She stared at him, taking in his dark brown hair and dangerous eyes, the yellow of his dress shirt and the striped tie she’d always hated. Her crying ceased and she held her breath without realizing it.
Quietly, he said, “I’m going to give you two choices. One, I can report your plagiarism to the university and you’ll be expelled by this time tomorrow. Two, I can punish you myself and nobody else will ever know about this.”
Tess’ gaze was drawn to the dark brown cane, watching him rhythmically bend and unbend it. She could feel her body rock back and forth and swallowed hard. Without realizing she’d decided, she softly said, “I’ll take your punishment.” The words hung in the room, mingling with her fear and his anticipation.
Their eyes met briefly and he nodded tersely. “Take off your clothing.”
Moving almost automatically, Tess’ hands reached for the light sweater she wore. She pulled it up, revealing a white camisole that clung to her body. She carefully tossed the sweater on the chair she’d just occupied. Eyes never leaving the cane, she reached down and pulled off her black leather boots, then, hesitating momentarily, unbuttoned her jeans and lowered them to the floor, then nudged them away with her foot. She blushed, shame and fear mixed with a hint of arousal over being exposed this way.
Walsh held up a hand as she began to move a hand toward her camisole. “That won’t be necessary.” He stared up at her, holding the cane bent a bit. She held his gaze hesitantly at first, then, to his surprise, he could see a touch of defiance develop in her eyes.
“Turn around and bend over. Place your hands on that stack of books,” he waved the cane toward a small pile of books. She turned and leaned over, her legs spreading a bit as her hands touched the books.
Dr. Walsh stood, moved to the left side of his student, raised his arm, took aim, and brought the cane down on her ass. She cried out from the pain and humiliation. He could see a red welt rise under her white panties. “Ms. Winter, you need to be quiet. Surely I don’t have to impress that need upon you.”
A somewhat broken, “No, sir” escaped her lips . She swallowed, bit her lips, and braced herself.
“I think five strikes for each instance is reasonable. You have nine to go.”
Walsh barely heard her reply. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.
He took aim again and delivered two quick blows, one to each cheek. She squeaked a bit, but remained otherwise quiet.
The pain flooded through her. Tess couldn’t decide which was worse, the pain or the humiliation of standing in her underwear before a professor and being caned. Her mind whirled with pain and shame.
After the fourth strike, Tess moaned. The fifth was almost exactly where the first had gone and Tess moaned louder.
Her eyes flew open as she felt the dampness between her legs. She tried to steady herself. I’m wet. Dammit! How can I be enjoying this?
His sixth lash caught the middle of her left leg and he returned to her ass for the seventh. He could hear her gasp and moan softly. The middle of her left leg took the eighth strike. She moaned louder, a ragged sound that she tried, halfway through, to contain.
Walsh paused, both angry and excited by Tess’ reaction. For a split second, his mind whirled with possibility. The cane hovered in midair and he considered the possibilities. I can’t do that. Not with a student. This is so wrong. This can never, ever happen again. Quickly, he delivered the final two lashes. The cane slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. The clattering sound of the cane echoed through his mind.
He turned and walked away. “Get dressed, Ms. Winter.” He could hear her picking up her clothing and heard her suck in her breath from pain when she put her jeans on. He stood with his back to her, looking out the window on the darkening campus. As he gazed at the squirrels dashing across the lawn, he could feel her presence. Softly, he said, “Go home. Bring me a corrected paper Monday morning by 8 a.m. Don’t even think of using those sources again.”
Humiliated, broken, and full of shame over what had just happened, Tess grabbed her books and backpack, then ran from the office. About a minute later, Walsh saw her walking across the campus, clutching her books. As he watched her, transfixed by the swaying of her hair, he moved his right hand to the ring on his left hand and turned the band slowly. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a small silver flask. Slowly, he unscrewed the lid and drained the contents. He tossed it on his desk and stared out the window, watching the sun set over the campus.