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“Professor, a C-?”
You let the paper flutter from your hand onto his desk, your voice a soft, wounded thing. You didn’t look at the grade when he handed it back earlier in the hallway; you waited, letting the dread simmer, until his office hours were long over and the building had emptied. Now, the only sound is the low hum of the fluorescent light above his desk and the frantic thump of your own heart.
Bob Floyd—Professor Floyd—looks up from the flight manual he’s been reading. His glasses are perched on the end of his nose; his sandy hair is neatly combed, his shirt buttoned all the way to the top. A picture of academic propriety.
“Your argument on Mach tuck is… underdeveloped,” he says, his voice even, but his eyes dart away from yours for a fraction of a second. He clears his throat. “The conclusions were rushed.”
“Underdeveloped,” you repeat, letting the word hang. You take a step closer to his desk. The short, pleated skirt you’ve chosen for this very meeting—a calculated risk—swishes against your thighs. “I spent weeks on that paper, Professor. I used every source you suggested. I stayed up all night.”
“I appreciate the effort, but effort doesn’t always translate to—”
“It has to translate to at least a B,” you interrupt, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. You lean back against the solid oak of his desk, right next to his worn leather office chair. The edge of the wood bites into the backs of your thighs. You uncross your legs slowly, deliberately letting the skirt ride up another few inches. Your bare knee, when you settle, bumps against the rough wool of his slacks, against the solid warmth of his thigh.
Professor Floyd’s breath catches. It isn’t a loud sound, just a tiny, sharp intake that seems to freeze in his chest. You see it happen—the subtle flare of his nostrils, the way his Adam’s apple bobs once, hard, against the restrictive collar of his shirt. A blush, faint but unmistakable, blooms high on his cheeks, a dusty rose that begins to crawl down his throat, disappearing beneath the starched cotton. He’s always been such a stickler for the rules, so careful to maintain a professional distance, but you’ve seen it in the lecture hall when you ask a question and lean forward just so. You see it in his office during sanctioned hours, when you linger a moment too long by the door. You’ve seen his gaze snag, just for a heartbeat, before he forces it back to his notes. He’s been watching. And he is watching now.
You let your gaze drift deliberately—tracing the line of his jaw, the knot of his tie, the steady rise and fall of his chest—before you bring your eyes back up to his, unhurried and unapologetic. Your teeth catch your lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to press colour deeper into it. The faint, waxy-sweet taste of your red lipstick blooms on your tongue.
You flutter your eyelashes—not a cartoonish bat, but a slow, considering sweep. “You work so hard, Professor,” you say, your voice syrup-slow. Your voice has gone soft around the edges, honeyed, dragging each word just enough to feel like a caress. You tilt your head slightly, looking at him from beneath your lashes now, chin tipped down, eyes tipped up. “All these papers to grade, lectures to prepare. It must be exhausting. You seem… tense.”
As you speak, your tongue slips out, quick and subtle, to smooth over the spot you’d just bitten. You taste the lipstick again—sweet, faintly bitter, unmistakably cosmetic—and you don’t rush the motion. You let him see it.
Professor Floyd's gaze drops. You watch, almost lazily, as his focus tracks the glide of your tongue, the shine left behind on your lip, the slight parting of your mouth when you draw it back in. His eyes linger there, as if they’ve forgotten what they’re supposed to be doing.
He doesn’t move. His hands are flat on the desk, fingers splayed. “It’s part of the job.”
“Maybe you need to relax,” you suggest, your tone innocent, yet laden with meaning. “Unwind a little. You’re a wonderful teacher... so patient.” You push off from the desk, your movements fluid. “Let me help.”
Your descent is a slow motion cascade. You go down to your knees, one hand braced on the padded arm of his desk chair for balance, your eyes never leaving his. The industrial carpet is rough under your bare knees. You see the conflict warring in his eyes—duty, desire, shock, a dizzying cocktail that holds him paralysed. You reach out, your fingers brushing the worn leather of the chair, and pull. It swivels with a soft groan, turning him to face you as you crawl the final few inches until you are positioned squarely between his legs.
The space is intimate, close. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his soap, the starch of his shirt, and something else—something warmer, muskier. Your gaze drops to his lap. His khaki slacks are strained, the fabric pulled taut over the thick, hard line of his erection. It is impossible to miss; the outline is clear, a rigid length pressing insistently against the zip. If you look closely, you can even make out the rounded shape of the head, a blunt tip straining against the khaki.
“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, but the words have no force. They are a reflex, a last ditch effort from the part of him that still remembers he is Professor Robert Floyd, PhD.
“Shhh,” you soothe. Your hands come up, hovering for a moment before settling. One hand goes to his belt buckle, your fingers deft and sure. The metal is cool. You unfasten it, the click absurdly loud in the silent office. The button of his slacks comes next, popping free with a gentle tug. Then your fingers find the zip tab. You pull it down, the sound a slow, metallic zzzip that seems to unzip his resistance along with his fly.
He is holding his breath; you glance up, meeting his wide, dark eyes. “Lift your hips,” you murmur.
He obeys, a slight, helpless shift upwards. You hook your fingers into the waistbands of both his slacks and his cotton boxer-briefs and tug them down just enough. And there he is.
His cock springs free, fully hard, jutting up from the nest of dark blond curls at his groin. It is a beautiful, ruddy thing, thick and weighty in your hand when you curl your fingers around the base. The skin of the shaft is hot, almost feverish, stretched taut over the dense core of him. A network of prominent blue veins traces a path up the underside, pulsing with his heartbeat. The head is a deep, flushed red, swollen and glistening already with a bead of clear fluid that wells from the slit and drips, a single, perfect drop, onto the khaki fabric bunched at his thighs, leaving a dark, damp spot.
