Teacher's Pet: The Beginning

by Sullivan Clarke

Chapter One

“It isn’t fair!” The young woman raised her voice in frustration, the words echoing off the walls of the near-empty lecture hall. Generally I either ignored or pretended not to notice exchanges between Professor Ian Wimberly and his students. But in this case, I couldn’t help but take wide-eyed notice. The instructor was known for his strictness, his insistence on decorum. The students revered him to the point of fear. Well, the smart ones did, at least. But no one could accuse Mandy Aimes of being particularly smart.

I sat motionless, pencil poised over the paper she’d been grading, eyes fixed on the professor’s distinguished profile. He was looking up now from he briefcase he has been about to close, an expression of incredulity on his face.

“Excuse me?”

Mandy crossed her arms. “It isn’t fair,” she repeated, less emphatically this time. Perhaps she’d sensed the disapproval in Professor Wimberly’s tone. “I didn’t know there was going to be a quiz today.”

“Neither did anyone else.” Professor Wimberly spoke the words deliberately but impatiently as he resumed packing items into his briefcase. “Had you actually bothered to read the course materials, Miss Aimes, the quiz would not have presented you with a problem.”

“Hello! This isn’t my only class, you know! I’ve got three others. Oh, and a little something on top of all that called a social life.”

I felt myself wince at Mandy’s petulant tone, knowing that by addressing this man in the sarcastic, disrespectful manner she would a peer, she was only digging her hole deeper. Predictably, Professor Wimberly refused to even acknowledge her.”

She looked over at me. “Miss Claremont, tell him!” she whined. “You’re a student! Tell him how hard it is to do all the stuff you need to do and still be ready for a stupid pop quiz.”

For Professor Wimberly to get angry was rare. But now he did, and to my shock now sprung to my defense.

“Miss Aimes, I rarely speak in another’s stead, but in this case I will make an exception and tell you that Miss Claremont does indeed understand how hard school is. And unlike some ungrateful, undisciplined freshmen who roll into this institution with a pocketful of daddy’s money and no work ethic, Miss Claremont has – like all achieving students – worked hard and made the necessary sacrifices because she realizes the value of an education. To that end she has earned the respect of her professors as well as a position as my assistant. Perhaps one day she shall return to this school to teach the next generation.” He snapped the briefcase shut. “If so, I hope they are more worthy of this institution than the likes of what is entering these halls today.”

I looked at Mandy’s face, waiting for her to be offended by his bold statement. But she seemed to have not even heard it. Instead, she was changing tact. Her body language was softening; a hand went to her hair and she curled a shiny brunette lock around her finger. She leaned over the desk, the collar of her white blouse gaping open enough to afford a view of firm, generous breasts framed in a lacy, white bra. Her tongue darted out briefly t touch her top lip. Then she smiled and began to worry the lower one in her teeth as she fixed the professor with a wide-eyed, innocent look.

“I’m sorry I raised my voice,” she said quietly. “I just really can’t fail this class.” She looked over at me and then back at him, moving to sit on his desk. “Maybe we could discuss this alone?”

“Please remove yourself from my desk, Miss Aimes. And from my classroom.” His voice was cold and disapproving. From where I sat I could feel the chill and couldn’t help but feel almost embarrassed for Mandy.

“Fine.” Spurned, the pretty brunette picked up her books now. “But don’t think the dean isn’t going to hear about this because he is,” she hissed, pointing towards the window. “May I remind you that building next door is Aimes Hall? My family still means something around here.” She turned and stomped out, glaring over her shoulder as she went. “You’ll see.”

I suddenly wondered if I wanted to be a history professor after all. I’d always wanted to teach, but had decided to pursue an advanced degree, not just because teaching at the college level paid better but because the students would be challenging and I’d be spared the drama that comes spoiled little children. Now I wasn’t so sure.

Beside me, Professor Wimberly appeared to have read my mind. “They’re not all like that. I promise.”

