She peered hesitantly around the doorframe. The professor sat at his desk, on the phone. Without interrupting his conversation, he nodded at her, pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk and gestured for her to close the door behind her. She sat, staring aimlessly around the room while he finished his conversation.
It was the end of only her first semester of college, and things had not gone very well. Or, rather, that is to say, they had not gone very well academically. Socially, it had been the best four months of her life, but between the weekday frat parties and weekend-long benders, somehow her previously-sterling work ethic had fallen behind. On top of this, since she depended on her athletic scholarship to even be able to attend the prestigious school, what free time she had was dedicated to volleyball games and practices. Unfortunately, this scholarship also required she maintain a minimum 3.0 GPA.
Which is what brought her to Professor Hart's office. It was the last day of the term, and he was the fourth professor she had visited that day. So far, she had begged, pleaded, and compromised her way into passing grades for all of her failing classes. Professor Hart's class, Intro to Poetry, was the last on the list.
While it was probably her least favorite class, she had saved it for last because she knew it would be the easiest to wrangle a better grade in. Professor Hart was the very definition of the bumbling, bookish type. He was nice, but an obvious pushover, and would stumble and prattle through his lectures even after half of the class had fallen asleep.
He finished his conversation with a series of polite pleasantries and hung up the phone. He turned to her and smiled.
"Miss Taylor. What can I do for you?"
She put her gameface on: a serious, sad pout. "Well, Professor, it's about my grade."
"Ah yes." He turned to his computer. "Let me pull up your scores, but if I recall, they are not good, are they?"
"No...." She looked down at her legs, pressed together at the knees and crossed demurely at the ankles. She drooped her shoulders slightly, adding to the appearance of a bedraggled, helpless student. Such an act had worked on every other teacher so far, and while she figured this would be an easy kill, there was no need to get cocky. "I mean, you see...I don't know, this semester hasn't gone well for me overall...."
"Mmm," Professor Hart murmured noncommittally, still looking at his screen.
"I mean, the stress of moving to school, across the country, I've never been away from home for so long and—"
"Really? You didn't go to boarding school?"
She stumbled, surprised to have her sob story interrupted. "Um...no...? Why?"
"Ah." He inclined his head in her direction. "Well, your preferred outfit would suggest otherwise. I mean I can't imagine why else anyone would own so many different short plaid skirts."
She looked at her outfit, self-consciously tugging her hemline slightly further down. "Oh, well I just like them, is all."
"You like them, or you like the reactions they get from men?"
She blinked at him, unsure how to respond. He didn't seem to expect an answer, though, and turned back to the computer screen. A few more clicks, then he reached up to turn the monitor around. "Here are my records for all of the scores on your papers for the term. These are the same ones you can access through the website. I haven't submitted the overall grade to the registrar's office for the final academic record, but at this point this is how it stands. Do you think that there is a discrepancy?"
Now that the conversation was back on the track she was expecting, she slid back into her vulnerable waif act. "Oh, no, I'm...I mean, I checked all the scores, and they're right, but I...I was wondering...."
"Yes?" She couldn't gauge his expression, but it had lost a lot of the warmth it had shown when she walked into the office, warmth that she was used to receiving from him. Unnerved, she still continued.
"I was wondering if I might discuss...adjusting the scores?" She blinked at him slowly through liquid-filled eyes.
He remained silent, just sitting there watching her. At this point, most of the previous professors had reacted to her obvious distress, asking her what was wrong, giving her the opportunity to launch into fabricated stories about troubles at home and deaths of grandparents.
But by watching her cooly, he was refusing to establish an emotional connection. She decided she would have to broach the topic herself. "My...dad, he's been sick, and we're really close, and being so far from home.... I tried to go back and visit as much as I could, on weekends when I didn't have games, and during the week I had practice, so with all of that I just haven't had a lot of time to do my homework this semester."
He continued to watch her, chin resting on folded hands. "Why didn't you mention this earlier in the semester?"
She already had an established answer for this. "I was worried about the team finding out. You know Coach Bufkin; he's a jackass. If he even thought that there was a chance of me taking the rest of the semester off to go home and be with my dad, he might bench me so that one of the other girls could get more practice in my place."
