Blacmailed by My Student

Author's note: This is one of my shorter stories. The idea for it struck me while I was writing Seducing My Friend's Mom Part 3 (yes, I am writing it!), and it intrigued me so much I had to put it down ASAP. Keeping it brief was a deliberate choice: I wanted to highlight a particular aspect of cuckolding (yes, cuckolding; consider yourself warned) and felt more development was unnecessary. Also, I wanted to get back to writing my 'main' stories.

Unlike many of my other works, the 'seduction' happens entirely off-screen. I also don't explore its fallout, leaving the aftermath ambiguous. 'Blackmailed By My Student' is about power dynamics, plain and simple. If you prefer more developed stories, check out some of my other works instead.

There are no homosexual encounters in this story. The power-plays involved are psychological rather than physical. Don't expect 'sissification' of the protagonist, as is sometimes seen in other stories.

Also, in case it needs to be said, just because characters don't get the karma they deserve, that doesn't mean they're supposed to be sympathetic either. It's okay to dislike them and still enjoy the story.

Shoutout to reader Cerinthus for motivating me into this latest burst of productivity.

And the usual disclaimers: all characters are fictional, similarities to real-world people/events are purely coincidental, everyone involved is of legal consenting age, etc.

'I chose pharmacy because I enjoy finding and correcting the mistakes of others.'

I took a moment to reread the sentence, unable to believe the boldness of the statement. Yet it was only one of several like it; others included 'After school, I worked at my local CVS as a customer service associate, where I learned how much I dislike customer service.' and 'I have no notable accomplishments, I'm just happy to be passing my courses at this point'.

Such self-reflections would have been unprofessional for a front-end clerk, much less someone about to graduate pharmacy school.

I wondered if the originally-scheduled preceptor of this prodigal student really had moved out-of-state. Maybe, like me, she realized what kind of person Michael Day was; rather than be stuck a whole month with him, she lied her way out of it. Briefly, I imagined emailing the pharmacy school and claiming that I no longer had an opening for a student next month. Save myself while I still could.

I squashed that line of thinking. Unlike Michael 'too-good-for-others' Day, I was a professional. He may prove to be the worst student I'd ever precepted, but like everything else in my career, I would face it in stride. And who knew—maybe Michael would prove much more tolerable in-person than in-writing.

***

"Wow, you're right. He definitely sounds like a winner," my wife agreed, after reading Michael's online submissions.

Like me, my wife was a pharmacist. Kayla and I met in pharmacy school, got married soon after, and had been living the DINK-lifestyle since. Our combined salaries were very nice, but it wasn't all sunshine and roses. Working in a pharmacy could be stressful, but even worse, our schedules didn't align very well anymore. For the past couple years now, we didn't see each other much most days. But still, it could have been worse.

We were both in our mid-thirties, but Kayla looked just as good as the day I'd met her: straight brown hair with blue eyes, pretty face, a bubbly personality, and a sparkling laugh that brought a smile to anyone who heard it. She had a nice body too: larger than average tits, nice wide hips, and a full ass that looked killer in the tight jeans she always wore outside of work.

Sure, Kayla wasn't quite as slim as she'd been a decade ago, but who was? I thought my wife still looked fantastic, although she'd become self-conscious enough to start hitting the gym again. She'd promised herself to stick with it this time, although in my opinion, even if she dropped out in a week, her body would be doing just fine.

"Yeah, it should be an interesting month," I replied to her. "Although I've had a nice run of good students recently. I guess I'm overdue for a bad one."

I'd been a preceptor for years by now, taking students from the local pharmacy school under my wing for their rotations, a month at a time. Essentially, I was supposed to give students a taste of pharmacy outside of the classroom; show them the practical to the school's theoretical. Part of my responsibilities involved evaluating the students: knowledge, professionalism, etc. This wasn't just a feedback exercise either. My grades were part of the students' transcripts, counting towards their GPA and class ranking. Maybe more importantly, a student who couldn't pass their rotations wouldn't be allowed to graduate.

In practice, this almost never happened. The pharmacy school did a good job not sending out students who couldn't make it through the rotation cycle. I'd never once had to fail a student, although a few did require come-to-Jesus meetings.

