Making the Grade

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Professor takes advantage of a mistake.
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This is my first story written from a male perspective and I hope it turns out okay.

$#$#$#$#

The second quarter of the fall semester was turning out to be a bitch. The Dean had laid on another section of European History on me after one of the other profs got herself bent out of shape in an auto accident and I had to take over mid-stream. The prof was one of those radical feminist types who always thought that every event in history was just another excuse for an "assault on womyns' vaginas!"

Naturally, it was my luck to not be at the Department meeting when it was decided who would take over the classes filled with militant neo-lesbians.

I guess a little of my own history is in order. My name is Philistine Smith, or 'Phil', and I am a tenured Professor of Western Civilization at the University of California at Berkeley. That probably explains a lot to you about the militant neo-lesbian component on my campus. I've got another fifteen years to go until I qualify for full retirement, but when you're fifty-one fifteen years doesn't seem all that long a time.

I actually went to this school thirty years ago and was one of the fellows who actually went to class and did okay for himself instead of smoking pot, dropping acid, and protesting "The War" and "The Man". I graduated with my Phi Beta Kappa Key and found a lot of doors in the world flung wide open before me. It wasn't hard for me to pick up a teaching job at Mills College where I spent my days teaching and my nights writing my doctoral thesis on why the Edict of Nantes was actually a good thing for the Hugenots in the end.

My doctoral thesis attracted the attention of the old guard of the faculty at Berkeley as it was one of the few mundane subjects they'd seen in quite some time. They were surprised that I could string together six hundred pages without using the name "Viet Nam" even once. I was offered a tenured position in the Social Sciences Department and that was about it for me.

I rapidly became known for not having a single controversial idea and the more conservative students, those who managed to finagle their way onto campus, all tended to gravitate to my classes. All the better to my liking as I didn't have to deal with walk-outs, sit-ins, drop-outs, and fuck-ups. In thirty years of tenure I'd never been mentioned on the front page of any newspaper nor as the lead story on the evening news. This is a rare accomplishment at Berkeley.

Well, yes. And I also met my darling wife in 1976. We were at a bar along Telegraph where I was grading papers and she was a grad student celebrating the election of Jimmy Carter. As the first Democrat since Kennedy (true Dems don't count Johnson, I've found) there was a lot of hope that Carter would be able to clean up Washington and heal the wounds of Viet Nam and Watergate and Anna was radiant with hope that evening. And no small amount of rum, too, I might add. The rum is how we met, or what caused us to meet, that is.

Anna jumped up on a table as Gerald Ford came on TV to concede the election to Carter and I looked up to see her lose her balance. I caught her head just before she would've hit the fireplace at the old bar and, in the process, doused a number of papers with beer. She laughed her drunken head off and asked me my name before going back to the party. I shook my head at the foolish drunk and gathered up the sodden paperwork to take home and toss in the dryer.

The next day a much more sober Anna came to my office and apologized for her lack of decorum the night before. She'd had to go back to the bar to get my name as she'd forgotten it as quickly as I'd said it to her. Upon visiting the bar she examined the spot where we'd met, took a good look at the fireplace, and realized how close she'd come to dying from a head injury. And I was her hero.

Imagine that. Me. A hero. To Anna, I was better than Superman. I was the first man she'd met who didn't try to get in her pants right away and I didn't make a big deal about saving her life, which seemed to enamor her of me even more.

She took me home to meet her family over Thanksgiving and then I came back for Christmas and New Years. The clock rang in 1977 and I proposed to Anna on bended knee with four years' savings displayed in a little blue box from Tiffany & Co.

It seemed appropriate that we were married on January 20th, Jimmy Carter's Inauguration Day.

The years went by and Anna gave me three beautiful children. All three grew up to be the kind of kids any man would be damned proud to have. Our eldest, Lisa, works for the Justice Department as a young FBI agent. Millie, the middle child, is pre-med at Johns Hopkins. And Darryl, our youngest. What can I say? The son of a radical and a nebbish and he got on the bus for UC San Diego and got off at Camp Pendleton. Right now he's God-knows-where hunting for Saddam and Osama for his Uncle Sam as a United States Marine. He's quite the sight in his uniform, especially when he comes to visit the old man here at Berkeley.

