Sasha hated losing.
Dr. Monroe had ruined her streak. No smiles worked. No tears. No office-hour visits armed with low-cut sweaters and suggestive questions about Kant.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t blush, didn’t even offer an awkward cough — just stared at her with the calm detachment of a man grading a mediocre grocery list.
He marked her logic as “shaky,” her citations as “lazy,” and her rhetorical flair as “all sizzle, no steak.”
It was like seducing a brick wall — a brick wall with a PhD and tenure.
Worse — he gave her a C. A C. In Ethics.
She seethed for a week. Then schemed. If charm didn’t work, maybe cunning would. She dove into his published work, devoured his lectures, even quoted his obscure essays in class — all sincere, all strategic.
It wasn’t seduction. It was war.
Dr. Monroe noticed. The sarcastic glint in his eye softened, just slightly. “You actually studied,” he muttered one day after class. I don’t want you to be a dumb fuck slut excuse my language.
Sasha grinned. “Can’t let you win.”
For the final paper, she didn’t fake it. She wrote a thesis so sharp, so ethically paradoxical, it made Monroe pause mid-read and mutter “Damn.” When grades were posted, there it was: A.
She waited outside his office, arms crossed.
“You earned it,” he said. “No tricks.”
“Oh, there were tricks,” Sasha replied, winking. “Just… different ones.”
He laughed. “Maybe you’re smarter than you let on.”
“I’m always smarter than I let on.”
She turned on her heel and left, heels clicking like punctuation.
Sasha didn’t flirt for grades. She didn’t need to.
She started to fuck, becoming the college slut for the entire campus.