Living two lives comes naturally to me. For my daytime job, I’ve long worked in higher education, but in my off-hours I publish racy fiction under a pseudonym. It’s not the kind of writing I could talk about in my usual literary circles. But I love describing how my prim and proper Victorian characters get unabashedly down and dirty — and I love that my words are likely helping others get off as well. But I didn’t always express such wickedness in my work. In fact, once upon a time, I was as vanilla as an Edwardian.

Back when I was 25, I had my eyes opened to a whole world of literary and sexual possibilities. It all started with a certain learned man who taught a senior seminar and mentored grad students. I’ll spare you the specifics, but this guy was kind of a big deal in academia. I’ll call him Prof. Jensen.

At the time, Prof. Jensen was somewhere in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, and he often sported some rakishly attractive stubble. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, which framed his swoon-worthy blue eyes. He always seemed to be scrutinizing something — whether it was you personally or something you wrote. He wasn’t portly like many other faculty members his age. He had a slender frame and always dressed smartly.

I had turned in a research proposal in hopes of writing an article over the summer if I scored some grant money. I’d poured myself into the project, so when I got an email from Prof. Jensen urging me to discuss it with him further, I kind of freaked out.

For academics, it’s one thing to say, “I have some feedback for you.” It’s another thing entirely to say, “Let’s talk about this as soon as possible before you proceed further.” It sounded ominous.

After a brief meltdown, I showered and headed to campus. I had no sooner mustered a deep breath and raised my hand to knock when the office door swung open.

“Kimberly?” Prof. Jensen loomed over me. He was at least six-two to my barely five-foot frame.

I jumped back, startled, and said, “Oh, yes, I got your email.”

At first his face was utterly inscrutable, but then a rare smile formed.

“You don’t have to look so frightened. I’m not going to eat you for lunch.” He motioned me inside his office and then stopped short to say, “Well, not today, anyway.”

I chuckled a bit, but my nerves must’ve been palpable.

“Take a seat. Do you need a drink or something?”

I shook my head.

“Suit yourself.” He opened his lower desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. I watched in silence as he poured some liquor into a cut crystal glass. He took a sip and set the tumbler down.

“The way I see it, Kimberly, your work as a whole shows more promise than that of most of the morons they’ve admitted into this program.”

My stomach fluttered.

“But you’re missing some vital knowledge.” He slugged back the rest of the bourbon and continued: “I believe these pieces to be experiential in nature.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you write about the Victorian housewife as though you’ve obviously never been married or don’t want to be. There’s thinly veiled contempt here for the institution.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean — ”

He held up his hand and stopped me short.

“You have the right to your point of view. But you’re very much mistaken in broad-brushing Victorian sensibilities on conjugal matters.”

“But I don’t understand. Women were desired for their submissiveness.”

“Perhaps in the formal sense as wives, but dominant women existed. I have some other sources you should look at, especially if you plan to discuss brothels and London nightlife.” He poured himself another drink and looked back at me. “Ever read about Theresa Berkley?”

“Who’s that?”

Prof. Jensen laughed a bit. “Ever hear of a Berkley Horse?”

I shook my head.

“Theresa Berkley was a Victorian dominatrix who invented the Berkley Horse, also known as the chevalet.” Prof. Jensen took a sip of his bourbon. “A piece of furniture to which naughty ladies and gentlemen would be strapped before being given a good flogging or birching.” He paused. “I don’t have to explain birching, do I?”

I blushed a little and shook my head. I looked down at my feet, but the minute I looked up again, I found his eyes already fixed on me.

“Anyone ever spank you?”

“Oh — uh,” I sputtered, feeling myself get even more red in the face, which only seemed to amuse him further.

“Tell you what, I’m going to let you borrow this.” He reached for a small bound volume on his desk and handed it to me.

“Mysteries of the Verbena House?” I examined the book.

“Yes, it’s a fast read. Look it over tonight, and be sure to note any reactions.”

“Reactions?”

“Yes. I want to know how this book makes you feel. But I also think it’ll give you some perspective.”

“Of course, thank you.”

Then, he waved me off as dismissively as a stern Victorian lord.

Little did I know the delights that awaited me. I was familiar with figures such as Henry Spencer Ashbee, who is suspected to be the author of My Secret Life, a diary all about one anonymous rich man’s erotic exploits. Much of it I actually found distasteful, and I couldn’t relate to the male narrator’s sexuality. However, Mysteries of the Verbena House describes how an English schoolmistress comes to embrace and be aroused by various forms of discipline.

