Office Hours

The Humanities building loomed ahead, its gothic architecture looking particularly ominous at this hour. Most of the windows were dark, but a few scattered lights glowed on the upper floors—professors burning the midnight oil, grading papers, blissfully unaware of what was about to walk through their halls.

You were still hard.

That was the worst part. Lily's number tingled on your lower stomach, the "GRADE ME!" screamed above your cock, and despite the cooling night air, despite every rational thought telling your body to calm the hell down, you were still at full mast.

"You're panicking," Megan observed cheerfully.

"Professor Vance," you said, your voice strangled. "You're sending me to Professor Vance."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm in her class. Her actual class. I'm acing it. She told me last week my thesis argument was 'genuinely impressive.'"

"How nice for you."

"She's going to see me naked. With 'GRADE ME!' written above my—" You gestured helplessly downward.

Megan patted your arm. "Relax. She's an alum. Class of 2012. She gets it." She paused, a wicked smile forming.

"Great. So she's going to grade me on a curve."

"Sweetie, with what you're packing, you are the curve."

---

Professor Vance's office was on the third floor, door open, warm light spilling into the hallway. You could hear soft music playing—something classical, tasteful.

Megan stepped into the doorway first. "Professor Vance? Your midnight appointment is here."

"Send him in."

Megan gestured you forward. You took a breath. Stepped into view.

Professor Helena Vance sat behind her desk, reading glasses perched on her nose, a stack of papers in front of her. She was younger than you'd expected when you first took her class—mid-thirties, dark hair swept back, the kind of effortless elegance that made her intimidating even in academic settings.

She looked up.

Her eyes traveled down your body. Took in every naked inch. Landed on the writing above your cock—the arrow, the words—and stayed there for a long moment.

And then she burst out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. A full, delighted laugh that made her press a hand to her chest.

"Oh my god," she managed, pulling off her glasses. "John?"

"I was told this counts for extra credit," you said, forcing a grin. "Or at least replaces the midterm?"

She laughed harder. "I'll check the syllabus, but I doubt 'public nudity' is listed under required coursework."

She was still grinning, shaking her head. "'GRADE ME!' That's inspired. Who added that?"

"The barista at the campus café," Megan supplied, stepping in behind you. "She read his next dare and decided to give you something to evaluate. She seemed very pleased with herself."

"As she should be." Professor Vance's eyes sparkled. "Remind me to thank that young lady. This is the best thing that's happened to me all week."

"I'm so glad my suffering brings you joy," you said.

"Oh, it absolutely does." She stood—but only to gesture at the space beside her desk. "Come here. Stand right there."

You hesitated.

"That wasn't a request, John. I'm still your professor."

"Technically, office hours ended six hours ago."

"Technically, you're naked in my office with instructions written on your body. I think we're past technicalities." She pointed at the spot beside her chair. "Now."

You walked forward on unsteady legs and positioned yourself beside her desk, standing like a schoolboy called up for discipline while she settled back into her chair. From this angle, she was eye-level with your hip. With the writing. With everything.

"God, this takes me back." She leaned back, studying you with open appreciation. "My pledge is a state senator now. I like to think my hazing gave him a taste for public service."

Her gaze dropped to the "GRADE ME!" scrawled above your cock, the arrow pointing directly at your erection.

"Well," she said thoughtfully. "If I'm being asked to grade, I should evaluate properly. Academic integrity demands nothing less."

Before you could respond, her hand came up.

She cupped your balls first.

You sucked in a sharp breath, every muscle in your body going taut. Her palm was warm, her touch confident—not hesitant, not teasing, just... assessing. Like she was weighing them.

"Full," she murmured approvingly. "Just how I like them."

Then her hand shifted. She placed her palm flat beneath your shaft, lifting it slightly, examining it from below. The angle, the clinical detachment, the fact that she was sitting there like this was a thesis defense—

"Impressive," she said. "Excellent curvature. Very nice weight." She tilted her head, considering. "You've never disappointed me in class, John. I'm pleased to see consistency across... all disciplines."

She released you. Your cock bobbed, leaving a thin strand of precum connecting briefly to her palm before it broke.

"Well," she said, wiping her hand delicately on a tissue, "that's definitely an A-plus."

She picked up a Sharpie and wrote on your hip, just above the bone:

A+

Beneath it, her signature: Prof. H. Vance, PhD

"Officially graded." She capped the marker. "Now, what's next for our intrepid scholar?"

Megan produced the next dare card. "He has to report to Campus Security Station 7 for processing." She paused, that wicked smile returning. "And you get to add a complication. Something to make his next task more... interesting. Whatever you want."

Professor Vance's expression shifted into something almost predatory. "Is that so." She looked up at Megan with newfound appreciation. "The sorority really does know how to treat their alumni. My donation check this year is going to be very sizable." Her eyes slid back to you. "To match the gift you've sent me."

""I've always dreamed of being someone's tax write-off.", you managed.

"Speaking of large..." She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a wooden ruler—old-fashioned, well-worn, probably used for technical drawings.

She leaned forward in her chair and tapped the ruler lightly against the underside of your cock. Once. Twice. Watching it bounce.

"Officer Chen will need to take an official measurement," she said, a smile playing at her lips. She tapped again, harder, making you gasp. "Maximum rigidity will be required for accuracy."

With her free hand, she picked up the Sharpie and wrote on your other hip:

_____ inches

"Don't disappoint me." One final tap of the ruler against your shaft. "I want to see a number worthy of that A-plus."

---

Campus Security Station 7 turned out to be a folding table set up near the athletic fields, draped with a dark cloth and lit by string lights that gave the whole setup a surreal, almost festive quality. Very unofficial. Very Alpha Chi.

Behind the table stood Officer "Chen."

