I rub my eyelids with the heel of my hand, then glance at the clock: 2:19 p.m. Simone McCall is due at 2:30. My stomach has been tight since I hit send on the office hour email. I told myself it was about her grades, her “progress,” but the truth vibrates under my skin every second I’m awake.
My cock is half-hard again, fighting for territory beneath the waistband of my trousers. I think about the last time I jerked off—four hours ago, in the staff restroom, biting the knuckle of my thumb until I tasted blood to keep from grunting her name out loud. It doesn’t matter. The need always comes back.
I replay her in my mind: Simone’s knees sprawled wide in the back row, the flash of wet pink, her eyes locked on mine as she inserted that pencil into her pink pussy, never breaking eye contact. The way she dragged the eraser over her taut asshole, slowly, teasingly, licking her glossy lips. The big blue eyes, wide and innocent while staring at me, even as she did the most unspeakable things to herself. It’s pornographic, it’s criminal, and I’d pay for the privilege of being haunted by it. She knows what she did. I know she knows.
The doorknob clicks. I snap upright, smooth my tie, and force myself to stop touching my groin. I can feel the sweat at my collar. I imagine her on the other side of the door, and I’m right—because when it swings open, she steps in, a vision calculated to liquefy the bones of any man with a pulse.
She’s wearing a skirt that isn’t so much “short” as “absent,” a white top that cups her tits and barely contains them. Her hair is in a high ponytail, the ends curling in a way that’s either accidental or so intentional it loops back to natural. There’s a bubble of chewing gum in her mouth, which she pops before walking the three steps from the threshold to the chair. Her perfume comes in first, a sweet and floral venom that blooms in the small space and settles in my mouth.
“Hi, Professor Thomas,” she says, and she puts the tiniest lilt on the “Professor,” so it sounds both mocking and deferential at once.
“Ms. McCall,” I say, and my voice cracks. I swallow. “Please, have a seat.”
She sits, crossing her legs so slowly it’s a PowerPoint animation. The skirt rides up her thigh, flashing a demure white band ofpanties before she tugs the hem back down. It’s a pantomime of modesty, performed for my benefit.
I stare at the pile of essays, but every neuron in my body is redlining. “How are you?” I ask, as if small talk could cauterize the situation.
She tilts her head. “Oh, I’m good. Super good.” Her voice is thick honey. “Just trying to keep my head above water, you know?”
“College can be a challenge,” I say, and immediately hate myself.
Her lips—painted a glossy pink—curve up. She blows another bubble, bites it off, and lets the gum linger between her teeth as she speaks. “It’s harder than I thought. Some classes are…” She glances at the wall of diplomas behind me. “A lot harder than others.”
She leans back, arms crossed under her breasts, which only pushes them higher. Oh shit what cup size is she? D? Double D? F? I try to keep my gaze on her eyes, but the angle makes it impossible; she wants me to look. She wants me to drown.
I clear my throat, then pull her file from the stack. “You’re failing, Ms. McCall,” I say. I have to say it quick, before I lose the nerve. “I looked into the system, and it’s not just my class. All of them, but especially this one. You’ve missed three assignments, and you haven’t submitted the midterm essay.”
She pouts, a masterwork of faux regret. “I know. I’m so, so sorry.” Her tone is so sweet it gives me whiplash. “I’ve just had a lot going on. It’s not an excuse, but…” She shrugs, and the top sags, showing more of her cleavage.
I wait. The silence between us vibrates, charged and sexual. I force myself to stay in my chair, to keep my hands flat on the desk, not to fidget or adjust or let on that my balls are screaming.
“You’re in danger of losing your scholarship,” I say. “I saw that in the system too.”
She nods, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. I know. The registrar’s already sent me a letter. And my roommate, she’s like, ‘You’re smart. You can do it.’ But I can’t.”
I stare at her. “Yes, you can, Ms. McCall. I’m sure of it.”
She blushes a little and then leans forward, blue eyes wide. “I really want to do better. But I don’t even know where to start, Professor Thomas. I open the book and the words just…” She gestures, as if shooing away a swarm of gnats. “I think maybe I’m just not cut out for Melville.”
“Everyone struggles at first,” I say. My mouth is dry. “But you haven’t even attempted the paper. I can’t help you if you don’t try.”
She looks at her lap, then at me, then back at her lap. “I know. I just…” Her voice goes quiet, real for the first time. “I feel stupid, sometimes. Like, if I try and still fail, then it means I really can’t do it.”
I see the crack in her armor. Or maybe she put it there for me to see.
“Simone,” I say, and it’s the first time I’ve used her first name. It lands heavy in the space between us. “You’re not stupid. You’re…sharp. When you want to be.”
She meets my eyes, and the charge between us is molten.
“I’ll try,” she says, softer now. “But I don’t even have a rough draft. I’m completely blank.” She bites her lower lip, then lets go. “Maybe you could help me? I mean—show me how to start?”
It’s the oldest trap in the book. The student who’s too lost to begin. The professor who wants to rescue her.
I know exactly how this story ends, and I want to tell her, but my tongue is glued to my teeth.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go through it together. Here. Now.”
She brightens. “Really? That would be amazing.”