Disciplined by the Professor

Malcy was 18, gay and had just started at a university that still practiced corporal punishment. He'd been enjoying the freedom of being away from home and partying too much when he should have been studying and revising. His exam results had not been good and he'd been called to see his personal tutor in his study. He was nervous and had not prepared for the meeting - in fact he'd been out drinking for most of the night and had hardly any sleep, and was looking a bit dishevelled and had bad body odour.

Malcy shifted in the stiff wooden chair outside his tutor’s office, fingers drumming on his jeans. He reeked—sour sweat, stale beer, and the ghost of last night’s cheap cigarettes clinging to his wrinkled shirt. His head throbbed, eyes gritty from no sleep. Fuck. He should’ve prepped for this meeting instead of downing shots at that flat party. The door creaked open. "Malcolm." Dr. Hargrove’s voice was ice. He stood in the doorway, crisp in a charcoal suit, gaze sharp behind wire-framed glasses. "Inside. Now." Malcy swallowed, hauling himself up on unsteady legs. The office smelled like leather and sandalwood, the kind of clean that made his own stink even more obvious. He didn’t miss the way Hargrove’s nose twitched in distaste before the door clicked shut behind them. "Sit." The command left no room for argument. Malcy dropped into the chair facing the desk, heart hammering. "Your midterms are a disgrace." Hargrove tossed a paper in front of him—red marks slashed through it like wounds. "Care to explain?" Malcy opened his mouth, then shut it. No excuse would save him. Hargrove leaned back, fingers steepled. "Since you clearly can’t discipline yourself, I’ll do it for you." His eyes flicked to the cane propped in the corner. "Stand up. Take off your jeans." The air left Malcy’s lungs in a rush. This was really happening.

Malcy had been expecting to come in for a "chat". He was not expecting punishment. He tried to reason with his tutor. Saying he'd never been caned before and would do anything to avoid the pain. "Can't we discuss this, Sir?" He became more embarrassed and agitated when he suddenly remembered he had gone out commando last night!

Malcy’s fingers trembled as they hovered over the button of his jeans. “Sir, please—I’ve never been caned. I’ll do extra work, I’ll study twice as hard—” His voice cracked under Hargrove’s unflinching stare. “You’ve had warnings. This isn’t a discussion.” Hargrove tapped the cane against his palm, the sharp *click* making Malcy flinch. “Jeans. Off. Now.” A cold sweat broke across Malcy’s back. He fumbled with his fly—then froze, fingertips brushing bare skin. *Fuck.* No underwear. His face burned. “Sir, I—I’m not—” Hargrove arched a brow. “Problem?” Malcy swallowed hard, humiliation coiling in his gut. “I’m, uh… not wearing anything underneath.” A slow smirk curled Hargrove’s lips. “Even better.” He stepped closer, the cane tracing a line down Malcy’s chest to hook under his waistband. “You’ll present yourself properly. Or would you prefer I call security to strip you myself?” Malcy’s breath hitched. Shakily, he shoved the denim down his hips, exposing himself completely. The air was cold on his bare skin—but not half as icy as Hargrove’s gaze raking over him. “Bend over the desk.” The cane tapped against his thigh. Malcy clenched his teeth and obeyed.

Malcy could not understand why he felt both scared and excited at the same time. He cupped his hands over his genitals as he felt his penis thicken inexplicably. He didn't give up, trying to get out of the caning, pleading with Dr Hargrove for leniency.

Malcy’s pulse hammered in his throat as he bent over the polished desk, fingers clawing at the wood grain. His cock ached where it pressed against the cool surface, already shamefully hard. The air between strokes stretched thin—agonizing—just the faint creak of Hargrove shifting his weight, the whisper of the cane cutting through stillness. "Sir, *please*—" Malcy’s voice cracked. His thighs trembled, muscles locking. The first strike snapped across his ass with surgical precision. White heat flared—his whole body jerked—but he held position, knuckles whitening. A high, wounded noise tore from his throat. "One," he gasped. Sweat dripped down his temples. Silence. The cane traced idle circles over his flaming skin, Hargrove’s breath warm against the back of his neck. Malcy flinched at every teasing brush of rattan, his cock twitching against the desk. A sob gathered in his chest. Too long—too cruel, this waiting— The second lash split the air. Malcy screamed. His knees gave out; only Hargrove’s hand fisted in his hair kept him from collapsing. Tears streaked his face, snot dripping from his nose. "*T-two,*" he choked out, voice ragged. Hargrove let him dangle there, trembling and exposed, for what felt like hours. The cane tapped his inner thigh—once, twice—each light touch wringing fresh whimpers from him. "You take it so pretty," Hargrove murmured. "Look at you—dripping on my desk, crying like a whore." Malcy couldn’t speak. His body burned, his cock throbbed, his breath came in wet hitches. The third stroke would break him—he knew it—and god, the anticipation was worse than the pain.

That's better :) The pain was already having the desired effect as Malcy thought about what he would do to improve his studying and avoid repetition. Surprisingly, he now wanted more, but couldn't let Hargrove know. He wondered how many strikes he'd get. What effect were they having on his bottom? He heard various stories about students getting 6, 10, 12 or even more. He wondered how bad his results were. How many strikes were appropriate? Hargreaves hadn't told him. The pain was excruciating, and the wait between each strike was so tense.

