Stupid, but useful. Time to take my brain off that stupid brunette who is now occupying too much of my mental space.
Minutes later, we’re in my office. Let’s see how you like seeing someone else in my office.
I gesture to the student to sit in the chair closest to my desk. She perches there like a bird, unsure if it landed in a trap, her fingers fidgeting over her notebook.
Samantha looks uncomfortable, probably realizing what she pictured in her head might not turn out to be that vanilla after all. I’m almost curious what she thought would happen. That this will be the start of one of those stupid secret relationships Zachary, my brother, seems so determined to have? If that’s the case, she is dumber than I thought.
This will be just an opportunity for me to release the brunette-induced tension in my body, and a chance for the student to learn that monsters are right in front of her.
After what feels like an eternity of wasted time, she finally speaks.
“I think I’ve been over-analyzing everything. The concepts are all blurring together.” And although she tries to sound professional, her eyeing my crotch the entire time doesn’t help with the whole demure persona she’s trying to achieve.
“Which part?” I’m making the words sound like I’m keen to play this stupid game.
It takes a second before the words come out of her mouth. “Dominance theory. The… practical implications.”
Practical. As if the things I spoke about during the lecture are recipes anyone can follow. Does she really believe that dominance practically can be reduced to “please tell me how”?You will fuck her because she has a pussy, not because she has a brain.
“You’re not confused,” I say. “You’re just curious how that really works. Should I show you?”
She hesitates, but that’s more for the sake of foreplay than her actually having any sort of second thoughts.
Stupid Samantha finally nods—to be honest, that was right on time because I was just about to kick her out—but now that she finally agreed, I can do what I came here for.
Her breath catches as I move my chair to the center of the room—so she can enjoy the show—and nod toward the door.
“Go to the door and lock it, then turn around and stop.”
My voice lost that mask of niceness I fake so hard every day. There is no reason I should pretend or moderate my tone. She’s anothing, and the sooner she understands this, the better.
She blinks, uncertain, but obeys. Taking a few awkward steps backward, she locks the door and stops just short of the doorframe. Her entire posture gives in; she is scared, and, judging by the way her hands hover at her sides, she’s one move away from backing off. Well, we cannot let that happen.
“Now,” I say, “crawl.”
Shock, terror, almost mortification. You could read all these emotions at once on her face. And all that while she doesn’t move. Or, at least, not right away, as she should have.
Her resistance is already pissing me off. She needs to do it now, exactly how I want it, exactly when I want it. Thinking will not help her in this scenario.
“Or walk out,” I add, not even faking my indifference.
Another pause. Too long.
I take one step forward and watch her spine straighten, but it is enough to burst that bubble her brain was in. She drops, knees to the ground first, then the hands.
She crawls forward, inching her way across the floor as I take my seat.
Her moves are awkwardly uncoordinated while she’s trying to look at me as she’s moving. Her crawl is too fast, too rushed—like she is trying to get this part over with before the shame can fully set in. It is a race against her own cracking composure, and she’s losing. Humiliation looks good on her.
“Slower.”
The way Stupid Samantha crawls isn’t graceful, but it is honest.
When she reaches me, she looks up. Eyes wide, way too proud of herself for what is about to come.
“Please.”
“Please what?” I urge.