You lean forward, your breath ghosting over the sensitive tip. He shudders, a full body tremor that rattles the chair. You don’t bother to tease. Instead, you open your mouth and take him in, sinking down in one smooth, deep glide.
The feeling is immediate and overwhelming—for both of you. The hot, satiny skin fills your mouth, the solid, insistent pressure against your tongue, the salty-bitter tang of his pre-cum. You hear his sharp, punched-out gasp above you, feel his thighs tense on either side of your shoulders. You hollow your cheeks and suck, drawing him deeper, until your nose presses into the coarse hair at his base. He’s thick in your mouth, stretching open your jaw until the hinge aches at a low level, a quiet buzz scratching at your brain until your thoughts go fuzzy.
You hold him there in the warm, wet clutch of your throat for a long, breathtaking moment before pulling back with a soft, wet pop.
Your left hand, which has been resting on his thigh, drifts lower, cupping the heavy sac of his balls through his boxers. You massage them gently, rolling the tender orbs in your palm. Your right hand goes to the buttons of his plaid overshirt. You work them open, one by one, pushing the fabric aside to reveal the white t-shirt beneath. You slide your hand beneath the soft cotton, your palm flattening against the firm, warm plane of his stomach. You splay your fingers, feeling the tight, quivering muscles, the crisp trail of hair that leads down from his navel. You drag your hand upward, over the solid drum of his pectoral, your thumb brushing a flat, pebbled nipple.
He moans, a low, ragged sound that seems torn from him. His hands, which have been gripping the arms of the chair, come up to tangle in your hair. His touch isn’t rough, but desperate, his fingers threading through the strands, not guiding, just holding on.
“Oh, fuck,” he chokes out, his voice thick and unrecognisable. “God, that’s… you’re so good at this.” The words tumble out, stripped of academic pretence. “Such a good—a good student. So… attentive.”
You hum around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. You pick up a rhythm, your head bobbing in a steady, consuming cadence. You use your tongue, swirling it around the broad head with each upward stroke, licking into the slit, tracing the thick ridge on the underside. Your hand on his balls grows more firm, tugging slightly, applying a sweet, aching pressure.
His breathing becomes a ragged pant. “Of course… of course I’ll bring it up,” he gasps, his hips beginning to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, meeting your descent. “The grade, I must have… misread your paper. A B, definitely a B. Maybe—maybe an A-.”
You moan lowly, increasing your pace in small increments, taking him deep with each pass, your throat slowly relaxing to accept him. The wet, slick sounds of your mouth on him fill the office, an obscene counterpoint to his broken praise. His abs clench under your roaming hand. His cock grows impossibly harder in your mouth, the veins standing out in stark relief. The taste of him, salty and musky and uniquely Bob, floods your senses.
“I’m gonna—I can’t—” He warns, his voice strangled. His fingers tighten in your hair, not pushing, just anchoring. “You should… you need to…”
You don’t pull away. You redouble your efforts, sucking fiercely, your hand pumping the base of his shaft in time with your mouth. You can feel the faint throbbing pulse in the the vein that runs under his cock, trailing from the hilt of him up to the skin at his tip. His cock twitches in your mouth; his hips thrust forward, pressing deeper into your throat, and you look up at him through your lashes, your eyes meeting his clouded, hazy gaze.
That is his undoing.
His back arches, pressing his shoulders hard into the chair. A desperate, breathy whine escapes his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated release. His head falls back, exposing the long, taut line of his throat, his eyes rolling back before squeezing shut. His mouth falls open, his lips spit-slick and bitten a furious, beautiful red from stifling his own noises.
You feel the first hot, insistent pulse against your tongue. Then another, and another. His cum surges into your mouth, thick and warm, with a mild, almost sweet taste. You swallow eagerly, your throat working around him, taking every drop he gives you. A little escapes, trickling from the corner of your mouth, a milky streak that traces a path down your chin. You keep sucking, gently now, milking him through the last, shuddering waves of his orgasm, until he is spent and soft and twitching with oversensitivity.
Finally, you release him with a final, soft kiss to the tip. You sit back on your heels, wiping the back of your hand across your chin. The silence returns, thicker now, saturated with the smell of sex and spent passion. Professor Floyd—Bob—is slumped in his chair, his shirt hanging open, his trousers around his thighs, cum seeping into the sand coloured khakis, his chest heaving. He looks utterly wrecked, gloriously undone before you.
Then, a sound. A low, disbelieving giggle bubbles up from his chest. It breaks the tension like a hammer through glass.
You stare at him for a second, his flushed face, his dazed smile, and then you start laughing too—a real, belly deep laugh that shakes your shoulders.
Bob covers his face with one hand, his shoulders shaking. “Oh my god,” he gasps out between chuckles, his voice raw and filled with wonder. “I can’t believe I was so into that.”
You grin, wiping another stray tear of mirth from your eye. “You were really into it, Professor.”
He peeks at you from between his fingers, his blue eyes bright with a mix of shock and lingering arousal. “We could… maybe do that again?” He lowers his hand, his gaze softening as it travels over your face, your smudged lipstick, the mascara trailing down your cheeks with your tears, your satisfied expression. “I’d like to try that again.”
You grin up at him, your tongue flicking out to lick up the last of his cum drying at the corners of your mouth.
“Anything you want, Professor Floyd!”