tagNonConsent/ReluctanceHow Far Will She Go To Graduate?

How Far Will She Go To Graduate?


This is my first story, so please be gentle but honest in your criticism. Please also assume that all characters are fictional and above the age of 18. Any likenesses to real people are purely coincidental. I'm sorry this story is so long and boring, I'm just trying to give context and set up characters.


I gazed out the window and thought...nothing. I thought nothing. This class did more than just bore and confuse me, it made me will my brain to shut off so to not listen to my teacher's boring lesson about logarithms. I didn't understand but what did I care? I was a second-semester senior, already accepted to my dream university. I needed this class to graduate, but that didn't mean I had to make an A. I was fine taking a C or even a D.


"Yes, sir?"

"The answer, Marie. What was your answer to number 7 on the homework?"

"Oh, uh, I didn't do it, sir."

"Fine. See me after class."

Whatever. It's not like he can call my parents, just a week after my 18th birthday and I've already exercised that freedom numerous times. I mentally scoffed and crossed my arms in apathy. And Mr. Jones was off, torturing some poor scrawny guy, who answered promptly about something to do with a change-of-base theorem. The rest of class was uneventful. Something about some guy named Euler taking the "natural" log of something. I was ready to leave, mentally challenging anyone to get in my way. I was going to get out of there with a clean getaway and no after class reprimand. Before I could even get up, Mr. Jones called me to his desk, perhaps sensing my evasion. I put my purse down with a sigh and slowly treaded to desk while the other students filed out with expressions of sympathy and encouragement. I shrugged back at them.


"Yes, sir!"

"That's twice today you haven't been listening!"

"I was listening!"

"Oh, really? What was the last thing I just said?"

"You, er, you were saying how you just wanted to compliment on my new haircut?" I decided that ditzy and flirty was the best path.

"No. I was saying that I don't tolerate slackers in my class, Miss Adams. Look, I know you don't care, but you could have pretended. I especially don't understand why you would daydream in a class in which you're failing."

"Mr. Jones, surely I'm not failing. I must have turned in something. Wasn't there a homework I turned in last week?"

"Yes, but that was late and counted as half credit. Even with exams, you won't be able to raise your grade to passing." He replied cooly.

"No. no. no. no." I was playing my about-to-cry card, but it wasn't working.

"Of course, we could arrange a deal, one that would benefit both of us."

"Of course! What would you like me to do? I could clean your office or grade papers—"

"None of that will be necessary, Miss Adams." He slide his fingers up in down a pen, making me hang onto his every last word. "I have another class waiting at the door. I don't have much time to explain. The deal is I pass you and you let me fuck you however I please, whenever I please until graduation. You tell no one. If you tell, I'll simply deny it and fail you. If you refuse, I'll fail you. Decide now."

My mind wasn't racing. My heart wasn't thumping out of my chest. I knew what I had to do. And I wasn't the type of girl that let anything—or anyone— stand in my way of success. I really should have seen this coming. I was fit, albeit short, captain of the cheer team, a swimmer, and a big enough flirt that I should have been surprised that this was the only time I'd been propositioned like this. "Ok."

"Good. Get under the desk."


"Now. You start now. My next class can do group work so I can sit here."

The bell rung and I knew his students would come in soon. I got under the desk. It was one of those large wooden ones that belonged in the office of a CEO. It had an empty space for his legs or, in this case, me. The students entered. Mr. Jones rose and got a sycophantic junior to handout busywork to the class. Soon they were in groups and talking more loudly than Mr. Jones would have normally allowed. He sat down and some rustling noises told me he got papers from his attaché to grade. I was confused as to what my current task was, but ambitious in knowing that I must please him to graduate.

"Marie. Don't reply. Just unzip my pants, take out my dick and suck." Mr. Jones whispered my instructions quietly but emphatically.

