Cum Laude
Morgan sat quietly at her desk, the glow of the computer monitor casting a soft light on her tired face. The school day had ended hours ago, but the counselor’s office still felt stifling, littered with notes from students, progress reports, and half-filled coffee cups. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands falling around her face as she stared at the email from the registrar. It confirmed what she already knew: she had failed the comprehensive psychometrics exam for a second time. She had been in a Ph.D. program for a doctorate in Psychology from a well-known Ivy League university in Southern California for the past three years, and this was her last hurdle—but she somehow couldn’t get past it!
Her chest tightened. She had studied so hard—flashcards during lunch breaks, Zoom calls with classmates after putting the kids to bed, late-night readings in bed while her husband snored beside her. But it hadn’t been enough. Again.
With a sigh, she clicked over to another tab: an email draft addressed to Dr. Paul Flores. She’d written it three times already, deleting and rewriting it, unsure of how to express her frustration without sounding like she was making excuses. Dr. Flores had been so patient with her. Unlike other professors, he never talked down to her. Their mentoring meetings had grown increasingly long, sometimes stretching well past office hours, sometimes over drinks at campus cafés. He always wore a faint cologne and a warm, knowing smile—one that made her blush more often than she cared to admit.
He had even hinted that he was “pulling for her in more ways than one.”
Now, for the first time, she wondered what exactly he had meant.
Her phone buzzed. A new message. From Dr. Flores.
“Morgan, I know you’re disappointed. Let’s talk. I have an idea that might help. Come to my place Friday. 7 PM. Bring nothing but an open mind. – Paul”
Morgan’s stomach fluttered, a blend of dread and something else she didn’t want to name. She read the message three times before locking her phone and lowering her face into her hands.
The next morning, as Morgan stood in front of the bathroom mirror tying her hair back for work, her phone buzzed again.
Paul Flores: Call me when you get a chance today. Private.
Her heart skipped. So there was something more.
She tried not to dwell on it during her morning sessions with students, but by lunchtime, the curiosity and anxiety were too much. She closed her office door, drew the blinds, and sat at her desk with trembling fingers.
She hit Call.
He answered almost immediately.
“Morgan,” he said, his voice warm and even. “Thanks for calling.”
“No problem,” she replied, her tone light but cautious. “I saw your message. And the email last night.”
“Right,” he said, with a soft chuckle. “I hope it didn’t come across as… too cryptic.”
“A little cryptic,” she said. “But I’m trying not to read too much into it.”
He paused. “Good. I know you’re under a lot of pressure right now. And I’m sure you feel stuck.”
She said nothing.
“I wanted to talk to you about a possible way forward,” he continued. “Something outside the usual methods. Unofficial. Off the record.”
She leaned forward. “Meaning?”
“I have discretionary authority with cases like yours,” he said carefully. “There’s… flexibility. But it’s not something I offer lightly. It requires a certain level of trust. And mutual understanding.”
Morgan’s pulse quickened. “Are you saying you’d pass me?”
“I’m saying I’m open to a conversation. In person. This Friday, like I mentioned. Come by. We’ll talk.”
“You’re not being very clear.”
“I’m being as clear as I can, given the nature of the situation.”
Her mouth felt dry. “So if I come over… it’s not just to talk about study strategies, is it?”
A silence stretched between them.
“You’re a very intelligent woman, Morgan,” he said at last. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
Her heart thudded. Her throat tightened. “I need to think about it.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Take all the time you need. And remember—there’s no pressure. The invitation’s just… open.”
He ended the call before she could say anything else.
Morgan sat back, her mind buzzing with equal parts dread and curiosity.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the shock and uncertainty, was a spark of something more dangerous: intrigue.
The staff lounge always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and reheated pasta. Morgan sat at a round table near the window, barely nibbling at a granola bar while scrolling through her inbox. Her thoughts weren’t on work—they were already drifting toward Friday night and the hundred different ways it might unfold.
She didn’t hear Tanya approach until the chair across from her scraped back.
“Hey, stranger,” said Tanya, the English department’s resident truth-teller, setting her salad on the table. Divorced, opinionated, and unapologetic, she was one of Morgan’s favorite colleagues.
