Chapter 1 #2
The class starts, and the front-row girls are practically vibrating in their seats, one-upping each other with their most thoughtful facial expressions.
But Victoria/Veronica takes it a step further; right as Thomas launches into his lecture, she stretches, slow and feline, her arms over her head, chest straining the seams of her top.
It’s not subtle. She’s stacked, and the movement brings all the male attention in the room to her humongous boobs.
Seriously, the old men in oil paintings would blush.
She finishes the move with a little shake, her girls bobbling, then drops her arms and grins to herself.
Something competitive and primal flickers in my chest. Who does she think she is? If this is a contest, I’m not here to lose.
I wait until Thomas starts pacing, reading from his own annotated paperback of Moby Dick.
The moment his eyes sweep to the back, I catch them and hold, like a dare.
Then I tilt my head, letting my blonde hair fall in a slow, shiny wave over one shoulder.
With my left hand, I twirl the end of it, winding it around my finger, then letting it unspool.
I do it again. And again. I add a slow, crooked smile—not a bimbo smile, but the kind that suggests I know exactly what I’m doing, and it’s dangerous for everyone involved.
He keeps talking, but his rhythm wobbles for half a second.
I up the ante. I pick up my pencil—pink, mechanical, with a bitten-off eraser—and set it gently between my teeth. Not biting, not chewing—just letting it ride there, lips a little parted, tongue flicking out to taste the plastic. I know what it looks like. I want him to know, too.
He gets to the part about the whale’s “divine malice,” and there’s a tiny stutter in his voice. “Uh. Divine malice—excuse me—Melville means… He’s talking about, uh, fate. Destiny.” Thomas’s eyes flick to the back row. To me.
My heart is hammering, but I keep the show going.
This is better than Adderall, better than Red Bull.
I cross my legs in the other direction, making sure he can see, then slowly, as if absent-mindedly, I tug at the hem of my skirt, pulling it up a fraction more.
My thighs are bare. I’d worn a thong today just for this, but now I kind of wish I hadn’t worn anything at all.
I uncross, recross. No one has any idea of what I’m doing because I’m the only one in the back row today.
Professor Thomas tries to regain his footing, but now he’s reading his notes with both hands, knuckles white on the page. There’s a bloom of pink rising up his neck—barely there, but unmistakable.
Victoria/Veronica is watching him, confused, and for a second, her smirk falters. She senses what’s happening, even if the rest of the class is oblivious.
The lecture resumes. Thomas calls on a few people, never looking at me directly, but always, always glancing my way when he thinks nobody is watching. I don’t give him a break. I chew my pencil, tongue curling around the tip, eyes never leaving his.
He goes back to the board to write a quote. “The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush!” His voice cracks ever so slightly on “rush.”
I decide it’s time for the main event.
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. I want Professor 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 spill forward 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.
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’s sweating. 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.