*I wrote this story intentionally not giving away the gender of the “I.” Dr. Macy is very much a woman, think gorgeous mid-late 40’s. The “I” can be whomever you want. Enjoy.*
———
*Knocks on the door.*
“Come in.”
“Hey, Eileen,” I call in our friendly fashion when not discussing school.
She’s at her desk, typing on her computer. Without even looking at me, she sternly responds, “Dr. Macy. I asked you to be here at 3:30. It’s nearly 4pm. Shut the door.”
Taken aback by her coldness, I stammer out, “Yeah, um, sorry, Dr. Macy. I was finishing up another final for Eastern European History. It was a bitch. Something about…”
Still focused on her email, she interrupts, “Save it.”
A silence grows in the room. A minute passes. Two minutes, as she types. Finally she hits “send” and turns to me, “What happened last Thursday? Your third essay was for shit. That combined with some dumb mistakes on the rest of the exam means that you barely made a D. Your final grade just dropped from an A to a C.”
“Shit…really?”
She stands and walks around to the front of the desk and leans her butt against it, supporting herself with her palms, lording over me, sitting in a chair, eye level with the top of her pencil skirt. “Did you even read the Phillips article?”
I try to scoot the chair back but it’s a small office, there isn’t far for me to go. “I skimmed it.”
“Yeah, it shows.”
She’s dominating the whole room. I try to keep eye contact with her but eventually my gaze drops to her waist. “You’re a good student. One of my best. So I hold you to a higher accountability, but this won’t fly.”
I remain silent, my head slightly bowed, knowing I messed up and knowing that I have nothing to defend myself.
“There’s a way out of this. A way for you to keep your A.”
I look up at her, my hopes rising, expecting a chance to write another essay. But when my eyes meet hers, she nods back down, motioning back down to her skirt. Obediently I look back down as she spreads her thighs, just enough to barely show the top of her stockings and the clasps of a garter belt. “No one will ever question it. You always get good grades.”
I glance back up at her, confusion reigning, reality not sinking in. She again gestures to her skirt. She’s hiking it up, passed her stockings, “Get on your knees.”
Her domination controls me. I don’t remember telling my body to kneel, but here I am, subservient, watching as she peels away her black thong, steps her right leg out, and lets it fall to her left ankle.
And her hair. Her beautiful, trimmed, red hair.
“Hand that to me.”
As I do my best to remove her thong from the toe of her short heels, I realize its quality. This is expensive stuff. Does she normally wear such lavish lingerie or is this a special occasion she planned out just for me? Either option is exciting.
My reverie is cut short by a snap of fingers and a more forceful, “Give me my panties.”
She snatches them from me, then rests her hands on either side of her again, spreading her legs wider open. A clearly impatient nod, a demanding look in her eyes, and I lean forward to lightly kiss just above her right stocking…
…About ten minutes into my extra credit there is a knock at her office door. The commotion outside tells of a class that just got out. A student wanting to ask about an exam or perhaps a colleague just wanting to chat. Another knock. Nervous about being caught I pull away to look up at her. For a second or two I see her chin slightly raised, eyes closed, enjoying herself before her left hand forcefully guides my face back between her legs. A sharp “thunk” with her wedding band on the back of my head followed by her slightly painful grasp of a handful of my hair is all the admonishment I need. The bustle outside of the office dies down but her grip never lets up.
…About fifteen minutes later both her hands are gripping tufts of my hair and she’s bucking hard, grinding on me from my chin to my forehead. She calms and lets me go and catches her breath for a minute. She straightens herself up, steps back into her panties, smooths the wrinkles in her skirt and says, “Alright. You’re at a B now. See me next week.”
As I stand up, trying to fix my hair and comprehending the gravity of what just happened, she reminds me, “You’re late for your class with Dr. Bonham. I’ll walk you there so you won’t get into trouble.”
–Of every power exchange that just occurred in the last hour or so, this, by far, was her most alpha move. She leads me to the classroom without the opportunity to clean myself up. As I try to participate in the class discussion I can’t escape the fact that my face smells like Dr. Macy’s orgasm. Her scent is in my lips. It’s on my nose. It’s in my eyebrows, for God’s sake. I’m torn between the fear that others can tell and a desire to excuse myself and furiously masturbate in the bathroom. One thing is for certain, I’m looking forward to next week.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/abydmm/female_professors_office_hours_extra_credit_bi_f