Loading...She’s got long, straight blond hair that always smells like coconut, a pair of legs that make up two-thirds of her height, and a round, narrow little ass. She also has an insolent, self-satisfied swagger, a pert, better-than-thou smirk, and a fifty-dollar manicure. I’ve taught a few like her before, and I know the way it goes. She’s seen how I look at her. She’s slacked off this whole term. I can tell she thinks she can scam an A out of me by shaking her ass.
Maybe she can. We’ll see how she does on the final.
Usually no one comes here on Sundays except me; but she comes to the college at six AM on the Sunday after exams are over, per appointment, wearing this red pleated skirt cut almost up to her crotch, and a little sleeveless top, looks like it’s made from two men’s white handkerchiefs sewn together, embroidered in red, yellow and orange. No bra. If it wasn’t for the embroidery across the front, you could see her nipples right through it. On her feet she has these orange flip-flops that have a little narrow heel on them, about an inch high; girlish, very sexy.
Clearly she isn’t happy with having to show up so early, and she’s even less happy with the grade she got in my class; she was fully expecting me to give her extra points to apologize for undressing her with my eyes all the time. No such luck. She’s the one that wants something from me, so she’s here at my convenience, on my turf. We’re going to play this game by my rules.
But I let her into the building using my key, and we get to my office, and she acts like she’s going to be in control of the situation. She makes bedroom eyes at me, and “Mr. Harmon,” she says to me in a breathy voice, “I was hoping we could make an arrangement concerning my grade.”
Good sport. Extra points for bringing it up right off the bat. “Take off your panties,” I tell her, as I lock my office door behind us.
Her eyes go saucer-round. “Wh-?”
A minus: hesitation. I repeat, “Take off your panties if you want to pass my class. Not the skirt, just the panties.” I sit down in my desk chair, kick back, hands knitted across my stomach.
She keeps looking at me with big, wide eyes–not smirking now, just surprised–but she reaches her hands underneath her skirt and slides her panties down her legs and onto the floor. She looks around, maybe for someplace to sit, but I stop her.
“Turn around and bend over a little bit, and spread your ass cheeks with your hands. Show me all your fun stuff.” My dick is twitching, but I don’t let on that I’m having any reaction to her; if I do, she’ll have the upper hand, and this is my office.
She turns around and bends over and spreads her ass for me, a little, timidly. Good. That means she’s developed the right attitude. For good measure, I smack her a little on the thigh and bark, “Wider!” and she gives a little squeal, and does it. What a sweet, tight little ass it is; like a little rosebud, and her pussy just underneath it, nice and pink, right at face level. I look at her, spread open and enticing, for a long moment. Should I fuck her? Maybe eat her out, then fuck her? I lean forward and lick her pussy once. The taste is pleasantly citric, musky, and makes my cock throb once, hard. She gives kind of a shudder, and a flush of color spreads across the surface of her ass cheeks. I put both my hands on her ass, spread her pussy lips wider with my thumbs, and lick again, deeper inside, and she moans, and my dick gets so hard I have to shift in my seat. But eating her out, pleasant though it would be, is too much of a favor to her; she, after all, is the one here to earn a grade; and after her attitude all term, maybe she needs a little humiliation, like a spanking. Or like a nice hard fucking in that tight, pretty little asshole.
I squeeze her ass hard with my hands, really dig my fingers in, and lick one more time, giving her sweet pink-grapefruit pussy a deep French kiss, and then I let go, back off and watch the white marks left by my fingers fade back into the redness of her skin. She looks back at me, but I pay no attention. I unzip my fly, tug my pants and shorts down, letting my dick sway free. Then I open and reach into my desk drawer and get out a rubber and a tube of lubricant. “Just stay still,” I tell her. She does.
I roll the condom on and grease it up, and then I get some of the lube on two of my fingers and smear it on her asshole. She gives a little jump and acts like she might stop me, but then–thinking about her grade, maybe, or about how my tongue felt kissing her little pink pussy–she quiets down again. She stands there still, holding her ass cheeks apart. So I press open her little asshole with my fingers, work in one, and then two. She’s breathing hard, but she’s being quiet, so I try three, and she gives a squeak–the sound I was looking for. I stay with three fingers, kind of massaging and rubbing her there, until she’s dripping from her pussy and squirming for me to move my fingers even more. Instead, I take them out.
I put the head of my cock against her asshole and press it in just a little, an inch or two, and she bends over farther and breathes hard. I can tell she’s never done this before; this is all new to her. She may not be an expert, but I don’t need anyone to tell me what to do. I move almost all the way into her, feeling her hug my cock tight and warm in her sweet little asshole, but I hold back about an inch, and I wait for her to give in and push back against me. I am sure that it will happen; she’ll get used to the feeling and either want more, or at least want it to be over with. It’s torture to wait, but finally she does it.
