Academic Blacmail

"You need to be in my office in 20 minutes, slut. Do not disappoint me."

The message, sent to my work email, came from a throwaway Gmail account and contained no salutation, no closing, and no signature, but I knew exactly who had sent it. The ever-present anxiety and dread that had been an unwelcome part of my life for the last six weeks suddenly intensified. What else could he possibly expect of me? Haven't I performed every task he's asked me to perform? Haven't I already been punished enough for my small indiscretion? Why does he want to see me in person?

I'm a part-time English instructor at Riverbank University, a small private college in Ohio. Six weeks ago, one of my students, a baseball player named Jake DeVaul, submitted an essay that was such a blatant cut-and-paste job that I could have found it online in under 30 seconds even without plagiarism-detection software. Although Jake begged me to allow him to rewrite the essay without getting campus administrators involved, Riverbank's policy required that I send the case up the academic food chain. Therefore, I reached out to my dean, Dr. Jeffrey Harrison from the College of Arts and Sciences, whom I recognized from faculty meetings but had only ever spoken to in passing. Dr. Harrison asked me for a narrative in which I was to describe the assignment and offer evidence of Jake's dishonesty. And that's when the trouble began.

I should have been paying closer attention to what I was doing, but it was 4:30 in the afternoon and I was exhausted and frustrated thanks to the abysmally-formatted bibliographies I had spent the afternoon grading. I had written Jake's plagiarism narrative that morning, but it was only after I had finished my grading and decided to leave campus for the day that I realized that I hadn't yet emailed it to Dr. Harrison. In a rush to leave my office, I attached what I thought was the plagiarism narrative to the email, hit "Send," and figured that I wouldn't hear from Dr. Harrison until he had decided what Jake's punishment would be.

During the next day's office hour, I was sitting at my desk responding to student emails when I was startled by the sound of someone clearing his throat loudly. I turned away from the computer screen and saw Dr. Harrison looking at me with an expression I couldn't interpret as he leaned against the doorway.

"Good morning, Amanda. May I have a word with you?"

"Sure, Dr. Harrison. Would you like to sit down?" I asked as I motioned toward one of the empty chairs in front of my desk.

"Yes, thank you. And please call me Jeff," he replied. As he entered my office, he kicked the door stop aside and allowed the door to close. I was a little baffled by this; when students are in my office, I always keep the door open to avoid being accused of improprieties. I assumed that Dr. Harrison (or Jeff, which I suppose I should now call him) wanted to talk about Jake's plagiarism case without my colleagues overhearing him.

"So, Amanda, about that plagiarism narrative you sent. . ." Jeff pressed his fingertips together as his voice trailed off, and he looked me with the same odd expression.

"It's a pretty straightforward case, really," I insisted. "I just need to know whether Jake's going to fail only that assignment or if he's going to fail the entire course. That's entirely up to you, of course, regardless of what the official policy is."

Jeff shifted in his chair and said, "Well, Amanda, the problem is that you didn't really give me much information about Jake's case in the, um, narrative you sent me."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you mean," I stammered. "I wrote the narrative yesterday and sent it to you before I left campus."

"You sent me a 'narrative,'" Jeff retorted, "but I'm not sure that you sent the file you intended to send. I'm not sure what your little story about your 'friend' David has to do with Jake's plagiarism case. Oh, there was punishment involved, to be sure, but it was completely irrelevant to what happened here."

My heart immediately skipped several beats. Oh, shit! Oh, fuck! What the fuck had I done? Instead of sending Jeff a copy of the plagiarism narrative, I had attached a draft of an erotic story that I'd written for someone else. Holy fucking fuck was I in trouble! At the very least, I was about to get fired, but if I was lucky, Jeff might let me finish the semester.

"Oh my God, no! I can't believe I did that. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That file shouldn't even have been accessible to me at work, but it was on the same flash drive as Jake's plagiarism narrative." Hot, angry, embarrassed tears streamed down my cheeks as I continued, "Dr. Harrison—I mean—Jeff, I'm really sorry. I know that you won't offer me future contracts because of this, but please let me finish the semester. It's so difficult for students and instructors when someone new has to take over a class. I know because I've been there. Please let me stay."

