Vent and then command

Taking in a deep breath you feel the weight of the moment and decide to ease into this—let your voice do the work, digging into her.

Stepping forward, you offer a small nod, your tone measured as you begin. “Hi, I’m William. I heard about your classes, and I’ve got to say, it’s pretty alarming how unfair things seem. You’re a professor, someone who’s supposed to guide students, but from what I’ve seen, it’s more like you’re setting traps.”

“Grading papers based on whether they kiss your boots or not? That’s not education—that’s sabotage.” You explain.

“I’ve talked to students who’ve spent nights pulling their hair out over theses, only to get a Credit when they dare to think for themselves, while the yes-men waltz away with High Distinctions.” You state. “It’s a system rigged against anyone with a spine, and it’s dragging down the whole university.”

Her lips tighten, a storm brewing in those narrowed eyes, but you press on, your words flowing like a river gaining momentum. The cluttered desk between you becomes a stage, papers fluttering as you gesture vaguely, letting your voice dip and rise with passion.

“I mean, look at the bigger picture—students are here to learn, to grow, and you’re turning it into a battlefield. I’ve heard about the lectures, how every session feels like a sermon from that book you cling to, punishing anyone who doesn’t nod along. It’s not just unfair; it’s unethical. But honestly?”

You pause, leaning in slightly, your tone softening but carrying that strange, resonant edge. “I don’t really care about all that. My sister’s the one who matters here. Caitlin’s been busting her ass in your class, pouring weeks into a paper, and you gave her a 68% just because it didn’t fit your little narrative. That’s personal. She’s smart, she’s driven, and you’re screwing with her future because of some chip on your shoulder.”

The Professor shifts as you ramble, her posture stiff at first, arms crossed like a fortress. Yet, with each sentence, a subtle change creeps in—her shoulders ease, the book slipping slightly in her grip, her fingers relaxing around its spine.

By the time you circle back to Caitlin’s frustration, her head tilts ever so faintly, a flicker of curiosity softening the lines on her face. You keep going, letting the words spill, describing how Caitlin’s been losing sleep, how she’s questioned her own worth because of this, how the unfairness gnaws at her every day.

The tirade stretches, your voice carrying through the air, and her stance melts further—arms uncrossing, one hand resting on the desk, her breathing steadying as if lulled by the rhythm of your speech.

Finally, you draw it to a close, your gaze locking with hers, that entrancing pull humming beneath your words. “So, Professor don’t you think it’s time you changed your ways? Maybe ease up on the bias, give students a fair shot?”

The question hangs, and her response comes slower, her voice emerging with a rich, unexpected lilt—a sexy Spanish accent that catches you off guard, rolling the syllables with a warmth you hadn’t anticipated.

“Since you are the one to ask, I am certain that can be considered,” she says, her tone still edged with her usual authority but softened, submissive beneath it. A faint smile tugs at her lips, though her eyes retain that sharp glint.

“Though, I must admit, I’ve been remiss. I am Dr, Emilia Hidalgo, professor of human psychology. A pleasure, I suppose, even under these circumstances.”