Chapter 4: Extra Credit
The campus was a letdown. After the raw, filthy victory of Chloe’s apartment, the pristine walkways and tasteful brick facades of State felt like a stage set for a play Brenna had no interest in. Everyone here was playing a part: the earnest scholar, the party bro, the activist. She saw the calculations in their eyes, the social maneuvering. It was exhausting.
Her own notoriety had followed her, of course, but it was muted. Whispers in the gym locker room. Stares in the dining hall. But it was cautious, sidelong. Nobody here had truly seen. They’d just heard stories they probably didn’t believe.
Professor Cavanaugh’s lecture on “Feminine Archetypes in Victorian Literature” was a special kind of torture. The room was a monument to beige academia, smelling of dust and unwashed hair. Brenna slouched in the back row, wearing skintight leopard-print leggings and a crop top that left little to the imagination. A deliberate fuck-you to the room’s vibe.
Cavanaugh was in her fifties, with a stern bun and sharp, gold-rimmed glasses. She wore a sensible navy skirt suit and stockings. But her body betrayed the prim facade. She was busty in a way that strained the buttons of her blouse, with hips that swayed with a forgotten weight when she paced. And her eyes, behind those glasses, kept flicking to the back row.
Not to Brenna’s face. Lower.
Brenna had caught it last week—a lingering, hungry glance at the prominent bulge in her leggings as she’d slouched out of class. This morning, it was worse. Every time Cavanaugh turned to write on the board, her eyes would snap back, a little quicker, a little less discreet. A faint pink flush crept up her neck. She mispronounced “pheromone” and cleared her throat twice.
Brenna felt a familiar, dark curl of amusement in her gut. The game was here, too. Just hiding under a cardigan.
When the bell finally rang, a dull stampede of backpacks and fatigue began. Brenna didn’t move. She watched Cavanaugh fuss with her notes, taking deliberately slow sips from a travel mug, avoiding the exodus.
The hall emptied, leaving the hum of the lights and the scent of Cavanaugh’s floral perfume hanging in the air. The professor finally looked up, met Brenna’s gaze, and jumped slightly.
“Ms. Riley. Did you have a question?” Her voice was tight, professional.
“Yeah,” Brenna said, standing up. She didn’t walk down the stairs. She hopped off the back row platform and strolled down the main aisle, her sneakers silent on the linoleum. “I’m kinda confused about the whole ‘angel in the house’ thing.”
“I… see.” Cavanaugh’s eyes were locked on Brenna’s now, a deer-in-headlights freeze. “It’s a concept of idealized, submissive femininity.”
“Sounds boring.” Brenna reached the lectern. She leaned against it, inches from the older woman. She could smell the coffee on her breath, the starch in her blouse, and underneath, something warmer. Musk. “You don’t seem like the submissive type.”
“That’s quite inappropriate.” The protest was weak, automatic. Cavanaugh’s knuckles were white on her mug.
“Is it?” Brenna grinned. She let her hand drift to her own crotch, adjusting herself slowly, openly. Cavanaugh’s gaze shattered, dropping to follow the movement. A small, choked sound escaped her lips. “Looks like you’re interested in a different kind of literature.”
“This is my classroom,” Cavanaugh whispered, but she was leaning back against her desk, her body language an open contradiction.
“And it’s empty.” Brenna closed the final distance. She plucked the glasses from Cavanaugh’s face, fogged them with her own breath, and tossed them onto a chair. “Let’s write our own story.”
She kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a takeover, all tongue and teeth, biting at the older woman’s lipstick. Cavanaugh groaned, a deep, shuddering sound of pure relief, and her hands came up, not to push away, but to claw at Brenna’s shoulders, pulling her closer. The travel mug hit the floor with a plastic clatter, spraying coffee across the floor.
Brenna’s hands went to the buttons of the blouse. They popped, one after another, pinging off the desk. The sensible beige bra underneath was lace, strained to its limits. Brenna yanked it down, not off, and the heavy, pale tits spilled out, large areolas puckered in the cool air. She palmed one, then slapped it—a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the empty hall.
“Oh, God,” Cavanaugh panted, her head lolling back. “Yes. Harder. I’ve been… I’ve watched you. All semester.”