Professor Hart nodded, still showing no emotion. Wordlessly, he got up and walked over to one of the many bookshelves lining the entire wall. While most of the shelves held leaning piles of books, one of the shelves at eye-level showcased an assortment of plaques and odd-sized crystal objects, all apparently teaching awards and objects proclaiming his membership in various literary societies. He idly started to dust off the objects, his back to her.
"When was the last time you visited your father?" he asked suddenly, without turning around.
She jumped slightly at his clipped question. "Oh, uh...Thanksgiving."
"Ah. The entire break?"
"Well, yes, I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible."
"Mmm." He turned around, arms folded, and leaned nonchalantly back against the bookshelf. His body language was relaxed, which didn't match the harshness of his next statement. "Then how, exactly, Miss Taylor, were you able to come back to campus in time to stumble half-naked out of the Kappa Delta house at 7 am Friday morning, immediately after Thanksgiving?"
She gaped at him. "What...? No, that couldn't have been—wait, why would you know that?"
"You forget, Miss Taylor, that I am an on-campus faculty resident. I was out for a run, and saw you--with your trademark short skirt and barely-a-shirt—leaving the KD house, ostensibly headed in the direction of your dorm."
Scared that she was doomed, she still tried to protest. "Maybe there was a school-girl party at the KD house! It could have been anyone leaving at that hour!"
"Oh, believe me, it was you. You were too drunk to notice me, but I was close enough to you to see not only your face, but your obvious lack of undergarments as well."
Her face flushed, then anger set in. "Well you can stand there and make these disgusting accusations all you want, but it's your word against mine!"
"My word, and the word of whomever you were with at KD that night. Although," he chuckled lightly to himself, "that list might get rather long."
Her anger spiked, then faded as she realized he had her cornered. As she glared at him, she suddenly realized this meant more than just failing his class. If he went to the department with this information, word would reach her other professors. She would fail all her classes.
She would be expelled.
Suddenly the room seemed a whole lot smaller, the bookshelves looming up on either side of her. Her breathing became shallow and faster and she rubbed her neck nervously. Professor Hart still hadn't moved from where he leaned casually against the bookshelf.
As the panic increased, she looked at him with real distress in her eyes. "Professor...you can't...I can't fail, I need—"
She stopped as he moved away from the bookshelf. He approached her, sitting on the edge of his desk, facing her. "You need to pass this class?" he asked in his calm voice.
She looked at the list of terrible scores on the monitor. "Yes."
"You want me to keep this information to myself?"
She shuddered. "Yes."
He nodded, then leaned back on the desk, stroking his chin thoughtfully. She sat quietly, wrapped in misery, until his stern voice snapped her out of it.
She looked at him curiously. He stared back patiently. "Miss Taylor, I said stand up."
She did, slowly.
She turned to face him where he sat on the desk, leaning back with his arms crossed. "Take off your shirt."
She stared at him, looking directly into his eyes. He didn't move, but the stare that met hers was cool and fierce. There was nothing of the bumbling, silly professor in it. She shuddered to herself, fear increasing, and her eyes flicked toward the door.
He had obviously noticed her shifting gaze. "You can walk out now, Miss Taylor, certainly, and accept the consequences of your actions this semester, or..." he exhaled slowly, his voice deepening, "or you can do what I am telling you to do.
She shifted uncertainly, chewing her lip. Professor Hart watched her calmly.
Finally, she made a decision and started to unbutton her shirt.
He didn't move as she undid the shirt button by button, gradually revealing her breasts. Most of the other athletic girls she knew lost their breasts first when they lost body fat, but she had been lucky. They loomed up and out of her bra, swelling with her breath as she dropped her shirt to the floor.
He looked at her quietly for a few moments, then inclined his head wordlessly. She sighed, then reached back to undo the clasp of the bra.
Her breasts flowed out, rich and full, as the bra joined the blouse on the floor. Assuming that he wanted a show, she reached up to cup them, play with them. She stroked along their silky sides, letting them fill her hands as she squeezed them gently. Gradually she moved to her nipples, flicking and pinching them slightly, getting them to swell up and harden.
