Do Over

Marking is the worst part of my job. I know how it’s meant to be. I understand the ideal communion that should exist between professor and student, a meeting of ideas and perspectives on the page, a conversation between experience and raw enthusiasm. This is, of course, for the main part, bullshit. Instead, marking is a drudgery, a repetitive mindless task in which the mostly unimaginative and uninspired must be graded on a small scale of ordinariness. There’s a soul-destroying aspect to it too: witnessing again and again how you have clearly failed to make any impact on your students and their love of the subject you treasure. I’m not trying to be arrogant. Of course there are exceptions that prove the rule. But they’re too infrequent to lift the mood for more than a moment.

If marking is hell, there is a special circle of hell, a mezzanine of hell, reserved for that period of time after assessments are returned. For a few extra days of purgatory, students, buoyed by an inexplicable self-confidence they would never think to use to contribute to classes, will assert that your studies, PhD, several articles, monograph and extensive teaching experience are but nought in the face of their certainty that they deserved a higher mark. Keeping your cool in times like these, remembering your futile mission to educate and help them at these points, is draining, a constant turning of the cheek that makes you feel like a spinning top, rather than an experienced and effective teacher.

I was in this period. I rubbed my hand across my scalp, massaging my temples in what I sensed would be an unsuccessful attempt to stave off the headache brewing malignantly in my skull.

“Hydrate,” I muttered, and swigged the last inch of my cold coffee down, grimacing as I swallowed. The afternoon sun beat its fists against the red brick walls of the department building making the air in the room feel heavy and stale. I had a faint whiff of my own smell – a trace of aftershave lingered, a smudge of deodorant, but underneath, an earthy tired smell of sweat. I could feel the armpits of my shirt were damp and clammy and I just wanted to get out and collapse into my weekend. But there were still thirty minutes left, and management had been getting more testy on us keeping to our office hours. So I smoothed back my hair, slid open the bottom drawer of my desk and fished out a tepid bottle of mineral water. I screwed off the cap and took several long gulps. It did little to change my mood, but it would keep me going.

My 5:30 appointment was a no show. I stared at the clock; only twenty minutes to go.

It was almost the weekend. I wasn’t going to get anything else done. I slipped my mobile out of my pocket and opened Grindr.

I try to avoid opening the apps at work. The last thing I want is for that chirp to go off in the middle of a workshop or to realise that the student I was talking to about their coursework was just 1m away and hot for daddy dick.

But it was Friday, I reasoned. Most classes were finished. Students would for the most part be safely out of the building and further afield. And fuck it, I had needs too!

I scrolled down the grid, mentally crossing off the younger guys, although still enjoying the bodies that they so casually shared for my pleasure. With a flush of guilt, I clicked on Brodacious_2002, a faceless torso just 100m away. Bi, apparently.

Aren’t they all these days?

21, no strings.

Fuck, I could be his father…

Brodacious knew how to pose. I paused over a particularly tasty shot of him in a pair of red speedos that left little to the imagination. My dick throbbed and I squeezed it through my chinos, drawing in a sharp breath as it thickened under my touch.

I nearly jumped out my skin when my phone chirped.

—Hey. Looking?

I hissed out a quiet fuck of thanks when I realised the message wasn’t from Brodacious, but an older guy, SacreBlueBalls. I was about to type out a polite no thanks when he sent through a picture.

“Oh fuuuck!” I whispered.

He was hairy, top to toe, and a redhead to boot. I bit my lip. Wearing nothing but a baseball cap, he was on all fours on what looked suspiciously like a university lab desk, looking boldly over his shoulder directly into the camera while holding the base of a large purple dildo that was pushed halfway into a big, beautiful hairy arse.

—Your profile says you’re hung. How big?

I typed out a rapid reply.

—9 thick uncut

—I like a challenge but I’ve no time for wasters. Prove it, big guy.

SacreBlueBalls sent a second picture, on his back, legs pulled back and wide, exposing a sweet hairy hole that made me salivate.

