Extra Credit
"She's his professor. He's failing her class. Her office hours are about to get very... educational."
I'm failing Statistics.
Not just regular failing—catastrophic failing. The kind of failing where my professor emails me personally to "discuss my academic standing." The kind where I have to drag myself to Whitmore Hall at 4 PM on a Friday for a meeting that will probably end with the words "academic probation."
Professor Diane Chen is waiting in her office.
She's fifty-three, according to RateMyProfessor, with a reputation for being brilliant and brutal in equal measure. Her lectures are legendary—dense, fast, unforgiving. Her exams are worse. Half the class drops before midterms.
I should have dropped.
I didn't.
And now I'm standing in her doorway, watching her grade papers, trying not to notice the way her silk blouse strains across her chest.
Professor Chen is not a small woman.
She's Asian—Chinese, I think—with grey-streaked black hair pinned up in a loose bun. She's maybe five-two, but she takes up space like someone twice her size. Her hips are wide, spreading across her leather chair. Her belly is round and soft beneath her blouse. And her breasts—
I force my eyes up.
She's already watching me.
"Mr. Hayes." She gestures to the chair across from her desk. "Sit."
I sit.
She lets the silence stretch.
Papers scattered across her desk. A half-empty coffee cup. The afternoon light slanting through the blinds. Everything designed to make me squirm.
I squirm.
"You're failing my class," she says finally.
"I know."
"You know." She leans back. The chair creaks. "And what do you plan to do about it?"
"Study harder?"
"You've been saying that since the first exam. Your grade has only gotten worse." She picks up a paper—my paper—and reads from it. "Question seven. You wrote 'I don't know' and drew a sad face."
"I was having a bad day."
"You're having a bad semester, Mr. Hayes." She sets the paper down. "Let me be direct. You have two options. You can withdraw from my class, take the W on your transcript, and try again next semester. Or you can stay, almost certainly fail, and deal with the consequences."
"What consequences?"
"Academic probation. Loss of your scholarship. Possibly having to take an extra year." She lists them like items on a grocery list. "You're on thin ice already. Another failure and you're in serious trouble."
The words land like punches.
"There has to be another option."
"There isn't." She stands, moves around the desk. Leans against the edge, arms crossed, looking down at me. Her breasts push forward, straining the silk. Her belly rounds out beneath them. "Unless..."
"Unless what?"
She's quiet for a moment. Studying me with those sharp dark eyes.
"How badly do you want to pass, Mr. Hayes?"
"I'll do anything."
The words come out before I can stop them. Desperate. Pathetic. True.
"Anything." She tilts her head. "That's a dangerous word. People say it all the time without meaning it. Extra credit. Tutoring. Late-night study sessions." She pauses. "But you don't mean any of that, do you?"
"I don't understand."
"I think you do." She uncrosses her arms. Reaches up and pulls a pin from her hair. Black and grey falls around her shoulders. "I've been teaching for twenty-five years. I know when a student is looking at my face... and when he's looking somewhere else."
My face burns.
"I wasn't—"
"You were. Just now. When I was sitting down. When I stood up." She takes a step closer. "Every lecture. Every office hour. You sit in the back and you think I don't notice, but I always notice."
I should deny it. Should apologize. Should run.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Another step. She's right in front of me now, close enough to touch. "I've been watching you too, Mr. Hayes. Ryan. Wondering why a smart boy keeps failing my class. Wondering if it's because he can't concentrate. Wondering if it's because he's too busy looking at his fat old professor."
The word hits different in her mouth. Not an insult. An invitation.
"You're not—"
"I am. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and thirty pounds. Grey hair and stretch marks and a body that hasn't seen a gym in twenty years." She reaches down, cups my chin, tilts my face up. "And you've been staring at me all semester like you want to devour me."
I can't breathe.
"Tell me I'm wrong," she says quietly. "Tell me I've misread this. And I'll forget this conversation ever happened, give you the W, and wish you luck next semester."
She waits.
I don't tell her she's wrong.
She kisses me first.
Her mouth is soft, confident, tasting like coffee and something sweeter. Her hand stays on my chin, holding me in place while her tongue slides against mine. I'm frozen—can't move, can't think—and then she pulls back.
"Stand up."
I stand.
She walks to her office door. Locks it. Pulls the blinds closed.
When she turns back, she's already unbuttoning her blouse.
"This is what's going to happen," she says. "I'm going to show you my body. You're going to show me yours. And then you're going to fuck me on this desk, the way you've been imagining all semester."
"What about my grade?"
"Your grade will be whatever you earn." She pulls the blouse off. She's wearing a black bra that does nothing to contain her—breasts overflowing, dark nipples visible through the lace. "But if you're as good at this as you are bad at statistics... we might find reasons to meet more often."
She reaches behind her. Unhooks the bra.
Her breasts spill free.
They're massive. Heavy. Hanging against her chest, dark nipples already hardening. She cups them, lifts them, offers them to me.
"Well? Come get your education."
