Jean-Francois Baptiste

Professor Baptiste stretched out his frame behind his desk. The Haitian-Jamaican buck rubbed the head of his cane. If no one showed up for office hours in the next twenty minutes, he might just head out early today. He frowned. Where was that dumb bitch Karen when he needed her?

Just then, Carrie Hall stepped into his office, smelling of lavender and vanilla. She'd been a star student, but her performance had dropped off sharply over the last couple of weeks. She looked at him with slightly vacant eyes, and her pink lips were parted and moist. Maybe the bitch was on drugs.

"Hi Professor. I'm sorry, I'm starting to have some problems with the last couple of weeks of lessons," Carrie said, playing the ditz to perfection.

"I've noticed your performance is starting to slip, Carrie. What's going on?" Carrie played with her hair, tongue tracing across her lips.

"Well ... I may need some one-on-one attention." The Professor stared at her.

"Oh, is that so?" he said, playing along.

"Mmmhm. This class is getting so ... hard." Jesus. This bitch was playing easy to get, and playing dumb. He went to his door, locking it, and turned around to stare at his prey.