My freshman year in college, I was having trouble in English class. My professor, Mr. Winters, was a very good looking older man with graying hair that we all agreed made him look like what we liked to call, "one hot silver fox." Anyway, I wore the shortest skirts I could find to his class, hoping that it would boost my grade, but it seemed like he was intent on marking me according to my work, and so I fell further and further behind as he ignored one tight slutty outfit after another.
One day after class, I just couldn't take it any longer. I waited until the class was empty of all but the two of us. I went to his desk with my sweetest most innocent flirty pout, nibbled on my pencil, batted my eyebrows, and said to him, "Mr. Winters, please help me figure out a way to get a better grade in your class. I'm working as hard as I can, but I just can't seem to get all the deep meaning of these stories we've been reading. Do you, um, offer some type of extra tutoring or anything? I mean, I'm really quite desperate to pull my grade up. Please say you can help me."
Mr. Winters looked at me without cracking a smile and said, "I hold private lessons on Tuesday nights, here's the address. Seven sharp." He handed me a business card. And then he looked away from me to straighten his books and papers. I was dismissed. I tucked the card into my pocket, wishing that he had at least bothered to leer down my deep v-neck shirt.
On Tuesday night, I went to the address on the card and was disappointed to find that it was an office building, and not his home. The other offices were all dark and empty though, and he sat alone in his with one light on. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him there, looking striking in a black t-shirt and a fitted pair of jeans. He never dressed like that for class, and you could see the outline of a well trained build beneath his casual outfit.
"Miss Anderson," he called, beckoning me into his quarters. "Please close the door behind you."
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, as the latch clicked. Anticipation rose within me, hoping for, imagining the impossible. I knew that a respectable man like this professor would never even think of doing the kind of thing I was hoping he would do. Yet every step toward him, my fervor grew. By the time I reached his desk, my cheeks were bright red with the heat of longing and guilt.
Mr. Winters sat perched on the corner of his desk, leaning toward me. He seemed to have the agility of someone more than half his age. There was a spark in his eye that I had never seen before; a stern amusement. Had he called me in here only to reprimand me for not doing better in his class? The look in his eye made me wonder, and fear of such a humiliation tightened in my chest.
"So you want to raise your grade, Ms. Anderson." It wasn't a question, but a statement. I nodded dumbly. "Well, in order to raise your grade, your going to have to lower your shorts." His voice was cool and professional. I wasn't sure I had heard him right.
"Yes, that's what I said Ms. Anderson. Lower your shorts in order to raise your grade. Are you willing to humiliate yourself for what you want? Don't bother nodding, either lower your pants or walk out that door.
The door, which had been wide open when I entered, was closed now, but it was glass as were all the windows. Even though the offices where empty, it still seemed extremely revealing to lower my pants in a room filled with windows, and nothing it seemed to keep anyone from walking in and seeing me that way.
Still, my curiosity and my need for a better grade compelled me to stay. I unfastened my daisy dukes and lowered them to my knees, bringing a pink cotton thong into view. I started to lower them to the floor, but Mr. Winters said, "that will be fine. Lean over the desk."