I fumbled with my belt buckle and unzipped my chinos. There was already a small patch of pre soaking through the hip of my Aussiebum briefs. I pushed the waistband under my balls and my dick swung free. Thick and meaty, as advertised, with a wide central vein that snaked up to the tip of my foreskin. I stroked it a couple of times and it swelled to full mast in my hand. Gripping it firmly, I pulled the foreskin back until the purply grey tip of my cock peeked out. I squeezed the shaft and a bubble of honey oozed from my wide slit.

“That’ll do…” I muttered, and clicked the camera.

—Think you can take it? I’ve no time for weak-ass bottoms who talk big then can’t deliver. 😉

—Challenge accepted. 🥹 When can you get here?

He pinged through his location.

As I reached for my rucksack to pack away my laptop, a loud rap on my door made me jump.

“Fuck!” I hissed, scrambling to shove my rock hard cock back into my chinos. The door wasn’t locked. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

I could feel my face bright red with embarrassment as I struggled to zip up my trousers and fasten my belt. There was a second knock, more like a pounding this time, and I looked curiously at the door as I tried to regain my composure.

Who the fuck is this?

“Come in!” I shouted in a exasperated tone.

The office door flew open, slamming back against the metal wastepaper bucket that was tucked behind it with a clamorous clang.

“Oi!” I shouted, jumping to my feet as a young man strode into my room to stand belligerently in front of my desk.

Oh great. Jiri Matov.

The student brandished his mobile phone at me, waving it in my face.

“This is bullshit mark!”

Jiri was originally from Eastern Europe – Bulgaria, I think he’d mentioned in one of the few seminars he had actually attended. His English was very good, but still accented and clipped in places. He was a handsome kid, without a doubt. Just under 6 foot tall, Jiri was pale skinned with a button nose and high rounded cheekbones that seemed to make his dark eyes, framed with almost girlishly long thick lashes, seem small. His jet black hair was shaved short up the sides to a ruffled bedhead mess on top. He was not good academic stock, but this was in some ways compensated by his athleticism and apparent aversion to trousers or heavy clothing.

He spat something at me which I presumed must be Bulgarian and offensive, judging by his glowering expression, and thrust his phone at me again.

“This is not fair. I studied for this and you give me this bullshit grade!?”

I splayed my hands, trying to de-escalate what was way too much drama this close to my weekend.

“Woah, woah, woah! Jiri, please calm down! I’m sorry you feel so aggrieved, but the grade reflects your work. I can talk you through this, but if you read my feedback, you’ll see I’ve added a lot of comments explaining where you went wrong, as well as a number of specific suggestions as to where and how you could improve.”

He slammed his phone down on the desk and hissed, “I need to pass this stupid fucking module – I need another chance!”

The muttering headache in the back of my skull metastasised into a grating grumble and all at once I was too frazzled and tired for this. This entitled brat was about to interfere with my now very pressing plans and I’d already had enough.

I slammed my hand hard on the table, puncturing Jiri’s self-righteousness ire.

“And why would I do that, Jiri? You’ve barely attended my lectures and I haven’t seen you in a seminar for most of the term. When you have shown up, I’ve frequently had to tell you to shut up or pay closer attention. And as for those seminars you did attend, your lack of any apparent preparation still never stopped you from responding belligerently to anyone who disagreed with your vague views on the topic, including me!”

My voice was getting louder and I could feel a vein throbbing in my temple.

“Why exactly should I give you another chance?”

Jiri was suddenly very still. He looked straight at me with his glinting dark eyes, a cunning grin spreading across his face. When he spoke, the fiery anger was gone, replaced by a lilting sneer.

“I know about you, Professor,” he crooned, one finger wagging at me. “Everyone know you like cock.”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise and I opened my mouth to tell him to get the hell out of my office, but he interrupted me.

“I could tell people you came on to me.”

He cocked his head and looked up, as if thinking it through.

“Could say you asked Jiri to do dirty things.”

His cold eyes fixed on me.

“This would be bad for you, no?”

I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. I could feel blood throbbing in my ears as I leaned forward over the desk.

