Grading Submission

I was holding office hours, when *she* arrived, a student complaining about a "C-minus" she had earned on a test that was given two months ago. She had always acted like she had better things to do than to be in class -- as if I my lectures were a tremendous waste of her time. I guess many students felt that way, but unlike the others, she made no attempt to hide her feelings. She'd roll her eyes, shake her head, sigh loudly, etc. She was disrespectful in front of the other students, which was embarrassing. And now, in my office, she was acting even worse. She thought she deserved an A on this test, and was giving no particular reasons why. In all honestly, she was a big black woman -- fat -- and a bit intimidating. She had a little gap between her top front teeth, and large eyes.

I felt like a child being chastised when she addressed me. It turned me on badly.

After explaining that I needed a principled reason to change her test grade, she arose from her seat. With relief, but oddly with some disappointment, I thought she was going to leave. Instead, she put her hands, palms-down on my desk, and said, "Look, Sebastian...". That was my first name. Students never address me by my first name. It's always "Professor". This was crossing the line. But before I could protest, she said "Get out of my chair."

I stammered. "I don't understand, this isn't -"

"Yea it is. Out. Enough pretending to be a professor." She approached the desk. As if in a trance, I lifted myself from the chair, and allowed her to take my place. She made the demand so confidently, that it seemed natural that she should take my chair. I then took her former seat in front of the desk.

"This is better," she said, adjusting the chair, then sifting though the papers on the desk. "Firstly, you will address me as "Professor". And I, of course, will call you by your first name." She awaited some sort of response. I didn't know what to say. She continued. "Secondly, I have an assignment for you." She pulled from her backpack the very book that Sebastian had assigned for the class. There are some short-answer questions at the end of chapter three. Answer them in detail." This what the homework that I had in fact assigned -- due in tomorrow's class. "Get a pad, go to the corner, and work. Now." I took the book from her and followed her instructions. I could feel my disk straining against my khaki pants.

"In the meantime, I will be reviewing the class roster," she said, as she accessed my computer. "But for that, it seems I'll need a password." She looked me in the eye. "What is the password for the class roster, Sebastian?"

I hesitated.

"Now, Sebastian."

"I can't do that, um, professor, that would allow you to change the grades of anyone in the class, and I could..."

"Sebastian. If you don't tell me the password right now, I'm going to leave, this office, withdraw from the class, and you will never see or hear from me again. Is that what you want?"

In a near panic, I gave her the password. The thought of her absence left me empty -- as if a mother were abandoning her child. "That's a good boy." She typed some. "Brilliant. While I'm changing grades and looking up the background of the students," you can get to work on your assignment."

I turned to the book and the blank sheets of paper. "And one more thing," she said. "You're dressed up as if you're in charge of this class. You're not. I am. It's best that you undress yourself."

I couldn't believe it. In some ways, this was more of a shock than providing her with the password to the class roster. "Do it now, Sebastian. This what you get for dressing as if you're a professor. You must learn your place."

"Yes, professor." I was so turned on, I felt dizzy. I thought I would fall over. Slowly, I removed my blazer and shoes, unbuttoned the collared shirt, unbuckled the belt, and removed my pants. Soon, I was dressed only in my undershirt, briefs, and socks.

"Take the rest off too, Sebastian." You put those on this morning, thinking you're a professor -- as part of an outfit. It's time to completely remove your silly costume, and confront me as you really are, naked and helpless."

With tears in my eyes, I pulled off my socks and shirt. Hunched over, as if to make myself invisible, I pulled down my briefs. There was no hiding my dick, which was standing at attention. In no time, I had gone from my commanding position as the instructor of the class, to an embarrassed, cringing, boy unable to hide his arousal.

"You're skinny, Sebastian, you know that?" She looked him over, frowning beneath her glasses. "Not much to look at, not at all. Ever thought of working out? I guess it would be a hopeless task. And being around all those real men at the gym must be embarrassing." I blushed, and it spread over my body. "Now get to work, Sebastian." I did as she asked, while she tampered with the class roster. But it was, of course, difficult to concentrate, as my position felt surreal. And the smooth chair was cold against my ass.

She was about to take a seat behind the desk, when she noticed a series of framed certificates on the wall. They were my diplomas -- a PhD, a Masters, and a BA. "We have to fix that," she said, taking down the glass-ensconced PhD. She flipped it over, slipped the banking off, and removed the diploma. In delicate typography it stated my name, the institution conferring the degree, and the field in which it was earned. My name was printed in gold-leaf. She sifted through the drawers in my desk until she found what she was looking for -- a black, felt tipped marker. She uncapped it, and unceremoniously scribbled out my name. I felt violated. With careful strokes, she wrote out her own name in cursive above where mine had been. I gasped. It had taken me seven years to earn that. And she had made it her own in seven seconds. She didn't even look at me. With that, she replaced the diploma in the frame, and hung it back up on the wall. "Now I'm more educated than you. You just have a Masters." Taking a step back, crossing her arms, she announced her satisfaction, and returned to her chair, turning her attention to the computer. "I know her," she said, tapping the screen. "She's that stuck-up bitch who's always asking extra questions and shit, acting like she smarter than everyone. Fucking annoying. No way she should get an A. She's getting a C minus." I tried to keep my handwriting steady. "And Shawn, he has a fine-ass body. He shouldn't be penalized for being absent so much. He's an athlete. He's not getting a D. He's getting an A plus."