“You look like you’re one email away from a breakdown.”
Morgan smiled weakly. “That’s… not far off.”
“You still juggling dissertation stress, the internship, kids, life, reality?”
Morgan nodded. “And one last exam I can’t seem to pass.”
Tanya stabbed at her lettuce. “If I had to manage a husband and two kids on top of everything else, I’d have been institutionalized by now.”
Morgan chuckled, grateful for the break in tension.
Tanya leaned in, lowering her voice just enough. “Can I give you a piece of advice you didn’t ask for?”
Morgan raised a brow. “Sure.”
“Stop trying to be a hero. You don’t have to do everything the hard way. Sometimes, you find the path of least resistance. Take the win where you can get it.”
Morgan frowned. “That sounds a little… cynical.”
“No,” Tanya said. “It’s survival. We women—we’re raised to believe we have to earn everything with blood, sweat, and guilt. Meanwhile, half the men we know are cashing in favors and cutting corners like it’s a board game. And we kill ourselves trying to do it the ‘right’ way.”
Morgan sat back, quiet, contemplative.
“Whatever you decide,” Tanya added, grabbing her lunch and standing, “just make sure you’re the one deciding. That’s what matters.”
Morgan watched her walk away. She wasn’t sure Tanya had any idea what kind of decision she’d just helped her make.
But something had shifted.
And for the first time, Morgan didn’t feel conflicted.
She felt ready.
The kids were already in pajamas, half-asleep on the couch, the faint glow of the TV dancing across their faces. Morgan stood at the mirror in the bathroom, adjusting her blouse, her fingers trembling slightly as she added a small barrette to the back of her hair and applied a final dab of gloss.
Scott appeared behind her, holding a soda can. “You look nice,” he said, leaning his chin on her shoulder.
She smiled softly. “It’s just a dinner. Review session with some classmates. Dr. Flores is hosting.”
He kissed her cheek. “You deserve a break. You’ve been killing yourself.”
Morgan turned to face him. “Thanks for putting the kids down tonight.”
“Always.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Almost there, huh? You’re so close I can taste it.”
She swallowed. “Yeah. I can too.”
She hugged him—tightly. Felt his warmth, his goodness, his unwavering support.
And still… she walked out the door.
Paul’s neighborhood was tucked into a quiet, historic part of the city, tree-lined and elegant. The townhome was tall and ivy-covered, lit tastefully from within. When he opened the door, Morgan’s breath caught.
He was dressed in a navy shirt, sleeves rolled, and snug gray slacks. Calm, collected, dangerously handsome.
“Glad you made it,” he said, stepping aside.
The inside was even more amazing—spacious, stylish, intimate. A restored 1920s gem with warm lighting, expensive touches, and a scent of cedarwood and rosemary in the air.
He poured wine. He served dinner. And Morgan was floored.
“Lemon butter scallops,” he said. “Family recipe.”
She smiled through her nerves. “You cooked?”
“I don’t trust decorators or chefs,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Too much performance.”
But everything about the evening was performance—and he played it perfectly. Charming, generous, funny. And the wine… the wine was working.
By the time they were doing dishes together, the tension between them had turned electric.
“Let me dry,” she said, taking a towel.
Their hands brushed.
She turned.
And he kissed her.
It was soft, exploratory.
And she kissed him back.
The passion grew quickly, hands roaming, mouths claiming.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he whispered.
She nodded.
He took her hand.
The master suite was a quiet sanctuary—dark wood, soft lighting, windows cracked open to the warm spring night. But he didn’t stop at the bed. He led her through double doors into the master bathroom, where a sleek, glass-walled shower stood surrounded by white marble tile and recessed lighting.
The master bathroom was as beautifully appointed as the rest of Paul’s townhome—sleek lines, dimmable sconces, soft towels folded neatly, and in the center of it all, a professional-grade massage table with a plush navy cover, already prepared with a small tray of massage oils nearby.
Paul turned to her. “Before the shower, would you let me give you a massage?”
Morgan blinked, a little surprised—but not disappointed. She smiled. “That actually sounds amazing.”
