I drag a legal pad across the desk and uncap a pen. My hands tremble as I try to find a clean page. Simone leans in, her knees brushing the underside of my desk, the scent of her hair closing the distance. I gesture for her to join me at my side, and she stands, the skirt barely covering her ass as she circles the desk.
When she sits beside me, our arms are almost touching. I can feel the heat radiating from her. Her thigh tenses as she crosses her legs the other way, and the movement hikes the skirt higher. I risk a glance; her panties are visible for half a heartbeat—white, cotton. I catch myself staring and snap my attention back to the blank yellow page.
“Let’s start with your thesis,” I say, the words thick in my throat. “What did you want to argue aboutMoby Dick?”
She chews her gum, thinking. “That obsession is, like, its own kind of madness. But also a kind of freedom.”
“That’s a good angle,” I say. “So write that at the top.”
She takes the pen, and the way she holds it—long fingers, neat nails, slow, deliberate script—makes me dizzy.
She writes: “Obsession is both madness and freedom.”
She looks at me, waiting for approval.
“Good,” I say. “Now, what makes you think that?”
She thinks for a second, then shrugs. “Ahab is crazy, but he’s also the only one who really lives. Everyone else is just, like, along for the ride.”
I nod. “So that’s your argument. Next, you need evidence.”
She beams, like a puppy getting a treat. “You’re really good at this, Professor.”
“I’m just doing my job,” I say, and the words come out too quick, too hungry.
She lets the compliment hang. “Can you show me more? Like, what comes next?”
She uncrosses and recrosses her legs. The flash of white comes again, and I almost lose it. The tips of her fingers brush her inner thigh as she smooths the skirt down. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.
I walk her through a quick outline. Point, evidence, analysis. She pretends to be bad at it, but she’s not. She’s playing a different game. When I ask her to write a topic sentence, she does it with ease. But she makes a show of getting stuck on the next line, leaning in so our shoulders touch, looking up through her lashes for rescue.
“My brain is empty,” she says. “Seriously. Help?”
I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive, or this doomed. I want to take her by the wrist, flip her over the desk, and fuck heruntil neither of us can think. I want to save her, destroy her, be destroyed by her.
I settle for this: I take the pen from her hand, and our fingers brush. Electricity. “Try it this way,” I say, and I write a model sentence on the pad. She reads it, then looks at me, and for a moment, we’re the only two people in the world.
“Thank you, Professor Thomas,” she says, and her voice is low, almost a whisper. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”
I’m not supposed to be hard. I’m not supposed to have a fucking erection that could break wood. But here we are.
She stands, and her ass is right at eye level, a perfect curve under the micro-skirt. She lingers, gathering her bag from the chair, bending at the waist instead of the knee. I think she’s about to leave, but she turns and faces me, eyes shining.
“I’ll turn in the essay this weekend,” she says. “I promise.”
“You’d better,” I say, trying to sound stern, but failing.
She grins. “See you in class, Professor.” Then she’s out the door, the scent of her perfume still rattling around the office.
I sit perfectly still, my erection a steel rod under the desk, my hands trembling.
I want to believe I’m in control. I want to believe I can fix this before it’s too late.
But as I watch her walk away, hips swaying like she’s the last survivor of some apocalypse, I know exactly how this story ends.
And I’m already writing the next chapter.
The moment Simone’sfootsteps fade down the hall, I collapse back in my chair, fingers still tingling from where her skin brushed mine. My cock is a torture device. I glance at the yellow legal pad—bits of her handwriting, girlish and round, staring up at me like the world’s filthiest ransom note.
