Its Always The Quiet Ones

I can't believe he gave me a B! I looked up from the paper my professor just handed me, devastated. I know, I know – to most people, a B would be a hell of a good grade. But I'm really not like most students; I'm a damn good writer, and I'm especially good at writing history papers. For the past two years, I've had no less than 12 of my 15 classes with the best professors in the history or political science departments – and I had never walked away with anything less than an A-.

I'd had this particular professor for the past three semesters, and on every single assignment I'd ever given him, I'd received an A – even on those that I definitely bs'ed my way through. I'd worked really hard on this particular paper – a discussion of the significance of the varying interpretations of Progressive Era and Gilded Age reformist photography – and honestly hadn't expected anything but an A.

I looked up at him as he walked back up the aisle toward the front of the room; he made eye contact with me briefly, but not long enough for me to be able to discern what he thought. After class – which took FOREVER, for some reason – I waited in line to speak to him about the paper. There were about five other people who apparently had the same issue; that's about normal, since he's a demanding professor. I'm just unaccustomed to having to actually be one of those people who's unhappy with her grade.

As I waited (I'd deliberately maneuvered to the back of the line, so that he didn't feel rushed when he got to me), I subtly considered him. He's definitely one of those professors who could have been anywhere from 35-50; he was about 5'10", around 170 lbs., silvery blond hair, green eyes. He had that deeply academic look about him; he wore clothes that were slightly too big, and his posture was slightly hunched, as though he spent most of his time in front of a computer screen. He wore plaid shirts and sweater vests and glasses – all things that I find incredibly sexy, because they've all been indications of deeply intelligent men when I've encountered them in any combination. He wasn't married, but I hadn't been able to find out exactly why; I knew that he'd gone through a recent divorce, and there were whispers that it was entirely on her end, but I hadn't heard anything more concrete. I couldn't imagine that it had been his fault; of all of the professors I'd had, he'd been one of the most accommodating, and was always willing to schedule a meeting to talk about anything anyone might need. He was southern, I think; he had this really great soft and slow way of speaking. It wasn't traditionally southern in that he didn't have a noticeable drawl, but he was excessively polite and he spoke more slowly as he got more excited about whatever it was that he was discussing.

I came back to reality just about the time that the guy in front of me started complaining about how he felt that his A-quality work had received a D; Dr. Baldwin solemnly assured him that he would take a second look at it, and promised to email the guy – I think his name might have been Ben – with his revised comments. That seemed to placate Ben, and he left with something less of an unpleasant expression on his face than had been there previously.

When Dr. Baldwin looked up from Ben's paper, he didn't seem at all surprised to see me, although he did seem, uncharacteristically, slightly put-off. I began, "I really just wanted to ask you about the grade that you gave me. I was wondering exactly what about my work you found below your usual standard." He sighed, also uncharacteristically, and said, "You know, there wasn't really anything particularly bad about your work. I just thought that you could have done a bit better." He seemed to think that that was sufficient, because he turned slightly away, as though he was finished speaking. I wasn't satisfied, though, and asked, "Could you maybe explain to me what it is that I could have done to get an A? I don't like B's, and I really want to do the best that I can."

He nodded slowly, and then said, "I'm actually on my way out to a meeting right now; I don't really have any time today or tomorrow, but I could meet with you on Thursday if you wish."

"Actually, that doesn't work for me at all; I don't have any time on Thursday or Friday that I could carve out more than 10 minutes. This is a difficult week for me."

Somewhat reluctantly, he said, "Well...I don't expect that my meeting will extend much past 9 p.m. tonight. Could you meet with me at 9:30, if you'd still like to discuss it?"

I told him that that time worked for me, thanking him in advance for taking the time to meet with me. He nodded and turned away, a clear dismissal this time. As I walked to my next class, I thought about the discussion; the way that he had been acting really was uncharacteristic of his expansive, overly-helpful self. There was a part of me that was excited about meeting with my professor relatively privately at 9:30 at night. He wasn't obviously, immediately attractive in the traditional sense, but I was definitely attracted to him. I find intelligence overwhelmingly sexy, and there were so many other things about him that were so cute that I couldn't help it.

Before I left for my meeting with Dr. Baldwin, I re-styled my hair, adding a few more curls; I also made sure that my eyeliner was sufficiently applied so as to enhance my eyes; I don't have a model's body (I'm short, around 5'3'', and I could stand to lose around 30 pounds), but my proportional measurements and my (so I've been told) amazing eyes make up for my other detriments. I'm not the stereotypically smart geeky-looking anime kind of girl, and I take great pride in the fact that I care about what I look like while at the same time being able to substantatively contribute to an intellectual discussion.

