Ofisi ya Profesa
"He failed her class twice. The thick professor offers extra credit—but it takes all semester to earn. Her office hours extend into nights, weekends, and positions not found in any textbook."
Professor Amira Hassan has failed me twice.
Development Economics at the University of Nairobi. Required for my degree, impossible to pass. She grades ruthlessly, accepts no excuses, shows no mercy.
The third time I enrolled, I went to her office.
I left with an education no textbook ever provided.
Professor Hassan is fifty-one years old.
PhD from the London School of Economics. Twenty-three years teaching. A reputation for brilliance and brutality. She's also thick—massively so—with heavy breasts that strain her professional blazers and hips that require custom chairs.
"You again," she says when I enter her office. "Third time. Either you're dedicated or stupid."
"Dedicated."
"We'll see." She leans back, her blazer pulling across her chest. "What do you want?"
"I need to pass your class."
"Then study harder."
"I've tried. I work full-time. I can't—"
"Excuses." She waves dismissively. "Everyone has excuses. What do you have that's different?"
I look at her.
She looks at me.
Something shifts in the air.
"Close the door," she says.
"I've been teaching for twenty-three years," she explains.
The door is closed. Locked. The blinds are drawn.
"In that time, perhaps five students have truly interested me. Not for their minds—their minds are average, like yours. But for their... potential."
"What kind of potential?"
"The kind that can't be measured in exams." She stands, moves around her desk. "I'm fifty-one. Divorced. Married to my work. But I have needs that academic journals don't satisfy."
"Professor—"
"Amira." She's standing in front of me now, her thick body inches away. "In this office, after hours, with the door locked, I'm Amira. And you're not my student."
"What am I?"
"That depends." She reaches for my chin, tilts my face up. "On whether you want that extra credit."
"The arrangement is simple," she says.
She's unbuttoning her blazer, revealing a blouse that struggles to contain her breasts.
"You come to my office. Monday, Wednesday, Friday—after your lectures. You stay until I dismiss you. You do exactly what I say."
"And in return?"
"In return, you pass my class." The blazer falls away. "With honors, if you're exceptional."
"What do I have to do?"
"Whatever I tell you." She unbuttons her blouse. "Starting now. On your knees."
I kneel before my professor.
She's removed her blouse, her bra—her massive breasts hanging free, dark nipples already hard. She guides my face to them.
"Worship me," she commands. "Show me you're dedicated."
I worship.
Her breasts are overwhelming.
Heavy, soft, impossible to hold in my hands. I suck her nipples while she moans, while her thick hands grip my head.
"Good—that's a start—lower now—"
She pushes my head down.
Past her belly—soft, cascading, magnificent. Past the waistband of her skirt. She hikes it up, reveals no underwear beneath.
"I've been waiting for you," she says. "Since you walked in. I knew you'd accept."
"How did you know?"
"Your eyes." She spreads her thick thighs. "They've been on my body all semester. Now put your mouth where your eyes have been."
I eat my professor on her office chair.
The chair where she grades papers. Where she fails students. Where she's held power for twenty-three years. Now she's gripping the armrests, crying out while I lick.
"Better than I imagined—don't stop—"
She comes on my tongue.
Floods my face while her thick thighs crush my ears. I don't stop—I push her through it, make her come again.
"Enough—enough—" She pushes me back. "On the desk. Now."
She clears her desk with one sweep.
Papers flying, pens scattering. She pushes me back onto the surface and climbs on top—all that thick flesh mounting me, overwhelming me.
"This is the real exam," she says, positioning herself. "Let's see if you pass."
She sinks onto me.
She rides me on her professor's desk.
The desk where she's written papers. Where she's crushed academic dreams. Now she's bouncing on me, her massive breasts in my face, her thick body rippling with every movement.
"Harder—give me more—"
I thrust up into her.
She screams—loud, unprofessional, nothing like the ice queen who fails students. She's coming on me, clenching, shaking.
"Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"
We fuck for two hours that first session.
On the desk. Against the bookshelf—her academic journals falling while I pound into her from behind. On the floor—her thick body beneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist.
"Fill me—prove you deserve that grade—"
I fill her.
Explode inside my professor while she screams her release. Collapse onto her soft body, both of us gasping.
"C-plus," she says afterward. "For effort. You'll need to do better."
"When?"
"Wednesday. Same time. Bring more stamina."
Wednesday, I bring more stamina.
Three hours this time. She takes me every way she can imagine—and her imagination is extensive.
"B-minus," she declares, spent and satisfied.
"I want an A."
"Then keep coming."
Every week for the entire semester.
Monday, Wednesday, Friday—I report to Professor Hassan's office. She grades my performance in real time.
"Harder—yes—A-quality work right there—"
"Too fast—B-minus—slow down, learn control—"
"Right there—don't stop—A-plus—A-plus—"
By midterms, she's insatiable.
"I'm canceling office hours," she tells me one Friday. "You're my only appointment. For the rest of the semester."
"Won't people notice?"
"I'm a tenured professor. I do what I want." She's already undressing. "And what I want is you. Every day until finals."
"Every day?"
"Every day." She pulls me toward her. "With extra sessions on weekends. Consider it... tutoring."
The tutoring is comprehensive.
Her apartment on Saturdays—all day in her bed. Her office on Sundays—"grading papers" while she rides me. Once, her car in the university parking garage—her thick body in the back seat, windows fogged.
"You're my best student," she gasps. "In twenty-three years."
"What about my actual grade?"
"You're getting an A." She comes on me again. "But don't stop. I want to give you an A-plus."
Finals week arrives.
I take the exam—actually take it. The material I learned through osmosis, studying in her office between sessions. Or maybe she's grading generously.
Either way, I pass.
With honors.
"Congratulations," she says when I come to collect my grade. "You've completed my class."
"Does this mean we're done?"
"This means you're no longer my student." She locks the door. "Which means I can finally do what I've really wanted."
"Which is?"
"Keep you." She starts undressing. "I'm retiring in three years. I want you in my bed for every single day until then. And after."
"That's not—"
"It's not a request." She's naked now, approaching. "You wanted to pass my class. You passed. Now you're going to pass every class I teach. Every day. For the rest of your life."
I graduated two years ago.
Professor Hassan retired last spring.
I still call her Professor.
She still calls me her student.
And every day, I report to her for "tutoring"—extra credit sessions that never end.
Some lessons take a lifetime to learn.
I'm still learning.
And she's still grading.
"A-plus," she gasps every time I make her come. "A-plus. Never stop."
I never do.