Slutty cop costume. Tiny navy shorts that might have technically qualified as underwear. A cropped uniform top that showed off her midriff. Aviator sunglasses perched on her nose despite it being well past midnight.

Your heart stopped.

You knew that midriff.

You knew those legs.

You'd been staring at them three times a week for the past two months, trying—and failing—to be subtle about it while she did her squat sets at the campus gym.

She pushed the aviators up onto her forehead. Her expression wasn't a grin. Not yet. It was something more assessing, more skeptical.

"You," she said flatly. "Gym guy. The one who's always staring at me during my sets."

"I wasn't—"

"You absolutely were." She stepped around the table, arms crossed. "Every time I bent over, there you were. I thought you were a total creep, honestly."

Your face burned. "In my defense—"

"There is no defense. I was ready to report you." She stopped in front of you, looking you up and down with an expression that hadn't quite decided between disgust and interest. "But now..."

Her gaze traveled down your chest. Your abs. Lower.

Something in her expression shifted.

"Okay," she admitted. "I thought you were too busy staring at me to actually work out, but..." She reached out and pressed a palm against your pectoral, testing the muscle. "Not bad. You've been putting in the work."

"Thank you?"

"That wasn't a compliment. It was an observation." But she was almost smiling now, her eyes dropping again to where your cock stood at attention. "And I see you're... proportional."

"I was hoping for 'magnificent,' but I'll settle."

She snorted—an actual laugh escaping her before she caught it.

She was looking at you differently now—less creep, more... specimen. "Okay, gym guy. Let's see what we're working with."

She circled you slowly, trailing one finger across your shoulder blades.

"Sir, I've received reports of indecent exposure. I'm going to need to conduct a very thorough inspection."

She started at your shoulders. Worked her way down. Took her goddamn time about it, her hands sliding over your back, your sides, your ass—lingering there with a squeeze before continuing down your thighs.

Then she came around to your front. Her eyes caught on the blank measurement on your hip.

"What's this?" She traced the empty line. "_____ inches?"

"The previous checkpoint left that," Megan supplied helpfully. "Professor Vance. She said you'd need to fill it in. Take an official measurement."

"Did she now." Officer Chen's smile turned wolfish. "I do love a thorough documentation process."

Her eyes dropped to your cock. Studied it with that same assessing look.

"You know," she said slowly, "I always wondered what you were hiding in those gym shorts. Whether all that staring meant you were overcompensating." She wrapped her fingers around your shaft, giving an experimental stroke. "Looks like you weren't."

"I—" Words failed you.

"Maximum rigidity is required for an accurate measurement," Megan called out helpfully. "Standard procedure."

"You heard her." Chen's grip tightened. She began to stroke—slow, deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. "I need you at your biggest. Fullest. Most impressive."

She stroked. And stroked. And kept stroking, her thumb swiping over the head on each upward motion, spreading the precum that was leaking freely now.

"I thought you were just another creepy gym bro," she murmured, almost to herself. "But you've got good muscle definition. Solid work ethic, apparently. And this..." She gave your cock an appreciative squeeze. "This is actually really nice. I might have to reconsider my assessment of you."

"So—" You bit back a groan. "Does this mean we're gym buddies now?"

"It means I'll let you spot me." She gave your cock one final, torturous squeeze before releasing you. "Maybe. If you beg."

She picked up a ruler. "Now hold still."

She pressed the ruler against your base. Made a show of reading the number, squinting, tilting her head.

"Seven point five inches," she announced. She picked up the Sharpie and filled in the blank on your hip:

7.5 inches

Below it, she added:

Reported indecent at 12:47 AM

"There." She stepped back to admire her work. "All documented."

Megan handed her the next dare card. "He has to receive a hickey from a stranger. And you get to add a complication."

Officer Chen read the card. Then looked at you with an expression of theatrical concern.

"A hickey from a stranger?" She shook her head slowly. "That's dangerous. You're clearly a pervert—all that gym staring proves it. I can't in good conscience let you approach innocent women with your hands free."

From her belt, she produced a pair of handcuffs. Real ones, or real enough—metal, heavy, serious.

"For their protection," she said sweetly. "You understand."

"I really don't think that's—"

She spun you around. Your wrists were yanked together behind your back.

Click. Click.

The metal was cold and unyielding against your skin. You tested the cuffs instinctively—no give. None at all.

"There." She patted your ass. "Much safer."

She dangled the key in front of your face, letting you see it, then pulled it back with a wicked grin.

"You know, I could just throw this into the bushes. Make you really work for it."

"Please don't."

"Hmm." She pretended to consider it, tossing the key lightly in her palm. "I don't know. It would be pretty funny watching you waddle around trying to find it."

"If you throw that key," you said levelly, "I'm telling everyone at the gym you skip leg day."

Her jaw dropped, then she laughed. "You wouldn't dare. My quads are immaculate."

"Try me, Officer."

She laughed—a real one this time, warm and surprised. "Okay, fine. You're funny enough to live."

She pressed the key into your cuffed hands, making sure your fingers closed around it.

"You'll have to ask your hickey stranger very nicely to retrieve that and uncuff you," she whispered, her lips brushing your ear. "Should be entertaining."

She stepped back. Gave your ass one final proprietary squeeze.

"See you at the gym, big guy. I'll be watching for you."

"I'll keep my eyes to myself from now on."

"Don't you dare." Her smile turned almost offended. "I worked hard for this body. Someone should appreciate it." She looked you up and down one final time, slow and deliberate. "And I'll be staring right back, anyway."

Megan appeared at your side, looping her arm through yours—a familiar gesture now, almost comforting, except you were naked, rock hard, covered in writing, handcuffed, and holding the key to your own freedom in hands that couldn't use it.

"Hickey time," she said brightly. "Let's go find you a stranger."