Chris scrolls idly through his email, searching for anything other than the standard excuses for absences and requests for deadline extensions.  With a snort, he closes out the window.  Yeah, right.  Jennifer with the doctor’s note and sickly complexion will be getting an extension, and the rest of them can do whatever it takes to get their research papers in by tomorrow.  

He glances at the clock and decides he’s got enough time to grade some of today’s quizzes before his next appointment, which according to his appointment book is…Lance Bass.  Bass is the typical overachiever with his hand in just about every noteworthy organization at school, so maybe that explains why he’s scored so poorly on his past two tests.  Not enough to seriously to hurt his grade, but he strikes Chris as the straight-A type, and an A is definitely not in this kid’s future.  Chris doesn’t want to deal with this because Bass is as smug as any golden boy he’s ever encountered. 

“Professor Kirkpatrick?” A light knock at the door and then there he is, only something’s different.  Chris squints at him for a second, trying to figure it out, and then realizes what it is.  The kid’s expression, which is usually something between regal and disdainful, is now full of humility.  His green eyes are usually coolly disdainful, but today they’re wide and entreating.  Chris doesn’t buy it. 

“What can I do for you?” he asks. 

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Lance says.  He’s got a black backpack slung over his shoulder.  It’s heavy with books, too heavy, and he pauses to lower it to the ground.  “I’d like to talk about my grade?” 

“You’re getting a B,” Chris tells, and turns back to his desk.  “Assuming your last paper is a B or better.” 

“That’s what I’d like to talk to you about,” Lance says, and Chris has heard this a million times.  Normally, he’d already have sent the student on their way, but Bass has got this deep, smooth voice that raises the hair on Chris’ arms, and he’s a sucker for anything that can get under his skin like that.  It provides a nice background noise for the quizzes he’s grading, one after another until he hears something that sounds like-

“-extra credit?” 

“I don’t give extra credit,” he says, and waves his hand at the door. 

“Right, I read that on the syllabus,” Lance says, and there goes the hopeful, overly polite tone right out the window.  “I just, I need to pull my grade up.” 

“I’m sorry.”  That’s Chris’ signal that the conversation is over, but even with his back turned he can sense Lance standing there, unmoving.  “…was there anything else?”

“I really need to pull my grade up,” the kid repeats. 

“And I really needed you to quit being so mouthy during class,” Chris replies, delivering his words with the same clipped sense of exasperation that Lance is using.  At times during this semester he’d felt like the kid had been challenging him and the material just for the hell of it, but now it’s all turned around.  He scribbles a note at the top of a failing quiz and puts it aside, ready for the next.

“Professor Kirkpatrick…”  Lance takes a deep breath.  “I have to get an A in your class.  I-my parents, if I don’t keep up my GPA, they’ll freak.”

“Not my problem.” 

“I don’t know if the dean will see it that way,” Bass shoots back.  “When I tell him you turned me down for a tutoring session.  And aren’t you still in your probation period?” 

“It’s too late for tutoring,” Chris shrugs.  His door is always open to his students, but it’s late in the semester and he’d written “See me” at the top of the past three quizzes Bass had bombed. 

“It would be ridiculous for me to get a B or C.”  Bass crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at Chris with contempt.  

“You’re in college now.  There are thousands of kids as smart as or smarter than you.” 

As far as Chris is concerned, it’s a closed discussion but the kid is persistent, Chris has to give him that.  After that comment, the silence goes on for so long in the tiny office that Chris almost forgets he’s there.  In fact, so much time goes by that when he finally hears a determined, “There has to be something I can do to improve my grade,” Chris caps his pen and puts it down on his desk. 

To hell with the quizzes.  He pushes himself away from the desk and swivels around, eyeing Bass carefully, gauging his intent, and when the ever-unflappable Lance Bass averts his eyes and actually shuffles his feet, Chris knows.  Son of a bitch, he thinks, incredulous, and tries not to gloat prematurely. 

“I don’t know, Bass,” he says slowly, and lets his legs fall open , hips coming slightly forward on the seat.  “You think there’s something you can do?”  He raises an eyebrow in expectation, hands folded over his stomach.  Just the idea that the kid is still here and wearing a defiant blush high on his cheeks is enough to make the blood pool in Chris’ cock, slow and warm, just the way he likes it. 

Judging by the way he’s just standing there caught in indecision, the kid hadn’t come in here with this in mind, and that just makes it all the sweeter.  His gaze darts toward Chris’ lap and then quickly away, toward the door.  Good idea.  “Go ahead and shut that,” Chris tells him, nodding toward the door.  When Bass turns to comply, Chris gets a good look at his ass,  nicely outlined by the clingy fabric of his slacks.  The door closes with a click, and he doesn’t even have to tell the kid to lock it.  He’s always appreciated a quick learner. 

