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Scrabble word checker

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Scrabble, the original Wordle progenitor, launches a new web-based game

According to pcgamer.com, April 13 is National Scrabble Day, and with word games all the rage right now … below, and be sure to check out our list of 10 other great games like Wordle that you should add to your daily …

Extra Credit

According to archiveofourown.org, Professor Morgan isn’t impressed with your end of term essay. You stand with your head lowered, the perfect picture of shame. This warm, bright study has always been a comforting place to you. The shelves are stuffed with books on every subject from bird-watching to obscure 19th century poets, and the desk in front of you is kept tidy. Behind the desk sits a wide window, furnished with a seat should one choose to pluck one of the books from its shelf. It looks out to the grassy lawn beyond this room. None of that concerns you as much as the man seated at the desk itself. He scrutinizes your submitted end-of-term essay, red pen tapping against his lip, like he can’t quite tell what to make of it. Bad enough that you’d been called into Professor Morgan’s office, the door shutting behind you with a quiet click. But he hasn’t said a word since he explained what he called you in here for, and now the silence feels too thick to break. You feel like you could be sick. Professor Morgan has always been fair to you, kind even. When you began the semester, you’d been taken in by the quiet drawl and his tendency to get lost in the ramblings of poets long gone. He’s often willing to joke with the class, as long as they’re willing to do their work. You don’t think you’ve ever raised your hand so much for a college course in your life; his viewpoints just intrigue you. It’s obvious that he’s not from here, not by a long shot. He’s lived a life you couldn’t dream of having, and if you’re lucky, sometimes he’ll entertain the class with some stories about what he did before he decided to ‘settle down’ and teach. And now he’s disappointed in you. The shame has a little to do with your essay not living up to his standards, and a lot to do with the fact that a low burn of attraction still simmers in your gut, despite the trouble your grade might be facing. With his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and the scruff of his beard leaning towards ungroomed, you’re starting to feel less and less civil around him as his eyes trace over the printed pages. His blazer fits his broad shoulders too well, letting you know how muscular he is underneath them. Not to mention the jeans, dear God, the jeans. Hugging his legs and ass like you wish you could. Under the blazer he’s wearing a tee that reads The Oxford Comma Preservation Society – usually he sports faded classic rock tees. “Well…” he says finally, the word a sigh. “I don’t really know what to say. Your work’s always been outstandin’, so why the sudden drop in quality?” You try and find your tongue, remoistening it back into life. His voice seems to paralyze you, his eyes consume you. They’re far too beautiful to be allowed, bluer than any water or sky and tinged with a hint of green, stopping them from feeling cold. “I don’t know,” you admit, staring down at the hardwood floor. It’s true, in part. You don’t know why your mind chose to wander every time you tried to plug a sentence into the blank, white span of the word document. The prompt should’ve been so easy, right up your alley. If it were any normal essay, you could go on and on about your favorite poets, their lives, how it translated into their work. But every time you tried you just felt…stuck. And every sentence you typed felt more and more forced as you approached the deadline, static, stilted. It got to the point where you weren’t even double-checking what you put out, knowing that submitting something was better than handing in nothing at all. Yet Professor Morgan’s still looking at you like he expected far better. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, covering your face with your hands. “I know, it’s awful. I just – I don’t want this course to be over. And every time I sat down to write it, that was all I could think about. This being the last thing I ever did for the class. I know that’s stupid and that’s no excuse and –” He holds up a hand. “Hey, jus’ slow down.” The look on his face is one of sympathy. “I’ve – I’ve enjoyed havin’ you as a student, too. And while this might not be your best work, there might be a few things you can do to improve your grade before we finish the semester.” “Like what?” you sound breathless, a little too eager, and you feel your face get hot. He straightens in his desk chair, eyes flitting from you to its mahogany top and back. You’ve never known him to have trouble forming a sentence, yet here it seems he’s having difficulty. He folds his hands on the desk, fidgeting a little with the pen, before clearing his throat. It’s cute, in a way, to see him flustered. “Well, if you’d be willin’…” Now Arthur – Professor Morgan – oh, screw it. He looks right at you, his glance full of a familiar heat despite the new situation. You grin back immediately, flouncing around the side of the desk and placing your hand on the back of his chair to tilt it. Arthur lets himself be moved, the chair squeaking a little in protest as you join him in the plush leather seat. “Couldn’t finish the last part?” you tease lightly, climbing on his lap. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “Felt silly. Do people really do that? Just – go off screwin’ their teacher because they want a good grade?” You smooth your hand over a loose lock of his hair, considering that. “Oh, I’m sure they do. People do all kinds of things.” “Sorry if I messed it up, sweetheart,” he says, biting his lip. Your heart melts. “You didn’t mess anything up! That was amazing. I don’t think I could’ve done any better if our parts were switched.” It’s far from a placating lie; he’d done a fine job of acting the part up until the small stumble. For your first attempt at roleplay together, it was a phenomenal job. Your heart’s pounding away in your chest at the thought of what’s about to follow – especially seeing him all dressed in his English teacher’s outfit. It was hard getting him out of the dusty work flannels and into something a little more modern, but the look suits him. Leaning in to bump noses, you press your mouth to his, soft, reassuring. Arthur hums into the gentle touch, letting a hand rest on the small of your back to support you. You lead the kiss, taunting with every press and touch, tracing your tongue along his lip until he pants against your open mouth. His hand on your body grips tighter, pulling against the fabric of your shirt. You settle into his lap more fully now, feeling the hardness of his cock straining into your body. In a rush, you extract yourself from the chair and unbutton your pants, shimmying them off. Bracing your hands on the edge of the desk, you lean forward, ass up, and give Arthur a playful look over one shoulder. He freezes in the middle of unbuttoning his own pants, looking you up and down with wide-eyed appreciation. “Come and get it, Professor,” you purr. “Oh, I intend to,” he says. Moments later he’s pressed up behind you, the hard, hot line of his cock teasing your core. He asks if you’re ready. Of course all you can do is say yes. You lift up to allow him inside you and Arthur eases into your wet pussy with a drawn-out groan, like he’s been starved of you. Arthur lets you adjust to the feeling of him, and you lean on the desk for support. Taking him from behind always makes you feel so full, his cock finding new places to explore at this angle. You feel his hands touch your waist, a tender check-in. “You okay?” He murmurs. “Mmhm.” “Good.” The first thrust up nearly has you rammed into the mahogany. Thank God you’re actually in the privacy of your shared home and not some university. You can’t imagine trying to keep quiet while Arthur fucks you rough and desperate. The printed pages of your ‘essay’ scatter under your hands and onto the floor as he finds a steady rhythm, gripping you tight. “This what you really came here for?” He says from behind you, voice low and teasing. “Wanted to – see if I’d fuck you after all those long looks in the classroom?” Oh my God – you had no idea he was going to improvise. A thrill runs through your core at the thought of keeping this going, and you scramble for some sort of reply. All his sounds of pleasure make it difficult to do anything but take him. Arthur rarely holds back when you’re making love, and you can hear every little grunt and moan loud and clear in the echoing study. “Yes,” you tremble out. “I – I wanted it.” He laughs once at that, a breathless, self-satisfied sound that melds well with the noise of sex. All the while he sinks into you, in and out, your pussy getting increasingly wetter for the things he’s saying. “I had a feelin'”. You swallow harshly, your forearms growing numb against the desk. “Will this – I mean – affect my grade? F-fix it?” “Oh, honey,” he rumbles. “You’re so goddamn filthy, you know that? Comin’ in here, thinkin’ you can flash your tits and fix your grade jus’ like that.” A tiny whimper leaves your throat, and Arthur doesn’t miss it. He never does. You catch his own breath hitching in answer, the call and response, and his hips snap into yours. You utter his name to the surface of the desk, aware of your reflection, how utterly fucked-out you look in its glossy browns. You’d walked in here in a nice blouse and pressed pants, doing your best to look the part of a committed student, and now. Well. You’re a wreck. “You’re so fuckin’ tight,” says Arthur, his voice glowing with adoration. “Shoulda – fucked you sooner. That what you been thinkin’ about, every time I have t’call your name? When you’re daydreamin’? You think about me takin’ you like this while we’re readin’ Browning, sweet girl?” “Arthur,” you say again, a plea. “Please, oh my God –” To be honest, you have no clue what you’re begging for. All you know is that it’s so good with him playing along for you, confident in the role again and taking you so rough and hard that you can hardly form a thought. You tilt your hips up to allow him deeper access, and the sound of your bodies meeting is a messy slap-slap-slap of skin on skin. “Fuck,” he gasps, in a tone of voice you know well. “You want me to fill you up, sweetheart? Come inside that tight pussy ’til you’re absolutely drippin’ with me?” Your nails scrabble against the desk, searching for purchase and finding none. Later you’ll apologize for the little marks you left, but he’ll claim it’s not that big of a deal. A memory, he says with a sly smile. You certainly won’t forget it. It takes only a few more thrusts and a strangled cry of your name for him to fill you up as he’d promised. You can feel the warm fluid dripping down the backs of your thighs, threatening to travel further. Holding your thighs together to keep it all from spilling to the floor is a necessity as Arthur gently slides out of you, still panting for breath. “Well, how was it?” he asks. The next time you do this, you need to be facing one another. Actually seeing Arthur while he’s taunting you like that, instead of just hearing it all over your shoulder, sounds like the perfect kind of torture. In the aftermath, he looks wonderfully flustered, like he really is some English professor sans pants. His cheeks are flushed, glasses slightly askew. “You get top marks,” you answer with a grin, reaching over to tap the tip of his nose.

Marek Futrega then developed Literaki 😉 into a new word-based game with different rules than Scrabble. The Literaki 😉 rules are public domain. Similarly…

the alphabet with point value was played on a checker board and predates the first version of Scrabble by 12 years. Edward R. McDonald was born in Pointe-du-Chêne…

William Attia (Caylus, Caylus Magna Carta) Alfred Butts (Scrabble) Milton Bradley (The Checkered Game of Life), founder of Milton Bradley Company Richard…

@wordletoday20052022

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