I turned to him hesitantly. In the two months I’d been serving as his graduate assistant, Ian Wimberly had spoken to me very little. Even the interview with him had been short and pointed. Much of our communication was done via email when I was preparing course materials. He was one of those people who seemed to be better lecturing to a group than in a one-on-one setting, and that had come as a disappointment to me although not a total surprise. I’d heard something of this duality from other students and assistants about the man who could go from gifted orator to taciturn as soon as the class emptied. So the fact that he was speaking to me made me feel somehow special, even if it was just small talk.

“It’s the parents I blame,” he was saying now and I realized then that he had gone from talking to me to talking to himself. It made me feel hurt, but not enough to stop listening.

“I went to school in a different place and age. Children were raised to respect their elders, especially teachers. If we misbehaved at boarding school in my youth the instructors had the blessing of our parents to use the cane. If we persisted in causing trouble we were expelled and sent home in disgrace. In my community, failing at one’s studies was the ultimate disgrace. A good beating now and then was counted on to build character, sharpen the focus.”

I felt my face flood with color and bent back over the papers, pretending to read the words that swam before me in a jumbled, unfocused maze. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ever since I could remember, I’d had a strong spanking fetish. And here was this man casually mentioning caning. It was going to be a long semester.

He stopped and looked at me and as usual, my stomach flipped a little. Ian Wimberly was a very attractive older man. His hair was sandy blonde, his face angular. Glasses framed a pair of intense, intelligent eyes. His voice was deep, cultured and despite years at an American university had not shed the charming British accent that made every first-year female student – and probably the occasional male student - twitter.

“Of course, you probably find such views completely archaic.” He picked up the briefcase and adjusted the top of his tie.

“No,” I said, but it was a lie. I knew nothing of this man personally. In lectures, I’d seen him take passionate stances on progressive events, so his rather conservative approach to dealing with youthful rebellion did seem out of place. “It’s just that it’s a bit….” I struggled to find a word. “…unusual. I don’t know of many parents today who would advocate…”

I began shuffling the papers.

“…corporal punishment.” He finished my sentence for me.

“Yes,” I said. “That.”

“Well, it does appear to have fallen out of favor in this society and we’ve just seen the results of that mindset flounce out of here in a self-centered huff, haven’t we?” He nodded in my direction. “Good day, Ms. Claremont. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I sat tapping my pen on the top of my paper as I watched him go out, hoping he had not seen the flush that had yet to leave my face.

“Shit,” I said as soon as he was out the door. I put my face in my hands, feeling ashamed of myself. Why couldn’t I have just been born gay. I often thought it would have been easier. It certainly would have been more socially acceptable. I had a few gay and lesbian friends who were openly proud of their lifestyle. They held hands in public and even sported tasteful homoerotic or lesbian art on the walls of their dorms or apartments. They were proud to express themselves, to revel in the uniqueness of their sexuality. But not me. The erotic art I enjoyed was always viewed behind the locked door of my room due to my endless paranoia that my roommate Marcy would see. I often tried to imagine how I’d explain looking at a close-up shot of an over-the-knee spanking. Research? I knew that a spanking fetish wasn’t all that unusual, but our campus was very liberal and so were my friends. I never wanted to have to explain my sexual fixation with spanking, or worse my desire to be dominated, guided, utterly controlled by a stronger and wiser man. The desire for such a dynamic had brought my love life to a screeching halt. The school – and my social circle – was flooded with sensitive meterosexuals seeking egalitarian relationships I had no interest in. I wanted a he-man, a mentor, a father-figure without the incestuous overtones. In short, I wanted a man I was pretty sure no longer existed.

I felt like a freak, and it didn’t help when a man like Ian Wimberly made an off-handed comment about old-fashioned discipline without realizing the words sent a shot heat straight into the core of my being.

I sighed and picked up the papers. There was no need to try and finish grading them now. I needed to go out and get some air.