She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the table, lying face down fully clothed, her arms folded under her cheek.
Paul dimmed the lights slightly and began with long, slow strokes over the fabric of her blouse, starting at her shoulders and moving down to her lower back. His hands were strong but gentle, and within moments, Morgan felt her breath deepen.
He pressed along the knots in her upper back, thumbs digging through the cotton, her blouse bunching slightly as he worked her muscles.
Then he hesitated, his hands lightly touching the hem of her shirt.
“May I…?”
Morgan answered by lifting her arms slightly, allowing him to slide his hands beneath the blouse. The warmth of his palms on her bare back sent a subtle shiver down her spine. He rubbed slowly, his fingertips tracing the clasp of her bra.
“Would you mind if I helped you out of this?” he asked, voice low.
Morgan nodded, and together they slid the blouse off her arms. She rested back down, still facedown, her bra now the only barrier on her upper body.
Paul resumed massaging with slow reverence, his fingers kneading into her skin, exploring the subtle tension of her shoulder blades and lower back.
“May I…?” he asked again, his fingers gently grazing the clasp of her bra.
Morgan lifted slightly, reaching back to unhook it herself. The straps fell free, and she slid her arms out as the bra was taken away and left on the floor.
Paul caught only a fleeting glimpse of her breasts before she returned to the table fully, lying flat again. He exhaled through his nose and returned to his task, hands working her bare back now with greater freedom. His touch was worshipful—sliding, pressing, smoothing.
Then his hands drifted lower. He ran his fingers down to her hips, pausing at the waistband of her jeans.
He didn’t say a word—only waited.
Morgan reached under her stomach and unbuttoned them.
He slid them down slowly, inch by inch, revealing her satin panties and the soft curves beneath. He lifted her feet, guiding the jeans off entirely until they dropped to the floor behind him.
He couldn’t help but admire her ass—beautiful, full, perfectly shaped. Covered only by the glint of dark satin, she looked like a sculpture, luminous in the warm light.
He massaged her feet next, then her calves, and up to her thighs, working with care and pressure, his fingers tracing each line of muscle and skin. When he reached the crease where her thigh met her body, she tensed—but didn’t stop him.
His fingers pressed lightly into the crotch of her panties, feeling the warmth and dampness that had bloomed there. He didn’t speak.
“May I take these off?” he asked.
She nodded once, silently.
He curled his fingers around the waistband and drew them down slowly, revealing her completely. He stood behind her for a few seconds, just looking—letting himself appreciate what he had long imagined.
Her bare ass. Her parted thighs. The woman he wanted, finally in front of him, open and real.
Then he reached for the oil.
Paul remained fully clothed as he began the next phase of the massage. He selected a warm, amber-scented oil and drizzled it across the small of her back, letting it pool and flow into the dimples just above her hips.
His hands spread it slowly, reverently, smoothing it across her back, her shoulders, her lower spine. She moaned softly as he kneaded her flesh, caressing her thighs, massaging the backs of her knees.
She parted her legs slightly, instinctively.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
Oh God… this feels so good.
His hands moved higher, working back up across her shoulder blades, then down to the small of her back, his palms pressing and sliding, leaving trails of tingling heat behind. Every stroke made her more aware of her body—how sensitive she’d become, how vulnerable and open she was under his touch.
He worked his way down her thighs again, kneading her flesh with slow, rhythmic insistence. Her calves, her ankles, her arches—all of them lovingly attended to as if each part of her deserved its own moment.
By the time he returned to her upper legs, she was breathing deeply, her body limp with pleasure. But when his hands gripped the globes of her ass—firmly, confidently—something in her reawakened. He kneaded them with both hands, squeezing, spreading, massaging her cheeks with deliberate slowness. Her hips instinctively rolled into the mattress, her breath hitching in her throat.
Then she felt it—his hand, slick with oil, sliding between her cheeks.
Not aggressive. Not hurried.
Just the side of his hand, pressing lightly through that private, vulnerable space.
Morgan whimpered. She didn’t mean to.
He didn’t speak—he just continued, stroking up and down, closer and closer to where she burned the most.
She shifted her knees apart a little further.