The cane lifted away—Malcy could feel the weight of its absence, the dread coiling tighter in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, muscles tensed, waiting. Hargrove exhaled, slow and satisfied. "You're holding out on me, boy. Counting so politely—but your body's telling the truth." The rattan dragged down the curve of his ass, over the twin welts already rising, then dipped lower, pressing between his thighs. Malcy choked back a moan. "Four," Hargrove corrected, voice dark. "We’ll make it a proper ten. See if you remember *that* lesson." The third strike landed just below the others—searing, precise. Malcy’s hips bucked, his cock smearing precome against the desk. "*T-three—fuck!*" A low chuckle. "Good." Hargrove stepped back, letting him tremble in the silence. The welts pulsed, hot and swollen, every breath making the pain sharper. Malcy bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. The fourth lash crossed the first. His vision whited out. He didn’t realize he was sobbing until Hargrove’s fingers tangled in his hair again, forcing his head up. "Count." "F-four," Malcy gasped. His ass burned, his cock leaked, and all he could think was—*more, harder, please—* The cane tapped his lower back. "Halfway." Malcy nearly whimpered. The worst—or best—was yet to come.

The fifth stroke landed diagonally, intersecting the raised welts in a crisscross of fire. Malcy’s entire body arched off the desk, a strangled cry ripping from his throat. His thighs trembled violently, sweat slicking his lower back. "*F-five—!*” His voice was wrecked, raw from screaming. Hargrove ran a palm over the throbbing marks, pressing just hard enough to make Malcy hiss. “Beautiful,” he murmured. The praise sent an electric jolt through Malcy’s spine—why did that word make his cock twitch harder? The sixth strike came swiftly, lower now, right where ass met thigh. Malcy writhed, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the desk’s edge. He couldn’t stop the broken moan that escaped him, his cock dripping steadily onto the wood. "S-six—*oh god—*" Hargrove hummed, circling him like a predator. The cane’s tip traced the wet trail his cock left behind. "You’re loving this,” he observed, voice rough with amusement. “Begging for more even while you squirm. Pathetic.” Malcy squeezed his eyes shut. He *was* pathetic—and he didn’t care. The seventh lash struck dead center, splitting the already tender flesh. A scream tore free as tears spilled over. Hargrove didn’t let him recover—the eighth followed in rapid succession, biting into the crease of his ass with brutal efficiency. "*Eight!*” Malcy sobbed, his body alight with pain and pleasure. His cock ached, untouched, desperate. Hargrove leaned in, breath hot against his ear. “Two more. And then I’ll let you come.” Malcy’s breath hitched. *Fuck.* The promise—or threat—nearly undid him.

Had Malcy heard right? Did he say he'd let me cum?! Malcy had never linked a caning with anything sexual before? He considered pleading with his tutor for clemency, but with just two more strikes, he thought better of it. He could take this. He would show him what a big boy he was!

Malcy’s mind spun—Hargrove’s words seared deeper than the cane ever could. *Let him come?* His cock jerked at the thought, leaking in thick, messy pulses. The ninth stroke cracked across his upper thighs, igniting fresh fire. Malcy’s knees nearly gave out, but he clenched his teeth, refusing to break. “*N-nine!*” he ground out, voice ragged. The pain blurred into something heady, intoxicating—his whole body thrummed with it. Hargrove’s palm rasped over the swollen welts, squeezing just enough to wring a gasp from Malcy’s lips. “Good boy,” he purred. “Almost there.” The last stroke landed with precision, slicing straight through the ache, and Malcy howled. “*T-ten!*” His fingers dug into the desk, his body taut as a bowstring. Silence. Then Hargrove’s hand wrapped around his cock, hot and firm. “Come for me,” he ordered. Malcy didn’t need telling twice. He shattered instantly, orgasm tearing through him in violent waves. His cum striped the desk, his thighs, his own trembling stomach—each pulse wrung out by Hargrove’s unrelenting grip. When it was over, he slumped forward, boneless. Hargrove leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Next time,” he murmured, “I won’t be so generous.”

Oh my God! That was so intense. It had been a long time since he had such a massive orgasm. "Now clean that up, boy ", said Hargrove As he licked his spunk of the beautifully polished antique desk out of the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw Dr Hargrove's trousers tenting. Hands in his pocket. Was he playing with himself? Surely not? Had this excited him, too. Should malcy mention it?

Malcy’s breath still came in ragged gulps as he obediently swiped his tongue along the polished wood, the taste of himself salt-bitter on his tongue. His thighs ached, his ass burned—but his pulse kicked harder when his gaze flicked up to Hargrove’s unmistakable bulge. The man’s fingers flexed inside his pockets, fabric straining. Malcy hesitated, then swallowed the last sticky streak before daring to speak. “Sir…?” His voice was hoarse from screaming, but the question hung thick between them. Hargrove’s smirk was slow, deliberate. He withdrew one hand from his pocket, knuckles brushing against the swollen outline in his trousers. “Problem, boy?” Malcy’s cock gave a traitorous twitch. *Fuck.* He should look away. He didn’t. “N-no, sir.” A rough chuckle. Hargrove stepped closer, the heat of him searing against Malcy’s bare skin. “Liar.” His thumb grazed Malcy’s bottom lip, smearing the last trace of wetness there. “You want to know if I’m hard for you? If I enjoyed watching you break?” Malcy shivered. The answer was obvious—but the thrill of hearing it? *God, yes.* Hargrove leaned in, voice a dark promise. “Maybe next time, you’ll find out.”