Part II

The signs of spring were plentiful in the courtyard and that made me grumpy because it meant that I no longer had a good excuse to hide in the library. I adored Marcy, but one of the drawbacks of living with her was that she had made it her personal mission to socialize me.

“All you ever do is work!” she complained. “You’re so pretty! You need to get out more and enjoy life. There’ll be plenty of time to work after graduation. Have some fun while you’re still a student!”

I knew she was right. At 32 I was hardly over the hill, and I was also far from the only older student returning to the halls of academia to prepare for a second or new career. The problem was that most of the other older students were married or engaged. Going out with them made me feel like a fifth wheel, and all the younger students seemed to want to do was party.

All winter I’d used every excuse I could think of to avoid going out. It was always to cold or too snowy. Then when I got the job as Professor Wimberly’s graduate assistant I used work as an excuse. But now with the trees in bloom I knew I couldn’t hold Marcy off much longer. She was sure to set me up on a date with one of her sensitive male friends from the poetry department who would expect me to pay half for whatever chick flick he didn’t mind seeing.

“Where are you, John Wayne?” I said to no one in particular. It made sense that I was so fascinated with history, so in love with the romance of bygone eras and traditions that would have not only accepted a woman’s submissive tendencies but applauded them.

My mind replayed the earlier comments by Professor Wimberly. “A different place and time,” he had said. I wondered if he shared my interest in spanking, and then felt silly for even entertaining the thought. It had simply been a comment or nothing more. Had he been trying to gauge my reaction, he would have made it more obvious. No, as much as I wanted to think he had been testing me, he had not. My boss had simply been frustrated by a bratty student and waxing nostalgic for a time when parents sent their kids to college prepared to learn.

I stood up from the park bench and checked my watch.

“Betty!”

I turned when I heard my name called.

“Speak of the she-devil,” I said. Marcy was waving at me as she came. As always she looked perfect. Naturally slim and blessed with perfect hair and skin, my roommate was one of those rare women who rolled out of bed beautiful. And to make it even more sickening, she had a personality to match her good looks.

“I thought you were in class” she said.

“Between classes,” I said. “I had some papers to grade so I thought I’d do it out here.”

“And here I was thinking you were allergic to sunlight.” Marcy winked at me. “Does this mean you’ll come to my Ultimate Frisbee contest this afternoon?”

I sighed. “Sure.”

“There’ll be some cute guys there!” she said.

“There are cute guys everywhere,” I said. “Just none I’m interested it.”

“You’re too picky,” she said. “We have a new assistant coach who’s about your age. His name is Rhett.”

“Rhett?” I wrinkled my nose. “For real?”

“For real,” she said.

“Does he look like Clark Gable?”

“Who?” Marcy frowned confused.

“Dead guy,” I replied. “You probably haven’t heard of him.” Marcy, although also a returning student, was seven years younger than I was and not familiar with classic movies. I didn’t feel like explaining the cast of “Gone With The Wind,” one of my favorite movies.

“I’ll be there,” I said. “What time?”

“4:30,” she said. “In the field behind Aimes Hall.”

Mandy’s Aime’s pouty faced came to mind. I wondered if she’d be there. I hoped not. I hated it when students tried to get me to change Professor Wimberly’s mind. Among the rules he’d given me when I was hired at the start of semester was one that forbade me from bending any of the rules or requirements he had for his students. When in doubt I should ask. Period.

“Sure,” I sighed, unable to come up with an excuse. Rhett sounded promising. He was a coach, which meant he was probably unfamiliar with the poetry department. Perhaps I’d finally be meeting a Real Man, one who could get my mind off the fantasy partners who seemed to have gone the way of John Wayne.

Part III

Marcy was right. His name was Rhett. He was a coach. And he was nice. But as soon she introduced me to Rhett Patterson I knew the only thing we had in common was an appreciation for my roommate, albeit a different kind.

