Office Hours (Extended)
"He's failing her class. She offers private tutoring sessions. But the lessons she teaches him have nothing to do with literature—and everything to do with the curves she hides behind her desk."
Professor Morrison was going to fail me.
I sat in her office, staring at the red-marked paper in my hands. 47%. On a essay worth 30% of my grade.
"I don't understand." I looked up. "I followed the rubric. I cited all my sources."
"You wrote what you thought I wanted to hear." She leaned back in her chair, regarding me over her reading glasses. "That's not analysis. That's regurgitation."
Dr. Catherine Morrison was fifty-one, according to RateMyProfessor. Silver hair she wore in a loose bun. Sharp features. A wardrobe of cardigans and long skirts that made her look like every academic stereotype.
But underneath those cardigans—I'd noticed during lectures—was a body that didn't fit the stereotype at all.
She was thick. Wide hips that strained against her skirts. Heavy breasts that moved when she paced the lecture hall. An ass that drew eyes whenever she turned to write on the board.
I'd been distracted by it all semester. Probably why I was failing.
"What can I do?" I asked. "I need this class to graduate."
"That's not my problem."
"Please. There has to be something."
She studied me. Those gray eyes, sharp and assessing.
"There might be one option." She stood. Walked to the door. Closed it. Locked it. "Private tutoring. Twice a week, in addition to office hours."
"I can do that."
"It won't be easy. I'll expect more from you than I do in class." She walked back toward me, but didn't sit. She perched on the edge of her desk, close enough that I could smell her perfume. "Are you willing to put in the work?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
"Good." She crossed her legs. Her skirt rode up, revealing thick calves. "We start tonight. Eight PM. My home address is on the syllabus."
"Your home?"
"My office isn't private enough for what I have in mind." She smiled—thin, dangerous. "Don't be late, Mr. Carter."
Her house was a Victorian two blocks from campus.
She answered the door in jeans and a sweater—normal clothes that somehow made her look more stunning. Without the academic armor, I could see her shape clearly. The jeans hugged her hips. The sweater clung to her breasts.
"You're on time." She stepped aside. "Good. Come in."
Her living room was full of books—floor to ceiling, spilling off tables, stacked on the floor. She led me to a small study in the back, with a desk and two chairs.
"Sit."
I sat.
She didn't. She stood behind me, looking over my shoulder as I pulled out my failed essay.
"Read the first paragraph aloud."
I did. It sounded worse out loud.
"Stop." Her hand came to rest on my shoulder. "You're not thinking, Carter. You're performing. What do you actually believe about this text?"
"I don't know. I just—"
"You just wanted to pass." She walked around to face me, leaning against the desk. Her hips were at my eye level. "That's your problem. You don't engage. You don't risk. You don't feel."
"I don't know how."
"Then I'll teach you." She uncrossed her arms. "But you need to be open. Vulnerable. Can you do that?"
"I can try."
"Trying isn't enough." She reached down. Took my chin in her hand. Tilted my face up to hers. "I need you to give yourself over to the process. Trust me completely. Even when it's uncomfortable. Even when it scares you."
"What kind of tutoring is this?"
"The kind that works." Her thumb traced my jaw. "Last chance to leave, Carter. Once we start, we're not stopping until I say we're done."
I should have left.
"I'm staying."
"Strip."
I blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." She stepped back, sat on the edge of her desk. "Take off your clothes."
"Professor—"
"Catherine. In this room, I'm Catherine." She crossed her legs. "Now strip."
"I don't—"
"You wanted to learn vulnerability." She smiled. "This is lesson one."
My hands were shaking as I pulled off my shirt. Then my jeans. Then, after a long pause, my boxers.
I stood naked in front of my professor. Exposed. Hard—I couldn't help it—and exposed.
"Good." Her eyes traveled down my body. "You're already engaging with the fear. Feeling it. That's the first step."
"This is insane."
"The best learning usually is." She stood. Walked around me in a slow circle. "Your body knows things your mind denies. Right now, you're terrified. But you're also aroused. Why?"
"I don't—"
"Answer."
"Because you're—" I stopped.
"Because I'm what?"
"Beautiful." The word came out hoarse. "Because I've been staring at you all semester. Because when you write on the board, I can't focus on anything except the way your hips move."
"There." She stopped in front of me. "That's honesty. That's vulnerability. That's what I want in your writing."
"You want me to write about wanting to fuck my professor?"
"I want you to write like you're feeling something." She reached out. Touched my chest. "Raw. Unfiltered. Brave."
"And this?" I gestured at my naked body. "Is this part of the curriculum?"
"This is the final exam." She pulled her sweater over her head. "If you pass."
Her body was everything I'd imagined.
Heavy breasts in a black bra. A soft stomach. Wide hips. She unhooked the bra, and her breasts fell free—full, with dark nipples hardening in the cool air.
"Touch me," she said. "Like you mean something by it."
I stepped forward. Cupped her breasts. They overflowed my hands.
"Tell me what you feel."
"Soft. Heavy. Perfect."
"Not description. Meaning." She grabbed my wrist, held my hand against her heart. "What does it mean to touch me?"
"It means I'm crossing a line."
"Yes. What else?"
"It means I'm getting something I don't deserve."
"Why don't you deserve it?"
"Because I'm just a student. Because you're brilliant and I'm mediocre. Because you could have anyone and you're choosing me."
"Better." She pushed my hand lower. Past her stomach. To the waistband of her jeans. "Now show me what that desperation feels like."
I fucked my professor on her desk surrounded by centuries of literature.
She was tight and wet and made sounds that no academic should ever make. I thrust into her while she moaned my name—not Carter, David—and clawed at my back.
"Yes—yes—this is it—this is what I needed—"
"Catherine—"
"Don't stop—don't you dare stop—" She wrapped her legs around me, pulled me deeper. "Write like this. Feel like this. Raw. Exposed. Alive."
I came inside her, and she shattered around me, and when we finally collapsed together on the desk, I understood what she'd been teaching me.
I rewrote my essay that night.
Three AM, still smelling like her, I wrote about desire and transgression and the terror of wanting something forbidden. I wrote about bodies and power and the way she moved when she wrote on the board.
She gave me an A.
"Better," she said, handing it back. "Much better."
"Same time tonight?"
"I have more to teach you." She smiled. "And you have a lot to learn."
I passed her class with an A-.
I also learned more than literature. I learned how to engage. How to risk. How to feel things deeply and translate them onto the page.
She writes me recommendations now. Calls me her best student.
Some nights, when her husband is at conferences, I still visit the Victorian house.
She still teaches me things.
I'm still learning.