He came to see me last month before he shipped out and he walked proudly into the nest of neo-lesbian heckles and screams that is now one of my classes. It was quite inspiring to me when he kept his calm and walked to the front of the class and saluted me before hugging me. The class was dead silent when they heard him say, "I love you, dad."

The mean faces with short-clipped hair were all mute, probably in fear that I'd retaliate against them come grading time.

And isn't that the joy of tenure? Make no doubt, some of those sick little Rosie O'Donnell wanna-bes will be losing their financial aid when their semester grades come out. I hope their little attitudes are as welcome at Podunk Community College as they are at Berkeley.

Anyhow, I saw my son off after first dismissing the class and I walked him across campus to get him a cab to the train station at Emeryville. I found myself looking at him now and again as we walked and I wondered how it was that I had raised a lean, mean, killing machine. I still remember him crying when his goldfish died.

I still remember him crying at his mother's funeral last year.

His entire platoon, eighty-three strong, came to the funeral and six of them carried Anna from the chapel to her final resting place. Darryl's sergeant ("Master Gunnery Sergeant Ortiz!", as he'd surely remind me) later told me that he'd felt an obligation to show the respect of The Corps to the mother of, as he said, "One damn fine Marine, sir!" Turns out that this is high praise from a USMC Sergeant.

My Anna was the mother of a damn fine boy and I'll never forget it.

Which brings me to Thrusday night three weeks ago. Melissa Courtney, a fetching little lass if there ever was one, comes into my office blathering about her financial aid and scholarships and on and on. She's actually one of the better students, and normal, to boot, in the neo-lezbo class.

Quite by mistake, I'd flunked her thinking she was one of the lezbo mob that had screamed and spat at my Darryl. It would just be a matter of paperwork for me to correct her grade and I'd have simply done that were it not for her sudden clarity of speech.

"Prof. Smith, sir, I'll do ANYTHING, I mean it sir, ANYTHING, to get my grade back!"

She kept talking and I guess I just tuned out the noise and thought about her long, brown hair and her shapely little figure. After all, it had been five years since Anna and I had, well, you know with her illness there hadn't been any sex at the Smith house in some time.

I held my hand up to Miss Courtney and she quieted down.

"Now, Miss Courtney," I swallowed as I crossed an ethical line, "you had a...a proposition in mind, did you? And what, pray tell, would that be young lady?"

The English language with all of its nuances and intonations has the remarkable ability to say something while using words completely unrelated to the message being conveyed. Miss Courtney grasped my meaning accurately.

Her eyes widened and she whispered, "You mean you want me to give you a blowjob?"

I stood up and went to the door of my office. I looked up and down the hall and the place was a tomb. A glance at the clock and I realized it was after eight in the evening! No wonder we were alone. I closed the door and locked it before turning back to Miss Courtney.

"Yes, Melissa, a blowjob shall be a nice start to redeeming your grade. But first," (in for a penny, in for a pound I say) "why don't we see those boobs of yours? Hmm?"

Shocked, she stood there as I sat back down in my chair and pushed back from my desk.

"Now would be a good time to take off your blouse, dear."

I could see her mentally balancing the value of her grade against her integrity and I guess virtue just isn't what it used to be.

Odd, I was simultaneously pleased and disappointed when she unbuttoned the blouse to reveal a satiny pink bra over, hmmm, they must've been 34, maybe 35 C's. My cock began to whir with some familiar feelings as the girl undressed and I must say it was nice to feel like a man again.

"Melissa, I can call you 'Melissa', right?"

She nodded her assent.

"Yes, and you can call me 'Phil', if you'd like. Yes, Melissa, let's have you take off that bra, shall we?"

She was truly quite lovely once she was bare from the waist up. Pert breasts with a womanly hint of fullness to them decorated by the kind of nipples a child would someday find easy to suckle upon.

Melissa was acutely aware of me staring at her wares and her apprehension faded a little to display her more aggressive side.

"Can we get this over with? I can't stand here like this all night."