Not a decision, but a reaction.
And he took it as invitation.
He reached for a second bottle—unscented oil this time, thinner, slicker, safer. He coated his fingers and glided over her slick folds with exquisite patience, oil mingling with her own arousal. Her thighs trembled as he stroked her again and again, teasing her lips, circling her clit without quite touching it, letting the tension build until she was subtly rocking her hips, grinding into the mattress for more.
The silence between them was charged, primal. The only sounds were the slip of oil on skin, her soft gasps, the low hum of his breath above her.
Her body was no longer her own. It belonged to sensation. To him. And he wasn’t done.
“Oh—God, Paul…”
He moved slowly, easing inside her with controlled pressure, then curling his fingers just so. She gasped, hips twitching, grinding instinctively down onto his hand. His other palm stayed firm on her lower back, steadying her, grounding her, as if he knew she was on the verge of unraveling completely.
Her body clenched around him with every stroke, every curl, every deep glide.
He leaned close, voice like velvet near her ear. “It’s okay. Let go.”
And she did.
Her climax tore through her with little warning—sharp, helpless, electric. Her breath caught in her throat, then escaped in ragged moans as her hips rocked hard against his hand. She fisted the sheets, burying her face into the bedding, her thighs trembling with aftershocks.
He didn’t stop until her body finally slumped forward, boneless, panting.
And even then, he caressed her—slowly, reverently, sliding his fingers from her body like a secret being kept.
“Come take a shower with me,” he whispered. “Let me help you get that oil cleaned off.”
She sat up slowly, oil glistening across her back and thighs, her face flushed and dazed. Paul stepped into the shower space and turned on the water, testing it with his hand. Steam began to rise, curling around the glass walls.
He stripped silently in front of her—his shirt, pants, briefs—and Morgan watched him with hungry eyes. He was lean, defined, and beautifully endowed.
Then they stepped into the warmth together.
The water cascaded over them, and Paul pulled her under the spray. He reached for a bottle of body wash and began to lather her back, his hands soft and purposeful.
She turned slightly to rinse, and Paul paused—mesmerized.
The water trailed down her spine and over her ass, following the natural curve until it slipped between her cheeks in gleaming rivulets. He swallowed hard, watching her sway beneath it.
Then he dropped to his knees behind her.
She gasped as he parted her cheeks with both hands and pressed his mouth between them.
She braced herself against the wall, one foot slightly lifted for balance. His tongue worked her slowly, insistently, flicking and circling until she trembled under the flow of water. He explored her folds, teasing her clit, then plunging back again until she cried out and came with a shudder, gripping the tile with one hand, and the back of his head with the other.
When she felt him pull away and stand behind her, she turned, breathless, and dropped to her knees in front of him.
She took him into her mouth, slow and deep, savoring the taste of him under the water. Her tongue danced, her lips sealed tight, and Paul groaned, his hands resting lightly on her head.
But before the edge took him, he pulled away gently.
“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
They stepped out of the shower and reached for towels.
Paul dried her carefully—starting at her shoulders, then her breasts, her hips, and thighs. She returned the favor, smiling as she brushed the towel across his chest and belly, then between his legs.
Both still flushed, fully nude, and quietly buzzing from the shower, he took her hand and led her to the bed.
The air in the master suite felt thick with heat and something heavier—desire, thickened by everything that had already passed between them.
He gestured for her to lie down on the King size bed.
She did, easing herself onto the cool, dark sheets, her back sinking into the softness, golden skin glowing under the bedside lamp.
Paul climbed up beside her on all fours, straddling the bed in silence. His eyes roamed her bare body, dark and reverent.
Then he lowered himself slowly and kissed her—full lips, soft pressure, their mouths learning each other again like it was their first time.
She moaned softly as he deepened the kiss, his hand gently cupping her cheek, his other hand tracing the slope of her breast. Their tongues danced lazily, their breath mingling.
He pulled back, gazing down at her flushed face, and then began kissing his way lower—slowly, sensually.
Her jaw.
Her throat.
The top of each breast.