Without warning, Professor Hart stood up. "Come up to the desk." She did, pivoting to face him. "No, face the desk." Confused, she did as he asked, examining the desk in front of her. While his bookshelves were filled with books and awards, his desk was studiously neat and uncluttered.
"Bend over the desk," he said, still standing off to the side.
Seeing where things were going, she tensed up. "Wait, I thought you just wanted a show?"
He moved quickly, coming up beside her and reaching his hand into her hair. He gripped it tightly and thrust her head down toward the polished wood surface of the desk. She gasped, hands slapping down to support her weight. Keeping hold of her hair, he leaned down and spoke sternly and heavily into her ear.
"Did I say that? Do you think you deserve to get off so lightly? With everything you've done this semester, fucking random boys instead of doing your schoolwork, lying to your professors, lying to me to try and get away with it?"
She shuddered, speechless. He gripped her hair harder and continued. "Now, I think you have a lot to make up for, don't you agree?" Gulping, she nodded. "So, are you ready to make it up to me?"
There was silence while she weighed her options. Finally, she nodded again.
"I want to hear you say it," he whispered heavily.
"Yes, Professor, I am ready to make it up to you."
In response, he lay one hand on her naked lower back, keeping the other in her hair. He stroked her back slowly, the warm valley of muscular skin, then moved his hand down toward her skirt. He cupped her ass through the skirt. Even with his large hand, he was barely able to fully grip one cheek of its muscular swell. He growled slightly as he ran his hand around it over the skirt. Finally, with a fierce tug, he pulled the skit up, exposing her bare ass, clad only in a thong.
He rubbed his hand firmly around her ass once more, breathing heavily. Then he let go, and before she could look around to see what he was doing, he brought the hand back in a firm thwack!
She gasped and jerked, but he still had a hold on her hair, pinning her down. Before she could catch her breath he spanked her again, the sting sending painful tingles all the way up her spine. She stifled her cry against her arm.
Seeing this, he leaned down next to her ear once again. "There is a reason I chose a basement office, Miss Taylor, and Professor Wallace down the hall is on vacation. I want to hear more noise out of you."
She nodded, and cried out throatily as he brought the hand back heavily. Her shoulders heaved as the pain faded to a warm glow, only to fire up again with the next slap.
She started to lose track of time as he worked on her ass, varying the intensity and the interval of each spank. Soon she was moaning almost continually, twisting under his grip on her hair.
Without warning, he pulled her back up to standing. She stumbled, ass stinging and tender under her skirt. He kept one hand on her hair, but brought up his other hand to play with her breasts himself. He stroked them as he had seen her do, feeling their silky sides, and pinching the nipples. His pinches got harder and harder, and as he worked one, he brought his head down to suck and nibble at the other. She moaned as his tongue traced her hardened nipple, flicking against it as his finger was doing to the other nipple, and yelled as he bit down at the same time that he pinched the other.
He released her breasts and pulled her into a kiss, commanding and greedy. She opened to him, letting his tongue flick across hers, letting him suck and bite her lips. Gradually, she started to nibble his in return. He responded by dropping his free hand to her low back, pressing her firmly against him. She reached around him to grab his ass and stroke his back. She could already feel the bulge in his pants pressing eagerly against her thin skirt.
Keeping one hand in her hair, he stepped away from the embrace. He held her still with his gaze, while his other hand reached down to undo his pants. He pulled them down just enough to free his already swollen cock.
She reached down toward it, but he grabbed her wrists with one hand. He moved her hands up while his other hand pressed firmly against the top of her head. She got the picture and lowered herself to her knees, her arms above her head in his grip. Kneeling thrust her breasts forward and her full athletic ass back, and he stood there admiring her for a moment. She looked up at him with wide eyes.
Finally he moved her head toward his cock, bobbing right in front of her face. Still looking up at him, she gently licked the tip. He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, as she licked further up and down the shaft, lubricating and teasing him at the same time. He released her hands, and she brought them in to gently squeeze and wrap his shaft while she moved from licking to sucking the head.
