Professor Chen
"She's tenured. He's a grad student in her department. When she discovers he's been watching her, she doesn't report him—she uses it. Office hours become something else entirely."
Professor Margaret Chen.
That's what everyone calls her. Dr. Chen. Professor. The department head's most valued colleague, tenured at forty-four, published in every journal that matters.
I call her Aunt Maggie.
Or I did, when I was a kid. Before she divorced my uncle, before she moved across the country, before fifteen years passed and she became a stranger with my family's name.
When I enrolled in the graduate program at State, I had no idea she taught here. When I walked into her advanced seminar and saw her standing at the podium—petite, sharp-featured, silver threading through her black hair—I nearly turned around and walked out.
I didn't.
I should have.
She's beautiful in a way that cuts.
Five-two, maybe a hundred and ten pounds. She dresses like armor—tailored blazers, silk blouses, skirts that show exactly enough leg to distract. Her voice is precise, clinical, the kind of voice that makes you feel stupid for asking questions.
I couldn't stop watching her.
Every lecture, every seminar, every department event. I told myself it was academic admiration. She was brilliant, after all. A leader in her field. Someone to emulate.
But I wasn't watching her mind.
I was watching the way she crossed her legs. The way her blouse gaped when she leaned over her desk. The way she licked her lips when she was thinking.
I was watching her like a man watches a woman he wants.
And she noticed.
"Office hours," she says after class one day. "Today. Four o'clock."
It's not a request.
I show up at 3:55. She makes me wait until 4:15. When she finally opens the door, she's taken off her blazer. Her blouse is slightly unbuttoned. Calculated.
"Close the door."
I do. She walks to her desk, sits on the edge, crosses her legs.
"Do you know why you're here?"
"To discuss my thesis proposal?"
"Try again."
My mouth goes dry. "I don't—"
"Don't lie to me." Her voice hardens. "I've seen the way you look at me. Every class. Every meeting. You think I don't notice when a student wants to fuck me?"
"Professor—"
"Aunt Maggie." She smiles, but there's no warmth in it. "That's what you used to call me. When you were ten and I was married to your uncle and you followed me around like a puppy."
"That was a long time ago."
"Fifteen years. You've grown up." Her eyes travel down my body. "Quite a bit."
I don't know what to say. Don't know where this is going. My heart is pounding, my palms sweating.
"Here's what happens now," she says. "I could report you. Sexual harassment—a student making a professor uncomfortable with unwanted attention. You'd be expelled. Your academic career, over."
"I never—"
"Or." She uncrosses her legs. Lets them fall open slightly. "We could come to an arrangement."
"What kind of arrangement?"
"The kind where you give me what you've been thinking about. And I don't destroy your future."
I should say no.
Should tell her this is blackmail, coercion, something I could report to the dean. Should walk out, transfer programs, never see her again.
Instead, I cross the room. Stand between her open thighs. Look down at this woman who was my aunt, who is my professor, who is now something else entirely.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Kneel."
I kneel.
She hitches her skirt up. No underwear. Shaved smooth, glistening wet.
"Show me what you've been imagining."
I eat her out on her desk.
Her hand in my hair, guiding me, controlling my movements with the same precision she uses to dissect an argument. She tastes sharp, clean, addictive.
"Good," she murmurs. "You're better than I expected. Your uncle was terrible at this."
The mention of my uncle should disgust me. Instead, it makes me harder.
"Faster. I have a faculty meeting at five."
I work faster. Find her clit, suck it, tongue it until her clinical composure cracks. She gasps, thighs clenching around my head, fingers tightening in my hair.
"Don't stop—there—right there—"
She comes silently. A shudder, a sharp exhale, a flood of wetness against my mouth. Professional even in orgasm.
"Adequate." She pushes me back. Straightens her skirt. "Same time tomorrow. And the day after."
"For how long?"
"For as long as I want." She fixes her blouse. "You're dismissed."
Week One
Every day at four, I'm on my knees.
She never touches me. Never lets me come. Just uses my mouth until she's satisfied, then sends me away aching and desperate.
"This is about power," she explains on day three. "Not pleasure. Your pleasure is irrelevant."
"Then why—"
"Because I can." She stands, smooths her skirt. "Because you showed me you wanted it. And because, let's be honest, you love it."
I do.
I hate that I do.
Week Two
She escalates.
"Lock the door. Strip."
I obey. Stand naked in her office while she circles me, evaluating. Her small hand trails across my chest, my stomach, my cock—hard and leaking.
"Impressive." She grips me, strokes once. "If you can last ten minutes without coming, I'll let you fuck me."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you don't get to come at all. And you spend the rest of the semester exactly like this—desperate, denied, mine."
She strokes me.
I last four minutes.
"Disappointing." She releases me, wipes her hand on my chest. "Dress. Get out."
Week Three
She starts training me.
"Edge yourself. Every night. You don't come until I say."
I do. For a week. Two weeks. By week three, I'm a wreck—barely sleeping, barely functioning, my entire existence focused on her.
"Better," she says when I last eight minutes. "But not good enough."
Week Four
I last twelve minutes.
She actually looks impressed.
"Good boy." She pushes me onto her office couch. Straddles me. "You've earned this."
She sinks onto me slowly. Impossibly tight, impossibly wet. Her small body takes me completely, and she rides me with the same precision she brings to everything.
"You don't come until I do," she warns. "Understood?"
"Yes—fuck—yes, Professor—"
"Aunt Maggie." She grinds harder. "That's what you call me when I'm using you."
"Yes, Aunt Maggie—"
She comes twice before she lets me finish. I spill into her with a groan, weeks of desperation finally released.
She climbs off immediately. Fixes her clothes.
"Same time tomorrow."
Semester End
The arrangement continues.
Her office, my apartment, once even her car in the faculty parking lot. She uses me when she wants, how she wants. I stop pretending I have any say in it.
"Your thesis is excellent," she tells me one night. We're in her bed—she started inviting me to her home in month two. "I've recommended you for the PhD program."
"Because of my work?"
"Because of your work." She runs a finger down my chest. "And because I want five more years of this."
"Five years of being yours?"
"Five years of being mine." She straddles me again. "Is that a problem?"
I should say yes. Should recognize this for what it is—exploitation, obsession, something broken in both of us.
Instead, I pull her down. Kiss her. Submit.
"No," I say. "No problem at all."
She smiles. That sharp, knowing smile.
"Good boy."
And I am.
That's the worst part.
I really, truly am.