His tongue circled her nipples, then suckled one gently while his hand cradled the other. Morgan gasped, her back arching slightly as he alternated between them, teasing her with light flicks and hungry sucks. Her hand reached up and cradled his head as he lingered there.
Then he moved lower still—across the soft plane of her belly, past her navel, to the delicate curve where her thighs began.
His hands slid beneath her legs, parting them gently. She opened for him without hesitation, her breath coming quicker now as he leaned between them and began to taste her.
Her moans were soft at first—then deeper, longer—as his tongue stroked her slowly, deliberately. He lapped at her folds, teased her clit, dipped his tongue just barely inside her. She squirmed against his mouth, whimpering in pleasure, her thighs trembling.
But he pulled away before she could crest.
Morgan whimpered, lifting her hips in need, but he only smiled and kissed her inner thigh, then slid up the bed to lie beside her.
She turned toward him, still breathless, her skin flushed and glowing. She kissed him, tasting herself on his lips, and then let her hand trail downward.
Her fingers wrapped gently around his shaft, now hard and slick with anticipation. She kissed his chest, then his stomach, then settled between his legs and took him into her mouth.
Her lips were soft, her tongue patient, her rhythm unhurried. She sucked him slowly, drawing him deep, her hand stroking the base while her mouth worked the rest. Paul’s breath caught. He groaned softly, his hips twitching.
She used her tongue like she’d learned him—circling, pressing, caressing each ridge and curve. It was worshipful. Erotic. Intimate.
But again, before he could lose control, Paul placed a gentle hand on her cheek and guided her back up to him.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
She smiled, understanding.
Then he rolled on top of her, their bodies aligning in a perfect, natural rhythm. He held himself at her entrance, brushing the head of his cock against her wetness.
Morgan’s eyes fluttered.
“Please,” she whispered. “I need you inside me.”
He pushed in slowly—inch by careful inch—until he was fully buried inside her.
She gasped. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively. The sensation of being filled, stretched, claimed—it was exquisite.
He began to move, slow and deep, watching her face as he did. Her eyes never left his.
She clenched around him as he pulled back and thrust in again, her body trembling beneath his, her moans quickening.
Her climax built quickly—unexpectedly—rushing over her like a wave.
“Oh God… Paul!”
She cried out, her body seizing and releasing beneath him as he continued to thrust, never breaking rhythm.
He leaned down and kissed her again, muffling her gasps with his mouth as her nails dug into his shoulders.
Then he pulled out slowly, turned her gently onto her side, and slid back into her from behind, spooning her body with his.
His hand slid under her knee and lifted it, opening her. His other hand toyed with her breast while his thrusts resumed—deeper now, slower.
She came again, softer this time—her breath catching, her thighs trembling, her fingers clutching the sheets. “Haw” was the only whimper she could make with each wave of pleasure.
He flipped her onto her stomach, kissing her spine, then pulled her hips upward and took her from behind. She arched for him, head lowered, mouth open as his hands held her firmly.
The rhythm was primal now, his groans mingling with her cries.
She looked over her shoulder, hair in her face, and he reached forward to brush it aside. Their eyes locked again as he thrust into her harder, deeper.
Her third climax made her cry out sharply, her voice echoing against the walls as she convulsed around him.
Finally, when he couldn’t hold back any longer, he gripped her hips and thrust once, twice more—then groaned deeply as he spilled himself inside her.
His warmth flooded her, thick and pulsing.
They collapsed together, gasping, tangled in sweat and heat and the fading echoes of pleasure.
When he finally withdrew, she felt the slow, warm trickle of his seed slipping from her, slick between her thighs.
She was full of him.
The bedroom had gone quiet. Outside the tall windows, the moon cast soft light across the trees, their shadows stretching long across the floor. Paul and Morgan lay tangled in the sheets, legs draped over each other, arms entwined loosely.
Morgan rested her head on his chest, eyes half-lidded, her fingers lazily tracing circles along his sternum.
“I can’t remember the last time I felt like this,” she murmured.
“Like what?”
She thought for a moment. “Lusted after. Free. Wanted.”
Paul tightened his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “You deserve to feel like that every day.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “Do you say that to all your failing doctoral students?”
He smirked. “Only the irresistible ones.”