I started on the relatively brief walk to Dr. Baldwin's office in Mack Hall at 9:20; it was only just across the road from where I lived, just about a tenth of a mile away. I was wearing a long, flowing white skirt and a creamy pink tank top underneath a cropped lace shrug; I like looking feminine, and my outfit showed off my 38DD breasts spectacularly. I knocked on his door at exactly 9:30; I hadn't seen another person in the entire building as I'd made my way to his second-floor office. He opened the door and invited me in; again, I got the sense that he was more than slightly distracted by something.

He started, "Right. You want to talk about your paper grade... I don't really know what to tell you, other than I think that you might have become a bit too complacent about the grades that you've been receiving."

I hadn't been even remotely expecting to hear anything like that. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I know that you're quite a talented writer, and that more than that, so do the rest of your professors within the department. I've heard you say, on several occasions, that you very rarely receive anything less than an A, which is a score that most of your peers receive only rarely. I think that you have grown far too accustomed to doing well, and as a result, you haven't felt as though you needed to push yourself beyond what you've accomplished so far. To be completely honest with you, the paper that you turned in would have been a high A compared with those of the rest of your classmates. But because I know you and I know what you are capable of creating, you received a lower grade than someone else would have otherwise."

I was incredulous as he explained his reasoning; more than that, I was more than slightly upset. "I can't believe that you would give me a lower score as a penalty for doing well. I think that's really unfair of you."

He looked quite surprised at my words; hurt crossed his face, followed by what looked like anger. "To be completely honest with you, Ashley, it's not really my concern whether or not you understand or like my grading scale. It's not something that I'm required to explain to you."

Angrily, I stood up and turned to leave his office. As a parting shot, I said, "Just because your personal life is a complete mess doesn't mean that you have to make my life any more difficult by giving me a lower score." As soon as I said the words, I knew that I'd crossed a line – I looked at him, watching for his reaction. It was evident that I'd hit a nerve and that my words had hurt him; he looked a bit as though he'd been punched, and then his expression became impassive. He stood and took two steps toward me, bringing him into quite close proximity. After looking at me for a minute or so, he said softly, "You have absolutely no conception of what my life is like, Ashley; I can't believe that you would say something so incredibly thoughtless. I really thought that you were different, or at least, that you were so much smarter than people your age usually are and that somehow you were more mature. I'm quite disappointed that I was so completely mistaken."

I realized then that I really did have something of a crush on him, because I was very affected by his words. As he looked at me, I felt tears well up in my eyes, and one slipped out and down my cheek. I looked down at the floor and whispered, "I'm sorry; I really didn't mean to say something so horribly mean. It's just very important to me that I do well, and that you think that I have done well. I..." I couldn't finish and turned to leave, but before I could, I felt his hand on my back.

I turned back around to face him but misjudged the distance, so that when I turned around, I was only inches from him. Whatever I'd been about to say died in my throat when I realized how close we were standing. He stared at me intensely for a moment, and then slowly touched my face with his hand; his touch broke the invisible barrier between us, and all at once, he leaned forward and kissed me. He was soft and comforting at first; I moved closer to him as he put his arms around my waist. Quickly, the kiss grew more insistent; he slipped his tongue into my mouth, daring me to do the same.

I don't know what it was that I was expecting to happen that night, but finding myself naked in my professor's office was definitely not on my list of expectations. He was an excellent kisser; after just a minute, I was breathless and dripping wet. A part of me couldn't believe that I was actively making out with my history professor; a second part of me was incredibly turned on because I was actively making out with my history professor. His hands roamed all over my body as we continued kissing; he pushed me toward his desk as things got more heated. By the time we got there, he'd removed my shirt and tank top; I was still wearing a lacy black bra, black lace boyshorts, and my skirt. Because he'd been so gentle so far, I assumed that that trend would continue as things progressed. However, as soon as he broke the kiss for the first time, all of that changed.

I could see the indecision in his face; not wanting him to stop what had been started, I leaned in and slightly bit the inside of his neck; apparently that was a good choice, because he yanked me closer to him, much more insistently than he had before. His eyes were smoldering with lust; I smiled just slightly and gazed up at him in what I intended to be an impudent way. He pulled my hair with the hand that he'd had behind my back; the movement startled me. There was no trace of a smile on his face, or any of the customary good-humored softness that he normally displayed.

