“May I come in?” Mara asked. I motioned her forward. She took a seat at the desk. I stared at her, waiting for her to say whatever it was. “Dr. Evans,” she finally said. “You expect me to change my course load, and switch from my position at the library?”
“I never said you had to quit the library.”
“But being a teacher’s assistant for two classes—”
“That’s up to you and the managing librarian to decide if it works.”
In other words, it was not my problem, nor my place to decide.
“So I have to drop one of my other graduate courses to take yours?” she asked.
I shoved the copy ofThe Death of Powerunderneath another book. “Do you want me to do the contest with you, or not?” I asked.
She was silent, her soft cheeks turning a shade of red. I imagine her jaw was straining, though her gentle features didn’t show it.
“Fill out the necessary paperwork, and take it to the registrar. It’s right over there,” I said, gesturing through my window. “It’s not difficult, Mara. But if you need help, I’m sure Jessica can help you find the paperwork.”
“Dr. Evans, even coming up with a working thesis—”
“You’re in the doctoral program,” I said. I pointed to the door. “Go on. You’re wasting time.” I turned back to the computer. “I will leave the door unlocked for you to drop off the graded papers when you’re finished.”
She sucked in a breath. It wasn’t until she was out of the room that she exhaled in an angry huff.
That’s what I wanted. To see her emotions rise.
There was no way she could finish it. It wasn’t a kind move on my end; I knew this. But nothing came easy, not in life, and not in graduate school, and it was my way of reminding Mara of that.
People, especially students like Mara, always switched sides, their tones completely dependent on the outcome they desired. They were willing to do whatever it took to reach their goals, even if that meant giving up their opinions. Being an asshole was part of my duty to prepare them to face the truth. That included Mara. Would she lie, in an attempt to prove herself to me? Would she give up her beliefs in order to obtain the desired object, the sacred prize of winning the contest? Or would she be true to herself, even if that meant sacrificing her goals?
Mara’s anger was promising. It showed that she was not one to give up. But there was still time.
Her attendance at the Afterglow’s recent event was another indicator that she would follow the path to her goals, rather than staying true to herself. Besides college experimentation, it was rare that a woman like Mara was truly into BDSM, enough to seek it out by attending a play party. She went to piss me off, to astound me. Only part of that had worked.
But I couldn’t help but think that maybe she did desire it. The way her eyes glazed over the different scenes as she walked out, lingering on the leashed woman, her mind drifting through fantasy. How she wiggled her hips when I struck her ass.
She was a student. And she was young. There were too many obstacles between us to let my thoughts wander in that direction.
Mara came by later, handing me forms with highlighted areas. I signed accordingly, and she left without a word. I left my office at the regular hour, and when I returned at six a.m., eager to get on with the week, there were no notes on my desk nor any stacks of essays. I checked her office; the door was open, the light coming from inside.
I eased the door open; it creaked. Mara’s cheek was pressed against an essay, drool coming from the side of her mouth, pooling on the paper, the ink bleeding. The light from the lamp shown around her face like a halo. Her golden-brown hair was rich in the light. Her lips pink.
I eased myself out of the room quietly. The woman was so dedicated to the ridiculous task I had assigned her that she had fallen asleep, apparently not leaving for home. I liked that she was determined, but she needed a break too. The café downstairs wouldn’t open for another hour, so I went across the street to the café and ordered a large coffee and a croissant. Plain, warmed, mild enough that it would likely be welcomed food. A few sugar packets and a cream shoved in the bag with the pastry.
This time, when I opened the door, she was awake. She wiped blue ink from her cheek, a stripe of paint next to her pink lips.
Plenty of students had pink lips. A detail like that was insignificant. Wasn’t it?
“I didn’t finish the essays,” she sighed. She blotted the drool-stained essay with a paper towel, brown and cheap, from the department’s bathrooms. “Three hundred and twelve essays graded in a little bit over twenty-four hours is unreasonable, Dr. Evans.” She squinted her eyes at me, pinching her fingers together to demonstrate the small amount of time. “Even for you.”
I was glad that she was questioning my demands. It showed that she wasn’t going to be taken easily.
“Maybe if you hadn’t spent so much time counting the essays or sleeping, you would have had time to grade them,” I said. She glared at me. I lifted the coffee and the pastry bag. I handed them to her, and the same overwhelmed look from dropping the essays on her desk crossed her expression.
“I figured you needed some fuel,” I said.
“So you can slave-drive me some more?”
I smirked. There were a few ways to drive a slave, but this wasn’t one of them. Not a fun way, at least. And I could think of a few fun ways to drive Mara.