"Amanda," Jeff said, "I'm very disappointed in you. I don't know you very well, but your full-time colleagues in the English department tell me that you're one of our most highly-respected adjuncts. Believe me when I say that I want to continue to offer you courses in the English department, but I simply can't allow what you've done to go unpunished."

"You're the only one who knows about this," I stated flatly. "I didn't copy anyone else on that email. What's going to happen to me? Are you going to suspend me for a few days? Will I be offered fewer classes in the spring?"

"After reading that story you sent, I think you and I can work out a trade that will be, shall we say, mutually beneficial to both of us," Jeff replied, glancing meaningfully at me.

I've been told that I'm oblivious to flirting and come-ons, but I immediately took the hint. "Wait! That was just a story! A fantasy!" I insisted. "I wouldn't do anything like that in real life."

"Well, that's too bad," Jeff replied. "I thought you enjoyed working at Riverbank."

"I

do

enjoy working here! I graduated from this school almost 20 years ago! I like the students. The students like me. My classes fill up quickly even though I have a reputation for being strict. My colleagues respect me; you said so yourself. I don't want to do anything to compromise that."

"You don't want to do anything to compromise that?" Jeff asked, punctuating his mimicry of me with a contemptuous snort. "Then I think you need to do as I say. I had no idea that you were such a dirty little slut. But I guess I should have known. You nerdy-looking types usually are. I like that a lot."

I looked down at my lap; I just couldn't make eye contact with Jeff. The story that I accidentally sent him was a fantasy, but it could have happened. At that point I was willing to agree to almost anything Jeff asked of me in order to end this conversation. "What would you have me do?" I asked, shrugging weakly.

"That remains to be seen, little girl," Jeff replied, "but I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun together. You'll be hearing from me in a few days."

And on that note, he got up, opened my office door and put the door stop back in its place, and walked out, whistling nonchalantly as he entered the hallway. I ran to the ladies' room, where I dissolved into a tearful mess, attempted to compose myself before my next class, and wondered what I had gotten myself into.

I didn't have to wait long to discover what was in store for me. Two days later, a message from an unfamiliar Gmail address appeared in my inbox with the subject line "Question about the assignment." I clicked on it, assuming that it was from a student who was having trouble accessing his or her official Riverbank student email account. I was instead greeted with the following message:

"Good morning, slut. I hope you haven't forgotten about our agreement. I'm assuming that a dirty girl like you has a lot of toys. Am I right about that? Tomorrow I expect you to wear a skirt or a dress to class. You will slide a vibrator into your panties, and you will drive to campus with that vibrator torturing your clit. You may not cum while you are driving. Once you are on campus, you may not leave your car until you cum, and you will write a brief story telling me how it felt. I expect to receive a response to this email by midnight tomorrow night. Do not disappoint me."

My heart was pounding as I read the message, but by the time I had finished reading I had calmed down just a little. I own lots of toys, of course, and driving to work with a vibrator in my panties didn't sound like too harsh of a punishment. Maybe I could handle these tasks after all.

The next morning I walked to my car ready to get my first task out of the way. I was wearing a white button-down blouse with a red scarf around my neck, a black knee-length pencil skirt, and light blue cotton panties with flowers on them. I pulled the vibrator—a white bullet vibe—out of my work tote, slid it down the front of my panties, and prepared to be deliciously tortured during my 25-minute commute. Every time I switched from the accelerator to the brake, the extra pressure on my clit made me want to explode, but I didn't cum.

I parked near my building but away from the other vehicles in the parking lot so I wouldn't get caught by my colleagues or by campus police. I put the car in park and unbuckled my seat belt so I could have easier access to the vibrator. My clit was steadily throbbing at that point, and I knew that I'd be able to cum really quickly, but I didn't want to cum

too

quickly. I pulled the vibe away from my clit just for a second so I could use my fingers to feel how hard my clit was. I slid my hand into my panties and slowly stroked my clit a few times with just my index finger reaching down just a bit to enjoy how wet my pussy was, and then I let the vibe work its magic.