I wondered if Michael Day would prove the first.

***

"Yeah, he looks like the kind of guy that would write those things."

My lead-tech, Kristy, had found Michael Day's social media profile. She turned her phone towards me, showing me his picture.

Kristy was right. Michael was a conventionally attractive young man: strong cheek and jaw, dirty blond hair, symmetrical face, lighter skin tone with striking grey-blue eyes, and a smirk that indicated Michael knew exactly how attractive he was. Yet—aside from the smirk—his appearance didn't immediately scream asshole either; his relative paleness softened him, making him seem more approachable.

I'd lived long enough to know that if anything, this approachability likely only made Michael more dangerous.

"Well, he starts next week, so prepare yourself, I guess," I shrugged.

"Oh, it gets even better. He's a gym-bro," Kristy said, flipping through some more pictures. I watched as she sorted through several shots of Michael working out, most of them shirtless. He wasn't ripped to the point of being over-muscled, but it was clear Michael was very proud of his fitness. I didn't blame him though—if I looked like that, I'd probably show off a bit too.

"You're definitely right about that. Let's hope he's one of the more easy-going bros, rather than a self-absorbed one. Nothing we can do about it either way, I guess. Who knows. Maybe he'll be a great student."

***

Michael was not a great student. His first day gave me hope otherwise—he'd been perfectly professional—but by day two, I knew he would be a challenge.

His first strike was being fifteen minutes late, with no call or text in advance (we'd exchanged cell numbers in case of this exact scenario). Strike two was wandering off into the over-the-counter aisles without telling anyone where he was going ("I was looking for patients to help"). The final strike came at lunch, when instead of the thirty minutes he was allotted, he was gone for an hour.

I'd politely but firmly reprimanded him for the first two infractions, but by the third, my patience was wearing thin. I warned my staff that once he did show up again, I was going to take a few minutes to talk with him in the breakroom. I was a big believer in instant feedback, and Michael was going to learn very fast that I wasn't going to put up with such blatant unprofessionalism.

As he finally strolled back into the pharmacy, zero concern about being late for the second time that day, I took him aside.

"Michael, come back to the breakroom with me, please," I said, nodding to lead-tech Kristy to hold down the fort.

I led us away from the pharmacy, then closed the door behind us for privacy.

"Hey, man, what's up? Did I do something wrong?" Michael asked, sounding oblivious.

I stared at Michael. His expression seemed sincere, but his attitude was too flippant. I suspected he knew exactly what was wrong.

"You're thirty minutes late coming back from lunch. That's twice in one day that you've been late. Not to mention you leaving the pharmacy without telling me first. It's only your second day, Michael. If I'm being honest, I'm a little stunned at how unprofessional you've been in such a short time."

"Oh, sorry, man," Michael said, not sounding sorry at all. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything. I thought we got an hour for lunch."

"We don't. It's thirty minutes, as I was very clear about yesterday during your orientation," I said, my annoyance steadily increasing. I took a deep breath to recenter myself. "Look, Michael, I'm telling you this not to chew you out. I'm telling you this because I want you to get better. I know these last rotations seem like a chore... just one more obstacle before you can graduate and start your career. But you have to at least pretend to want to be here."

A dark expression flickered over Michael's face, but then it was gone, replaced by a charming smile. "Okay, sir. I got it. I will do better."

I wasn't convinced, but I appreciated that Michael was willing to at least pay lip service to improving. But I had one other trick I'd learned over the years to help motivate students.

"Before we go back, Michael, I have to ask. You look like you're in good shape. Do you go to the gym a lot?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Michael said, looking wary of where I was headed.

"It's a great habit to get into. My wife actually just started going back herself, and she's already loving the routine of it. She's a pharmacist too and finds it to be a great stress-reliever."

"Oh, where does she go?" Michael interjected, before I could get to my point.

"The athletic club on Merchants," I said, fighting to maintain my patience.

Michael nodded his head approvingly. "That's a great one. Expensive, but you get what you pay for. At least, that's what I hear. Does she get to go much, even with being a pharmacist?"

"Yeah, she's been going four days a week. Mostly mornings to work around her schedule. It's tricky, but it can be done."

