"Yes, sir!" Sharon's voice was breathless as I bent her over the desk and entered her from behind. Her black heels, professional and unadorned, offered her ass up to me at the perfect height as I slid inside of her, her heavy breasts pushed down flat against the tabletop. "An A is the least I can do to repay you for such an amazing... Ahhhhhh... Fucking."
My professor's skirt was flipped up around her waist and her panties were discarded on the floor several feet away. Her glasses balanced precariously on a pile of books that had been shoved across the desk to make room. I stroked casually in and out as her fingers danced across the keyboard, entered the grade book and carefully changed the grade next to "Callahan, Nick" from an F to an A.
"That's a good little slut," I murmured, running my fingers through her dirty blonde hair, conveniently pulled back into a ponytail.
"Thank you, Sir," Sharon replied, gasping as I penetrated her with a particularly deep thrust.
"You know," I told her thoughtfully as I slid my hands across the curve of her delectable ass. "You're rapidly becoming my favorite teacher."
* * *
"An F?!!" I was incredulous. "There's no way..." I trailed off and my eyes narrowed as I stared down at the recently graded paper. My anger was smoldering.
The flow of students out of the English Literature class behind me dwindled and ended. Since a couple of my patents had been incorporated into high-tech industrial blueprints a few years ago (and I was paid handsome royalties with every unit sold), I was very financially stable. I attended Bradford University for two primary reasons. First, I was bored. Second, Bradford consistently ranked top three in the Nation's Hottest Universities.
All this to explain why I was majoring in Psychology and Philosophy with a minor in English — the workload was light and since I didn't intend on using my degree anyway I felt I may as well learn about the human mind while I was here. So far my classes had been fine, but now my Shakespeare Seminar was proving bothersome.
It was a small class, small enough that Professor McCarthy knew each student personally. She knew me, and she knew that I couldn't care less about the flowery Shakespeare poems she loved to quote in class. I wasn't impressed that she had Sonnet Number Whatever memorized, and she could sense the fact that, despite knowing everything the course required, I was slacking off.
Was it my fault that she disliked me? Yes.
Had I deserved better than an F on my midterm paper? Yes, again.
She was trying to send me a message. Flipping to the back page, I saw, written in her customary curly handwriting in red pen,
I hope I got your attention. Come see me.
I stared down at the sheaf of pages in my hands. The furrow in my brow slowly unwrinkled and a smirked. I held in a laugh as an idea bubbled up to the surface of my mind. Professor Sharon McCarthy wanted to give me an F? Alright, then. I'd show her a thing or two.
Recent visits to the library in search of an interesting research project for my Experimental Psychology class had led me to discover a series of obscure articles published by a Swedish scientist named Dr. Klas Nilson. The title of his series was, "Neural Hypnosis and Brain Conditioning Through Visual Stimuli". I had originally intended to write my paper on conventional hypnosis, a hobby of mine, but new worlds of possibilities opened up as I read deeper, my research paper entirely forgotten.
His writing style was dry and academic, but I gathered enough from the Swede's papers to understand that by presenting subjects with a complex set of visual patterns, he was able to induce certain brain states, including hypnosis. The visual stimuli, in fact, intensified the effects to the point that Dr. Nilson found he could use his method to program people completely, even making subjects do things they would not normally do while awake. Once properly conditioned and entranced, the subjects would even obey verbal commands from the hypnotist.
I was instantly hooked. Smuggling the papers out of the library, I studied his work for weeks and began to use modern technology to recreate the types of patterns and images he had used so successfully in the 1970s. Photoshop and other visual media editors made my project infinitely easier than it had been for Dr. Nilson.
Finally, after dozens of hours of coding, I finally created and downloaded my creation as an app onto my phone. If it worked, I could just open the app and show someone the screen, which would be filled with an intense pattern of colors and shapes, all moving in seemingly random patterns. These patterns, modeled on Dr. Nilson's studies, would hopefully induce the person into a deeply hypnotized state.
I had had the app for almost two weeks, but hadn't yet had an opportunity to try out its effectiveness. Professor McCarthy had just nominated herself as the first test subject.
Our email exchange was cordial but terse. As soon as I got home I flipped open my laptop and sent Professor McCarthy just a few lines:
"Dear Professor,
Your grade on my recent paper did catch my attention. When did you want to see me? I can come by this evening around 5:30?
Nick"
Her response was even shorter.
"Nick,
5:30 works.
See you then,
Dr. Sharon McCarthy"
And that's how I came to be standing outside my English professor's door at 5:30 that evening. Around us, the rest of the English department was closing up shop and heading home for the night. Just as I'd intended. I wanted my teacher and I to have a little alone time.
I waited outside her closed door for a moment. What I was about to try relied entirely on my skill in computer programming. If I messed up, I would be in deep trouble. Did I trust myself?
I took a deep breath. Fuck yes I did. I raised my fist and knocked twice.
* * *
"Come in!" The voice was youthful but authoritative.
I slipped my phone into my pocket as I walked in. Looking up, I caught sight of Professor Sharon McCarthy.
She was a stunner, no doubt about it. A Southern belle all the way from her wavy blonde hair and her barely noticeable accent to her athletic physique. I had to force myself to maintain a neutral expression. In addition to being gorgeous my teacher was a highly-educated woman who wanted everyone to recognize her for her intellect and not her looks — my enjoying the sight of her would only put her in a worse mood.
"Nick," her voice was a little quieter now that there wasn't a door between us, but the hard edge remained. "Sit down." She gestured to one of the chairs across the desk from where she sat and I approached.
She waited for me to sit down, watching almost unblinkingly as I perched on the edge of the seat like a bird about to take flight, before she continued.
"I don't understand you, Nick." Her voice was chiding, as though she were speaking to a much younger and more foolish individual, though I'm sure she couldn't have been a year over thirty.
I swallowed my instinctive anger as she carried on.
Not yet
, I told myself.
"You're smart," she said. "We both know that."
I wasn't sure whether nodding in agreement would be taken as bad manners, so I sat as still as a block of ice.