Before I realized it, Mysteries of the Verbena House had made my pussy so wet that I stopped reading in my haste to get off. I stripped nude, masturbated in my bed for a bit, and spanked myself with a hairbrush, just to see if I could leave a mark. Eventually, I moved on to a wooden back-scratcher and attempted some simulated birching while fingering my clit. When I finally came, I knew I wanted to experience the real deal one day and have someone actually spank me.

The next day, I returned to Prof. Jensen’s office and said in my best scholarly voice, “I found this read very illuminating.”

But Prof. Jensen interrupted me. “Yes, but how did it make you feel?”

I blushed and looked down at my notebook. And that’s when I felt him touch my arm.

“Kimberly, we’re both adults. There’s nothing shameful. Just tell me how the book made you feel.”

“Changed.” I paused. “I didn’t think I’d like it, but I did.”

“Who did you identify with more?” Prof. Jensen asked. “The stern headmistress or the submissive little minx?”

I blushed a thousand shades of red and avoided making eye contact.

“The submissive.”

He smiled and said, “I thought as much. But I also think you’re a little domme just waiting to blossom.”

Despite my nervousness, I laughed. But I also felt a wave of arousal as I remembered a birching scene in the book.

Prof. Jensen stood up. He moved aside a large poster about some literary festival. What had originally appeared to be just another odd display board was actually a padded leather Berkley Horse! There was an oval cutout for the submissive’s face, and then smaller rectangular cutouts to expose the breasts and genitals.

My mouth hung wide-open as I looked over this antiquated piece of BDSM furniture.

“Well, Kimberly?” Prof. Jensen smiled. “What do you think?”

“I’m curious,” I replied with a little nervous laugh. I reached out and touched the soft leather.

“Want to take it for a ride?”

I inhaled sharply and looked from the contraption to the professor. I barely heard my own voice, but I know I said yes.

We both stared at one another for a moment.

“Very well.” Prof. Jensen stepped behind me, then whispered in my ear, “And do you want to experience it fully?”

I nodded, feeling goose bumps spread down the back of my neck.

“I can’t hear you, little mouse. Speak up. Do you want to be bound and spanked?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to feel the spanking on your bare bottom?” he whispered again.

I felt my pussy start to moisten at the thought, and in an even softer voice replied, “Yes, Sir.”

Prof. Jensen shut the door to his office and locked it.

“Take off your clothes.”

I removed my sweater, then came the crisp white blouse beneath it, along with my skirt. I wasn’t wearing sexy lingerie that day, just a basic bra, panties, and plain knee-high stockings. As I got down to my undergarments, I glanced at the professor.

“Everything off,” he insisted. “Except the stockings. They can stay. Wouldn’t want you getting cold feet.” He smirked.

I discarded my bra, and my nipples instantly stood at attention in the drafty office. I didn’t really shave my pussy back then, so I had a full bush. I’m sure I was a sight, but he didn’t ogle me. Prof. Jensen gestured to the Berkley Horse.

“Step up and lean against it. I can adjust the height to your body.”

With a few maneuvers, I was “in” — with my face, breasts, and pussy exposed on the far side and my bare bottom utterly vulnerable to his whims.

Prof. Jensen showed me a length of purple rope and said, “This is Japanese silk. We won’t do anything complicated right now — there’s no need — but I’m going to bind your arms.”

Prof. Jensen looped the rope around the horse’s bottom segments and then my wrists, so each was bound securely.

“Good?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Very well. Just use this word if it’s too much,” he said, leaning in and whispering a safe word. Then in a normal voice he announced, “Now let’s explore your submissive side.”

Prof. Jensen opened a locked file cabinet and removed what I later learned was a simple wooden paddle.

His first blow struck me right at that fleshy crease between my ass and thigh. I gasped, but before I could even cry out, there was another strike. And another.

The intensity of the spanking session overtook me quickly. I felt myself swaying with each blow, but the ropes kept me in my place. A burning sensation spread across my ass, and I felt my face blushing with embarrassment. But I didn’t tell him to stop.

However, he did pause in his paddling to look me in the eye and utter, “No begging for mercy?”

I shook my head.

“Impressive. By the way, you’re soaking wet, you cheeky thing.”

I’d been concentrating so hard on the spanking that I hadn’t even noticed the pussy juice streaking my thighs.

But my mind was snapped away from that sensation when the professor’s hands caressed and squeezed my sore bottom.

“Ready for more?”

“Yes,” I responded breathlessly.

“I’m going to untie you, and we’ll try something else.”

Without coming on to me or doing anything else overtly sexual, Prof. Jensen released my bonds and helped me down from the horse. Standing nearly nude in front of him, I reverted to my demure self and tried to cover up, but he quickly nipped that in the bud.

He produced more silk rope, which was thinner and longer than the purple cord.