Michael seemed to consider this. He then shook his head. "Sorry, go ahead, sir. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No worries," I replied, my annoyance somewhat mollified by his apology. "What I was going to say is that I'm sure that as a man who lifts weights, you can appreciate that to get what you want, you have to put in the work. And sometimes, that means doing work that you'd rather not. Making sure you don't miss leg day. Making sure you're not late to rotation. You see what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir, I understand. I'll be better tomorrow," Michael promised.

"Good. I look forward to seeing it," I said, feeling my job was done. Now it would be up to Michael to follow through.

***

Michael improved dramatically over the next few days. It was like he turned a new leaf, transforming from one of my worst students to one of my best. He helped in workflow without prompting, ingratiated himself charmingly with my technicians, rang-up patients without complaint, and—most importantly--wasn't late again. I prided myself on being able to motivate my students to do better, but I'd never had one reform so dramatically before. A part of me suspected Michael was putting on an act rather than being driven by a true change-of-heart, but I didn't care. Fake-it-til-you-make-it is real.

I told Kayla about my precepting adventures with Michael that weekend.

"Good for you, honey, that's really impressive," Kayla said, although she seemed distracted by something on her phone.

"Yeah, I just hope he keeps it up for the next three weeks. His mid-term eval is next Friday, so we'll see what happens."

"Yeah, fingers crossed," Kayla smiled briefly at me before returning to the screen in her hands.

"Well, how was your week?" I said, trying to re-engage my wife.

Kayla finished typing away something, then set her phone down, finally looking at me. "It was good. Nothing crazy at work. Gym was fun. I enjoyed it so much, I think I might actually try and go more often next week."

"Wow, look at you!" I said, legitimately impressed. "Glad you're making use of your membership. Maybe I'll have to think about getting one for myself, and we could go together sometime."

"Yeah, maybe!" Kayla said.

But by then, she'd already picked up her phone again.

***

The following week, Michael was a disaster.

He was late again that morning, refused to do any work at all unless I specifically tasked him with something, and whenever he interacted with patients, he treated them like they were a chore.

I couldn't understand it. What had happened? He'd been doing so good, but now he'd reverted as quickly as he'd improved.

I tried to motivate Michael again, using all the tricks in my book, but he was utterly unresponsive. He interacted with me as little as possible, and even then, gave me minimal respect. Finally, at the end of my patience, I sent him home early on Thursday to reflect on his poor attitude, but when he returned Friday, he was no better.

So, I used the last card I had to play. After his lunch, I pulled Michael back into the break room, shutting us in for privacy.

"Michael, I don't know what else I can say to you that I haven't said already. I get that you don't care about this rotation. You've made that clear. But there are consequences for not meeting the expectations the school has for you. I'm going to submit your midterm eval this evening, and I'm going to put you down as failing at this point. Nobody wants that. Not you, not your school, not me. But I don't see how I have any other choice."

I went silent, letting Michael process my words.

I don't know what I expected. I hoped for an apology and assurances to improve, but by this point, I doubted I'd get it. I'd settle for at least an acknowledgement of the trouble that Michael had gotten himself in.

Michael nodded slowly, as if reflecting on his position. Finally, he spoke.

"You could do that, sir. But you're not going to."

I couldn't believe my ears. Michael's unprofessionalism was unquestioned, but this was too far, even for him.

"Oh, I'm not, am I?" I said, my tone hardening.

"No," Michael confirmed, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "And here's why. Take a look at this."

Michael moved over beside me, letting me see his screen. It was a video. He pressed play.

I quickly realized what kind of video was playing. "Michael, have you lost your mind? You're showing me porn? Turn that off. We're done here."

"No, you're missing the point. Look closer. Recognize anyone?"

Despite myself, I did take a closer look.

The video was shot POV-style from a man's perspective. He was standing, fully naked, with his well-endowed cock hanging stiffly in the air. But what caught my attention—and turned my blood to ice—was the woman in the shot.

At first, it was hard to see much of her. Her face was partially obscured by her brown hair, and she was looking down away from the camera... towards the cock she was busy sucking on. But then the man reached towards her, brushed her hair behind her ear, and revealed her face in its entirety.

