Flying at C level

The gap of time between my question and his answer feels like an eternity. His facial expression doesn’t change but he says “Miss Gailliard, you have met your usual bar and earned a C on this exam.”

The disappointment in his voice struck me to the core. It would have been different if I had just flunked it or aced it. But his reference to my reputation as a barely mediocre student actually got to me. Maybe I got too much sleep last night.

I stand up and gather my things. Mr. Perkins says, “Miss Gailliard, you seem disappointed.”

“I am Mr. Perkins. I genuinely studied for this test and I thought I knew it all. I didn’t make up bullshit answers for questions like I usually do.”

His brow furrows for a moment, he taps his chin with the cap end of his pen and says, “Well, there may be an extra credit opportunity if you really want that B.”

I was in the middle of my first step toward the door and I stumble to a stop. “Extra credit?

“Okay, tell me what it is. And it better not be sex because you’re way too old for me and I’m not going to do that for high school grades.” College maybe, but I don’t want to go to college with a track record of banging for grades.

“I’m only thirty, but no, I’m not asking to have sex with you. I was thinking something a little tamer and harmless.”

I sit down on the nearest stool. “Okay, so what exactly are you talking about?”

He says “I would be lying if I said you don’t catch my eye every time you walk into the room. I’m not the only one as you are aware. The stool to the left of your usual seat I wipe down with antibacterial wipes every day just in case.” I can’t help but laugh at his reference to Horace. Poor Horace, sometimes I think maybe you just need a good fucking so you can break the ice and become a normal human being.

Perkins continues and says, “I’ve admired your figure. You aren’t huge chested, you don’t flaunt it like some of your female classmates, but somehow you manage to ride that dress code line and accentuate it positively. For whatever reason I am fascinated with your breasts and it adds a bright spot to the end of my school day.”

For whatever reason? You’re a man. Men like boobs. You don’t have to make excuses. Yes, you’re twelve years older than me, but I’ve caught Father Monahan checking me out at mass on Sundays, so I’m not surprised.

Perkins continues, “So here is my offer. If you will give me thirty seconds to see your breasts, and even touch them, I’ll enter your test grade into the system as an B. If not, your grade will go in as a C.”

I feel both repulsed and titillated at the same time. Repulsed because this secret pervert wants to touch me, but then titillated because he is openly confessing his attraction to my breasts.