“So, what do you think?” Chris asks, and part of him will be just as satisfied if the kid ends up turning tail and running.  The kid looks like he’s about to step forward, though, so to up the ante, Chris lets his fingers drift down over his belt buckle.  With light fingers he taps, questioning, and raises his chin.  It’s a dare, and Bass responds accordingly, moving until he stands between Chris’ legs.  From here he catches the scent of expensive, woodsy cologne, and he stops smirking, breathes it in.  “This is all the invitation you’ll get,” he warns, and pulls at his belt. 

Bass’ eyes narrow in on Chris, a brief glare of insolence before he goes to his knees.  “I can do that,” he says lowly, and bats Chris’ hands away.  With swift efficiency he has Chris out of his pants and in his mouth in only a few seconds, and Chris clutches at the armrests, bracing himself against the sudden shocks of sensation that Bass pulls from him with that mouth, the mouth that’s so much trouble during class but so wonderfully talented here in the office. 

This definitely makes up for all the smart-aleck remarks he’s had to endure this semester.  When Bass pulls back to wet his lips with his tongue, Chris slides a hand to the smooth, warm back of his neck and flexes his hand, guiding him back in.  He’s not gonna choke the kid, but he definitely encourages him to go deeper.  Bass has an incredible mouth.  He’s obviously not very experienced, but he seems to love what he’s doing, Chris thinks, when there’s suddenly a hot, lewd tongue wrapping around him, bathing his cock in hot, fluid friction, over and over even in the midst of the rhythm that’s pulling, pulling, coaxing pleasure out of Chris faster than he’d expected. 

His other hand slides around the back of the kid’s head, burrowing under the golden spikes into the soft, silky—and decidedly more brunette—hair underneath.  He hadn’t given permission, but Bass’ hands are creeping up underneath Chris’ shirt, light touches skating across his belly in contrast to the hard suction on his dick.  He leans back in his chair and breathes out a moan as a sigh; he won’t give Bass that kind of satisfaction.  

The gently exploring fingers on his nipples are deceptive, it almost makes Chris forget that he’s in his office, but the sound of students suddenly filling the halls with their loud voices, laughing and footsteps reminds him of where he is, what he’s doing…and who he’s doing it with.  Bass isn’t missing a beat.  Chris watches his head moving up and down, feels it gathering in his balls, thighs tensing against it, for it, with it. 

“Doing good,” he grits out, and the kid grunts, sending shockwaves of black heat through Chris cock.  “Too bad you didn’t put this much effort into studying.”  In retaliation, the fingers on his nipple pinch none too gently and Chris gasps out an addendum- “then again, if you’d studied you wouldn’t be here right now,” and wouldn’t that be a shame?

The door is locked, so he lets his eyes fall shut, letting his guard down ever so slightly.  This is his favorite part, letting himself fall into it, these last few moments before it’s over, and it’s definitely almost over.  “Yeah,” he murmurs.  His fingers move from the back of the kid’s neck to the side of his jaw, his mouth, still working Chris like it means everything.  Idly, he traces a finger across the kid’s bottom lip until it’s wet, and then that’s it, those slick lips working at him, a quick swipe of tongue across his fingertip and he’s coming, icy heat racing up the backs of his legs and rendering him unable to move as the pleasure takes him by storm.  Over his own pounding pulse he can hear Bass moaning; the kid is made for this, made to kneel, suck and swallow Chris down. 

The door rattles with an impatient knock, and Chris can hear a loud discussion about what exactly someone thinks about professors who don’t keep their office hours.  He doesn’t care, he’s more interested in the way Bass is looking up at him, licking his swollen lips and regarding Chris with heavy-lidded eyes.  He looks awfully satisfied for someone whose erection is pushing insistently against the front of his pants. 

“It looks like this meeting is over.”  Chris zips himself back into his pants.  It’s still hard to breathe, even moreso when Bass gets to his feet and retrieves his backpack from the floor.  The kid is seriously packing, and it would be so easy to reach out and cup his hand over the front of his pants, return the favor.  But that’s not why he’s here. 

Bass runs a hand over his disheveled hair, his tongue over his teeth, and gives a furtive glance down at himself.  When he rolls his eyes in annoyance, Chris grins because yeah, neither of them can deny how much they both got off on what just happened.  He waits until the kid turns to go and then opens a desk drawer, digs through some files.  “Wait a second, Bass,” he says, and smirks to himself.  “Here you go.”  He holds out a thick, stapled packet and waits until Bass has a chance to skim over the pages of empty tables and exercises. 

“What’s this?” the kid asks slowly, turning page after page.  He seems significantly paler than just a few seconds before. 

“Extra credit.  You wanted to pull your grade up, right?” 

“I…yes.”  And the ambushed look in his eyes is priceless, mostly because it’s the only time Chris has ever seen this kid not hiding behind layers of status and pretense. 

“Okay, then.  I’ll expect that by Friday.” 

“Friday,” comes the stunned, somewhat hoarse reply.  He clutches the papers in his fist and unlocks the door slowly, moving by inches, and that’s how Chris remembers the whole thing later— slow and dark, like molasses that spreads and drips, bittersweet.