She started to get into her usual routine when suddenly his free hand came down to cup her jaw. Curious, she looked back up at him, and saw his eyes harden with greedy lust. The pressure on the back of her head increased, slowly moving her to take him deeper into her mouth. She struggled, never having taken a cock so deep before, but with both of his hands bracing her head she couldn't escape. Her hands grabbed his hips as he thrust deep into her, his cock pressing against the roof of her mouth and swelling in the back of her throat. His balls brushed against her chin and her nose filled with the masculine scent of him. She gagged once, but he didn't remove himself. Panicked, she gagged again, harder, and this time he released her and slid out. She heaved and panted for breath. He watched her regain her composure, then moved her head toward him again. She opened her mouth to take the head, expecting to work up to the full penetration; instead, he trust all the way into her at once, hands gripping her head firmly against her struggles. Again, he released her after two heaving gags.
"That is very good, Miss Taylor," he said calmly, breaking the silence. She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth and looked up at him. "Have you done that before?" She silently shook her head no. He chuckled. "Well, then I am glad you learned at least one thing from me this semester."
Before she could respond, he pulled her onto his cock again. This time he didn't plunge all the way, but he did slowly work his way in and out, fucking her face. She surrendered to his will completely, resting her hands lightly on his hips without struggle.
After a few minutes of this, he pulled himself out of her mouth and pulled her to her feet. "Leave the skirt on, take off your underwear and bend back over the desk again." She did as he asked, leaning on the glossy wood, the computer monitor with the damning scores still sitting at the peripheral of her vision. She heard rustling behind her as he took his clothes off completely.
She jumped slightly when his hand came back to touch her ass again, which was still tender from the earlier punishment. His grip turned hard, and he spread her cheeks wide to expose her pussy and anus. His fingers traced her folds, feeling the smooth curve of her shaved mound. She gasped when one dipped inside her pussy. It wiggled around briefly, then was removed.
He made a surprised sound. "Hmm. Is this...activity, exciting you, Miss Taylor?"
She looked back over her shoulder. "No...not really...." she said, refusing to admit it herself.
"Hmm. Then how do you explain this?" He thrust his finger into her mouth. She tasted her juices all over it, thick and dripping. When he removed the finger, all she could do was look back at the desk in shame.
He made an amused noise, then stepped back. She continued to stare down at the desk as she heard him rustling behind her. Finally, her nervousness got the better of her and she glanced back to see that he had stripped naked and was siding a condom onto his cock. "Face forward, Miss Taylor," he chided, and she quickly obeyed.
He stepped up behind her and grabbed her roughly, spreading her ass again. Before she could prepare herself, she felt his cock pushing greedily against her pussy. She gasped as he thrust into her fully, all the way to the base, and held there as she whimpered and quivered against him. He removed himself slowly, only to slam himself all the way in again. Ignoring her cries, he started to pound her hard, in and out, fully embedding and removing himself every time. She spread her legs wider, to get a better grip on the floor, and to allow him to go deeper. His hands rested on her hips, right above where her skirt was shoved up, and helped guide her onto his cock. She gasped and moaned as every thrust made the pleasure in her body build.
After awhile, he leaned forward, one hand gripping her hair again. She could feel his hot, sweaty weight tensed above her, working in and out of her. She could barely hear his heavy breaths over her cries.
"Do the other boys fuck you like this, Miss Taylor?" he whispered heavily into her ear. "Do you let them take you whenever they please?" All she could do in response was moan louder.
"Have you ever let two boys take you at once?" he asked, then gripped her hair harder when she didn't respond. "Answer me, Miss Taylor."
Gasping, she shook her head no.
"Well, perhaps we have to...double the stakes, then...."
He released her and slid out of her all at once. She collapsed onto the desk, panting and writhing. Twisting to the side to watch him, she saw him approach the shelf of awards he had been inspecting earlier. He regarded them carefully, ignoring his nakedness or his cock still solidly at attention. Finally, he selected a crystal sculpture from the back, a taller one. As he approached her, she could see it was some bizarrely abstract structure, a twisted cylinder on a wooden base with a plaque.