His knuckles whiten on the podium. He runs his tongue along his teeth, like he’s tasting some forbidden word. He looks away,then back, then away again. My stomach is full of champagne bubbles and static.
I keep going, slow and relentless, until the pencil is halfway into my tight snatch. Oooh, it feels so good! I let out a little gasp, my head falling back lightly as I’m penetrated. The movement is tiny, invisible to everyone but him. I rock the pencil, in and out, and I can’t keep my own hips from shifting just a little, enough to make the pleasure real.
He stares, and stares, and stares.
I pull the pencil out, slick and shining, and rest it on my desk. Then, still staring, I gently push my chair back so it creaks. I bring my knees up, heels on the seat, skirt bunched at my waist. My legs are open, and my pussy’s now fully open to him, the pink folds glistening and swollen. There’s nothing between me and him but twenty feet and the collective ignorance of everyone else.
I pick up the pencil again, the wet end, and push it into my pussy again. Oooh, that feels so good! Professor Thomas chokes a bit, staring, but then continues, the slight waver in his voice the only giveaway of his arousal.
That won’t do. I want to unman my handsome teacher, so I pull the moist pencil out of my twat and then lower it. I drag the eraser—soft, rubbery—over lightly the puckered star of my asshole, teasing the sensitive pleats there. Just a whisper of contact, but the sensation is so tantalizing, so fucking good, that I shudder. I let my head fall back and moan, not loud, but enough that if anyone was listening they’d hear.
Professor Thomas is barely keeping it together. His voice goes up half an octave, and when he tries to recap the lecture, he’ssweating. There’s a spot of red on each cheekbone, and his eyes won’t leave my face.
I’m just about the push the eraser into my asshole when suddenly, the bell rings. Immediately, my knees are down, my skirt smoothed over my lap, and an innocent smile on my face. A herd of students stampedes for the door, oblivious to the war waged behind their backs. Even Victoria/Veronica—she glances at me with something like respect, then disappears.
I linger. I want the full effect. I gather my things, stand up slow, and walk to the trash can. On the way, I look straight at Thomas and slide the pencil into the wastebasket, tip up. I lick my finger, and trace my lower lip, just for him.
He stares, helpless, and I’m so high on the attention that I can barely keep my legs steady.
When the room is empty, I walk past him, close enough to smell the sweat and cologne and musk of the man. He doesn’t say a word, but his blue eyes follow me all the way out.
In the hallway, my phone buzzes, but I ignore it. Who cares about social media? There are far more important things, and right now, I feel untouchable.
Then again, I need to get good grades, so what the hell am I doing by tantalizing Professor Thomas like this? I’m putting my hand in the fire just to see if it burns. Heck, I’m jumping straight into the fire with the way I’m acting. Maybe I will lose my scholarship. Maybe I’ll get kicked out and end up living on the streets. Maybe Professor Thomas will get canned, or maybe he’ll just go home tonight and jerk off so hard his wrists give out.
I hope he does.
Because right now, in this moment, I am the one thing everyone else in this school wants to be: alive.
And it’s worth every damn consequence.
2
SUMMONED BY THE PROFESSOR
SIMONE
I’m sitting cross-legged on my unmade bed, picking at the frayed seam of my comforter, and watching the city’s midnight haze bleed through the plastic blinds. There are three empty coffee cups on the windowsill, and my laptop’s screen is a pale blue rectangle in the gloom, illuminating a battleground of crumpled notes, dead highlighters, and the leftover orange dust of a Cheez-It binge. The room is a crime scene for academic failure, but my roomie Andie doesn’t care. She never judges. She’s sprawled across her own bed, backlit by a single desk lamp that throws barbed-wire shadows along the cinderblock wall.
Andrea Crenshaw is the only girl on campus who can look like a debutante in pajama shorts and a “World’s Okayest Roommate” tee. She’s got that ‘Texas pageant queen does hot yoga’ glow—honey-blonde hair, ocean eyes, the kind of dimples that make you forgive her for stealing your last Red Bull and not even noticing. Most girls like Andie would run this place like a sorority mafia, but Andie has zero self-awareness about her effect on humanity. She thinks people are good, boys arejust confused, and that if she keeps smiling, the universe will eventually smile back.
I should hate her, but I can’t. Not when she’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
My friend sits up, wriggling her toes under a heap of thrift-store quilts. “You look like you found out your puppy has cancer,” she says, voice half sugar, half sleep. “Wanna talk about it, or just want me to eat snacks and pretend I don’t see the stress rash on your neck?”
I snort and reach for my phone, only to realize it’s somewhere under the pile of unfinished essays at my feet. “I’m failing everything,” I say, too honest, too fast. “If I don’t get my shit together, I’m gonna lose the scholarship. And then I’m gone. Like, instantly.”
Andie makes a sad face and flops back dramatically. “God, that sucks so hard. Why does college cost an arm and a leg anyway? My brother’s friend went to prison for less than four semesters at this place.”
“That’s because prison is technically free for inmates. It’s a different kind of bar tab,” I reply in a droll tone.
She giggles and it’s like someone shaking a snow globe full of sunbeams. “Simone, you’re not gonna fail. You just, like, haven’t found your rhythm yet. Once you do, you’ll own this place. What class are you even failing?”
I hesitate. “To be honest, I’m not doing great in any of my classes this semester, which is the problem. But my worst is American Lit with Professor Thomas. You know. The tall one with the jawline. The Melville obsession.”
Andie’s eyes go wide, even in the half-light. “Wait. Wait. You meanLiam Thomas?” She lowers her voice, as if the name itself is a spell. “Simone. Simone. There’s, like, a whole TikTok dedicated to his arms.”
“He’s got arms, all right.” I can’t help it—I say it flat, like it’s a diagnosis. “He’s also got a resting murder face and an allergy to mercy. My GPA’s in the ICU.”
