I shift in my seat, inching forward. My thighs open, just a little, but enough for anyone standing up front to get a direct line of sight. I can feel the air on my thighs, the cool breeze over my heated pussy. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll notice, if he’ll acknowledge my offering.
He notices.
Thomas stops mid-sentence. There’s a heartbeat of dead air. He blinks, then makes a show of shuffling his notes, but his hand is trembling. His eyes dart to mine, hungry and unsure, and for one delicious second, I feel like I own him.
In the front row, Victoria/Veronica twists in her seat, trying to see what’s going on. She can’t, not from her angle. The rest of the class keeps scrolling, tapping, doodling whales or writing lyrics in the margins.
Thomas clears his throat and tries again. “Obsession is…uh, it’s a hunger. It’s the inability to let go. Melville—he’s telling us that Ahab is doomed, but also, that he’s alive in a way most people never get to be. Because he wants something so much it burns.”
He’s not talking about the book anymore.
My cheeks go hot, but I don’t look away. I want him to see everything. I rest my elbow on the desk and cradle my cheek in my palm, like I’m bored. The smile never leaves my lips. I let my legs fall a little wider, just to drive the point home.
He can’t stop himself. He looks. And looks again. My pussy’s wet from all the attention and I know the glistening pink distracts him.
There’s a strange giddy panic in my belly, like I’m about to do something irreversible. Maybe I already have.
The hour is almost up. Thomas tries to salvage a discussion, but nobody’s paying attention. He gives up and starts wrapping up with an assignment, his words clipped and hurried. When the bell rings, he stays at the podium, like he needs to physically restrain himself from chasing after me.
I don’t move. I wait for everyone else to leave, then stretch, slow, arms over my head. I know exactly what I look like—back arched, tits pushing against the tight cotton. I do it just for him, and only him.
When I finally gather my things, I shoot him one last look. He’s staring, openly now, eyes dark and unguarded.
I grin and stroll out, leaving the faint scent of my perfume and a trail of chaos in my wake.
Down the hall, my legs are shaking so hard I have to lean against a wall to catch my breath. For the first time in weeks, I’m not thinking about my grades or my scholarship or how much I hate myself for wanting the things I want.
All I can think is: I won.
The next class,I’m late on purpose. I want the full attention, the heads turning, the whispered judgment. IwantProfessor Thomas to feel me coming before he ever sees me.
When I walk in, it’s like pressing pause on a movie: everything stops for a heartbeat. The front row is packed, as always, and my favorite nemesis Victoria/Veronica is in full battle regalia—fake lashes, high pony, tank top threatening structural collapse. She’s talking to another girl, but her voice drops when she spots me. I give her a little finger wave, all teeth and honey.
Professor Thomas is already at the podium, eyes fixed on his laptop screen. When he looks up, I swear he actually startles. His lips part. He recovers fast, but I see the slip—the flash of hunger. The thing I’ve been craving.
I float to my spot in the back and sit. No one’s next to me. Good.
Today, my skirt is even shorter than last time, the pleats sharp and perky, the waistband low. The tee is cropped and white, the thin cotton showing a hint of pink bra. I can practically feel the air pressure of his gaze. If the whole class is obsessed with him, he’s obsessed with me.
He starts the lecture, but his voice is tight. “Okay, let’s get started—uh, chapters 96 through 100. Melville’s descent into madness, or perhaps, his genius.”
I cross my legs and dangle a sneaker, watching him from beneath my lashes. He tries to ignore me, but he can’t. Every time he glances at the class, he catches me staring. I up the ante. I lean forward, arms folded under my tits, making them spillforward in a perfect, deliberate swell. I rest my chin in my palm and bite my lower lip, just a little.
The other girls try their tricks, but they’re background noise now. He’s not looking at them.
I pick up my pencil. Clean and smooth, unused. Perfect. I turn it in my hand, slow and thoughtful, then tap it against my lips. I push the tip between them, tongue flicking it in and out. I watch his face for any sign.
He hesitates, blinking, then clears his throat. “Melville writes about obsession, yes, but—he’s also—he’s also writing about, uh, boundaries. The limits of the self.” His words stumble and recover, like a guy regaining his footing after tripping in public.
The power is heady and dangerous. I let the pencil rest at the edge of my mouth, then take it out and slide it under the desk. I open my legs, bare skin against smooth plastic, and with a tiny, invisible flick of my wrist, press the pencil up my inner thigh.
I keep my eyes locked on him, even as I draw slow, teasing circles higher and higher. My panties are gone—I ditched them in the girl’s room, just for this moment. I can feel the cool air, the electric shiver of possibility.
He calls on a student to read, but his voice shakes.
I take a deep breath, watching him watch me. I slide the pencil between my legs, careful, gentle. The tip is cold, which makes my whole body twitch. I bite my lip harder, fighting a gasp. I angle the pencil and press it inside, just barely—then more.
I want to see how much he can take before he breaks.