She continued like this, destroying any record of the grades the students had earned. The best way to stop this was to finish my work as soon as possible. So I did my best to ignore the context in which I was answering the questions before me, and I trucked through them, very quickly but comprehensively. They were my own questions after all. And in less than ten minutes: "Professor, um, I'm done."

"So fast?" She frowned. "You obviously need more work to do." She unzipped her backpack, and pulled out an anthropology and history text, in addition to a couple hand-outs. I have papers for both these classes. I shouldn't have to do them. You will instead. You have less than a week, so I'd get started. And I have math work for you as well. I don't have the book with me, but I'll have you pick it up. I won't need it any longer."

I couldn't hold her gaze. I stared at the tiled floor, trying to absorb the implications of her orders. "Oh, and by the way. Since you are in *my* class now, you'll have to pay tuition. If you want to do all the work I'm giving you, you'll have to pay me. I expect a hundred bucks for each assignment you complete." The world was spinning. I could barely keep up with this. "Don't you faint on me, you pansy. Like a little girl."

"But as for now, I have a different assignment for you." I shuddered. "Doing academic work for me aint enough. That sort of work only demonstrates that I am more than your professor. But I am more than that to you. And you are much less than a student." She arose from her seat, approaching me. With a nod of her head, she motioned me off the chair, and by pointing finger, she mad clear I was to sit on the floor. She took my place in the chair. I was kneeling before her. Thirty minutes ago, she was my student, one among many, a nobody, practically a number. And now I was naked before her, kneeling, in rapture, and in awe her presence.

She slid one of her feet forward. She was wearing black, closed-toe, short heeled, leather shoes. I felt the world go black. I was passing out. But as I lowered my head to her shoe, the blood rushed back to my head. Up close, I could see het show was dusty, and smudged. Extending my tongue, hesitantly, I tasted the tip of her shoe. I heard myself moan. With increasingly longer licks, I cleaned off her shoe, leaving the worked-over areas shiny and polished. "That's a good boy. Don't forget the sides." Oddly, I saw droplets of water form on her shoe, and I realized I was crying on her feet -- either from ecstasy or shock, I didn't know. I licked over the tears.

Soon I had the tip of her shoe in my mouth. I was sucking on it, like it was a cock. She lifted her leg, allowing me to raise my head a bit. I glanced at her face. She looked bored, slightly bemused. I felt like I wasn't doing a good enough job. I fit as much of the shoe into my mouth as I could, trying to ignore the grimy bottom. "Did you think this morning, when you woke up, that you'd be deep-throating my shoe by afternoon?" I gagged a bit, sliding my tongue under and around the leather, tasting the dust and soil. She pulled back her shoe, out of my mouth. I whimpered, feeling empty. A long strand of saliva strung from my lips to her shoe. She made a sound of disgust, and wiped the front of her shoe on my face. "There. Now you've acted like a slave."

Abruptly, she arose from the seat. She took two of the three diplomas from the wall -- the Master's and the Bachelor's. This time, she didn't bother removing the backing. She just tapped each against the corner of the desk, breaking the glass, and freeing the diplomas. "Stand up," she ordered, her back to me. I did as I was told, obviously. With the Master's diploma in her hand, she circled behind me, and kicked my legs open wide. I didn't know what was going to happen. Suddenly, I felt her jam the diplomas up my ass. I shrieked. Using my shoulder as leverage, she pushed it up inside me. "There," she said, backing away. I stood there with my Master's diploma sticking out of my ass. "Now you're just a college grad," she announced. "And not for long." She grabbed the delicate Bachelor's diploma, and crinkled it up into a ball. Standing in front of me, she grabbed my balls and squeezed until I opened my mouth and yelled in pain. At that moment, she shoved the diploma into my mouth. "And now, you're not even a college grad. You're a fucking idiot undergrad, like the rest of your former students." I was breathing heavily through my nose, in disbelief. My cock had never, in my life, been so hard as it was now.

And she wasn't done yet. Returning to my -- to *her* -- desk, she removed a thick stack of papers -- blue books examinations. They were my students' hand-written, in class exams, graded and ready to be handed back. There were about forty. She let go of them, dropping them on the floor, in front of me. My cock ached from its constant erection. "Now I'm going to let you cum." She let the command sink in. "And I want you to cover as many papers with your cum as possible."

I didn't even consider disobeying. I guess that's what it means to be a slave. Or to have a Queen give an order. I put my hand on my cock, and began to stroke slowly. "Do it. Now. You fucking loser. Wimp, do it. *Cum*." My ass clenched around my Master's degree, my teeth bit down on my Bachelor's degree, and I sprayed across the papers. With each spurt, I made a sort of "UHHNG, UHHNG" sound, from deep in my throat. Everything felt warm, hot, all over.

When I came to, I was laying face down. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a landscape of strewn, cum-stained papers. I lifted myself up slowly. Some of the papers stuck to my head. Stumbling, I noticed ink on my chest. I twisted my head, and saw a red, felt-tipped letter drawn on my skin. "C-"