I perked up an eyebrow at her insolence and then sighed as I unzipped my trousers, pulled aside my boxers, and freed my cock for my new friend. She came around the desk without being bidden and I was pleased when her eyes went wide at the side of my equipment. Anna had always told me I was blessed as a man but I just took her words as the act of a loving wife. Melissa's reaction reminded me of the passion Anna and I had once shared and I felt myself swell with anticipation. The pert little brunette knelt between my legs and looked at my tool before looking up at me, as if maybe I'd change my mind.

"Go on, dear, it's getting late."

And, God Bless America!, did Melissa go on. It was my first blowjob, to be honest, and Melissa did such wondrous things with her toungue! I let my hands drift into the cloud of her lovely hair as her head bobbed up and down on my cock and I asked myself why I hadn't insisted on this kind of thing years before?

The talented young thing knew just how to do this and I realized that she'd acquired no small amount of experience in this sort of activity. I felt less guilty for what I was making her do as the image of her unsoiled innocence faded from my mind.

Quite literally, I saw stars as my loins erupted into her mouth. The little nymph didn't stop as I released and she drew forth another gout of my juice.

I was catching my breath as she suddenly stopped, stood up, and turned to the garbage can. Just as quickly, she knelt down and noisily upchucked the contents of her stomach into the can. Upon consideration, I realized this might be why I've heard men prefer that a woman 'swallow'. The alternative is rather unappealing.

"There, are you happy?" Clearly, the insulted and aggrieved girl was fighting back tears.

My mind quickly calculated her gathering courage and I decided that courage, a virtue in general, wasn't a good thing in a young lady who'd recently fellated her professor under coercion. I decided to quickly take control of things.

"SLAP!"

She was clearly stunned.

"Melissa, you'll do well to speak to me respectfully or not at all."

I let her dwell on this for a moment.

"We'd be done here tonight were it not for your attitude. As of this moment you have earned yourself a 'D'."

The implication was clear. While she wouldn't fail with a 'D', she'd not be returning for the Spring semester.

I took her reddened cheek in my hand as I talked to her.

"My house is in Orinda. You'll be my guest tomorrow night for some more...tutoring, shall we say?"

She drew a breath to protest and I placed a finger on her pouty, full lips.

"No, dear, not one more word or the deal's off. Got it?"

She looked down at her shoes and nodded with proper submission.

"Good. Then I'll pick you up at the BART station at, say, six tomorrow evening. We'll have a nice dinner and I'll introduce you to a remarkable claret before we have a lovely sorbet and a port older than yourself for dessert."

I loudly zipped my trousers for effect.

"Now get dressed and get out of my office, I have work to do."

It was all I could do to studiously ignore the pretty girl as she dressed and then exited my office, closing the door quite properly behind herself.

The door had no sooner clicked shut than I'd broke out in a sweat over what I'd done. It takes thirty years to build a reputation and five minutes to destroy it. And I'd put in the five minutes now, hadn't I?

The trip home was uneventful and the traffic through the Callahan was blessedly light. Less than forty minutes after I'd locked my office door I was in my chair at home with a generous tumbler of Scotch soothing my nerves.

What the hell was I thinking? What was I really going to have the poor girl do tomorrow night? Me, a flabby old man with a comb-over and a taut young thing. Mutt and Jeff, we'd be. Surely, Melissa had a young man on the Bears who'd kick my ass right into the emergency room were he to find out. I had three children who'd never forgive me. I'd lose my job. The girl could sue me.

A lot of years had passed since I'd had a half a fifth of Scotch and I certainly felt it the next morning. I had to take a migraine pill before getting in the car and then I still suffered as the traffic on the 24 crawled along. It was noon before I felt normal again and then, after lunch, it was time for class. Melissa was absent from her seat and my paranoid mind was just waiting for the Dean and Campus Police to walk in the door and arrest me in the middle of creating the Hanseatic League.

The rest of the day was no better. When four thirty came along I was relieved to get to my car without handcuffs on and I flipped on the radio for some music as I made my way to the Oakland hills. It was quarter past five when I pulled off at Orinda and drove past the BART station. Then I drove past it again. I guess it was on my fifth circumnavigation of the station when I pulled in and parked near to the front. It was ten 'till the hour according to the deejay.