He bantered more with her than he did with me during the introduction, and never took his eyes off her lithe frame during the heated competition. Like most beautiful girls, Marcy didn’t even realize how fully riveted his attentions were.

After the match, she collapsed on the blanket I’d spread out on the sidelines and rolled over on her back, looking up at me. “So, what did you think of Rhett?” she asked.

“Not my type,” I said.

“Geesh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“I’m not his type,” I replied. “I think he likes them..” I looked at her and winked. “…younger.”

“He’s just like a lot of guys, Betty. Superficial. But maybe if you got to know him. I could set you up on a ---“

“No.” I stopped her even before she could get the word “date” out of her mouth, and was pleased to see she’d dropped the subject entirely and was turning her attention to a figure walking across the field.

“Amber!” My roommate stood and gave a beckoning wave to a young woman toting a backpack that looked like it weighed more than she does. The woman stopped, shaded her eyes with her hand and – apparently recognizing Marcy – walked over. When she was within a few feet of us I realized I recognized the petite freckled redhead as Amber Longtree a student in Professor Wimberly’s class. The students were seated alphabetically, and in my mind I could see her face among the “L’s” as she bent over to write out her notes in longhand. She was the only student in class without a laptop.

“Hi Marcy!” Amber Longtree smiled and waved and then nodded at me in recognition. “Miss Claremont, right?”

I nodded back. “Yeah. I’m Professor Wimberly’s assistant.”

“Why weren’t you at practice yesterday? Or at the game today?” Marcy stood up, looking at Amber with concern.

“Coach didn’t tell you?” Amber sounded hurt. “I had to quit the team.”

“Quit? Why?”

“My other student loan didn’t come through.” She flopped down on the blanket beside Marcy and sighed, shaking her head. “And with daycare costs being so high I had to take a job slinging drinks at O’hara’s.”

“You have a child?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I blushed deeply at the completely unprofessional intrusion. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “It’s just that you look so young…”

“It’s OK. I was seventeen when I had Opal.” Amber gave an understanding smile. “I was pretty wild at the time and got drunk at a party one night…” Her voice trailed off. “It was a one night stand and I the dad didn’t want any parts of the pregnancy. I didn’t even at first and was in denial about until I was almost five months along. By then it was too late to do anything about it. I’m glad now. Opal’s my world.”

“She’s adorable,” said Marcy. “And Amber is an amazing mother.”

“Do you have anyone to help you, like parents?” I asked, curious now.

“Nah,” said Amber. “My parents aren’t the warmest people. I’ve had to raise myself. Now I’m just hoping to give my daughter a better life than what I had. Which is why I’m here.” She spread her arms out and looked around.

“Years from now when we’re having breakfast at the kitchen table in the house I bought with money I earned from a well-paying professional job, Opal will be griping about doing homework I’ll be able to tell her from experience the importance of sticking with it.”

I felt a deep sense of admiration for this young woman, especially in contrast to the spoiled behavior of Mandy Aimes from earlier that day. I wanted to tell her so, but she rose to leave before I could.

“Gotta run,” she said. “If I leave now I can spend a couple of hours with Opal before I start my shift at the bar. I did get lucky; the woman upstairs from me has two kids and is keeping her for me in exchange for tutoring help for her son. How sweet is that?”

She smiled and waved, turning away.

“Wow,” I said. “She’s amazing.”

“Yes, she is,” Marcy said. “I didn’t know she’s in Wimberly’s class.”

“I feel kind of bad for not recognizing her at first,” I replied. “But with so many student and so much work….”

“Yeah, Wimberly kind of strikes me as a slave driver,” Marcy said.

“That reminds me,” I replied. “I’ve got to grade some papers and research some stuff for tomorrow.”

“What kind of stuff?” Marcy asked.

“I don’t even know,” I said, getting up from the blanket. “I guess I’ll find out when I get home.”