Give your next paper an A

"I need you to give me an A on my upcoming paper," you tell Professor Harmon, testing the strength of your manipulation. "Regardless of the quality."

Eleanor Harmon blinks rapidly, a visible struggle playing across her refined features. Decades of academic integrity war against your implanted desires. Her fingers tighten on the edge of the lectern, knuckles whitening.

"That would be... unethical," she whispers, but her resistance is already crumbling. "I've never compromised my standards in thirty years of teaching."

You step closer, invading her personal space. "But you want to please me, don't you?"

The conflict in her eyes intensifies. A light sheen of perspiration appears on her forehead despite the cool temperature of the lecture hall. She swallows hard.

"I do," she admits, her voice barely audible. "God help me, I do."

"Then say it," you press, enjoying the power you hold over this accomplished woman. "Tell me you'll give me an A."

Professor Harmon closes her eyes briefly, as if unable to watch herself surrender. When she opens them again, resolution has replaced conflict.

"Your paper will receive an A," she states, her academic voice adopting an almost robotic quality. "I'll mark it without reading it if necessary."

"Good," you smile, savoring your victory. "And I want something else. Tell me about the other professors in the department. Who might be... interesting to meet?"

The question brings a flash of alarm to her eyes, but your implanted commands prevent her from denying you information.

"Professor Jenkins in Modern Poetry has a reputation for being particularly... close with certain students," she reveals reluctantly. "And Dr. Calloway in American Novel just went through a difficult divorce. He's ****, drinking too much."

You file this information away for future opportunities. Professor Harmon's willingness to betray her colleagues confirms your control is holding despite her stronger mental barriers.

"One more thing," you add. "I want access to your office. For private meetings."

"I have office hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, two to four," she responds mechanically.

"Not good enough. I want your key."

This demand triggers visible distress. Professor Harmon's breath quickens, her hand moving unconsciously to the small key ring attached to her leather portfolio.

"I can't—" she begins, but you cut her off.

"You want to please me," you remind her firmly.

With trembling fingers, she detaches a small brass key from her ring. "This is against university policy," she murmurs, even as she places it in your palm. "If anyone found out..."

"No one will," you assure her, pocketing the key. "This is our secret. You won't tell anyone about our arrangement, will you?"

"No," she agrees, defeat evident in her slumped shoulders. "No one."

You step forward, emboldened by your successful manipulation of Professor Harmon's mind. The lecture hall is now empty except for the two of you, the heavy doors closed against the busy hallway outside. Privacy enough for what you have in mind.

You reach out and firmly grasp Professor Harmon's backside, squeezing the firm curve beneath her charcoal pencil skirt. Her body goes rigid with shock, a small gasp escaping her lips. A war plays across her features—professional outrage battling the artificial desire you've implanted.

"What are you—" she begins, but falls silent as you tighten your grip. Her breath quickens, pupils dilating despite herself.

"Listen carefully, Eleanor," you command, using her first name deliberately. "You're going to meet me tonight at Blackwell Hall, room 317. Eight-thirty sharp."

She swallows hard, her throat working visibly against the collar of her burgundy blouse. "That's... that's your dormitory," she whispers, knowledge of campus housing betraying how deeply she's thought about you before. "I can't possibly..."

"You will," you interrupt, releasing her backside but maintaining eye contact. "Eight-thirty. Don't be late. Don't tell anyone where you're going."

"My husband," she protests weakly, her hand unconsciously touching the wedding band on her finger. "Robert will wonder..."

"Make an excuse. Work emergency. Department meeting. I don't care." You straighten her collar in a gesture both intimate and controlling. "You'll be there because you want to please me. Don't you?"

"Yes," she admits, her voice barely audible, defeated. "I'll be there."

"Good." You step back, admiring how completely this powerful, respected academic has bent to your will. "Remember—eight-thirty."

You leave her standing there, still trembling slightly, and head toward the campus dining hall. The corridor bustles with between-class traffic, students hurrying past with no idea of the power you wield among them.