And then, again, I wait. Stuffed all the way inside her, feeling her soft ass cheeks nestled cozily against my hips, her wet pussy next to my balls, I lightly stroke her exposed lower back, counting her vertebrae with my fingers, and wait. She whimpers and squirms a little, but I know that if I start fucking her now, I’ll come in about four strokes, and she’ll feel superior to me. That’s not what I want. I want this to last. I want to really let her know who runs this show.
It takes at least a full minute before my dick stops throbbing quite so hard. By this time she’s panting, her knees quivering. She still has her hands on her ass cheeks, even though she’s not spreading open for me anymore; she’s just standing there in those childish heeled flip flops, bent over, not leaning on anything or holding on to anything–her feet and my body are her only support. Her legs are getting tired. That makes me smile.
I start off slow, one long, smooth stroke, a pause, and then a second, a pause and then a third. When I start fucking her she gives a little gasp–like she expected me to just stand there with my dick in her ass all morning or something. Fat chance, I thought. You’re not getting off that easy, after blowing off my class all term. Then I think, Getting off. That’s an idea. I’ll get her off for her grade. Three times and she aces my final.
I speed up as soon as I know I can handle a faster pace without exploding–slow, smooth thrusts without a pause in between. Just so she doesn’t get tempted to hold on to something for balance, I cup my hands over hers, feeling the fine bones of her fingers and knuckles standing out as she squeezes her own smooth, plush cheeks in time with my thrusts. She’s not making any sounds, but her pussy is dripping hot juices all over my balls and I can feel her pink flesh throbbing, the muscles of her rectum pulsing around my dick, so I speed up again.
This time she moans, loud, and keeps moaning, and it’s music to me. I keep thrusting, harder, and with no warning she comes all over the place, wetting my balls and my pubic hair and the fronts of my thighs with her musk, pulsing so hard I’m almost sure I’m going to go off inside her just like a firecracker. I ease off to a stop, clutching her hands tighter against her body so she won’t pull away to grab something for support, though I know she wants to; her knees are really shaking now. Once the pulsing stops, I keep going; she’s just earned herself a C, but I know she wants to do better than that.
Sure enough, B is quick on the heels of C. Five or six thrusts into the second wave, she comes again, moaning like a whore, and that’s what she is, a grade-whore, willing to let me fuck her in the ass without a murmur of dissent, and able to come twice in five minutes, bawling like an alley cat both times. Her knees buckle and I’m quick to respond, supporting her weight with my arms temporarily while I go down to my knees, bringing her down with me. When I let her hands go, she doesn’t reach out for support like I expected her to, but back, to grasp my hips. It’s almost more than I can stand, but I hold back, and don’t pour into her like I’d almost love to now. I won’t do that to her. She’s a good sport. We’re a team, striving for that A. “Come on, you sweet little piece of ass,” I whisper to her, fucking her even harder and faster than before. “I know you’ve got one more in you. I know you can make that grade.”
She’s breathing in deep gasps and sighs, backing up to me with every stroke. I can feel the pressure building in my own sex, building to past the point of no return. She’s still gripping my hips, urging me on, more eager than I could have hoped. I had anticipated a grudging cooperation from her, an attitude of lowering herself to the occasion, of humiliation. This enjoyment she is demonstrating was beyond my best expectations. She cries out one more time, that unmistakeable shuddering beginning again inside her, and she makes the A she was hoping for and I know I can relax and burst into her, find relief. A few more strokes and I do. I come so hard it feels like my balls are turning inside-out. My fingers dig into her hips so deep they must bruise her flesh, but she takes it right in stride, saying, “Yes, yes,” in a soft whisper, every time my dick spasms inside her excruciatingly tight asshole.
I pull out of her slowly, careful to hold onto the condom so my cum doesn’t drip onto her. She lets go of my hips and puts her hands on the floor for support, hanging her head in fatigue like a broken horse. With one hand, she reaches for her underpants to put them on. I sit back down in my desk chair to remove the condom, careful not to spill its contents. I wad it up in a paper towel and put it in a zip-lock bag for later disposal, somewhere other than the office trash can that a school custodian will later empty. I hand her a paper towel, and while she is cleaning up with it, I let her watch me erase all her 30s and 50s and then, in ink, write in 90s and 100s, to average into a final A.
“No one else’s grades are in pencil,” she observes. “But all of mine were. You knew I would come asking.”
“Why do you think I gave you your grade early? I wanted to give you the opportunity. I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t done the extra credit.”
“Mr. Harmon,” she says then, “can I call you sometimes? Maybe we could spend some more time together.” She looks embarrassed, and her voice is hushed. I look up at her face and she’s blushing. How sweet. Instantly, my former grudging respect dissipates, and I’m annoyed by her again.
“Get out of my office,” I tell her. “Next time I see you better be in a classroom as a student.”
She smiles at me, and I know she’s thinking what I’m thinking: maybe we’ll both get lucky and she’ll fail again.