MILF Desire System: The Degenerate Son's Forbidden Path

"Calculus for Business, which you will need before Statistics, which you will need before anything with the word modeling in the title. And a writing seminar, which is two credits, mandatory, and no I cannot waive it, and yes everyone asks, and no you are not special."

"I wasn’t going to ask."

"You were thinking about it. I can see it on your face. Stop." She kept typing. "That is twelve credits. You want fifteen, which means one more. Most of your cohort takes something soft. Art appreciation. Film. Two hours a week, guaranteed B, guaranteed waste. I will not stop you if that is what you want. I will think less of you."

Damon leaned forward slightly. "What’s the business law one?"

Her hands stopped.

"BUS 100: Legal Environment of Business. Contracts, agency, corporate structure, liability. It is a seminar. Three hours in one block on a Tuesday afternoon. There is actual reading every week. Freshmen do not take it. They take it in second year, badly, after somebody has told them they have to. I am not in the business of watching eighteen-year-olds drown for sport."

"But I can take it now."

"There is no prerequisite, so yes. Why."

"Because a fund lives and dies on regulation," Damon said. "And because if I ever end up in a room with our lawyers, I’d like to know whether they’re lying to me."

The corner of Marguerite Hale’s mouth moved about a millimetre. Then it went back to work.

"Alright. BUS 100. You asked for it. You will not come crying to me in November. If you fall behind I will not rearrange the universe for you. Clear?"

"Clear."

’That’s twice. She likes me. She would deny it under oath and then assign me extra reading for asking. She likes me.’

Did she like him though? The panel said otherwise!

Then came the ugly part.

"Now the bad news, which is that you are registering in the last window and everything decent is gone. That is not my fault. That is yours." She turned the monitor at last and he saw the grid, sections with seat counts, most of them zero. "Micro has one section left with space. Tuesday, Thursday, nine thirty, two hundred people in a room built for a hundred and eighty. Accounting, Monday and Wednesday at eleven, which is fine. Writing seminar has a Thursday afternoon slot. You will take what is left. You will not negotiate with a full class."

"And calculus?"

"Calculus," she said, "is where you pay the price for being eighteen and disorganized."

She clicked, and there it was. MATH 121. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Eight o’clock in the morning.

Damon stared at it the way a man stares at an X-ray.

"That’s the only one?"

"That is the only one with a seat in it. The two o’clock filled in April. The ten o’clock filled the week after. I am not opening a section because you sleep late." She sipped her coffee, entirely unbothered by his suffering. "Four credits. Three meetings a week. All of them at eight. Every Monday, every Wednesday, every Friday, until December. If you miss the first week I will still expect you to catch up. I will not email your mother."

’Eight in the morning. Three times a week. Until December. This is not a class. This is a subscription to getting my ass kicked by a clock. Vespera is going to laugh until she cries.’

He thought about his own body, five hundred and thirty straight nights of going to bed at two, a sleep schedule held together with spite, and a constitution that treated sunrise as a personal attack.

He thought about Vespera threatening an air horn over a seven a.m. departure that he had barely survived that same morning.

Now he had volunteered for it. Forty-five separate times; all in writing.

"Fine," he said.

"You are taking that better than most. Do not confuse my observation with sympathy."

"I’m dying inside quite loudly."

"Good. That is the correct response. Keep it to yourself." She hit something and a box appeared on the screen, a small green line where a red one had been. "Advising hold cleared. You are free to enroll. Do it now, on your laptop, while you are sitting here. If you walk out of this office thinking you will do it tonight, someone will take those seats before you have finished ten steps outside this office, and then you will come back here and I will say I told you so. I enjoy saying I told you so. Do not give me the pleasure."

’Oh, if only you knew what pleasure I am planning for you after today!’

He already had the MacBook out of his bag.

The portal looked like it had been designed in 2004 by somebody who hated students, but he worked through it fast, course code, section, add, submit. Watching each seat counter drop by one as he claimed it was stupidly satisfying, like being the guy who grabs the last slice while everybody else is still deciding.

{ECON 101, section 004. Tue/Thu 9:30.

ACCT 110, section 002. Mon/Wed 11:00.

MATH 121, section 009. Mon/Wed/Fri 8:00.

BUS 100, section 001. Tue 2:00–4:45.

WRIT 105, section 011. Thu 1:00.

Submit.}

[Registration confirmed — 15 credits.]

And there was his life for the next fifteen weeks, laid out in a grid with a Tuesday that started at nine thirty and did not release him until quarter to five. Wednesday mornings back to back.

’So Tuesdays are going to kill me, Fridays are basically a gift from God, and three mornings a week I have to be awake and functional at eight like some kind of farmer. Fantastic. Love it. Great start. I should send Marguerite a thank-you card written in blood.’

"Congratulations," Marguerite said, already pulling up the next student’s record. "You are a college student. Try to still be one in December. If you disappear I will notice, and I will not be impressed."

Damon stood, slid the laptop back into his bag, and paused at the door.

The last look was the same as the first one. Quick. Respectful. Enough to take her in again, the black hair, the sweet-looking lips, the shirt that showed just enough and the skirt that did not ask for attention and got it anyway. Then he put it down.

"Thanks. For the law thing."

She did not look up.

"Do not thank me. Pass it. Shut the door on your way out. All the way."

He was halfway down the hall before he realized he was grinning, that his headache had quietly packed up and left, and that a grown woman had just spent twenty-five minutes locked in a small room with him at close range and had not registered a single point of anything.

’Zero out of a hundred. She looked straight at me and her needle did not even twitch. Honestly? Respect. Absolute respect. Terrifying woman. I am going to think about that zero all day and I do not know if that makes me smart or just hungry for her.’

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A/N: But you guys know don’t you?

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