“You’ve got a fucking nerve!” I spat. “Every member of staff here knows exactly what you’re like – a lazy, bullshitting waste of space. They wouldn’t believe you for a second.” I slammed the desk with my open palm again. “Get the fuck out of my office right now. This meeting is over!”

I was trembling with rage but also, I had to admit, with no small measure of fear. The accuracy of his strike was unnerving. Christ! Seconds before he’d walked in I’d had my dick in my hand making plans to fuck a stranger!

I didn’t think anyone would really believe him (and what Jiri didn’t know was that I recorded all student appointments using a secret camera on my bookcase, just in case of some bullshit like this), but even so, there would be an investigation and mud like this would stick.

Jiri backed away from my desk, still smirking, his hands raised in mock surrender.

“Maybe so, maybe not…” he mused. “Could be fine for professor but could go real bad.”

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and shrugged.

“But professor … maybe there is easier way, less … ugly…”

He kissed his teeth loudly and raised one thick black eyebrow.

“I’ve seen you looking.”

He glanced down and tugged at the groin of his grey jersey shorts.

“You like cock, Professor; I got a nice one for you here.”

He looked back up at me.

“We make deal, you and I. I let you suck my cock, you let me do test again. Both backs are scratched. What you say?”

I was speechless. My hands were clenched into fists on my desk, one crushing a piece of paper I’d been sketching some notes on just minutes ago.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Jiri? Absolutely not!”

“But Professor,” he argued, “I am deadly serious. We make good deal.”

He gestured grandly at his groin. “You get hot young cock - must be rare for man of your age, no? I get to see you sucking my cock and get another shot at test. This is fair, is it not?”

“I’m forty two, Jiri, not eighty!”

I cringed at the vanity of my objection. But Jiri just shrugged again, edging slowly backwards until he stopped with his back against the door.

“I can see you want it. Why not give Jiri second chance?”

His flipped the lock on my office door. Then, with his eyes still locked on me, he pushed down the waistband of his shorts, revealing a firm round package nestled in white Hugo Boss underwear.

“I need to pass, professor,” he repeated, his tone serious now. “This good deal for both of us.”

But as I tried without success to drag my eyes from his crotch, I caught something in the tone of his voice.

He isn’t kidding. He does need to pass. He’s desperate to pass. Well, well, well…

This cocky fuck had barged into my office, disparaged my expertise, threatened to blackmail me and then deigned to let me suck his dick. A failed test should not be this big a deal. Something else was going on here: parental pressure? Financial issues, maybe? I couldn’t know for sure, but what I was sure of was that, for whatever reason, he really needed to pass. And I was the one with the power to help him.

Jiri was thumbing his cock through his briefs, doing his best to leer dominantly at me. I gritted my teeth, irritated both by this little machismo performance and that it was clear from my hardening dick that it was working.

Ignoring the warning voice in my head, I reached down and groped my cock, enjoying the feel as it throbbed in response. Jiri’s leer widened.

I gulped, folding my arms across my chest before unfolding them and bracing them on my desk.

“Here’s the deal. I suck your cock, you get to take the test again. I’ll have one of the TA’s mark it so it’s all above board.”

Or as much as this fucked up arrangement can be.

“You pass? We’re good. You fail? That’s on you, not me. Deal?”

He licked his lips nervously and nodded, “Deal.”

“Okay. Since you’ve already locked the door, why don’t you take off your clothes? Your t-shirt first.”

A little uncertainty crossed his face as he realised that I was serious.

I wafted my hand at him and snapped, “Today?”

I realised I wasn’t exactly making this easy for Jiri, but who was I kidding? This was clearly transactional. But what Jiri didn’t seem to have realised was that this wasn’t a one sided bargain. My lips twisted sourly as I realised that this would make sense to him: this little shit held nothing but contempt for me. And as such, it wouldn’t have crossed his mind that I’d have anything to contribute to how this went down. The waiting ass of SacreBlueBalls faded from my mind.

This kid needs to be taught a lesson.