Making the Nuru Grade

Professor Randy taught Chaucer down at the community college and thought checking one lousy voicemail would ruin his night. Instead it opened the door to Asa’s little apartment and her standing there in a tank top and workout shorts, smiling like somebody who already knew the ending. He’d told her over the phone that an F meant summer school; she’d offered a back rub to take the edge off finals week. Now she rolled up a bamboo mat and told him to strip to his boxers. Randy laughed—figured it would be an innocent rub, maybe a few jokes about dead white poets. Turns out she’d studied massage the way she hadn’t studied his syllabus. Her thumbs worked deep along his spine and every knot melted faster than his grading curve. She straddled his hips, leaned in, and suddenly the conversation moved from line breaks to the heat rolling off her thighs. One slow rock forward, one accidental brush of her chest across his shoulders, and the semester’s stern rules felt a mile away. The oil kept coming—warm, slick, smelling like sandalwood and bad decisions. Her fingers slid under the waistband to work the low muscles he never stretched, then lower still. She didn’t ask; she teased, testing how much he’d let slip. Within ten minutes his boxers lay folded on the kitchen chair and Asa was cupping him from behind, smooth strokes timed to her breathing. Randy kept thinking he should put a stop to it, maybe lecture about ethics, but the words turned into groans the second she circled her thumb over the head. She flipped him, straddled his waist again, peeled off the tank. Small perfect tits swayed above him while she lined him up between her lips and gave him a single, torturously slow suck—just enough to taste. Then she slid down, sank onto him like the answer key she finally got right, all the way until her hips kissed his. He grabbed those hips, half helping, half begging, as she rose and fell, slow and mean, grinning every time he twitched inside her. The A-minus took shape on the second round: her riding reverse, ass bouncing like she was counting stanzas, ass cheeks spread so he could watch himself disappear. When he warned her he was close she stayed put, milked him with short grinding circles until every last inch of him pumped deep. Afterward she stayed seated, warm and dripping, while she scribbled on the grade sheet that had started this mess. "See?" she said, waving the revised score. "I told you we’d bump it up." Randy laughed into her shoulder, still hard, still catching his breath, still trying to remember where exactly his ethics syllabus got lost in translation.