He leaned toward me slowly; I watched him, not taking my eyes from his. When he was barely inches from touching his lips to mine, he said slowly, "I think, Ashley, that you have been an incredibly bad girl. You are sitting there, on my desk, wearing nothing lace; your pussy is getting wetter the longer that I speak to you. You were very rude to me earlier, and you haven't properly apologized; I think that some sort of punishment is in order, don't you?" As he asked me, he pulled slightly harder on my hair, obviously waiting for an affirmative response. When I softly said yes, he relaxed his grip and moved back, waiting for me to slide off of the desk. He motioned for me to turn around, and when I did, he pushed me forward slightly, so that I was bent over his desk.

Somehow, the skirt that I was wearing a few minutes before was gone, and I felt incredibly exposed as I stood there bent across his desk with my legs slightly parted. I could feel the cool air on my pussy and knew that he could smell how hot I was. I felt him lightly caress my shoulder and then my back, and then all of a sudden, I felt his hand smack my ass – hard. I made a surprised noise; he spanked me again, this time a bit harder. "You will not speak as I spank you; this is another part of your punishment," he said, in the same slow, measured tone.

I counted twelve swats before he paused; my bottom hurt quite badly and a few tears had escaped and made their way down my cheek. He pulled gently on my hair and in response, I straightened up and turned to face him. He looked at my face for a few moments, visually noting the tears that he saw on my cheek. Then he said, slowly as usual, "I would very much like for you to kiss me."

His words confused the hell out of me, but as though I was physically compelled, I leaned forward and tentatively kissed him. This kiss was deeply passionate, and while I had become even wetter during the spanking, it nearly made me cum as I was standing there. We kissed slowly but insistently, and he brought my hands up to his shirt buttons, beckoning me to open them. I did, and slid the shirt from his shoulders, running my hands over his arms and bare chest; it was sprinkled with slivery blond hairs, not too thickly but not sparsely, either. I slid my hands down his stomach and over his belt, unbuckling it and unzipping his pants, which dropped to the floor on their own.

I felt his breathing become more ragged; in that moment, I knew that neither of us was at all in control of the situation. He pulled me down on top of him on the rug in front of his desk; I straddled his now-bare body as we continued kissing more urgently. He pulled back slightly and looked at me; softly, he whispered, "it has been such an incredibly long time; are you really sure that you want to do this?" I nodded, and with that, he flipped me over so that he was lying on top of me, having somehow divested me of my panties before laying back down. I could feel his hard member pressing hotly against my pussy; I moved up against him, wanting to feel him inside of me.

He pulled me up slightly and undid my bra clasps, letting my breasts spill free. I moved to cover them, but he captured my hands and silently asked me to lay back down; as I did, he moved his head to my nipple and began to suck. After about a minute, I was crazy with need. I whispered his name for the first time: "David, I need for you to be inside of me. Please."

He smiled slightly and slid all of himself inside of me in one powerful stroke; I nearly came right then at the intense fullness that I felt at his unaccustomed thickness. I could see that he was similarly affected; he went motionless briefly as he fought to maintain control. Wanting to drive him over the edge, I arched up against him. My strategy worked, as he began furiously thrusting himself into me. After three or four thrusts, I could feel my orgasm begin; it was intense, beginning at my very core and radiating throughout the rest of my body; I said his name repeatedly as I came. He watched me as I was cumming, and as my orgasm began to subside, allowed his own to begin. I watched him in turn, locking eyes with him as he whispered, "Oh my god Ashley, you're so fucking perfect, oh yes, ohhhhh mmmmmm yes just like that..."

He collapsed on top of me, spent. He lay his head against my chest, and in response, I stroked his hair as we both unwound from the intense session we'd just enjoyed. I could have happily stayed with him the rest of the night (and, honestly, for longer than that), but practicality soon set in, and he moved to get up.

Feeling shy, I cast around for something with which to cover up, pulling my skirt over my the majority of my naked body. He dressed quickly, handing me my clothes as he encountered them. When the two of us were fairly well covered, I looked at him; he was looking at me, and our eyes locked. I wasn't sure what to say, but then he saved me from having to voice a response.

"I have to tell you, Ashley, that that was absolutely incredible. It's been a long time since I had sex, and quite honestly, it's been years since I had sex that was so deeply satisfying."

He continued, "I know that this thing between the two of us is probably a bad idea, but to be honest with you, I really don't care; I'd like to continue this if you would like that."

Again, I hadn't expected to hear anything remotely like what he said, but I nodded shyly and said softly that I'd like that.

He gave me one of his really great smiles and moved closer, kissing me softly and then more deeply. He broke the embrace after about a minute, sighing regretfully. "I'd love if we could just have a repeat performance, but I really do have some work to do, and I'm sure that you have more than a few projects that you need to work on."

I smiled and kissed his cheek, walking out slowly and closing the door behind me...all the while wondering exactly what the hell I was getting myself into.