She laughed. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “That this—whatever this is—feels so easy with you.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then stroked her cheek. “Stay a little longer.”
Morgan hesitated. Then nodded. “I’d like that.”
They made their way to the kitchen still nude, warm and flushed, the afterglow of pleasure hanging softly between them. The overhead pendant lights cast a gentle ambiance over the room, and Morgan sat at the small round table near the island, pulling one knee up into her seat. Paul poured two glasses of water, then set down a plate with two slices of rich chocolate torte.
“Not homemade,” he admitted. “But locally sourced from someone who makes magic with butter and cocoa.”
He cut the first bite with his fork and offered it to Morgan. She took it into her mouth, eyes widening. “Okay—this might be the best part of tonight.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Better than that massage?”
She grinned. “That might be second-best.”
He laughed, then leaned back in his chair, studying her. “So… how’s it really been? The doctoral program. Aside from the exam from hell.”
She exhaled, the question grounding her. “It’s been… intense. Rewarding. Humbling. Some days I feel like I’m growing, like I’m finally claiming the life I want. And other days I feel like an imposter with a caffeine addiction and a pile of unpaid bills.”
He nodded knowingly. “You’re not the only one who’s felt that way.”
“I don’t regret it,” she added. “But I’ve sacrificed a lot to stay in this program.”
Paul tilted his head. “Your husband and kids…?”
She paused mid-bite, then set her fork down. “Yeah. Them, mostly. My time, my energy, my attention. I try to be everything to everyone, but that balance… it’s impossible sometimes.”
Her voice softened. “I love them, Paul. I do. Being with you tonight—what we did—it doesn’t change that.”
“I believe you,” he said gently. “It’s not for me to judge.”
She gave him a grateful look. “What about you? You ever wanted a family?”
“I was engaged once. Years ago. Didn’t work out. No kids. My parents were academics too, so I guess I inherited the solitary streak.”
“Any siblings?”
“Only child. Which probably explains why I love attention.”
Morgan smiled. “That checks out.”
“Do you ever wonder,” he asked, “if it’s possible to be fulfilled in more than one direction? Like… love, career, selfhood—without one always starving the others?”
She looked down at her plate. “Every day.”
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Paul leaned forward. “You have chocolate on your lip.”
She smirked. “Come get it, then.”
He stood, stepping behind her, his hand gently guiding her up from her chair. Her bare body pressed against his chest as he kissed her—slowly, teasingly.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured.
She slid her leg up along his thigh and whispered, “Something tells me you’re looking for trouble.”
“Ever since I laid my eyes on you for the first time in my classroom three years ago,” he said with a bashful smile that was uncharacteristic of this usually confident professor.
“Oh my God, Paul…” she replied, continuing their kiss, her heart melting at his sweet and sentimental comment.
He turned her, her front pressed against the counter. She gasped as his hands spread her cheeks and his tongue darted between them.
“I want you,” he growled with clenched teeth.
“Paul…” she breathed, gripping the edge of the counter.
He lifted her leg up onto the cool stone surface, opening her, burying his face in the slick heat between her thighs. Her moans echoed off the tile, her back arching, hips trembling as wave after wave of pleasure overtook her.
“I love the way you smell…the way you taste,” he groaned. “I can’t get enough of it.”
Morgan felt butterflies in her stomach at his hungry words and oral assault on her pussy. She was starting to feel overwhelmed with real emotion mixed with arousal that bordered on…love?
She came hard, nearly collapsing.
When she turned, cheeks flushed, eyes wild, she dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth.
She sucked him slowly, then deeper, her tongue swirling, her hands cradling his hips. His fingers threaded into her hair, groaning above her, but he didn’t let himself finish.
He pulled her up, breathless, hard as stone. “Let’s go somewhere a little more comfortable.”
They collapsed onto the plush sectional in the living room, ravenous.
He sat back, and she straddled him. She sank onto his cock with a gasp, their eyes locking as she took all of him. Her hips rolled in slow, fluid circles. He kissed her chest, her mouth, her neck, cupping her breasts and taking each of them in turn into his watering mouth.