“This is going to be a little more elaborate, but you’ll look exquisite.”

This time, the professor set about binding my body — wrapping rope around my breasts and arms. He even strung it between my thighs so the cord pressed hard against my clit. If I attempted to wiggle my hands free or bring them to the front, the rope constricted my breasts and tortured my clit.

With my body bound, he then took the purple cord and looped it through the back of his handiwork, so I was forced to stand by his desk. I could lean forward and rest on the furniture, but I couldn’t walk away.

Satisfied, he pinched one of my nipples.

“I need to step out for few minutes. You can reach the phone in case of emergency,” Prof. Jensen said teasingly. “We’ll see if you earn a reward.”

Once his office door shut, my real torture began. I wiggled, desperate for the rope to release the tension building in my clit, but had no such luck. But then I heard footsteps and a moving cart outside.

Oh shit.

It was the night janitor. I felt him try the doorknob, and I panicked, thinking I might be discovered.

“You don’t need to come in here. I’m working,” I called out.

“Professor?”

“I’m his grad student. We’re on deadline. You can come back tomorrow.”

A mere second passed, but it felt like hours.

“Okay,” the janitor responded.

I held my breath until I heard the cart and the footsteps recede.

The anxiety of being discovered mingled with my arousal, making the binding even more frustrating. I almost thought about opening the desk drawer and using his scissors to free myself. But I refrained.

I’m glad I did because he didn’t leave me alone for very long at all. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.

But by that point, we had the entire floor to ourselves. No one in that department ever worked late. When Prof. Jensen opened his office door, I stood up straight, looking as cool and defiant as I could muster.

I was rewarded with another of his charming smiles.

“Very nice, Kimberly.” He shut the door and locked it. “I brought you a treat.” He held up a Styrofoam box. “How about a cupcake for dessert?”

He held the morsel up to my mouth and ordered, “Lick it.”

I wet my lower lip first and then made a show of scooping up and savoring the buttercream frosting. He stroked my hair and encouraged me.

“Good, now take a bite.”

I obeyed and gave him a grateful smile.

“Would you like to taste something else?”

“Yes, Professor,” I replied, feeling hopeful that my arousal would finally be sated.

Prof. Jensen untied the bonds tethering me to the desk but held onto the rope so he could control my movements. He unzipped his pants, pulled out his erection, and said, “It’s up to you what happens now.”

He steadied me as I willingly sank to my knees. I immediately dove for his hard cock and began savoring it. He was careful to not make me gag, but he definitely tested my limits, guiding me to swallow him deeper and deeper. I’d always considered myself decent at giving head, but this was definitely a master class!

After taking him to almost the brink, Prof. Jensen tugged my ropes back to force me to look up at him.

“Ready for some release?” he asked, loosening the ropes just enough to move aside the crotch rope.

“Please,” I begged, hearing the sound of real desire in my own voice.

The professor helped me up and bent me over his desk. He entered my soaking pussy from behind, and I cried out as his thick cock plunged inside me.

He tugged my hair and gave me a barehanded swat on the bottom.

“Ssssh. If you get too loud, I’ll have to gag you.”

I nodded and tried to muffle my moans against the desktop.

We progressed into a rhythm of hard fucking. Prof. Jensen spanked me intermittently, too. At one point, his thumb pressed against my asshole, teasing my sensitive pucker. With my throbbing clit also grinding against the side of the rope, it was not long before I came — loudly.

My professor gave me a sharp swat on the ass.

“You’re supposed to ask permission before you climax. But we’ll address that next time.”

I glanced back and smiled at him as I said, “Thank you for the feedback.”

He spanked me again and pulled out of my used pussy. He turned me around and guided his dick back to my mouth, where I sucked him silly. As his orgasm hit, he pulled back and shot white ropes of come all over my face and tits.

That night, I knew I’d discovered something more than great literary analysis. I’d finally started to figure out myself, and it was the first of many kinky encounters I’d have at the hands of Prof. Jensen.

He and I even worked our way up to suspension bondage. He had me hanging nude over his bed so he could admire me for an hour. Then he ate my pussy for nearly as long.

Hard playtime was always rewarded with even more intense sex. Even though he pushed my limits, he actually taught me how to set them in the first place. I was no longer a mousy doormat who was afraid to speak up. As Prof. Jensen’s sub, my self-confidence and respect soared.

Alas, after that school year, my mentor moved to Florida, but fortunately not before introducing me to some of his kinky friends.

These days I’m mostly on the domme side of things. But ever the teacher, I’m keenly interested in training future tops. There’s always room for more teacher’s pets, too, especially those cute coeds who remind me of my younger self when I was learning the ropes.