The Grad Student

The Broadcast

The camera hovers as if it was attached to the corner of the ceiling of a university professor office. The professor sits on a swiveling office chair working on his computer. A redheaded woman walks in, holding a large stack of blue books. She has on a white button-down blouse (worn sensibly) tucked into an equally sensible black skirt.

“Professor McDougal, have you had a chance to read through my thesis draft yet? I finished grading those term papers you asked me to,” a redheaded woman asks, setting down the pile. She stares down the professor as he turns to face her.

“Ah, Ms. Smythe. I have not had the chance to do so yet. Important department committee work and all. I am sure that I can find the time to do so soon. Perhaps if you will stop by my place this Friday evening?”

Ms. Smythe tilts her head at her advisor. Really? You know I’m not interested. Why do you keep trying to get me in a potentially compromising position? She audibly sighs. “Sir, I need to submit the draft to the Thesis Committee by Thursday in order to be able to graduate this spring. Can you please...”

Professor McDougal interrupts her there, “Now Ms. Smythe, I am a very busy man. I will find time for you when I can. It would be helpful if you could find some time for me.”

“Sir, you are paid quite handsomely to be here. I need to hold down a full time job in addition to my TA work in order to pay the rent. At the very least could you...”

“Speaking of your off-campus work, you may be interested in this. My wife took it last night.” The older man slides his cell phone across his desk. The camera zooms onto the phone as it comes to a stop. His unlock screen shows the redhead pole dancing while wearing nothing more than a tartan skirt and platform heels. Her dancers’ legs grip the pole as her upper body leans almost parallel to the stage. Her bare breasts and fit stomach glisten slightly with sweat from the exertion of a particularly strenuous routine. The camera zooms back out to focus on the conversation as the scumbag threatens, “Perhaps the Thesis Committee would appreciate copies of some of these photos attached to your draft?”

“That’s ****, sir.”

“And that is a job that breaks the Student Code of Conduct, Ms. Smythe.”

She sighs and glowers. “Alright, bastard. How are we playing this?”

“You come to my place tomorrow night. My wife already knows you don’t dance on Tuesdays. You give her a private show. With a happy ending. I watch. You get your notes, maybe some extra cash in your g-string if you’re good. Everyone is happy.”

“At least until you decide to **** me again.”

“Nice of you to understand that this is the beginning of a long-term arrangement.”

Ms. Smythe storms out of the office and slams the door; the camera follows her. Undergrads scurry away from the angry woman as she stomps into a private faculty bathroom. She turns to lock the door, sits on the toilet, and starts to cry. Fucking cuck bastard. She knows she is going to give in. Fucker can ruin her life. And the Tenure Committee won’t do a fucking thing about it.

A few moments later, she stands and tries her best to fix her running mascara without her purse. Her phone alarm goes off. Shit, out of time. Need to get on the bus to get to work.

She flings the door open, seeing a nightmare void instead of a hallway.

“What the fuck?”

The camera slams hard into her back, knocking her off-balance straight into the portal. All is dark.

Josie

Josie sees a redhead in a neon blue monokini and ridiculous platform heels stumble forward.

Damn. Blondie is right; she is hot.

Scarlet “Cinnamon” Smythe

Scarlet awakes as she crests the sand dune. Her strut is more natural, more practiced. Her eyes scan the scene while she goes. She sees a blonde girl drooling over her as she walks by. She suddenly remembers what the blonde said on stage. Cute enough, I suppose, she muses. She stares at the giant wooden chest and instinctively knows that some stranger is trapped inside.

An old crone speaks, “Our next contestant, folks. Hopefully this one will be more professional? Do you need me to restate the questions?”

Scarlet hits the cue by the time the crone finishes, “My name is Scarlet Smythe. I am a graduate student at a small college in New York City that will likely expel me for being here. I am studying to be a psychiatrist. The last time I got laid was 2 weeks ago, a hookup with an anonymous Women’s Studies major at a nightclub. While Tina is pretty attractive, I must say the MILF in the white one-piece is the one I would really like to grind on. I do not know The Master and, frankly, I am pretty offended at the very concept.”

Scarlet begins to turn, but the crone grabs her arm. The old bag is surprisingly strong.

“My dear, I believe you are forgetting something important. Are you sure you don’t want to add anything to your introduction?”

Scarlet whispers through her teeth, “Please, just drop it.”

“No can do, dearie. Let’s hear the rest. Boop.”

“I also dance at a women’s only strip club under the stage name ‘Cinnamon’. It’s mostly gross old crones like you, but the occasional girl’s night out group makes it sooooo worth it. And Tina’s right, the third bridesmaid is usually the best lay in the group.”

“Anything else you want to say?”

“I am sick and tired of asshats trying to take advantage of me.”

“Well, you are sure to learn to love it here! Now go join the other slut.”

Scarlet feels **** to walk and sit beside Tina. The blonde leans over to whisper, “Sorry about my answer. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s okay; you couldn’t of known. Any idea how we get out of here yet?”