I leaned the car seat back just a little and let myself get lost in the humming of the vibrator. As it buzzed inside my panties, my clit throbbed and pulsed like it had its own little heartbeat. I started grinding against the vibrator, faster and faster, until my thighs started to shake uncontrollably and I couldn't stop myself from yelling when I came. After taking a few minutes to compose myself, I went inside to prepare for my first class, my clit still throbbing inside my damp panties.

When I logged on to my work email, a message from the mysterious Gmail account awaited me. "Good morning, slut," it said. "I saw you sitting in the parking lot this morning. I expect to hear from you by midnight."

At home that evening, I sent a report of the morning's activities to the Gmail account. The response, almost immediate, simply read, "Very good, slut."

Two weeks passed, and I didn't receive any messages. But then the following message appeared with the subject line "Question about ENG 112 attendance policy":

"Good morning, slut. Tomorrow you will wear a butt plug while you're teaching your classes. I suspect that you already own a plug, but if you don't, you

will

buy one this evening. In the morning, before you leave for campus, you will take a photo of the plug once it has been inserted and then send the photo to this email account."

Once again, I felt relieved that I had been given a task that I could handle. Fortunately, I had several butt plugs from which I could choose, and I decided to use my smallest plug, a stainless steel plug with a pink heart-shaped jewel. I went to bed that night feeling slightly less anxious than usual.

The next day I wore a brown V-neck sweater, tan dress slacks, and a pale pink matching bra and panty set; I decided that, because I'd be wearing the plug, slacks seemed prudent. Taking a selfie of my ass with the butt plug inserted was a bit tricky, but I managed to take a photo and send it before I left my house. Again, the response was almost immediate: "You have an amazing ass, slut. I hope that you're uncomfortably aware of that plug while you're teaching your classes today."

And I was uncomfortably aware of that plug all day. I taught three classes and went to lunch in the cafeteria with three of my English department colleagues, and I couldn't stop thinking about the jeweled plug filling my tight ass. I wondered what my students and colleagues would have thought if they'd have known about my dirty little secret.

As I was leaving the cafeteria building with my colleagues, I saw Jeff walking across the campus green. He stared at me and winked as we passed. I hoped that my colleagues couldn't see my face burning with shame and embarrassment. A couple of days later, Jeff contacted me through his official Riverbank account to inform me that I was to record a zero for Jake DeVaul's plagiarized essay but I was to allow him to remain in the course.

Another two weeks passed without further contact. Then the following message appeared in my inbox with the subject line "Research paper rough draft":

"Good morning, slut. Tomorrow you are to wear white cotton panties. Once you are back in your office at the end of the day, you will masturbate to orgasm. Do not remove your panties. Rub your clit only on the outside of the panties. Using your phone, you will start recording a video shortly before your orgasm. Only your face should appear in the video; I want to see what you look like when you cum. And when you cum, you will call me Daddy. Make sure the panties are nice and soaked when you are finished. Then remove the panties, put them in a manila envelope and send them to me via campus mail. Do not disappoint me."

The next day, assuming that a dress or skirt would make my third task easier to perform, I taught my classes in a dress that I jokingly refer to as my 50s vintage housewife dress. After my final class of the day, I locked my office door and got down to business. At first I had a lot of trouble concentrating and getting aroused. The stress of the last four weeks and the worry over whether or not I was going to keep my job after making such a huge mistake took their toll in other ways. I'd been having trouble eating and sleeping, for example. Every night after I went to bed, I replayed the moment at which I'd attached the wrong file. Why didn't I pay attention to what I was doing? Don't I expect my students to pay attention to detail?

But I also realized that, in spite of the stress of the last few weeks, I was enjoying myself somewhat. I enjoyed having the attention of a handsome, powerful man. I enjoyed knowing that my colleagues and students would be shocked if they knew what I'd been doing. I enjoyed being forced to move beyond my sexual comfort zone. I felt dirty and ashamed, and I loved it.

