Professor's Office
"She controls his grades, his future, his schedule. When he comes to beg for an extension, she offers a different kind of extra credit."
Dr. Evelyn Pierce's office hours are by appointment only.
I've been trying to get one for three weeks. Now I'm here, standing outside her door at 4 PM on a Friday, knowing my grade depends on the next twenty minutes.
I knock.
"Enter."
She's sitting behind her desk like a queen on a throne.
Dr. Pierce is fifty-three, the most feared professor in the English department. She's failed more students than anyone else on faculty. Her reviews are legendarily brutal. Her standards are impossible.
She's also the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
Five-six, easily two-seventy, with gray-streaked black hair and eyes that see through bullshit. Her breasts strain against her silk blouse. Her reading glasses are perched on her nose. She looks at me like I'm a bug on a specimen slide.
"Mr. Collins. You're late."
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Sit."
I sit.
"You're here about the Faulkner paper."
"Yes, Dr. Pierce. I need an extension."
"You need an extension." She sets down her pen. "And why is that?"
"I've been dealing with... personal issues. My roommate—"
"I don't care about your roommate." She leans back. Her blouse gaps slightly between buttons. I force myself not to look. "I care about deadlines. Which you've missed. Three times."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You're failing my class, Mr. Collins. Do you understand what that means? No graduation. No job offers. Nothing."
I swallow. "I understand."
"Do you?" She stands. Walks around the desk. Perches on the edge, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something dark and floral. "Because I don't think you do."
She's standing over me now.
Her thick thighs are at my eye level. Her skirt rides up slightly when she sits on the desk, showing a sliver of skin.
"You have potential," she says. "Your writing, when you bother to do it, is excellent. But potential means nothing without discipline."
"I can do better."
"Can you?" She tilts her head. "Or will you just disappoint me again?"
"I won't. I swear."
"Promises." She crosses her arms under her breasts, pushing them up. "Men always make promises. They rarely keep them."
"What can I do? Anything. I'll do anything."
The words hang in the air.
Her expression changes. Something predatory creeps into her eyes.
"Anything?"
"Close the door."
I do.
"Lock it."
I do that too.
She slides off the desk. Walks toward me slowly, each step deliberate. Her body sways—hips, breasts, everything moving.
"I've been teaching for thirty years," she says. "I've seen every type of student. The brilliant ones, the lazy ones, the ones who try to charm their way through." She stops in front of me. "You're the first one I've wanted."
"Wanted?"
"Don't play dumb." Her hand finds my chin. Tilts my face up. "I've seen you looking at me during lectures. Staring at my chest instead of taking notes. Getting hard when I bend over to help another student."
My face burns. "Dr. Pierce—"
"I could fail you right now. Destroy your future with a few keystrokes." She leans closer. Her breath is warm on my lips. "Or I could give you the extension. The grade. Everything you need."
"What do you want?"
She smiles.
"You."
She kisses me like she owns me.
Her tongue invades my mouth, demanding, taking. Her hands are in my hair, on my chest, everywhere. She's pressed against me—all that soft flesh, all that weight.
"Stand up," she orders.
I stand.
"Strip."
I strip.
She looks at me like I'm a work of art.
Her eyes travel down my body—chest, stomach, cock. I'm hard already, aching.
"Good," she murmurs. "On your knees."
I kneel.
She hikes up her skirt. She's not wearing underwear. Her pussy is right there—thick lips, neatly trimmed gray hair, glistening.
"Earn your grade."
I press my mouth to her.
She tastes like power. Like everything I've ever wanted and was afraid to take. I lick her slowly at first, then faster as she grabs my hair and grinds against my face.
"Yes—that's it—good boy—"
She uses my mouth. There's no other word for it. She fucks my face while I kneel on her office floor, her thick thighs clamping around my head, her moans echoing off the bookshelves.
"Make me come. Make your professor come."
I focus on her clit. Suck it. Tongue it. She screams—actually screams—and floods my mouth.
"FUCK—"
She shakes through it, gripping my hair so hard it hurts. When she finally releases me, I can barely breathe.
"Stand up," she says.
She pushes me into her chair.
Her desk chair. The leather one where she sits to grade papers, to destroy futures. Now I'm in it, and she's climbing on top of me.
"I've wanted this," she breathes, sinking onto my cock. "Every class. Watching you. Imagining you bent over this desk."
"Fuck—you're tight—"
"Don't speak unless I tell you to." She starts to move. "You're mine now, Mr. Collins. My toy. My stress relief. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Dr. Pierce."
"Good boy."
She rides me in her office chair.
Her massive body bounces and ripples. Her breasts swing in my face—I lean forward to suck them, and she moans approval. She's using me exactly like she uses words—precisely, deliberately, completely.
"You'll come when I say. Not before."
"Yes—"
"You'll meet me every Friday. Same time. This office."
"Yes—"
"And you'll get your extension. Your grade. Everything you want." She clenches around me. "In exchange for everything I want."
"Anything—fuck—anything—"
"Then come. Now. Inside me."
I explode.
She milks me with her cunt, taking every drop. She comes again—or still—her body convulsing around mine.
We slump together in the chair. She's heavy, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except this—her body, her heat, her control.
"Good," she murmurs. "Very good."
"Did I... pass?"
She laughs. Actually laughs.
"With flying colors, Mr. Collins." She climbs off. Smooths her skirt. Sits behind her desk like nothing happened. "Same time next Friday. Don't be late."
"I won't."
"I know you won't." She puts her glasses back on. "Now get dressed. I have papers to grade."
Every Friday
I'm never late again.
4 PM. Her office. Door locked.
Sometimes she wants me to eat her while she reads submissions. Sometimes she rides me in the chair. Sometimes she bends me over the desk—the desk where students beg for mercy—and uses a toy on me while I moan into the wood.
She owns me.
And I graduate with honors.
After
I become a writer. Published. Successful.
I dedicate my first novel to "E.P.—who taught me everything."
Only she knows what that means.
Years later, she shows up at a reading. Gray hair now completely silver. Still thick. Still beautiful. Still terrifying.
"Mr. Collins." She shakes my hand. "Wonderful book."
"Thank you, Dr. Pierce."
"Evelyn. I think you've earned that."
"Evelyn."
She smiles. Leans close.
"My hotel. Ten o'clock. Don't be late."
I'm not late.
Some lessons stay with you forever.