Valentines Day Extra Credit

It's a frustrating afternoon of increasingly explicit emails at work. The campus has mostly emptied, the chair is at a meeting, and you and I can only think about one thing. That's the curse of being employed by the same institution as a professor and graduate student, respectively. Fucking circumspection. No fraternizing or else. And on Valentine's Day, too. There's only one thing either of us can think of on Valentine's Day.

You've already visited me in my office. I've visited you. You've visited me again. You were almost caught with your hand on my breast (and how nice that felt) as someone passed the door. Clearly we couldn't be trusted in public today. Clearly visits were out. That's when you mention room 433. No windows, you remind me. So you sign the room out via the head office, toting your camera and tripod ostentatiously, announcing your intention to film student interviews for possible later use in your sociology project. No one is in line to use the room, but better safe than sorry. I, meanwhile, am fiddling with the lock, setting it up to be locked on the outside, covering the rectangular window with a piece of newspaper and posting a DO NOT DISTURB: FILMING IN PROGRESS sign. With a little heart, to celebrate the holiday. When you try the door on the outside (making sure no one sees you going in with your tripod) we find the door indeed has locked. Good. I let you in. The lock clicks. No one has seen us go into the room. We're giggling like idiots.

I walk into your arms and kiss you. Oh, that feels wonderful after a day of frustration. Your hands are under my shirt, my hands are on your fly. Nothing has ever, ever felt so good. But then you begin to set up the tripod.

"What is it -- verisimilitude in case someone unlocks the door?" I ask, puzzled. "It won't matter at all if they've seen us."

You raise your eyebrow.

"Now, professor. I've said we're going to make a movie, and so we will. An important documentary about student-teacher relations. Close relations."

Your hand is down the front of my pants now, convincing me of your wisdom. Is the camera on? Jesus. Wait a minute.

"Remember that classroom scenario?" you ask, gently pushing me back against the wall. "The one we wrote together?"

"This isn't a good idea," I stammer.

I'm suddenly very nervous. But you're in character now.

"Just a minute of you time professor. I'd like to explore some of the finer points of the argument with you."

You hand is in my underpants. It's driving me crazy. Damn. Maybe I could surreptitiously kick over the tripod. But now you have both my wrists pinned against the wall with one hand, while the other is undoing the buttons on my 501's as I writhe helplessly.

"I have some penetrating arguments," you continue, pushing me down on the floor, down on all fours, still in front of the damned camera.

"I'm sure you'll agree they go deeper than most."

I'm not certain why the camera seems to be a turn on. What's really a turn on is probably you getting so in character for it. I'm so hot and wet I'm ready to scream. You pull my jeans and then my underpants down around my knees.

"I'm not sure about how I feel about exposing myself to this level of counterargument," I parry weakly, since my breathing is a tad disordered, "is it really --- oh my god what a hugely significant point!"

I'm so wet that you penetrate me almost completely from behind in one slick, rockhard thrust. You thrust again.

"I hope that my performance in this class has fulfilled expectations," you continue urbanely. I couldn't be urbane on a bet. I'm just trying not to squeal with pleasure, stopped more by the presence of the damned camera than the fear of being overheard.

"Do let me know how many assignments you'd like to see filled in the course of this class."

What the hell is THAT? Jesus, have you brought a vibrator to work? Oh, now, not with the camera, damn it. But, like the determined student you are, you persevere. The vibrator is up my ass, your enormous cock is in my cunt, and it's all I can do not to yowl with pleasure, as you ram into me from all possible points of entry, fucking the teacher in every way it's possible to fuck her. I come first. I come and come and come, with my fist stuffed in my mouth.

I'm also in possession of the vibrator. Thank god I've had the forsight to steal an entire roll of paper towels from the women's restroom where the janitor left it. You're still inside me, behind me, smiling. I'm still on all fours. I glance over my shoulder, and then scoot around to face you. God what a nice cock. Hard and glistening and with a life of its own. I put my hand on it and stroke it.

"But you see, Mr. Sylvester, it isn't clear that any critical evaluation is complete without the kind of thrust and parry that involves a reversal of the original argument." Your eyes widen just a little. Good. You've been getting far too smug. I kick my sneakers and jeans the rest of the way off and kneel before you. We're pressed chest to chest, your cock like a living thing trapped between our bodies. I snake the hand with the vibrator behind your back, not sure how you'll react, but feeling an overwhelming temptation to do you that way. Just an inch. Just a little. Mmmm. It felt nice to me, why shouldn't it feel good to you? Well, you don't mind horribly if the erection is anything to go by.

"In addition to penetrating all possible intellectual terrain, Mr. Sylvester," I say, lowering my mouth to your cock and taking it briefly as far down my throat as such an enormous thing will go, "you must in turn be receptive--"

Here I have some more fun with the vibrator as I go down on you in earnest. There's a muffled exclamation and then you place both hands on the side of my face and begin to thrust harder and faster. It seems to me that you've grown impossibly large and hard as iron, beautiful and scary. You don't disIodge my hand. The harder you thrust into my mouth, the deeper I push the vibrator, feeling the muscles in your ass tense. As I'm wondering if I can handle it much longer, you give that Vesuvian growl, and explode in my mouth, faster and harder than I can possibly swallow.

Sticky with come, I lean back against your chest and close my eyes.

"Turn off the fucking camera," I say, "before you tell me what you're willing to do for extra credit. It's Valentine's Day after all."