“I know.” Brenna slapped the other tit, watching it jiggle. “Prim little professor. Bet your husband doesn’t play with these, does he?”
“He’s… insignificant.” Her words were slurred, desperate. Her hands were fumbling at Brenna’s leggings, pulling them down just enough. When she freed the thick, already-leaking cock, she actually whimpered. “My God. The rumors… they didn’t do it justice.”
She dropped to her knees, her stockings rasping on the floor. She didn’t hesitate. She took as much as she could, which wasn’t nearly all of it, gagging and slobbering, her mascara starting to run in black streaks. Brenna grabbed a handful of that perfect bun, holding her in place, fucking her throat in short, brutal jabs. Cavanaugh’s nose pressed into Brenna’s pubic bone, her eyes streaming, but her hands were frantically rubbing her own thighs through her skirt.
Brenna pulled her off by the hair, saliva stringing between her cock and Cavanaugh’s swollen lips. “Turn around. Hands on the desk.”
Cavanaugh scrambled to obey, bending over the sturdy oak desk that had held her lecture notes. Brenna hiked up the navy skirt, ripped a seam in the stockings with a satisfying rrrip, and exposed her. No panties. The discovery made Brenna laugh out loud.
“You planned this.”
“I hoped,” the professor moaned, pushing her ass back.
Brenna spit into her hand, slicked herself, and pushed inside. Cavanaugh was tighter than Chloe, a clenching, vice-like heat that made Brenna see stars. She wasn’t gentle. She set a punishing pace from the first thrust, her balls slapping against the older woman’s drooling cunt. The desk rocked, squeaking in protest with every drive. Cavanaugh’s moans were loud, obscene, echoing off the lecture hall walls.
“Fuck! Ruin me! Ruin this old pussy! I quit my book club for this! I dreamt of this!”
Brenna leaned over, biting her shoulder through the torn blouse. She reached around, pinching and twisting the woman’s nipples, slapping her tits as they swayed wildly beneath her. The air filled with the smells of sex, perfume, and sweat. Cavanaugh’s glasses, on the chair, were now spotted with spit.
After the first brutal orgasm—a flood of cum that immediately began to leak down Cavanaugh’s stockings—Brenna didn’t stop. She pulled out, turned the trembling woman onto her back on the desk, and fucked her again, staring into her crazed, ecstatic eyes. Then, she ordered her onto the floor.
“Clean it. With your tongue.”
Cavanaugh, her makeup a ruin, her body glazed with sweat and cum, obeyed without hesitation. She lapped at Brenna like a starving animal, her tongue probing and worshipful, until Brenna was hard again. This time, she flipped her onto her stomach and pressed against the other hole, dry, forcing her way into the tight, resisting pucker as Cavanaugh screamed a mixture of pain and euphoria into the linoleum.
It was a marathon of degradation. When Brenna finally pulled out for the last time, she was spent. Cavanaugh lay on the floor, a wreck of her former self. Her asshole was a gaping, leaking mess, a continuous, slow ooze of cum onto the floor. A faint, gassy puff escaped the ruined ring with a wet sound as she tried to move. She didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
Brenna pulled up her leggings, her own knees weak. She looked at the scene: the overturned chair, the spilled coffee, the professor lying in a puddle of their mingled fluids, her prim skirt around her waist, her body used up.
“Extra credit,” Brenna mumbled, her voice hoarse.
Cavanaugh let out a weak, blissful laugh that turned into a cough.
Brenna left her there. As she pushed open the heavy lecture hall door, the bright, sane light of the hallway felt alien. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, squinting.
It was a photo from ‘Chlo_bang.’ A processed student ID card for State University. A dumb, glowing smile on a familiar blonde face. The caption: guess who got accepted bitch!!! move over bitches!!!
Brenna stared at it. She looked back at the closed door of the lecture hall. The bored, orderly campus around her seemed to shimmer, like a thin veneer over a world that was cracking open, leaking its true, filthy nature everywhere she went. And it was all following her.
A slow smile spread across her face. It wasn’t a letdown anymore. It was a hunting ground. And the prey was lining up to be devoured.