Leaving my white cotton panties on as I'd been ordered to do, I laid my phone on the desk in front of me since I needed it to complete the task, hiked up my dress, leaned back in my office chair, spread my legs wide with my heels planted on the arms of the chair, and used my right hand to rub my clit outside the panties. I started with a feather-light touch at first, teasing myself in slow, soft circles outside the fabric. With my left hand, I reached into my dress, under my bra, and pinched my right nipple, gently at first, and then harder—almost painfully so. The nipple-pinching made my clit grow harder and throb even faster, almost as if the two were connected. My breath started coming faster and faster, and I moaned softly and uncontrollably, even though I was worried that my colleagues might be in the hallway or in their offices.

I was so tempted to reach into my panties so I could finger my clit more directly and slide my fingers into my pussy, the moisture of which was starting to soak through my cotton panties, but I feared that, even though I was alone in my office, Jeff would find out that I'd somehow disobeyed him. I had been such a good girl up to this point that I didn't want to disappoint him now. My career now depended upon my ability to perform the assigned tasks to his satisfaction.

As my pleasure intensified, I worked my clit faster, feeling my panties dampen further underneath the circular motion of my fingers. Occasionally I'd stop rubbing my clit so I could pinch it lightly. As my body tensed, my feet slipped from the arms of the chair and my thighs gripped together, squeezing my hand. I started occasionally holding my breath, which up to that point had become rapid, shallow, and ragged. I realized that I needed to start recording the video of my orgasm.

I picked up my phone and, distracted by my arousal, clumsily pressed buttons until I was able to access the phone's video camera. I held the camera at arm's length so that my face and upper body were visible, and I hit the "Record" button. "Daddy," I said, "I'm cumming for you. Oh, Daddy—" At that moment, I closed my eyes and bit my lip as I was overwhelmed by the orgasmic waves overtaking my body. Being forced to refer to Jeff, a man I barely knew, as "Daddy" on camera was both exciting and humiliating.

Once I had shut off the camera and given myself a few minutes to catch my breath, I removed the panties, placed them in one of the manila envelopes that's used for interdepartmental communication, and left the envelope in the copy room's campus mail basket on my way out of the building. As I walked to my car, the cool evening air made my still-throbbing clit tingle. I went home, sent my video to the Gmail address, and masturbated again, my face stinging with both shame and pleasure.

An unsigned handwritten note awaited me when I checked my copy-room mailbox the next morning. "The o-face was lovely, slut," it read, "and the panties were quite aromatic. I'll be putting them to good use. You will be hearing from me again in two weeks."

Now it was two weeks later, and I was staring at a message that read, "You need to be in my office in 20 minutes, slut. Do not disappoint me." Jeff hadn't yet asked for a face-to-face meeting, so I was afraid of what he might ask of me. I had performed every task he'd required of me to his satisfaction, but I'd never been asked to do anything for him in person. I was encouraged by the knowledge that I had to enter the office of Brenda, his administrative assistant, to get into his office. Surely nothing bad could happen to me with Brenda nearby.

I made my way across campus and entered the building that housed Jeff's office. As I climbed to the top of the stairs, my heart sank. Brenda's door was open, but her office was dark. She'd obviously taken the day off. Jeff wouldn't hurt me, though. Right? He wouldn't harm me in his office in the middle of campus in broad daylight. I paused outside Brenda's door, took a deep breath, and approached the door to the inner office. "Dr. Jeffrey Harrison: Dean, College of Arts and Sciences," the gold-plated sign read. Just as I was about to knock on the door, it opened.

"Amanda. Come in, pet," Jeff said. "Have a seat." He closed the door as he motioned toward one of the plush Queen Anne chairs facing his desk. I sat down as he moved around the desk to his own chair.

"I'm not sure what this meeting is about. I thought we'd settled Jake's case already," I said, baffled.

"Oh, we did," Jeff replied. "This is merely a follow-up meeting. I'm waiting for someone else to arrive, and then we'll get started."

Now I was truly confused. "I'm sorry—did you just say that we were waiting for someone else?" And at that moment, almost as if someone had planned it that way, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Jeff said, as I found myself face-to-face with a smirking Jake DeVaul, my plagiarizing baseball player.

"Well, this is a surprise," I stated. "I don't suppose either of you is going to tell me what's going on here." I started to stand up, but Jeff stopped me with a wave of his hand.