Thesis Redemption Journey

Thesis Redemption Journey

Chapter 4 - “Teacher Spanking”

Fiction by Lisa

Inspired by George

I made a phone call. A desperate, shame-filled confession. Each ring of the phone made me more nervous. Maybe he wouldn’t pick up. By the third ring he picked up with, “Lisa?”

“Mr. Thorne?” I’d whispered into the receiver, my thesis notes scattered like accusing leaves across my desk. “It’s Lisa. I… I’ve done it again.”

A long, silent pause had stretched out, one where I could practically feel his disappointment radiating through the line. “Define ‘it,’ Lisa.”

“Procrastination. Avoidance. My draft is due in three weeks and I’ve written maybe five new pages since… since our last session.” I’d squeezed my eyes shut, humiliation burning my cheeks. “I need help.”

“I’ll be there in forty minutes,” he’d said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Be ready.”

When he’d arrived, his gaze had been a physical weight. He’d pointed to the center of my living room rug. “Stand there.”

Then the command. The one that sent a cold shock straight through me. “Remove your clothes. All of them.”

“Mr. Thorne, I…” I’d stammered, my fingers clutching the hem of my sweatshirt.

He hadn’t repeated himself. He hadn’t raised his voice. He simply stood there, his tall frame blocking the doorway, his expression unreadable. He just… stared. His eyes, usually so analytical, became dark pools of quiet authority. The air grew thick. My protests died in my throat, smothered by the sheer, intimidating force of his silent expectation. My breath hitched. Slowly, my fingers trembling, I’d pulled the sweatshirt over my head. The sweatpants followed, pooling at my ankles. Then my underwear, until I stood shivering, arms crossed over my chest.

And now I was. Naked. Utterly exposed.

“Hands at your sides,” he’d instructed, his voice low. “Now, to the mirror.”

He’d positioned me in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door. My own wide, frightened eyes stared back at me. My skin was pale everywhere except my face, which was blotchy with shame. He’d produced the wooden spoon from his leather satchel—a common, cruel-looking kitchen implement.

“You will look at yourself,” he’d said, standing just behind my shoulder. “And you will repeat after me. You will not look away from your reflection. Is that clear?”

I’d nodded, a tear escaping.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Begin. ‘I am a capable and dedicated student.’”

And so it started.

Crack.

The spoon landed again, this time on the sensitive undercurve of my bottom. A sharp, stinging pain that quickly bloomed into a deep, throbbing heat. My entire focus narrowed to the burning canvas of my skin.

“I… I will complete my thesis on time,” I repeated, my voice stronger now, fueled by the desperate need to make the punishment stop.

“Better,” he said. “Again. ‘My mind is sharp and my will is strong.’”

Crack.

“My mind is sharp and my will is strong!” I cried out. The pain was intensifying, each new strike layering over the last until my whole backside felt alive with a fierce, glowing ache. I was dancing on the spot, my weight shifting from one foot to the other, but I kept my eyes locked on my reflection. I saw the grimace twist my face. I saw the way my body flinched with every impact.

Crack. Crack.

Two rapid-fire strikes, low on my thighs. I yelped. “I am disciplined! I am focused!” I shouted the affirmations, no longer just repeating them but pouring my desperation into them. The psychological wall I’d built around my work was being physically shattered, spoon-stroke by spoon-stroke. The embarrassment of my nudity, the sharp, clarifying pain—it was all stripping away my excuses, leaving me raw and horrifically honest.

The spanking wasn’t frenzied. It was measured. Methodical. He covered every inch, from the crest of my bottom down to the tops of my thighs, painting my skin a deeper, angrier red. The sound of the wood meeting my flesh was a flat, terrible thwack that echoed in the quiet room, punctuated by my hitched breaths and choked repetitions.

I was begging now. “Please, Mr. Thorne. I understand. I’ll be good, I’ll work, I promise.”

He landed one final, solid swat right in the very center.

I sobbed, my body slumping forward, my hands braced against the cool glass of the mirror.

He let the spoon rest against my throbbing skin for a moment. The contrast of the cool wood on the heated flesh made me shiver. Then he stepped back. “Good. Now, you will sit at the kitchen table and write out your detailed study plan. Hour by hour. Day by day.”

I turned, finally breaking my gaze from my reflection. “Sit? On… on the chair?”

He gave a single, slow nod. “The wooden one. Yes.”

The walk to the kitchen was a study in humiliation. Every movement made the ache pulse. I was hyper-aware of the air on my skin, the swing of my hips, the complete vulnerability. He pulled the hard, unyielding chair out for me.

Gingerly, I lowered myself. The moment my sore bottom made contact with the solid wood, I hissed. It wasn’t the sharp sting of the spoon, but a deep, pervasive, unignorable throb. A constant, seated reminder.

He placed a legal pad and a pen in front of me. “Begin. Start with today. Now.”

Tears still tracked down my face as I started writing. The words came haltingly at first, then faster. The plan took shape—rigorous, detailed, unforgiving. Just like the spoon. Just like the chair. The physical discomfort kept my mind from wandering. There was no space for procrastination here, only the immediate reality of the task and the deep, radiating heat in my backside.

I wrote for twenty minutes in silence, broken only by the scratch of the pen and my occasional sniffle. When I finished, I pushed the pad toward him.

He read it, his eyes scanning the page. Finally, he looked up. “Acceptable.”

He stood and came around the table. For a terrifying moment, I thought he was going to make me bend over the table. Instead, he put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me up from the chair. I winced as I rose.

Then, he simply wrapped his arms around me in a firm, tight hug. My naked body was pressed against the crisp cotton of his shirt. It was not a tender embrace. It was solid. Confining. Reassuring in its sheer dominance. My face was buried against his chest, and I could smell his cologne and the faint, clean scent of soap.

“You will call me every evening at seven,” he said, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “You will report your progress. You will read me what you have written. Do you understand the arrangement, Lisa?”

I nodded into his chest, my arms hanging limply at my sides. “Yes, sir.”

“This ends when you submit your thesis. Not before.” He gave me one final squeeze and gentle smack on my bottom. He walked towards the door, stopped and turned before he opened and left. Then he told me to 1. Organize what I have. 2. Get Dressed and 3. Go for a walk, clear your mind. He finished with, “Give me a call when you get back from your walk and let me know how you are mentally. Proud of you for reaching out to me today Lisa!