What was I to do? For all my bluffing and my choice of clothing, I was still a virgin. I don't mean just didn't ever fuck. I mean never been kissed and only learned enough (usually through porn) to make myself seem like an expert. I had been asked out, but never accepted. I just didn't like high school guys. They were just boys. But, Mr. Jones wasn't the kind of man to be kept waiting and I wasn't the kind of girl to make him. I did as I was told. His dick, man, it was about as long and hard as I'd seen in porn but twice as thick, and everything about it—and him— seemed domineering and rough. My late nights of playing with myself paid off as I remembered what all the girls did in those videos. I began licking, long slow ones with the flat of my tongue until it was covered and shiny. I began kissing and darting my tongue out between my lips as he grew harder. I was pretty involved in my work until he grabbed my hair and growled, "I said suck, bitch, not fucking make out with it."

I'd never been addressed that way and I was about to mouth off until I remembered my predicament. That's not quite true, actually. I was about to mouth off until I realized how wet I got just from those words.

Again, I didn't really have time to go down that path before remembering Mr. Jones's impatience. I did like the porn stars and circled my lips just around the head for a while, licking the salty substance that I knew was precum. It wasn't as bad as my friends said it was, but not as good as porn girls made it out to be. I soon tired of this and began to see just how far I could go down his shaft. I was ¾ the way down when I gagged. I began to pull away but I felt his hand move to the back of my head and force me to keep sucking his dick.

Sucking cock, I learned gets exponentially easier with time. I would use my hand on the parts I couldn't reach with my mouth. I rotated from just the head, to the balls, to the underside, to deep throating (what I thought then was "deep throating"). I felt his dick twitch, and, every time that happened, he would push me off for a while. During these intervals, through which I assumed he was regaining composure and delaying coming, I flipped up my skirt and began playing with my pussy through my thong. I had never put anything in. I just liked playing with my clit. I soon smelled my pussy juices and he smelled them too.

Luckily, classes were short today due to our weird block schedule and the juniors exited to go to electives in 35 minutes. As soon as that one sycophantic junior girl finished bombarding him with questions and complimenting him on everything— including the way he arranged his pens— he growled at me, "suck harder, slut. Yeah, I smell you getting turned on by this. God, you're such a slut. You're sucking your teacher off just to get a passing grade, and you're enjoying it. I have a couple hours until my next class and I'll write you a note for the ones you've missed. I want to see just how you play with your pussy.

He pulled me up and pushed me to a sitting position on his desk, his body between my open legs. "Go on, show me or get out." I was more than humiliated. If I weren't so ambitious towards my life goals, I would have cried. In a break of character, Mr. Jones murmured approvingly, "I like that you're shaved and this red thong. You're such a slut. You're a dirty whore."

I opened my legs further and went under my thong to play with my clit. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was at home, in bed, watching some really bad acting and some really good sex. I was lost in the moment until I heard the unmistakable sound of scissors cutting fabric. I looked down to see him pulling my pieces of thong away. That was my last protection from him seeing directly at what I was doing, but I didn't care, I was so close.


I blinked down at him. Why why why? I just wanted to come. I was so close. I felt like a petulant child who was so close to that cookie jar. He directed, "close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you. Continue playing with yourself, if that's what you call that." I did as I was told.

I heard rustling and then the unlocking of an iPhone. Then my heart skipped a beat when I heard a series of those fake shutter sounds that the camera app makes when it takes a photo. I opened my eyes in horror. I grabbed for the phone and got slapped across the face. He jumped away. My face and ego were stinging from his slap. By the time he sat down again, I had recovered enough to be angry.

Before I could voice my indignation and contempt. Mr. jones spoke, "Marie, this is my insurance policy, just in case your future wasn't enough. Refuse me, tell someone, and these will go all over the school and internet. Nod if you understand.

I nodded. "Good, I don't like my whores to speak. Now you've had some independent fun with your pussy, I want you left squirming when you suck me off." So I did just that. I got on my slut knees and used my slut mouth and began sucking. I wasn't good enough, apparently, because he grabbed and started fucking my face. Then I learned what deep throating was. He told me to swallow his dick and I did, and it hurt a little, it was mainly just weird and uncomfortable. He came, shooting hot sticky jets in my mouth. I started to spit when he slapped me and told me to swallow.

When he was done, he told me I could leave. On my way out, he said, "I teach a class at 6 tonight the college across the street." He told me the location and classroom and told me to be there at 5:45, because "you haven't yet received your punishment for not doing your homework."

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