I cross the room in two steps.
My hands find her waist—so much softness, so much warmth—and I pull her against me. My mouth finds her breast, and I suck her nipple like I've been starving for it.
"Fuck—" She gasps, her hands gripping my shoulders. "Yes—just like that—God—"
I worship her breasts while she tears at my clothes. Shirt off. Belt undone. My jeans and boxers shoved down until my cock springs free, hard and aching.
"Oh my." She wraps her hand around me. Strokes. "The quiet ones always surprise me."
I reach for her skirt. She helps, shimmying it down over her hips—those wide, gorgeous hips—until she's standing in nothing but black panties. Her belly is round and soft, marked with stretch marks. Her thighs are thick, pressing together at the top.
I hook my fingers in her panties and pull them down.
She's bare. Wet. Ready.
"The desk," she commands. "Now."
She hops up onto the edge, papers scattering, and spreads her legs. I step between her thighs—so much flesh surrounding me—and position myself at her entrance.
"Tell me you want this," she breathes.
"I've wanted this since the first day of class."
"Then take it."
I push inside.
She's tight.
Hot. Wet. Gripping me like she's been waiting for this as long as I have. I groan, and she echoes it, her head falling back, her mouth open.
"Don't stop," she gasps. "Don't you dare stop."
I don't stop.
I grab her hips and fuck her on her desk, papers flying, coffee cup rattling. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. Her belly ripples against mine. She's moaning—loud, louder than she should be with the building full of people—and I don't care.
"Harder—harder—"
I give her harder. The desk scrapes against the floor. Her nails dig into my back. She's chanting my name now—Ryan, Ryan, Ryan—like a prayer or a curse.
"I'm going to come," she gasps. "Fuck—fuck—I'm going to come on my student's cock—"
"Come for me, Professor."
She screams.
Her pussy clamps around me, her whole body shaking. She grabs my face and kisses me hard, swallowing her own sounds, and I feel her spasm around me again and again.
I can't hold back.
I bury myself deep and explode, filling her, marking her, finishing inside my professor while she trembles through her orgasm.
We collapse against each other.
The desk is destroyed. Papers everywhere. Her hair has come completely undone.
She laughs.
"I think," she says, "we're going to need to schedule some additional office hours."
It becomes our ritual.
Fridays at 4 PM. Her office door locked, blinds closed. Sometimes it's the desk. Sometimes it's her chair—me sitting, her riding me, all that weight bouncing on my cock. Sometimes it's the floor, or against the wall, or bent over her filing cabinet.
She's insatiable. Twenty-five years of boring academic life, and she's making up for lost time.
"My ex-husband never touched me like this," she tells me one afternoon, lying on the floor, my head resting on her soft belly. "Said he was too tired. Too stressed. Too busy."
"He was an idiot."
"He was." She strokes my hair. "But that means I get to have you instead. So maybe I should thank him."
"Don't." I turn my head, kiss her skin. "Just keep scheduling these meetings."
"Oh, I plan to." She sits up, looks at me with those sharp eyes. "Speaking of which. Your grade."
My heart stutters. "What about it?"
"You're still failing."
"What?"
"This—" She gestures between us. "—is excellent. Enthusiastic. Educational. But it doesn't change the fact that you can't calculate a standard deviation to save your life."
I stare at her.
She smiles.
"So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to tutor you. Really tutor you. And when you pass my class on your own merit—not because I inflated your grade, but because you actually learned—then I'll consider making this arrangement more... permanent."
"Permanent?"
"Keys to my apartment. Weekends. Maybe some travel." She runs a finger down my chest. "I have a conference in Paris next spring. I could use a... research assistant."
"I'd still be your student."
"Only for another semester. After that..." She leans down, kisses me. "After that, you're just a man I'm sleeping with. And no one needs to know how we started."
I should think about this. Should consider the implications, the ethics, the risks.
"When's my first tutoring session?"
She laughs.
"Right now." She reaches for her blouse. "Get dressed. And bring your textbook."
I pass her class with a B.
Not an A—she doesn't believe in grade inflation—but a legitimate B, earned through hours of actual studying, most of it done naked on her living room floor while she quizzed me between rounds of sex.
"Positive reinforcement," she called it. "Get a question right, I take something off. Get it wrong, I put something back on."
I got very good at statistics very fast.
The last day of class, she hands back our final exams. Mine has a B+ at the top, and a handwritten note:
Excellent work. See me after class.
I wait until everyone leaves.
She locks the door.
"Congratulations," she says, walking toward me. "You passed."
"I did."
"Which means..." She stops in front of me. Reaches up to unpin her hair. "You're no longer my student."
"I'm not."
"Which means..." The pins fall away. Black and grey cascading down. "There's nothing stopping us now."
I pull her into my arms.
"There never was," I say. "Not really."
She laughs against my mouth.
And then we're back on the desk—the same desk where this started, papers flying, the afternoon light slanting through the blinds.
Extra credit.
Best grade I ever earned.