My passenger door swung open and a blur of blue and gold jacket swung in. The fist of a boyfriend was on my quickened heart and then I saw the blur of brown hair bundled up neatly upon a feminine figure.

"You're early. Thanks for not making me wait." She sounded appreciative, really.

It was uncomfortable, at first, but we drove along and talked about school before arriving at the house. The garage door closed behind the car and I escorted my guest into the house.

Melissa asked for, and received, a large vodka rocks before dinner, I guess to try to relax. She toured around the house and complimented the view even though the view is really of other houses in the valley. She even remarked on the furniture and surprised me with her eye for the Federal pieces in my library. She readily knew them to be originals and not reproductions. It surprised me that she had this kind of depth.

Dinner went off quite well. The salmon almondine was done perfectly and the claret was a nice accent to the red fish. The raspberry sorbet complimented the forty-five year old port and I noticed my guest having no small amount of the fortified spirit for herself.

We finally retired to the living room where I set a nice Brahms medley on the CD player and our conversation continued. The five CD's had run their course and my guest and I noticed the evening had moved into the later hours. Melissa's light mood suddenly evaporated and she poured the remaining half of the fine port into her empty water glass and then emptied the glass in single draught.

"There," she slurred, "now I'm ready. The dinner was great and all, but how 'bout we get that blowjob done so I can go?"

Without prompting, she stood and pulled off her polo top and doffed her bra. Kneeling down at my feet she pulled at my belt and undid my trousers, pulling my rising cock out of my boxers. She looked at me, then down at my crotch and then held her hands to her face. Springing up she ran to my bedroom and slammed the door. That she was crying was a certainty and I composed myself before following her.

"I'm not a slut." she sniffled as I entered the room.

"I never said you were, Melissa. I just wanted to accomplish some business and enjoy your company for the evening." She sniffled again, almost a snort if you will. I patted her on the back.

"You can't blame me for wanting you, can you?"

She nodded politely and I could see my little bit of flattery was well timed and well taken.

"Where's your bathroom?" she inquired.

I gestured at the correct door and she got up from the bed where we were seated and strode quite beautifully to the door. The volume of alcohol she'd imbibed had caught up with her bladder and the tile walls of the bathroom served to amplify the resultant sounds. She peed like a racehorse, frankly. It was a while before I heard the sound of a flush and then a good fifteen minutes passed as I waited for her to emerge.

When she didn't appear I finally got up and knocked on the door. With no response I opened the door and found my guest in a rather distressed position. Her pants and panties were around her ankles and her face rested on the counter next to the toilet where she was still seated. The snoring was subtle and feminine. I chuckled a bit as I knelt down and looked at her.

"Melissa?"

"Melissa, dear, are you awake?"

There was no response. Well, I decided not to leave her like this all night and I had to figure out how to get her to the bed. Carrying her was out of the question since my back just isn't what it used to be. I'd have to get her awake enough to stumble to the bed. I shook her a bit and got a precious little response. Calculating that I'd be able to get her to her feet, and that I'd need her on her feet to get her pants back on, I knelt down and removed her sneakers, socks, and then the pants and panties.

Sure, I could've done this another way, but this way I got to see her naked. This way was the best, don't you agree?

Freed from her constraints I got her arm around my neck and lifted her up.

"Wha-wha-where am I going?"

I chuckled again. "I'm putting you to bed. You're drunk."

"Okay."

She worked with me enough that we made it to the bed where I let her fall to one side. I walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled the covers back then, reaching across to Melissa, I prompted her to get in and then I pulled the blankets up over her angelic form.

Memories of mornings in the distant past when a girlfriend stole out early one morning came back to me. I gathered Melissa's clothing and her purse and placed them in the trunk of my car. Now it was well after midnight and past my own bedtime. A proper part of me thought about the guestroom and then I gave consideration to the naked brunette in my bed and figured a little companionship in bed might be nice for the first time in too many years.

My clothes were folded in their place and I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I flossed and brushed and rinsed. Spitting out the mouthwash I looked at the paunchy, two hundred sixty pound fellow in the mirror and wondered what Melissa would think when she awoke to this sight in the morning? I decided to find out.

12