It was Kayla.

I stood still, barely able to breathe, as I realized I was watching my wife suck off another man.

"Yeah, I thought you might recognize her," Michael said softly, letting the video continue to play. "In case you were wondering, that's me your wife is blowing, as you'll see in a moment."

Sure enough, the man holding the phone flipped the camera around, revealing Michael's smug, self-satisfied face, before he flipped back to the woman slobbering over his cock.

"This... this isn't real," I said, unable to accept the alternative. "This is some of that AI deep-fake stuff."

"It's not," Michael assured me. "Here, let me skip ahead some."

He pulled the phone back, sliding his finger across the screen until he'd progressed the video sufficiently forward.

"Here we go," he said, turning the phone back to me.

The video now showed the woman—my wife—lying spread-eagled on a bed, having opened herself completely to the cameraman. The POV drew closer to her, then panned down, revealing the thick cock poised to penetrate her pussy. It hesitated there for just a moment, then pressed forward, the large head spreading apart my wife's pussy lips and breaching the opening inside.

'Oh fuck, Kayla... you feel amazing,' came the voice from behind the camera, unmistakably Michael's, as his cock buried itself inch by inch into my wife.

I stared, transfixed, unable to believe what I was seeing.

Michael--the one next to me—spoke again. "So, tell me, sir... is that your wife's body or not? AI can deepfake faces onto bodies, but it can't deepfake a body it's never seen before."

I wanted to deny it, to reject this nightmare I'd been pulled into, but I couldn't. The woman's body was Kayla's, no question. I knew every inch of her body, even if I clearly didn't know her heart as well as I'd believed.

"I thought so," Michael smirked, my silence answering his question.

"How...?" I managed to mutter, eyes still locked onto the screen.

"Actually, I have you to thank for that," Michael said, continuing to hold the phone up to me. "Telling me when and where I could accidentally run into her at the gym made it too easy. And, you know, I expected it to take me all month to seduce your wife, but she lasted just a week. A meet-cute at the gym, some light flirting, a couple of coffee dates... By the time I invited her back to my place, she didn't even hesitate."

Michael shook his head wistfully. "Kayla must have been feeling all sorts of neglected to give it up to me so quickly. Maybe you should have spent more time focused on her and less time power-tripping here. Not that I'm complaining now, of course. I was going to fuck your wife even if she was an uggo, but she's a real hottie. Going balls-deep inside her was a pleasure, even aside from needing it for this rotation."

I couldn't process this. It was all too much. So, I latched on to the one thing that I could still understand and control.

"I'm gonna report you to the school for this. You're not just gonna fail this rotation, you're gonna be expelled!" I said.

"No, I'm not," Michael said calmly. "You're not going to say anything to the school. You're also going to give me an A on this rotation. Because if you don't, I'm going to share this video with everyone you know. I'll start with your coworkers here. Then your friends. Then your family. Hell, I might upload it to the Internet after that, so everyone can see that Mr. Always-Professional is nothing more than a cuck. You'll have to quit your job. Probably get divorced and move to some small town where nobody knows you. Live the rest of your life there. Unless you want to forever be known as the pharmacist who let one of his students get with his wife."

I was struck dumb. What the hell was happening?

"You clearly need some time to think things over, so I'm gonna head back out to the pharmacy and finish my day. Just so you know, I'll probably have to leave early. And I'll be in late the rest of the month too."

Despite the situation, something about this struck me as darkly funny.

"After all this, why even bother coming in at all?" I asked bitterly. "It's not like it would make a difference anymore."

"Because, sir," Michael answered as if it were obvious. "I value my education."

***

By the time I made it home, I was a shell. Kayla was gone, midway through her own shift, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I tried to rationalize the video, imagine if there was any way Michael could have faked it. But the woman in the video didn't just look like Kayla... she sounded like Kayla. She acted like Kayla. Or at least the way Kayla had acted towards the start of our relationship.

There was no disputing it: Michael had indeed fucked my wife. And all because he was too much of a bitch to put the actual work into his rotation. He wasn't just a narcissist... he was a psychopath.