She leaned back, hands on the ottoman behind her, riding him harder, giving him a full view of her moving body, of her cunt sliding around his buried tool.
She came again, moaning, thighs trembling.
Then he flipped her onto the ottoman and took her from above—deep and strong, gripping her hips, her hands clutching at the cushions.
She came again, then again, her voice breaking into cries and gasps.
Finally, with a strangled groan, Paul buried himself fully and released inside her.
His warmth spilled deep, and when he withdrew, she felt the slow, familiar trickle of his seed slide from between her thighs.
They collapsed together, spent and glowing.
For now, the world didn’t exist beyond the edges of that sofa.
The living room had gone still, their bodies tangled, skin cooling in the soft hush of midnight. Morgan lay against his chest, eyes closed, fingers gently tracing his collarbone.
Paul broke the silence first. “You can stay, if you want.”
Morgan sighed. “I wish I could. But I told Scott this was a review dinner. If I don’t come home…”
He nodded. “Of course.”
She sat up slowly, her voice low. “I want to go home. I need to. But that doesn’t mean this didn’t mean something to me. You made me feel… free.”
He reached for her hand. “You’ve always had that freedom. You just needed someone to help you remember it.”
She smiled, brushing a kiss to his cheek before slipping into her clothes.
As she dressed, Paul cleared his throat gently. “About the course…”
She looked up, eyes steady.
“You’re going to pass. Officially.”
She held his gaze. “Because of tonight?”
He shook his head. “Because you’ve always deserved to. Tonight… was something else.”
She nodded, heart full. “I know.”
They stood in the entryway. He leaned down and kissed her—tender, lingering. She pressed her hands to his chest, then opened the door.
“Goodbye, Paul.”
“Goodbye, Doctor Whitman.”
And with that, she stepped into the night.
Epilogue: Tastes Like Victory
The streets were quiet as Morgan drove home. The dashboard glowed 11:27, and a lazy breeze floated through her cracked window.
Her body still tingled.
Not just from sex—but from everything. The release. The transformation.
Paul had been exceptional. Not just as a lover, but as someone who had seen her—truly seen her—and helped her reclaim something she hadn’t even realized was lost. And now she was so close to finishing her goal, she could taste it!
She smiled as she shifted in her seat, the deep ache between her thighs making her chuckle aloud at a pun that popped into her now-depraved mind:
This degree? she thought. It tastes like cum.
She laughed harder, wiping away tears. And it’s never tasted so sweet.
When she stepped through the front door of her house near midnight, the porch light still on, Scott sat on the couch waiting, remote in hand.
“Hey,” he said sleepily. “How was it?”
Morgan leaned down, kissed his cheek, and curled beside him on the sofa. “Really good,” she said. “I think it’s all finally cemented.”
He wrapped an arm around her and held her close.
“You seem lighter.”
She smiled. “I am.”
And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t faking it.
The sun was high and warm on the university lawn. May graduation. A sea of black gowns, cheers, and camera flashes.
Morgan stood tall in her regalia, cap squarely atop her golden hair. Her name echoed through the speaker:
“Dr. Morgan Leigh Whitman.”
She walked confidently across the stage.
Dr. Paul Flores waited at center. He placed the stole over her shoulders and whispered, “Congratulations.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
They posed for the official photo—her smile bright, his composed. But his hand on her shoulder said more than words ever could.
Afterward, her family clustered around her—parents, kids, Scott, friends.
Scott stood beside her as they approached Paul near the faculty tent.
“Scott, this is Dr. Flores,” Morgan said.
Paul extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you for guiding her,” Scott said. “For holding her hand the whole way.”
Paul glanced at Morgan and smiled. “When someone’s worth the effort, you hold on as long as you can.”
Scott chuckled, oblivious.
But Morgan understood.
She stepped forward and wrapped Paul in a long, tender hug, her hands sliding along his back, pressing close, telling him without words what he meant to her.
“Goodbye,” she whispered.
He nodded.
Then she turned, took her daughter’s hand, and walked away with her family.
Into the life she’d built.
The one she’d earned.
Some degrees are earned with books and long nights—others, with sweat, surrender, and the courage to say yes to who you really are.
